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CONTRIBUTIONS 


<\^ 


TO  THE 


EDINBURGH   REVIEW. 


BY 


FRANCIS  JEFFREY, 


NOW   ONE  OF   THE  JUDGES    OF  THE  COURT   OF  SESSION  IN  SCOTLAXD. 


FOUR  VOLUMES. 

COMPLETE     IN     ONE 


11 


NEW  YOKE: 
D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 

90,  92  &  94  GRAND  STREET. 
1869. 


TO 

THE  KEVEREND  SYDNEY  SMITH, 

THE  ORIGINAL  PROJECTOR  OF  THE  EDINBURGH  REVIEW, 

LONG   ITS    BRIGHTEST   ORNAMENT, 

AND   ALWAYS   MY   TRUE  AND   INDULGENT   FRIEND 

.5  now  Wchicatc  tljia  Ucipnbiication; 

FROM  LOVE  OF  OLD  RECOLLECTIONS, 

AND  IN  TOKEN 

OF  UNCHANGED   AFFECTION   AND   ESTEEM. 

F.  JEFFREY. 


FROM  THE  NKW  YORK  EVENINO  AEREOft. 

*'  The  true  Jeffrey  whom  we  meet  with  tn  these  volumes,  presents  a  character  Bomewtaat  of  this  sort  :— 
"  He  was  formed  undoubtedly  to  be  the  first  critic_o£the  age  :  and  of  poetry,  he  was  probably  the  best  judga 
that  ever  lived.  An  intellect  of  the  highest  capacity  and  of  a  very  rare  order  of  completeness,— educated  by  a 
perfect  acquaintance  with  the  best  systems  of  metaphysical  philosophy,— is,  in  him,  perTaded  and  informed  by 
those  moral  perceptions  which  indeed  form  so  invariable  an  adjunct  of  the  highest  kind  of  great  understandings, 
that  they  ought  perhaps  to  be  treated  as  merely  the  loftiest  sort  of  mental  qualities.  His  perceptiyn  of  truth  is 
almost  an  instinct,  and  his  love  of  it  truly  conscientious.  His  objects,  in  taking  up  any  work  or  subject,  are  to 
appreciate  and  to  judge;  his  searching  and  sensitive  intelligence  makes  him  sure  of  the  former,  and  the  sound 
ness  of  his  views  fits  him  for  the  other.  His  temper  is  admirable.  He  seems  tp  have  no  prepossessions— to  be 
free  from  all  vanity  and  jealousy — to  possess  a  tone  of  impartiality  and  generous  candour,  almost  cavalier  in  its 
loftiness.  He  has  not  a  particle  of  cant,  none  of  the  formality  or  pretension  of  professional  style;  but  on  the  con- 
trary, writes  thoroughly  like  a  gentleman,  and  with  the  air  of  perfect  breeding.  He  inspires  you  with  entire  con- 
fidence and  a  cordial  liking.  All  his  own  displays  are  in  the  truest  good  taste — simple,  easy,  natural,  without 
ambition  or  effort.  He  has  the  powers,  the  morals,  and  the  manners  of  the  best  style  of  writing.  There  are, 
however,  but  two  persons  who  stand  so  prominently  before  the  world,  that  they  deserve  to  be  set  for  comparison 
with  Jeffrey  :  they,  of  course  are  Carlyle  and  Macauley.  We  should  distinguish  them  by  saying  that  Macaulcy 
is  a  good  reviewer,  but  a  sorry  critic;  Carlyle  an  admirable  critic,  but  a  miserable  reviewer  ;  while  we  look  on 
Jeffrey  as  being  at  once  the  best  critic  and  the  best  reviewer  of  the  age. 

"  We  must  content  ourselves  with  this  brief  note  tending  to  propitiate  the  regard  of  the  reader,  in  aavanr.«i, 
for  the  Lord  Jeffrey;  for  our  limits  forbid  extracts.  Else,  we  could  show  a  specimen  of  the  most  exquisite  beauty 
in  composition,  and  of  the  noblest  eloquence,  that  the  literature  of  any  age  can  furnish.  But  the  strength  of  Jel- 
frey  does  not  lie  in  a  paragraph,  and  sentences ;  but  in  the  vigour,  Boundr.:es3  and  candour  of  the  whole  criticism," 


PEEFACE. 


No  reasonable  man,  I  suppose,  could  contemplate  without  aiarm,  a  project  foj  reprint- 
mg,  with  his  name,  a  long  series  of  miscellaneous  papers — written  hastily,  in  the  mtervala 
of  graver  occupations,  and  published  anonymously,  during  the  long  course  of  Forty  preced- 
ing years  ! — especially  if,  before  such  a  suggestion  was  made,  he  had  come  to  be  placed  in 
a  Situation  which  made  any  recurrence  to  past  indiscretions,  or  rash  judgments,  peculiarly 
unbecoming.  1  expect  therefore  to  be  very  readily  believed,  when  I  say  that  the  project  of 
this  publication  did  not  originate,  and  never  would  have  originated  with  me  :  And  that  I  have 
been  induced  to  consent  to  it,  only  after  great  hesitation ;  and  not  without  misgivings — 
which  have  not  yet  been  entirely  got  over.     The  true  account  of  the  matter  is  this. 

The  papers  in  question  are  the  lawful  property,  and  substantially  at  the  disposal,  of  the 
publishers  of  the  Edinburgh  Review :  And  they,  having  conceived  an  opinion  that  such  a 
publication  would  be  for  their  advantage,  expressed  a  strong  desire  that  I  should  allow  it  to 
go  out  with  the  sanction  of  my  name,  and  the  benefit  of  such  suggestions  as  I  might  be  dis- 
posed to  offer  for  its  improvement :  and  having,  in  the  end,  most  liberally  agreed  that  I 
should  have  the  sole  power  both  of  determining  to  what  extent  it  should  be  carried,  and  also 
of  selecting  the  materials  of  which  it  should  be  composed,  I  was  at  last  persuaded  to  agree 
'to  the  proposition :  and  this  the  more  readily,  in  consequence  of  intimation  having  been  re- 
ceived of  a  similar  publication  being  in  contemplation  in  the  United  Slates  of  America  3* — 
over  which,  of  course,  I  could  not,  under  any  arrangements,  expect  to  exercise  the  same 
efficient  control. 

With  all  this,  however,  I  still  feel  that  I  am  exposed  to  the  imputation,  not  only  of  great 
presumption,  in  supposing  that  any  of  these  old  things  could  be  worth  reprinting,  but  of  a 
more  serious  Impro])riety,  in  thus  openly  acknowledging,  and  giving  a  voluntary  sanction  to 
the  republication  (of  some  at  least)  of  the  following  pieces :  And  I  am  far  from  being  sure 
that  there  may  not  be  just  grounds  for  such  an  imputation.  In  palliation  of  the  offence, 
however — if  such  offence  shall  be  taken — I  would  beg  leave  humbly  to  state.  First,  that 
what  I  now  venture  to  reprint,  is  but  a  small  part — less  1  believe  than  a  third, — of  what  I 
actually  contributed  to  the  Review ;  and,  Secondly,  that  I  have  honestly  endeavoured  to  select 
from  that  great  mass — not  those  articles' which  I  might  think  most  likely  still  to  attract  notice, 
by  boldness  of  view,  severity  of  remark,  or  vivacity  of  expression — but  those,  much  rather, 
which,  by  enforcing  what  appeared  to  me  jusTprinciples  and  useful  opinions,  I  really  thought 
had  a  tendency  to  make  men  happier  and  better. 

"t"aTn  quite  aware  of  the  arrogance  which  may  be  ascribed  to  this  statement — and  even 
of  the  ridicule  which  may  attach  to  it.  Nevertheless,  it  is  the  only  apology  which  I  now 
wish  to  make — or  could  seriously  think  of  making,  for  the  present  publication :  And  if  it 
should  be  thought  utterly  to  fail  me,  I  shall  certainly  feel  that  I  have  been  betrayed  into  an 
act;  not  of  imprudence  merely,  but  of  great  impropriety.  I  trust,  however,  that  I  shall  not 
be  driven  back  on  so  painful  a  conviction. 

The  Edinburgh  Review,  it  is  well  known,  aimed  high  from  the  beginning : — And,  refus- 
ing to  confine  itself  to  the  humble  task  of  pronouncing  on  the  mere  literary  merits  of  the 
works  that  came  before  it,  professed  to  go  deeply  into  the  Principles  on  which  its  judgments 
were  to  be  rested ;  as  well  as  to  take  large  and  Original  views  of  all  the  important  questions 
to  which  those  w^orks  might  relate.  And,  on  the  whole,  I  think  it  is  now  pretty  generally 
admitted  that  it  attained  the  end  it  aimed  at.  Many  errors  there  were,  of  course — and  some 
considerable  blunders : — abundance  of  indiscretions,  especially  in  the  earlier  numbers ;  and 
far  too  many  excesses,  both  of  party  zeal,  overweening  confidence,  and  intemperate  blame. 
But  with  all  these  drawbacks,  I  think  it  must  be  allowed  to  have  substantially  succeeded — 
in  familiarising  the  public  mind  (that  is,  the  minds  of  very  many  individuals)  with  higher 

*  Carey  &  Hart,  Philadelphia,  announced  that  a  selection  would  be  made  from  the  Edin- 
burgh Review,  at  the  time  they  first  published  a  selection  of  Mr.  Macauley's  "  Critical  Miscel- 
lanies," and  wrote  to  a  friend  of  Lord  Jeffrey,  soliciting  a  list  of  that  writer's  articles.  The  pub- 
lishers of  the  Review  afterwards  concluded  to  print  these  "Contributions,"  and  at  the  author's 
request,  forwarded  a  copy  of  the  work  to  C.  &  H.,  from  which  the  present  edition  is  prin*ed,  ver- 
batiao,  without  abridgment.  —  (jlmerican  Publishers.) 


VI  PREFACE. 

speculations,  and  sounder  and  larger  views  of  the  great  objects  of  human  pursuit,  than  haa 
ever  before  been  brought  as  effectually  home  to  their  apprehensions ;  and  also,  in  peima' 
nently  raising  the  standard,  and  increasing  the  influence  of  all  such  Occasional  writings ;  not 
only  in  this  country,  but  dver  the  greater  part  of  Europe,  and  the  free  States  of  America: 
While  it  proportionally  enlarged  the  capacity,  and  improved  the  relish  of  the  growing  multi- 
tudes to  whom  such  writings  were  addressed,  for  "  the  stronger  meats"  which  were  then 
first  provided  for  their  digestion. 

With  these  convictions  and  impressions,  it  w^ill  not  I  think  be  expected,  or  required  of 
me,  that  I  should  look  back — from  any  station — upon  the  part  I  took  in  originating  and  con- 
ducting such  a  work,  without  some  mixture  of  agreeable  feelings :  And,  while  I  seek  not  to 
decline  my  full  share  of  the  fauits  and  follies  to  which  I  have  alluded,  I  trust  I  may  be  al- 
lowed to  take  credit,  at  the  same  time,  for  some  participation  in  the  Merits  by  wliich  these 
were,  to  a  certain  extent  at  least,  redeemed  or  atoned  for. 

Elf  I  might  be  permitted  farther  to  state,  in  what  particular  department,  and  generally, 
ccount  of  what,  I  should  most  wish  to  claim  a  share  of  those  merits,  I  should  certainly 
that  it  was  by  having  coMstanth'  endeavoured  to  combine  Ethicnl  precepts  with  Literary 
iCriticisnViind  earnestly  sought  to  impress  my  readers  with  a  scn^e,  both  of  the  close  coh- 
ppc fton'^et ween  sound  Intellectual  attainments  and  the  higher  elements  of  Duty  and  Enjoy- 
(ment;  and  of  the  just  and  uhimate  subordination  of  the  former  to  the  latter.  The  praise  in 
short  to  which  I  aspire,  and  to  merit  which  I  am  conscious  that  my  efforts  were  most  con- 
jstantly  directed,  is,  that  I  have,  more  uniformly  and  earnestly  than  any  preceding  critic,  made 
'  the  Moral  tendencies  of  the  works  under  consideration  a  leading  subject  of  discussion  3  and 
j  neglected  no  opportunity,  in  reviews  of  Poems  and  Novels  as  well  as  of  graver  productions, 
i  of  elucidating  the  true  constituents  of  human  happiness  and  virtue :  and  combating  those 
i  besetting  prejudices  and  errors  of  opinion  which  appear  so  often  to  withhold  men  from  the 
I  path  of  their  duty — or  to  array  them  in  foolish  and  fatal  hostility  to  each  other.  I  cannot,  of 
i  course,  do  more,  in  this  place,  than  intimate  this  proud  claim  :  But  for  the  proof — or  at  least 
;  the  explanation  of  it, — I  think  I  may  venture  to  refer  to  the  greater  part  of  the  papers  that 
;  follow. 

I  wrote  the  first  article  in  the  first  Number  of  the  Review,  in  October  1802: — and  sent 
ray  last  contribution  to  it,  in  October  1840 !  It  is  a  long  period,  to  have  persevered  in  well 
—or  in  ill  doing!  But  I  was  by  no  means  equally  alert  in  the  service  during  all  the  inter- 
mediate time.  I  was  §ole  Editor,  from  1803  till  late  in  1829;  and  during  that  period  M'as  no 
doubt  a  large  and  regular  contributor.  In  that  last  year,  however,  I  received  the  great  honour 
of  being  elected,  by  my  brethren  of  the  Bar,  to  the  office  of  Dean  of  the  Faculty  of  Advo- 
cates : — ^When  it  immediately  occurred  to  me  that  it  was  not  quite  fitting  that  the  official 
head  of  a  great  Law  Corporation  should  continue  to  be  the  conductor  of  what  might  be  fairly 
enough  represented  as,  in  many  respects,  a  Party  Journal :  and  I  consequently  withdrew  at 
once  and  altogether  from  the  management  :* — which  has  ever  since  been  in  such  hands,  as 
can  have  left  those  who  take  an  interest  in  its  success,  no  cause  to  regret  my  retirorment. 
But  I  should  not  have  acted  up  to  the  spirit  of  this  resignation,  nor  felt  that  I  had  redeemed 
the  pledge  of  neutrality  I  meant  to  give  by  it,  if  I  had  not  at  the  same  time  substantially 
ceased  to  contribute  to,  or  to  concern  myself,  in  any  way,  with  the  conduct  or  future  fortunes 
of  the  Review.  I  wrote  nothing  for  it,  accordingly,  for  a  considerable  time  subsequent  to 
1829 :  and  during  the  whole  fourteen  years  that  have  since  elapsed,  have  sent  in  all  but 
Four  papers  to  that  work — nona  of  them  on  political  subjects.  I  ceased,  in  reality  to  be  a 
contributor,  in  1829. 

In  a  professed  Reprint  of  former  publications  I  did  not  of  course  think  myself  entitled  to 
make  (and  accordingly  I  have  not  made)  any  change  in  the  substance  of  what  was  originally 
published — nor  even  in  the  expression,  except  where  a  slight  verbal  correction  seemed  neces- 
sary, to  clear  the  meaning,  or  to  remedy  some  mere  slip  of  the  pen.  I  have  not  however 
held  myself  equally  precluded  from  making  occasional  retrenchments  from  the  papers  as  they 
first  appeared ;  though  these  are  mostly  confined  to  the  citations  that  had  been  given  from  the 
books  reviewed — at  least  in  the  three  first  of  these  volumes :  But  notice,  I  believe,  is  given 
of  all  the  considerable  omissions — (with  some  intimation  of  the  reasons) — in  the  places  where 
they  occur. 

It  will  be  observed  that,  in  the  Arrangement  of  the  pieces  composing  this  collection,  I 
have  not  followed,  in  any  degree,  the  Chronological  order  of  the  original  publications:  though 
the  actual  dale  of  its  first  appearance  is  prefixed  to  each  paper.     The  great  extent  and  very 

*  For  my  own  sake  in  part,  but  principally  for  the  honour  of  my  Conservative  Brethren  who 
ultimately  concurred  in  my  appointmer>t,  I  think  "it  right  to  state,  that  this  resignation  was  m  no 
degree  a  matter  of  compromise  or  arrangement,  with  a  view  to  that  appointment: — the  fact  be- 
ing, on  the  contrary,  that  I  gave  no  hint  of  my  purpose,  in  any  quarter,  till  after  the  election  was 
over — or  at  all  events  till  after  the  withdrawal  of  the  learned  and  distinguished  Person  who  had 
been  put  in  nomination  against  me,  had  made  it  certain  that  my  return  would  be  unanimous. 
His  perseverance,  1  doubt  not,  might  have  endangered  that  result :  For,  though  considerably  my 
junior,  his  eminence  in  the  profession  was,  even  then  I  believe,  qui^e  equal  to  mine.  But  he 
generously  deferred  to  my  Seniority. 


mEFACE.  Tij 

miscellaneous  nature  of  the  subjects  discussed,  seemed  to  make  such  a  course  ineligible ;  and 
rather  to  suggest  the  propriety  of  a  distribution  with  reference  to  these  subjects.  I  have  now 
attempted  therefore  to  class  them  under  a  few  general  Heads  or  titles,  with  a  view  to  such  a 
connection :  And,  though  not  very  artificially  digested,  or  strictly  adhered  to,  I  think  the 
convenience  of  most  readers  will  be  found  to  have  been  consulted  by  this  arrangement.  The 
particular  paper§  in  each  group  or  division,  have  also  been  placed  in  the  order,  rather  of  their 
natural  dependence,  or  analogy  to  each  other,  than  of  the  times  when  they  were  respectively 
written.  I  am  now  sensible  that,  by  adopting  this  plan,  I  have  brought  more  strikingly  into 
view,  the  repetitions,  as  well  as  the  discrepancies  and  small  inconsistencies,  which  I  take  to 
be  incident  to  this  kind  of  writing.  But  this  is  a  reproach,  or  disadvantage,  to  which  I  must 
be  content  to  submit :  and  from  which  I  do  not  apprehend  that  I  shall  have  much  to  suffer, 
in  the  judgment  of  good-natured  readers.  There  are  many  more  important  matters  as  to 
which  1  am  conscious  that  I  shall  need  all  their  indulgence :  But  to  which  I  do  not  think  it 
necessary,  as  I  am  sure  it  would  not  be  prudent,  now  to  direct  their  attention. 

Before  closing  this  notice,  there  is  a  little  matter  as  to  which  several  of  my  friends  have 
suggested  that  I  ought  to  take  this  opportunity  of  giving  an  explanation.  My  own  first 
impression  was,  that  this  was  unnecessary;  and,  but  for  the  illustrious  name  which  is  con- 
nected with  the  subject,  I  should  still  be  of  that  opinion.  As  it  is.  I  cannot  now  refuse  to 
say  a  few  words  on  it. 

In  the  second  volume  of  Mr.  Lockhart's  Life  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  there  are  (at  page  219) 
several  extracts  from  a  letter  of  Sir  Walter  to  Mr.  George  Ellis,  dated  in  December  1808, 
and  referring  among  other  things  to  the  projected  establishment  of  the  Quarterly  Review:  in 
connection  with  which  topic,  the  following  passage  occurs — ''Jeffrey  has  offered  terms  of 
pacification — engaging  that  no  party  politics  should  again  appear  in  his  Review.  I  told  him  I 
thought  it  was  now  too  late;  and  reminded  him  that  I  had  often  pointed  out  to  him  me  con- 
sequences of  letting  his  work  become  a  party  tool.  He  said,  he  did  not  care  for  the  conse- 
quences; They  were  but  four  men  he  feared  as  opponents,  &c.  All  this  was  in  great  good 
humour.     He  has  no  suspicion  of  our  Review  whatever." 

Now  though  I  have  no  particular  recollection  of  the  conversation  here  alluded  to,  and 
should  never  dream,  at  any  rate,  of  setting  up  any  recollection  of  so  distant  an  occurrence  in 
opposition  to  a  contemporary  record  of  it  by  such  a  man  as  Sir  Walter  Scott — I  feel  myself 
fully  warranted  in  saying  that  the  words  I  have  put  in  italics  are  calculated  to  convey  an 
inaccurate  impression  of  any  thing  I  could  possibly  have  said  on  that  occasion ; — and  that  I 
am  morally  certain  that  I  never  offered  to  come  under  any  such  engagement  as  these  words, 
in  their  broad  and  unqualified  sense,  would  seem  to  imply.  Of  course,  I  impute  no  intentiona] 
misrepresentation  to  Sir  Walter  Scott.  Of  that  he  was  as  incapable,  as  I  trust  I  am  of  the 
baseness  of  making  the  im.putation.  Neither  can  I  think  it  possible  that  he  should  have 
misunderstood  me  at  the  time.  But  in  hastily  waiting  a  familiar  letter  I  am  satisfied  that  he 
has  expressed  himself  inaccurately — or  at  least  imperfectly — and  used  words  which  convey 
a  far  larger  and  more  peremptory  meaning  than  truly  belonged  to  any  thing  I  could  have 
uttered.  My  reasons  for  this  conviction  I  think  may  be  stated,  to  the  satisfaction  even  of 
those  to  whom  the  circumstances  of  the  parties  may  yet  be  unknown. 

My  first  reason  is,  that  I  most  certainly  had  no  power  to  come  under  any  such  engagement, 
without  the  consent  of  the  original  and  leading  Contributors, — from  whom  no  such  consent 
could  then  have  been  expected.  I  was  not  the  Proprietor  of  the  work — nor  the  representative, 
in  any  sense,  of  the  proprietors — but  merely  the  chosen  (and  removeable)  manager  for  the 
leading  contributor^ ;  the  greater  part  of  whom  certainly  then  looked  upon  the  Political 
influence  of  the  Review,  as  that  which  g-ave  it  its  chief  value  and  importance.  This  con- 
dition of  things  was  matter  of  notoriety  at  Edinburgh  at  the  time.  But  at  all  events  nobody 
wE^s  more  thoroughly  aware  of  it  than  Sir  Walter  Scott.  He  has  himself  mentioned,  in  the 
passage  already  quoted,  that  he  had  frequently  before  remonstrated  with  me  on  what  he 
thought  the  intemperate  tone  of  some  our  political  articles :  and  though  I  generally  made 
the  best  defence  I  could  for  them,  I  distinctly  remember  more  than  one  occasion  on  which, 
after  admitting  that  the  youthful  ardour  of  some  of  our  associates  had  carried  them  farther 
than  I  could  approve  of,  I  begged  him  to  consider  that  it  vas  quite  impossible  for  me  alwaya 
to  repress  this — and  to  remember  that  I  was  but  a  Feudal  monarch,  who  had  but  a  slendei 
control  over  his  greater  Barons — and  really  could  not  prevent  them  from  occasionally  waging 
a  little  private  war,  upon  griefs  or  resentments  of  their  own.  I  am  as  certain  of  having 
repeatedly  expressed  this  sentiment,  and  used  this  illustration  to  Sir  Walter  Scott,  as  I  am 
of  my  own  existence. 

But  in  the  next  place  it  requires  no  precise  recollection  of  words  or  occasions,  to  enable 
me  now  to  say,  that,  neither  in  1808,  nor  for  long  periods  before  and  after,  did  my  party 
principles  (or  prejudices  or  predilections)  sit  so  loosely  upon  me,  as  that  I  should  ever  have 
agreed  to  lay  them  aside,  or  to  desist  from  their  assertion,  merely  to  secure  the  assistance 
of  a  contributor  (however  distinguished),  to  what  would  then  have  been  a  mere  literary 
undertaking.  For  the  value  I  then  set  on  those  principles  I  may  still  venture  to  refer  to 
twenty-five  years  spent  as  their  uncompromising  advocate — at  the  hazard  at  least,  if  not  to 
the  injury,  'of  my  personal  and  professional  interests.  I  have  no  wish  at  this  moment  to 
^p^all  the  particulars  of  that  advocacy:  But  I  think  I  may  safely  say  that  if,  in  Decembet 


viii  PKEFACE. 

1808, 1  could  have  bargained  to  desist  from  it,  and  to  silence  the  Edinburgh  Review  as  an  organ 
of  party,  I  might  have  stipulated  for, somewhat  higher  advantages  than  the  occasional  co- 
operation of  Sir  Walter  Scott  (for  he  never  was  a  regular  contributor  even  to  the  Quarterly)  in 
a  work  in  which  I  had  little  interest  beyond  that  of  commanding  a  ready  vehicle  for  the  dis- 
tsemination  of  my  own  favoured  opinions. 

All  this  rests,  it  will  be  observed,  not  upon  the  terms  of  any  particular  coaversation,  which 
might  of  course  be  imperfectly  remembered — but  upon  my  own  certain  knowledge  of  the 
principles  by  which  I  was  actuated  for  a  long  course  of  years;  and  which  I  cannot  but  think 
were  then  indicated  by  a  sufficient  number  of  overt  acts,  to  make  it  easy  to  establish  the 
mastery  they  exercised  over  me,  by  extrinsic  evidence,  if  necessary.  If  the  prevalence  of 
these  principles,  however,  is  plainly  inconsistent  with  the  literal  accuracy  of  the  passage  in 
question,  or  the  fact  of  my  having  actually  made  such  an  offer  as  is  there  mentioned,  I  think 
myself  entitled  to  conclude  that  the  statement  in  that  passage  is  inaccurate ;  and  that  a  care- 
less expression  has  led  to  an  incorrect  representation  of  the  fact. 

And  here  also  I  hope  I  may  be  permitted  to  refer  to  a  very  distmct  recollection  of  the 
tenor,  not  of  one  but  of  many  conversations  with  Sir  Walter,  in  which  he  was  directly  apprised 
of  the  impossibility  (even  if  I  could  have  desired  it)  of  excluding  politics  (which  of  course 
could  mean  nothing  but  party  politics)  from  the  Review.  The  undue  preponderance  of  such 
articles  in.  that  journal  was  a  frequent  subject  of  remonstrance  with  him:  and  I  perfectly 
remember  that,  when  urging  upon  me  the  expediency  of  making  Literature  our  great  staple, 
and  only  indulging  occasionally  in  those  more  exciting  discussions,  I  have  repeatedly  told 
him  that,  with  the  political  influence  we  had  already  acquired,  this  was  not  to  be  expected — 
and  that  by  such  a  course  the  popularity  and  authority  of  the  Review  would  be  fatally  im- 
paired, even  for  its  literary  judgments: — and  upon  one  of  these  occasions,  I  am  quite  certain 
that  I  made  use  of  this  expression  to  him — "The  Review,  in  short,  has  but  two  legs  to  stand 
on.  Literature  no  doubt  is  one  of  them :  But  its  Right  leg  is  Politics."  Of  this  I  have  the 
clearest  recollection. 

I  have  dwelt  too  long,  I  fear,  on  this  slight  but  somewhat  painful  incident  of  my  early 
days.  But  I  cannot  finally  take  leave  of  it  without  stating  my  own  strong  conviction  of  what 
must  have  actually  passed  on  the  occasion  so  often  referred  to;  and  of  the  way  in  which  1 
conceive  my  illustrious  friend  to  have  been  led  to  the  inaccuracy  I  have  already  noticed,  in 
his  report  of  it.  I  have  already  said,  that  I  do  not  pretend  to  have  any  recollection  of  this 
particular  conversation:  But  combining  the  details  which  are  given  in  Sir  Walter's  letter, 
with  my  certain  knowledge  of  the  tenor  of  many  previous  conversations  on  the  same  subject, 
I  have  now  little  doubt  that,  after  deprecating  his  threatened  secession  from  our  ranks,  I 
acknowledged  my  regret  at  the  needless  asperity  of  some  of  our  recent  diatribes  on  politics — 
expressed  my  own  disapprobation  of  violence  and  personality  in  such  discussions — and 
do  what  I  could  to  repress  or  avoid  such  excesses  fo:     '      " 


engaged  to  do  what  I  could  to  repress  or  avoid  such  excesses  for  the  future.  It  is  easy,  I 
think,  to  see  how  this  engagement, — to  discourage,  so  far  as  my  influence  went,  all  violent 
and  unfair  party  politics, — might  be  represented,  in  Sir  Walter's  brief  and  summary  report, 
as  an  engagement  to  avoid  party  politics  altogether: — the  inaccuracy  amounting  only  to  the 
omission  of  a  qualification, — to  which  he  probably  ascribed  less  importance  than  truly 
belonged  to  it. 

Other  imputations,  I  am  aware,  have  been  publicly  made  against  me,  far  heavier  than  this 
which  has  tempted  me  into  so  long  an  explanation.  But  with  these  I  do  not  now  concern 
myself:  And,  as  they  never  gave  me  a  moment's  anxiety  at  the  time,  so  I  am  now  contented 
to  refer,  for  their  refutation,  to  the  tenor  of  all  I  have  ever  written,  and  the  testimony  of  all 
to  whom  I  have  been  personally  known.  With  any  thing  bearing  the  name  of  Sir  Walter 
Scoti,  however,  the  case  is  different:  And  when,  from  any  statement  of  his,  I  feel  that  I  may 
be  accused,  even  of  the  venial  offences  of  assuming  a  power  which  did  not  truly  belong  to 
me — or  of  being  too  ready  to  compromise  my  political  opinions,  from  general  love  to  litera- 
ture or  deference  to  individual  genius,  I  think  myself  called  upon  to  offer  all  the  explanations 
in  my  power: — While  I  do  not  stoop  to  meet,  even  with  a  formal  denial,  the  absurd  and 
degrading  charges  with  which  I  have  been  occasionally  assailed,  by  persons  of  a  different 
description. 

F  JEFFREY. 

Craigcrookj  10th  November^  1843. 


CONTENTS. 


PlEFACE.. ...»^.  .^.  .  T 

GENERAL  LITERATURE  AND  LITERARY  BIOGRAPHY. 

Essays  on  the  Nature  and  Principles  of  Taste.    By  Archibald  Alison,  LL.  B.,  F.  R.  S., 

Prebendary  of  Sarum Vi^^ 

De  la  Litterature  consideree  dans  ses  Rapports  avec  les  Institutions  Sociales.    Par  Mad. 

de  Stael-Holstein.    Avec  un  Precis  de  la  Vie  et  les  Ecrits  de  I'Auteur 40 

The  Complete  Works,  in  Philosophy,  Politics,  and  Morals,  of  the  late  Dr.  Benjamin 
Franklin.  Now  first  collected  and  arranged.  With  Memoirs  of  his  Early  Life, 
written  by  Himself fiO 

The  Works  of  Jonathan  Swift,  D.  D.,  Dean  of  St.  Patrick's,  Dublin.    Containing  Additional 
Letters,  Tracts,  and  Poems,  not  hitherto  published.     With  Notes,  and  a  Life  of  the  " 
Author,  by  Walter  Scott,  Esq 68 

Correspondance  inedite  de  Madame  du  DefTand,  avec  D'Alembert,  Montesquieu,  le  Pre- 
sident Renault,  La  Duchesse  du  Maine,  Mesdames  de  Choiseul,  De  Staal,  &c.  &c. .     93 

Lettres  de  Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse,  ecrites  depuis  PAnnee  1773  jusqu'  a  PAnnee 

1776,  &c ih 

Wilhelm  Meister's  Apprenticeship :  a  Novel.     From  the  German  of  Goethe 104 

The  Correspondence  of  Samuel  Richardson,  Author  of  Pamela,  Clarissa,  and  Sir  Charles 
Grandison ;  selected  from  the  original  Manuscripts  bequeathed  to  his  Family.  To 
which  are  pi-efixed,  a  Biographical  Account  of  that  Author,  and  Observations  on  his 

Writings.     By  Anna  Letitia  Barbauld 121 

Correspondance,  Litteraire,  Philosophique  et  Critique.     Adressee  a  un  Souverain  d'AUe- 

magne,  depuis  1770  jusqu'a  1782.     Par  le  Baron  de  Grimm,  et  par  Diderot 129 

Memoirs  of  the  Life  and  Writings  of  Victor  Alfieri.     Written  by  Himself 143 

The  Life  and  Posthumous  Writings  of  William  Cowper,  Esq.     With  an  Introductory 

Letter  to  the  Right  Honourable  Earl  Cowper.     By  William  Hayley,  Esq 154,  163 

HIST0R7  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 

Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  Colonel  Hutchinson,  Governor  of  Nottingham  Castle  and  Town. 
Representative  of  the  County  of  Nottingham  in  the  Long  Parliament,  and  of  the 
Town  of  Nottingham  in  the  First  Parliament  of  Charles  II.  &c.;  with  Original  Anec- 
dotes of  many  of  the  most  distinguished  of  his  Contemporaries,  and  a  summary 
Review  of  Public  Affairs :  Written  by  his  Widow,  Lucy,  daughter  of  Sir  Allen  Apsley, 
Lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  &c.  Now  first  published  from  the  Original  Manuscript, 
by  the  Rev.  Julius  Hutchinson,  &c.  &c.  To  which  is  prefixed  the  Life  of  Mrs. 
Hutchinson,  written  by  Herself,  a  Fragment 168 

Memoirs  of  Lady  Fanshawe,  Wife  of  the  Right  Honourable  Sir  Richard  Fanshawe, 
Baronet,  Ambassador  from  Charles  the  Second  to  the  Court  of  Madrid  in  1665. 
Written  by  Herself.  To  which  are  added.  Extracts  from  the  Correspondence  of  Sir 
Richard  Fanshawe 179 

Memoirs  of  Samuel  Pepys,  Esq.  F.  R.  S.,  Secretary  to  the  Admiralty  in  the  Reigns  of 
Charles  II.  and  James  II.,  comprising  his  Diary  from  1659  to  1669,  deciphered  by 
the  Rev.  John  Smith,  A.  B.,  of  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge,  from  the  original  Short- 
hand MS.  in  the  Pepysian  Library,  and  a  Selection  from  his  Private  Correspondence. 
Edited  by  Richard  Lord  Braybrooke 183 

A  History  of  the  early  Part  of  the  Reign  of  James  the  Second;  with  an  Introductory 
Chapter.  By  the  Right  Honourable  Charles  James  Fox.  To  which  is  added  an 
Appandix 197 


X  CONTENTS. 

Memoirr^s  d'un  Temoia  de  la  Revolution;  ou  Journal  des  faits  qui  se  sont  passe  sous  ses 
yeux,  et  qui  ont  ;)repare  et  fixe  la  Constitution  Fran9aise.  Ouvrage  Posthume  de 
Jean  Sylvain  Bailly,  Premier  President  de  I'Assemblee  Nationale  Constituant, 
Premier  Maire  de  Paris,  et  Membre  des  Trois  Academies 210 

Considerations  sur  les  Principaux  Evenemens  de  la  Revolution  Fran9aise.  Ouvrage 
Posthume  de  Madame  la  Baronne  de  Stael.  Public  par  M.  le  Dug  De  Broglie  et 
M.  LE  Baron  A.  De  Stael.  .^..., 216 

Memoires  de  Madame  la  Marquise  de  Larochejaquelein  ;  avec  deux  Cartes  du  Theatre 

de  la  Guerre  de  La  Vendee 234 

Memoires  de  Frederique  Sophie  Wilhelmine  de  Prusse,  Margrave  de  Bareith,  SoBur  de 

Frederic  le  Grand,     Ecrits  de  sa  Main .   249 

History  of  the  Life  and  Voyages  of  Christopher  Columbus.     By  Washington  Irving.  . . .   259 

Memoirs  of  Zehir-ed-din  Muhammed  Baber,  Emperor  of  Hindustan,  written  by  Himself, 
in  the  Jaghatai  Turki,  and  translated  partly  by  the  late  John  Leyden,  Esq.  M.  D., 
partly  by  William  Erskine,  Esq.  With  Notes  and  a  Geographical  and  Historical 
Introduction:  together  with  a  Map  of  the  Countries  between  the  Oxus  andJaxartes, 
and  a  Memoir  regarding  its  Construction,  by  Charles  Waddington,  Esq.,  of  the 
East  India  Company's  Engineers .* 272 

POETRY.  ^ 

Specimens  of  the  British  Poets ;  with  Biographical  and  Critical  Notices,  and  an  Essay  on 

English  Poetry.    By  Thomas  Campbell 286 

The  Dramatic  Works  of  John  Ford;  with  an  Introduction  and  Explanatory  Notes.     By 

Henry  Weber,  Esq 299 

i    — Clharacters  of  Shakespeare's  Plays.     By  William  Hazlitt 309 

\,—Sardanapalus,  a  Tragedy.     The  Two  Foscari,  a  Tragedy.     Cain,  a  Mystery.    By  Lord 

Byron ;>*-^^*.,- 316 

"^^  «lManfred ;  a  Dramatic  Poem.    By  LoRfe(BYRqy 330 

Reliques  of  Robert  Burns,  consisting  chiefly  of  Original  Letters,  Poems,  and  Critical 

Observations  on  Scottish  Songs.     Collected  and  published  by  R.  H.  Cromek. 335 

Gertrude  of  Wyoming,  a  Pennsylvania  tale ;  and  other  Poems.     By  Thomas  Campbell, 

author  of  "The  Pleasures  of  Hope,"  &c 347 

Theodric,  a  Domestic  Tale :  with  other  Poems.     By  Thomas  Campbell 354 

The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel :  a  Poem.     By  Walter  Scott ^ 

The  Lady  of  the  Lake :  a  Poem.     By  Walter  Scott 3*67 

Poems.     By  the  Reverend  George  Crabbe 380 

The  Borough :  a  Poem,  in  Twenty-four  Letters.     By  the  Rev.  George  Crabbe,  LL.  B.  .  387 

Tales.     By  the  Reverend  George  Crabbe 396 

Tales  of  the  Hall.     By  the  Reverend  Geor^jcJQrabbe 405 

P»-*'"^Endymion :  a  Poetic  Romance.     By  JohiQCeat| 413 

^^,>»>Lamia,  Isabella,  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  and  other  Poems.     By  John  Keats,  author  of 

"  Endymion" ib. 

Human  Life :  a  Poem.     By  Samuel  Rogers 419 

Roderick :  The  Last  of  the  Goths.  By  Robert  Southey,  Esq.,  Poet-Laureate,  and  Mem- 
ber of  the  Royal  Spanish  Academy 424 

Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,  Canto  the  Third.    By  Lord  Byron >9^^, 

The  Prisoner  of  Chillon,  and  other  Poems.     By  Lord  Byron :6. 

Lalla  Rookh ;  an  Oriental  Romance.     By  Thomas  Moore 446 

(.^...-^he  Excursion;  being  a  Portion  of  the  Recluse,  a  Poem.    By  William  Wordsworth..   457- 
rThe  White  Doe  of  Rylstone  j  or  the  Fate  of  the  Nortons:  a  Poem.  By  WifLiAM  Words- 
worth   V^9 

Records  of  Women :  with  other  Poems.    By  Felicia  Hemans 473 

The  Forest  Sanctuary :  with  other  Poems.    By  Felicia  Hemans ib 

PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE  MIND,  METAPHYSICS,  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 

Traites  de  Legislation  Civile  et  Penale;  precedes  de  Principes  Generaux  de  Legislation, 
et  d'une  Vue  d'un  Corps  complet  de  Droit;  termines  par  un  Essai  sur  I'influence 
des  Tems  et  des  Lieux  relativement  aux  Lois.  Par  M.  Jeremie  Bentham,  Juriscon- 
sulte  Anglois.  Publics  en  Fran9ois  par  M.  Dlmont  de  Geneve,  d'apres  les  Manu- 
icrits  confies  par  I'Auteur 479 


■Pf  ' 


i 

CONTENTS.  XI 

PACE. 

A-Ccount  of  the  Life  and  Writings  of  Thomas  Reid,  D.D.,  F.R.S.  Edinburgh,  late  Professor 
of  Moral  Philosophy  in  the  University  of  Glasgow.     By  rirGALD  Stewart,  F.R.S. .  48ft 

Memoirs  of  Dr.  Joseph  Priestley,  to  the  Year  1795,  written  by  himself:  With  a  Continua- 
tion to  the  Time  of  his  Decease,  by  his  Sou  Joseph  Priestley  j  and  Observations  on 
his  Writings.  By  Thomas  Cooper,  President  Judge  of  the  Fourth  District  of  Penn- 
sylvania, and  the  Reverend  William  Christie 49? 

Academical  Questions.     By  the  Right  Honourable  William  Drummond,  K.C,  F.R.S., 

F.R.S.E.    Author  of  a  Translation  of  Persius 496 

^  An  Account  of  the  Life  and  Writings  of  James  Beattie,  LL.D.,  late  Professor  of  Moral 
Philosophy  and  Logic  in  the  Marischal  College  and  University  of  Aberdeen  :  includ- 
ing many  of  his  original  Letters.     By  Sir  W.  Forbes  of  Pitsligo,  Baronet,  one  of  the 

Executors  of  Dr.  Beattie 501 

7  Philosophical  Essays.  By  Dugald  Stewart,  Esq.,  F.R.S.  Edinburgh,  Emeritus  Pro- 
fessor of  Moral  Philosophy  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  &c.  &c 504 

NOVELS,  TALES,  AND  PROSE  WORKS  OF  FICTION. 

—Tales  of  Fashionable  Lifa.    By  Miss  Edgeworth,  Author  of  "Practical  Education," 

^-Belinda,"  " Castle  Rackrent,"  &c.. 512,  5lf 

— Waverley,  or  'Tis  Sixty  Years  Since biZ 

Tales  of  My  Landlord,  collected  and  arranged  by  Jedediah  Cleishbotham,  Schoolmaster 

and  Parish  Clerk  of  the  Parish  of  Gandercleugh 528 

»-JRob  Roy.    By  the  Author  of  "  Waverley,"  "  Guy  Mannering,"  and  "  The  Antiquary"  635 

Jvanhoe.     A  Romance.     By  the  Author  of  "  Waverley,"  &c '637 

he  Novels  and  Tales  of  the  Author  of  "Waverley;"  comprising  "Waverley,"  "Guy 

Mannering,"  "Antiquary,"  "Rob  Roy,"  "Tales  of  My  Landlord,  First,  Second,  and 

Third  Series ;"  New  Edition,  with  a  copious  Glossary ih. 

The  Fortunes  of  Nigel.     By  the  Author  of  "Waverley,"  " Kenilworth,"  &c 543 

Annals  of  the  Parish,  or  the  Chronicles  of  Dalmailing,  durmg  the  ]\linistry  of  the  Rev. 

Micah  Balwhidder.    Written  by  Himself 548 

The  Ayrshire  Legatees,  or  the  Pringle  Family.    By  the  Author  of  "Annals  of  the 

Parish,"  &c ih. 

The  Provost.    By  the  Author  of  "Annals  of  the  Parish,"  "'Ayrshire  Legatees,"  &c ih. 

Sir  Andrew  Wyllie  of  that  Ilk.     By  the  Author  of  "Annals  of  the  Parish,"  &c ih. 

The  Steam  Boat.    By  the  Author  of  "  Annals  of  the  Parish,"  &c ih. 

The  Entail,  or  the  Lairds  of  Grippy.     By  the  Author  of  "  Annals  of  the  Parish,"  "  Sir 

Andrew  Wyllie,"  &c ih. 

Ringan  Gilhaize,  or  the  Covenanters.     By  the  Author  of  "  Annals  of  the  Parish,"  &c . .  .  t6. 

Valerius,  a  Roman  Story ih. 

Lights  and  Shadows  of  Scottish  Life ih. 

Some  Passages  in  the  Life  of  Mr.  Adam  Blair,  Minister  of  the  Gospel  at  Cross-Meikle . .  ih. 
The  Trials  of  Margaret  Lyndsay.    By  the  Author  of  "  Lights  and  Shadows  of  Scottish 

Life" ih. 

Reginald  Dalton.    By  the  Author  of  "  Valerius,"  and  "  Adam  Blair" ih. 

GENERAL  POLITICS. 

Essay  on  the  Practice  of  the  British  Government,  distinguished  from  the  abstract  The- 

"""ory^h  which  it  is  supposed  to  be  founded.     By  Gould  Francis  Leckie 664 

A  Song  of  Triumph.     By  W.  Sotheby,  Esq 677 

L'Acte  Constitutionnel,  en  la  Seance  du  9  Avril,  1814 !  . .  .     ih. 

Of  Bonaparte,  the  Bourbons,  and  the  Necessity  of  rallying  round  our  legitimate  Princes 

for  the  Happiness  of  France  and  of  Europe.     By  F.  Chateaubriand ih. 

Speech  of  the  Right  Hon.  William  Windham,  in  the  House  of  Commons,  May  26,  1809, 
on  Mr.  Curwen's  Bill,  "  for  better  securing  the  Independence  and  Purity  of  Par- 
liament, by  Preventing  the  procuring  or  obtaining  of  Seats  by  corrupt  Practices"  . .   594 

Short  Remarks  on  the  State  of  Parties  at  the  Close  of  the  Year  1809 604 

The  History  of  Ireland.     By  John  O'Driscol 610 

Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  the  Right  Honourable  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan.  By  Thomas 
Moore 616 


ili  CONTENTS. 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

An  Appeal  from  the  Judgments  of  Great  Britain  respecting  the  United  States  of  America. 
Part  First.  Containing  an  Historical  Outline  of  their  Merits  and  Wrongs  as  Colonies, 
and  Strictures  on  the  Calumnies  of  British  Writers.     By  Robert  Walsh,  Esq 621 

Bracebridge  Hall ;  or,  the  Humourists.  By  Geoffrey  Crayon,  Gent.,  Author  of  '•  The 
Sketch  Book,"  &c 637 

A  Portraiture  of  Quakerism,  as  taken  from  a  View  of  the  Moral  Education,  Discipline, 
Peculiar  Customs,  Religious  Principles,  Political  and  Civil  Economy,  and  Character 
of  the  Society  of  Friends.  By  Thomas  Clarkson,  M.  A.,  Author  of  several  Essays 
on  the  Subject  of  the  Slave  Trade 643 

Memoirs  of  the  Private  and  Public  Life  of  William  Penn.    By  Thomas  Clarkson,  M.  A.  651 

A  Selection  from  the  Public  and  Private  Correspondence  of  Vice-Admiral  Lord  Colling- 
Avood :  interspersed  with  Memoirs  of  his  Life.  By  G.  L.  Newnhaim  Collingwood, 
Esq.,  F.  R.  S 659 

Narrative  of  a  Journey  through  the  Upper  Provinces  of  India  from  Calcutta  to  Bombay, 
1824,  1825  (with  Notes  upon  Ceylon);  an  Account  of  a  Journey  to  Madras  and  the 
Southern  Provinces,  1826 ;  and  Letters  written  in  India.  By  the  late  Right  Rever- 
end Reginald  Heber,  Lord  Bishop  of  Calcutta 666 

Sketches  of  India.    Written  by  an  Officer,  for  Fire-Side  Travellers  at  Home 674 

Scenes  and  Impressions  in  Eg}'pt  and  in  Italy.  By  the  Author  of  "Sketches  of  India," 
and  "  Recollections  of  the  Peninsula" ib. 

Letters  from  a  late  eminent  Prelate  to  one  of  his  Friends 683 

Memoirs  of  the  Political  and  Private  Life  of  James  Caulfield,  Earl  of  Charlemont,  Knight 
of  St.  Patrick,  &c.  &c.  By  Francis  Hardy,  Esq.,  Member  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons in  the  three  last  Parliaments  of  Ireland 693 

An  Inquiry  whether  Crime  and  Misery  are  produced  or  prevented  by  our  present  Sys- 
tem of  Prison  discipline.  Illustrated  by  Descriptions  of  the  Borough  Compter,  Tot- 
hill  Fields  Prison,  the  Jail  at  St.  Albans,  the  Jail  at  Guilford,  the  Jail  at  Bristol,  the 
Jails  at  Bury  and  Uchester,  the  Maison  de  Force  at  Ghent,  the  Philadelphia  Prison, 
the  Penitentiary  at  Millbank,  aud  the  Proceedings  of  the  Ladies'  Committee  at 
Newgate.    By  Thomas  Fowell  Buxton 700 

Memoirs  of  Richard  Cumberland :  written  by  Himself.  Containing  an  Account  of  his 
Life  and  Writings,  interspersed  with  Anecdotes  and  Characters  of  the  most  distin- 
guished Persons  of  his  Time  with  whom  he  had  Intercourse  or  Connection 707 

The  Works  of  the  Right  Honourable  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu.  Including  her  Cor- 
respondence, Poems,  and  Essays ^ 711 

The  Life  of  the  Right  Honourable  John  Philpot  Curran,  late  Master  of  the  Rolls  in  Ire- 
land.    By  his  Son,  William  Henry  Curran,  Barrister-at-Law 717 

Switzerland,  or  a  Journal  of  a  Tour  and  Residence  in  that  Country  in  the  JiTears  1817, 
1818,  1819.  Followed  by  an  Historical  Sketch  of  the  Manners  and  Customs  of  An- 
cient and  Modern  Helvetia,  in  which  the  Events  of  our  own  Time  are  fully  De- 
tailed ;  together  with  the  Causes  to  which  they  may  be  referred.  By  L.  Simond, 
Author  of  "Journal  of  a  Tour  and  Residence  in  Great  Britain  during  the  Years  1810 
and  1811" 725 

Rejected  Addresses ;  or  the  New  Theatrum  Poetarum 732 

(Euvres  Inedites  de  Madame  la  Baronne  de  Stael,  publiees  par  son  Fils ;  precedees  d'une 
Notice  sur  le  Caractere  et  les  Ecrits  de  M.  de  Stael.  Par  Madame  Necker  Saus- 
sure 737 

Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  the  Right  Honourable  Sir  James  Mackintosh.    Edited  by  liis  Son, 

Robert  James  Mackintosh,  Esq 742 

Notice  of  the  Honourable  Henry  Erskine 758 

Notice  and  Character  of  Professor  Playfair 757 

Notice  and  Character  of  James  Watt 760 


GENERAL  LITERATUEE 


AND 


LITERARY  BIOaRAPHY. 


(juas,  isn.) 

Essays  on  the  Nature  and  Principles  of  Taste. — By  Archibald  Alison,  LL.  B.,  F.  R.  S, 
Prebendary  of  Samm,*  &c.  2  vols.  8vo. 


thii 


'i^wca 


1  HERE  are  few  parts  of  our  nature  which 
have  given  more  trouble  to  philosophers,  or 
appeared  more  simple  to  the  unreflecting, 
than  the  perceptjoios^we  have  of  Beauty,  and 
the  circumstances  under  which  these  are  pre- 
sented to  us.  If  we  ask  one  of  the  latter  (and 
larger)  class,  what  beauty  is?  we  shall  most 
probably  be  answered,  that  it  is  what  makes 
things  pleasant  to  look  at;  and  if  we  remind 
*  m  that  many  other  things  are  called  and 
rceived  to  be  beautiful,  besides  objects  of 
ht,  and  ask  how,  or  by  what  faculty  he 
supposes  that  we  distinguish  such  objects,  we 
must  generally  be  satisfied  with  hearmg  that 
it  has  pleased  God  to  make  us  capable  of  such 
a  perception.  The  science  of  mind  may  not 
appear  to  be  much  advanced  by  these  re- 
sponses ;  and  yet,  if  it  could  be  made  out,  as 
some  have  alleged,  that~our  perception  of 
beauty  \yas  a  simple  sensation,  like  our  per- 
ception of  colourj  and  that  the  faculty  of  taste 
was  an  original  and^."3istlnct  sense,  like  that 
of  seeing  or  hearing;  this  would  be  truly  the 
only  account  that  could  be  given,  either  of  the 
sense  ox  of  its  object; — and  all  that  we  could 
"^o,  in  investigating  the  nature  of  the  latter, 
would  be  to  ascertain  and  enumerate  the  cir- 
cumstances under  which  it  was  found  to  indi- 
cate itself  to  its  appropriate  organ.  All  that 
we  can  say  of  colour,  if  we  consider  it  very 
strictly,  is,  that  it  is  that  property  in  objects 
by  which  they  make  themselves  known  to 
the  faculty  of  sight ;  and  the  faculty  of  sight 
can  scarcely  be  defined  in  any  other  way  than 
as  that  by  which  we  are  enabled  to  discover 
the  existence  of  colour.  When  we  attempt 
to  proceed  farther,  and,  on  being  asked  to 


*  The  greater  part  of  this  paper  was  first  printed 
m  the  Edinburgh  Review  for  May  1811 ;  but  was 
^  fterwards  considerably  enlarged,  and  inserted  as  a 
'separate  article  (under  the  word  Beauty)  in  the 
Bupplement  to  the  Encyclopcsdia  Brittannica,  pub- 
lished in  1824,  and  subsequently  incorporated  into 
the  new  edition  of  that  great  work  in  1841,  from 
ivhich  it  is  now  reprinted  in  its  complete  form,  by 
ihe  liberal  allowance  of  the  proprietors. 


define  what  green  or  red  is,  say  that  green  ii 
the  colour  of  grass,  and  red  of  roses  or  of 
blood,  it  is  plain  that  we  do  not  in  any  respect 
explain  the  nature  of  those  colours,  but  only 
give  instances  of  their  occurrence;  and  that 
one  who  had  never  seen  the  objects  referred 
to  could  learn  nothing  whatever  from  these 
pretended  definitions.  Complex  ideas,  on  the 
other  hand,  and  compound  emotions,  may  al- 
ways be  defined,  and  explained  to  a  certain 
extent,  by  enumerating  the  parts  of  which 
they  are  made  up,  or  resolving  them  into  the 
elements  of  which  they  are  composed :  and 
we  may  thus  acquire,  not  only  a  substantial, 
though  limited,  knowledge  of  their  nature, 
but  a  practical  power  in  their  regxAation  or 
production. 

It  becomes  of  importance,  therefore,  in  the" 
very  outset  of  this  inquiry,  to  consider  whether 
our  sense  of  beauty  be  really  a  simple  sen- 
sation, like  some  of  those  we  have  enume- 
rated, or  a  compound  or  derivative  feeling, 
the  sources  or  elements  of  which  may  be  in-' 
vestigated  and  ascertained.  If  it  be  the 
former,  we  have  then  only  to  refer  it  to  the 
peculiar  sense  or  faculty  of  which  it  is  the 
object ;  and  to  determine,  by  repeated  obser- 
vation, under  what  circumstances  that  sense 
is  called  into  action:  but  if  it  be  the  latter, 
we  shall  have  to  proceed,  by  a  joint  procesa 
of  observation  and  reflection,  to  ascertain  what 
are  the  primary  feelings  to  which  it  may  be 
referred;  and  by  what  peculiar  modification 
of  them  it  is  produced  and  distinguished.  We 
are  not  quite  prepared,  as  yet,  to  exhaust  the 
whole  of  this  important  discussion,  to  which 
we  shall  be  obliged  to  return  in  the  sequel  of 
our  inquiry ;  but  it  is  necessary,  in  order  to 
explain  and  to  set  forth,  in  their  natural  order, 
the  difficulties  with  which  the  subject  is  sur- 
rounded, to  state  here,  in  a  very  few  words, 
one  or  two  oT'tlie  most  obvious,  and,  as  we 
think,  decisive  objections  against  the  notion 
of  beauty  being  a  simple  sensation,  or  the 
object  of  a  separate  and  peculiar  faculty. 

The  first,  and  perhaps  the  most  consiier* 


14 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


able,  is  the  want  of  agreement  as  to  the 
presence'a^nH'existence  of  beauty  in  particular 
objects,  among  men  whose  org-anization  is 
perfect,  and  who  are  plainly  possessed  of  the 
faculty,  whatever  it  may  be,  by  which  beauty 
is  discerned.  Now,  no  such  thing  happens^ 
we  imagine,  or  can  be  conceived  to  happen, 
in  the  case  of  any  other  simple  sensation,  or 
.tEe "exercise "of  any  other  distinct  faculty. 
Where  one  man  sees  light,  all  men  who  have 
eyes  see  light  also.  All  men  allow  grass  to 
be  green,  and  sugar  to  be  sweet,  and  ice  to  be 
cold ;  and  the  unavoidable  inference  from  any 
apparent  disagreement  in  such  matters  neces- 
sarily is,  that  the  party  is  insane,  or  entirely 
destitute  of  the  sense  or  organ  concerned  in 
the  perception.  With  regard  to  beauty,  how- 
ever, it  is  obvious,  at  first  sight,  that  the  case 
is  entirely  different.  One  man  sees  it  per- 
petually, where  to  another  it  is  quite  invisible, 
or  even  where  its  reverse  seems  to  be  con- 
spicuous. Nor  is  this  owing  to  the  insensi- 
bility of  either  of  the  parties ',  for  the  same 
contrariety  exists  where  both  are  keenly  alive 
to  the  influences  of  the  beauty  they  respect- 
ively discern.  A  Chinese  or  African  lover 
would  probably  see  nothing  at  all  attractive 
in  a  belle  of  London  or  Paris ;  and,  undoubt- 
edly, an  elegans  formarum  spectator  horn,  either 
of  those  cities  would  discover  nothing  but  de- 
formity in  the  Venus  of  the  Hottentots.  A 
little  distance  in  time  often  produces  the 
same  effects  as  distance  in  place; — the  gar- 
dens, the  furniture,  the  dress,  which  appeared 
beautiful  in  the  eyes  of  our  grandfathers,  are 
odious  and  ridiculous  in  ours.  Nay,  the  dif- 
ference of  rank,  education,  or  employments, 
gives  rise  to  the  same  diversity  of  sensation. 
The  little  shop-keeper  sees  a  beauty  in  his 
roadside  box,  and  in  the  staring  tile  roof, 
wooden  lions,  and  clipped  boxwood,  which 
strike  horror  into  the  soul  of  the  student  of 
the  picturesque;  while  he  is  transported  in 
surveying  the  fragments  of  ancient  sculpture, 
which  are  nothing  but  ugly  masses  of  mould- 
ering stone,  in  the  judgment  of  the  admirer 
of  neatness.  It  is  needless,  however,  to  mul- 
tiply instances,  since  the  fact  admits  of  no 
contradiction.  But  how  can  w^e  believe  that 
beauty  is  the  object  of  a  peculiar  sense  or 
laculty,  when  persons  undoubtedly  possessed 
oftbe  faculty,  and  even  in  an  eminent  degree, 
can  discover  nothing  of  it  in  objects  where  it 
is  distinctly  felt  and  perceived  by  others  with 
the  same  use  of  the  faculty? 

This  one  consideration,  we  confess,  appears 
to  us  conclusive  arainst  the  supposition  of 
beautj  being  a  real  property  of  objects,  ad- 
dressmg  itself  to  the  power  of  taste  as  a  sepa- 
rate sense  or  faculty;  and  It  seems  to  point 
Irresistibly  to  the  conclusion,  that  our  sense' 
of  it  is  tne  result  of  other  more  elementary 
feelings,  into  which  it  may  be  analysed  or 
resolvea.  A  second  objection,  however,  if 
possible  of  sTtTTgf eater  force,  Is  suggested,  by 
considering  the  prodigious  and  almost  infinite 
variety  of  things  to  which  this  property  of 
beauty  is  ascribed j  and  the  impossibility  of 
imaginrrig"any  one  inherent  quality  which 
can  belong  to  them  all,  and  yet  at  the  same 


time  possess  so  much  unity  as  to  pass  univer- 
sally by  the  same  name,  and  be  recognise^ 
as  the  peculiar  object  of  a  separate  sense  oi 
faculty.  All  simple  qualities  that  are  perceived 
in  any  one  object,  are  immediately  recognised 
to  be  the  same,  when  they  are  again  perceived 
in  another ;  and  the  objects  in  which  they  are 
thus  perceived  are  at  once  felt  so  far  to  re- 
semble each  other,  and  to  partake  of  the  same 
nature.  Thus  snow  is  seen  to  be  white,  and 
chalk  is  seen  to  be  white;  but  this  is  no 
sooner  seen,  than  the  two  substances,  how- 
ever unlike  in  other  respects,  are  felt  at  once 
to  have  this  quality  in  common,  and  to  re- 
semble each  other  completely  in  all  that  re- 
lates to  the  quality  of  colour,  and  the  sense 
of  seeing.  But  is  this  felt,  or  could  it  even  be 
intelligibly  asserted,  with  regard  to  the  quality 
of  beauty]  Take  even  a  limited  and  specific  sort 
of  beauty — for  instance,  the  beauty  of  form. 
The  form  of  a  fine  tree  is  beautiful,  and  the 
form  of  a  fine  woman,  and  the  form  of  a  column, 
and  a  vase,  and  a  chandelier.  Yet  how  can  it 
be  said  that  the  form  of  a  woman  has  any 
thing  ill  common  with  that  of  a  tree  or  a  tem- 
ple 1  or  to  which  of  the  senses  by  which  forma 
are  distinguished  can  it  be  supposed  to  appear 
that  they  have  any  resemblance  or  affinity'? 

The  matter,  however,  becomes  still  more 
inextricable  when  we  recollect  that  be;^jit^ 
does  not  belong  merely  to  forms  or  colours, 
but  to  sounds,  and  perhaps  to  the  objects  of 
other  senses ;  nay,  that  in  all  languages  and 
in  all  nations,  it  is  not  supposed  to  reside  ex- 
clusively in  material  objects,  but  to  belong 
also  to  sentiments  and  ideas,  and  intellectual 
and  moral  existences.  Not  only  is  a  tree 
beautiful,  as  well  as  a  palace  or  a  waterfall ; 
but  a  poem  is  beautiful,  and  a  theorem  in 
mathematics,  and  a  contrivance  in  mechanics. 
But  if  things  intellectual  and  totally  segre- 
^ted  from  matter  may  thus  possess  beauty, 
now  can  it  possibly  be  a  quality  of  material 
objects  1  or  what  sense  or  faculty  can  that  be, 
whose  proper  office  it  is  to  intimate  to  us  the 
existence  of  some  property  which  is  common 
to  a  flower  and  a  demonstration,  a  valley  and 
an  eloquent  discourse? 

The  only  answer  which  occurs  to  this  is 
plainly  enough  a  bad  one ;  but  the  statement 
of  it,  and  of  its  insufficiency,  will  serve  better, 
perhaps,  than  any  thing  else,  to  develope  the 
actual  difficulties  of  the  subject,  and  the  true 
state  of  the  question  with  regard  to  them.  It 
may  be  said,  then,  in  answer  to  the  questions 
we  liave  suggested  above,  that  all  these  ob- 
jects, however  various  and  dissimilar,  agree 
at  least  in  being  agreeable,  and  that  this 
agrecahleness,  which  is  the  only  quality  they 
possess  in  common,  may  probably  be  the 
beauty  which  is  ascribed  to  them  all.  Now, 
to  those  who  are  accustomed  to  such  discus- 
sions, it  would  be  quite  enough  to  reply,  that 
though  the  agreeableness  of  such  objects  d< 
pend  plainly  enough  upon  their  beauty,  it  bj 
no  means  follows,  but  quite  the  contrary,  tl 
their  beauty  depends  upon  their  agreeabll 
ness;  the  latter  being  the  more  comprehensive 
or  generic  term,  under  which  beauty  mua 
rank  as  one  of  the  species.    Its  nature,  there 


ALISON  ON  TASTE. 


IS 


fore,  is  n>  more  explained,  nor  is  less  ab- 
surdity substantially  committed,  by  saying 
that  things  are  beautiful  because  they  are 
agreeable,  than  if  we  were  to  give  the  same 
explanation  of  the  sweetness  of  sugar;  for  no 
one,  we  suppose,  will  dispute,  that  though  it 
be  very  true  that  sugar  is  agreeable  "because . 
jt  is  sweet,  it  would  be  manifestly  prepos- 
terous to  say  that  it  was  sweet  because  it  was 
agreeable.  For  the  benefit,  however,  of  those 
who  wish  or  require  to  be  more  regularly 
initiated  in  these  mysteries,  we  beg  leave  to 
add  a  few  observations. 

In  the  first  plape,  then,  it  seems  evident, 
•  that  agreeableness,  in  general,  cannot  be  the 
same  with  beauty,  because  there  are  very 
many  things  in  the  highest  degree  agreeable, 
that  can  in  no  sense  be  called  beautiful. 
A  Moderate  heat,  and  savoury  food,  and  rest, 
and  exercise,  are  agreeable  to  the  body;  but' 
»one  of  these  can  be  called  beautiful;  and 
among  objects  of  a  higher  class,  the  love  and 
esteem  of  others,  and  fame,  and  a  good  con- 
science, and  health,  and  riches,  and  wisdom, 
are  all  eminently  agreeable ;  but  none  at  all 
beautiful,  according  to  any  intelligible  tise  of 
the  word.  J44^ plainly  (ijutgjJbsiisd,  therefore, 
to  say  that  beauty  consists  in  agreeableness, 
wilfiout  specifying  in  consequence  of  what  it 
is  agreeable — or  to  hold  that  any  thing  what- 
ever is  taught  as  to  its  nature,  by  merely 
classing  it  among  our  pleasurable  emotions. 

In  the  second  plg-cs,  however,  we  may  re- 
mark, IHat  among  all  the  objects  that  are 
agreeable,  w-hether  they  are  also  beautiful  or 
not,  scarcely  any  two  are  ,a^greeable  on  account 
of  the  same  qualities,  or  even  suggest  their 
agreeableness  to  the  same  faculty  or  organ. 
Most  certainly  there  is  no  resemblance  or 
affinity  whatever  between  the  qualities  which 
make  a  peach  agreeable  to  the  palate,  and  a 
beautiful  statue  to  the  eye ;  which  soothe  us 
in  an  easy  chair  by  the  fire,  or  delight  us  in  a 
philosophical  discovery.  The  trulh  is,  that 
agreeableness  is  not  properly  a  quality  of  any 
object  whatsoever,  but  the  effect  or  result  of 
certain  qualities,  the  nature  of  which,  in  every 
particular  instance,  we  can  generally  define 
pretty  exactly,  or  of  which  we  know  at  least 
with  certainty  thatlHey  manifest  themselves 
respectively  jto.soine  one  particular  sense  or 
faculty,  and  to  no  other;  and  consequently  it 
would  be  just  as  obviously  ridiculous  to  sup- 
pose a  faculty  or  organ,  whose  office  it  was  to 
perceive  agreeableness  in  general,  as  to  sup- 
pose that  agreeableness  was  a  distinct  quality 
that  could  thus  be  perceived. 

The  class  of  agreeable  objects,  thanks  to 
the  bounty  of  Providence,  is  exceedingly  large. 
Certain  things  are  agreeable  to  the  palate,  and 
others  to  the  smell  and  tp  the  touch.  Some 
ajgain  are  agreeable  to  our  faculty  of  imagina- 
tion, or  to  our  understanding,  or  to  our  moral 
feelings;  and  noneof  all  these  we  call  beau- 
tiful. But  there  are  others  which  we  do  call 
beautifulj  and  those  we  say  are  agreeable  to 
our  faculty  of  taste ; — but  when  we  come  to 
ask  what  is  the  faculty  of  taste,  and  what  are 
the  qualities  which  recommend  the  subjects 
to  t"hat  faculty '^  •  -we  have  no  such  answer  tc 


give ;  and  find  ourselves  just  where  we  were 
at  the  beginning  of  the  discussion,  and  em- 
barrassed with  all  the  difficulties  arising  from 
the  prodigious  diversity  of  objects  which  seem 
to  possess  these  qualities. 

We  know  pretty  well  what  is  the  faculty^ 
of  seeing  or  hearing;  or,  £.t  least,  we  know* 
tKat  what  is  agreeable  to  cne  of  those  facul- 
ties, has  no  effect  whatever  on  the  other.  We 
know  that  bright  colours  afford  no  delight  to 
the  ear,  nor  sweet  tones  to  the  eye ;  and  are 
therefore  perfectly  assured  that  the  qualities 
which  make  the  visible  objects  agreeable, 
cannot  be  the  same  with  those  which  give 
pleasure  to  the  ear.  But  it  is  by  the  eye  and 
by  the  ear  that  all  material  beauty  is  per- 
ceived ;  and  yet  the  beauty  which  discloses 
itself  to  these  two  separate  senses,  and  conse- 
quently  must  depend  upon  qualities  which 
have  no  sort  of  affinity,  is  supposed  to  be  one 
distinct  quality,  and  to  be  perceived  by  a  pe- 
culiar sense  or  faculty !  The  perplexity  be- 
comes still  greater  when  we  think  of  the 
beauty  of  poems  or  theorems,  and  endeavour 
to  imagine  what  qualities  they  can  possess  ir 
common  with  the  agreeable  modifications  ol 
light  or  of  sound. 

It  is  in  these  considerations  undoubtedly 
that  the  difficulty  of  the  subject  consists.  The 
faculty  of  taste,  plainly,  is  not  a  faculty  lT£e 
any  of  the  external  senses,  the  range  of  whose 
objects  is  limited  and  precise,  as  well  as  the 
qualities  by  which  they  are  gratified  or  of- 
fended; and  beauty,  accordingly,  is  discovered 
in  an  infinite  variety  of  objects,  among  which 
ij  sgems,  at  first  sight,  impossible  to  discover 
any  other  bond  of  connexion.  Yet  boundless 
as  their  diversity  may  appear,  it  is  plain  that 
they  must  resemble  each  other  in  something, 
and  in  something  more  definite  and  definable 
than  .merely  in  being  agreeable  ;  since  they 
are  alT  classed  together,  in  every  tongue  and 
nation,  under  the  common  appellation  of  beau- 
tiful, and  are  felt  indeed  to  produce  emotions 
in  the  mind  that  have  some  sort  of  kindred  or 
affinity.  The  words  beauty  and  beautiful,  in 
short,  do  and  must  mean  something;  and  are 
universally  felt  to  mean  something  much 
more  definite  than  agreeableness  or  gratifica- 
tion in  general :  and  while  it  is  confessedly 
by  no  means  easy  to  describe  or  define  wliat 
that  something  is,  the  force  and  clearness  of 
our  perception  of  it  is  demonstrated  by  the 
readiness  with  which  we  determine,  in  any 
particular  instance,  whether  the  object  of  a 
given  pleasurable  emotion  is  or  is  not  prop- 
erly described  as  beauty^ 

What  we  have  already  said,  we  confess, 
appears  to  us  conclusive  against  theidea  of 
this  beauty  being  any  fixeoor  inherent  prop-' 
erty  of  the  objects  to  which  it  is  ascribed,  or 
itself  the  object  of  any  separate  and  inde- 
pendent faculty;  and  we  will  no  longer  con- 
ceal from  the  reader  what  we  take  to  be  the 
true  solution  of  the  difficulty.  In  our  opinion, 
then,  our  sensejojrbeajity;^epends_entirely  on 
oig,j:„prevToiis  experience  of  simpler  pleasurcH 
or  emotions,  and  consists  in  the  suggestion  ol 
agreeable  or  interesting  sensations  \\  itli  whicli 
weTiad  formerlyHBeeh  "rifiade  familiar  by  tho 


16 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


flirect  and  intelligible  agency  of  our  common 
sensibilities  J  and  tliat  vast  variety  of  objects, 
to  which  we  give  the  common  name  of  beau- 
tiful; become  entitled  to  that  appellation, 
merely  because  they  all  possess  the  power  oi 
recalling  or  reflecting  those  sensations  of 
which  they  have  been  the  accompaniments, 
or  with  which  they  have  been  associated  in 
our  imagination  by  any  other  more  casual 
bond  of  connection.  /According  to  this  view 
of  the  matter,  therefore,  /beauty  is  not  an  in- 
herent property  or  quality  of  objects  at  all, 
but  Jhe^  result  of  the  accidental  relations  in 
which  they  may  stand  to  our  experience  of 
pleasures  or  emotionsi ;  and  does  not  depend 
upon  any  particular  configuration  of  parts, 
proportions,  or  colours,  in  external  things,  nor 
upon  the  unity,  coherence,  or  simplicity  of 
intellectual  creations — but  merely  upon  the 
associations  which,  in  the  case  of  every  indi- 
vidual, may  enable  these  inherent,  and  other- 
wise indifferent  qualities,  to  suggest  or  recall 
to  the  mind  emotions  of  a  pleasurable  or  in- 
teresting description.  \  It  follows,  therefore, 
that  no  object  is  beatitiful  in  itself,  or  could 
appear  so  antecisdent  to  our  experience  of  di- 
rect pleasures  or  emotions ;  ^d  that,  as^an 
infinite  variety  of  objects  may  thus  reflect  in- 
teresting ideas,  so  all  of  them  may  acquire 
the  title  of  beautiful,  although  utterly  diverse 
and  disparate  in  their  nature,  and  possessing 
nothing  in  common  but  this  accidental  power 
of  reminding  us  of  othex.  emotioufiu.. 

This  theory,  which,  we  believe,  is  now  very 
generally  adopted,  though  under  many  need- 
less qualifications,  shall  be  farther  developed 
and  illustrated  in  the  sequel.  But  at  present 
we  shall  only  remark,  that  it  serves,  at  least, 
to  solve  the  great  problem  involved  in  the 
discussion,  by  rendering  it  easily  conceivable 
how  objects  which  have  no  inherent  resem- 
blance, nor,  indeed,  any  one  quality  in  com- 
mon, should  yet  be  united  in  one  common 
relation,  and  consequently  acquire  one  com- 
mon name ;  just  as  all  the  things  that  belonged 
to  a  beloved  individual  may  serve  to  remind 
us  of  him,  and  thus  to  awake  a  kindred  class 
of  emotions,  though  just  as  unlike  each  other 
as  any  of  the  objects  that  are  classed  under 
the  general  name  of  beautiful.  His  poetry, 
for  instance,  or  his  slippers — his  acts  of  bounty 
or  his  saddle-horse — may  lead  to  the  same 
chain  of  interesting  remembrances,  and  thus 
agree  in  possessing  a  power  of  excitement, 
for  the  sources  of  which  we  should  look  in 
vain  through  all  the  variety  of  their  physical 
or  metaphysical  qualities. 

By  the  help  of  the  same  consideration,  we 
get  rid  of  all  the  mystery  of  a  peculiar  sense 
or  faculty,  imagined  for  the  express  purpose 
of  perceiving  beauty;  and  discover  that  the 
power  of  taste  is  nothing  more  than  the  habit 
of  tracing  those  associations,  by  which  almost 
all  objects  may  be  connected  wTlh'interesting 
emotions.  It  is  easy  to  understand,  ^hat  the 
i^Ccol!(5ction  of  any  scene  of  delight  or  emotion 
must  produce  a  certain  agreeable  sensation, 
and  that  the  objects  which  introduce  these 
lecollections  should  not  appear  altogether  in- 
different to  us:  nor  is  it,  pernaps,  very  difficult 


I  to  imagine,  that  recollections  thus  strikingij 
j  suggested. by  some  reaTand  present  existehcoj^ 
I  should  present  themselves  under  a  differeijt 
I  aspect,  andTri'ove  the  mind  somewhat  differ- 
j  ently  from  those  which  arise  spontaneousj^^ih 
i  the  ordinary  "course  of  our  reflections,  ana  do 
I  not  thus  grow  out  of  a  direct,  presentj_and 
'  pecifliaf  impression. 

The  whole  of  this  doctrine,  ho\vever,  we 
shall  endeavour  by  and  bye  to  establish  upon 
more  direct  evidence.     But  having  now  ex- 
plained, in  a  general  way,  both  the  difficulties 
of  the  subject,  and  our  suggestion  as  to  their 
true  solution,  it  is  proper  that  we  should  take  a 
short  review  of  the  more  considerable  theories  t 
a  that  have  been  proposed  for  the  elucidation  ( 
lof  this  curious  question ;  which  is  one  of  the  I 
Imost  delicate  as  weH  as  the  most  popular  in  j 
Ithe  science  of  metaphysics — was  one  of  the  1 
•earliest  which  exercised  the  speculative  inge-  * 
nuity  of  philosophers — and  has  at  last,  we 
think,  been  more  successfully  treated  than 
any  other  of  a  similar  description. 

In  most  of  these  speculatious  we  shall  find 
ratheFimperfect  truth  than  fundamental  error, 
or,  at  all  events,  such  errors  only  as  arise  natu- 
rally from  that  peculiar  difficulty  which  we 
have  already  endeavoured  to  explain,  as  con- 
sisting in  the  prodigious  multitude  and  di- 
versity of  the  objects  in  which  the,  common 
quality  of  beauty  was  to  be  accounted  for. 
t^hose  who  have  not  been  sufficiently  aware 
of  the^difliculty  have  generally  dogmatised 
irom  a'sm'all  Tfumber  of  instances,  and  have 
rather  Jgiven  examples  of  the  o'cHirfencT^'bf 
lieauty  in  some  few  classes  of  objects,  than 
afforded  any  light  as  to  that  upon  which  it 
essentially  depended  in  all  ]  while  those  who 
felt  its  full  force  have  very  often  found  no 
other  resource,  than  to  represent  beauty  as 
consisting  in  properties  so  extremely  vague 
and  general,  (such,  for  example,  as  the  power 
of  exciting  ideas  of  relation,)  as  almost  to 
elude  our  comprehension,  and,  "at  the  same 
time,  of  so  abstract  and  metaphysical  a  de- 
scription, as  not  to  be  very  intelligibly  stated, 
as  the  elements  of  a  strong,  familiar,  and 
pleasurable  emotion. 

This  last  observation  leads  us  to  make  one 
other  remark  upon  the  general  character  of 
these  theories ;  and  this  is,  that  some-of  them, 
though  not  openly  professing  that  doctrine, 
seem  necessarily  to  imply  ihs  existence,pf  a 
piJSiliar,  sense  or  faculty  for  the  percept|on_ 
-OfJifiilUiy;  as  they  resolve  it  into  properties 
that  are  not  in  any  way  interesting  or  agree- 
able to  any  of  our  known  faculties.  Such^- 
are  all  those  which  make  it  consist  in  propor-  ' 
^iorF^^^^^^oFlnrvariety,  combined  with  regular- 
ity— or  in  waving  lines — or  in  unity — or  in 
the  perception  of  rdations — without  explain- 
ing, or  attempting  to  explain,  how  any  of  these 
i  things  should,  in  any  circumstances,  affect  us 
with  delight  or  emotion.  Others^,  again,  do 
not  require  the  supposition  of  any  such  sepa- 
rate faculty;  because  in  them  the  sense  of 
{beauty  is  considered  as  arising  from  other 
i  more  simple  and  familiar  emotions,  which 
jare  in  themselves  and  beyond  all  dispute 
1  agreeable.    Such  are  those  which  teach  that 


ALISON  ON  TASTE. 


IT 


oeauty  depends  on  Jhe  perception  of  utility, 
/or  of  design,  or  fi^nesg,  or  in  tracing  associa- 
"^jons3L£tj>y££]i^ats_obiects  and  the  common 
joys  nr  PTjjntions  nl  npr  patifrft.  Which  of 
these  two  classes  of  speculation,  to  one  or 
other  of  which,  we  believe,  all  theories  of 
beauty  may  be  reduced,  is  the  most  philo- 
sophical in  itself,  we  imagine  can  admit  cf 
no  question;  and  we  hope  in  the  sequel  to 
leave  it  as  little  doubtful,  which  is  to  be  con- 
sidered as  most  consistent  with  the  fact.  In 
the  mean  timej  we  must  give  a  short  account 
of  some  of  the  theories  themselves. 

Tlie^  most  ancient  of  which  it  seems  neces- 
sary to  taiFe  any  no'tice,  isthat__uhich  may  be 
traced  in  the  Dialogues  of|  Plato— though  we 
are  very  tar  from  pretending  that  it  is  possible 
to  give  any  intelligible  or  consistent  account 
of  its  tenor.  It  should  never  be  forgotten, 
however,  that  it,Js  tothis  subtle  and  inge- 
nious spirit  that  we  owe  the  suggestion,  that 
l^is jtiind  alone  that  is  beautiful;  and  that, 

)    in  perceiving  beauty,  it  only  contemplates 

-  the  shadow  of  its  own  affections;—?,  doctrine 

wMph,  however  mystically  unfolded  in  his 

\  .writings,  or  however  combined  with  extra va- 
■^nt  or  absurd  speculations,  unquestionably 
carries  in  it  the  the  germ  of  all  the  truth  that 
has  since  been  revealed  on  the  subject.  By 
far  the  largest  dissertation,  however,  that  this 
great  philosopher  has  left  upon  the  nature  of 
beauty,  is  to  be  found  in  the  dialogue  entitled 
The  Greater  Hippias,  which  is  entirely  de- 
voted to  that  inquiry.  We  do  not  learn  a 
great  deal  of  the  author's  own  opinion,  in- 
deed, from  this  performance;  for  it  is  one  of 
the  dialogues  which  have  been  termed  Ana- 
treptic,  or  confuting — in  Avhich  nothing  is 
concluded  in  the  affirmative,  but  a  series  of 
sophistical  suggestions  or  hypotheses  are  suc- 
cessively exposed.  The  plan  of  it  is  to  lead 
on  Hippias,  a  shallow  and  confident  sophist. 
to  make  a  variety  of  dogmatical  assertions  as 
to  the  nature  of  beauty,  and  then  to  make 
him  retract  and  abandon  them,  upon  the 
statement  of  some  obvious  objections.  So- 
crates and  he  agree  at  first  in  the  notable 
proposition,  "tliat  beauty  is  that  by  which 
all  beautiful  things  are  beautiful;"  and  then, 
after  a  great  number  of  suggestions,  by  far 
too  childish  and  absurd  to  be  worthy  of  any 
notice — such  as,  that  the  beautiful  may  per- 
adventure  be  gold,  or  a  fine  woman,  or  a 
handsome  mare — they  at  last  get  to  some 
suppositions,  which  show  that  almost  all  the 
theories  that  have  since  been  propounded  on 
this  interesting  subject  had  occurred  thus 
early  to  the  active  and  original  mind  of  this 
keen  and  curious  inquirer.  Thus,  Socrates 
first  suggests  that  beauty  may  consist  in  the 
fitness  or  suitableness  of  any  object  to  the 
place  it  occupies ;  and  afterwards,  more  gen- 
erally and  directly,  that  it  may  consist  in 
utility — a  notion  which  is  ultimately  reject- 
ed, however,  upon  the  subtle  consideration 
that  the  useful  is  that  which  produces  good, 
and  that  the  producer  and  the  product  being 
nev.essarily  difl^erent,  it  would  follow,  upon 
that  supposition,  that  beauty  could  not  be 
good,  nor  good  beautiful,     finally,  h3  sug- 


gests that  beauty  may  be  the  mere  organic 
delight  of  the  eye  or  the  ear;  to  which,  aftei 
stating  very  slightly  the  objection,  tliat  it 
would  be  impossible  to  account  upon  this 
ground  for  the  beauty  of  poetry  or  eloquence, 
he  proceeds  to  rear  up  a  more  refined  and 
elaborate  refutation,  upon  such  grounds  as 
these : — If  beauty  be  the  proper  name  of  thai 
which  is  naturally  agreeable  to  the  sight  and 
hearing,  it  is  plain,  that  the  objects  to  which 
it  is  ascribed  must  possess  some  common  and 
distinguishable  property,  besides  that  of  being 
agreeable,,  in  consequence  of  which  they  arc 
separated  and  set  apart  from  objects  that  are 
agreeable  to  our  other  senses  and  faculties, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  classed  together  under 
the  common  appellation  of  beautiful.  Now, 
we  are  not  only  quite  unable  to  discover  what 
this  property  is,  but  it  is  manifest,  that  objects 
which  make  themselves  known  to  the  ear, 
can  have  no  property  as  such,  in  common 
with  objects  that  make  themselves  known  to 
the  eye;  it  being  impossible  that  an  object 
which  is  beautiful  by  its  colour,  can  be  beau- 
tiful,  from  the  same  quality,  with  another 
which  is  beautiful  by  its  sound.  From  all 
which  it  is  inferred,  that  as  beauty  is  admitted 
to  be  something  real,  it  cannot  be  merely  what 
is  agreeable  to  the  organs  of  sight  or  hearing. 

There  is  no  piactical  w^isdom,  we  admit,  in 
those  fine-dra-\^Ti  speculations;  nor  anj  of  that 
spirit  of  patient- observation  by  which  alone  1 
any  sound  view  of  sucH  objects  can  ever  I 
be  attained.  There  are  also  many  marks 
of  that  singular  incapacity  to  distinguish 
between  what  is  absolutely  puerile  and 
foolish,  and  what  is  plausible,  at  least,  and 
ingenious,  which  may  be  reckoned  among 
the  characteristics  of  '-'the  divine  philoso- 
pher," and  in  some  degree  of  all  the  philoso- 
pher's of  antiquity:  but  they  show  clearly 
enough  the  subtle  and  abstract  character  of 
Greek  speculation,  and  prove  at  how  early 
a  period,  and  to  how  great  an  extent,  the 
inherent  difficulties  of  the  subject  were  felt, 
and  produced  their  appropriate  effects. 

J^iere  are  some  hints  on  these  subjects  in 
the  works  of  Xenophon ;  and  some  scattered 
oBseiTations  in  those  of  Cicero ;  who  was  the 
first,  we  believe,  to  observe,  that  the  sense 
of  beauty  is  peculiar  to  man;  but  nothing 
else,  we  believe,  in  classical  antiquity,  which 
requires  to  be  analysed  or  explained.  It  ap- 
pears that  St.  Au^stin  composed  a  large 
treatise  on  beauty  f  aiiTit  is  to  be  lamented, 
that  the  speculations  of  that  acute  and  ardent 
genius  on  such  a  subject  have  been  lost.  We 
discover,  from  incidontal  notices  in  other  parts 
of  his  writings,  that  he  conceived  the  beauty 
of  all  objects  to  depend  en  their  unity,  or  on 
the  perception  of  that  principle  or  design 
M'hich  fixed  the  relations  of  their  various 
parts,  and  presented  them  to  the  intellect  or 
imagination  as  one  harmonious  whole.  It 
would  not  be  fair  to  deal  very  strictly  with 
a  theory  wuth  which  we  are  so  imperfectly  , 
acquainted :  but  it  may  be  observed,  that, 
while  the  author  is  so  far  in  the  right  as  to 
make  beauty  consist  in  a  relation  to  mind,  '~ 
and  not  in  any  physical  quality,  he  has  takeu 


J< 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


far  too  i  arrow  and  circum-cribeil  a  view  of  I  ingenious  author  that  these  qualities  of  uni* 
the  mailer,  and  one  \'.  -lich  seemt-  almost  ex-  j  formity  and  variety  were  not  of  themselves 
clusively  applicable  to  works  of  liuman  art;  agreeable  to  any  of  our  known  senses  or  facul- 
it  being  plain  enough,  we  think,  that  a  beau-  |  ties,  except  when  considered  as  symbols  of 
tiful  landscape,  or  a  beautiful  horse,  has  no   utility  or  design,  and  therefore  could  not  in- 


more  unity,  and  no  more  traces  of  design, 
than  one  which  is  not  beautiful. 

We  do  not  pretend  to  know  what  the 
schoolmen  taught  upon  this  subject  during  the 
dark  ages ;  but  the  discussion  does  not  seem 
to  havebeen  resumed  for  long  after  the  re- 
vival of  letters.  The^followers  of  Leibnitz 
were  pleased  to  rnamtain  that  beauty  con- 
Bisted  in  perfection;  but  what  constituted 
perfection  (in  this  respect)  they  did  not  at- 
tempt to  define.  M..  Crouzas  wrote  a  long 
essay,  to  show  that  beauty  depended  on  these 
five  elements,  variety,  unity,  regularity,  order, 
and  proportion ;  and  the  Pere  Andre,  a  still 
longer  one  to  prove,  that,  admitting  tnese  to 
be  the  true  foundations  of  beauty,  it  was  still 
most  important  to  consider,  that  the  beauty 
which  results  from  them  is  either  essential, 
or  natural,  or  artificial — and  that  it  may  be 
greater  or  less,  according  as  the  character- 
istics of  each  of  these  classes  are  combined 
or  set  in  opposition. 

Among  ourselves,  we  are  not  aware  of  any 
considerable  publication  on  the  subject  till 
the  appearance  of  Lord  Shaftesbury's  Charac- 
teristics; in  which  assort  of  rapturous  Platonic 
doctrine  is  delivered  as  to  the  existence  of  a 
primitive  and  Supreme  Good  and  Beauty,  and 
of  a  certain  internal  sense,  by  which  both 
beauty  and  moral  merit  are  distinguished. 
Addison. published  several  ingenious  papers 
in  The  Spectator,  on  the  pleasures  of  the 
imagination,  and  was  the  first,  we  believe. 
who  referred  them  to  the  specific  sources  of 
beauty,  sublimity,  and  novelty.  He  did  not 
enter  much,  however,  into  the  metaphysical 
discussion  of  the  nature  of  beauty  itself;  and 
the  first  philosophical  treatise  of  note  that  ap- 
peared on  the  subject,  may  be  said  to  have 
been  the  Inquiry  of  Dr.  Hucheson,  first  pub- 
lished, we  bejieve,  in  1735. 

In  this  work,  'thenotion  of  a  peculiar  in- 
ternal sense,  by  which  we  are  made  sensible 
of  the.^iijstence  of  beauty,  is  very  boldly  pro- 
mulgated, and  maintained  by  many  ingenious 


arguments:  Yet  nothing,  we  conceive,  caiLbe.  far  more  agreeable  than  that  of  a  branching 


more  extravagant,  than  such  a  proposition.; 
and  nothing  but  the  radical  fault's  of  the  other 
parts  of  his  theory  could  possibly  have  driven 
the  learned  author  to  its  adoption.  Even 
after  the  existence  of  the  sixth  sense  was  as- 
sumed, he  felt  that  it  was  still  necessary  that 
ke  should  explain  what  were  the  qualities  by 
which  it  was  gratified;  and  these,  he  was 
pleased  to  allege,  were  nothing  but  the  com- 
binations of  variety  with  unifocmily;  all  ob- 
jects, as  he  has  himself  expressed  it,  which 
are  equally  uniform,  being  beautiful  in  pro- 
portion to  their  variety — and  all  objects 
equally  various  being  beautiful  in  proportion 
to  th'^ir  uniformity.     Now,  not  to  insist  upon 


telligibly  account  for  the  very  lively  emotions 
which  we  often  experience  from  the  percep- 
tion of  beauty,  where  the  notion  of  design  or 
utility  is  not  at  all  suggested.  He  was  con- 
strained, therefore,  either  to  abandon  this  view 
of  the  nature  of  beauty  altogether,  or  to  ima- 
gine a  new  sense  or  faculty,  whose  only  func- 
tion it  should  be  to  receive  delight  from  the 
combinations  of  uniformity  and  variety,  with- 
out any  consideration  of  their  being  significant 
of  things  agreeable  to  our  other  faculties;  and 
this  being  accomplished  by  the  mere  force 
of  the  definition,  there  was  no  room  for  farther 
dispute  or  difficulty  in  the  matter. 

Some  of  Hucheson's  followers,  such  as  Ge- 
rard and  others,  who  were  a  little  startled  at 
the  notion  of  a  separate  faculty,  and  yet 
wished  to  retain  the  doctrine  of  beauty  de- 
pending on  variety  and  uniformity,  endea- 
voured, accordingly,  to  show  that  these  quali- 
ties were  naturally  agreeable  to  the  mind,  and 
were  recommended  by  considerations  arising 
from  its  most  familiar  properties.  Uniformity 
or  simplicity,  they  observed,  renders  our  con- 
ception of  objects  easy,  and  saves  the  mind 
from  all  fatigue  and  distraction  in  the  con- 
sideration of  them ;  whilst  variety,  if  circum- 
scribed  and  limited  by  an  ultimate  uniformity, 
gives  it  a  pleasing  exercise  and  excitement, 
and  keeps  its  energies  in  a  state  of  pleasur- 
able activity.  Now,'  this  appears  to  us  to  be 
mere  trifling.  The  varied  and  lively  emotions 
which  we  receive  from  the  perception  of 
beauty,  obviously  have  no  sort  of  resemblance 
to  the  pleasure  of  moderate  intellectual  exer- 
tion :  nor  can  any  thing  be  conceived  more 
utterly  dissimilar  than  the  gratification  we 
have  in  gazing  on  the  form  of  a  lovely  woman, 
and  the  satisfaction  we  receive  from  working 
an  easy  problem  in  arithmetic  or  geometry. 
If  a  triangle  is  more  beautiful  than  a  reg-ulai 
polygon,  as  those  authors  maintain,  merely 
cause  its  figure  is  more  easily  comprehend 
the  number  four  should  be  more  beautifi 
than  the  number  327,  and  the  form  of  a  gib' 


i 


oak.     The  radical  error,  in  short,  consists  in  \ 
fixing  upon  properties  that  are  not  interesting  ■ 
in  themselves,  and  can  never  be  conceived,  I 
therefore,  to  excite  any  emotion,  as  the  foun-  ^ 
tain-spring  of  all  our  emotions  of  beauty :  and 
it  is  an  absurdity  that  must  infallibly  lead  to  . 
others — whether  these  take  the  shape  of  a 
violent  attempt  to  disguise  the  truly  different 
nature  of  the  properties  so  selected,  or  of  the 
bolder  expedient  of  creating  a  peculiar  faculty, 
whose  office  it  is  to  find  them  interesting. 
The  next  remarkable  theory  was  that  pro- 
'  \'  Edmund  Bnrko,  in  his  Treatise  ofy 
inc  and  Jlcai'tiful.     But  of  this,  ml 
sp 


the  obvious  and  radical  objection  that  this  is  not  persuade  ourselves  that  it  is  necessary  to 
not  true  in  fact,  as  to  flowers,  landscapes,  or  '  say  much.  His  explanation  is  founded  upon 
indeed  of  any  thing  but  architecture,  if  it  be  la^ecies  of  materialism — not  much  to  have 
true  of  that — it  could  not  fail  to  strike  the  iTeen  expected" from  the  general  character  ot 


ALISON  ON  TASTE. 


16 


bin  genius,  or  tht  strain  of  his  other  specula- 1  therefore,  to  be  just  as  beautifu. ,  if  the  sei.se 


lions — for  it  all  resolves  into  this — that  all 
objects  appear  I'eautiiul,  which  have  tHe" 
power  of  pioducmg  a  peculiar  relaxation  of 
our  nerves  and  fibres^  and  thus  inducing  a 
certaiu-degrpp.  oI^JjJltjLiaoguor  and  sinking. 


OF  all  the  suppositions  that  have  been  at  any' j)anied  by  any  pleasure  whatever ;  and  in  par 


h('!ioingna..QL. 
j"j.s .  Uio  iiivil.  .unlQilii- 
tka-.mosL,  weakly,  sup* 
jKjIjftd.  There  is  no  philosophy  ni  the  doctrine 
— and  the  fundamental  assumption  is  in  every 
way  contradicted  by  the^nost  familiar  expe- 
rience. There  is  no  relaxation  of  the  fibres 
in  the  perception  of  beauty — and  there  is  no 
pleasure  in  the  relaxation  of  the  fibres.  If 
there  were,  it  would  follow,  that  a  warm  bath 
would  be  by  far  the  most  beautiful  thing  in 
the  world — and  that  the  brilliant  lights,  and 
bracing  airs  of  a  fine  autumn  morning,  would 
be  the  very  reverse  of  beautiful.  Accordingly, 
fjioil^h  t-he  treatise  alluded  to  \sdlLalw^}'s  be 
valuable  on  accouzit  of  the  manyfine  andjust 
remaiks  it  contains,  we  are  not  aware  tliaf 
there  is  any  accurate  inquirer  into  the  subject 
(with  the  exception,  perhaps,  of  Mr.  Price,  in 
whose  hands,  however,  the  doctrine  assumes 
a  new  character)  by  whom  the  fundamental 
principle  of  the  theory  has  not  been  expli- 
citly abandoned. 

-Atryet  mwe^-ex^ravaga^wiafilainajvas  soon 
afterwafSslncttlcated'r  and  in  a  tone  of  great 
authority,  in  a  long  article  from  the  brilliant 
pen  of  Diderot,  in  the  Fvench.  Encyclopedic ; 
and  onewhich  exemplifies,  in  a  very  striking 
anner,  the  nature  of  the  difficulties  with 
which  the  discussion  is  embarrassed.     This 


of  beauty. cousisis'd.  hi Jthfi...p.«Xception  of  rela-" 
tiona^.  Jn  the  next  place,  it  seems  to  be  suffi- 
ciently certain,  from  the  experience  and  com- 
mon feelings  of  all  men,  that  the  perception  of 
relations  among  objects  is  not  in  itself  accom* 


ticular  has  no  conceivable  resemblance  to  the 
emotion  we  receive  from  the  perception  of 
beauty.  When  we  perceive  one  ugly  old 
woman  sitting  exactly  opposite  to  two  other 
ugly  old  women,  and  observe,  at  the  same 
moment,  that  the  first  is  as  big  as  the  other  two 
taken  together,  we  humbly  conceive,  that  this 
clear  perception  of  the  relations  in  which  these 
three  Graces  stand  to  each  other,  cannot  well 
be  mistaken  for  a  sense  of  beauty,  and  that  it 
does  not  in  the  least  abate  or  interfere  with  our 
sense  of  their  ugliness.  Finally,  we  may  ob- 
serve, that  the  sense  of  beauty  results  instanta- 
neously from  the  perception  of  the  object ; 
whereas  the  discovery  of  its  relations  to  other 
objects  must  necessarily  be  a  work  of  time  and 
reflection,  in  the  course  of  which  the  beauty  of 
the  object,  so  far  from  being  created  or  brought 
into  notice,  must,  in  fact,  be  lost  sight  of  and 
forgotten. 

AiiotJiermor£plausible  and  ingenious  theory 
was  suggested  bylhe  Pere  Buffiei\_and  after- 
wards adopted  and  illustrated  with  greattaleht 
in  the  i);VscoN,rscs  of  Sir  Jpshua  Reynolds.  Ac- 
cording to  this  doctrine,  beauty  co]]sists,  as 
Aristotle  held  virtue  to  do^  in  mediocrit}-,  or 
conformity  to  that  which  is  most  usual.  Thus 
a  beautiful  nose,  to  make  use  of  Dr.  Smith's 
very  apt,  though  homely,  illustration  of  this 
doctrine,  is  one  that  is  neither  very  long  nor 


ingenious  person,  perceiving  at  once,  that  iiie_  very   short — very    straight    nor    very   much 


^eauty  whichAv^  ascribe  to  a  particular  class 
ofobjects,  could  not  be  referred  to  any  pecu- 
Tial-  and  inherent  quality  in  the  objects  them- 
^selves^^but^-depended  upon  their  power  of 
exciUjQ^iiertam  sentiments  in  our  minds'  and 
being,  atthe  same  time,  at  a  loss  to  discover 
what  common  power  could  belong  to  so  vast 
a  variety  of  objects  as  pass  under  the  general 
lappellation  of  beautiful,  or  by  what  tie  all  the 
fvarious  emotions  which  are  excited  by  the 
perception  of  beauty  could  be  united,  was  at 
last  driven,  by  the  necessit}^  of  keeping  his 
definition  sufficiently  wide  and  comprehen- 
sive, to  hazard  the  strange  assertion,  that  all 
objects  were  beautiful  which  excite  in  us  the 
idea  of  relation;  that  eujLsense  of  beauty  con- 
sisted in  tracmg  out  the  relations  which  the 
object  possessuig  it  might  have  to  other  ob- 
jects j  and  that  its  actual  beauty  was  in  pro- 
portion to  the  numbej"  and  clearness  of  the 
relations  thus  suggested  and  perceived.  It  is 
scarcely  necessary,  we  presume,  to  expose  by 
any  arguments  the  manifest  fallacy,  or  rather 
the  palpable  absurdity,  of  such  a  theory  as 
this.  In  the  first  place,  we  conceive  it  to  be 
obvious,  that  all  objects  whatever  have  an 
infinite,  and  consequently,  an  equal  number 
of  relations,  and  are  equally  likely  to  suggest 
them  to  those  to  whom  they  are  presented ; — 
or,  at  all  events,  it  is  certain,  that  ugly  and 
disagreeable  objects  have  just  as  many  rela 


bent — but  of  an  ordinary  form  and  proportion, 
compared  with  all  the  extremes.  It  is  the 
form,  in  short,  which  nature  seems  to  have 
aimed  at  in  all  cases,  though  she  has  more 
frequently  deviated  from  it  than  hit  it ;  but 
deviating  from  it  in  all  directions,  all  her  de- 
viations come  nearer  to  it  than  they  ever  do 
to  each  other.  Thus  thejrnost JxeautifuLin.. 
every  species  of  creatures  J5eais  the.greatest 
reseniblance  to  the  whole  species,  while  mon- 
sters are  so__denominated  because  they  bear 
the  least  j  "and  thus  the  beautiful,  though  in 
one"se1ise  the  rarest,  aslhe  exact  medium  is 
but  seldom  hit,  isjnvariably  the  most  common, 
because  it  is  the  cenfrarpdiht  fi-om  which  alt 
tjiejdeyiations  an^  the  least  remote^  This 
view  of  the  matter  is  adopted  by  Sir  Joshua  in 
its  full  extent,  and  is  even  carried  so  far  by 
this  great  artist,  that  he  does  not  scruple  tc 
conclude,  "  That  if  we  were  more  used  to  de- 
formity than  beauty,  deformity  would  then 
lose  the  idea  that  is  now  annexed  to  it,  and 
take  that  of  beauty; — ^just  as  we  approve  and 
admire  fashions  in  dress,  for  no  other  reason 
than  that  we  are  used  to  them." 

Now,  not  to  dwell  upon  the  very  startling 
conclusion  to  which  these  principles  must 
lead,  viz.  that  things  are  beautiful  in  propor- 
tion as  they  are  ordinary,  and  that  it  ia 
merely  their  familiarity  which  constitutes 
their  beauty,  we  would  observe,  in  the  first 


tions  as  those  that  are  agreeable,  and  ought,  |  place,  that  tn^ whole  theory  seems  to  have 


20 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


beon^siiggesLed  by  a  consideration  of  animal  i 
foims^  or  perhaps  of  the  liunian  figure  exclu- 
sively.  7  In  these  forms,  it  is  quite  true  that 
greaLand-manstrous  deviations  from  the  usual 
proportions  are  extremely  disagreeable.  But 
this,  we  have  no  doubt,  arises  entirely  from 
some  idea  of  pain  or  disaster  attached  to  their 
existence ;  or  from  their  obvious  unfitness  for 
the  functions  they  have  to  perform.  Tn  vege^ 
table.ioi-ms,  accordingly,  these  irregularities 
excite  no  such  disgust;  it  being,  in  fact, 
the  great  object  of  culture,  in  almost  all  the 
more  beautiful  kinds,  to  produce  what  may 
be  called  monstrosities.  And,  in  mineral  sub- 
stances, where  the  idea  of  suffering  is  still 
more  completely  excluded,  it  is  notorious  that, 
so  far  from  the  more  ordinary  configurations 
being  thought  the  most  beautiful,  this  epithet 
is  scarcely  ever  employed  but  to  denote  some 
rare  and  unusual  combination  of  veiiis,  colours, 
or  dimensions.  As  to_laiulscapeSj  again,  and 
almost  all  the  works  of  art,  without  exception, 
the  theory  is  plainly  altogether  incapable  of 
application.  In  what  sense,  for  example,  can 
it  be  said  that  the  beauty  of  natural  scenery 
consists  in  mediocrity  ]  or  that  those  landscapes 
are  the  most  beautiful  that  are  the  most  com- 
mon ■?  or  what  meaning  can  we  attach  to  the 
proposition,  that  the  most  beautiful  building, 
or  picture,  or  poem,  is  that  which  bears  the 
nearest  resemblance  to  all  the  individuals  of 
its  class,  and  is,  upon  the  whole,  the  most 
ordinary  and  common  1 

To  a  doctrine  w^hich  is  liable  to  these  obvi- 
ous and  radical  objections,  it  is  not  perhaps 
necessary  to  make  any  other;  but  we  must 
remark  farther,  first,  that  it  necessarily  sup- 
poses that  our  sense  of  beauty  is,  in  all  cases, 
preceded  by  such  a  lurge  comparison  between 
various  individuals  of  the  same  specieg^_as 
rnay  enable. lis.  to  ascertain  that  average  or 
mean  form  in  which  beauty  is  supposed  to 
consist;  and,  consequently,  that  Ave  could 
nevef^discover  any  object  to  be  beautiful  an- 
tecedent to  such  a  comparison ;  and,  secondly, 
that,  even  if  we  were  to  allow  that  this  theory 
afforded  some  explanation  of  the  superior 
beauty  of  any  one  object,  compared  with 
others  of  the  same  class,  it  plainly  furnishes 
no  6xi)lanation  whatever  of  the  superior 
beauty  of  one  class  of  objects  compared  with 
another.  We  may  believe,  if  we  please,  that 
one  peacock  is  handsomer  than  another,  be- 
cause it  approaches  more  nearly  to  the  ave- 
rage or  mean  form  of  peacocks  in  general ; 
but  this  reason  will  avail  us  nothing  whatever 
in  explaining  why  any  peacock  is  handsomer 
than  any  pelican  or  penguin.  We  may  say, 
without  manifest  absurdity,  that  the  most 
beautiful  pig  is  that  which  has  least  of  the 
extreme  qualities  that  sometimes  occur  in  the 
tribe ;  but  it  would  be  palpably  absurd  to  give 
this  reason,  or  any  thing  like  it,  for  the  superior 
beauty  of  the  tribe  of  antelopes  or  spaniels. 

The  notion,  in  short',  seems  to  have  been 
hastily  adopted  by  the  ingenious  persons  who 
have  maintained  it,  partly  upon  the  narrow 
ground  of  the  disgust  produced  by  monsters 
in  the  animal  creation,  which  has  been  already 
sufficiently  explained — and  partly  in  conse- 


quence of  the  fallacy  which  lurks  ii^  the  vague 
and  general  proposition  of  those  things  being 
beauliful  which  are  neither  too  big  nor  too  lit 
tie,  too  massive  nor  too  slender,  &c. ;  from 
which  it  was  concluded,  that  beauty  must  con- 
sist in  mediocrity : — not  considering  that  the 
particle  too  merely  denotes  those  degreea 
which  are  exclusive  of  beauty,  without  in  any 
-^-ay  fixing  what  those  degrees  are.  For  the 
plain  meaning  of  these  phrases  is,  that  the  re- 
jected objects  are  too  massive  or  too  slender 
to  he  bcauiifid ;  and,  therefore,  to  say  that  an 
object  is  beautiful  which  is  neither  too  big  nor 
too  little,  &c.  is  really  saying  nothing  more 
than  that  beautiful  objects  are  such  as  are  not 
in  any  degree  ugly  or  disagreeable.  The  il- 
lustration as  to  the  effects  of  use  or  custom  in 
the  article  of  dress  is  singularly  inaccurate 
and  delusive ;  the  fact  being,  that  we  never 
admire  the  dress  which  we  are  most  accus- 
tomed to  see  — which  is  that  of  the  common 
people — but  the  dress  of  the  few  who  are  dis- 
tinguished by  rank  or  opulence ;  and  that  we 
require  no  more  custom  or  habit  to  make  us 
admire  this  dress,  whatever  it  may  be,  than  is 
necessary  to  associate  it  in  our  thoughts  with 
the  wealth,  and  dignity,  and  graceful  manners 
of  those  w^ho  w^ear  it. 

We  need  say  nothing  in  this  place  of  the 
opinions  expressed  on  the  subject  of  beauty  by 
Dr.  npmrfl^  Dr.  Blair,  and  a  whole  herd  of  rhe- 
toricians; because  none  of  them  pretend  to 
have  any  new  or  original  notions  with  regard 
to  it,  and,  in  general,  have  been  at  no  pains  to 
reconcile  or  render  consistent  the  various  ac- 
counts of  the  matter,  which  they  have  con- 
tented themselves  w^ith  assembling  and  laying 
before  their  readers  all  together,  as  affording 
among  them  the  best  explanation  that  could 
be  offered  of  the  question.  Thus  they  do  not 
scmple  to  say,  that  the  sense  of  beauty  is 
sometimes  produced  by  the  mere  organic  af- 
fection of  the  senses  of  sight  or  hearing;  at 
other  times,  by  a  perception  of  a  kind  of  re- 
gular variety ;  and  in  other  instances  by  the 
association  of  interesting  conceptions; — thus 
abandoning  altogether  any  attempt  to  answer 
the  radical  question — how  the  feeling  of 
beauty  should  be  excited  by  such  opposite 
causes— and  confounding  together,  without  any' 
attempt  at  discrimination,  those  theories  which 
imply  the  existence  of  a  separate  sense — or 
faculty,  and  those  which  resolve  our  sense 
of  beauty  into  other  more  simple  or  familiar 
emotions. 

Of  late  years,  however,  we  have  had  three 
publications  on  the  subject  of  a  far  higher 
character — we  mean,  Mr.  Alison's  Esf^ays  on 
the  Nature  and  PrincwTcs  ofTrast£-—MTrTnji\& 
Kiiight's  An olyticot  l?i qitiry  into  the  sanie"si5B- 
jecls — and  jMr.  Dugal  Stewart's  Dissertations , 
on  the  Beautiful  and  on  Taste,  in  his  volnm-e 
pi  Philosophical  Essays.  Al]  these  works  pbs- 
'sess  an  infinite  deal  of  merit,  and  have  among 
them  disclosed  almost  all  the  truth  that  is  to  be 
"known  on  the  subject ;  ihoiigh,  as  it  seems  to 
us,  with  some  little  admixture  of  error,  from 
which  it  w-ill  not,  however,  be  difficult  to  sepa- 
rate it. 

Mr.  AUson  maintains,  that  all  beauty,  or  at 


ALISON  ON  TASTE. 


2) 


St  that  iJl  the  beauty  of  material  objects,  |  the  beauty  of  the  object  which  first  s.iggest. 


depends  on  the  associations  that  niay  have 
comiected  them  with  the  ordinary  affectioiis 
or  emotions  of  our  nature  jahd'iir  this,  which 
is  the  fundameiital  point  of  his  theory,  we 
conceive  him  to  be  no  less  clearly  right,  than 
he  is  convincing  and  judicious  in  the  copious 
and  beautiful  illustrations  by  Avhich  he  has 
sought  to  establish  its  truth.  When  hg.jpro- 
however,  to  assert,  that  our  sense  of 
^  auty  consists  not  merely  in  the  suggestion 
^/  hleas'or' emotion,  but  in  the  contemplation 


some   universal  analogy,  with  pleasures,  or;  -f' 


t)f  a  connected  series  or  train  of  such  ideas,  and 

iiidlcafes  a  state  of  mind  m  which  the  facul-, 

ties,  half  active  and  half  passive,  are  given  up 

to  a  sort  of  reverie  or  musing,  in  which  they. jeiagtLQ]i&  that  upon  the  whole  are  pleasant ; 7   \l 
lugh  among  kindred  impres-   and  tli£^t  these  associatedj)leagures  are  instan-^    fj^ 
^tanesttslxJUggested,  as  soon  as  the  objectis-  '"^ 
^pjasented,  ^nd  by.  the  lirst  glimpse  of  it.s^X'hy" 
sicaLproperties.  Avith  which,  indeed,  they  "are 
jCOasabsi^ntiiiU'd  cind  coniouuded  in  our  se; 


m 


may  wander,  thou: 

sions,  far  enough  from  the  immediate  object 
of  perception,  we  will  confess  that  he  not  only. 
Beems  to  us  to  advance  a  very  questionable 
proposition,  but  very  essentially  to  endanger 
the  evidence,  as  well  as  the  consistency,  of 
his  general  doctrine.  We  are  far  from  deny-" 
i°gt.fe|^i,v  i^^I^  i"^  '^  of  sensibility  and  of  reflect- 
ingT^bits.""the  contemplation  of  beautiful  ob- 
jects will  be  apt,  especially  in  moments  of 
leisure,  and  .when  the  mind  is  vacant,  to  give, 
rise  to  suchUrains  q^Thoughtj_and  tp  such  pro- 
tracted meaitatioiA;  b,u^we  cannot  possibly 
admit  that  their  exist^ice  is  necessary  to  the 
perception  of  beauU^j^r  that  it  is  in  this  state 
of  mincj  exclusively  that  the  sense  of  beauty 
oxi-ts.  ■  The  perception  of  beauty,  on  the  con- 
;iold  to  be,  in  most  cases,  quite  in- 
;<^.  and  altogether  as  immediate 'as 
th"  jX'iceptibn  of  the  external  qualities  of  the 
obji^ct  to  which  it  isascribed.  Indeed,  it  seems 
only  necessary  to  recollect,  that  it  is  to  a  pre- 
sent material  object  that  we  actually  ascribe 
and  refer  this  beauty,  and  that  the  only  thing 
to  be  explained  4s, ^how  this  object  comes  to 
appear  beautiful,  in  the  long  train  of  inter- 
esting meditations,  however,  to  which  Mr. 
Alison  refers — in  the  delightful  reveries  in 
which  he  w^ould  make  the  sense  of  beauty 
consist — it  is  obvious  that  we  must  soon  lose 
eight  of  the  external  object  which  gave  the 
first  impulse  to  our  thoughts ;  and  though  we 
mKj  afterwards  reflect  upon  it,  with  increased 
hiterest  and  gratitude,  as  the  parent  of  so 
many  channing  images,  it  is  impossible,  we 
conceive,  that  the  perception  of  its  beauty  can 
ever  depend  upon  a  long  series  of  various  and 
shifting  emotions. 

It  likewise  occurs  to  us  to  observe,  that  if 
every  thing  was  beautiful,  which  was  the  oc- 
casion of  a  train  of  ideas  of  emotion,  it  is  not 
easy  to  see  why  objects  that  are  called  ugly 
Bhould  not  be  entitled  to  that  appellation.  If 
they  are  sufficiently  ugly  not  to  be  viewed 
with  indifference,  they  too  will  give  rise  to 
ideas  of  emotion,  and  those  ideas  are  just  as 
likely  to  run  into  trains  and  series,  as  those  of 
a  more  agreeable  description.  Nay,  as  con- 
trast itself  is  one  of  the  principles  of  associa- 
tion, it  is  not  at  all  unlikely,  that,  in  the  train 
of  impressive  ideas  which  the  sight  of  ugly 
objects  may  excite,  a  transition  may  be  ulti- 
mately made  to  such  as  are  connected  with 
leasure  ;  and,  therefore,  if  the  perception  of 


satipns..,^ 

"*^"T£e  xVork  o£]Mr.  Ki-|ioht  is  more  lively,  va- 
rious,"lLnd"{IiscuTsrve,thah~J\Ir.  Alison's— but ' 
JlOt  so  systernatiff  or  nnnpln^i'vP  It  is  the' 
cleverer  book  of  the  two — but  not  the  most 
philaaQphieai>di6ett«BiQia,>>^f  the --subject.  Jle 
jagrees  with  Mr.  Alison  in  holding  the  most 
''important,'  a^^^  only  considerable 

part  of _beauty^  Jo  depend  uj)on "association  ] 
andTTas  illustrated  this  opinion  with  a  great 
variety  of  just  and  original  observations.  But 
he  maintains,  and  maintains  stoutlv.  that  there — 


ed  them  depended  on  its  havmg  produced  a 
series  of  ideas  of  emotion,  or  even  of  agreea- 
ble emotions,  there  seems  to  be  no  good  rea. 
son  for  doubting,  that  ugly  objects  may  thus 
be  as  beautiful  as  any  other,  and  that  beauty 
and  ugliness  may  be  one  and  the  same  thing. 
Such  is  the  danger,  as  it  appears  to  us,  of  de- 
serting the  object  itself,  or  going  beyond  its 
immediate  effect  and  impression,  in  order  to 
discover  the  sources  of  its  beauty.  Q^x  view 
^f  thp.  mRftp''  is  safer,  we  think,  and  far  more , 
simple.  (^\ye  conceive  the  object  to  be  asso-.' 
ciatgd  either  ill  our  past  experience,  oitiyZ^x 


IS  a  beauty  independent  of  association::::-pjiot., 
to  ;t,  and  more  originaI"and TundamenFal — the 


primitive  and  natural  beauty  of  colours  and 

squnds; NowpTKTr'we'"Ioolc'  lipoh"  fo  Idc  a 

Iieresy ;  and  a  ^^iffffiy  inconsistent  with  the  j 
very  first  principles  of  Catholic  philosophv.  '' 
We  shall  not  stop  at  present  to  give  our  rea- 
sons for  this  opinion,  Avhich  we  shall  illustrate 
at  large  before  we  bring  this  article  to  a  close  j 
— but  we  beg  leave  merely  to  suggest  at  pre- 
sent, that  if  our  sense  of  beauty  be  confess 
edlyj  in  most  cases,  the  mere  image  or  reflec 
Tion  of  pleasures  or  emotions  that  have  been 
associated  with  objects  in  themselves  indifTer- 
entj  it  cannot  fail  to  appear  strange  that  it 
should  also  on  some  fetv  occasionshe  a  mere 
orgaiiic  or  sensual  gratification  of  these  par- 
ticular organs.  Language,  it  is  believed, 
affords  no  other  example  of  so  whimsical  a, 
combination  of  different  objects  under  one  ap- 
pellation: or  of  the  confounding  of  a  direct 
physical  sensation  with  the  suggestion  of  a 
social  or  sympathetic  moral  feeling.  We 
would  observe  also,  that  while  Mr.  Knight 
stickles  so  violently  for  this  alloy  of  the  senses 
in  the  constitution  of  beauty,  he  admits,  un- 
equivocally, that  sublimity  is,  in  every  hi- 
stauce,  and  in  all  cases,  the  effect  of  associa- 
tion alone.  Yet  sublimity  and  beauty,  in  any 
just  or  large  sense,  and  with  a  view  to  the 
philosophy  of  either,  are.  .mauife&tly  one  and 
the  same;  nor  is  it  conceivable  to  us,  that,  if 
sublimity  be  always  the  result  of  an  associa- 
tion with  ideas  of  power  or  danger,  beauty 
can  possibly  be,  in  any  case,  the  result  of  a 
mere  pleasurable  impulse  en  the  nerves  of  the 
eye  or  the  ear.    We  shall  return,  however,  t« 


22 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


this  discussion  hereafter.  Of  Mr.  ICnight  we 
have  only  further  to  observe,  that  we  think 
he  is  not  less  heretical  in  maintaining,  that 
we  have  no  pleasure  in  sympathising  with 
distress  or  suffering,  but  only  witli  mental 
energy ;  and  that,  in  contemplating  the  sub- 
lime, we  are  moved  only  with  a  sense  of 
power  and  grandeur,  and  never  with  any  feel- 
mg  of  terror  or  awe. — These  errors,  however, 
are  less  intunately  comiected  with  the  subject 
of  our  present  discussion. 

With  Mr.  Ste^varJ:  we  have  less  occasion  for 
quarrel :  "chleffy,  perhaps,  because  he  has 
made  fewer  positive  assertions,  and  entered 
less  into  the  matter  of  controversy.    His  Essotj 

■«oiLJthe  Beautiful  is  rather  philological  th^n 
joaetaphysical.  The  object  of  it  is  to  show  by 
^at  gradual  and  successive  extensions  of 
meaning  the  word,  though  at  first  appropri- 
ated to  denote  the  pleasing  effect  of  colours 
alone,  might  naturally  come  to  signify  all  the 
other  pleasing  things  to  which  it  is  now  ap- 
plied. In  tliis  investigation  he  makes  many 
admirable  remarks,  and  touches,  with  the 
hand  of  a  master,  upon  many  of  the  disputa- 
ble parts  of  the  question ;  but  he  evades  the 
particular  point  at  issue  between  us  and  Mr. 
Knight,  by  stating,  that  it  is  quite  immaterial 
to  his  purpose,  whether  the  beauty  of  colours 
be  supposed  to  depend  on  their  organic  effect 
on  the  eye,  or  on  some  association  between 
them  and  other  agreeable  emotions — it  being 
enough  for  his  purpose  that  this  was  probably 
the  first  sort  of  beauty  that  was  observed,  and 
that  to  which  the  name  was  at  first  exclusively 
applied.  It  is  evident  to  us,  however,  that  he 
leans  to  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Knight,  as  to  this 
beauty  being  truly  sensual  or  org-anic.  In  ob- 
serving, too,  that  beauty  is  not  now  the  name 
of  any  one  thing  or  quality,  but  of  very  many 
different  qualities — and  that  it  is  applied  to 
them  all,  merely  because  they  are  often  united 
in  the  same  objects,  or  perceived  at  the  same 
time  and  by  the  same  organs — it  appears  to  us 
that  he  carries  his  philology  a  little  too  far, 
and  disregards  other  principles  of  reasoning  of 
far  higher  authority.  To  give  the  name  of 
beauty,  for  example,  to  every  thing  that  in- 
terests or  pleases  us  through  the  chaimel  of 
sight,  including  in  this  category  the  mere  im- 
pulse of  light  that  is  pleasant  to  the  organ, 
and  the  presentment  of  objects  whose  whole 
charm  consists  in  awakening  the  memory  of 
social  emotions,  seems  to  us  to  be  confound- 
ing things  together  that  must  always  be  sepa- 
rate in  our  feelings,  and  giving  a  far  greater 
importance  to  the  mere  identitv  of  the  organ 
by  which  thev  are  perceived,  than  is  warrant- 
ed either  by  the  ordinary  language  or  ordinary 
experience  of  men.  Upon  the  same  principle 
we  should  give  this  name  of  beautiful,  and  no 

.  other,  to  all  acts  of  kindness  or  ma^animity, 
and,  indeed,  to  every  interesting  occurrence 
which  took  place  in  our  sight,  or  came  to  our 
knowledge  by  means  of  the  eye : — naj^,  as  the 
ear  is  also  allowed  to  be  a  channel  for  impres- 
sions of  beauty,  the  same  name  should  be 
t-iven  to  any  interesting  or  pleasant  thing  that 
we  hear — and  good  news  read  to  us  from  the 
lazeite    should  be    denominated  beautiful, 


just  as  much  as  a  fine  composition  of  music. 
These  things,  however,  are  never  called  beau- 
tiful, and  are  felt,  indeed,  to  afford  a  gratifica 
tion  of  quite  a  difierent  nature.    It  is  no  doubt '\-s 
true,  as  Mr.  Stewart  has  observed,  that  beauty)  1 
is  not  one  thing,  but   many — and    does    not  J 
produce  one  uniform  emotion,  but  an  mfinitel 
variety  of  emotions.     But  this,  we  conceive, 
is  not  merely  because  many  pleasant  things 
may  be  intimated  to  us  by  the  same  sense, 
but  because  the  things  that  are  called  beauti- 
ful may  be  associated  with  an  uifiiiite  variety 
of  agreeable  emotions  of  the  specific  character 
of  which  their  beauty  will  consequently  par- .  », 
take.   Nor  does  it  follow,  from  the  fact  of  this  \ J 
great  variety,  that  there  can  be  no  other  priii-  ^ 
ciple  of  union  among  these  agreeable  emo- 
tions, but  that  of  a  name^  extended  to  them  all 
upon  the  very  slight  ground  of  their  coming 
through  the  same  organ ;  since,  upon  our  the- 
oryj  and  indeed  upon  Mr.  Stewart's,  in  a  vast 
majority  of  instances,  there  is  the  remarkable 
circumstance  of  their  being  all  suggested  by 
association  with  som,e  present  sensation,  and 
all  modified  and  confounded,  to  our  feelings,^ 
by  an  actual  and  direct  perception.  J 

It  is  unnecessary,  however,  to  pursue  these 
criticisms,  or,  indeed,  this  hasty  review  of  the 
speculation  of  other  writers,  any  farther.  The 
few  observations  we  have  already  made,  will 
enable  the  intelligent  reader,  both  to  under- 
stand in  a  general  way  what  has  been  already 
done  on  the  subject,  and  in  some  degree  pre- 
pare him  to  appreciate  the  merits  of  that 
Jheory,  substantially  the  same  with  Mr.  Ali- 
son's, which  we  shall  now  proceed  to  illus- 
trate somewhat  more  in  detail. 

The  basis  of  it  is,  that  the  beauty  which 
we  impute  to  outward  objects,  is  nothing 
more  than  the  reflection  of  our  own  inward 
emotions,  and  is  made  up  entirely  of  certain 
little  portions  of  love,  pity,  or  other  affections, 
which  have  been  connected  with  these  ob- 
jects, and  still  adhere  as  it  were  to  them,  and 
move  us  anew  whenever  they  are  presented  to 
our  observation.  Before  proceeding  to  bring 
any  proof  of  the  truth  of  this  proposition, 
there  are  two  things  that  it  may  be  proper  to 
explain  a  little  more  distinctly.  Firstj  What 
are  the  primary  affections,  by  the  suggestion 
of  which  we  think  the  sense  of  beauty  is 
produced  y  And,  secondly.  What  is  the  na- 
ture of  the  connection  by  which  we  suppose 
that  the  objects  we  call  beautiful  are  enabled 
to  suggest  these  affections  ? 

\Vith  regard  to  th^  fifsTof  these  points,  it  for- 
tunately is  not  necesSiary  tMtlier  to  enter  hito  any 
tedious  details,  or  to  have  recourse  to  any  nice 
distinctions.  All  sensations  that  are  not  ab- 
solutely indifferent,  amTare,  at  the  same  time, 
^Tier  agreeable,  when  experienced  by  our- 
selves, or  attractive  when  cpntemplated  in  < 
others,  may  form  the  foundation  of  the  emo-/ 
tions  of  subliinity  or  beauty.  The  love  of| 
sensation  seems  to  be  the  ruling  appetite  of  i 
human  nature ;  and  many  sensations,  in  which* 
the  painful  may  be  thought  to  predominate. 
are  consequently  sought  for  with  avidity,  and 
recollected  with  interest,  even  in  our  own 
persons.     In  the  persons  of  others  emotioni 


ALISON  ON  TASTE. 


23 


fitiU  more  painful  are  contemplated  with  ea- 
ge'.ness  and  delight :  and  therefore  we  must 
not  be  surprised  to  find,  that  many  of  the 
pleasing  sensations  of  beauty  or  sublimity  re- 
solve themselves  ultimately  into  recoJlections 
of  feelings  that  may  appear  to  have  a  very 
opposite  character,  r  The  sum  of  the  whole 
is,  that  evej:^ieslin^;jvhich  it  is  agreeable  to 
experience,  to  recal,  or~to'wilness,  may'li)e- 
come  the  source  of  beauty  in  external  objects, 
wheii  it'  is  so  connected  with  them  as  that, 
their_app.eai:auce  reminds  us  of  that  feeling  j 
Now,  in  real  life,  and  from  daily  experience 
and  observation,  we  know  that  it  is  agreeable, 
"fimieSrst  place,  to  recollect  our  own  pleasur- 
able sensations,  or  to  be  enabled  to  form  a 
lively  conception  of  the  pleasures  of  other 
men,  or  even  of  sentient  beings  of  any  de- 
scription. We  know  likewise,  from  the  same 
sure  authority,  that  there  is  a  certain  dehght 
in  the  remembrance  of  our  past,  or  the  con- 
ception of  our  future  emotions,  even  though 
attended  with  great  pain,  provided  the  pain 
be  not  forced  too  rudely  on  the  mind,  and  be 
softened  by  the  accompaniment  of  any  milder 
feeling.  And  finally,  we  know,  in  the  same 
manner,  that  the_speclacle  or  conception  of 
the  emotions  oT  others,  even  when  in  a  high 
degree  painful,  is  extremely  interesting  and 
attractive,  and  draws  us  away,  not  only  from 
the  consideration  of  indifferent  objects,  but 
ev^'irfr?5m  the  pursuit  of  light  or  frivolous 
enjoymeuts.  All  these  are  plain  and  familiar 
facts;  of  the  existence  of  which,  however 
they  may  be  explained,  no  one  can  entertain 
the  slightest  doubt — and  into  which,  there- 
fore, we  shall  have  made  no  inconsiderable 
progress,  if  we  can  resolve  the  more  myste- 
rious fact,  of  the  emotions  w^e  receive  fijom 
the  contemplation  of  sublimity  or  beauty. 

Our  proposition  then  is,  that  these  emotions 
are  not  origmal  emotions,  nor  produced  di-_^ 
rectly  by  any  material  qualities  in  the  objects 
which  excite  them;  but  are  reflections,  or 
images,  of  the  more  radical  and  familiar 
emotions  to  which  we  have  already  alluded^ 
id  are  occasioned, notbyany  inhex-ent  virtue 
the  objects  before  us,  but  by  the  accidents, 
[If  we  may  so  express  ourselves,  by  which 
"lese  may  have  been  enabled  to  suggest  or 
^iecal  to  us  our  own  past  sensations  or  sjnipa- 
["^les.  We  mfghraliiiost  venture,  indeed,  to 
^lay  it  down  as  an  axiom,  that,  except  in  the 
plain  and  palpable  case  of  bodily  pain  or 
pleasure,  we  can  never  be  interested  in  any 
thing  but  the  fortunes  of  sentient  beings; — 
and  that  ey^ry  tliiiig  partaking  of  the  nature  of 


which  are  sometimes  excited  by  the  spectacle 
of  beauty. 

Of  the  feelings,  by  their  connection  with 
which  external  objects  become  beautiful,  we 
do  not  think  it  necessary  to  speak  more  mi- 
nutely;— and,  therefore,  it  only  remains,  under 
this  preliminary  view  of  the  subject,  to  ex- 
plain the  nature  of  that  connection  by  which 
we  conceive  this  eflect  to  be  prodiicea.  Here, 
also,  there  is  but  little  need  for  minuteness, 
or  fuhiess  of  enumeration.  Almost  every  tie, 
by  which  two  objects  can  be  bound  together 
in  the  imagination,  in  such  a  manner  as  tliat 
the  presentment  of  the. one  shall  recal  the 
memory  of  the  other.; — or,  in  other  words, 
almost  every  possible  relation  which  can 
subsist  between  such  objects,  may  serve  to 
connect  the  things  we  call  sublime  and  beau- 
tiful, with  feelings  that  are  interesting  or  de- 
lightful. It  may  be  useful,  however,  to  class 
these  bonds  of  association  between  mind  and 
rnatter  in  a  rude  and  general  way. 

:  It   appears  to  us,   then,   that   objects  are 
^tiblime  or  beautiful,  .j^i^ when  they  are  the 
^giural  signs,  and  perpetual  concomitants  of 
pleasurable  sensations,  or,  at  any  rate,  of  some 
lively  feeling  or  emotion  „in  ourselves  or  iu ,., 
some  other  sentient  beings;  or,  ^ecoiully,  when;,^ 
they  are  the  arbitrary  or  accidental  concomi-/^-^ 
tants  of  such  feelings;  or,  thirdly,  when  theyL., 
bear  some  analogy  or  fanciful  resemblance  tqj 
tilings  with  which  these  emotions  are  neces-.j 
sarily  connected.     In  endeavouring  to  illus- 
trate the  nature  of  these  several  relations,  w^e 
shall  be  led  to  lay  before  our  readers  some 
proofs  that  appear  to  us  satisfactory  of  the 
truth  of  the  general  theory.    • 

The  most  obvious,  and  th^  strongest  asso- 
ciation that  can  be  established  between  in- 
ward feelings  and  external  objects  is,  where 
the  object  is  necessarily  and  universally  con- 
Qiected  with  the  feeling  by  the  law  of  nature, 
so  that  it  is  always  presented  to  the  senses 
when  the  feeling  is  impressed  upon  the  mind 
— ^g^^  the  sight  or  the  sound  of  laughter,  with 
tlie  Teeling  of  gaiety — of  weeping,  with  dis- 
tress—of the  sound  of  thuiider,  with  ideas 
of  danger  and  power.  Let  us  dwell  for  a 
moment  on  the  last  instance. — Nothing,  per- 
haps, in  the  whole  range  of  nature,  is  more 
strikingly  and  universally  sublime  than  the 
sound  we  have  just  mentioned ;  yet  it  seems 
obvious,  that  the  sense  of  sublimity  is  pro- 
duced, not  by  any  quality  that  is  perceived 
by  the  ear,  but  altogether  by  the  impression 
of  power  and  of  danger  that  is  necessarily  ^ 
made  upon  the  mind,  whenever  that  sound  i»  " 


mental  emotion,  must  have  for  its  object  the  \  heard.  That  it  is  not  produced  by  any  pecu- 
/ee/mgs,  past,  present,  or  possible,  of  something  liarity  in  the  sound  itselii  is  certain,  from  the 
capable  of  sensation.  Independent,  therefore,  mistakes  that  are  frequently  made  with  re- 
ef all  evidence,  and  without  the  help  of  any  g^ard  to  it.  The  noise  of  a  cart  rattling  over 
explanation,  we  should  have  been  apt  to  con-  the  stones,  is  often  mistaken  for  thunder;  and 
elude,  that  the  emotions  of  beauty  and  sub-   as  long  as  the  mistake  lasts,  this  very  vulgar 


TTrmtymus't  have  for  their  objects  the  suffer- 
ings or  enjoyments  of  sentient  beings ; — and 
to  reject,  as  intrinsically  absurd  and  incredi- 
ble, the  supposition,  that  material  objects, 
which  obviously  do  neither  hurt  nor  delight 
Ihe  body,  should  yet  excite,  by  their  mere 
ihysical  qualities,  the  very  powerful  emotions 


and  insignificant  noise  is  actually  felt  to  bo 
prodigiously  sublime.  It  is  so  felt,  however,  I 
it  is  perfectly  plain,  merely  because  it  is  then  j 
associated  with  ideas  of  prodigious  power  hTi'I  | 
undefined  danger; — and  the  sublimity  ia  fi.i«-/ 
cordingly  destroyed,  the  moment  the  asso- 
ciation is  dissolved,  though  the  sound  itself 


24 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


and  its  effect  on  the  organ,  continue  exactly 
the  same.  This,  therefore,  is  an  instance  in 
which  subhmity'  is  distinctly  proved  to  con- 
sist, not  in  any  physical  quality  of  the  object 
to  which  it  is  ascribed,  but  in  its  necessary 
connection  with  that  vast  and  uncontrolled 
Power  which  is  the  natural  object  of  awe  and 
veneration. 

We  may  now  take  an  example  a  little  less 
plain  and  elementary.  The  most  beautiful 
object  in  nature,  perhaps,  is  the  coujitenance 
of  a  young  and  beautiful  woman ; — and  we 
are  apt  at  first  to  imagine,  that,  independent 
of  all  associations,  the  form  and  colours  which 
it  displays  are,  in  themselves,  lovely  and  en- 
gaging; and  would  appear  charming  to  all 
beholders,  with  whatever  other  qualities  or 
impressions  they  might  happen  to  be  con- 
nected. A  very  little  reflection,  how^ever, 
will  probaMy  be  sufficient  to  convince  us  of 
the  fallacy  of  this  impression :  and  to  satisfy 
us,  that  what  we  admire  is  not  a  combination 
of  forms  and  colours,  (which  could  never  ex- 
cite any  mental  emotion,)  but  a  collection  of 
signs  and  tokens  of  certain  mental  feelings 
and  affections,  which  are  universally  recog- 
nised as  the  proper  objects  of  love  and  sym- 
pathy. Laying  aside  the  emotions  arising 
from  difference  of  sex.  and  supposing  female 
beauty  to  be  contemplated  by  the  pure  and 
unenvying  eye  of  a  female,  it  seems  quite 
obvious,  that,  among  its  ingredients,  w^e  should 
trace  the  signs  of  two  different  sets  of  quali- 
ties, that  are  neither  of  them  the  object  of 
sight,  but  of  a  far  higher  faculty; — in  the  first 
place,  of  youth  and  health ;  and  in  the  second 
place,  of  innocence,  gaiety,  sensibility,  intel- 
ligence, delicacy  or  vivacity.  Now,  without 
enlarging  upon  the  natural  effect  of  these 
suggestions,  we  shall  just  suppose  that  the 
appearances,  which  must  be  admitted  at 
all  events  to  be  actually  significant  of  the 
qualities  we  have  enumerated,  had  been  by 
the  law  of  nature  attached  to  the  very  oppo- 
site qualities; — that  the  smooth  forehead,  the 
firm  cheek,  and  the  full  lip,  which  are  now 
so  distinctly  expressive  to  us  of  the  gay  and 
vigorous  periods  of  youth — and  the  clear  and 
blooming  complexion,  which  indicates  health 
and  activity,  had  been  in  fact  the  forms  and 
colours  by  which  old  age  and  sickness  were 
characterised ;  and  that,  instead  of  being  found 
.united  to  those  sources  and  seasons  of  enjoy- 
^xnent,  they  had  been  the  badges  by  which 
mature  pointed  out  that  state  of  suffering  and 
iJecay  which  is  now  signified  to  us  by  the 
livid  and  emaciated  face  of  sickness,  or  the 
An-inkled  front,  the  quivering  lip,  and  hollow 
cheek  of  age; — If  this  were  the  familiar  law 
of  our  nature,  can  it  be  doubted  that  we  should 
look  upon  these  appearances,  not  with  rapture, 
but  with  aversion — and  consider  it  as  abso- 
lutely ludicrous  or  disgusting,  to  speak  of  the 
beauty  of  what  was  interpi-eted  by  every  one 
as  the  lamented  sign  of  pain  and  decrepitude  ? 
Mr  Knight  himself,  though  a  firm  believi^r  in 
the  intnnsic  beauty  of  colours,  is  so  much  of 
this  opinion,  that  he  thinks  it  entirely  owing 
lo  those  associations  that  we  prefer  the  tame 
•moothness,  and  comparatively  poor  colours 


I  of  a  youthful  face,  to  the  richly  fretted  and 
variegated  countenance  of  a  pimpled  drunk 
ard! 

Such,  we  conceive,  would  be  the  inevita- 
ble effect  of  dissolving  the  subsistingconnect- 
ion  between  the  animating  ideas  of  hope  and 
enjoyment,  and  those  visible  appearances 
which  are  now  significant  of  those  emotions, 
and  derive  their  whole  beauty  from  that 
signification.  But  the  effect  would  be  still 
stronger,  if  we  could  suppose  the  moral  ex- 
pression of  those  appearances  to  be  reversed 
in  the  same  manner.  If  the  smile,  which 
now  enchants  us,  as  the  expression  of  inno- 
cence and  affection,  were  the  sign  attached 
by  nature  to  guilt  and  malignity — if  the  blush 
which  expresses  delicacy,  and  the  glance  that 
speaks  intelligence,  vivacity,  and  softness,  had 
always  been  found  united  with  brutal  passion 
or  idiot  moodiness ;  is  it  not  certain,  that  the 
whole  of  their  beauty  would  be  extinguished, 
and  that  our  emotions  from  the  sight  of  them 
would  be  exactly  the  reverse  of  what  they 
now  are  ? 

That  the  beauty  of  a  living  and  sentient 
creature  should  depend,  in  a  great  degree, 
upon  qualities  peculiar  to  such  a  creature, 
rather  than  upon  the  mere  physical  attributes 
which  it  may  possess  in  common  with  the 
inert  matter  around  it,  cannot  indeed  appear 
a  very  improbable  supposition  to  any  one. 
^ut  it  may  be  more  di^cult  for  some  persons 
4jo'"'uiiderstand  how  the  beauty  of  mere  dead 
matter  should  be  derived  from  the  feelings 
and  sympathies  of  sentient  beings.  It  is  ab- 
solutely necessary,  therefore,  that  we  should 
give  an  instance  or  two  of  this  derivation 
also. 

ft  is  easy  enough  to  understand  how  the 
sight  of  a  picture  or  statue  should  affect  us 
nearly  in  the  same  way  as  the  sight  of  the 
original :  nor  is  it  much  more  difiicult  to  con- 
ceive, how  the  sight  of  a  cottage  should  give 
us  something  of  the  same  feeling  as  the  sight 
of  a  peasant's  family ;  and  the  aspect  of  a  town 
raise  many  of  the  same  ideas  as  the  appear- 
ance of  a  multitude  of  persons.  We  may 
begin,  therefore,  with  an  example  a  little 
more  complicated.  Take,  for  instance,  the 
c^tSfi.  of  -a  common  English  landscape — green 
meadows  with  grazing  and  ruminating  cattle 
— canals  or  navigable  rivers — well  fenced, 
well  cultivated  fields — neat,  clean,  scattered 
cottages  —  humble  antique  churches,  with 
church-yard  elms,  and  crossing  hedgerows — 
all  seen  under  bright  skies,  and  in  good  wea- 
ther : — There  is  much  beauty,  as  every  one 
will  acknowledge,  in  such  a  scene.  But  in 
Avhat  does  the  beauty  consist  ?  Not  certainly 
in  the  mere  mixture  of  colours  and  forms ;  for 
"colours  more  pleasing,  and  lines  more  grace- 
ful, (according  to  any  theory  o(  grace  that 
may  be  preferred,)  might  be  spread  upon  a 
board,  or  a  painter's  pallet,  without  engaging 
the  eye  to  a  second  glance,  or  raising  the 
least  emotion  in  the  mind  ;  but  in  the  picture 
of  Imman  happiness  that  is  presented  to  our 
imaginations  and  affections — in  the  visible 
and  unequivocal  signs  ^f  comfort,  and  cheer- 
ful and  peaceful  enjoyment — and  of  that  se- 


ALISON  ON  TASTE. 


25 


i 


«ure  and  fe  Qccessful  industry  that  ensures  its 
continuance — and  of  the  piety  by  which  it  is 
exalted — and  of  the  simplicity  by  which  it  is 
contrasted  with  the  guilt  and  the  fever  of  a 
city  Hfe  3 — in  the  images  of  health  and  tem- 
perance and  plenty  which  it  exhibits  to  every 
eye — and  in  the  glimpses  which  it  affords  to 
warmer  imaginations,  of  those  primitive  or 
fabulous  times,  when  man  was  luicorrupted 
by  Inxury  and  ambition,  and  of  those  humble 
retreats  in  \\hich  we  still  delight  to  imagine 
that  love  and  philosophy  may  find  an  unpol- 
luted asylum.  At  all  events,  however,-iL-isL 
human  feeling  that  excites  our  gympathy^jind 
forms  the  true  object  of  our  emotions.  It  is 
man^  and  man  alone,  that  we  see  in  the  beaiP 
jies^of  jhe  earth  which  he  inhabits ;— or,  if  a 
more  sensitive  and  extended  sympathy  con- 
nect us  with  the  lower  families  of  animated 
nature,  and  make  us  rejoice  with  the  lambs 
that  bleat  on  the  uplands,  or  the  cattle  that 
repose  in  the  valley,  or  even  with  the  living 
plants  that  drink  the  bright  sun  and  the 
balmy  air  beside  them,  it  is  still  the  idea  of 
enjoyment — of  feelings  that  animate  the  ex- 
istence of  sentient  beings — that  calls  forth  all 
our  emotions,  and  is  the  parent  of  all  the 
beauty  with  which  we  proceed  to  invest  the 
inanimate  creation  around  us. 

Instead  of  this  quiet   and   tame   English 
landscape,  let  us  now  take   a  Welch  or  a 
Highland  scene ;  and  see  whether  its  beau- 
ties will  admit  of  being  explained   on  the 
same  principle.     Here,  we  shall  have  lofty 
mountains,  and  rocky  and  lonely  recesses — 
tufted   woods    hung  over  precipices — lakes 
intersected  with  castled  promontories — am- 
ple solitudes  of  unploughed  and  untrodden 
valleys — nameless  and  gigantic   i-uins — and 
mountain  echoes  repeating  the  scream  of  the 
eagle  and  the  roar  of  the   cataract.     This, 
too,  is  beautiful; — and,    to   those   who   can 
interpret   the  language  it   speaks,  far  more 
,   beautiful   than    the   prosperous    scene   with 
^  which  we  have  contrasted  it. ,  Yet,  lonely  as 
it  is,  it  is  to  the  recollection  of  man  and  the 
suggestion  o£  human  feelings  that  its  beauty 
/  also  is  owing.     The  mere  forms  and  colours 
/  that  compose  its  visible  appearance,  are  no 
I    more  capable  of  exciting  any  emotion  in  the 
/    mind,  than  the  forms  and  colours  of  a  Turkey 
I     carpet.     It  is  s}Tnpathy  with  the  present  or 
'     the  past,  or  the  imaginary  inhabitants  of  such 
a  region,  that  alone  gives  it  either  interest  or 
beauty ;  and  the  delight  of  those  who  behold 
it,  will  always  be  found  to  be  in  exact  pro- 
portion to  the  force  of  their  imaginations,  and 
the  warmth  of  their  social  affections.     The 
leading  impressions,  here,  are  those  of  ro- 
mantic seclusion,  and  primeval  simplicity; 
lovers  sequestered  in  these  blissful  solitudes, 
"  from  towns  and  toils  remote," — and  rustic 
poets  and  philosophers  communing  with  na- 
'  ture,  and  at  a  distance  from  the  low  pursuits 
and  selfish  malignity  of  ordinary  mortals : — 
then  there  is.  the  sublime  impression  of  the 
Mighty  Power  v.hich  piled  the  massive  cliffs 
upon    each   other,  and    rent   the   mountains 
asunder,  and  scattered  their  giani  frag-ments 
.  at  their  base  ; — and  all  the  images  connected 


with  the  monuments  of  ancient  magnmcenco 
and  extinguished  hostility — the  feuds,  and 
the  combats,  and  the  triumphs  of  its  wild  and 
primitive  inhabitants,  contrasted  with  the 
stillness  and  desolation  of  the  scenes  where 
they  lie  interred ; — and  the  romantic  ideas 
attached  to  their  ancient  traditions,  and  the 
peculiarities  of  the  actual  life  of  their  des- 
cendants— their  wild  and  enthusiastic  poetry 
— their  gloomy  superstitions — theii  attach- 
ment to  their  chiefs — the  dangeis,  and  the 
hardships  and  enjoyments  of  their  lonely 
huntings  and  fishino-s — their  pastoral  shielings 
on  the  mountains  in  summer — and  the  tales 
and  the  sports  that  amuse  the  little  groups 
that  are  frozen  into  their  vast  and  trackless 
valleys  in  the  winter.  Add  to  all  this,  the 
traces  of  vast  and  obscure  antiquity  that  are 
impressed  on  the  language  and  the  habits  of 
the  people,  and  on  the  cliffs,  and  caves,  and 
gulfy  torrents  of  the  land ;  and  the  solemn 
and  touching  reflection,  perpetually  recurring, 
of  the  weakness  and  insignificance  of  perish- 
able man,  whose  generations  thus  pass  away 
into  oblivion,  with  all  their  toils  and  ambi- 
tion; while  nature  holds  on  her  unvarying 
course,  and  pours  out  her  streams,  and  re- 
news her  forests,  with  undecaying  activitv, 
regardless  of  the  fate  of  her  proud  and  perish 
able  sovereign. 

We  have  said  enough,  we  believe,  to  let 
our  readers  understand  what  we  mean  by 
external  objects  being  the  natural  signs  or 
concomitants  of  human  sympathies  or  emo 
tions.  Yet  we  cannot  refrain  from  adding 
one  other  illustration,  and  asking  on  what 
other  principle  we  can  account  for  the  beauty 
of  Spring  ?  Winter  has  shades  as  deep,  and 
colours  as  brilliant ;  and  the  great  forms  of 
nature?  are  substantially  the  same  through  all 
the  revolutions  of  the  year.  We  shall  seek 
in  vain,  therefore,  in  the  accidents  of  mere 
org-anic  matter,  for  the  sources  of  that  "ver- 
nal delight  and  joy,*'  which  subject  all  finer 
spirits  to  an  annual  intoxication,  and  strike 
home  the  sense  of  beauty  even  to  hearts  that 
seem  proof  against  it  under  all  other  aspects. 
And  it  is  not  among  the  Dead  but  among  the 
Living,  that  this  beauty  originates.  It  is  th*» 
renovation  of  life  and  of  joy  to  all  animated 
beings,  that  constitutes  this  great  jubilee  of 
nature ; — the  young  of  animals  bursting  into 
existence — the  simple  and  universal  pleasures 
which  are  diffused  by  the  mere  temperature 
of  the  air,  and  the  profusion  of  sustenance — 
the  pairing  of  birds — the  cheerful  resumption 
of  rustic  toils — the  great  alleviation  of  all  the 
miseries  of  poverty  and  sickness — our  sym- 
pathy with  the  young  life,  and  the  promise 
and  the  hazards  of  the  vegetable  creation — 
the  solemn,  y^t  cheering,  impression  of  the 
constancy  of  nature  to  her  great  periods  of 
renovation — and  the  hopes  that  dart  sponta- 
neously forward  into  the  new  circle  of  exer- 
tions and  enjoyments  that  is  opened  up  by  her 
hand  and  her  example.  Such  are  some  of 
the  conceptions  that  are  forced  upon  us  by 
the  appearances  of  returning  spring;  and  that 
seem  10  account  for  the  emotions  of  delight 
with  which  these  apT'earsnces  are  hailed,  bt 


26 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


every  mind  endowed  with  any  degree  of  sen- 
sibility, somewhat  better  than  the  brightness 
of  the  colourSj  or  the  agreeableness  of  the 
smells  that  are  then  presented  to  our  senses. 
They  are  kindred  conceptions  that  consti- 
tute all  the  beauty  of  childhood.  The  forms 
and  colours  that  are  peculiar  to  that  age,  are 
not  necessarily  or  absolutely  beautiful  in 
themselves ;  for,  in  a  grown  person,  the  same 
forms  and  colours  would  be  either  ludicrous 
or  disgusting.  It  is  their  indestructible  con- 
nection with  the  engaging  ideas  of  innocence 
— of  careless  gaiety — of  unsuspecting  confi- 
dence ; — made  still  more  tender  and  attract- 
ive by  the  recollection  of  helplessness,  and 
blameless  and  happy  ignorance — of  the  anx- 
ious affection  that  watches  over  all  their  ways 
— and  of  the  hopes  and  fears  that  seek  to 
pierce  futurity,  for  those  who  have  neither 
fears  nor  cares  nor  anxieties  for  themselves. 
'^  These  few  illustrations  will   probably  be 

sufficient  to  give  our  readers  a  general  con- 
ception of  the  character  and  the  grounds  of 
that  theory  of  beauty  which  we  think  afibrds 
the  only  true  or  consistent  account  of  its  na- 
ture. They  are  all  examples,  it  will  be  ob- 
served, of  the  Fii'st  and  most  important  con- 
nection which  we  think  may  be  shown  to 
exist  between  external  objects  and  the  senti- 
ments or  emotions  of  the  mind ',  or  cases,  in 
which  the  visible  phenomena  are  the  nataral 
and  universal  accompaniments  of  the  emo- 
tion, and  are  consequently  capable  of  reviving 
that  emotion,  in  some  degree,  in  the  breast 
of  every  beholder.  If  the  tenor  of  those 
illustrations  has  been  such  as  to  make  any 
impression  in  favour  of  the  general  theory, 
we  conceive  that  it  must  be  very  greatly  con- 
firmed by  the  slightest  consideration  of  the 
Second  class  of  cases,  or  those  in  which  the 
external  object  is  not  the  natural  and  neces- 
sary, but  only  the  occasional  or  accidental 
concomitant  of  the  emotion  which  it  recals. 
In  the  former  instances,  some  conception  of 
beauty  seems  to  be  inseparable  from  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  objects ;  and  being  impressed, 
in  some  degree,  upon  all  persons  to  whom 
they  are  presented,  there  is  evidently  room 
for  insinuating  that  it  is  an  independent  and 
intrinsic  quality  of  their  nature,  and  does  not 
arise  from  association  with  any  thing  else. 
/<!  In  the  instances,  however,  to  which  w^e  are 
I  now  to  allude,  this  perception  of  beauty  is 
not  universal,  but  entirely  dependent  upon 
the  opportunities  which  each  individual  nas 
had  to  associate  ideas  of  emotion  with  the 
object  to  which  it  is  ascribed :— the  sime 
thing  appearing  beautiful  to  those  who  have 
been  exposed  to  the.  influence  pf  such  asso- 
ciations, and  indifierent  to  those  who  have 
not.  Sich  instances,  therefore,  really  afford 
an  cjvr.;-imc Ilium  crucis  as  to  the  truth  of  the 
stioa ;  nor  is  it  easy  to  conceive 
uplete  evidence,  both  that  there 
in  no  such  thing  as  absolute  or  intrii  i .  '  ' 
and  that  it  depends  altogether  on  li. 
ciations  with  which  it  is  thus  found  to  come 
and  to  disappear. 

The  accidental  or  arbitrary  relations  that, 
may  thus  "be  established  between    natural 


sympathies  or  emotions,  and  external  ot)ject9, 
may  be  either  such  as  occur  to  whole  classes 
of  men,  or  are  confined  to  particular  indi- 
viduals. Among  the  form.er,  those  that  ap  f 
ply  to  different  nations  or  races  of  men,  ar^ 
the  most  important  and  remarkable ;  and  con- 
stitute the  basis  of  those  peculiarities  by 
which  ,  national  tastes  are  distinguished.-— 
Take  again,  for  example,  the  instance  of  fe- 
male bea.u^«s=a5id„  think  what  differferit  and^^ 
inconsistent  standards  would  be  fixed  for  •it-°"*^ 
in  the  diiiei-ent  regions  of  the  world; — in 
Africa,  in  Asia,  and  in  Europe  : — in  Tartary 
and  in  Greece  j  in  Lapland,  Patagonia,  and 
Circassia.  If  there  was  any  thing  absolutely 
or  intrinsically  beautiful,  in  any  of  the  foi-ma"^*^ 
tlius  distinguished,  it  is  inconceivable  that^^ 
men  should  differ  so  outrageously  in  their/''^ 
conceptions  of  it:  if  beauty  were  a  real  and' 
independent  quality,  it  seems  impossible  that 
it  should  be  distinctly  and  clearly  felt  by  one 
set  of  persons,  where  another  set,  altogether'" 
as  sensitive,  could  see  nothing  but  its  oppo-' 
site ;  and  if  it  were  actually  and  inseparably 
attached  to  certam  forms,  colours,  or  propor- 
tions, it  must  appear  utterly  inexplicable  that 
it  should  be  felt  and  perceived  in  the  most 
opposite  forms  and  proportion,  in  objects  of 
the  same  description.  On  the  other  hand,  if 
all  beauty  consist  in  reminding  us  of  certain 
natural  sympathies  and  objects  of  emotion, 
with  which  they  have  been  habitually  con- 
nected, it  is  easy  to  perceive  how  the  most 
different  forms  should  be  felt  to  be  equally 
beautiful.  If  female  beauty,  for  instance, 
consist  in  the  visible  signs  and  expressions 
of  youth  and  health,  and  of  gentleness,  vi- 
vacity, and  kindness ;  then  it  will  necessarily 
happen,  that  the  forms,  and  colours  and  pro- 
portions which  nature  may  have  connected 
with  those  qualities,  in  the  different  climates 
or  regions  of  the  world,  will  all  appear  equally 
beautiful  to  those  who  have  been  accustomed 
to  recognise  them  as  the  signs  of  such  quali- 
ties; while  they  will  be  respectively  indif- 
ferent to  those  who  have  not  learned  to  inter- 
pret them  in  this  sense,  and  displeasing  to 
those  whom  experience  has  led  to  consider 
them  as  the  signs  of  opposite  qualities. 

The  case  is  the  same,,  though,  perhaps  to  a 
smaller  degree,  as  to  the  peculiarity  of  national 
taste  in  other  particulars.     The  style  of  dress 
and  architecture  in  every  nation,  if  not  adopted 
from  mere  want  of  skill,  or  penury  of  mate- 
i  rials,  always  appears  beautiful  to  the  natives, 
land    somewhat    monstrous    and    absurd    to     . 
ibreig-ners ; — and  the  general  character  and 
,  aspect  of  their  landscape,  in  like  manner,  if 
I  not  associated  with  substantial  evils  and  in- 
conveniences, always  appears  more  beautiful 
I  and  enchanting  than  the  scenery  of  any  other 
'  region.     The  fact  is  still  more  striking,  per- 
haps, in  the  case  of  music  ; — in  the  effects  of 
I  those  national  airs,  with  which  even  the  most 
uncultivated  imaginations  have  connected  so 
'  many  interesting  recollections ;  and  in  the  de- 
.  light  with  which  all  persons  of  sensibility 
catch  the  strains  of  their  native  melodies  in 
!  strange  or  in  distant  lands.   It  is  owing  chiefly 
to  the  same  sort  of  arbitmry  and  national  as> 


ALISON  ON  TASTE. 


27 


lociation,  that  white  is  thought  a  gay  colour 
:a  Europe,  where  it  is  used  at  weddings — 
and  a  dismal  colour  in  China,  where  it  is  used 
for  mourning; — that  we  think  yew-trees 
gloomy,  because  they  are  planted  in  church- 
yards— and  large  masses  of  powdered  horse- 
hair majestic,  because  we  see  them  on  the 
heads  of  judges  and  bishops. 

Next  to  those  curious  instauces, of  arbitrary 
orTimTted  associations  that  are  exemplTfied^m 
•Fhe  diversities  of  national  taste,  are  those  that 
"are  produced  by  the  difierences  of  instructioij  i 
"or  education. 'If  external  objects  were  sublime  j 
land  beautiful  in  themselves,  it  is  plain,  that 
"they  would  appear  equally  so   to  those  wlcio  I 
were  acquainted  vrith  their  origin,  and  to  those  ' 
to  whom  it  \va3  unknown.    Yet  it  is  not  easy, 
perhaps,  to  calculate  the  degree  to  which  our 
notions  of  beauty  and  sublimity  are  now  influ- 
enced, overaTTEurope,  by  the  study  of  clas- 
sical literature ;  or  the  number  of  impressions 
of  this  sort  which  the  well-educated  conse- 
quently receive,  from  objects  that  are  utterly 
indifferent  to  uninstructedpersonsof  the  same 
natural  sensibility:.  We  gladly  avail  ourselves, 
upon  'tHs  subject,  of  the  beautiful  expressions 
of  Mr.  Alison. 

"  The  delight  which  most  men  of  education 
receive  from  the  consideration  of  antiquity, 
and  the  beauty  that  they  discover  in  every 
object  which  is  connected  with  ancient  times, 
is,  m  a  great  measure,  to  be  ascribed  to  the 
same  cause.  The  antiquarian,  in  his  cabinet, 
surrounded  by  the  relics  of  former  ages,  seems 
to  himself  to  be  removed  to  periods  that  are 
long  since  past,  and  indulges  in  the  imagina- 
tion of  living  in  a  world,  which,  by  a  very 
natural  kind  of  prejudice,  we  are  always  wil- 
ling to  believe  was  both  wiser  and  better  than 
the  present.  All  that  is  venerable  or  laudable 
in  the  history  of  these  times,  present  them- 
selves to  his  memory.  The  gallantry,  the 
heroism,  the  patriotism  of  antiquity,  rise  ag-ain 
before  his  view,  softened  by  the  obscurity  in 
which  they  are  involved,  and  rendered  more 
seducing  to  the  imagination  by  that  obscurity 
itself,  which,  while  it  mingles  a  sentiment  of 
regret  amid  his  pursuits,  serves  at  the  same 
time  to  stimulate  his  fancy  to  fill  up,  by  its 
own  creation,  those  long  intervals  of  time  of 
which  history  has  preserved  no  record. 

"And  what  is  it  that  constitutes  that  emotion 
of  sublime  dehght,  which  every  man  of  com- 
mon sensibility  feels  upon  the  first  prospect  of 
Rome  1  It  is  not  the  scene  of  desti-uction  which 
is  before  him.  It  is  not  the  Tiber,  diminished 
in  his  imagination  to  a  paltry  stream,  flowing 
amid  the  ruins  of  that  magnificence  which  it 
once  adorned.  It  is  not  the  triumph  of  super- 
stition over  the  wreck  of  human  greatness, 
and  its  monuments  erected  upon  the  very 
spot  where  the  first  honours  of  humanity  have 
been  gained.  It  is  ancient  Rome  which  fills 
his  imagination.  It  is  the  country  of  Caesar, 
and  Cicero,  and  Virgil,  which  is  before  him. 
It  is  the  Mistress  of  the  world  which  he  sees, 
and  who  seems  to  him  to  rise  again  from  her 
tomb,  to  give  laws  to  the  universe.  All  that 
fhe  labours  of  his  youth,  or  the  studies  of  his 
iiaturer  age  have  acquired^  with  regard  to  the 


history  of  this  great  people,  open  at  once  be- 
fore his  imagmation,  and  present  him  with  a 
field  of  high  and  solemn  imagery,  which  can 
never  be  exhausted.  Take  from  him  these 
associations — conceal  from  him  that  it  ia 
Rome  that  he  sees,  and  how  d-Lfferent  would 
be  his  emotion!" 

The  influences  of  the  same  studies  may  be 
traced,  indeed,  through  almost  all  our  impres- 
sions of  beauty — and  especially  in  the  feelings 
which  we  receive  from  the  contemplation  of 
rural  scenery;  where  the  images  and  recol- 
lections whieh  have  been  associated  with  such 
objects,  in  the  enchanting  strains  of  the  poets, 
are  perpetually  recalled  by  their  appearance, 
and  give  an  interest  and  a  beauty  to  the  pros- 
pect, of  which  the  unmstructed  cannot  have 
the  slightest  perception.  Upon  this  subject, 
also,  Mr.  Alison  has  expressed  himself  with 
his  usual  warmth  and  elegance.  After  ob- 
serving, that,  in  childhood,  the  beauties  of 
nature  have  scarcely  any  existence  for  those 
who  have  as  yet  but  little  general  sympathy 
with  mankind,  he  proceeds  to  state,  that  they 
are  usually  first  recommended  to  notice  by 
the  poets,  to  whom  we  are  introduced  in  the 
course  of  education ;  and  who,  in  a  manner, 
create  them  for  us,  by  the  associations  which 
they  enable  us  to  form  with  their  visible  ap- 
pearance. 

"'  How  different,  from  this  period,  become 
the  sentiments  with  which  the  scenery  of 
nature  is  contemplated,  by  those  who  have 
any  imagination  !  The  beautiful  forms  of  an- 
cient mytholog}^,  with  Mhich  the  fancy  of 
poets  peopled  every  element,  are  now  ready 
to  appear  to  their  minds,  upon  the  prospect 
of  every  scene.  The  descriptions  of  ancient 
authors,  so  long  admired,  and  so  deserving  of 
admiration,  occur  to  them  at  every  moment^ 
and  with  them,  all  those  enthusiastic  ideas  ot 
ancient  genius  and  glory,  which  the  study  of 
so  many  years  of  youth  so  naturally  leads 
them  to  form.  Or,  if  the  study  of  modern 
poetry  has  succeeded  to  that  of  the  ancient,  a 
thousand  other  beautiful  associations  are  ac- 
quired, which,  instead  of  destroying,  serve 
easily  to  unite  with  the  former,  and  to  aflbrd 
a  new  source  of  delight.  The  awful  fomis 
of  Gothic  superstition,  the  wild  and  romantic 
imagery,  which  the  turbulence  of  the  middle 
ages,  the  Crusades,  and  the  institution  of 
chivalry  have  spread  over  every  country  of 
Europe,  arise  to  the  imagination  in  every 
scene;  accompanied  with  all  those  pleasing 
recollections  of  prowess,  and  adventure,  and 
courteous  manners,  which  distinguished  those 
memorable  times.  With  such  images  in  their 
minds,  it  is  not  common  nature  that  appears 
to  surround  them.  It  is  nature  embellished 
and  made  sacred  by  the  memory  of  Theocritus 
and  Virgil,  and  IVIilton  and  Tasso ;  their  ge- 
nius seems  still  to  linger  among  the  scenes 
which  inspired  it,  and  to  irradiate  every  objetit 
where  it  dwells;  and  the  creation  of  their 
fancy  seem  the  fit  inhabitants  of  that  nature, 
which  their  descriptions  have  clothed  with 
beauty."  _  \ 

It  is  needless,  for  the  purpose  of  mere  illus*  ..^If'^ 
tration,  to  pursue  this  subject  of  arbitrary  oi    '  ^ 


28 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


accidental  association  through,  all  the  divisions  i 
of  which  it  is  susceptible ;  and,  indeed,  the  j 
task  woula  be  endless  ]  since  thej:fi_is_sca£cely  i 
laUY-class  in  society  which  may  not  be  shown  ' 
lojiiave .  peculiar  associations  of  interest  and 
emotion  with  objects  ailiich  are  not  so  .con- 
nected in  the  Jnaiads-of.  any. other  class.  T)ie 
young  and  the  old— ^the  rich  and  the  poor — 
the  artist  and  the  man  of  science — the  in- 
habitant of  the  city  and  the  inhabitant  of  th.e~ 
country — the  man  of  business  and  the  man 
of  pleasure — the  domestic  and  the  dissipated, 
— nay,  even  the  followers  of  almost  every 
different  study  or  profession,Jiave_  perceptions 
Qf_^gg,uty,.  because  they  Ea\^~ass6ciatidiis 
with  external  oKjects,  \\'1iich  are  peculiar  to 
themselves,  and. have  no  existence  for  any 
other  persons.  But,  though  the  detail  of  such 
instances  could  not  fail  to  show,  in  the  clear- 
est and  most  convincing  manner,  how  dhectly 
the  notion  of  beauty  is  derived  from  some 
more  radical  and '  familiar  emotion,  and  how 
many  and  various  are  the  channels  by  which 
such  emotions  are  transmitted,  enough,  per- 
haps, has  been  already  said,  to  put  our  readers 
b  possession  of  the  principles  and  general 
bearings  of  an  argument  which  we  must  not 
think  of  exhausting. 

Before  entirely  leaving  this  branch  of  the  ' 
subject,  however,  let  us  pause  for  a  moment  I 
on  the  f"amiHar  but  very  striking  and  decisive  | 
instance   of    our  varying  and    contradictory  ' 
judgments,  as  to  the  beauty  of  the  successive  ; 
fashions  of  dress  that  have  existed  within  our  | 
own   remembrance.     All  persons  who   still  ' 
continue  to  find  amusement  in  society,  and 
are  not  old  enough  to  enjoy  only  the  recollec- ! 
tions  of   their  youth,   think   the   prevailing 
fashions    becoming    and  graceful,   and    the  ; 
fashions  of  twenty  or  twenty-five  years  old 
intolerably  ugly  and  ridiculous.   The  younger 
they  are,  and  the  more  they  mix  in  society,  I 
this  impression  is  the  stronger ;  and  the  fact 
is  worth  noticing;  because  there  is  really  no  ■ 
one  thing  as  to  which  persons  judging  merely  i 
from  their  feelings,  and  therefore  less  likely  | 
to  be  misled  by  any  systems  or  theories,  are 
60  very  positive  and  decided,  as  that  estab- : 
lished  fashions  are  beautiful  in  themselves;  I 
and  that  exploded  fashions  are  intrinsically  | 
and   beyond   all   question   preposterous   and ' 
ugly.     We  have  never  yet  met  a  young  lady  ! 
or  gentleman,  who  spoke  from  their  hearts 
and  without  reserve,  who  had  the  least  doubt 
on  the  subject;  or  could  conceive  how  any 
person  could  be  so  stupid  as  not  to  see  the 
intrinsic  elegance  of  the  reigning  mode,  or 
not  to  be  struck  with  the  ludicrous  awkward- 
ness of  the   habits  in  which  their  mothers 
were  disguised.    Yet  there  can  be  no  doubt, 
that  if  these  ingenuous  critics  had  been  born, 
with  the  same  natural  sensibility  to  beauty, 
but  twenty  years  earlier,  they  would   have 
joined  in  admiring  what  they  now  laugh  at ; 
fts  certainly  as  those  who  succeed  them  twenty 
years  hereafter  will  laugh  at  them.   It  is  plain, 
then,  and  we  think  scarcely  disputed,  out  of 
the  circles  to  which  we  have  alluded,  that 
there   is,  in   the   general   case,   no   intrinsic 
beauty  or  deformity  in  any  '^f  those  fashions ;  I 


and  that  the  forms,  and  colours,  and  materials 
that  are.  we  may  say,  universally  and  very 
strongly  felt  to  be  beautiful  while  they  are 
in  fashion,  are  sure  to  lose  all  their  beauty  ab 
soon  as  the  fashion  has  passed  away.  Now 
the  forais,  and  colours,  and  combinations  re 
main  exactly  as  they  were ;  and,  therefore- 
it  seems  indisputable,  that  the  source  of  their 
successive  beauty  and  ugliness  must  be  sought 
in  something  extrinsic,  and  can  only  be  found 
in  the  associations  which  once  exalted,  and 
ultimately  degraded  them  in  our  estimation. 
While  they  were  in  fashion,  they  were  the 
forais  and  colours  which  distinguished  the 
rich  and  the  noble — the  eminent,  the  envied, 
the  observed  in  society.  They  were  the  forais 
and  the  colours  in  which  all  that  was  beauti- 
ful, and  admired,  and  exalted,  were  habitually 
arrayed.  They  were  associated,  therefore, 
with  ideas  of  opulence,  and  elegance,  and 
gaiety,  and  all  that  is  captivating  and  bewitch- 
ing, in  manners,  fortune,  and  situation — and 
derived  the  whole  of  their  beauty  from  those 
associations.  By  and  bye,  however,  they  were 
deserted  by  the  beautiful,  the  rich,  and  the 
elegant,  and  descended  to  the  vulg-ar  and  de- 
pendent, or  were  only  seen  in  combination 
with  the  antiquated  airs  of  faded  beauties  or 
obsolete  beaux.  They  thus  came  to  be  asso- 
ciated with  ideas  of  vulg-arity  and  derision, 
and  with  the  images  of  old  and  decayed  per- 
sons, whom  it  is  difficult  for  their  juniors  to 
believe  ever  to  have  been  young  or  attractive ; 
— and  the  associations  being  thus  reversed,  in 
which  all  their  beauty  consisted,  the  beauty 
itself  naturally  disappeared. 

The  operation  of  the  same  causes  is  dis- 
tinctly visible  in  all  the  other  apparent  irreg- 
ularities of  our  judgments  as  to  this  descrip- 
tion of  beauty.  Old  people  have  in  geneial 
but  little  toleration  for  the  obsolete  fashions 
of  their  later  or  middle  years;  but  will  gene- 
rally stickle  for  the  intrinsic  elegance  of  those 
which  were  prevalent  in  the  bright  days  of 
their  early  youth — as  being  still  associated 
in  their  recollections,  with  the  beauty  with 
which  they  were  first  enchanted,  and  the  gay 
spirits  with  which  they  were  then  inspired. 
In  the  same  way,  while  we  laugh  at  the  fash- 
ions of  which  fine  ladies  and  gentlemen  were 
proud  in  the  days  of  our  childhood,  because 
they  are  now  associated  only  with  images  of 
decrepitude  and  decay,  we  look  with  some 
feelings  of  veneration  on  the  habits  of  more 
remote  generations,  the  individuals  of  which 
are  only  known  to  us  as  historical  persons; 
and  with  unmingled  respect  and  admiration 
on  those  still  more  ancient  habiliments  which 
remind  us  either  of  the  heroism  of  the  feudal 
chivalry,  or  the  virtue  and  nobleness  of  clas- 
sical antiquity.  The  iron  mail  of  the  Gothic 
knight,  or  the  clumsy  shield  and  naked  arms 
of  the  Roman  warrior,  strike  us  as  majestic 
and  graceful,  merely  because  they  are  asso- 
ciated with  nothing  but  tales  of  romE.ntic  dar 
ing  or  patriotic  prowess — while  the  full-bot- 
tomed periwigs  that  were  added  to  the  sol- 
dier's equipment  in  the  days  of  Lewis  XIV 
and  King  William-^and  no  doubt  had  a  no- 
ble effect  in  the  eyes  of  that  generation— 


ALISON  ON  TASTE. 


29 


»w  Lppeat  \  »  us  equally  ridiculous  and  un-  consequence  of  a  sort  of  resemblance  or  an« 
becoming;  merely  because  such  appendages  alogy  wliicli  lliey  seem  to. have  to  their  natu- 
are  no  longer  to  be  seen,  but  upon  the  heads    ral  and  appropriate  objiict^.    jrhe_  larfffuai^e 


of  sober  and  sedentary  lawyers,  or  in  the  pic-, 
tares  of  antiquated  esquires. 

We  cannot  afford,  however,  to  enlarge  any 
farther  upon  these  considerations,  and  are  in- 
clined indeed  to  think,  that  what  has  been 
already  said  on  the  subject  of  associations, 
.which,  though  not  universal,  are  common  to 
/whole  classes  of  persons,  will  make  it  unne- 
I  cessary  to  enlarge  on  those  that  are  peculiar 
5  to  each  individual.     It  is  almost  enough,  in- 
deed, to  transcribe  the  following  short  pas- 
sage from  Mr.  Alison. 

''There  i^  no  man,  who  has  not  some  inter- 
esting associations  with  particular  scenes,  or 
airs,  or  .books;  and  who  does  not  feel  their 
beauty  or  sublimity  enhanced  to  him  by  such 
connections.  The  view  of  the  house  where 
one  was  born,  of  the  school  where  one  was 
educated,  and  where  the  gay  years  of  infancy 
were  passed,  is  indifferent  to  no  man.  There 
are  songs  also,  which  we  have  heard  in  our 
infancy,  which,  when  brought  to  our  remem- 
brance in  after  years,  raise  emotions  for  which 
w^e  cannot  well  account ;  and  which,  though 
perhaps  very  indifferent  in  themselves,  still 
continue  from  this  association,  and  from  the 
variety  of  conceptions  which  they  kindle  in 
our  minds,  to  be  our  favourites  through  life. 
The  scenes  which  have  been  distinguished 
by  the  residence  of  any  person,  whose  mem- 
ory we  admire,  produce  a  similar  effect. 
Movemur  enim,  nescio  quo  pacto,  locis  ipsis,  in 
quibus  eorum.  quos  diligimus,  aut  admiramur 
adsunt  vestigia.  The  scenes  themselves  may 
be  little  beautiful ;  but  the  delight  with  which 
we  recollect  the  traces  of  their  lives,  blends 
itself  insensibly  with  the  emotions  which  the 
scenery  excites;  and  the  admiration  which 
these  recollections  afford,  seems  to  give  a  kind 
of  sanctity  to  the  place  where  they  dwelt,  and 
converts  every  thing  into  beauty  which  ap- 
pears to  have  been  connected  with  them." 

There  are  similar  impressions — as  to  the 
sort  of  scenery  to  which  we  have  been  long- 
accustomed — as  to  the  style  of  personal  beau- 
ty by  which  we  were  first  enchanted — and 
even  as  to  the  dialect,  or  the  form  of  versifi- 
cation which  we  first  began  to  admire,  that 
bestow  a  secret  and  adventitious  charni  upon 
all  these  objects,  and  enable  us  to  discover 
in  them  a  beauty  which  is  invisible,  because 
it  is  non-existent  to  every  other  eye. 

In  all  the  cases  we  have  hitherto  consid- 
ered, the  external  object  is  supposed  to  have 
;  acquired  its  beauty  by  being  actually  connec- 
'  ted  with  the  causes  of  our  natural  emotions, 
'  either  as  a  constant  sign  of  their  existence, 
or  as  being  casually  present  on  the  ordinary 
occasions  of  their  excitement.     There  is  a  re- 
latjon,  however,  of  another  kind,  to  which 
also  it  is  necessary  to  attend,  both  to  eluci- 
•date  the  general  grounds  of  the  theory,  and 
,   to  explain   several  appearances  that   might 
\  otherwise  expose  it  to  objections      —  -        ^ 
.  iRlation^jwhlcJb.  - exteiaal  obj ects  may  bear  to 
our  internal  feelingg^and  the  power  they  may 
consequently  acquire  of  suggesting  them,  in 


ofj^try-is-fotHidetl,  iir  a.^rea  tclegi^e^  upon 
T^jaiialusy ;  and  all  language^  indeed,  is  full 
orit ;  and  attests,  by  its  structure,  both  the 
extent  to  which  it  is^  spontaneously  pursued, 
and  the  effects  that  are  produced  by  its  sug- 
gestion. We  take  a  familiar  instance  from 
the  elegant  writer  to  whom  we  have  already 
referred. 


£ioa. 


'•  What,  for  instance,  is  tjiifi  Ipatling  jjTvprpg. 
m  w-e  repoivn.from  thf>  Fftffnprv  nf  FipvnV/'' 


The  soft  and  gentle  green  with  which  the 
earth  is  spread,  the  feeble  texture  of  the 
plants  and  flowers,  and  the  remains  of  winter 
yet  lingering  among  the  woods  and  hills — 
all  conspire  to  infuse  into  our  minds  some- 
M'hat  of  that  fearful  tenderness  with  which 
infancy  is  usually  beheld.  With  such  a  sen- 
timent, how  innumerable  are  the  ideas  which 
present  themselves  to  our  imagination !  ideas, 
it  is  apparent,  by  no  means  confined  to  the 
scene  before  our  eyes,  or  to  the  possible  deso- 
lation which  may  yet  await  its  infant  beauty, 
but  which  almost  involuntarily  extend  them- 
selves  tCjQnmlogies  with  the  lije^oj  manT''and 
bring  before  us  aH^tliose  images  of  hope  or 
fear,  which,  according  to  our  peculiar  situa- 
tions, have  the  dominion  of  our  hearts !  The 
beauty  of  autumn  is  accompanied  with  a 
similar  exercise  of  thought :  the  leaves  begin 
then  to  drop  from  the  trees;  the  flowers  and 
shrubs,  with  which  the  fields  were  adorned 
in  the  summer  months,  decay;  the  woods 
and  groves  are  silent ;  the  sun  himself  seems 
gradually  to  withdraw  his  light,  or  to  become 
enfeebled  in  his  power.  Who  is  there,  who, 
at  this  season,  does  not  feel  his  mind  impres- 
sed with  a  sentiment  of  melancholy  1  or  who 
is  able  to  resist  that  current  of  thought, 
which,  from  such  appearances  of  decay,  so 
naturally  leads  him  to  the  solemn  imagina- 
tion of  that  inevitable  fate,  which  is  to  bring 
on  alike  the  decay  of  life,  of  empire,  and  of  na- 
ture itself  V 

J^  thousandLaach  analogies,  indeed,  are  sug-  ' 
gested  to^s  by  the  most  faiTiniar£i:g|y?Ct'§^^^ 
naturer'^The  morning  and  the  evenmg  p'l-e"' 
sent' trTe  same  ready  picture  of  youth  and  of 
closing  life,  as  the  various  vicissitudes  of  the 


year.  The  withering  of  flowers  images  out 
to  us  the  langour  of  beauty,  or  the  sickness  of 
childhood.  The  loud  roar  of  troubled  waters 
seems  to  bear  some  resemblance  to  the  voice 
of  lamentation  or  violence;  and  the  softer 
murmur  of  brighter  streams,  to  be  expressive 
of  cheerfulness  and  innocence.  The  purity 
and  transparency  of  water  or  of  air,  indeetl, 
is  universafly  itself  felt  to  be  expressive  of 
mental  purity  and  gaiety;  and  their  darkness 
or  turbulence,  of  mental  gloom  and  dejection. 
The  genial  warmth  of  autumn  suggests  to  us 
the  feeling  of  mild  benevolence ; — the  sunny 
gleams  and  fitful  showers  of  early  spring,  re- 
mind us  of  the  waywardness  of  infancy  ;— 
This  is  thB4-ffowers  waving  on  their  slender  stems,  im- 
press us  with  the  notion  of  flexibility  and 
lightness  of  temper.  All  fine  and  delicate, 
fonns  are  typical  of  delicacy  and  gentleness 


so 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


vi  character ;  and  almost  all  formSj  bounded 
by  waving  or  flowing  lines,  suggest  ideas  of 
easy  movement,  social  pliability,  and  ele- 
gance. Rapid  and  impetuous  motion  seems 
to  be  emblematical  of  violence  and  passion ; 
— slow  and  steady  motion,  of  deliberation, 
dignity,  and  resolution  j — fluttering  motion,  of 
inconstancy  or  terror; — and  waving  motion, 
according  as  it  is  slow  or  swift,  of  sadness  or 

Elayfulness.     A  lofty  tower,   or  a  massive 
uilding,  gives  us  at  once  the  idea  of  firm- 
ness and  elevation  of  character ; — a  rock  bat- 
tered by  the  waves,  of  fortitude  in  adversity. 
Stillness  and  calmness,  in  the  water  or  the  air, 
seem  to  shadow  out  tenderness,  indolence, 
and  placidity; — moonlight  we  call  pensive 
and  gentle : — and  the  unclouded  sun  gives  us 
an  impression  of  exulting  vigour,  and  domi- 
ring  ambition  and  glory. 
It  is  not  diflicult,  with  the  assistance  which 
/      language  affords  us,  to  trace  the  origin  of  all 
\     these,  and  a  thousand  other  associations.     In 
/^ffiany  instances,  the  qualities  which  thus  sug- 
(      gest  mental  emotions,  do  actually  resemble 
\^  their  constant  concomitants  in  human  nature ; 
a"s  is  obviously  the  case  with  the  forms  and 
motions  which  are  sublime  and  beautiful: 
and,  in  some,  their  eff'ects  and  relations  bear 
so  obvious  an  analogy  to  those  of  human  con- 
duct or  feeling,  as  to  force  itself  upon  the  no- 
tice of  the  most  careless  beholder.    But,  what- 
ever may  have  been  their  original,  the  very 
structure  of  language  attests  the  vast  extent 
to  which  they  have  been  carried,  and  the  na- 
ture of  the  suggestions  to  which  they  are  in- 
debted for  their  interest  or  beauty.    Since  we 
all  speak  familiarly  of  the  sparkling  of  wit — 
and  the  darkness  of  melancholy — can  it  be 
any  way  difficult  to  conceive  that  bright  light 
may  be  agreeable,  because  it  reminds  us  of 
gaiety — and  darkness  oppressive,  because  it 
is  felt  to  be  einblematical  of  sorrow  ?    Jt  is 
__very  remarkable,  indeed,  that,  while  almost 
ftir  the  words  by  which  the  affections  of  the 


the  poet  has  connected  w/th  human  emotions, 
a  variety  of  objects,  to  which  common  mindi 
could  not  discover  suqh  a  relation.    What  the 
"poef  does  for  his  riders,  however,  by  hi» 
original  similes  and  metaphors,  in  these  nigh- 
er  cases,  even  the  dullest  of  those  readers  do, 
in  some  degree,  every  day,  for  themselves ; 
and   the  beauty  which  is  perceived,  when 
natural  objects  are  unexpectedly  vivified  bj 
the  glowing  fancy  of  the  former,  is  precisely 
of  the  same  kind  that  is  felt  when  the  close- 
ness of  the  analog)'  enables  them  to  force  hu- 
man feelings  upon  the  recollection  of  all  man- 
kind.    As  the  poet  ,sees  more  of  beauty  in 
nature  than  ordinary  mortals,  just  because  ■, 
he^erceives  more   of  these  analogies  and  y> 
relations    to    social    emotion,   in  which   all  J 
b;^uty  consists.;  so  other  men  see  more  or 
less  of  this  beauty,    exactly  as   they  hap-  i 
pen  to  possess  that   fancy,  or  those  habits,  j 
which  enable  them  readily  to  trace  out  these  ' 

relations.  L 

From  all  these  sources  of  evidence,  then, 
we  think  it  is  pretty  well  made  out,  that  theX 
beauty  or  sublimity  of  external  objects.is,ilQr^ 
IKngTiut  the  reflection  of  emotions  excited 
^y^the  feelings  or  condition  of  sentient  be^  ^ 
ings;  and  is  produced  altogether  by  certain' 
Jife_^rtions,  as  i't  were,  of  love,  joy,  pity,    ^ 
jeneiation,  or  terror,  that  adhere  to  the  ob- 
jects that  were  present  on  the  occasions  of 
^-sJiclLemo^fiaS*;:— Nor,  after  what  we  have  al- 
ready said,  does  it  seem  necessary  to  reply 
to  more  than  one  of  the  objections  to  which 
we  are  aware  that  this  theory  is  liable. — If 
_b@auty  be  nothing  more  than  a  reflection  of 
love,  pity,  or  veneration,  how  comes  it,  it  may 
be  asked,  to  be  distinguished  from  these  sen- 
timents ? '  Higy  are  never  confounded  with 
eacTi  "other,  either  in  our  feelings  or  our  lan- 
guage : — Why,  then,  should  they  all  be  con- 
founded under  the  common  name  of  beauty  ? 
and  why  should  beauty,  in  all  cases,  affect  us 
in  a  way  so  cUflerent  irom  the  love  or  com- 


:,^^    to 

1  fn 


rowed  originally  from  the  qualities  of  matter, 
.the  epithets  by  which  we  learn  afterwards  to 
distinguish  such  material  objects  as  are  felt 
laJifi., sublime  or  beautiful,  are  all  of  them 
epithets  that  had  been  previously  appropri- 
ated to  express  some  quality  or  emotion  of 
^  rnind.  Colours  are  thus  familiarly  said  to  be 
gay  or  grave — motions  to  be  lively,  or  delib- 
erate, or  capricious — forms  to  be  delicate  or 
modest — sounds  to  be  animated  or  mournful 
— prospects  to  be  cheerful  or  melancholy — 
rocks  to  be  bold — waters  to  be  tranquil — and 
a  thousand  other  phrases  of  the  same  import ; 
all  indicating,  most  unequivocally,  the  sources 
from  which  our  interest  in  matter  is  derived, 
and  proving,  that  it  is  necessary,  in  all  cases, 
to  confer  mind  and  feeling,  upon  it,  before  it 
an  be  conceived  as  either  sublime  or  beauti- 
ful. Thp  grent-charm,  indeed,  and  the  great 
jecifit  of  poetical  diction,  consists  in 
Jp'Y^'","^  llfi'  and  cmnlioii  to  all  the  objects  it 
i3mbract  -  ' : ; uiling  beauty  which 

we  som 'I  -'  in  descriptions  of 

very  ordijtUiiX  PA^J^^^^l^^"''^?  "^^'i^l  ^^  found  to 
arise  from  the  force  of  imagination,  by  which 


mind  are  expressed,  seem  to  have  been  bor-^jassion  of  which  it  is  said  to  be  merely  the 


reflection  ? 

Now,  to  these  questions,  we  are  somewhat 
tempted  to  answer,  after  the  manner  of  our 
country,  by  asking,  in  our  turn,  whether  it  be 
really  true,  that  beauty  alwaj's  aflects  us  in 
one  and  the  same  manner,  and  always  in  a 
different  manner  from  the  simple  and  ele- 
mentary affections  which  it  is  its  office  to 
EecaL.to  us?  In  very  many  cases,  it  appear 
to  us,  that"  the  sensations  which  we  receive 
from  objects  that  are  felt  to  be  beautiful,  and 
that  in  the  highest  degree,  do  not  differ  at  all, 
from  the  direct  movements  of  tenderness  or 
pity  towards  sentient, U^i.ngs.  If ..the-apithel 
of  beauty  be  correctly  (as  it  is  universally)  ap- 
plied to  many  of  the"  most  admired  and  en- 
chanting passages  in  poetry,  which  consist 
entirely  in  the  expression  of  affecting  senti- 
ments, the  question  would  be  speedily  de- 
ihus  .£ided;  and  it  is  a  fact,  at  all  events,  too 
remarkable  to  be  omitted,  that  some  of  the 
most  powerful  and  delightful  emotions  that 
are  uniformly  classed  under  this  name,  arise 
altogether  from  the  direct  influence  of  such 
pathetic  emotions,  without  the  intervention 


ALISON  ON  TASTE. 


81 


of  any  material  imagery.     We  io  not  wish, 
howe?ver.  to  dwell  upon  an  argument,  which 
certainly  is^iiot^^pplicable  to  all  parts  of  the 
,_c]p[iestion;  "a^iciT^admiTtmglEa^^^  oc- 

casions, the  feelings  which  we  experience 
from  beauty,  are  sensibly  different  from  the 
primary  emotions  in  which  we  think  they 
originate,  we  shall  endeavour  in  a  very  few 
words,  to  give  an  explanation  of  this  diffef- 
ence,  which  seems  to  be  perfectly  consisl- 
iBnt  with  the  theory  we  have  undertaken  to 
illustrate. 

JiiJjje  first  j2^1age,  it  should  make  some  dif- 
ference on  tlie  primary  affections  to  which 
we  have  alluded,  tliatTintTie  cases  alluded  to, 
they  are  .rc^c/£^.iram.  material  objects,  and 
jnot  dirgctLy  excited  by  their  natural  causes, 
•nf^'light  of  the  moon  has  a  very  different 
complexion  from  that  of  the  sun; — though  it 
is  in  substance  the  sun's  light :  and  glimpses' 
of  interesting,  or  even  of  familiar  objects, 
caught  unexpectedly  from  a  mirror  placed  at 
a  distance  from  these  objects,  will  affect  us, 
like  sudden  allusion's  in  poetry,  very  differ- 
ently from  the  natural  perception  of  those  ob- 
jects in  their  ordinary  relations.  In  the  next 
place,  the  emotion,  when  suggested  in  the 
Bhape  of  beauty,  comes  upon  us,  for  the  most 
part,  disericumbered  of  all  those  accompani- 
ments which  frequently  give  it  a  peculiar  and 
less  satisfactory  character,  when  it  arises  from 
direct  intm-course  with  its  living  objects.  The 
compassion,  for  example,  that  is  suggested  by 
beauty  of  a  gentle  and  winning  description,  is 
not  attended  with  any  of  that  disgust  and  un- 
easiness which  frequently  accompany  the 
spectacle  of  real  distress;  nor  with  that  im- 
portunate suggestion  of  the  duty  of  relieving 
it,  from  which  it  is  almost  inseparable.  Nor 
does  the  temporary  delight  which  we  receive 
from  beauty  of  a  gay  and  animating  charac- 
ter, call  upon  us  for  any  such  expenditure  of 
spirits,  or  active  demonstrations  of  sympathy, 
as  are  sometimes  demanded  by  the  turbu- 
lence of  real  joy.  In  the  third_place,  the 
emotion^.Qf  ben.n  t^,tkij3g!paitly^SS5EH^on 
illusion,  IS  far  more  transitory  in  its  own  na- 
ture, arid  Ts  both  more  apt  to  fluctuate  and 
vary  in  its  character,  and  more  capable  of 
being  dismissejd  at  pleasure,  than  any  of  the 
primary  affections,  whose  shadow  and  repre- 
sentative it  is.  -  lu^lhe  fomth.piace,  the  per- 
ception of  beauty  implies  a  certain  exercise 
of  the  imagination  that  is  not  required  in  the 
case  of  directemotion.  and  is  sufficient,  of  it- 
self, both  to  ^ive  a  new  character  to  every 
eriibtioirrthaf  is  suggested  by  the  intervention 
of  such  an  exercise,  and  to  account  for  our 
classing  all  the  various  emotions  that  are  so 
suggested  under  the  same  denomination  of 
beauty.  When  we  are  injured,  we  feel  in- 
dignation— when  we  are  wounded,  we  feel 
pain — when  we  see_  suffering,  we  feel  com- 
passioiT^^hd  when  we  witness  any  splendid 
acfoT  heroism  orgenerosity,  we  feel  admira- 
tion— without  any  effort  of  the  imagination, 
or  the  inteiT^fftTon  of  any  picture  or  vision  in 
the  mind.  But,  when  we  feel  indignation  or 
pity,  or  adniiration,  in  consequence  of  seeing 
some  piece  of  inanimate  matter  that  merely 


suggests  or  recals  to  us  the  ordinary  causes 
or  proper  objects  of  these  emotions,  it  is  evi- 
dent that  our  fancy" iFlTiTT^ted  byti  sudden V 
flash  of  recollection;  and, that  the  effect  ia.l 
produced  by  means  of  a  cei-tain  poetical  crea- ' 
uon  thafls  instantly  conJTyredtijyiii  the  mind,. ' 
It  is  this  active  ancl  heated  state  6T" tKe  im.aV, 
gination,  and  this  divided  and  busy  occupa-\ 
tion  of  the  mind,  that  constitute  the   great  \ 
peculiarity  of  the   emotions  we   experience     - 
from  the  perception  of  beauty.  ,^-^"' 

Finally,  and  this  is  perhaps  the  rQpgt^imi.. 
purtatli;  CO'fl'Sideration  of-TKe" whole,  it  should 
be  'recollect*e3^tKat5  along  with  the  shadow  or 
su2"gestion  of  associated  emotions,  there  ia 
/^w^s""pr?^nt'*^'TeaT  and  direcf  i)erception, 
"wKi^klior only  giA-es  a  force  and  liveliness  to 
all  the Jrnages  which  it  suggests,  but  seems 
jH  jmpart  to  Ihem  some  share  of  its  own 
reality.^^  Tfiat  tKere  is  an  illusion  of  this  kind 
inllie  case,~rs' "sufficiently  demonstrated  by 
the  fact,  that  we  invariably  ascribe  the  inter- 
est, which  we  think  has  been  proved  to  arise 
wholly  from  these  associations,  to  the  object 
itself,  as  one  of  its  actual  and  inherent  quali- 
.tias;.  and  consider  its  beauty  as  noless  a  prop- 
erty belonging  to  it,  than  any  of  its  physical 
attributes.,  The  associated  interest,  there- 
fore, is  beyond  all  doubt  confounded  with  the  , 
present  perception  of  the  object  itself;  and  a  | 
livelier  and  more  instant  impression  is  accord-  > 
ingiy  made  upon  the  mind,  than  if  the  inter- 
esting conceptions  had  been  merely  excited 
in  the  memory  by  the  usual  operation  of  re- 
flection or  voluntary  meditation.  Something 
analogous  to  this  is  familiarly  known  to  occur 
in  other  cases.  When  we  merely  think  of  an 
absent  friend,  our  emotions  are  incomparably 
less  lively  than  M^hen  the  recollection  of  him 
is  suddenly  suggested  by  the  unexpected 
sight  of  his  picture,  of  the  house  where  he 
dwelt,  or  the  spot  on  which  we  last  parted 
from  him — and  all  these  objects  seem  for  the 
moment  to  wear  the  colours  of  our  own  asso- 
ciated affections.  When  Captain  Cook's  com- 
panions found,  in  the  remotest  corner  of  the 
habitable  globe,  a  broken  spoon  with  the  word 
London  stamped  upon  it — and  burst  into  tears 
at  the  sight ! — they  proved  how  differently  we 
may  be  moved  by  emotions  thus  connected 
Math  the  real  presence  of  an  actual  percep- 
tion, than  by  the  mere  recollection  of  the  ob- 
jects on  which  those  emotions  depend.  Every 
one  of  them  had  probably  thought  of  London 
every  day  since  he  left  it;  and  many  of  them 
might  have  been  talking  of  it  with  tranquilli- 
ty, but  a  moment  before  this  more  effectual 
appeal  was  made  to  their  sensibility. 

If  we  add  to  all  this,  that  there  is  necessa_ 
rj]y  something  of  vagueness  and  variablenesl 
ijijhe  rmotions  most  generally  excited  by  the 

Serception  of  beautyj  and  that  the  mind  wan- 
ers  with  the  eye,  over  the  different  objects 
which  may  supply  these  emotions,  with  a 
degree  of  unsteadiness,  and  half  voluntary 
half  involuntary  fluctuation,  we  may  come  to 
understand  how  the  effect  not  only  should  be 
essentially  different  from  that  of  the  simple 
presentment  of  any  one  interesting  concep« 
tion,  but  should  acquire  a  peculiarity  which 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPH? 


entitles  it  to  a  different  denomination.  IMost 
of  the  associations  of  which  we  have  been  last 
speaking,  as  being  founded  on  the  analogies 
or  fanciful  reseniMances  that  are  felt  to  exist 
between  physical  o'bjscts  and  qualities,  and 
the  interesting  affections  of  mind,  are  intrin- 
sically of  this  vague  and  wavering  descrip- 
tion— and  when  we  look  at  a  fine  landscape, 
or  any  other  scene  of  complicated  beauty,  a 
great  variety  of  such  images  are  suddenly- 
presented  to  the  fancy,  and  as  suddenly  suc- 
ceeded by  others,  as  the  eye  ranges  over  the 
different  features  of  w^hich  it  is  composed,  and 
feeds  upon  the  charms  which  it  discloses. 
Now,  the  direct  perception,  in  all  such  cases, 
not  only  perpetually  accompanies  the  asso- 
ciated emotions,  but  is  inextricably  con- 
founded with  them  in  our  feelings,  and  is 
even  recognised  upon  reflection  as  the  cause, 
not  merely  of  their  unusual  strength,  but  of 
the  several  peculiarities  by  which  we  have 
shown  that  they  are  distinguished.  It  is  not 
wonderful,  therefore,  either  that  emotions  so 
ci rcurnstancGd  should ,  act. .  be  classed  along 
with  similar  affections,  excited  under  different 
circumstances,  or  that  the  perception  of  pre- 
sent existence,  thus  mixed  up,  and  indissolu- 
bly:  CQidbunded  with  interesting  conceptions, 
sliould  between  them  produce  a  sensation,  of 
so  distinct  a  nature  as  naturally  to  be  distin- 
guislied  by  a  peculiar  name — or  that  the 
beauty  which  results  from  this  combination 
should,  in  ordinary  language,  be  ascribed  to 
the  objects  themselves — the  presence  and 
perception  of  which  is  a  necessary  condition 
of  its  existence. 

What  we  have  now  said  is  enough,  w^e  be- 
lieve, to  give  an  attentive  reader  that  general 
conception  of  the  theory  before  us,  which  is 
all  that  we  can  hope  to  give  in  the  narrow 
limits  to  which  we  are  confined.  It  may  be 
observed,  however,  that  we  have  spoken  only 
of  those  sorts  of  beauty  \vFi ch  we  t ni nk  capa- 
ble of  being  resolved  mto  some  passion,  or 
emotion,  or  pretty  lively  sentiment  of  our  na- 
ture j  and  though  these  are  undoubtedly  the 
highest  and  most  decided  Icjuds  of  beauty,  it 
is  certain  that  there  are  many  things  called 
beautiful  which  cannot  claim  so  lofty  a  con- 
nection. •  It  is  necessary,  therefore,  to  observe, 
that,  though  every  thing  that  excites  any  feel- 
ing worthy  to  be  called  an  emotion,  by  its 
beauty  or  sublimity,  will  be  found  to  be  re- 
lated to  the  natural  objects  of  human  passions 
or  affection s,_there  are  rriany  things  which  are 
pleasin"^or_agreeaBTe'' enough  to  be  called 
beautiful,  in  consequence  of  their  relation 
merely  to  human  convenience  and  comfort; — 
many  others  that  please  by  suggesting  ideas 
of  human  skill  and  ingenuity^ — and  many 
that  obtam  the  name"^*T>eautiful,  by  being 
associated  with_JbJimaLa,..fortune,  vanity,  or 
ppionfjp^ir  After  what  has  been  alreacTy  said, 
it  will  not  be  necessary  either  to  exemplify  or 
explain  these  subordinate  phenomena.  It  is 
enough  merely  to  sugirest,  tliat  they^all  please 


upon  the  same  great  principle  o[  ^iympathyi^tii,. 
Jiumnn  /(-'e?m"-.s :  and  are  explained  by  the 
simple  aiicT  nidisputable  ffict,  that  we  are 
pleased  with  the  direct    contemplation    of 

.i 


human  comfort,  ingenuity,  and  fortune  AH 
these,  indeed,  obviously  resolve  themselves 
into  the  great  object  of  sympathy — human 
enjoyment,  y  Convenience  and  comfort  is  but 
another  name  for  a  lower,  but  very  indispen- 
sable ingredient  of  that  emotion.  Skill  and 
ingenuity  readily  present  themselves  as  means 
by  which  enjoyment  may  be  promoted ;  and 
high  fortune,  and  opulence,  and  splendour, 
pass,  at  least  at  a  distance,  for  its  certain 
causes  and  attendants.  The  beauty  of  fitness 
and  adaptation  of  parts,  even  m  the  works  of 
nature,  is  derived  from  the  same  fountain — 
partly  by  means  of  its  obvious  analogy  to 
works  of  human  skill,  and  partly  by  sugges- 
tions of  that  Creative  power  and  wisdom,  to 
which  all  human  destiny  is  subjected.  The 
feelings,  therefore,  associated  with  all  those 
qualities,  though  scarcely  rising  to  the  height 
of  emotion,  are  obviously  in  a  certain  degree 
pleasing  or  interesting;  and  when  several  of 
them  happen  to  be  united  in'  One  object,  may 
accumulate"  to  a  very  great  degree  of  beauty. 
Iris  needless,  we  think,  to  pursue  these  gene- 
ral propositions  through  all  the  details  to 
which  they  so  obviously  lead.  We  shall  con- 
fine ourselves,  therefore,  to  a  very  few  remarks 
upon  the  beauty  of  architecture — and  chiefly 
as  an  illustration  of  our  general  position. 

There  are  few  things,*  about  which  men  of 
virtu  are  more  apt  to  rave,  than  the  merits  of 
the  Grecian  architecture;;  and  most  of  those 
who  affect  an  uncommon  purity  and  delicacy 
of  taste,  talk  of  the  intrinsic  beauty  of  its  pro- 
portions as  a  thing  not  to 'be  disputed,  except 
by  barbarian  ignorance  ^nd  stupidity.  Mr. 
Alison,  we  think,  was  thp  first  who  gave  a 
full  and  convincing  refutation  of  this  myste- 
rious dogma;  and,  Mhile;  he  admits,  in  the 
most  ample  terms,  the  actual  beauty  of  the 
objects  in  question,  has  shown,  we  think,  in 
the  clearest  manner,  that  it  arises  entirely 
from  the  combination  of  the  following  asso- 
ciations:— fst,  The  association  of  utility,  con- 
venience, or  fitness  for  the  purposes  of  the 
building;  2d,  Of  security  ^nd  stability,  with  a 
view  to  the  nature  of  the  materials ;  3d.  Of 
the  skill  and  power  requisite  to  mould  such 
materials  into  forms  so  commodious;  4th,  Of 
magnificence,  and  splendour,  and  expense ; 
5th,  Of  antiquity;  and,  6thly,  Of  Roman  and 
Grecian  greatness.  His  observations  are  sum- 
med up  in  the  following  short  sentence. 

'•The  proportions,"  he  observes,  "of  these 
orders,  it  is  to  be  remembered,  are  distinct 
subjects  of  beauty,  from  the  ornaments  with 
which  they  are  embellished,  from  the  magni- 
ficence with  which  they  are  executed,  from 
the  purposes  of  elegance  they  are  intended  to 
serve,  or  the  scenes  of  grandeur  they  are  des- 
tined to  adorn.  It  is  in  such  scenes,  however, 
and  with  such  additions,  that  we  are  accus- 
tomed to  observe  them ;  and,  while  we  feel 
the  effect  of  all  these  accidental  associations, 
we  are  seldom  willing  to  examine  what  are 
Jhe  causes  of  the  complex  emotion  we  feel, 
and  readily  attribute  to  the  nature  of  the  ar- 
cnitecture  itself,  the  whole  pleasure  which  we 
enjoy.  But,  besides  these,  there  are  othei 
associations  we  have  with  tliese  fonns,  tha» 


ALISON  ON  TASTE. 


33 


etill  more  ]  owerfully  serve  to  command  our 
admiration;  for  they  are  the  Grecian  orders; 
they  derive  their  origin  from  those  times,  and 
were  the  ornament  of  those  countries  which 
are  most  hallowed  incur  imaginations;  and  it 
is  difficult  for  us  to  see  them,  even  in  their 
modern  copies,  without  feeling  them  operate 
upon  our  mnids  as  relics  of  those  polished 
nations  where  they  first  arose,  and  of  that 
greater  people  by  whom  they  were  afterwards 
borrowed/"' 

This  analysis  is  to  us  perfectly  satisfactory. 
But,  indeed,  we  cannot  conceive  any  more 
complete  refutation  of  the  notion  of  an  in- 
trinsic and  inherent  beauty  in  the  proportions 
of  the  Grecian  architecture,  than  the  fact  of 
the  admitted  beauty  of  such  very  opposite 
proportions  in  the  Gothic.  Opposite  as  they 
are,  however,  the  great  elements  of  beauty 
are  the  same  in  this  style  as  in  the  other — 
the  impressions  of  religious  awe  and  of  chi- 
valrous recollections,  coming  here  in  place  of 
the  classical  associations  which  constitute  so 
great  a  share  of  the  interest  of  the  former.  It 
is  well  observed  too  by  Mr.  Alison,  that  the 
^reat  durability  and  costliness  of  the  produc- 
tions of  this  art,  have  had  the  effect,  in  almost 
all  regions  of  the  world,  of  rendering  their 
Fashion  permanent,  after  it  had  once  attained 
such  a  degree  of  perfection  as  to  fulfil  its 
substantial  purposes. 

^'Buildings."  he  observes,  "may  last,  and 
are  intended  to  last  for  centuries.  The  life 
of  man  is  very  inadequate  to  the  duration  of 
such  productions ;  and  the  present  period  of 
the  world,  though  old  with  respect  to  those 
arts  which  are  employed  upon  perishable  sub- 
jects, is  yet  young  in  relation  to  an  art,  which 
IS  employed  upon  so  durable  materials  as 
those  of  architecture.  Instead  of  a  few  years, 
therefore,  centuries  must  probably  pass  before 
euch  productions  demand  to  be  renewed; 
and,  long  before  that  period  is  elapsed,  the 
sacredness  of  antiquity  is  acquired  by  the 
subject  itself,  and  a  new  motive  given  for  the 
preservation  of  similar  forms.  In  every  coun- 
try, accordingly,  the  same  effect  has  taken 
place :  and  the  same  causes  which  have  thus 
served  to  produce  among  us,  for  so  many 
years,  an  uniformity  of  taste  with  regard  to 
the  style  of  Grecian  architecture,  have  pro- 
duced also  among  the  nations  of  the  East,  for 
a  much  longer  course  of  time,  a  similar  uni- 
formity of  taste  with  regard  to  their  orna- 
mental style  of  architecture;  and  have  per- 
petuated among  them  the  same  forms  which 
were  in  use  among  their  forefathers,  before 
the  Grecian  orders  w^ere  invented." 

It  is  not  necessary,  we  think,  to  carry  these 
'llustrations  any  farther :  as  the  theory  they 
are  intended  to  explain,  is  now,  we  believe, 
uniA'ersally  adopted,  though  with  some  limita- 
tions, which  we  see  no  reason  to  retain.  Those 
.    suggested  by  Mr.  Alison,  we  have  already  en- 
;f  deavoured  to  dispose  of  in  the  few  remarks 
1^  we  have  made  upon  his  publication ;  and  it 
f.    only  remains  to  say  a  word  or  two  more  upon 
■  fMr.  Knight's  doctrine  as  to  the  primitive  and 
I  mdependent  beauty  of  colours,  upon  which 
'  we  have  al/eady  hazarded  some  remarks. 
3 


Agreeing  as  he  does  with  Mr.  Alison,  and 
all  modern  inquirers,  that  the  whole  beauty 
of  objects  consists,  in  the  far  greater  number 
of  instances,  in  the  associations  to  which  we 
have  alluded,  he  still  maintains,  that  some 
few  visible  objects  affect  us  with  a  sense  of 
beauty  in  consequence  of  the  pleasurable  im- 
pression they  make  upon  the  sense — and  that 
our  perception  of  beauty  is,  in  these  instances, 
a  mere  organic  sensation.  Now,  we  have 
already  stated,  that  it  would  be  something 
quite  unexampled  in  the  history  either  of 
mind  or  of  langiiage,  if  certain  physical  and 
bodily  sensations  should  thus  be  confounded 
with  moral  and  social  feelings  with  which 
they  had  no  connection,  aiid  pass  familiarly 
under  one  and  the  same  npme.  Beauty  con- 
_sists  confessed lyj  in  almdst  all.  cases," irfjf^s 
suggestion  of  moral  or  social  emotions,  mixed 
up  and  modified  by  a  present  sensation  or 
j^erception;  and  it  is  this 'suggestion,  and  this 
identification  with  a  present  object,  that  con- 
stitutes its  essence,  and  gives  a  common 
character  to  the  whole  class  of  feelings  it 
produces,  sufficient  to  justify  their  being  de- 
signated by  a  common  appellation.  ■  If  the 
word  beauty,  in  short,  must  mean  something, 
and  if  this  be  very  clearly  what  it  means,  in 
all  the  remarkable  instances  of  its  occurrence, 
it  is  difficult  to  conceive,  that  it  should  occa- 
sionally mean  something  quite  different,  and 
denote  a  mere  sensual  or  physical  gratifica- 
tion, unaccompanied  by  the  suggestion  of  any 
moral  emotion  whatever.  According  to  Mr. 
Knight,  however,  and,  indeed,  to  many  othei 
wrifers,  this  is  the  case  with  regard  to  the 
beauty  of  colours ;  which  depends  altogether, 
they  say,  upon  the  delight  which  the  eye 
naturally  takes  in  their  contemplation — this 
delight  being  just  as  primitive  and  sensual  as 
that  which  the  palate  receives  from  the  con- 
tact of  agreeable  flavours. 

It  must  be  admitted,  we  think,  in  the  first 
place,  that  such  an  allegation  is  in  itself  ex- 
tremely improbable,  and  contrary  to  all  anal- 
ogy, and  all  experience  of  the  structure  of 
language,  or  of  the  laws  of  thought.  It  is 
farther  to  be  considered,  too,  that  if  the  plea- 
sures of  the  senses  are  ever  to  be  considered 
as  beautiful,  those  pleasures  which  are  the 
most  lively  and  important  would  be  the  most 
likely  to  usurp  this  denomination,  and  to  take 
rank  with  the  higher  gratifications  that  result 
from  the  perception  of  beauty.  Now,  it  ad- 
mits of  no  dispute,  that  the  mere  organic 
pleasures  of  the  eye  (if  indeed  they  have  any 
existence)  are  far  inferior  to  those  of  the 
palate,  the  touchy  and  indeed  almost  all  the 
other  senses — none  of  which,  however,  are  in 
any  case  confounded  with  the  sense  of  beauty. 
In  "the  next  place,  it  should  follow,  that  if 
what  aflbrds  organic  pleasure  to  the  eye  be 
properly  called  beautiful,  what  offends  or 
gives  pain  to  it,  should  be  called  ugly.  Now, 
excessive  or  dazzling  light  is  offensive  to  the 
eye — but,  considered  by  itself,  it  is  never 
called  ugly,  but  only  painful  or  disagreeable. 
The  moderate  excitement  of  light,  on  the 
other  hand,  or  the  soothing  of  certain  brigm 
but  temperate  colourSj  when  considered  io 


84 


LITERATURE  AND  KOGRAPHY. 


tills  primary  aspect,  a-e  not  called  beautiful, 
but  only  agreeable  o  refreshiiiii.  So  far  as 
the  direct  offence  or  comfort  ol  ..le  organ,  in 
short,  is  referred  to,  the  language  which  we 
nse  relates  strictly  to  physical  or  bodily  sensa- 
tion, and  is  not  confounded  with  that  which 
relates  to  mental  emotion ;  and  we  really  see 
no  ground  for  supposing  that  there  is  any  ex- 
ception to  this  rule. 

It  is  very  remarkable,  indeed,  that  the 
sense  whose  organic  gratification  is  here  sap- 
posed  to  constitute  the  primary  feeling  of 
beauty,  should  be  one,  in  the  first  place, 
whose  direct  organic  gratifications  are  of  very 
little  force  or  intensity; — and,  in  the  next 
place,  one  whose  office  it  is,  almost  exclu- 
sively, to  make  us  acquainted  with  the  exist- 
ence and  properties  of  those  external  objects 
which  are  naturally  interesting  to  our  inward 
feelings  and  affections.  This  peculiarity 
makes  it  (at  the  very  least)  extremely  proba- 
ble, that  ideas  of  emotion  should  be  associated 
with  the  perceptions  of  this  sense;  but  ex- 
tremely improbable,  that  its  naked  and  unas- 
sociated  sensations  should  in  any  case  be 
classed  with  such  emotions.  If  the  name  of 
beauty  were  given  to  w^hat  directly  gratifies 
any  sense,  such  as  that  of  tasting  or  smelling, 
which  does  not  make  us  acquainted  with  the 
nature  or  relations  of  outward  objects,  there 
would  be  less  room  for  such  an  explanation. 
But  when  it  is  the  business  of  a  particular 
sense  or  organ  to  introduce  to  our  knowledge 
those  objects  which  are  naturally  connected 
with  ideas  of  emotion,  it  is  easy  to  understand 
how  its  perceptions  should  be  associated  with 
these  emotions,  and  an  interest  and  impor- 
tance thus  extended  to  them,  that  belong  to 
the  intimations  of  no  other  bodily  organ.  But, 
for  those  very  reasons,  we  should  be  prepared 
to  suspect,  that  all  the  interest  they  possess 
is  derived  from  this  association ;  and  to  dis- 
trust the  accuracy  of  any  observations  that 
might  lead  us  to  conclude  that  its  mere  or- 
ganic impulses  ever  produced  any  thing  akin 
■J  to  those  associated  emotions,  or  entitled  to 
F  pass  under  their  name.  This  caution  will 
'  appear  still  more  reasonable,  when  it  is  con- 
sidered, that  all  the  other  qualities  of  visible 
objects,  except  only  their  colours,  are  now 
admitted  to  be  perfectly  indifferent  in  them- 
selves, and  to  possess  no  other  beauty  than 
they  may  derive  from  their  associations  with 
our  ordinary  affections.  There  are  no  forms, 
for  example,  even  in  Mr.  Knight's  opinion, 
that  have  any  intrinsic  beauty,  or  any  power 
of  pleasing  or  affecting  us,  except  through 
their  associations,  or  affinities  to  mental  affec- 
tions, either  as  expressive  of  fitness  and  utility, 
or  as  types  and  symbols  of  certain  moral  or 
intellectual  qualities,  in  which  the  sources  of 
our  interest  are  obvious.  Yet  the  form  of  an 
object  is  as  conspicuous  an  ingredient  of  its 
beauty  as  its  colour;  and  a  property,  too, 
which  seems  at  first  view  to  be  as  intrinsic- 
ally and  independently  pleasing.  Why,  then, 
should  we  persist  in  holding  that  colours,  or 
combinations  of  colours,  please  from  being 
naturaUy  agreeable  to  the  organ  of  sight,  when 
it  is  admitted  that  other  visible  qualities, 


which  seem  to  possess  the  same  power  of 
pleasing,  are  found,  upon  examination,  to  owe 
it  entirely  to  the  principle  of  association  ? 

The  only  reason  that  can  be  assigned,  or 
that  actually  exists  for  this  distinction,  is,  that 
it  has  been  supposed  more  difficult  to  account 
for  the  beauty  of  colours,  upon  the  principles 
which  have  accounted  for  other  beauties,  or 
to  specify  the  particular  associations  by  virtue 
of  which  they  could  acquire  this  quality. 
Now,  it  appears  to  us  that  there  is  no  such 
difficulty ;  and  that  there  is  no  reason  what- 
ever for  holding  that  one  colour,  or  combina- 
tion of  colours,  is  more  pleasing  than  another,  / 
except  upon  the  same  grounds  of  association/ 
which  recommend  particular  forms,  motions, 
or  proportions.  It  appears  to  us,  that  the  or-\ 
ganic  pleasures  of  the  eye  are  extremely  few  ^ 
and  insignificant.  It  is  hurt,  no  doubt,  by  an 
excessive  glare  of  light ;  and  it  is  in  some  de- 
gree gratified,  perhaps,  by  a  moderate  degree 
of  it.  But  it  is  only  by  the  quantity  or  in- 
tensity of  the  light,  we  think,  that  it  is  so 
affected.  The  colour  of  it,  we  take  it,  is,  in 
all  cases,  absolutely  indifferent.  But  it  is  the 
colour  only  that  is  called  beautiful  or  other- 
wise; and  these  qualities  we  think  it  very 
plainly  derives  from  the  common  fountain  of 
association. 

In  the  first  place,  we  would  ask,  whethei 
there  is  any  colour  that  is  beautiful  in  aD 
situations?  and,  in  the  next  place,  whether 
there  is  any  colour  that  is  not  beautiful  in 
some  situation "?  With  regard  to  the  first,  take 
the  colours  that  are  most  commonly  referred 
to  as  intrinsically  beautiful — bright  and  soft 
green — clear  blue — bright  pink,  or  vermilion. 
The  first  is  unquestionably  beautiful  in  vernal 
woods  and  summer  meadows; — and,  we 
humbly  conceive,  is  beautiful,  because  it  is 
the  natural  sign  and  concomitant  of  those 
scenes  and  seasons  of  enjoyment.  Blue,  again, 
is  beautiful  in  the  vernal  sky; — and,  as  we  be- 
lieve, for  the  sake  of  the  pleasures  of  which 
such  skies  are  prolific ;  and  pink  is  beautiful 
on  the  cheeks  of  a  young  woman  or  the  leaves 
of  a  rose,  for  reasons  too  obvious  to  be  stated. 
We  have  associations  enough,  therefore^  tu 
recommend  all  those  colours,  in  the  situations 
in  which  they  are  beautiful :  But,  strong  as 
these  associations  are,  they  are  unable  to 
make  them  universally  beautiful — or  beauti- 
ful, indeed,  in  any  other  situations.  Green 
would  not  be  beautiful  in  the  sky — nor  blue 
on  the  cheek — nor  vermilion  on  the  grass.  It 
may  be  said,  indeed,  that,  though  they  are 
always  recognised  as  beautiful  in  themselves, 
their  obvious  unfitness  in  such  situations  coun- 
teracts the  effect  of  their  beauty,  and  make 
an  opposite  impression,  as  of  something  mon- 
strous and  unnatural ;  and  that,  accordingly, 
they  are  all  beautiful  in  indifferent  situations, 
where  there  is  no  such  antagonist  principle — 
in  furniture,  dress,  and  ornaments.  Now  the 
fact,  in  the  first  place,  is  not  so ; — these  bright 
colours  being  but  seldom  and  sparingly  ad- 
mitted in  ornaments  or  works  of  art ;  and  no 
man,  for  example,  choosing  to  have  a  blue 
house,  or  a  green  ceiling,  or  a  pink  coat.  But. 
in  the  second  place,  if  the  facts  were  admitted 


ALISON  ON  TASTE. 


35 


we  think  it  obvious,  that  the  general  beauty  of 
those  colours  would  be  sufficiently  accounted 
for  by  the  very  interesting  and  powerful  asso- 
r.iations  under  which  all  of  them  are  so  fre- 
quently presented  by  the  hand  of  Nature. 
The  interest  we  take  m  female  beauty, — in 
vernal  delights, — in  unclouded  skies, — is  far 
too  lively  and  too  constantly  recurring,  not  to 
stamp  a  kindred  interest  upon  the  colours 
that  are  naturally  associated  with  such  ob- 
jects ;  and  to  make  us  regard  with  some  affec- 
tion and  delight  those  hues  that  remind  us  of 
them,  although  we  should  only  meet  them 
upon  a  fan,  or  a  dressing-box,  the  lining  of  a 
^.iiurtain,  or  the  back  of  a  screen.    Finally,  we 


beg  leave  to  observe,  that  all  bright  and  clear 
colours  are  naturally  typical  of  cheerfulness 
and  purity  of  mind,  and  are  hailed  as  em- 
blems of  moral  qualities,  to  which  no  one  can 
be  indifferent. 

With  regard  to  ugly  colours  again,  we  really 
are  not  aware  of  any  to  which  that  epithet 
can  be  safely  applied.  Dull  and  dingy  hues 
are  usually  mentioned  as  in  themselves  the 
least  pleasing.  Yet  these  are  the  prevailing 
tints  in  many  beautiful  landscapes,  and  many 
admired  pictures.  They  are  also  the  most 
common  colours  that  are  chosen  for  dress 
(male  dress  at  least), — for  building, — for  fur- 
niture,— where  the  consideration  of  beauty  is 

the  only  motive  for  the  choice.  In  fact,  the  Te^t  offended  by  reversin 
shaded  parts  of  all  coloured  objects  pass  into 
tints  of  this  description : — nor  can  we  at  pre- 
sent recollect  any  one  colour,  which  we  could 
specify  as  in  itself  disagreeable,  without  run- 
ning counter  to  the  feelings  and  the  practice  of 
the  great  mass  of  mankind.  If  the  fact,  how- 
ever, were  otherwise,  and  if  certain  muddy 
and  dull  colours  were  universally  allowed  to 
be  disagreeable,  we  should  think  there  could 
be  no  difficulty  in  referring  these,  too,  to  na- 
tural associations.  Darkness,  and  all  that  ap- 
proaches it,  is  naturally  associated  with  ideas 
of  melancholy. — of  helplessness,  and  danger 


used  without  reference  to  the  practical  diffi. 
culties  of  the  ar:.  which  must  go  for  nothing 
in  the  present  question,  really  mean  little  more 
than  the  true  and  natural  appearance  of  co- 
loured objects,  seen  through  the  same  tinted 
or  partially  obscure  medium  that  commonly 
constitutes  the  atmosphere :  and  for  the  actual 
optical  effects  of  which  but  few  artists  know 
how  to  make  the  proper  allowance.  In  na- 
ture, we  know  of  no  discordant  or  offensive 
colouring,  except  what  may  be  referrec'  to 
some  accident  or  disaster  that  spoils  the  mcral 
or  sentimental  expression  of  the  scene,  and 
disturbs  the  associations  upon  which  all  its 
beauty,  whether  of  forms  or  of  hues,  seems 
to  us  very  plainly  dependent.  We  are  per- 
fectly aware,  that  ingenious  persons  have  been 
disposed  to  dogmatize  and  to  speculate  very 
confidently  upon  these  subjects ;  and  have 
had  the  benefit  of  seeing  various  learned  trea- 
tises upon  the  natural  gamut  of  colours,  and 
the  inherent  congruity  of  those  that  are  called 
complementary,  with  reference  to  the  pris- 
matic spectrum.  But  we  confess  we  have  no 
faith  in  any  of  those  fancies;  and  believe, 
that,  if3LLJjb£se_coloursjyex(£j[a^^^^ 
_onjL_pJain  board,  ac.corSing  to.  the  .jnost  rigid, 
rules  of  this  supposed  harmony,  nobody,  but 
THe  author  of  the  theory,^  m-ouIcI  perceiye  th.e 
'^fnallest  beauty  iix -the  jeibibituiii,  or  be  the 
'  ^  their  collocation. 
AVe  do  not  mean,  however,  to  dispute,  that 
the  laws  of  colouring,  insisted  on  by  learned 
artists,  will  produce  a  more  pleasing  effect 
upon  trained  judges  of  the  art,  than  a  neglect 


-and  the  gloomy  hues  that  remind  us  of  it, 
or  seem  to  draw  upon  it,  must  share  in  the 
same  associations.  Lurid  skies,  too,  it  should 
be  observed,  and  turbid  waters,  and  unfruitful 
swamps,  and  dreary  morasses,  are  the  natural 
and  most  common  wearers  of  these  dismal 
liveries.  It  is  from  these  that  we  first  become 
acquainted  with  them;  and  it  is  needless, 
therefore,  to  say,  that  such  objects  are  neces- 
sarily associated  with  ideas  of  discomfort,  and 
sadness,  and  danger ;  and  that  the  colours  that 
remind  us  of  them,  can  scarcely  fail  to  recal 
some  of  the  same  disagreeable  sensations. 

Enough,  however,  and  more  than  enough, 
has  been  said  about  the  supposed  primitive 
and  independant  beauty  of  separate  colours. 
It  is  chiefly  upon  the  intrinsic  beauty  of  their 
mixture  or  combinations  that  Mr.  Knight  and 
his  adherents  have  insisted;  —  and  it  is  no 
doubt  quite  true,  that,  among  painters  and 
connoisseurs,  we  hear  a  great  deal  about  the 
harmony  and  composition  of  tints,  and  the 
charms  and  difficulties  of  a  judicious  colour- 
ing. In  all  this,  however,  we  cannot  help  sus- 
pecting that  there  is  no  little  pedantry,  and  no 
little  jargon;  and  that  these  phrases,  when 


of  these  laws :  because  we  have  little  doubt 


that  these  combinations  of  colour  are  recom- 
mended by  certain  associations,  which  render 
them  generally  pleasing  to  persons  so  trained 
and  educated ; — all  tha^  we  maintain  is,  that 
there  are  no  combinations  that  are  originally 
and  universally  pleasing  or  displeasing  to  the 
eye,  independent  of  such  associations;  and  it 
seems  to  us  an  irresistible  proof  of  this,  that 
these  laws  of  harmonious  colouring  are  per- 
petually and  deliberately  violated  by  great 
multitudes  of  persons,  who  not  only  have  the 
perfect  use  of  their  sight,  but  are  actually  be- 
stowing great  pains  and  expense  in  providing 
for  its  gratification,  in  the  very  act  of  this  vio- 
lation .  The  Dutch  trader,  who  paints  over  the 
outside  of  his  country-house  with  as  many 
bright  colours  as  are  to  be  found  in  his  tulip- 
bed,  and  garnishes  his  green  shutters  with 
blue  facings,  and  his  purple  roof  with  lilac 
ridges,  not  only  sees  as  well  as  the  studied  co- 
lourist,  who  shudders  at  the  exhibition,  but 
actually  receives  as  much  pleasure,  and  as 
strong  an  impression  of  beauty,  from  the  fin- 
ished lusthaus,  as  the  artist  does  from  one  of 
his  best  pictures.  It  is  impossible,  then,  that 
these  combinations  of  colours  can  be  naturally 
or  intrinsically  offensive  to  the  organ  of  sight ; 
and  their  beauty  or  ugliness  must  depend  upon 
the  associations  which  different  individuals 
may  have  happened  to  form  with  regard  to 
them.  We  contend,  however,  for  nothing 
more ;  and  are  quite  wilhng  to  allow  that  the 
associations  v  hich  recommend  his  staring 
tawdriness  to  the  burgomaster,  are  such  a« 


36 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


could,  not  easily  have  been  formed  in  the  mind 
of  a  diligent  and  extensive  observer  of  nature, 
and  that  they  would  probably  be  reversed  by 
habits  of  reflection  and  study.  But  the  same 
thing,  it  is  obvious,  maybe  said  of  the  notions 
of  beauty  of  any  other  description  that  pre- 
vail among  the  rude,  the  inexperienced,  and 
uninstructed ; — though,  in  all  other  instances, 
we  take  it  for  granted,  that  the  beauty  which 
is  perceived  depends  altogether  upon  associa- 
tion, and  in  no  degree  on  its  power  of  giving 
a  pleasurable  impulse  to  the  organ  to  which 
it  addresses  itself.  If  any  considerable  num- 
ber of  persons,  with  the  perfect  use  of  sight, 
actually  take  pleasure  in  certain  combinations 
of  colours — that  is  complete  proof  that  such 
combinations  are  not  naturally  offensive  to  the 
organ  of  sight,  and  that  the  pleasure  of  such 
persons,  exactly  like  that  of  those  who  disa- 
gree with  them,  is  derived  not  from  the  sense, 
but  from  associations  with  its  perceptions. 

With  regard,  again,  to  the  effect  of  broken 
masses  of  light  and  shadow,  it  is  proper,  in 
the  first  place,  to  remember,  that  by  the  eye 
we  see  colour  only ;  and  that  lights  and  sha- 
dows, as  far  as  the  mere  organ  is  concerned, 
mean  nothing  but  variations  of  tint.  It  is 
very  true,  no  doubt,  that  we  soon  learn  to  refer 
many  of  those  variations  to  light  and  shade, 
and  that  they  thus  become  .signs  to  us  of 
depth,  and  distance,  and  relief.  But,  is  not 
this,  of  itself;  sufficient  to  refute  the  idea  of 
their  affording  any  primitive  or  organic  plea- 
sure ?  In  so  far  as  they  are  mere  variations 
of  tints,  they  may  be  imitated  by  unmeaning 
daubs  of  paint  on  a  pallet; — in  so  far  as  they 
are  szgns,  it  is  to  the  mind  that  they  address 
themselves,  and  not  to  the  organ.  They  are 
signs,  too,  it  should  be  recollected,  and  the 
only  signs  we  have,  by  which  we  can  receive 
any  correct  knowledge  of  the  existence  and 
condition  of  all  external  objects  at  a  distance 
from  us,  whether  interesting  or  not  interest- 
ing. Without  the  assistance  of  variety  of  tint, 
and  of  lights  and  shadows,  we  could  never 
distinguish  one  object  from  another,  except  by 
the  touch.  These  appearances,  therefore,  are 
the  perpetual  vehicles  of  almost  all  our  inter- 
esting perceptions ;  and  are  consequently  as- 
sociated with  all  the  emotions  we  receive  from 
visible  objects.  It  is  pleasant  to  see  many 
things  in  one  prospect,  because  some  of  thern 
are  probably  agreeable;  and  it  is  pleasant  to 
know  the  relations  of  those  things,  because 
the  qualities  or  associations,  by  means  of 
wuich  they  interest  us,  generally  depend  upon 
that  knowledge.  The  mixture  of  colours  and 
shades,  however,  is  necessary  to  this  enjoy- 
ment, and  consequently  is  a  sign  of  it,  and  a 
source  of  associated  interest  or  beauty. 

Mr.  Kni^t,  however,  goes  much  farther 
than  tins;  and  maintains,  that  the  beauty 
which  is  so  distinctly  felt  in  many  pictures  of 
objects  in  themselves  disagreeable^  is  to  be 
ascribed  entirely  to  the  effect  of  the  brilliant 
and  harmonious  tints,  and  the  masses  of  light 
and  shadow  that  may  be  employed  in  the  re- 
presentation. The  filthy  and  tattered  rags  of 
a  beggar,  he  observes,  and  the  putrifying  con- 
iftuts  of  a  dunghill,  may  form  beautiful  objects 


in  a  picture;    because,  considered  as  miie 
objects  of  sight,  they  may  often  present  beau- 
tiful effects  of  colouring  and  shadow;  and 
these  are  preserved  or  heightened  in  the  imi- 
tation, disjointed  from  all  their  offensive  ac- 
companiments.    Now,  if  the  tints  and  shades 
were  the  exclusive  sources  of  our  gratificatioD, 
"aildTf  this  gratification  was  diminished,  in 
stead  of  being  heightened,  by  the  suggestion 
which,  however  transiently,  must  still  intrude 
itself,  that  they  appeared  in  an  imitation  of 
disgusting  objects,  it  must  certainly  follow, 
that  the  pleasure  and  the  beauty  would  be 
much  enhanced  if  there  was  no  imitation  qf\ 
any  thing  whatever,  and  if  the  canvas  merely^   y 
presented  the  tints  and  shades,  unaccompa-/^ 
nied  with  the  representation  of  any  particular 
object.    It  is  perfectly  obvious,  however,  thaf"] 
it  would  be  absurd  to  call  such  a  collection  of  / 
coloured  spots'a 'beautiful  picture ;  and  that  a-  V 
man  would  be  laughed  at  who  should  hang   \ 
up  such  a  piece  of  stained  canvas  among  the 
works  of  the  great  artists.     Again,  if  it  wei8=^ 
really  possible  for  any  one,  but  a  student  of   - 
art,  to  confme  the  attention  to  the  mere  co- 
louring and  shadowing  of  any  picture,  there 
is  nothing  so  disgusting  but  what  might  form 
the  subject  of  a  beautiful  imitation.     A  piece 
of  putrid  veal,  or  a  cancerous  ulcer,  or  the 
rags  that  are  taken  from  it,  may  display  the 
most  brilliant  tints,  and  the  finest  distribution 
of  light  and  shadow.     Does  Mr.  Knight,  how- 
ever, seriously  think,  that  either  of  these  ex- 
periments would  succeed  ?     Or  are  there,  in 
reality,  no  other  qualities  in  the  pictures  in 
question,  to  which  their  beauty  can  be  as- 
cribed, but  the  organic  effect  of  their  colours  1 
We  humbly  conceive  that  there  are ;  and  that 
far  less  ingenuity  than  his  might  have  been 
able  to  detect  them. 

There  is,  in  the  first  place,  the  pleasing  as- 
sociation of  the  skill  and  power  of  the  artist 
— a  skill  and  power  which  we  know  may  be 
employed  to  produce  unmingled  delight; 
whatever  may  be  the  character  of  the  parti- 
cular effort  before  us :  and  with  the  pride  of 
whose  possessors  we  sympathise.  But,  in  the 
second  place,  we  do  humbly  conceive  that 
there  are  many  interesting  associations  con- 
nected with  the  subjects  which  have  been  re- 
presented as  purely  disgiisting.  The  aspect 
of  human  wretchedness  and  decay  is  not,  at 
all  events,  an  indifferent  spectacle;  and,  if 
presented  to  us  without  actual  offence  to  our 
senses,  or  any  call  on  our  active  beneficence,  j 
may  excite  a  sjinpathetic  emotion,  which  is  | 
known  to  be  far  from  undelightful.  Many  an 
attractive  poem  has  been  written  on  the  mise 
ries  of  beggurs ;  and  why  should  painting  be 
supposed  more  fastidious'?  Besides,  it  will 
be  observed,  that  the  beggars  of  the'  painter 
are  generally  among  the  most  interesting  of 
that  interesting  order ; — either  young  and 
lovely  children,  whose  health  and  gxiiety,  and 
sweet  expression,  fonn  an  affecting  contrast 
with  their  squalid  garments,  and  the  neglect 
and  misery  to  which  they  seem  to  be  destini 
ed — or  old  and  venerable  persons,  mingling 
something  of  the  dignity  and  reverence  of  age 
with  the  broken  spirit  of  their  condition,  anci 


ALISON  ON  TASTE. 


r  neeming  to  reproach  mankind  for  exposing 
\  Heads  so  old  and  white  to  the  pelting  of  the 
j  pitiless  storm.  vVhile  such  pictures  suggest 
\  images  so  pathetic,  it  looks  almost  like  a  wil- 
ful perversity,  to  ascribe  their  beauty  entirely 
o  the  mixture  of  colours  which  they  display, 
aud  to  the  forgetfulness  of  these  images. 
Even  for  the  dunghill,  we  think  it  is  possible 
to  say  something, — though,  we  confess,  we 
have  never  happened  to  see  any  picture,  of 
which  that  useful  compound  fonned  the  pe- 
culiar subject.  There  is  the  display  of  the 
painter's  art  and  power  here  also ;  and  the 
dunghill  is  not  only  useful,  but  is  associated 
with  many  pleasing  images  of  rustic  toil  and 
occupation,  and  of  the  simplicity,  and  comfort, 
"  and  innocence  of  agricultural  life.  We  do  not 
know  that  a  dunghill  is  at  all  a  disagreeable 
object  to  look  at,  even  in  plain  reality — pro- 
vided it  be  so  far  off  as  not  to  annoy  us  with 
its  odour,  or  to  soil  us  with  its  effusions.  In 
a  picture,  however,  we  are  safe  from,  any  of 
these  disasters-  and,  considering  that  it  is 
usually  combined,  in  such  delineations,  with 
other  more  pleasing  and  touching  remem- 
ibrancers  of  humble  happiness  and  content- 
ment, we  really  do  not  see  that  it  was  at  all 
necessary  to  impute  any  mysterious  or  intrin- 
sic beauty  to  its  complexion,  in  order  to  ac- 
count for  the  satisfaction  with  which  we  can 
then  bear  to  behold  it. 

HaX'ing^id  so  much  with  a  view  to  reduce 
to  its  just  value,  as  an  ingredient  of  beauty, 
the  mere  organical  delight  which  the  eye 
is  supposed  to  derive  from  colours,  we  really 
have  not  patience  to  apply  the  same  consider- 
ations to  the  alleged  beauty  o^Sounds  that  are 
supposed  to  be  insignificant.  Beautilul  sounds, 
in  general,  we  think,  are  beautiful  from  as- 
sociation only, — from  their  resembling  the 
natural  tones  of  various  passions  and  affec- 
tions,— or  from  their  being  originally  and  most 
equently  presented  to  us  in  scenes  or  on 
icasions  of  natural  interest  or  emotion.  With 
regard,  ag-ain,  to  successive  or  coexistent 
sounds,  we  do  not,  of  course,  mean  to  dispute, 
that  there  are  such  things  as  melody  and  har- 
mony; and  that  most  men  are  offended  or 
gratified  by  the  violation  or  observance  of 
those  laws  upon  which  they  depend.  This, 
however,  it  should  be  observed,  is  a  faculty 
quite  unique,  and  unlike  anything  else  ia  our. 
constitution;  by  no  means  universal,  as  the 
sense  of  beauty  is,  even  in  cultivated  societies; 
and  apparently  withheld  from  whole  commu- 
nities of  quick-eared  savages  and  barbarians. 
Whether  the  kind  of  gratification,  which  re- 
suAi  from  the  mere  musical  arrangement  of 
sounds,  would  be  felt  to  be  beautiful,  or  would 
pass  under  that  name,  if  it  could  be  presented 
entirely  detached  from  any  associated,  emo- 
tions, appears  to  us  to  be  exceedingly  doubtful. 
Even  with  the  benefit  of  such  combinations, 
we  do  not  fijid,  that  every  arrangement  which 
merely  preserves  inviolate  the  rules  of  com- 
position, is  considered  as  beautiful ;  and  we 
do  not  think  that  it  would  be  consonant,  either 
with  the  common  feeling  or  common  language 
of  mankind,  to  bestow  this  epithet  upon  pieces 
jithat  had  no  other  merit.     At  all  events,  and 


whatever  may  be  thought  of  tr:e  proj:  er  i  pme 
of  this  singular  gratification,  of  a  musical  ear^ 
it  seems  to  be  quite  certain,  that  all  that  rises 
to  the  dignity  of  an  emotion  in  the  pleasure  we 
receive  from  sounds,  is  as  clearly  the  gift  of 
association,  as  in  the  case  of  visible  beauty,- 
of  association  with  the  passionate  tones  and 
modulations  of  the  human  voice, — with  the 
scenes  to  which  the  interesting  sounds  are 
native, — with  the  poetry  to  which  they  have 
been  married, — or  even  with  the  skill  and 
genius  of  the  artist  by  whom  they  have  been 
arranged.  ' 

Hitherto  we  have  spoken  of  the  beauty  of 
external  objects  only.  But  the  whole  diffi- 
culty^oT  fhe  theory  consists  in  its  application 
to  them.  If  that  be  once  adjusted,  the  beauty 
of  immaterial  objects  can  occasion  no  per-, 
pIexi"ty.'Tl*oems"and  other  compositions  in 
words,  are  beautiful  in  proportion  as  they  are 
conversant  with  beautiful  objects — or  as  they 
suggest  to  us,  in  a  more  direct  way,  the  moral 
and  social  emotions  on  which  the  beauty  of^ 
all  objects  depends.  Theorems  and  demoi> 
strations  again  are  beautiful,  according  as  they 
excite  in  us  emotions  or'admiration  for  the 
genius  and  intellectual  power  of  their  invent- 
ors, and  images  of  the  magnificent  and  bene- 
ficial ends  to  which  such  discoveries  may  be 
applied  ; — and  me chan ic al  cout riyances-are 
Beautiful  when^  they  jemmS"  us  of  similar 
talents  an crlna eniiU^j^aiid  at  the  same  time 
.impjL^ess, :US_w]jtE .a  more  ctirect  sense  of  theii 
Xas^jitiil^.iQ.J3a?Uilviij^l,  and  of  the'great^acP"" 
ditional  conveniences  with  which  life  is  con- 


cases,  therefore. 


sequently  adorned.     In  all 
there  is  the  ,^,y^gestiorroT 


some  mterestmg 

conception  or  emotion  assomted  with  a  pre- 
senT" perception,  in  which  |  it  is  apparently 
conftiutided  and  embodied— and  this,  accord- 
mglotne  whole  of  llu^  preceding  deduction, 
is^the  distiiigui?hing  eharacteristic  of  beauty. 
"'"Haviim-  now  e.\])lained,  as  fully  as  we  think 
necessary,  ihe  grounds  of  that  opinion  as  to 
the  nature  of  beauty  which  appears  to  be  most 
conformable  to  the  truth — Me  have  only  to 
add  a  word  or  two  as  to  the  necessary  conse- 
quences of  its  adoption  upon  several  other 
controversies  of  a  kindred  description. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  we  conceive  tliat  it 
establishes  the  substantial  identity  of  the 
'Sublime;  the  Bean tifnl,  and  the  I'icturesque; 
and,  consequeritly,  puts  an  end  to  all  contro- 
versy that  is  not'  purely  verbal,  as  to  the  dif- 
ference of  those  several  qualities.  -  Every 
material  object  that  interests  us,  without  ac- 
tually hurting  or  gratifying  our  bodily  feelings, 
must?  do  so,  according  to  this  theory,  in  one 
and  the  same  manner, — that  is,  by  suggesting 
or  recalling  some  emotion  or  affection  of  our- 
selves, or  some  other  sentient  being,  and  pre- 
senting, to  our  imagination  at  least,  some 
natural  object  of  love,  pity,  admiration,  or  awe. 
The  interest  of  material  objects,  therefore,  is 
always  the  same;  and  arises,  in  every  case, 
not  from  any  physical  qualities  they  may 
possess,  but  from  their  association  with  some 
idea  of  emot^on^  But,  though  miaterial  objects 
have  but  one'iheans  of  exciting  emotion,  the 
emotions  they  do  excite  are  infinite.     They 


S8 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


are  mirrors  that  may  reflect  all  shades  and  all 
colours  J  and,  in  point  of  fact,  do  seldom  reflect 
ihe  same  hues  twice.  No  two  interesting 
objects,  perhaps,  whether  known  by  the  name 
of  Beautiful,  Sublime,  or  Picturesque,  ever 
produced  exactly  the  same  emotion  in  the 
oeholder :  and  no  one  object,  it  is  most  pro- 
bable, ever  moved  any  two  persons  to  the 
very  same  conceptions.  As  they  may  be  as- 
sociated with  all  the  feelings  and  affections 
of  which  the  human  mind  is  susceptible,  so 
they  may  suggest  those  feelings  in  all  their 
variety,  and,  in  fact,  do  daily  excite  all  sorts 
of  emotions — running  through  every  gradation, 
from  extreme  gaiety  and  elevation,  to  the 
borders  of  horror  and  disgust. 

Now,  it  is  certainly  true,  that  all  the  variety 
of  emotions  raised  in  this  way,  on  the  single 
basis  of  association,  may  be  classed,  in  a  rude 
way,  under  the  denominations  of  sublime, 
beautiful;  and  picturesque,  according  as  they 
partake  of  awe,  tenderness,  or  admiration: 
and  we  have  no  other  objection  to  this  aomen- 
clature,  except  its  extreme  imperfection,  and 
the  delusions  to  w^hich  w'e  know  that  it  has 
given  occasion.  If  objects  that  interest  by 
their  association  with  ideas  of  power,  and 
danger,  and  terror,  are  to  be  distingTiished  by 
the  peculiar  name  of  sublime,  why  should 
there  not  be  a  separate  name  also  for  objects 
that  interest  by  associations  of  mirth  and 
gaiety — another  for  those  that  please  by  sug- 
gestions of  softness  and  melancholy — another 
for  such  as  are  connected  with  impressions 
of  comfort  and  tranquillity — and  another  for 
those  that  are  related  to  pity,  and  admiration, 
and  love,  and  regret,  and  all  the  other  distinct 
emotions  and  affections  of  our  nature  1  These 
are  not  in  reality  less  distinguishable  from 
each  other,  than  from  the  emotions  of  awe 
and  veneration  that  confer  the  title  of  sublime 
on  their  representatives;  and  while  all  the 
former  are  confounded  under  the  comprehen- 
sive appellation  of  beauty,  this  partial  attempt 
at  distinction  is  only  apt  to  mislead  us  into  an 
erroneous  opinion  of  cur  accuracy,  and  to 
make  us  believe,  both  that  there  is  a  greater 
conformity  among  the  things  that  pass  under 
the  same  name,  and  a  greater  difference  be- 
tween those  that  pass  under  different  names, 
than  is  really  the  case.  We  have  seen  already, 
that  the  radical  error  of  almost  all  preceding 
inquirers,  has  lain  in  supposing  that  every 
■fthing  that  passed  iinder  the  name  of  beautiful, 
Bpist  have  some  real  and  inherent  quality  in 
common  with  every  thing  else  that  obtained 
that  name :  And  it  is  scarcely  necessary  for 
us  to  observe,  that  it  has  been  almost  as  gene- 
ral an  opinion,  that  sublimity  was  not  only 
something  radically  different  from  beauty, 
but  actually  opposite  to  it ;  whereas  the  fact 
is,  that  it  is  far  more  nearly  related  to  some 
sorts  of  beauty,  than  many  sorts  of  beauty  are 
to  eachqlhex^  and  that  both  are  founded  ex- 
actly upon  the  same  principle  of  suggesting 
some  past  or  possible  emotion  of  some  sentient 
being. 

Upon  this  important  point,  we  are  happy  to 
find  our  opimons  confirmed  by  the  authority 
of  Mr    Stewart,  who,  in  hia  Essay  on   the 


Beautiful,  already  referred  to.  has  ODservetii 
not  only  that  there  appears  to  him  to  be  n« 
inconsistency  or  impropriety  in  such  expres« 
sions  as  the  sublime  beauties  of  nature,  or  of 
the  sacred  Scriptures; — but  has  added,  in  ex- 
press terms,  that,  "to  oppose  the  beautiful  to 
the  sublime,  or  to  the  picturesque,  strikes  him 
as  something  analogous  to  a  contrast  between 
the  beautiful  and  the  comic — the  beautiful 
and  the  tragic — the  beautiful  and  the  pathetic 
— or  the  beautiful  and  the  romantic." 

The  only  other  advantage  which  we  shall 
specify  as  likely  to  result  from  the  general 
adoption  of  the  theory  we  have  been  endea- 
vouring to  illustrate  is,  that  it  seems  calcu- 
lated to  put  an  end  to  all  these  perplexing 
and  vexatious  questions  about  the  standard    i 
of  tas^  which  have  given  occasion  to   so 
rilttcSt  impertinent  and  so  much  elaborate  dis-_ 
cussion .     If  things  are  not  beautiful  in  thejij-^' 
gglves,  but  only^s  tKey  serve  to  suggest  in-' 
terestiiig  conceptions  to  fhe  mind,  then  everyf 
JKing~wKicK  does  in  point  of  fact  suggE'SfFOcli— 
a  conceptionTto  any  individual,  is  beautiful  to    / 
"that  individual;  and  it  is  not  only  quite  true^. 
Ihat"  there  is  no  loom  for  disputing  about; 
tastes,  but  that  all  tastes  are  equally  just  and' 
^correct,  in  so  far  as  each  individual  speaks  _ 
onlv"  of  Ills  own  emotions.    _}yhen  a  man  calls 
,^Tmiig'l)eautiful,  however,  lie  may  indeed 
^mean'to  make  two  very  different  assertions  5 
— he  may  mean  that  it  gives  him  pleasure  by 
suggestnTo"t6"1iim  some  interesting  emotion  J 
and,  in  this  sense,  there  can  be  no  doubt  thai] 
if  he  merely  speak  truth,  the  thing  is  beauti* 
Jul;  and  that  it  pleases  him  precisely  in  the 
l^afne  way  that  all  other  things  please  those 
to  whom  they  appear  beautiful.     But_i£,tLP.^ 
meanjarther  to  say  that  the  thing  possesses 
some  quarity  which  should  make  it  appear 
_Beautinil  to  every  other  person,  and  that  it  is 
owing  to  some  prejudice  or  defect  in  them  if^ 
it  appear  otherwise,  thr     '      '  -lia- 

ble and  absurd  as  he  a  ho 


^+<,.,..v.^  to  convjuit.,^  iimx  i-iicit  xic  ^eU" 

no  .^^^.^.  .-—^.. •-,,--..-,--■ 

■.iva  equally  just  and  true. 
In  the  individual  whose 

tas^      -  ^^  _^     7  and  what  a  man  feels 

di^iiiTctTy  to  be  beautiful,  is  beautiful  to  him, 
whatever  other  people  may  think  of  it.     All 
this  follows  clearly  from  the  theory  now  in 
question :  but  it  does  riot  follow,  from  it,  tha.JL 
all  tastes  are  gtjlJAljri^tJCPdr  or  desirable,  ot 
that,  there  is  any  ct^MuIty  in  describing  that 
which  is  really  the  bpst,  and  the  most  to  be    a 
eavied.     The  only  u^  of  the  faculty  of  taste  ^   * 
is  to  afford  an  innoceiit  delight,  ana  to  assist   '^ 
in  the  cultivatioji  of  ai  finer  morality ;  and  tha^  "_ 
man  certainly  will  hq|,ve  the  most  delight  from 
this  faculty,  who  ha$  the  most  numerous  and 
the  mtiki  4JQ^:£j;ful.j  perceptions  of  ieauty. 
But,ifbeauty  consist  in  the  reflection  of  our~^ 
affedions  and  sympathies,  it  is  plain  that  hs    I 
will  always  see  the  most  beauty  whose  aflec-,  | 
tions  are  the' warmest  and  most  exercised-^ —  f 
whose  imagination  is  the  most  powerful,  and, 
who  has  most  accusloiiied  himself  to  attend  to  ; 
the  objects  by  which  he  is  surrounded.     In  so 
far  as  mere  feeling^iand  en  joy  it -^nt  are  con- 


ALISON  ON  TASTE. 


38 


cerned,  therefore,  it  seems  evident,  that  the 
best  taste  must  be  that  M-hich  beloiigs  to'tn? 

'_^iiLi2£ctrQaa,  the  most  active  fancjiand  the 

'most  attentive  habits  of  oBse rva.tl6 j Ha  "It  wJl  1 
follow  pretty  exactly*tr>t>. ^tM^jMIIPffilTl'^s  per- 
p^tions  of  beauty  will  be  noaiTy  in  prop'ortloh 

_ to  the  degree  of  their  sensibility  and  social 
8j-mptithie§.j  and  that  those  \y ho  have  no  af- 

"Jfections  towards  sentient  T^eTngs/will  be  iis' 
certainly  insensible  to  b(?auty  in  external  ob- 
jects^ as  he,  Avho  cannof  hear  the  sound  of 
nTsniend's  voice,  must  be  deaf  to  its  echo. 

Jii^so  far  asjlig^s,en§e  of  beauty  is  reg-arded 
as  a  mere'source  of  enjoyment,  this  seems  to 
be~pie_". only  distinction  that  deserves  to  be 
attended  to;   and   the  only  cultivation  that 

iastesho"ald_ever  receive,  with  a  view  to  the 
gratTfication    oF  the    individnal,    should    be 

■4h"rotr2lr"tlie  indirect  channel  of  cultivating 
the  alTections  and  powers  of  observation^  If 
vv£Jl^iiix<i>  hp>Ye_ver,.  to  be  crcalors.  as  well  as 
observers  of  beautyj  and  place  any  part  of 
our  happiness  in  ministering  to  the  gratifica- 
tion of  others — as  artists,  or  poets,  or  authors 

"oTIany  soTt— ^fhjen,  indeed,  a  new  distinction 
of  la^teis,  aiut  a  far  more  laborious  system  of 
.cultivation^  will  be  necessary.  ^A  man  who 
mirsues  only  his  own  delight,  will  belislnuch 
charmed  with  objects  that  suggest  powerful 
emotions  In  consequence  of  personal  and  ac- 
cTiTehtal  associations,  as  with  those  that  Intro- j, 
duce  similar  emotions  by  means  of  associa-l 
tions  that  are  universal  and  indestructible.' 
ToTiTm;;  all  oggcts  of  the  former  cla.ssCM 
xeSllylas  beautiful  as  those  of  the  ,lgat,§r — and 
for  his  own  gratification,  the  creation  of  that 
sort  of  beauty  is  just  as  important  an  occupa- 
tion.:ffaj^u  he  conceive  tlie  ambition  of  cre- 

(l^'ng^beauTies  for  the  admiration  of  othea^Jia- 

J^^jTsTbe"  cautious  to  employ  only  such  objects 
as,  are  the  natural  signs,  or  the  inseparable 
coiicomltants  of  emotloiis.^of  which  the  greater 
t   of  mankind  are   susceptible,;- .and.  his 
-I e  "will  then  deserve  ip  be  called  bad  and 
false,  if  he  obtrude  upon  the  public,  as  beau- 
TifuT,  objects  that  are  noFlikely  to  be  associa- 
^  in  -common'  minds  with  any  interesting 
,,)ressIons.      j  ""V^^^^^ 

For  a  mafl  llftnself,  then,  there  is  no  taste 
that  is  either  bad  or  false ;  and  the  only  dif- 
ference worthy  of  being  attended  to,  is  that 
between  a  great  deal  and  a  very  little.  Some 
who  have  cold  affections,  sluggish  imagina- 
tions, and  no  habits  of  observation,  can  with" 
difficulty  discern  beauty  in  any  thing;  while 
others,  who  are  full  of  kindness  and  sensi- 
bility, and  who  have  been  accustomed  to  at- 
tend to  all  the  objects  around  them,  feel  it 
almost  in  every  thing.  It  is  no  matter  what 
other  people  ma^y  think  of  the  objects  of  their 
iidraii-ation ;  nor  ought  it  t^  be  any  concern 


of  theirs  that  the  public  would  be  astonished 
or  offended,  if  they  were  called  upon  to  join 
in  that  admiration.  So  long  as  no  such  call 
is  made,  this  anticipated  discrepancy  of  feel- 
ing need  give  them  no  uneasiness;  and  the 
suspicion  of  it  should  produce  no  contempt  in 
any  other  persons.  It  is  a  strange  aberraticn 
indeed  of  vanity  that  makes  us  despise  per- 
sons for  being  happy — for  having  sources  of 
enjoyment  in  which  we  cannot  share : — and 
yet  this  is  the  true  source  of  the  ridicule, 
which  is  so  generally  poured  upon  individuals 
who  seek  only  to  enjoy  their  peculiar  tastes 
unmolested  : — for,  if  there  be  any  truth  in  the 
theory  we  Jiave  been  expounding,  no  taste  is 
bad  lor  any  other  reason  than  because  it  is  * 
peculiar — as  the  objects  in  which  it  delights 
must'  actually  serve  to  suggest  to  the  indi- 
vidual those  common  emotions  and  universal 
affections  upon  which  the  sense  of  beauty  is 
every  where  founded.  The  misfortune  is, 
however,  that  we  are  apt  to  consitler  all  per- 
sons who  make  known  their  peculiar  relishes, 
and  especially  all  who  create  any  objects  for 
their  gratification,  as  in  some  measure  dic- 
tating to  the  public,  and  setting  up  an  idol  for 
general  adoration;  and  hence  this  intolerant 
interference  with  almost  all  peculiar  percep- 
tions of  beauty,  and  the  unsparing  derision 
that  pursues  all  deviations  from  acknowledged 
stantlards.  This  Intolerance,  we  admit,  is  olten 
provoked  by  something  of  a  spirit  oi  proselyt- 
ism  antl  arrogance,  in  those  who  mistake  their 
own  casual  associations  for  natural  or  univer- 
sal relations ;  and  the  consequence  is,  that 
mortified  vanity  ultimately  dries  up,  even  lor 
them,  the  fountain  of  their  peculiar  enjoy- 
ment ;  and  disenchants,  by  a  new  association 
of  general  contempt  or  ridicule,  the  scenes 
that  had  been  consecrated  l)y  some  innocent 
but  accidental  emotion. 

As  alljmerKjnust  have  some  peculiar  asso- 
ciations^; all  n^ii  must  have  some  peculiar 
notlons.^f  beau tV>^ and,  of  course,  to  a  certain 
exteiijf  a  taste  tha\the  public  would  be  en- 
titles to  consider  as  false  or  vitiated.  For 
tjidse  who  make  Jio  demands  on  public  aJmi- 
ratlon,  however,  it  is  hard  to  be  obliged  to 
sacrifiae  this  sourd^  of  enjoyin.Q4t,;„ajid,..eYeii-- 
for  tliose  who  labour  for  applause,  the  wisest 
course,  peiiiaps,  if  it  were  only  practicable, 
woukl  be.  to  have  fya  tastes — one  to  enjojcy 
and  one  to  work  by-Voi^^"  iuilllUUtll' »^jwif  "Wfi*'" 
vyryul  U'^I^WVab'orisTTic.cordlng  which  they 
fiiilshetl  those  performances  for  which  they 
challengeduniversal  praise-^and  another  guid- 
ed by  all  casual  and  Individual  associations, 
through  which  they  migKt  still  look  fondh 
upon  "nature,  andjupoii^tM.  objects  of  theii 
secret  admiratigiii^.'*^.^  "  '" 


40 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


{IXavtmbtY,  1812.) 


De  la  Litterature  consideree  dans  ses  Rapports  avec  les  Institutions  Sociales.  Par  Mad.  jjk 
Stael-Holstein.  Avec  uii  Precis  de  la  Vie  et  les  Ecrits  de  I'Auteur.  2  tomes.  12m(j. 
pp.  600.     London:  1812.* 


When  we  say  that  Madame  de  Stael  is  de- 
cidedlj^  the  most  eminent  literary  female  of 
ner  age,  we  do  not  mean  to  deny  that  there 
may  be  others  whose  writings  are  of  more  di- 
rect and  indisputable  utility — who  are  distin- 
guished by  greater  justness  and  sobriety  of 
thinking,  and  may  pretend  to  have  conferred 
more  practical  benefits  on  the  existing  genera- 
tion. But  it  is  impossible,  we  think,  to  deny, 
that  c-he  has  pursued  a  more  lofty  as  well  as 
a  mo'.e  dangerous  career ; — that  she  has  treat- 
ed of  subjects  of  far  greater  difficulty,  and  fat- 
more  extensive  interest;  and,  even  in  her 
failures,  has  frequently  given  indication  of 
greater  powers,  than  have  sufficed  for  the 
success  of  her  more  prudent  contemporaries. 

While  other  female  writers  have  contented 
themselves,  for  the  most  part,  with  embel- 
lishing or  explaining  the  truths  which  the 
more  robust  intellect  of  the  other  sex  had 
previously  established — in  making  knowledge 
more  familiar,  or  virtue  more  engaging — or, 
at  most,  in  multiplying  the  finer  distinctions 
which  may  be  detected  about  the  boundaries 
of  taste  or  of  morality — and  in  illustrating  the 
importance  of  the  minor  virtues  to  the  general 
happiness  of  life — this  distinguished  person 
has  not  only  aimed  at  extending  the  bounda- 
ries of  knowledge,  and  rectifying  the  errors  of 
received  opinions  upon  subjects  of  the  greatest 
importance,  but  has  vigorously  applied  her- 
self to  trace  out  the  operation  of  general 
causes,  and,  by  combining  the  past  with  the 
present,  and  pointing  out  the  connection  and 
reciprocal  action  of  all  coexistent  phenomena, 
to  develope  the  harmonious  system  which  ac- 
tually prevails  in  the  apparent  chaos  of  human 
affairs ;  and  to  gain  something  like  an  assur- 
ance as  to  the  complexion  of  that  futurity  to- 
wards which  our  thoughts  are  so  anxiously 
driven,  by  the  selfish  as  well  as  the  generous 
principles  of  our  nature. 

We  are  not  acquainted,  indeed,  with  any 
■vniter  who  has  made  such  bold  and  vigorous 
attempts  to  carry  the  generalizing  spirit  of 
tiTie  philosophy  into  the  history  of  literature 


*  I  reprint  this  paper  as  conlaininp:  a  more  com- 
prehensive view  of  the  progress  of  Literature,  es- 
pecially in  the  ancient  v^'orld,  than  any  other  from 
which  I  could  make  the  selection ;  and  also,  in 
Bome  degree,  for  the  sake  of  the  general  discii^ssion 
on  Perfectibility,  which  I  still  think  saiisfactonly 
conducted.  I  regret  that,  in  the  body  of  the  article, 
:ne  portions  that  are  taken  from  Madame  de  Stael 
are  not  better  discriminated  from  those  for  which  I 
only  am  responsible.  The  reader,  however,  will 
not  go  far  wrong,  if  he  attribute  to  that  distinguished 
person  the  greater  part  of  what  may  strike  him  as 
bold,  imaginative,  and  original;  and  leave  to  me 
the  humbler  province  of  the  sober,  corrective,  and 
lUstrustfuI. 


I  and  maimers ;  or  who  has  thrown  so  strong  a 
I  light  upon  the  capricious  and  apparently  un- 
;  accountable  diversities  of  national  taste,  ge- 
nius, and  morality — by  connecting  them  with 
I  the  political  structure  of  society,  the  accidents 
of  climate  and  external  relation,  and  the  va 
riety  of  creeds  and  superstitions.  In  her  lighte; 
works,  this  spirit  is  indicated  chiefly  by  the 
force  and  comprehensiveness  of  those  general 
observations  with  which  they  abound;  and 
which  strike  at  once,  by  their  justness  and 
novelty,  and  by  the  great  extent  of  their  ap- 
plication. They  prove  also  in  how  remark- 
able a  degree  she  possesses  the  rare  talent 
gf  embodying  in  one  luminous  proposition 
those  sentiments  and  impressions  which  float 
unquestioned  and  undefined  over  many  an 
understanding,  and  give  a  colour  to  the  cha- 
racter, and  a  bias  to  the  conduct,  of  multitudes, 
who  are  not  so  much  as  aware  of  their  exist- 
ence. Besides  all  this,  her  novels  bear 
testimony  to  the  extraordinary  accuracy  and 
miimteness  of  her  observation  of  human  cha- 
racter, and  to  her  thorough  knowledge  of 
those  dark  and  secret  workings  of  the  heart, 
by  w^hich  misery  is  so  often  elaborated  from 
the  pure  element  of  the  affections.  Her 
knowledge,  however,  we  must  say,  seems  to 
be  more  of  evil  than  of  good :  For  the  pre- 
dominating sentiment  in  her  fictions  is,  despair 
of  human  happiness  and  human  virtue ;  and 
their  interest  is  founded  almost  entirely  on 
the  inherent  and  almost  inevitable  heartless- 
ness  of  polished  man.  The  impression  which 
they  leave  upon  the  mind,  therefore,  though 
powerfully  pathetic,  is  both  painful  and  hu- 
miliating ;  at  the  same  time  that  it  proceeds, 
we  are  inclined  to  believe,  upon  the  double 
error  of  supposing  that  the  bulk  of  intelligent 
people  are  as  selfish  as  those  splendid  victims 
of  fashion  and  philosophy  from  whom  her  cha- 
racters are  selected ;  and  that  a  sensibility  to 
unkindness  can  long  survive  the  extinction 
of  all  kindly  emotions.  The  work  before 
us,  however,  exhibits  the  fairest  specimen 
which  we  have  yet  seen  of  the  systematizing 
spirit  of  the  author,  as  -well  as  of  the  moral 
enthusiasm  by  which  she  seems  to  be  pos- 
sessed. 

The  professed  object  of  this  work  is  to  show 
that  all  the  peculiarities  in  the  literature  of 
different  ages  and  countries,  may  be  explained 
by  a  reference  to  the  condition  of  society,  and 
the  political  and  religious  institutions  of  each; 
— and  at  the  same  time,  to  point  out  in  what 
way  the  progress  of  letters  has  in  its  turn 
moclined  and  affected  the  government  and 
religion  of  those  nations  among  whom  they 
have  flourished.  All  this,  however,  is  bot- 
tomed upon  the  more  fimdamental  and  fa- 


MADAME  DE  STAEL  HOLSTEIN. 


41 


Tourite  proposition,  that  there  is  a  progress,  to 
produce  these  elfects — that  letters  ana  intelli- 
gence are  in  a  state  of  constant,  universal,  and 
irresistible  advancement — in  other  ^vords,  that 
human  nature  is  tending,  by  a  slow  and  inter- 
minable progression,  to  a  state  of  perfection. 
This  fascinating  idea  seems  to  have  been  kept 
constantly  in  view  by  Madame  de  Stael,  from 
the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the  work  before 
us ; — and  though  \ye  conciiive  it  to  have  been 
pursued  with  far  too  sanguine  and  assured  a 
spirit,  and  to  have  led  in  this  way  to  most  of 
what  is  rash  and  questionable  in  her  conchi- 
sions,  it  is  impossible  to  doubt  that  it  has  also 
helped  her  to  many  explanations  that  are 
equally  solid  and  ingenious,  and  thrown  a 
light  upon  many  phenomena  that  would  other- 
wise have  appeared  very  dark  and  unac- 
countable. 

In  the  range  which  she  here  takes,  indeed, 
she  has  need  of  all  the  lights  and  all  the  aids 
that  can  present  themselves ; — for  her  work 
contains  a  critique  and  a  theory  of  all  the 
literature  and  philosophy  in  the  world,  from 
the  days  of  Homer  to  the  tenth  year  of  the 
French  revolution.   She  begins  with  the  early 
learning  and  philosophy  of  Greece ;  and  after 
characterizing  the  national  taste  and  genius 
of  that  illustrious  people,  in  all  its  depart- 
ments, and  in  the  different  stages  of  their 
progress,  she  proceeds  to  a  similar  investi- 
gation of  the  literature  and  science  of  the 
Romans ;  and  then,  after  a  hasty  sketch  of 
the  declme  of  arts  and  letters  in  the  later 
days  of  the  empire,  and  of  the  actual  progress 
of  the  human  mind  during  the  dark  ages, 
when  it  is  supposed  to  have  slumbered  in 
complete  inactivity,  she  enters  upon  a  more 
detailed  examination  of  the  peculiarities,  and 
the  causes  of  the  peculiarities,  of  all  the  dif- 
ferent aspects  of  national  taste  and  genius  that 
characterize   the   literature   of   Italy,    Spain, 
England,  Germany,  and  France — entering,  as 
to  each,  into  a  pretty  minute  exposition  of  its 
general  merits  and  defects — and  not  only  of 
the  circumstances  in  the  situation  of  the  coun- 
try that  have  produced  those  characteristics, 
but  even  of  the  authors  and  productions,  in 
which  they  are  chiefly  exemplified.     To  go 
through  all  this  with  tolerable  success,  and 
without  committing  any  very  gross  or  ridicu- 
lous blunders,  evidently  required,  in  the  first 
place,  a  greater  allowance  of  learning  than 
lias  often  fallen  to  the  lot  of  persons  of  the 
learned  gender,  who  lay  a  pretty  bold  claim 
to  distinction  upon  the  ground  of  their  learn- 
ing alone ;  and,  in  the  next  place,  an  extent 
of  general  knowledge,  and  a  power  and  com- 
prehensiveness of  thinking,  that  has  still  more 
rarely  been  the  ornament  of  great  scholars. 
Madame  de  Stael  may  be  surpassed,  perhaps, 
in  scholarship  (so  far  as  relates  to  accuracy  at 
least,  if  not  extent.)  by  some — and  in  sound 
philosophy  by  others.     But  there  are  few  in- 
deed who  can  boast  of  having  so  much  of 
both;  and  no  one,  so  far  as  we  know,  who 
has  applied  the  one  to  the  elucidation  of  the 
other  with  so  much  boldness  and   success. 
But  it  is  time  to  give  a  little  more  particular 
account  of  her  lucubrations. 


There  is  a  very  eloquent  and  higxi-toned 
Introduction,  illustrating,  in  a  general  way 
the  influence  of  literature  on  the  morals,  the 
glory,  the  freedom,  and  the  enjoyments  of  the 
people  among  whom  it  nourishes.  It  is  full 
of  brilliant  thoughts  and  profound  observa- 
tions; but  we  are  most  struck  with  those 
sentiments  of  mingled  triumph  and  mortifi- 
cation by  which  she  connects  these  magnifi- 
cent speculations  with  the  tumultuous  aspect 
of  the  times  in  which  they  were  nourished. 

"  Que  ne  puis-je  rappeler  tous  lesesprits  eclairea 
a  la  jouissance  des  meditations  philosophiques  !  Lea 
contempora-ins  d'une  Revolution  perdent  souvent 
tout  interet  a  la  recherche  de  la  verite.  Tant  d'eve- 
nemens  decides  par  la  force,  tant  de  crinics  absoua 
par  le  succes,  tant  de  vertus  fletrie.s  par  Ic  blamo, 
tant  d'infortunes  insultces  par  le  pouvoir,  tant  do 
sentimens  genereux  devenus  I'objet  de  lamoquerie, 
tant  de  vils  calculs  philosophiquement  commentes; 
tout  lasse  de  I'esperance  les  hommes  les  plus  fidelea 
au  culte  de  la  raison.  Neanmoins  ils  doivent  se 
ranimer  en  observant,  dans  i'histoire  de  I'esprit 
humain,  qu'il  n'a  existe  ni  une  pensee  utile,  ni  une 
verite  profonde  qui  n'ait  trouve  son  siecle  et  ses 
admirateurs.  C'est  sans  doute  un  triste  effort  que 
de  transporter  son  interet,  de  reposer  son  attente,  a 
travers  I'avenir,  sur  nos  successeurs,  sur  les  etran- 
^ers  bien  loin  de  nous,  sur  les  inconnus,  sur  tous 
les  hommes  enfin  dont  le  souvenir  et  I'image  ne 
peuvent  se  retracer  a  notre  esprit.  Mais,  helas  !  si 
Ton  en  excepte  quelques  amis  inalterables,  la  plu- 
part  de  ceux  qu'on  se  rappelle  aprts  dix  annees  de 
revolution,  contristent  votre  ccEur,  etouffent  vos 
mouvemens,  en  imposent  a  votre  talent  meme,  non 
par  leur  superiorite,  maispar  cette  malveillancequi 
ne  cause  de  la  douleur  qu'aux  ames  douces,  et  ne 
fait  souffrir  que  ceux  qui  ne  la  meritent  pas.' ' — Tom. 
i.  p.  27,  28. 

The  connection  between  good  morals  and 
that  improved  state  of  intelligence  which 
Madame  de  Stael  considers  as  synonymous 
with  the  cultivation  of  literature,  is  too  obvi- 
ous to  require  any  great  exertion  of  her  talents 
for  its  elucidation.  She  observes,  with  great 
truth,  that  much  of  the  guilt  and  the  misery 
which  are  vulgarly  imputed  to  great  talents, 
really  arise  from  not  having  talent  enough — 
and  that  the  only  certain  cure  for  the  errors 
which  are  produced  by  superficial  thinking, 
is  to  be  found  in  thinking  more  deeply: — At 
the  same  time  it  ought  not  to  be  forgotten, 
that  all  men  have  not  the  capacity  of  think- 
ing deeply — and  that  the  most  general  culti- 
vation of  literature  will  not  invest  every  one 
with  talents  of  the  first  order.  If  there  be  a 
degree  of  intelligence,  therefore,  that  is  more 
unfavourable  tolhe  interests  of  morality  and 
just  opinion,  than  an  utter  want  of  intelli- 
gence, it  may  be  presumed,  that,  in  very  en- 
lightened times,  this  will  be  the  portion  of 
the  greater  multitude — or  at  least  that  nations 
and  Individuals  will  have  to  pass  through  this 
troubled  and  dangerous  sphere,  in  their  way 
to  the  loftier  and  purer  regions  of  perfect  un- 
derstanding. The  better  answer  therefore 
.probably  is,  that  it  is  not  intelligence  that 
does  the  mischief  in  any  case  whatsoever, 
but  the  presumption  that  sometimes  accom- 
panies the  lower  degrees  of  it ;  and  which  is 
best  disjoined  from  them,  by  making  the 
higher  degrees  more  at;;ainable.  It  is  quite 
true,  as  Madame  de  S^si^l  observes,  that  the 


42 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


power  of  public  opinion,  which  is  the  only- 
sure  and  ultimate  guardian  either  of  freedom 
or  of  virtue,  is  greater  or  less  exactly  as  the 
public  is  more  or  less  enlightened ;  and  that 
this  public  can  never  be  trained  to  the  habit 
of  just  and  commanding  sentiments,  except 
under  the  influence  of  a  sound  and  progressive 
literature.  The  abuse  of  power,  and  the 
abuse  of  the  means  of  enjoyment,  are  the 
great  sources  of  misery  and  depravity  in  an 
advanced  stage  of  society.  Both  originate 
with  those  who  stand  on  the  highest  stages 
of  human  fortune  •  and  the  cure  is  to  be  found, 
in  both  cases,  only  in  the  enlightened  opinion 
of  those  who  stand  a  little  lower. 

Liberty,  it  will  not  be  disputed,  is  still 
more  clearly  dependent  on  intelligence  than 
morality  itself.  When  the  governors  are  ig- 
norant, they  are  naturally  tyrannical.  Force 
is  the  obvious  resource  of  those  who  are  inca- 
pable of  convincing ;  and  the  more  unworthy 
any  one  is  of  the  power  with  which  he  is  in- 
vested, the  more  rigorously  will  he  exercise 
that  power.  But  it  is  in  the  intelligence  of 
the  people  themselves  that  the  chief  bulwark 
of  their  freedom  will  be  found  to  consist,  and 
all  the  principles  of  political  amelioration  to 
originate.  This  is  true,  however,  as  Madame 
de  Stael  observes,  only  of  what  she  terms 
'Ha  haute  litterature  ;^ '  ov  the  general  cultiva- 
tion of  philosophy,  eloquence,  history,  and 
those  other  departments  of  learning  which 
refer  chiefly  to  the  heart  and  the  understand- 
ing, and  depend  upon  a  knowledge  of  human 
nature,  and  an  attentive  study  of  all  that 
contributes  to  its  actual  enjoyments.  What 
is  merely  for  delight,  again,  and  addresses 
itself  exclusively  to  the  imagination,  has 
neither  so  noble  a  genealogy,  nor  half  so 
illustrious  a  progeny.  Poetry  and  w^orks  of 
gaiety  and  amusement,  together  with  music 
and  the  sister  arts  of  painting  and  sculpture, 
have  a  much  slighter  connection  either  with 
virtue  or  with  freedom.  Though  among  their 
most  graceful  ornaments,  they  may  yet  flour- 
ish under  tyrants,  and  be  relished  in  the  midst 
of  the  greatest  and  most  debasing  corruption 
of  manners.  It  is  a  fine  and  a  just  remark 
too,  of  Madame  de  Stael,  that  the  pursuits 
which  minister  to  mere  delight,  and  give  to 
life  its  charm  and  voluptuousness,  generally 
produce  a  great  indiff'erence  about  dying. 
They  supersede  and  displace  all  the  stronger 
passions  and  affections,  by  which  alone  we 
are  bound  very  closely  to  existence ;  and, 
while  they  habituate  the  mind  to  transitory 
and  passive  impressions,  seem  naturally  con- 
nected with  those  images  of  indolence  and 
intoxication  and  slumber,  to  w^hich  the  idea 
of  death  is  so  readily  assimilated,  in  charac- 
ters of  this  description.  When  life,  in  short, 
is  considered  as  nothing  more  than  an  amuse- 
ment, its  termination  is  contemplated  with 
far  less  emotion,  and  its  course,  upon  the 
whole,  is  overshadowed  with  deeper  clouds 
of  ennui,  than  when  it  is  presented  as  a  scene 
of  high  duties  and  honourable  labours,  and 
holds  out  to  us  at  every  turn — not  the  perish- 
able pastimes  of  the  passing  hour,  but  the 
fixed  and  distant  objects  of  those  serious  and 


lofty  aims  which  connect  us  with  a  long 
futurity. 

The  introduction  ends  with  an  eloquent 
profession  of  the  author's  unshaken  faith  in 
the  philosophical  creed  of  Perfectibility;— 
upon  which,  as  it  does  not  happen  to  be  our 
creed,  and  is  very  frequently  brought  into 
notice  in  the  course  of  the  work,  we  must 
here  be  indulged  wdth  a  few  preliminary 
observations. 

This  splendid  illusion,  which  seems  to  have 
succeeded  that  of  Optimism  in  the  favour  of 
philosophical  enthusiasts,  and  rests,  like  it, 
upon  the  notion  that  the  w^hole  scheme  of  a 
beneficent  Providence  is  to  be  developed  in 
this  world,  is  supported  by  Madame  de  Stael 
upon  a  variety  of  grounds :  and  as,  like  most 
other  illusions,  it  has  a  considerable  admix- 
ture of  truth,  it  is  supported,  in  many  points, 
upon  grounds  that  are  both  solid  and  ingeni- 
ous. She  relies  chiefly,  of  course,  upon  the 
experience  of  the  past;  and,  in  particular, 
upon  the  marked  and  decided  superiority  ot 
the  moderns  in  respect  of  thought  and  reflec- 
tion— their  more  profound  knowledge  of  hu- 
man feelings,  and  inore  comprehensive  views 
of  human  alTairs.  She  ascribes  less  import- 
ance than  is  usually  done  to  our  attainments 
in  mere  science,  and  the  arts  that  relate  to 
matter ;  and  augurs  less  confidently  as  to  the 
future  fortune  of  the  species,  from  the  exploits 
of  Newton,  Watt,  and  Davy,  than  from  those 
of  Bacon,  Bossuet,  Locke,  Hume,  and  Voltaire. 
In  eloquence,  too,  and  in  taste  and  fancy,  she 
admits  that  there  has  been  a  less  conspicuous 
advancement;  because,  in  these  things,  there 
is  a  natural  limit  or  point  of  perfection,  which 
has  been  already  attained :  But  there  are  no 
boundaries  to  the  increase  of  human  know- 
ledge, or  to  the  discovery  of  the  means  of  hu- 
man happiness ',  and  every  step  that  is  g-ained 
in  those  higher  walks,  is  gained,  she  conceives, 
for  posterity,  and  for  ever. 

The  great  objection  derived  from  the  signal 
check  which  the  arts  and  civility  of  life  re- 
ceived from  the  inroads  of  the  northern  bar- 
barians on  the  decline  of  the  Roman  power, 
and  the  long  period  of  darkness  and  degrada- 
tion which  ensued,  she  endeavours  to  obviate, 
by  a  very  bold  and  ingenious  speculation.  It 
is  her  object  here  to  show  that  the  invasion 
of  the  northern  tribes  not  only  promoted  their 
own  civilization  more  effectually  than  any 
thing  else  could  have  done,  but  actually  im- 
parted to  the  genius  of  the  vanquished,  a 
character  of  energy,  solidity,  and  seriousness, 
which  could  never  have  sprung  up  of  itself 
in  the  volatile  regions  of  the  South.  The 
amalgamation  of  the  two  races,  she  thinks, 
has  produced  a  mighty  improvement  on  both; 
and  the  vivacity,  the  elegance  and  versatility 
of  the  warmer  latitudes,  been  mingled,  in- 
finitely to  their  mutual  advantage,  with  the 
majestic  melancholy,  the  profound  thoiight, 
and  the  sterner  morality  of  the  North.  This 
combination,  again,  she  conceives,  could  have 
been  effected  in  no  way  so  happily  as  by  the 
successful  invasion  of  the  ruder  people ;  and 
the  conciliating  influence  of  that  common 
faith,  which  at  once  repressed  the  frivolous 


MADAME  DE  STAEL  HOLSTEIN. 


aiid  mollified  the  ferocious  tendencies  of  our 
nature.  The  temporary  disappearance  there- 
fore of  literature  and  politeness,  upon  the  first 
shock  of  this  mighty  collision,  was  but  the 
subsidence  of  the  sacred  flame  under  the 
heaps  of  fuel  which  were  thus  profusely 
provided  for  its  increase;  and  the  seeming 
waste  and  sterility  that  ensued,  was  but  the 
first  aspect  of  the  fertilizing  flood  and  accu- 
mulated manure  under  which  vegetation  was 
buried  for  a  while,  that  it  might  break  out 
at  last  with  a  richer  and  more  indestructible 
luxuriance.  The  human  intellect  was  neither 
dead  nor  inactive,  she  contends,  during  that 
long  slumber,  in  which  it  w^as  collecting  vig- 
our for  unprecedented  exertions;  and  the 
occupations  to  which  it  was  devoted,  though 
not  of  the  most  brilliant  or  attractive  descrip- 
tion, were  perhaps  the  best  fitted  for  its  ul- 
timate and  substantial  improvement.  The 
subtle  distinctions,  the  refined  casuistry,  and 
ingenious  logic  of  the  school  divines,  were 
all  favourable  to  habits  of  careful  and  accu- 
rate thinking;  and  led  insensibly  to  a  far 
more  thorough  and  profound  knowledge  of 
human  nature — the  limits  of  its  faculties  and 
the  grounds  of  its  duties — than  had  been 
attained  by  the  more  careless  inquirers  of 
antiquity.  When  men,  therefore,  began  again 
to  reason  upon  human  affairs,  they  were  found 
to  have  made  an  immense  progress  during  the 
period  when  all  appeared  to  be  either  retro- 
grade or  stationary;  and  Shakspeare,  Bacon, 
Machiavel,  Montaigne,  and  Galileo,  who  ap- 
peared almost  at  the  same  time,  in  the  most 
distant  countries  of  Europe,  each  displayed  a 
reach  of  thought  and  a  power  of  reasoning 
which  we  should  look  for  in  vain  in  the  elo- 
quent dissertaions  of  the  classical  ages.  To 
them  s:-".^ceeded  such  men  as  Jeremy  Taylor, 
Molicre,  Pascal,  Locke,  and  La  Bruyere — all 
of  them  observers  of  a  character,  to  which 
there  is  nothing  at  all  parallel  in  antiquity; 
and  yet  only  preparing  the  way,  in  the  suc- 
ceeding age,  for  Montesquieu,  Hume,  Voltaire, 
Smith,  Burke,  Bentham,  Malthus,  and  so  many 
others;  who  have  made  the  world  familiar 
with  truths,  which,  however  important  and 
demonstrable  at  all  times,  certainly  never 
entered  into  the  conception  of  the  earlier  in- 
habitants of  the  world.  Those  truths,  and 
others  still  more  important,  of  which  they 
are  destined  to  be  the  parents,  have  already, 
according  to  Madame  de  Stael,  produced  a 
prodigious  alteration,  and  an  incalculable  im- 

1      provement  on  the  condition  of  human  nature. 

I  Through  their  influence,  assisted  no  doubt  by 
that  of  the  Gospel,  slavery  has  been  abolished, 
trade  and  industry  set  free  from  restriction, 
and  war  disarmed  of  half  its  horrors ;  while, 
in  private  life,  women  have  been  restored  to 
their  just  rank  in  society ;  sentiments  of  jus- 
tice and  humanity  have  been  universally  cul- 
tivated, and  public  opinion  been  armed  with 
a  power  which  renders  every  other  both  safe 
and  salutary. 

Many  of  these  truths,  which  were  once  the 
doubtful  or  derided  discoveries  of  men  of 
original  genius,  are  now  admitted  as  elemen- 
tary principles  in  the  reasonings  of  ordinary 


people;  and  are  every  day  extending  then 
empire,  and  multiplying  their  progeny.  Ma 
dame  de  Stael  sees  no  reason  to  doubt,  there- 
fore, that  they  will  one  day  inherit  the  whole 
earth ;  and,  under  their  reign,  she  takes  it  to 
be  clear,  that  war,  and  poverty,  and  all  the 
misery  that  arises  from  vice  and  ignorance, 
will  disappear  from  the  face  of  society ;  and 
that  men,  universally  convinced  that  justice 
and  benevolence  are  the  true  sources  of  en- 
joyment, will  seek  their  own  happiness  in  a 
constant  endeavour  to  promote  that  of  their 
neighbours. 

It  would  be  very  agreeable  to  believe  all 
this — in  spite  of  the  grudging  which  would 
necessarily  arise,  from  the  reflection  that  we 
ourselves  were  born  so  much  too  soon  for  vir- 
tue and  enjoyment  in  this  world.  But  it  is 
really  impossible  to  overlook  the  manifold 
imperfections  of  the  reasoning  on  which  this 
splendid  anticipation  is  founded ; — though  it 
may  be  worth  while  to  ascertain,  if  possible, 
in  what  degree  it  is  founded  in  truth. 

The  first  thing  that  occurs  to  a  sober-mind- 
ed listener  to  this  dream  of  perfectibility,  is 
the  extreme  narrowness  of  the  induction  from 
which  these  sweeping  conclusions  are  so  con- 
fidently deduced.  A  progress  that  is  in  its 
own  nature  infinite  and  irresistible,  must 
necessarily  have  been  both  universal  and 
unremitting ;  and  yet  the  evidence  of  its  ex- 
istence is  founded,  if  we  do  not  deceive  our- 
selves, upon  the  history  of  a  very  small  por- 
tion of  the  human  race,  for  a  very  small  num- 
ber of  generations.  The  proposition  is,  that 
the  human  species  is  advancing,  and  has  al- 
ways been  advancing,  to  a  state  of  perfection, 
by  a  law  of  their  nature,  of  the  existence  oi 
which  their  past  history  and  present  state 
leave  no  room  to  doubt.  But  when  we  cast 
a  glance  upon  this  high  destined  species, 
we  find  this  necessary  and  eternal  progress 
scarcely  begun,  even  now,  in  the  old  inhabi- 
ted continent  of  Africa — stationary,  as  far 
back  as  our  information  reaches,  in  China — 
and  retrograde,  for  a  period  of  at  least  twelve 
centuries,  and  up  to  this  day,  in  Eg>'pt,  India, 
Persia,  and  Greece.  Even  in  our  own  Europe, 
which  contains  probably  less  than  one  tenth 
part  of  our  kind,  it  is  admitted,  that,  for  up- 
wards of  a  thousand  years,  this  greu,t  work  of 
moral  nature  not  only  stood  still,  but  went 
visibly  backwards,  over  its  fairest  regions ; 
and  though  there  has  been  a  prodigious  pro- 
jxress  in  England  and  France  and  German)' 
during  the  last  two  hundred  years,  it  may  be 
doubted  whether  any  thing  of  this  sort  can 
be  said  of  Spain  or  Italy;  or  various  other 
portions,  even  of  this  favoured  quarter  of  the 
world.  It  may  be  very  natural  for  jNIadame 
de  Stael,  or  for  us,  looking  only  to  what  has 
happened  in  our  own  world,  and  in  our  own 
times,  to  indulge  in  those  dazzling  views  of 
the  unbounded  and  universal  improvement 
of  the  whole  human  race ;  but  such  specu- 
lations would  appear  rather  wild,  we  suspect, 
to  those  whose  lot  it  is  to  philosophize  among 
the  unchanging  nations  of  Asia ;  and  would 
probably  carry  even  something  of  ridicule 
with  them,  if  propounded  upon  the  niiAs  oi 


44 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


Thebes  or  Babylon,  or  even  among  the  pro- 
faned relics  of  Athens  or  Rome. 

We  are  not  inclined,  however,  to  push  this 
very  far.  The  AA^orld  is  certainly  something 
the  wiser  for  its  past  experience ; — and  there  is 
an  accumulation  of  useful  knowledge,  which 
we  think  likely  to  increase.  The  invention 
of  printing  and  fire-arms,  and  the  perfect 
•communication  that  is  established  over  all 
Europe,  insures  us,  we  think,  ag-ainst  any 
considerable  falling  back  in  respect  of  the 
sciences  j  or  the  arts  and  attainments  that 
minister  to  the  conveniences  of  ordinary  life. 
We  have  no  idea  that  any  of  the  important 
discoveries  of  modern  times  will  ever  again 
be  lost  or  forgotten ;  or  that  any  future  gene- 
ration will  be  put  to  the  trouble  of  inventing, 
for  a  second  time,  the  art  of  making  gunpow- 
der or  telescopes — the  astronomy  of  Newton, 
or  the  mechanics  of  Watt.  All  knowledge 
which  admits  of  demonstration  will  advance, 
we  have  no  doubt,  and  extend  itself;  and  all 
processes  will  be  improved,  that  do  not  inter- 
fere with  the  passions  of  human  nature,  or 
the  apparent  interests  of  its  ruling  classes. 
But  with  regard  to  every  thing  depending  on 
probable  reasoning,  or  susceptible  of  debate, 
and  especially  with  regard  to  every  thing 
touching  morality  and  enjoyment,  we  really 
are  not  sanguine  enough  to  reckon  on  any 
considerable  improvement ;  and  suspect  that 
men  will  go  on  blundering  in  speculation, 
and  transgressing  in  practice,  pretty  nearly  as 
they  do  at  present,  to  the  latest  period  of  their 
history. 

In  the  nature  of  things,  indeed,  there  can 
be  no  end  to  disputes  upon  probable,  or  what 
is  called  moral  evidence ;  nor  to  the  contra- 
dictory conduct  and  consequent  hostility  and 
oppression,  which  must  result  from  the  oppo- 
site views  that  are  taken  of  such  subjects ; — 
and  this,  partly,  because  the  elements  that 
enter  into  the  calculation  are  so  vast  and  nu- 
merous, that  many  of  the  most  material  must 
always  be  overlooked  by  persons  of  ordinary 
talent  and  information;  and  partly  because 
there  not  only  is  no  standard  by  which  the 
value  of  those  elements  can  be  ascertained 
and  made  manifest,  but  that  they  actually 
have  a  different  value  for  almost  every  dif- 
ferent individual.  With  regard  to  all  nice, 
and  indeed  all  debateable  questions  of  happi- 
ness or  morals,  therefore,  there  never  can  be 
any  agreement  among  men ;  because,  in  re- 
ality, there  is  no  truth  in  w^hich  they  can 
agree.  All  questions  of  this  kind  turn  upon 
a  comparison  of  the  opposite  advantages  and 
disadvantages  of  any  particuliar  course  of  con- 
duct or  habit  of  mind :  but  these  are  really 
of  very  different  magnitude  and  importance  to 
different  persons;  and  their  decision,  there- 
fore, even  if  they  all  saw  the  whole  con- 
sequences, or  even  the  same  set  of  conse- 
quences, must  be  irreconcileably  diverse.  If 
the  matter  in  deliberation,  for  example,  be, 
whether  it  is  better  to  live  without  toil  or  ex- 
ertion, but,  at  the  same  time,  without  wealth 
or  glory,  or  to  venture  for  both  upon  a  scene 
uf  labour  and  hazard — it  is  easy  to  see,  that  j 
(he  determination  which  would  be  wise  and  I 


expedient  for  one  individual,  might  be  just 
the  reverse  for  another.  Ease  and  obscurity 
are  the  summum  bonum  of  one  description  of 
men ;  while  others  have  an  irresistible  voca- 
tion to  strenuous  enterprise,  and  a  positive 
delight  in  contention  and  danger.  Nor  is  the 
magnitude  of  our  virtues  and  vices  referable 
to  a  more  invariable  standard.  Intemperance 
is  less  a  vice  in  the  robust,  and  dishonesty 
less  foolish  in  those  who  care  but  little  for 
the  scorn  of  society.  Some  men  find  their 
chief  happiness  in  relieving  sorrow — some  in 
sympathizing  with  mirth.  Some,  again,  de- 
rive most  of  their  enjoyment  from  the  exer- 
cise of  their  reasoning  faculties — others  from 
that  of  their  imagination ; — while  a  third  sort 
attend  to  little  but  the  gratification  of  their 
senses,  and  a  fourth  to  that  of  their  vanity. 
One  delights  in  crowds,  and  another  in  soli- 
tude ; — one  thinks  of  nothing  but  glory,  and 
another  of  comfort ; — and  so  on,  through  all 
the  infinite  variety,  and  infinite  combinations, 
of  human  tastes,  temperaments,  and  habits. 
Now,  it  is  plain,  that  each  of  those  persons 
not  only  will,  but  plainly  ought  to  pursue  a 
different  road  to  the  common  object  of  hap- 
piness ;  and  that  they  must  clash  and  conse- 
quently often  jostle  with  each  other,  even  if 
each  were  fully  aware  of  the  peculiarity  of 
his  own  notions,  and  of  the  consequences  of 
all  that  he  did  in  obedience  to  their  impulses. 
It  is  altogether  impossible,  therefore,  we 
humbly  conceive,  that  men  should  ever  set- 
tle the  point  as  to  what  is,  on  the  whole,  tlie 
wisest  course  of  conduct,  or  the  best  dispo- 
sition of  mind;  or  consequently  take  even 
the  first  step  towards  that  perfection  of  moral 
science,  or  that  cordial  concert  and  co-opera- 
tion in  their  common  pursuit  of  happiness, 
which  is  the  only  alternative  to  their  fatal 
opposition. 

This  impossibility  will  become  more  appa- 
rent when  it  is  considered,  that  the  only  in- 
strument by  which  it  is  pretended  that  this 
moral  perfection  is  to  be  attained,  is  such  a 
general  illumination  of  the  intellect  as  to  make 
all  men  fully  aware  of  the  consequences  of 
their  actions ;  while  the  fact  is,  that  it  is  not, 
in  general,  through  ignorance  of  their  conse- 
quences, that  actions  producing  misery  are 
actually  perfoi-med.  When  the  misery  is  in- 
flicted upon  others,  the  actors  most  frequently 
disregard  it,  upon  a  fair  enough  comparison 
of  its  amount  with  the  pain  they  should  in- 
flict on  themselves  by  forbearance ;  and  even 
when  it  falls  on  their  own  heads,  they  will 
generally  be  found  rather  to  have  been  un- 
lucky in  the  game,  than  to  have  been  truly 
unacquainted  with  its  hazards ;  and  to  have 
ventured  with  as  full  a  knowledge  of  the 
risks,  as  the  fortunes  of  others  can  ever  im- 
press on  the  enterprizing.  There  are  many 
men,  it  should  always  be  recollected,  to  whom 
the  happiness  of  others  gives  very  little  satis- 
faction, and  their  sufferings  very  little  pain, 
— and  wdio  would  rather  eat  a  luxurious  meal 
by  themselves,  than  scatter  plenty  and  grati- 
tude over  twentv  famishing  cottages.  No 
enlightening  of  tfie  understanding  will  make 
such  men  the  instruments  of  general  happi 


IVIADAME  DE  STAEL  HOLSTEIN. 


48 


iiess ;  and  wherever  there  is  a  competition — 
wherever  the  question  is  stirred  as  to  whose 
claims  shall  be  renounced  or  asserted,  we  are 
all  sucft  men,  we  fear,  in  a  greater  or  a  less 
degree.  There  are  others,  again,  who  pre- 
sume upon  their  own  good  fcstune,  wuth  a  de- 
gree of  confidence  that  no  exposition  of  the 
chances  of  failure  can  ever  repress ;  and  in 
all  cases  where  failure  is  possible,  there  must 
be  a  risk  of  suffering  from  its  occurrence, 
however  prudent  the  venture  might  have  ap- 
peared. These,  however,  are  the  chief  sources 
of  all  the  unhappiness  which  results  from  the 
conduct  of  man ; — and  they  are  sources  which 
we  do  not  see  that  the  improved  intellect,  or 
added  experience  of  the  species,  is  likely  to 
close  or  diminish. 

Take  the  case,  for  example,  of  War — by 
far  the  most  prolific  and  extensive  pest  of  the 
human  race,  \vhether  we  consider  the  suffer- 
ings it  inllicts,  or  the  happiness  it  prevents — 
and  see  whether  it  is  likely  to  be  arrested  by 
the  progress  of  intelligence  and  civilization. 
In  the  first  place,  it  is  manifest,  that  instead 
of  becoming  less  frequent  or  destructive,  in 
proportion  to  the  rapidity  of  that  progress, 
our  European  wars  have,  in  point  of  fact,  been 
mcomparably  more  constant,  and  more  san- 
guinary, since  Europe  became  signally  en- 
lightened and  humanized — and  that  they 
have  uniformly  been  most  obstinate  and  most 
popular,  in  its  most  polished  countries.  I'he 
brutish  Laplanders,  and  bigoted  and  profli- 
gate Italians,  have  had  long  intervals  of  re- 
pose ;  but  France  and  England  are  now  pretty 
regularly  at  war,  for  about  fourscore  years  out 
of  every  century.  In  the  second  place,  the 
lovers  and  conductors  of  war  are  by  no  means 
the  most  ferocious  or  stupid  of  their  species 
—but  for  the  most  part  the  very  contrary ; — 
and  their  delight  in  it,  notwithstanding  their 
compassion  for  human  suffering,  and  their 
complete  knowledge  of  its  tendency  to  pro- 
duce suff"ering,  seems  to  us  suliicient  almost 
of  itself  to  discredit  the  confident  prediction 
of  those  who  assure  us,  that  when  men  have 
attained  to  a  certain  degree  of  intelligence, 
war  must  necessarily  cease  among  all  the 
nations  of  the  earth.  There  can  be  no  better 
illustration  indeed,  than  this,  of  the  utter  fu- 
tihty  of  all  those  dreams  of  perfectibility; 
which  are  founded  on  a  radical  ignorance  of 
what  it  is  that  constitutes  the  real  enjoyment 
of  human  nature,  and  upon  the  play  of  how 
many  principles  and  opposite  stimuli  that  hap- 
piness depends,  which,  it  is  absurdly  ima- 
gined, would  be  found  in  the  mere  negation 
,  of  suffering,  or  in  a  state  of  Quakerish  pla- 
;  cidity,  dulness,  and  uniformity.  Men  delight 
'■  in  war,  in  spite  of  the  pains  and  miseries 
i  which  they  know  it  entails  upon  them  and 
!  their  fellows,  because  it  exercises  all  the 
talents,  and  calls  out  all  the  energies  of  their 
nature — because  it  holds  them  out  conspicu- 
ously as  objects  of  public  sentiment  and  gene- 
ral sympathy — because  it  gratifies  their  pride 
of  art,  and  gives  them  a  lofty  sentiment  of 
their  own  power,  worth  and  courage — but 
principally  because  it  sets  the  game  of  exist- 
ence upon  a  higher  stake,  and  dispels,  by  its 


powerful  interest,  those  feelings  of  vnnui 
which  steal  upon  every  condition  from  which 
hazard  and  anxiety  are  excluded,  and  drive 
us  into  danger  and  suffering  as  a  relief.  While 
human  nature  continv^es  to  be  distinguished  by 
those  attributes,  we  do  not  see  any  chance  of 
war  being  superseded  by  the  increase  c»  v/is- 
dom  and  morality. 

We  should  be  pretty  well  advanced  ir^  the 
career  of  perfectibility,  if  all  the  inhabitants 
of  Europe  were  as  intelligent,  and  upright^ 
and  considerate,  as  Sir  John  Moore,  or  Lord 
Nelson,  or  Lord  Collingwood,  or  Lord  Wel- 
lington— but  we  should  not  have  the  less 
war,  Ave  take  it,  with  all  its  attendant  mise- 
ries. The  more  wealth  and  intelligence,  and 
liberty,  there  is  in  a  country  indeed,  the 
greater  love  we  fear  there  will  always  be  for 
war; — for  a  gentleman  is  uniformly  a  more 
pugnacious  animal  than  a  plebeian,  and  a  free 
man  than  a  slave.  The  case  is  the  same, 
with  the  minor  contentions  that  agitate  civil 
life,  and  shed  abroad  the  bitter  waters  of  po- 
litical animosity,  and  grow  up  into  the  ran- 
cours and  atrocities  of  faction  and  cabal.  The 
leading  actors  in  those  scenes  are  not  the 
lowest  or  most  debased  characters  in  the 
countlry — but,  almost  without  exception,  of 
the  very  opposite  description.  It  would  be 
too  romantic  to  suppose,  that  the  whole  popu- 
lation of  any  country  should  ever  be  raised  to 
the  level  of  our  Fox  and  Pitt,  Burke,  Wind- 
ham, or  Grattan ;  and  yet  if  that  miraculous 
improvement  were  to  take  place,  we. know 
that  they  would  be  at  least  as  far  from  agree- 
ing, as  they  are  at  present ;  and  may  fairly 
conclude,  that  they  w^ould  contend  with  far 
greater  warmth  and  animosity. 

For  that  great  class  of  evils,  therefore, 
which  arise  from  contention,  emulation,  and 
diversity  of  opinion  upon  points  which  admit 
of  no  demonstrative  solution,  it  is  evident  that 
the  general  increase  of  intelligence  would 
afford  no  remedy ;  and  there  even  seems  to 
be  reason  for  thinking  that  it  would  increase 
their  amount.  If  we  turn  to  the  other  great 
source  of  human  suffering,  the  abuse  of  power 
and  wealth,  and  the  othei-  means  of  enjoy- 
ment, we  suspect  we  shall  not  find  any  ground 
for  indulging  in  more  sanguine  expectations. 
Take  the  common  case  of  youthful  excess  and 
imprudence,  for  example,  in  which  the  evil 
commonly  rests  on  the  head  of  the  trans- 
gressor— the  injury  done  to  fortune,  by 
thoughtless  expense — to  health  and  character, 
by  sensual  indulgence,  and  to  the  whole  feli- 
city of  after  life,  by  rash  and  un  sorted  mar- 
riages. The  whole  mischief  and  hazard  of 
such  practices,  we  are  persuaded,  is  just  as 
thoroughly  known  and  understood  at  present, 
as  it  will  be  when  the  world  is  five  thousand 
years  older;  and  as  much  pains  are  now 
taken  to  impress  the  ardent  spirits  of  youth 
with  the  belief  of  those  hazards,  as  can  well 
be  taken  by  the  monitors  who  may  discharge 
that  office  in  the  most  remote  futurity.  But 
the  truth  is,  that  the  off'enders  do  not  off"end 
so  much  in  ignorance,  as  in  presumption. 
They  know  very  well,  that  men  are  oftenei 
ruined  than  enriched  at  the  gaming  table; 


46 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


and  that  love  marriages,  clapt  up  under  age, 
tire  frequently  followed  by  divorces :  But 
they  know  too,  that  this  is  not  always  the 
case ;  and  they  flatter  themselves  that  their 
good  luck,  and  good  judgment,  will  class  them 
among  the  exceptions,  and  not  among  the 
ordinary  examples  of  the  rule.  They  are  told 
well  enough,  for  the  most  part,  of  the  excess- 
ive folly  of  acting  upon  such  a  presumption, 
in  matters  of  such  importance  : — But  it  is  the 
nature  of  youth,  to  despise  much  of  the  wis- 
dom that  is  thus  pressed  upon  them ;  and  to 
think  well  of  their  fortune  and  sagacity,  till 
they  have  actually  had  experience  of  their 
shpperiness.  We  really  have  no  idea  that 
their  future  teachers  will  be  able  to  change 
this  nature :  or  to  destroy  the  eternal  distinc- 
tion between  the  character  of  early  and  mature 
life;  and  therefore  it  is,  that  we  despair  of 
the  cure  of  the  manifold  evils  that  spring  from 
this  source ;  and  remain  persuaded,  that  young 
men  will  be  nearly  as  foolish,  and  as  incapa- 
ble of  profiting  by  the  experience  of  their 
seniors,  ten  thousand  years  hence,  as  they  are 
at  .this  moment. 

With  regard  to  the  other  glittering  curses 
of  life — the  heartless  dissipations — the  era  el 
seductions — the  selfish  extravagance — the  re- 
jection of  all  interesting  occupation  or  serious 
affection,  w^hich  blast  the  splendid  summit 
of  human  fortune  with  perpetual  barrenness 
and  discomfort — we  can  only  say,  that  as 
they  are  miseries  which  now  exist  almost 
exclusively  among  the  most  polished  and  in- 
telligent of  the  species,  we  do  not  think  it 
very  probable,  at  least,  that  they  will  be  eradi- 
cated by  rendering  the  species  in  general 
more  polished  and  intelligent.  They  are  not 
occasioned,  we  think,  by  ignorance  or  im- 
proper education ;  but  by  that  eagerness  for 
strong  emotion  and  engrossing  occupation, 
which  still  proclaim  it  to  be  the  irreversible 
destiny  of  man  to  earn  his  bread  by  the  sweat 
of  his  brows.  It  is  a  fact  indeed  rather  per- 
plexing and  humiliating  to  the  advocates  of 
perfectibility,  that  as  soon  as  a  man  is  de- 
livered from  the  necessity  of  subsisting  him- 
self, and  providing  for  his  family,  he  gene- 
rally falls  into  a  state  of  considerable  unhap- 
piness;  and  if  some  fortunate  anxiety,  or 
necessity  for  exertion,  does  not  come  to  his 
relief,  is  commonly  obliged  to  seek  for  a 
slight  and  precarious  distraction  in  vicious 
and  unsatisfactory  pursuits.  It  is  not  for 
want  of  knowing  that  they  are  unsatisfactory 
that  he  persists  in  them,  nor  for  want  of 
being  told  of  their  folly  and  criminality ; — for 
moralists  and  divines  have  been  occupied 
with  little  else  for  the  best  part  of  a  century ; 
and  writers  of  all  descriptions,  indeed,  have 
charitably  expended  a  good  part  of  their  own 
ennui  in  copious  directions  for  the  innocent 
and  effectual  reduction  of  that  common  ene- 
my. In  spite  of  all  this,  however,  the  malady 
has  increased  with  our  wealth  and  refine- 
ment; and  has  brought  along  with  it  the 
increase  of  all  those  vices  and  follies  in  which 
its  victims  still  find  themselves  constrained 
to  seek  a  temporary  relief.  The  truth  is, 
that  military  and  senatorial  glory  is  neither 


within  the  reach,  nor  suited  to  the  taste,  oi 
any  very  great  proportion  of  the  sufferers, 
and  that  the  cultivation  of  waste  lands,  ana 
the  superintendence  of  tippling-houses  and 
charity  schools,  have  not  always  been  found 
such  effectual  and  delightful  remedies  as  the 
inditers  of  godly  romances  have  sometimel 
represented.  So  that  those  whom  fortune 
has  cruelly  exempted  from  the  necessity  of 
doing  any  thing,  have  been  led  very  generally 
to  do  evil  of  their  own  accord;  and  have 
fancied  that  they  rather  diminished  thai 
added  to  the  sum  of  human  misery,  by  en- 
gaging in  intrigues  and  g-aming-clubs,  and 
establishing  coteries  for  detraction  or  sen- 
suality 

The  real  and  radical  difficulty  is  to  find 
some-  laudable  pursuit  that  will  permanently 
interest — some  worthy  object  that  will  con- 
tinue to  captivate  and  engross  the  faculties : 
and  this,  instead  of  becoming  easier  in  pro- 
portion as  our  intelligence  increases,  obvious- 
ly becomes  more  difficult.  It  is  knowledge 
that  destroys  enthusiasm,  and  dispels  all  those 
prejudices  of  admiration  which  people  sim- 
pler minds  with  so  many  idols  of  enchant- 
ment. It  is  knowledge  that  distracts  by  its 
"^^riety,  and  satiates  by  its  abundance,  and 
generates,  by  its  communication,  that  dark 
and  cold  spirit  of  fastidiousness  and  derision 
which  revenges  on  those  whom  it  possesses, 
the  pangs  which  it  inflicts  on  those  on  whom 
it  is  exerted.  Yet  it  is  to  the  increase  of 
knowledge  and  talents  alone,  that  the  prophets 
of  perfectibility  look  forward  for  the  cure  of 
all  our  vices  and  all  our  unhappiness ! 

Even  as  to  intellect,  and  the  pleasures  that 
are  to  be  derived  from  the  exercise  of  a  vigor- 
ous understanding,  we  doubt  greatly  whether 
we  ought  to  look  forward  to  posterity  with 
any  very  lively  feelings  of  envy  or  humilia- 
tion. More  knowledge  they  probably  will 
have — as  we  have  undoubtedly  more  know- 
ledge than  our  ancestors  had  two  hundred 
years  ago ;  but  for  vigour  of  understanding, 
or  pleasure  in  the  exercise  of  it,  we  must  beg 
leave  to  demur.  The  more  there  is  already 
known,  the  less  there  remains  to  be  discover- 
ed ;  and  the  more  time  a  man  is  obliged  to 
spend  in  ascertaining  what  his  predecessors 
have  already  established,  the  less  he  will 
have  to  bestow  in  adding  to  its  amount. — 
The  time,  however,  is  of  less  consequence ; 
but  the  habits  of  mind  that  are  formed  by 
walking  patiently,  humbly,  and  passively  in 
the  paths  that  have  been  traced  by  others, 
are  the  very  habits  that  disqualify  us  for 
vigorous  and  independent  excursions  of  our 
own.  There  is  a  certain  degree  of  knowledge 
to  be  sure,  that  is  but  wholesome  aliment  to 
the  understanding — materials  for  it  to  work 
upon — or  instruments  to  facilitate  its  labours : 
— but  a  larger  quantity  is  apt  to  oppress  and 
encumber  it ;  and  as  industry,  which  is  ex- 
cited by  the  importation  of  the  raw  material, 
may  be  superseded  and  extinguished  by  the 
introduction  of  the  finished  manufacture,  so 
the  minds  which  are  stimulated  to  activity 
by  a  certain  measure  of  instraction  may, 
unquestionably,  be  reduced  to  a  state  of  pas* 


MADAME  DE  STAEL  HOLSTEIN. 


47 


§ive  and  languid  acquiescencej  by  a  more 
profuse  and  redundant  supply. 

Madame  de  Stael,  and  the  other  advocates 
of  her  system,  talk  a  great  deal  of  the  pro- 
digious advantage  of  having  the  results  of  the 
laborious  discoveries  of  one  generation  made 
matters  of  familiar  and  elementary  know- 
ledge in  another ;  and  for  practical  utility,  it 
may  be  so :  but  nothing,  we  conceive,  can 
be  so  completely  destructive  of  all  intellec- 
tual enterprise,  and  all  force  and  originality 
of  thinking,  as  this  very  process,  of  the  re- 
duction of  knowledge  to  its  results,  or  the 
multiplication  of  those  summary  and  accessi- 
ble pieces  of  information  in  which  the  stu- 
dent is  saved  the  whole  trouble  of  investiga- 
tion, and  put  in  possession  of  the  prize,  with- 
out either  the  toils  or  the  excitement  of  the 
contest.  This,  in  the  first  place,  necessarily 
makes  the  prize  much  less  a  subject  of  ex- 
ultation or  delight  to  him ;  for  the  chief  plea- 
sure is  in  the  chase  itself,  and  not  in  the  ob- 
ject which  it  pursues;  and  he  who  sits  at 
home,  and  has  the  dead  g-ame  brought  to  the 
side  of  his  chair,  will  be  very  apt,  we  be- 
lieve, to  reg-ard  it  as  nothing  better  than  an 
unfragrant  vermin.  But,  in  the  next  place,  it 
does  him  no  good ;  for  he  misses  altogether 
the  invigorating  exercise,  and  the  invaluable 
training  to  habits  of  emulation  and  sag-acity 
and  courage,  for  the  sake  of  which  alone  the 
pursuit  is  deserving  of  applause.  And,  in 
the  last  place,  he  not  only  fails  in  this  way 
to  acquire  the  qualities  that  may  enable  him 
to  run  down  knowledge  for  himself,  but  nec- 
essarily finds  himself  without  taste  or  induce- 
ment for  such  exertions.  He  thinks,  and  in 
one  sense  he  thinks  justly,  that  if  the  proper 
object  of  study  be  to  acquire  knowledge,  he 
can  employ  his  time  much  more  profitably 
in  implicitly  listening  to  the  discoveries  of 
others,  than  in  a  laborious  attempt  to  discover 
something  for  himself.  It  is  infinitely  more 
fatiguing  to  think,  than  to  remember;  and 
incomparably  shorter  to  be  led  to  an  object, 
than  to  explore  our  OAvn  way  to  it.  It  is  in- 
conceivable what  an  obstiTiction  this  fur- 
nishes to  the  original  exercise  of  the  under- 
standing in  a  certain  state  of  information ;  and 
how  effectually  the  general  diflusion  of  easily 
accessible  knowledge  operates  as  a  bounty 
upon  indolence  and  mental  imbecility. — 
Where  the  quantity  of  approved  and  collected 
knowledge  is  already  very  great  in  any  coun- 
try, it  is  naturally  required  of  all  well  edu- 
cated persons  to  possess  a  considerable  share 
of  it ',  and  where  it  has  also  been  made  very 
accessible,  by  being  reduced  to  its  summary 
and  ultimate  results,  an  astonishing  variety 
of  those  abstracts  may  be  stowed  away  in 
the  memory,  with  scarcely  any  fatigue  or 
exercise  to  the  other  faculties.  The  whole 
mass  of  attainable  intelligence,  however,  must 
still  be  beyond  the  reach  of  any  individual ; 
and  he  may  go  on,  therefore,  to  the  end  of  a 
long  and  industrious  life,  constantly  acquir- 
ing knowledge  in  this  cheap  and  expeditious 
manner.  But  if,  in  the  course  of  these  pas- 
^eive  and  humble  researches,  he  should  be 
tempted  to  inquire  a  littlft  for  himself j  he 


cannot  fail  to  be  struck  with  Lie  prodigioui 
waste  of  time,  and  of  labour,  that  is  neces- 
sary for  the  attainment  of  a  very  inconsider- 
able portion  of  original  knowledge.  His  pro- 
gress is  as  slow  as  that  of  a  man  who  ia 
making  a  road,  compared  with  that  of  those 
who  afterwards  travel  over  it ;  and  he  feels, 
that  in  order  to  make  a  very  small  advance 
in  one  department  of  study,  he  must  consent 
to  sacrifice  very  great  attaiimients  in  others. 
He  is  disheartened,  too,  by  the  extreme  in- 
significance of  any  thing  that  he  can  expect 
to  contribute,  when  compared  with  the  great 
store  that  is  already  in  possession  of  the  pub- 
lic ;  and  is  extremely  apt  to  conclude,  that  it 
is  not  only  safer,  but  more  profitable  to  fol- 
low, than  to  lead ;  and  that  it  is  fortunate  for 
the  lovers  of  wisdom,  that  our  ancestors  have 
accumulated  enough  of  it  for  our  use.  as  well 
as  for  their  own. 

But  while  the  general  diffusion  of  know 
ledge  tends  thus  powerfully  to  repress  all 
original  and  independent  speculation  in  indi- 
viduals, it  operates  still  more  powerfully  in 
rendering  the  public  indifferent  and  unjust  to 
their  exertions.  The  treasures  they  have  in- 
herited from  their  predecessors  are  so  ample, 
as  not  only  to  take  away  all  disposition  to 
labour  for  their  farther  increase,  but  to  lead 
them  to  undervalue  and  overlook  any  little 
addition  that  may  be  made  to  them  by  the 
voluntary  off'erings  of  individuals.  The  works 
of  the  best  models  are  perpetually  before  their 
eyes,  and  their  accumulated  glory  in  their  re- 
membrance ;  the  very  variety  of  the  sorts  of 
excellence  which  are  constantly  obtruded  on 
their  notice,  renders  excellence  itself  cheap 
and  vulgar  in  their  estimation.  As  the  mere 
possessors  or  judges  of  such  things,  they  are 
apt  to  ascribe  to  themselves  a  character  of 
superiority,  which  renders  any  moderate  per- 
foi-mance  unworthy  of  their  regard ;  and  their 
cold  and  languid  familiarity  with  what  is  best, 
ultimately  produces  no  other  effect  than  to 
render  them  insensible  to  its  beauties,  and  at 
the  same  time  intolerant  of  all  that  appears  to 
fall  short  of  it. 

In  such  a  condition  of  society,  it  is  obvious 
that  men  must  be  peculiarly  disinclined  from 
indulging  in  those  bold  and  original  specula- 
tions, for  which  their  whole  training  had  pre- 
viously disqualified  them ;  and  we  appeal  to 
our  readers,  whether  there  are  not,  at  this  day, 
apparent  s}Tmptoms  of  such  a  condition  of  so- 
ciety. A  childish  love  of  novelty  may  indeed 
give  a  transient  popularity  to  works  of  mere 
amusement;  but  the  age  of  original  genius, 
and  of  comprehensive  and  independent  rea 
soning,  seems  to  be  over.  Instead  of  such 
works  as  those  of  Bacon,  and  Shakspeare,  and 
Taylor,  and  Hooker,  we  have  Encyclopaedias, 
and  geographical  compilations,  and  county 
histories,  and  new  editions  of  black  letter  au- 
thors— and  trashy  biographies  and  posthumous 
letters — and  disputations  upon  prosody — and 
ravings  about  orthodoxy  and  methodism .  Men 
of  general  information  and  curiosity  seldom 
think  of  addmg  to  the  knowledge  that  ia 
already  in  the  world ;  and  the  inferior  persons 
upon  whom  that  task  is  consequently  devolved, 


48 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


carry  it  on,  for  the  most  pan,  by  means  of  that 
iiiinute  subdivision  of  labour  which  is  the 
f^reat  secret  of  the  mechanical  arts,  but  can 
never  be  introduced  into  literature  without 
'.lepriving  its  higher  branches  of  all  force,  dig- 
nity, or  importance.  One  man  spends  his  life 
'n  improving  a  method  of  dyeing  cotton  red; 
-another  in  adding  a  few  insects  to  a  cata- 
'bgue  which  nobody  reads ; — a  third  in  settling 
'he  metres  of  a  few  Greek  Choruses; — a 
'burth  iA  decyphering  illegible  romances,  or 
old  grants  of  farms ; — a  fifth  in  picking  rotten 
bones  out  of  the  earth  ] — a  sixth  in  describing 
all  the  old  walls  and  hillocks  in  his  parish ; — 
and  five  hundred  others  in  occupations  equal- 
ly liberal  and  important :  each  of  them  being, 
for  the  most  part,  profoundly  ignorant  of  every 
thing  out  of  his  own  narrow  department,  and 
very  generally  and  deservedly  despised,  by 
his  competitors  for  the  favour  of  that  public — 
which  despises  and  supports  them  all. 

Such,  however,  it  appears  to  us,  is  the  state 
of  mind  that  is  naturally  produced  by  the 
great  accumulation  and  general  diffusion  of 
various  sorts  of  knowledge.  Men  learn,  in- 
stead of  reasoning.  Instead  of  meditating, 
they  remember  ]  and,  in  place  of  the  glow^  of 
inventive  genius,  or  the  warmth  of  a  generous 
admiration,  nothing  is  to  be  met  with,  in  so- 
ciety, but  timidity  on  the  one  hand,  and  fas- 
tidiousness on  the  other — a  paltry  accuracy, 
and  a  more  paltry  derision — a  sensibility  to 
small  faults,  and  an  incapacity  of  great  merits 
— a  disposition  to  exaggerate  the  value  of 
knowledge  that  is  not  to  be  used,  and  to  un- 
derrate the  importance  of  powers  which  have 
ceased  to  exist.  If  these,  however,  are  the 
consequences  of  accumulated  and  diffused 
knowledge,  it  may  well  be  questioned  whether 
the  human  intellect  will  gain  in  point  of  din- 
nity  and  energy  by  the  only  certain  acquisi- 
tions to  which  w^e  are  entitled  to  look  forward. 
For  our  o\vn  part,  we  will  confess  we  have  no 
such  expectations.  There  will  be  improve- 
ments, we  make  no  doubt,  in  all  the  mechani- 
cal and  domestic  arts; — better  methods  of 
working  metal,  and  preparing  cloth; — more 
commodious  vehicles,  and  more  efficient  im- 
plements of  war.  Geography  will  be  made 
more  complete,  and  astronomy  more  precise ; 
— natural  history  will  be  enlarged  and  di- 
gested;— and  perhaps  some  little  improve- 
ment suggested  in  the  fornis  of  administering 
law.  But  as  to  any  general  enlargement  of 
the  understanding,  or  more  prevailing  vigour 
of  judgment,  we  will  own,  that  the  tendency 
seems  to  be  all  the  other  way ;  and  that  we 
think  strong  sense,  and  extended  views  of 
human  affairs,  are  more  likely  to  be  found, 
and  to  be  listened  to  at  this  moment,  than 
two  or  three  hundred  years  hereafter.  The 
truth  is,  we  suspect,  that  the  vast  and  endur- 
ing products  of  the  virgin  soil  can  no  longer 
be  reared  in  that  factitious  mould  to  which 
cultivation  has  since  given  existence ;  and  that 
its  forced  and  deciduous  progeny  will  go  on 
degenerating,  till  some  new  deluge  shall  re- 
store the  vigour  of  the  glebe  by  a  temporary 
destruction  of  all  its  generations. 

Hitherto  we  have  spoken  only  of  the  higher 


and  more  instructed  class(5s  of  society, — 1« 
whom  it  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  the  per- 
fection of  wisdom  and  happiness  will  come 
first,  in  their  progress  through  the  whole  race 
of  men;  and  we  have  seen  what  reason  thejc 
is  to  doubt  of  their  near  approach.  The 
lower  orders,  however,  we  think,  have  still 
less  good  fortune  to  reckon  on.  In  the  whole 
history  of  the  species,  there  has  been  nothing 
at  all  comparable  to  the  improvement  of  Eng- 
land within  the  last  century;  never  anywhere 
was  there  such  an  increase  of  wealth  and  lux- 
ury— so  many  admirable  inventions  in  the 
arts — so  many  works  of  learning  and  inge- 
nuity— such  a  progress  in  cultivation — such 
an  enlargement  of  commerce: — and  yet,  in 
that  century,  the  number  of  paupers  in  Eng- 
land has  increased  fourfold,  and  is  now  rated 
at  one  tenth  of  her  whole  population ;  and. 
notwithstanding  the  enormous  sums  that  are 
levied  and  given  privately  for  their  relief,  and 
the  multitudes  that  are  drained  off  by  the 
waste  of  v\'ar,  the  peace  of  the  country  is  per- 
petually threatened  by  the  outrages  of  fam- 
ishing multitudes.  This  fact  of  itself  is  deci- 
sive, we  think,  as  to  the  effect  of  general 
refinement  and  intelligence  on  the  condition 
of  the  lower  orders;  but  it  is  not  difficult  to 
trace  the  steps  of  its  operation. 

Increasing  refinement  and  ingenuity  lead 
naturally  to  the  establishment  of  manufac- 
tures ;  and  not  only  enable  society  to  spare  a 
great  proportion  of  its  agricultural  labourers 
for  this  purpcse,  but  actually  encourage  the 
breeding  of  an  additional  population,  to  be 
mamtained  out  of  the  profits  of  this  new  oc- 
cupation. For  a  time,  too,  this  answers ;  and 
the  artisan  shares  in  the  conveniences  to  which 
his  labours  have  contributed  to  give  birth; 
but  it  is  in  the  very  nature  of  the  manufac- 
turing system,  to  be  liable  to  great  fluctuation, 
occasional  check,  and  possible  destruction; 
and  at  all  events,  it  has  a  tendency  to  produce 
a  greater  population  than  it  can  peraianently 
support  in  comfort  or  prosperity.  The  average 
rate  of  wages,  for  the  last  forty  years,  has 
been  insufficient  to  maintain  a  labourer  with 
a  tolerably  large  family ; — and  yet  such  have 
been  the  occasional  fluctuations,  and  such  the 
sanguine  calculations  of  persons  incapable  of 
taking  a  comprehensive  view  of  the  whole, 
that  the  manufacturing  population  has  been 
prodigiously  increased  in  the  same  period.  It 
is  the  interest  of  the  manufacturer  to  keep 
this  population  in  excess,  as  the  only  sure 
means  of  keeping  wages  low ;  and  wherever 
the  means  of  subsistence  are  uncertain,  and 
liable  to  variation,  it  seems  to  be  the  general 
law  of  our  nature,  that  the  population  should 
be  adapted  to  the  highest,  and  not  to  the 
average  rate  of  supply.  In  India,  where  a  dry 
season  used  to  produce  a  failure  of  the  crop, 
once  in  every  ten  or  twelve  years,  the  popu 
lation  M^as  always  up  to  the  measure  of  the 
greatest  abundance;  and  in  manufacturing 
countries,  the  miscalculation  is  still  more  san- 
gTiine  and  erroneous.  Such  countries,  there- 
fore, are  always  overpeopled ;  and  it  seems  to 
be  the  necessary  effect  of  increasing  talent  and 
refinement,  to  convert  all  countries  into  this 


JMADAME  DE  STAEL  HOLSTEIN. 


49 


denomination.  China,  the  oldest  manufacturing 
nation  in  the  worldj  and  by  far  the  greatest  that 
ever  existed  with  the  use  of  httle  machinery, 
has  always  suffered  from  a  redundant  popula- 
tion, and  has  always  kept  the  largest  part  of 
its  inhabitants  in  a  state  of  the  greatest  poverty. 

The  effect  then  which  is  produced  on  the 
lower  orders  of  "society,  by  that  increase  of 
ijidustry  and  refinement,  and  that  multiplica- 
tion of  conveniences  which  are  commonly 
looked  upon  as  the  surest  tests  of  increasing 
prosperity,  is  to  convert  the  peasants  into 
manufacturers,  and  the  manufacturers  into 
paupers;  while  the  chance  of  their  ever 
emerging  from  this  condition  becomes  con- 
stantly less,  the  more  complete  and  mature 
the  system  is  which  had  originally  produced 
it.  When  manufactures  are  long  established, 
and  thoroughly  understood,  it  will  always  be 
found,  that  persons  possessed  of  a  large  capi- 
tal, can  carry  them  on  upon  lower  prolits  than 
persons  of  any  other  description;  and  the 
natural  tendency  of  this  system,  therefore,  is 
to  throw  the  whole  business  into  the  hands 
of  great  capitalists;  and  thus  not  only  to  render 
it  next  to  impossible  for  a  common  workman 
to  advance  himself  into  the  condition  of  a 
master,  but  to  drive  from  the  competition  the 
greater  part  of  those  moderate  dealers,  by 
whose  prosperity  alone  the  general  happiness 
of  the  nation  can  be  promoted.  The  state  of 
the  operative  manufacturers,  therefore,  seems 
every  day  more  hopelessly  stationary;  and 
that  great  body  of  the  people,  it  appears  to 
us,  is  likely  to  grow  into  a  fLxed  and  degraded 
caste,  out  of  which  no  person  can  hope  to  es- 
^  cape,  who  has  once  been  enrolled  among  its 
'members.  They  cannot  look  up  to  the  rank 
of  master  manufacturers;  because,  without 
considerable  capital,  it  will  every  day  be  more 
impossible  to  engage  in  that  occupation — and 
back  they  cannot  go  to  the  labours  of  agricul- 
ture, because  there  is  no  demand  for  their 
services.  The  improved  system  of  farming, 
furnishes  an  increased  produce  with  many 
fewer  hands  than  were  formerly  employed  in 
procuring  a  much  smaller  return ;  and  besides 
all  this,  the  lower  population  has  actually  in- 
creased to  a  far  greater  amount  than  ever  was 
at  any  time  employed  in  the  cultivation  of  the 
ground. 

To  remedy  all  these  evils,  which  are  likely, 
as  we  conceive,  to  be  aggravated,  rather  than 
relieved,  by  the  general  progress  of  refinement 
and  intelligence,  w^e  have  little  to  look  to  but 
the  beneficial  effects  of  this  increasing  intelli- 
genc(3  upon  the  lower  orders  themselves; — 
and  we  are  far  from  undervaluing  this  influ- 
ence. By  the  universal  adoption  of  a  good 
system  of  education,  habits  of  foresight  and 
self-control,  and  rigid  economy,  may  in  time 
no  doubt  be  pretty  generally  introduced,  in- 
stead of  the  improvidence  and  profligacy 
which  too  commonly  characterize  the  larger 
assemblages  of  our  manufacturing  population ; 
and  if  these  lead,  as  they  are  likely  to  do,  to 
the  general  institution  of  Friendly  Societies 
and  banks  for  savings  among  the  workmen,  a 
great  palliative  will  have  been  provided  for 
the  disadvantages  of  a  situation,  which  must 
4 


always  be  considered  as  :ne  of  the  least  for- 
tunate which  Providence  has  assigned  to  an\ 
of  the  human  race. 

There  is  no  end,  however,  we  find,  to  these 
speculations;  and  we  must  here  close  our  re- 
marks on  perfectibility,  without  touching  upon 
the  Political  changes  which  are  likely  to  be 
produced  by  a  long  course  of  progressive  re- 
finements and  scientific  improvement — though 
we  are  afraid  that  an  enlightened  anticipation 
would  not  be  much  more  cheering  in  this 
view,  than  in  any  of  those  we  have  hitherto 
considered.  Luxury  and  refinement  have  a 
tendency,  we  fear,  to  make  men  sensual  and 
selfish;  and,  in  that  state,  increased  talent 
and  intelligence  is  apt  only  to  render  them 
more  mercenary  and  servile.  Among  the 
prejudices  which  this  kind  of  philosophy  roots 
out,  that  of  patriotism,  we  fear,  is  generally 
among  the  first  to  be  surmounted ; — and  then, 
a  dangerous  opposition  to  power,  and  a  sacri- 
fice of  interest  to  affection,  speedily  come  to 
be  considered  as  romantic.  Arts  are  discov- 
ered to  palliate  the  encroachments  of  arbitrary 
poAver;  and  a  luxurious,  patronizing,  and 
vicious  monarchy  is  firmly  established  amidst 
the  adulations  of  a  corrupt  nation.  But  we 
must  proceed  at  last  to  Madame  de  Stael's 
History  of  Literature. 

Not  knowing  any  thing  of  the  Egyptians 
and  PhcDnicians,  she  takes  the  Greeks  for  the 
first  inventors  of  literature — and  explains 
many  of  their  peculiarities  by  that  supposition. 
The  first  development  of  talent,  she  says,  is 
in  Poetry ;  and  the  first  poetry  consists  in  the 
rapturous  description  of  striking  objects  in  na- 
ture, or  of  the  actions  and  exploits  that  are 
then  thought  of  the  greatest  importance. 
There  is  little  reflection — no  nice  development 
of  feeling  or  character — and  no  sustained 
strain  of  tenderness  or  moral  emotion  in  this 
primitive  poetry ;  which  charms  almost  en- 
tirely by  the  freshness  and  brilliancy  of  its 
colouring — the  spirit  and  naturalness  of  its 
representations — and  the  air  of  freedom  and 
facility  with  which  every  thing  is  executed. 
This,  was  the  age  of  Homer.  After  that, 
though  at  a  long  interval,  came  the  age  of 
Pericles : — When  human  nature  was  a  little 
more  studied  and  regarded,  and  poetry  re- 
ceived accordingly  a  certain  cast  of  thought- 
fulness,  and  an  air  of  labour — eloquence  began 
to  be  artful,  and  the  rights  and  duties  of  men 
to  be  subjects  of  meditation  and  inquiry. 
This,  therefore,  was  the  era  of  the  tragedians, 
the  orators,  and  the  first  ethical  philosophers. 
Last  came  the  age  of  Alexander,  when  science 
had  superseded  fancy,  and  all  the  talent  of 
the  country  was  turned  to  the  pursuits  of 
philosophy.  This,  Madame  de  Stael  tliinks. 
is  the  natural  progress  of  literature  in  all 
countries ;  and  that  of  the  Greeks  is  only  dis- 
tinguished by  their  having  been  the  first  that 
pursued  it,  and  by  the  pecuharities  of  their 
mythology,  and  their  political  relations.  It  is 
not  quite  clear  indeed  that  they  were  the  first ; 
but  Madame  de  Stael  is  very  eloquent  upon 
that  supposition. 

The  state  of  society,  however,  in  those  early 
times,  was  certainly  s'-'ch  as  to  impress  ve'y 


so 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


strongly  on  the  .nincl  those  objects  and  occur- 
rences which  iovmnd  the  first  materials  of 
poetry.  The  intercourse  with  d:stant  coun- 
tries being  difficult  and  dangerous,  the  legends 
of  the  traveller  were  naturally  invested  with 
more  than  the  modern  allowance  of  the  mar- 
Tellous.  The  smallness  of  the  civilized  states 
connected  every  individual  in  them  with  its 
leaders,  and  made  him  personally  a  debtor  for 
the  protection  which  their  prowess  afforded 
from  the  robbers  and  wild  beasts  which  then 
infested  the  unsubdued  earth.  Gratitude  and 
terror,  therefore,  combined  to  excite  the  spirit 
of  enthusiasm ;  and  the  same  ignorance  which 
imputed  to  the  direct  agency  of  the  gods,  the 
more  rare  and  dreadful  phenomena  of  nature, 
gave  a  character  of  supernatural  greatness  to 
the  reported  exploits  of  their  heroes.  Philoso- 
phy, w^hich  has  led  to  the  exact  investigation 
of  causes,  has  robbed  the  world  of  much  of 
its  sublimity;  and  by  preventing  us  from  be- 
lieving much,  and  from  w^ondering  at  any 
thing,  has  taken  away  half  our  enthusiasm, 
and  more  than  half  our  admiration. 

The  purity  of  taste  which  characterizes  the 
very  earliest  poetry  of  the  Greeks,  seems  to  us 
more  difficult  to  be  accounted  for.  Madame 
de  Stael  ascribes  it  chiefly  to  the  influence 
of  their  copious  mythology ;  and  the  eternal 
presence  of  those  Gods — which,  though  al- 
ways about  men,  w^ere  always  above  them, 
and  gave  a  tone  of  dignity  or  elegance  to  the 
whole  scheme  of  their  existence.  Their  tra- 
gedies were  acted  in  temples — in  the  sup- 
posed presence  of  the  Gods,  the  fate  of  whose 
descendants  they  commemorated,  and  as  a 
part  of  the  rehgious  solemnities  instituted  in 
their  honour.  Their  legends,  in  like  manner, 
related  to  the  progeny  of  the  immortals :  and 
their  feasts — their  dwellings — their  farming — 
their  battles — and  every  incident  and  occupa- 
tion of  their  daily  life  being  under  the  imme- 
diate sanction  of  some  presiding  deity,  it  was 
scarcely  possible  to  speak  of  them  in  a  vulgar 
or  inelegant  manner;  and  the  nobleness  of 
their  style  therefore  appeared  to  result  natu- 
rally from  the  "elegance  of  their  mythology. 

Now,  even  if  we  could  pass  over  the  ob- 
vious objection,  that  this  mythology  was  itself 
a  creature  of  the  same  poetical  imagination 
which  it  is  here  supposed  to  have  modified, 
it  is  impossible  not  to  observe,  that  thougli 
the  circumstances  now  alluded  to  may  ac- 
count for  the  raised  and  lofty  tone  of  the  Gre- 
cian poetry,  and  for  the  exclusion  of  low  or 
familiar  life  from  their  dramatic  representa- 
tions, it  will  not  explain  the  far  more  substan- 
tial indications  of  pure  taste  afforded  by  the 
absence  of  all  that  gross  exaggeration,  violent 
incongruity,  and  tedious  and  childish  extrava- 
gance whicn  are  found  to  deform  the  primi- 
tive poetry  of  most  other  nations.  The  Hin- 
doos, for  example,  have  a  mythology  at  least 
as  copious,  and  still  more  closely  interwoven 
with  every  action  of  their  lives :  But  their  le- 
gends are  the  very  models  of  bad  taste ;  and 
unite  all  the  detestable  attributes  of  obscurity, 
puerility,  insufferable  tediousness.  and  the 
most  revolting  and  abominable  absurdity. 
The  poetry  of  the  northern  bards  is  not  much 


more  commendable :  But  the  Greeks  are  won- 
derfully rational  and  moderate  in  all  theii 
works  of  imagination ',  and  speak^  for  the  most 
part,  with  a  degree  of  justness  and  brevity^ 
which  is  only  the  more  marvellous,  when  it  ifii 
considered  how  much  religion  had  to  do  in  the 
business.  A  better  explanation,  perhaps,  of 
their  superiority,  may  be  derived  from  recol- 
lecting that  the  sins  of  affectation,  and  inju- 
dicious effort,  really  cannot  be  committed 
w^here  there  are  no  models  to  be  at  once  co- 
pied and  avoided.  The  first  writers  naturally 
took  possession  of  what  was  most  striking, 
and  most  capable  of  producing  effect,  in  na- 
ture and  in  incident.  Their  successors  con- 
sequently found  these  occupied;  and  were 
obliged,  for  the  credit  of  their  originality,  to 
produce  something  which  should  be  diflerent, 
at  least,  if  not  better,  than  their  originals. 
They  had  not  only  to  adhere  to  nature,  there- 
fore, but  to  avoid  representing  her  exactly  as 
she  had  been  represented  by  their  predeces- 
sors; and  when  they  could  not  accomplish 
both  these  objects,  they  contrived,  at  least,  to 
make  sure  of  the  last.  The  early  Greeks  had 
but  one  task  to  perform:  they  w^ere  in  no 
danger  of  comparisons,  or  imputations  of  pla- 
giarism; and  wTOte  down  whatever  struck 
them  as  just  and  impressive,  without  fear  of 
finding  that  they  had  been  stealing  from  a 
predecessor.  The  wide  world,  in  short,  was 
before  them,  unappropriated  and  unmarked 
by  any  preceding  footstep;  and  they  took  their 
way,  without  hesitation,  by  the  most  airy 
heights  and  sunny  valleys ;  while  those  who 
came  after,  found  it  so  seamed  and  crossed 
with  tracks  in  which  they  were  forbidden  to 
tread,  that  they  were  frequently  driven  to 
make  the  most  fantastic  circuits  and  abrupt 
descents  to  avoid  them. 

The  characteristic  defects  of  the  early 
Greek  poetry  are  all  to  be  traced  to  the  same 
general  causes, — the  peculiar  state  of  society, 
and  that  newTiess  to  which  they  w^ere  indebt- 
ed for  its  principal  beauties.  They  describe 
every  thing,  because  nothing  had  been  pre- 
viously described ;  and  incumber  their  whole 
diction  with  epithets  that  convey  no  informa- 
tion. There  is  no  reach  of  thought,  or  fine- 
ness of  sensibility,  because  reflection  had  not 
yet  awakened  the  deeper  sympathies  of  their 
nature ;  and  we  are  perpetually  shocked  with 
the  imperfections  of  their  morality,  and  the 
indelicacy  of  their  affections,  because  society 
had  not  subsisted  long  enough  in  peace  and 
security  to  develop  those  finer  sources  of 
emotion.  These  defects  are  most  conspicuous 
in  every  thing  that  relates  to  women.  They 
had  absolutely  no  idea  of  that  mixture  of 
friendship,  veneration,  and  desire,  which  is 
indicated  by  the  word  Love,  in  the  modern 
languages  of  Europe.  The  love  of  the  Greek 
tragedians,  is  a  species  of  insanity  or  frenzy, — 
a  blind  and  ungovernable  impulse  inflicted  by 
the  Gods  in  their  vengeance,  and  leading  its 
humiliated  victim  to  the  commission  of  all 
sorts  of  enormities.  Racine,  in  his  Phadre^. 
has  ventured  to  exhibit  a  love  of  this  descrip- 
tion on  a  modern  stage ;  but  the  softenings  of 
delicate  feeling — the  tenderaeas  and  profctmd 


MADAME  DE  STAEL  HOLSTEIN. 


51 


nflliction  which  he  has  been  forced  to  add  to 
the  fata]  impulse  of  the  original  character, 
shoWj  more  strongly  than  any  thing  else,  the 
radical  difference  between  the  ancient  and 
the  modern  conception  of  the  passion. 

The  Political  institutions  of  Greece  had  also 
a  remarkable  effect  on  their  literature ;  and 
nothing  can  show  this  so  strongly  as  the  strik- 
ing contrast  between  Athens  and  Sparta — 
placed  under  the  same  sky — with  the  same 
language  and  religion — and  yet  so  opposite  in 
their  goverrmient  and  in  their  literary  pur- 
suits. The  ruling  passion  of  the  Athenians 
was  that  of  amusement;  for,  though  the 
emulation  of  glory  was  more  lively  among 
them  than  among  any  other  people,  it  was  still 
subordinate  to  their  rapturous  admiration  of 
successful  talent.  Their  law  of  ostracism  is 
a  proof,  how  much  they  were  afraid  of  their 
own  propensity  to  idolize.  They  could  not 
trust  themselves  in  the  presence  of  one  who 
had  become  too  popular.  This  propensity 
also  has  had  a  sensible  effect  upon  their 
poetry ;  and  it  should  never  be  forgotten,  that 
it  was  not  composed  to  be  read  and  studied 
and  criticized  in  the  solitude  of  the  closet, 
like  the  works  that  have  been  produced  since 
the  invention  of  printing;  but  to  be  recited  to 
music,  before  multitudes  assembled  at  feasts 
and  high  solemnities,  where  every  thing  fa- 
voured the  kindling  and  diffusion  of  that  en- 
thusiasm, of  which  the  history  now  seems  to 
us  so  incredible. 

There  is  a  separate  chapter  on  the  Greek 
drama — which  is  full  of  brilliant  and  original 
observations ; — though  w^e  have  already  antic- 
ipated the  substance  of  many  of  them.  The 
great  basis  of  its  peculiarity,  was  the  constant 
interposition  of  the  Gods.  Almost  all  the 
violent  passions  are  represented  as  the  irre- 
sistible inspirations  of  a  superior  power; — 
almost  all  their  extraordinary  actions  as  the 
fulfilment  of  an  oracle — the  accomplishment 
of  an  unrelenting  destiny.  This  probably 
added  to  the  awfulness  and  terror  of  the  rep- 
resentation, in  an  audience  which  believed 
implicitly  in  the  reality  of  those  dispensations. 
But  it  has  impaired  their  dramatic  excellence, 
by  dispensing  them  too  much  from  the  ne- 
vcessity  of  preparing  their  catastrophes  by  a 
[gradation  of  natural  events, — the  exact  de- 
\lineation  of  character, — and  the  touching  rep- 
resentation of  those  preparatory  struggles 
which  precede  a  resolution  of  horror.  Orestes 
kills  his  mother,  and  Electra  encourages  him 
jto  the  deed, — without  the  least  indication,  in 
{either,  of  that  poignant  remorse  which  after- 
j wards  avenges  the  parricide.  No  modern 
^dramatist  could  possibly  have  omitted  so  im- 
portant and  natural  a  part  of  the  exhibition ; — 
but  the  explanation  of  it  is  found  at  once  in 
the  ruling  superstition  of  the  age.  Apollo  had 
commanded  the  murder — and  Orestes  could 
not  hesitate  to  obey.  When  it  is  committed, 
the  Furies  are  commissioned  to  pursue  him : 
and  the  audience  shudders  with  reverential 
awe  at  the  torments  they  inflict  on  their  victim. 
Human  sentiments,  and  human  motives,  have 
put  little  to  do  in  bringing  about  these  catas- 
l^cphes.     They  are  sometimes  suggested  by 


the  Chorus; — but  the  heroes  themselves  act 
always  by  the  order  of  the  Gods.  Accord- 
ingly, the  authors  of  the  most  atrocious  actions 
are  seldom  represented  in  the  Greek  tragedies 
as  properly  guilty,  but  only  as  piacular ; — and 
their  general  moral  is  rather,  that  the  God? 
are  omnipotent,  than  that  crimes  should  give 
rise  to  punishment  and  detestation. 

A  great  part  of  the  effect  of  these  represen- 
tations must  have  depended  on  the  exclusive 
nationality  of  their  subjects,  and  the  extreme 
nationality  of  their  auditors;  though  it  is  a 
striking  remark  of  Madame  de  Stael,  that  the 
Greeks,  after  all.  were  more  national  than  re- 
publican,— and  were  never  actuated  with  that 
profound  hatred  and  scorn  of  tyranny  which 
afterwards  exalted  the  Roman  character.  Al- 
most all  their  tragic  subjects,  accordingly,  are 
taken  from  the  misfortunes  of  kings ; — of  kings 
descended  from  the  Gods,  and  upon  whose 
genealogy  the  nation  still  continued  to  pride 
itself.  The  fate  of  the  Tarquins  could  never 
have  been  regarded  at  Rome  as  a  worthy  oc- 
casion either  of  pity  or  horror.  Republican 
sentiments  are  occasionally  introduced  into 
the  Greek  Choruses; — though  we  cannot  agree 
with  Madame  de  Stael  in  considering  these  mu- 
sical bodies  as  intended  to  represent  the  people. 

It  is  in  their  comedy,  that  the  defects  of  the 
Greek  literature  are  most  conspicuous.  The 
world  was  then  too  young  to  supply  its  mate- 
rials. Society  had  not  existed  long  enough, 
either  to  develop  the  finer  shades  of  character 
in  real  life,  or  to  generate  the  talent  of  ob- 
serving, generalizing,  and  representing  them. 
The  national  genius,  and  the  form  of  govern- 
ment, led  them  to  delight  in  detraction  and 
popular  abuse ;  for  though  they  admired  and 
applauded  their  great  men,  they  had  not  in 
their  hearts  any  great  respect  for  them ;  and 
the  degradation  or  seclusion  in  which  they 
kept  their  women,  took  away  almost  all  inte- 
rest or  elegance  from  the  intercourse  of  private 
life,  and  reduced  its  scenes  of  gaiety  to  those 
of  coarse  debauch,  or  broad  and  humourous  de- 
rision. The  extreme  coarseness  and  vulgarity 
of  Aristophanes,  is  apt  to  excite  our  wonder^ 
when  we  first  consider  him  as  the  contempo- 
rary of  Euripides,  and  Socrates,  and  Plato ; — 
but  the  truth  is,  that  the  Athenians,  after  all, 
were  but  an  ordinary  populace  as  to  moral 
delicacy  and  social  refinement.  Enthusiasm, 
and  especially  the  enthusiasm  of  superstition 
and  nationality,  is  as  much  a  passion  of  the 
vulgar,  as  a  delight  in  ribaldry  and  low  buf- 
foonery. The  one  was  gratified  by  their 
tragedy; — and  the  comedy  of  Aristophanes 
was  exactly  calculated  to  give  delight  to  the 
other.  In  the  end,  however,  their  love  of 
buffoonery  and  detraction  unfortunately  proved 
too  strong  for  their  nationality.  When  Philip 
was  at  their  gates,  all  the  eloquence  of  Demos- 
thenes could  not  rouse  them  from  their  the- 
atrical dissipations.  The  great  danger  which 
they  always  apprehended  to  their  liberties, 
was  from  the  excessive  power  and  popularity 
of  one  of  their  own  great  men;  and,  by  a 
singular  fatality,  they  perished,  from  a  profli- 
gate indifference  and  insensibil'.ty  to  the 
charms  of  patriotism  and  greatness. 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


In  philosophy,  Madame  de  Stael  does  not 
rank  the  Greeks  very  high.  The  greater  part 
01  them,  indeed,  were  orators  and  poets, 
ratlier  than  profound  thinkers,  or  exact  in- 
quirers. They  discoursed  rhetorically  upon 
vague  and  abstract  ideas  j  and,  up  to  the  time 
of  Aristotle,  proceeded  upon  the  radical  error 
of  substittiting  hypothesis  for  observation. 
That  eminent  person  first  showed  the  use  and 
the  necessity  of  analysis,  and  did  infinitely 
more  for  posterity  than  all  the  mystics  that 
went  before  him.  As  their  states  w^ere  small, 
and  their  domestic  life  inelegant,  men  seem 
to  have  been  considered  almost  exclusively 
in  their  relations  to  the  public.  There  is, 
accordingly,  a  noble  air  of  patriotism  and  de- 
votedness  to  the  common  weal  in  all  the  mo- 
rality of  the  ancients ;  and  though  Socrates 
set  the  example  of  fixing  the  principles  of 
virtue  for  private  life,  the  ethics  of  Plato,  and 
Xenophon,  and  Zeno,  and  most  of  the  other 
philosophers,  are  little  else  than  treatises  of 
political  duties.  In  modern  times,  from  the 
prevalence  of  monarchical  government,  and 
the  great  extent  of  societies,  men  are  very 
generally  loosened  from  their  relations  with 
the  public,  and  are  but  too  much  engrossed 
with  their  private  interests  and  affections. 
This  may  be  venial,  when  they  merely  forget 
the  state, — by  which  they  are  forgotten;  but 
it  is  base  and  fatal,  when  they  are  guided  by 
those  interests  in  the  few  public  functions  they 
have  still  to  perform.  After  all,  the  morality 
of  the  Greeks  was  very  clumsy  and  imperfect. 
In  political  science,  the  variety  of  their  govern- 
ments, and  the  perpetual  play  of  war  and  nego- 
tiation, had  made  them  more  expert.  Their 
historians  narrate  with  spirit  and  simplicity; 
and  this  is  their  merit.  They  make  scarcely 
any  reflections;  and  are  marvellously  indiffer- 
ent as  to  vice  or  virtue.  They  record  the  most 
atrocious  and  most  heroic  actions — the  most 
disgusting  crimes  and  most  exemplary  gener- 
osity— with  the  same  tranquil  accuracy  with 
which  they  would  describe  the  succession  of 
storms  and  sunshine.  Thucydides  is  some- 
what of  a  higher  pitch ;  but  the  immense  dif- 
ference between  him  and  Tacitus  proves, 
better  perhaps  than  any  general  reasoning,  the 
progress  which  had  been  made  in  the  interim 
in  the  powers  of  reflection  and  observation ; 
and  how  near  the  Greeks,  with  all  their 
boasted  attainments,  should  be  placed  to  the 
intellectual  infancy  of  the  species.  In  all 
their  productions,  indeed,  the  fewness  of  their 
ideas  is  remarkable ;  and  their  most  impres- 
sive writings  may  be  compared  to  the  music 
of  certain  rude  nations,  which  produces  the 
most  astonishing  effects  by  the  combination 
of  not  more  than  four  or  five  simple  notes. 

Madame  de  Stael  now  proceeds  to  the  Ro- 
mans— who  will  nor  detain  us  by  any  means 
BO  long.  Their  literature  was  confessedly 
borrowed  from  that  of  Greece;  for  little  is 
ever  invented,  where  borrowing  will  serve  the 
purpose :  But  it  was  marked  with  several  dis- 
tinctions, to  M'hich  alone  it  is  now  necessary 
to  attend.  In  the  first  place — and  this  is  very 
remarkable — the  Romans,  contrary  to  the 
custom  of  all  other  nations,  began  their  career 


of  letters  with  philosophy ;  and  the  cause  of 
this  peculiarity  is  very  characteristic  of  th« 
nation.  They  had  subsisted  longer,  and  ef- 
fected more,  without  literature^  than  any  othei 
people  on  record.  They  had  become  a  great 
state,  wisely  constituted  and  skilfully  admin- 
istered,  long  before  any  one  of  their  citizens 
had  ever  appeared  as  an  author.  The  love 
of  their  country  was  the  passion  of  each  indi- 
vidual— the  greatness  of  the  Roman  name  the 
object  of  their  pride  and  enthusiasm.  Studies 
which  had  no  reference  to  political  objects, 
therefore,  could  find  no  favour  in  their  eyes, 
and  it  was  from  their  subserviency  to  populai 
and  senatorial  oratory,  and  the  aid  which  they 
promised  to  afford  in  the  management  of  fac- 
tions and  national  concerns,  that  they  were 
first  led  to  listen  to  the  lessons  of  the  Greek 
philosophers.  Nothing  else  could  have  in- 
duced Cato  to  enter  upon  such  a  study  at  such 
an  advanced  period  of  life.  Though  the  Ro- 
mans borrowed  their  philosophy  from  the 
Greeks,  however,  they  made  much  more  use 
of  it  than  their  masters.  They  carried  into 
their  practice  much  of  what  the  others  con- 
tented themselves  with  setting  down  in  their 
books ;  and  thus  came  to  attain  much  more 
precise  notions  of  practical  duty,  than  could 
ever  be  invented  by  mere  discoursers.  The 
philosophical  writings  of  Cicero,  though  in 
cumbered  with  the  subtleties  of  his  Athen- 
ian preceptors,  contain  a  much  more  complete 
code  of  morality  than  is  to  be  found  in  all  the 
volumes  of  the  Greeks — though  it  may  be 
doubted,  whether  his  political  information  and 
acuteness  can  be  compared  with  that  of  Aris- 
totle. It  was  the  philosophy  of  the  Stoics, 
however,  that  g-ained  the  hearts  of  the  Ro 
mans ;  for  it  was  that  which  fell  in  with  theii 
national  habits  and  dispositions. 

The  same  character  and  the  same  national 
institutions  that  led  them  to  adopt  the  Greek 
philosophy  instead  of  their  poetry,  restrained 
them  from  the  imitation  of  their  theatrical 
excesses.  As  their  free  government  was 
strictly  aristocratical,  it  could  never  permit 
its  legitimate  chiefs  to  be  held  up  to  mockery 
on  the  stage,  as  the  democratical  licence  of 
the  Athenians  held  up  the  pretenders  to  theii 
favour.  But,  independently  of  this,  the  severer 
dignity  of  the  Roman  character,  and  the  deepei 
respect  and  prouder  affection  they  entertained 
for  all  that  exalted  the  glory  of  their  country, 
would  at  all  events  have  interdicted  such  in- 
decorous and  humiliating  exhibitions.  The 
comedy  of  Aristophanes  never  could  have 
been  tolerated  at  Rome ;  and  though  Plautus 
and  Terence  were  allowed  to  imitate,  or  rather 
to  translate,  the  more  inoffensive  dramas  of  a 
later  age,  it  is  remarkable,  that  they  seldom 
ventured  to  subject  even  to  that  mitig-ated 
and  more  general  ridicule  any  one  invested 
with  the  dignity  of  a  Roman  citizen.  The  man- 
ners represented  are  almost  entirely  Greek 
manners;  and  the  ridiculous  parts  are  almost 
without  any  exception  assigned  to  foreigners, 
and  to  persons  of  a  servile  condition.  Women 
were,  from  the  beginning,  of  more  account  in 
the  estimation  of  the  Romans  than  of  the 
Greeks — though  their  provmce  was  still  strict* 


MADAME  DE  STAEL  HOLSTEIN, 


ky  domesiic,  and  did  not  extend  to  what,  in 
modem  tunes,  is  denominated  society.  With 
ftU  the  severity  of  their  character,  the  Romans 
nad  much  more  real  tenderness  than  the 
Greeks, — though  they  repressed  its  external 
indications,  as  among  those  marks  of  weak- 
ness which  were  unbecoming  men  intrusted 
with  the  interests  and  the  honour  of  their 
country.  Madame  de  Stael  has  drawn  a 
pretty  picture  of  the  parting  of  Brutus  and 
Portia;  and  contrasted  it,  as  a  specimen  of 
national  character,  with  the  Grecian  group  of 
Pericles  pleading  for  Aspasia.  The  general 
observation,  we  are  persuaded,  is  just ;  but 
the  examples  are  not  quite  fairly  chosen. 
Brutus  is  a  little  too  good  for  an  average  of 
Roman  virtue.  If  she  had  chosen  Mark  An- 
tony, or  Lepidus,  the  contrast  would  have 
been  less  brilliant.  The  self-control  which 
their  principles  required  of  them — the  law 
which  they  had  imposed  on  themselves,  to 
have  no  indulgence  for  suffering  in  them- 
selves or  in  others,  excluded  tragedy  from 
the  range  of  their  literature.  Pity  was  never 
to  be  recognized  by  a  Roman,  but  when  it 
came  in  the  shape  of  a  noble  clemency  to  a 
vanquished  foe ', — and  wailings  and  complaints 
were  never  to  disgust  the  ears  of  men,  who 
knew  how  to  act  and  to  suffer  in  tranquillity. 
The  very  frequency  of  suicide  in  Rome,  be- 
longed to  this  characteristic.  There  was  no 
other  alternative,  but  to  endure  firmly,  or  to 
die; — nor  were  importunate  lamentations  to 
be  endured  from  one  who  was  free  to  quit 
life  whenever  he  could  not  bear  it  without 
murmuring. 

What  has  been  said  relates  to  the  literature 
of  republican  Rome.  The  usurpation  of  Au- 
gustus gave  a  new  character  to  her  genius ; 
and  brought  it  back  to  those  poetical  studies 
with  which  most  other  nations  have  begun. 
The  cause  of  this,  too,  is  obvious.  While 
liberty  survived,  the  study  of  philosophy  and 
oratory  and  history  was  but  as  an  instrument 
in  the  hands  of  a  liberal  and  patriotic  ambi- 
tion, and  naturally  attracted  the  attention  of 
all  \vhose  talents  entitled  them  to  aspire  to 
the  first  dignities  of  the  state.  After  an  ab- 
solute government  was  established,  those 
high  prizes  were  taken  out  of  the  lottery  of 
life;  and  the  primitive  uses  of  those  noble 
instruments  expired.  There  was  no  longer 
any  safe  or  worthy  end  to  be  gained,  by  in- 
fluencing the  conduct,  or  fixing  the  principles 
of  men.  But  it  was  still  permitted  to  seek 
their  applause  by  ministering  to  their  delight ; 
and  talent  and  ambition,  when  excluded  from 
the  nobler  career  of  political  activity,  naturally 
sought  for  a  humbler  harvest  of  glory  in  the 
cultivation  of  poetry,  and  the  arts  of  imagina- 
tion. The  poetry  of  the  Romans,  however, 
derived  this  advantage  from  the  lateness  of 
Its  origin,  that  it  was  enriched  by  all  that 
knowledge  of  the  human  heart,  and  those 
habits  of  reflection,  which  had  been  generated 
by  the  previous  study  of  philosophy.  There  is 
unifoi-mly  more  thought,  therefore,  and  more 
development,  both  of  reason  and  of  moral 
feeling,  in  the  poets  of  the  Augustan  age,  than 
many  of  their  Greek  predecessors;  and  though 


repressed  in  a  good  degree  by  the  remains  of 
their  national  austerity,  there  is  also  a  great 
deal  more  tenderness  of  affection.  In  spite 
of  the  pathos  of  some  scenes  in  Euripides, 
and  the  melancholy  passion  of  some  frag- 
ments of  Simonides  and  Sappho,  there  is  no 
thing  at  all  like  the  fourth  book  of  Virgil,  the 
Alcmene,  and  Baucis  and  Philemon  of  Ovid, 
and  some  of  the  elegies  of  TibulliiB,  in  the 
whole  range  of  Greek  literature.  The  memory 
of  their  departed  freedom,  too,  conspired  to 
give  an  air  of  sadness  to  much  of  the  Roman 
poetry,  and  their  feeling  of  the  lateness  of  the 
age  in  which  they  were  born.  The  Greeks 
thought  only  of  the  present  and  the  future ; 
but  the  Romans  had  begun  already  to  live  in 
the  past,  and  to  make  pensive  reflections  on 
the  faded  glory  of  mankind.  The  historians 
of  this  classic  age,  though  they  have  more  of 
a  moral  character  than  those  of  Greece,  are  still 
but  superficial  teachers  of  wisdom.  Their 
narration  is  more  animated,  and  more  pleas- 
ingly dramatised,  by  the  orations  with  which 
it  is  interspersed ; — but  they  have  neither  the 
profound  reflection  of  Tacitus,  nor  the  power 
of  explaining  great  events  by  general  causes, 
which  distingTiishes  the  writers  of  modenr 
times. 

The  atrocious  tyranny  that  darkened  the 
earlier  ages  of  the  empire,  gave  rise  to  the 
third  school  of  Roman  literature.  The  sufier- 
ings  to  which  men  were  subjected,  turned 
their  thoughts  inward  on  their  own  hearts; 
and  that  philosophy  which  had  first  been 
courted  as  the  handmaid  of  a  generous  ambi- 
tion, w^as  now  sought  as  a  shelter  and  con- 
solation in  misery.  The  maxims  of  the  Stoics 
w-ere  again  revived, — not,  indeed,  to  stimulate 
to  noble  exertion,  but  to  harden  against  mis- 
fortune. Their  lofty  lessons  of  virtue  were 
again  repeated — but  with  a  bitter  accent  of 
despair  and  reproach;  and  that  indulgence,  or 
indifference  towards  vice,  which  had  charac- 
terised the  first  philosophers,  was  now  con- 
verted, by  the  terrible  experience  of  its  evils, 
into  vehement  and  gloomy  invective.  Seneca, 
Tacitus,  Epictetus,  all  fall  under  this  descrip- 
tion; and  the  same  spirit  is  discernible  in 
Juvenal  and  Lucan.  Much  more  profound 
views  of  human  nature,  and  a  far  greater  mo- 
ral sensibility  characterise  this  age, — and  show 
that  even  the  unspeakable  degradation  toi 
which  the  abuse  of  power  had  then  sunk  the 
mistress  of  the  world,  .could  not  arrest  alto- 
gether that  intellectual  progress  which  gathers 
its  treasures  from  all  the  varieties  of  human 
fortune.  Quintilian  and  the  two  Plinys  afford 
further  evidence  of  this  progress; — for  they 
are,  in  point  of  thought  and  accuracy,  and 
profound  sense,  conspicuously  superior  to  any 
writers  upon  similar  subjects  in  the  days  of  . 
Augustus.  Poetry  and  the  fine  arts  languish- 
ed, indeed,  under  the  rigours  of  this  blasting 
despotism; — and  it  is  honourable,  on  the 
whole,  to  the  memory  of  their  former  great- 
ness, that  so  few  Roman  poets  should  have 
sullied  their  pens  by  any  traces  of  adulation 
towards  the  monsters  M'ho  then  sat  in  the 
place  of  power. 

We  pass  over  Madame  de  Stael'u  view  o/ 


54 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


the  middle  ages,  and  of  the  manner  in  which 
the  mixture  of  the  northern  and  southern  races 
amehorated  the  intellect  and  the  moraUty  of 
both.  One  great  cause  of  their  mutual  im- 
provement, however,  she  truly  states  to  have 
been  the  general  prevalence  of  Christianity ; 
which,  by  the  abohtion  of  domestic  slavery, 
removed  the  chief  cause,  both  of  the  corrup- 
tion and  ike  ferocity  of  ancient  manners.  By 
investing  the  conjugal  miion,  too,  with  a  sacred 
character  of  equality,  it  at  once  redressed  the 
long  injustice  to  w^hich  the  female  sex  had 
been  subjected,  and  blessed  and  gladdened 
private  life  wuth  a  new  progeny  of  pys,  and  a 
new  fund  of  knowledge  of  the  most  interest- 
ing description.  Upon  a  subject  of  this  kind, 
we  naturally  expect  a  woman  to  express  her- 
self with  peculiar  animation;  and  Madame 
de  Stael  has  done  it  ample  justice  in  the  fol- 
lowing, and  in  other  passages. 

"  C'est  done  alors  que  les  femmes  commencerent 
a  etre  de  moitie  dans  I'association  humaine.  C'est 
alors  aussi  que  Ton  connut  veritablement  le  bonheur 
domestique.  Trop  de  puissance  deprave  la  bonte, 
altere  toutes  les  jouissances  de  la  delicatesse ;  les 
vertus  et  les  sentimens  ne  peuvent  resister  d'une 
part  a  I'exercice  du  pouvoir,  de  I'autre  a  I'habitude 
de  la  crainte.  La  felicite  de  rhomme  s'accrut  de 
toute  I'independance  qu'obtint  I'objet  de  sa  ten- 
dresse ;  il  put  se  croire  aime ;  un  etre  libre  le 
choisit ;  un  etre  libre  obeit  a  ses  desirs.  Les  ap- 
per9us  de  I'esprit,  les  nuances  senties  par  le  cceur 
ee  multiplierent  avec  les  idees  et  les  impressions  de 
ces  ames  nouvelles,  qui  s'essayoient  a  I'existence 
morale,  apres  avoir  long-temps  langui  dans  la  vie. 
Les  femmes  n'ont  point  compose  d'ouvrages  verit- 
ablement superieurs;  maisellesn'enont  pas  moins 
eminemment  servi  les  progres  de  la  litterature, 
par  la  foule  de  pensees  qu'ont  inspirees  aux  hommes 
les  relations  eittretenues  avec  ces  etres  mobiles  et 
delicats.  Tous  les  rapports  se  sont  doubles,  pour 
ainsi  dire,  depuis  que  les  objets  ont  ete  consideres 
sous  ua  point  de  vue  tout-a-fait  nouveau.  La  con- 
fiance  d'un  lienintime  en  a  plus  appris  sur  la  nature 
morale,  que  tousles  traites  et  tous  les  s^stemes  qui 
peignoieni  I'homme  tel  qu'ilse  montre  a  I'homme, 
et  non  tel  qu'il  est  reellement." — pp.  197,  198. 

"  Les  femmes  ont  decouvert  dans  les  caracteres 
une  foule  de  nuances,  que  le  besoin  de  dominer  ou 
la  crainte  d'etre  asservies  leur  a  fait  appercevoir: 
elles  ont  fourni  au  talent  dramatique  de  nouveaux 
secrets  pour  emouvoir.  Tous  les  sentimens  aux- 
quels  il  leur  est  permis  de  se  livrer,  la  crainte  de  la 
mort,  le  regret  de  la  vie,  le  devouement  sans 
bornes,  I'indignation  sans  mesure,  enrichissent  la 
litterature  d'expressions  nouvelles.  De-la  vient 
que  les  moralistes  modernes  ont  en  general  beau- 
coup  plus  de  finesse  et  de  sagacite  dans  la  connois- 
sance  des  hommes,  que  les  moralistes  de  I'antiquite. 
Quiconque,  chez  les  anoiens,  ne  pouvoit  atteindre  a 
la  renommce,  n'avoit  aucun  motif  de  developpe- 
ment.  Depuis  qu'on  est  deux  dans  la  vie  domes- 
tique, les  communications  de  I'esprit  et  I'exercice 
de  la  morale  existent  toujours,  au  moins  dans  un 

fietit  cercle ;  les  enfans  sont  devenus  plus  chers  a 
eur  parens,  par  la  tendresse  reciproque  qui  forme  le 
lien  conjugal  •■,  et  toutes  les  affections  ont  pris  I'em- 

Freinte  de  cette  divine  alliance  de  I'amour  ct  de 
amitie,  de  I'estime  et  de  I'attrait,  de  la  confiance 
meritee  et  de  la  seduction  involontaire. 

"  Unage  aride,  que  la  gloire  et  la  vertu  pouvoient 
nonorer,  mais  qui  ne  devoit  plus  etre  ranime  par 
les  emotions  du  cceur,  la  vieillesse  s'est  enrichie  de 
toutes  les  pensees  de  la  melancolie;  il  lui  a  ete 
donne  de  se  ressouvenir,  de  regretter,  d'aimer  en- 
core ce  qu'elle  avoit  aime.  Les  affections  rnorales, 
unies,  due  la  jeunesse,  aux  passions  bnilantes, 
weuvent  se  prolonger  par  de  nobles  traces  jusqu'a 


j  la  fin  de  I'existence,  et  laisser  voir  encore  le  meme 
tableau  sous  le  crepe  funebre  du  temps. 

"  Une  sensibilite  reveuse  et  profonde  est  un  dea 
plus  grands  charmes  de  quelques  ouvrages  mo- 
dernes ;  et  ce  sont  les  femmes  qui,  ne  connoissant 
de  la  vie  que  la  faculte  d'aimer,  ont  fait  passer  la 
douceur  de  leurs  impressions  dans  le  style  de  quel- 
ques ecrivains.  En  lisant  les  livres  composes  de- 
puis la  renaissance  des  lettres.  Ton  pourroit  mar- 
quer  a  chaque  page,  qu'elles  sont  les  idees  qu'on 
n'avoit  pas,  avant  qu'on  eut  accorde  aux  feramea 
une  sorte  d'egalite  civile.  La  generosite,  la  valeur, 
I'humanite,  ont  pris  a  quelques  egards  une  accep- 
tion  differente.  Toutes  les  vertus  des  anciens 
etoient  fondees  sur  I'amour  de  la  patrie ;  les  femmes 
exercent  leurs  qualites  d'une  maniereindependante. 
La  pitie  pour  la  foiblesse,  la  sympathie  pour  le  mal- 
heur,  une  elevation  d'ame,  sans  autre  but  que  la 
jouissance  meme  de  cette  elevation,  sont  beaucoup 
plus  dans  leur  nature  que  les  vertus  politiques.  Lea 
modernes,  influences  par  les  femmes,  ont  facile- 
ment  cede  aux  liens  de  la  philanthropic  ;  et  I'esprit 
est  devenue  plus  philosophiquement  libre,  en  se 
livrant  moins  a  I'empire  des  associations  exclusives." 
—pp.  212—215. 

It  is  principally  to  this  cause  that  she 
ascribes  the  improved  morality  of  modern 
times.  The  improvement  of  their  intellect 
she  refers  more  generally  to  the  accumula- 
tion of  knowledge,  and  the  experience  of 
which  they  have  had  the  benefit .  Instead 
of  the  eager  spirit  of  emulation,  and  the  un- 
weighed  and  rash  enthusiasm  which  kindled 
the  genius  of  antiquity  into  a  sort  of  youthful 
or  instinctive  animation,  we  have  a  spirit  of 
deep  reflection,  and  a  feeling  of  mingled 
melancholy  and  philanthropy,  inspired  by  a 
more  intimate  knowledge  of  the  sufferings, 
the  affections,  and  the  frailties  of  human 
nature.  There  is  a  certain  touching  and  pa- 
thetic tone,  therefore,  diffused  over  almost 
all  modern  writings  of  the  higher  order;  and 
in  the  art  of  agitating  the  soul,  and  moving 
the  gentler  affections  of  the  heart,  there  is 
nothing  in  all  antiquity  that  can  be  considered 
as  belonging  to  the  same  class  with  the  wri- 
tings of  Bossuet  or  Rousseau — many  passages 
in  the  English  poets — and  some  few  in  those 
of  Germany.  The  sciences,  of  course,  have 
made  prodigious  advances ;  for  in  these  noth- 
ing once  gained  can  be  lost, — and  the  mere 
elapse  of  ages  supposes  a  vast  accumulation. 
In  morals,  the  progress  has  been  greatest  in 
the  private  virtues — in  the  sacred  regard  for 
hfe — in  compassion,  sympathy,  and  benefi- 
cence. Nothing,  indeed,  can  illustrate  the 
difference  of  the  two  systems  more  strikingly, 
than  the  opposite  views  they  take  of  the  re- 
lation of  parent  and  child.  Filial  obedience 
and  submission  was  enjoined  by  the  ancient 
code  with  a  rigour  from  which  reason  and 
justice  equally  revolt.  According  to  our  pre- 
sent notions,  parental  love  is  a  duty  of  at  least 
mutual  obligation;  and  as  nature  has  placed 
the  power  of  showing  kindness  almost  exclu- 
sively in  the  hands  of  the  father,  it  seems 
but  reasonable  that  the  exercise  of  it  should 
at  last  be  enjoined  as  a  duty. 

Madame  de  Stael  begins  her  review  of 
modem  literature  with  that  of  Italy.  It  was 
there  that  the  manuscripts — the  monuments 
— the  works  of  art  of  the  imperial  nation, 
were  lost; — and  it  was  there,  of  couise,  thai 


MADAME  DE  STAEL  HOLSTEIN. 


S9 


iftey  were  ultimately  recovered.  The  re- 
searches necessary  for  this,  required  authority 
and  money;  and  they  were  begun,  accord- 
ingly, i.nder  the  patronage  of  princes  and 
academies : — circumstances  favourable  to  the 
accumulation  of  knowledge,  and  the  foraia- 
tion  of  mere  scholars — but  adverse  to  the 
development  of  original  genius.  The  Italians, 
accordingly,  have  been  scholars,  and  have 
furnished  the  rest  of  Europe  with  the  im- 
plements of  liberal  study;  but  they  have 
achieved  little  for  themselves  in  the  high 
philosophy  of  politics  and  morals — though 
they  have  to  boast  of  Galileo,  Cassini,  and  a 
long  list  of  celebrated  names  in  the  physical 
sciences.  In  treating  of  subjects  of  a  large 
and  commanding  interest,  they  are  almost 
always  bombastic  and  shallow.  Nothing,  in- 
deed, can  be  more  just  or  acute  than  the 
following  delineation  of  this  part  of  their 
character. 

"  Les  Italiens,  accoutumes  souvent  a  ne  rien 
croire  et  a  tout  professer,  se  sont  bien  plus  exerces 
dans  la  plaisanterie  que  dans  le  raisonnement.  lis  se 
moquent  de  leur  propre  maniere  d'etre.  Quand  ils 
veulent  renoncer  a  leur  talent  natural,  a  I'esprit 
comique,  pour  essayer  de  1' eloquence  oratoire,  ils 
ont  presque  toujours  de  Tafieetation.  Les  souvenirs 
d'une  grandeur  passee,  sans  aucun  sentiment  de 

frandeur  presente,  produisent  le  gigantesque.  Les 
taliens  auroient  de  la  dignite,  si  la  plus  sombre 
tristesse  formoit  leur  caractere  ;  mais  quand  les 
successeurs  des  Remains,  prives  de  tout  eclat  na- 
tional, de  toute  liberte  politique,  sont  encore  un  des 
peuples  les  plus  gais  de  la  terra,  ils  ne  peuvent 
avoir  aucun  elevation  naturelle. 

"  Les  Italiens  se  moquent  dans  leur  contes,  et 
souvent  meme  sur  le  theatre,  des  pretres,  auxquels 
ils  sont  d'ailleurs  entierement  asservis.  Mais  ce 
n'est  point  sous  un  point  de  vue  philosophique  qu'ils 
attaquent  les  abus  de  la  religion.  Ils  n'ont  pas, 
conime  quelques-uns  de  nos  ecrivains,  le  but  de  re- 
former les  defauts  dont  ils  plaisantent ;  ce  qu'ils 
veulent  seulement,  e'est  s'amuser   d'autant   plus 

3ue  le  sujet  est  plus  serieux.  Leurs  opinions  sont, 
ans  le  fond,  assez  opposees  a  tous  les  genres 
d'autorite  auxquels  ils  sont  soumis ;  mais  cet  esprit 
d'opposition  n'a  de  force  que  ce  qu'il  faut  pour 
pouvoir  mepriser  ceux  qui  les  commandent.  C'est 
la  ruse  des  enfans  envers  leurs  pedagogues ;  ils  leur 
obeissent,  a  condition  qu'il  leur  soil  permis  de  s'en 
moquer." — p.  248. 

In  poetry,  however,  the  brilliant  imagina- 
tion of  the  South  was  sure  to  re-assert  its 
claims  to  admiration;  and  the  first  great 
poets  of  modern  Italy  had  the  advantage  of 
opening  up  a  new  career  for  their  talents. 
Poetical  fiction,  as  it  is  now  known  in  Europe, 
seems  to  have  had  two  distinct  sources. 
Among  the  fierce  and  illiterate  nations  of 
the  North,  nothing  had  any  chance  of  being 
listened  to,  that  did  not  relate  to  the  feats  of 
war  in  which  it  was  their  sole  ambition  to 
excel;  and  poetical  invention  was  forced  to 
display  itself  in  those  legends  of  chivalry, 
which  contain  merely  an  exaggerated  picture 
of  scenes  that  were  familiar  to  all  their  audi- 
tors. In  Asia,  again,  the  terrors  of  a  san- 
guinary despotism  had  driven  men  to  express 
their  emotions,  and  to  insinuate  their  moral 
admonitions,  in  the  form  of  apologues  and 
fables;  and  as  these  necessarily  took  a  very 
wild  and  improbable  course,  their  fictions 
Bssumsd  a  much  more  extravagant  and  va- 


ried form  than  those  of  the  nortliem  roniBn* 
cers.  The  two  styles  however  were  brought 
together,  partly  by  the  effect  of  the  crusades, 
and  partly  by  the  Moorish  settlement  in 
Spain;  and  Ariosto  had  the  merit  of  first 
combining  them  into  one,  in  that  miraculous 
poem,  which  contains  more  painting,  moie 
variety,  and  more  imagination,  than  any  other 
poem  in  existence.  The  fictions  of  Boyardo 
are  more  purely  in  the  taste  of  the  Orientals ; 
and  Tasso  is  imbued  far  more  deeply  with  the 
spirit  and  manner  of  the  Augustan  classics. 

The  false  refinements,  the  concetti,  the  in- 
genious turns  and  misplaced  subtlety,  which 
have  so  long  been  the  reproach  of  the  Italian 
literature,  Madame  de  Stael  ascy-ibes  to  their 
early  study  of  the  Greek  Theologians,  and 
later  Platonists,  who  were  so  much  in  favour 
at  the  first  revival  of  learning.  The  nice 
distinctions  and  sparkling  sophistries  v/hich 
these  gentlemen  applied,  with  considerable 
success,  in  argument,  were  unluckily  trans- 
ferred, by  Petrarch,  to  subjects  of  love  and 
gallantry ;  and  the  fashion  was  set  of  a  most 
unnatural  alliance  between  wit  and  passion — 
ingenuity  and  profound  emotion, — which  has 
turned  out,  as  might  have  been  expected,  to 
the  discredit  of  both  the  contracting  parties. 
We  admit  the  fact,  and  its  consequences :  but 
we  do  not  agree  as  to  the  causes  which  are 
here  supposed  to  have  produced  it.  We  really 
do  not  think  that  the  polemics  of  Constanti- 
nople are  answerable  for  this  extravagance ; 
and  have  little  doubt  that  it  originated  in  that 
desire  to  impress  upon  their  productions  the 
visible  marks  of  labour  and  art,  which  is  felt 
by  almost  all  artists  in  the  infancy  of  the 
study.  As  all  men  can  speak,  and  set  words 
together  in  a  natural  order,  it  was  likely  to 
occur  to  those  who  first  made  an  art  of  com- 
position, and  challenged  general  admiration 
for  an  arrangement  of  words,  that  it  was 
necessary  to  make  a  very  strong  and- con- 
spicuous distinction  between  their  composi- 
tions and  ordinary  and  casual  discourse ;  and 
to  proclaim  to  the  most  careless  reader  or 
hearer,  that  a  great  difficulty  had  been  sur- 
mounted, and  something  effected  which  every 
one  was  not  in  a  condition  to  accomplish. 
This  feeling,  we  have  no  doubt,  first  gave 
occasion  to  versification  in  all  languages ;  and 
will  serve  to  account,  in  a  good  degree,  for 
the  priority  of  metrical  to  prose  compositions: 
but  where  versification  was  remarkably  easy, 
or  already  familiar,  some  visible  badge  of 
artifice  would  also  be  required  in  the  thought ; 
and.  accordingly,  there  seems  to  have  been  a 
certain  stage  in  the  progress  of  almost  all 
literature,  in  which  this  excess  has  been  com- 
mitted. In  Italy,  it  occurred  so  early  as  the 
time  of  Petrarch.  In  France,  it  became  con- 
spicuous in  the  writings  of  Voiture,  Balsac, 
and  all  that  coterie ;  and  in  England,  in  Cow- 
ley, Donne,  and  the  whole  tribe  of  meta- 
physical poets.  Simplicity,  in  short,  is  the 
last  attainment  of  progressive  literature  ;  and 
men  are  very  long  afraid  of  being  natural, 
from  the  dread  of  being  taken  for  ordinary, 
There  is  a  simplicity,  indeed,  that  is  antece 
dent  to  the  existence'of  ar  ything  hke  literar] 


56 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


ambition  or  critical  taste  in  a  nation, — the  sim- 
plicity of  the  primitive  ballads  and  legends 
of  all  rude  nations ;  but  after  a  certain  degree 
of  taste  has  been  created,  and  composition 
has  become  an  object  of  pretty  general  atten- 
tion, simplicity  is  sure  to  be  despised  for  a 
considerable  period  ;  and  indeed,  to  be  pretty 
uniformly  violated  in  practice,  even  after  it  is 
restored  to  nominal  honour  and  veneration. 
■  We  do  not,  however,  agree  the  less  cordial- 
ly with  Madame  de  Stael  in  her  remarks  upon 
the  irreparable  injury  which  affectation  does 
to  taste  and  to  character.  The  following  is 
marked  with  all  her  spirit  and  sagacity. 

"  L'afFectation  est  de  tous  las  defauts  des  carac- 
teres  et  des  ecrits,  celui  qui  tarit  de  la  maniere  la 
plus  irreparable  la  source  de  tout  bien ;  car  elle 
blase  sur  la  verite  meme,  dont  elle  imite  I'accent. 
Dans  quelque  genre  que  ce  soil,  tous  les  mots  qui 
ont  servi  a  des  idees  fausses,  a  de  froides  exagera- 
tions,  sont  pendant  long-temps  frappes  d'aridite ; 
et  telle  langue  meme  peut  perdre  entierement  la 
puissance  d'emouvoir  sur  tel  sujet,  si  elle  a  ete  trop 
souvent  prodiguee  a  ce  sujet  meme.  Ainsi  peut-etre 
ritalien  est-il  de  toutes  les  langues  de  I'Europe  la 
moins  propre  a  I'eloquence  passionnee  de  I'amour, 
comme  la  notre  est  maintenant  usee  pour  I'elo- 
quence de  la  liberte." — pp.  241,  242. 

Their  superstition  and  tyranny — their  in- 
quisition and  arbitrary  governments  have  ar- 
rested the  progress  of  the  Italians — as  they 
have  in  a  great  degree  prevented  that  of  the 
Spaniards  in  the  career  of  letters  and  philoso- 
phy. But  for  this,  the  Spanish  genius  would 
probably  have  gone  far.  Their  early  roman- 
ces show  a  grandeur  of  conception,  and  a  gen- 
uine enthusiasm;  and  their  dramas,  though 
irregular,  are  full  of  spirit  and  invention. 
Though  bombastic  and  unnatural  in  most  of 
their  serious  compositions,  their  extravagance 
is  not  so  cold  and  artificial  as  that  of  the  Ital- 
ians; but  seems  rather  to  proceed  from  a 
natural  exaggeration  of  the  fancy,  and  an  in- 
considerate straining  after  a  magnificence 
which  they  had  not  skill  or  patience  to  attain. 

We  come  now  to  the  literature  of  the  North, 
— by  which  name  Madame  de  Stael  desig- 
nates the  literature  of  England  and  Germany, 
and  on  which  she  passes  an  encomium  which 
we  scarcely  expected  from  a  native  of  the 
South.  She  startles  us  a  little,  indeed,  when 
she  sets  off  with  a  dashing  parallel  between 
Homer  and  Ossian ;  and  proceeds  to  say,  that 
the  peculiar  character  of  the  northern  litera- 
ture has  all  been  derived  from  that  Patriarch 
of  the  Celts,  in  the  same  way  as  that  of  the 
south  of  Europe  may  be  ultimately  traced 
back  to  the  genius  of  Homer.  It  is  certainly 
rather  against  this  hypothesis,  that  the  said 
Ossian  has  only  been  known  to  the  readers 
and  writers  of  the  North  for  about  forty  years 
from  the  present  day,  and  has  not  been  held 
in  especial  reverence  by  those  who  have  most 
distinguished  themselves  in  that  short  period. 
However,  we  shall  suppose  that  Madame  de 
Stael  means  only,  that  4;he  style  of  Ossian  re- 
unites the  peculiarities  that  distinguish  the 
northern  school  of  letters,  and  may  be  sup- 
posed to  exhibit  them  such  as  tney  were 
before  the  introduction  of  the  classical  and 
«outhern   models.     We  rather  think  she  is 


right  in  saying,  that  there  is  a  radical  differ- 
ence in  the  taste  and  genius  of  the  two  re- 
gions; and  that  there  is  more  melancholy, 
more  tenderness,  more  deep  feeling  and  fixed 
and  lofty  passion,  engendered  among  the 
clouds  and  mountains  of  the  North,  than  upon 
the  summer  seas  or  Deneath  the  perfumed 
groves  of  the  South.  The  causes  of  the  dif- 
ference are  not  perhaps  so  satisfactorily  sta- 
ted. Madame  de  Stael  gives  the  first  place 
to  the  climate. 

Another  characteristic  is  the  hereditary 
independence  of  the  northern  tribes — arising 
partly  from  their  scattered  population  and  in- 
accessible retreats,  and  partly  from  the  physi- 
cal force  and  hardihood  which  their  way  of 
life,  and  the  exertions  requisite  to  procure 
subsistence  in  those  regions,  necessarily  pro- 
duced. Their  religious  creed,  too,  even  be- 
fore their  conversion  to  Christianity,  was  less 
fantastic,  and  more  capable  of  leading  to 
heroic  emotions  than  that  of  the  southern 
nations.  The  respect  and  tenderness  Math 
which  they  always  reg-arded  their  women,  is 
another  cause  (or  effect)  of  the  peculiarity  of 
their  national  character ;  and,  in  later  times, 
their  general  adoption  of  the  Protestant  faith 
has  tended  to  confirm  that  character.  For 
our  own  part,  we  are  inclined  to  ascribe  more 
weight  to  the  last  circumstance,  than  to  all 
the  others  that  have  been  mentioned;  and 
that  not  merely  from  the  better  education 
which  it  is  the  genius  of  Protestantism  to 
bestow  on  the  lower  orders,  but  from  the  nec- 
essary effect  of  the  universal  study  of  the 
Scriptures  which  it  enjoins.  A  very  great 
proportion  of  the  Protestant  population  of 
Europe  is  familiarly  acquainted  with  the  Bi- 
ble ;  and  there  are  many  who  are  acquainted 
with  scarcely  any  other  book.  Now,  the 
Bible  is  not  only  full  of  lessons  of  patience 
and  humility  and  compassion,  but  abounds 
with  a  gloomy  and  awful  poetry,  which  can- 
not fail  to  make  a  powerful  impression  on 
minds  that  are  not  exposed  to  any  other,  and 
receive  this  under  the  persuasion  of  its  divine 
origin.  The  peculiar  character,  therefore, 
which  Madame  de  Stael  has  ascribed  to  the 
people  of  the  North  in  general,  will  now  be 
found,  we  believe,  to  belong  only  to  such  of 
them  as  profess  tne  reformed  religion ;  and 
to  be  discernible  in  all  the  communities  that 
maintain  that  profession,  without  much  re- 
gard to  the  degree  of  latitude  which  they  in- 
habit— though  at  the  same  time  it  is  unde- 
niable, that  its  general  adoption  in  the  North 
must  be  explained  by  some  of  the  more  gene- 
ral causes  which  we  have  shortly  indicated 
above. 

The  great  fault  which  the  French  impute 
to  the  writers  of  the  North,  is  want  of  taste 
and  politeness.  They  generally  admit  that 
they  have  genius;  but  contend  that  they  do 
not  know  how  to  use  it ;  while  their  partisans 
maintain,  that  what  is  called  want  of  taste  is 
merely  excess  of  genius,  and  independence 
of  pedantic  rules  and  authorities.  Madame 
de  Stael,  though  admitting  the  transcendent 
merits  of  some  of  the  English  writers,  takes 
part,  upon  the  whole,  ag-ainst  thein  m  this 


MADAME  DE  STAEL  HOLSTEIN. 


51 


controveisy ;  ana,  after  professing  her  unquali- 
fied preference  oi  a  piece  compounded  of  great 
blemishes  and  great  beauties,  compared  with 
one  free  of  faults,  but  distinguished  by  little 
excellence,  proceeds  very  wisely  to  remark, 
that  it  would  be  still  better  if  the  great  faults 
were  corrected — and  that  it  is  but  a  bad  spe- 
cies of  independence  which  manifests  itself 
by  being  occasionally  offensive  :  and  then  she 
attacks  Shakespeare,  as  usual,  for  interspers- 
ing so  many  puerilities  and  absurdities  and 
grossieretes  wuth  his  sublime  and  pathetic 
passages. 

Now,  there  is  no  denying,  that  a  poem 
would  be  better  without  faults ;  and  that  ju- 
dicious painters  use  shades  only  to  set  off 
their  pictures,  and  not  blots.  But  there  are 
two  little  remarks  to  be  made.  In  the  first 
place,  if  it  be  true  that  an  extreme  horror  at 
faults  is  usually  found  to  exclude  a  variety 
of  beauties,  and  that  a  poet  can  scarcely  ever 
attain  the  higher  excellencies  of  his  art,  with- 
out some  degree  of  that  rash  and  headlong 
confidence  which  naturally  gives  rise  to  blem- 
ishes and  excesses,  it  may  not  be  quite  so 
absurd  to  hold,  that  this  temperament  and 
disposition,  with  all  its  hazards,  deserves  en- 
couragement, and  to  speak  with  indulgence 
of  faults  that  are  symptomatic  of  great  beau- 
ties. There  is  a  primitive  fertility  of  soil  that 
naturally  throws  out  weeds  along  with  the 
matchless  crops  which  it  alone  can  bear ;  and 
we  might  reasonably  grudge  to  reduce  its 
vigour  for  the  sake  of  purifying  its  produce. 
There  are  certain  savage  virtues  that  can 
scarcely  exist  in  perfection  in  a  state  of  com- 
plete civilization ;  and,  as  specimens  at  least, 
we  may  wish  to  preserve,  and  be  allowed  to 
admire  them,  with  all  their  exceptionable 
accompaniments.  It  is  easy  to  say,  that 
there  is  no  necessary  connection  between  the 
faults  and  the  beauties  of  our  great  dramat- 
ist ;  but  the  fact  is,  that  since  men  have  be- 
come afraid  of  falling  into  his  faults,  no  one 
has  approached  to  his  beauties ;  and  we  have 
already  endeavoured,  on  more  than  one  oc- 
casion, to  explain  the  grounds  of  this  con- 
nection. 

But  our  second  remark  is,  'hat  it  is  not  quite 
fair  to  represent  the  controversy  as  arising 
altogether  from  the  excessiv^e  and  undue  in- 
dulgence of  the  English  for  the  admitted 
faults  of  their  favourite  authors,  and  their  per- 
sisting to  idolize  Shakespeare  in  spite  of  his 
buffooneries,  extravagancies,  and  bombast. 
We  admit  that  he  has  those  faults ;  and,  as 
they  are  faults,  that  he  would  be  better  with- 
out them :  but  there  are  many  more  things 
which  the  French  call  faults,  but  which  we 
deliberately  consider  as  beauties.  And  here, 
we  suspect,  the  dispute  does  not  admit  of  any 
settlement :  Because  both  parties,  if  they  are 
really  sincere  in  their  opinion,  and  understand 
the  subject  of  discussion,  may  very  well  be 
right,  and  for  that  very  reason  incapable  of 
coming  to  any  agreement.  We  consider  taste 
to  mean  merely  the  faculty  of  receiving  plea- 
iRure  from  beauty ;  and,  so  far  as  relates  to  the 
jperson  receiving  that  plerffeure,  we  apprehend 
lit  to  admit  of  litt  e  doubt,  that  the  best  taste 


is  that  which  enables  him  to  receive  th« 
greatest  quantity  of  pleasure  from  the  greatest 
number  of  things.  With  regard  to  the  author 
again,  or  artist  of  any  other  description,  who 
pretends  to  bestow  the  pleasure,  his  object  of 
course  should  be,  to  give  as  much,  and  to  as' 
many  persons  as  possible ;  and  especially  t 
those  who,  from  their  rank  and  education,  ari 
likely  to  regulate  the  judgment  of  the  re-l 
mainder.  It  is  his  business  therefore  to  afr* 
certain  what  does  please  the  greater  part  of 
such  persons;  and  to  fashion  his  production3 
according  to  the  rules  of  taste  which  may  hd 
deduced  from  that  discovery.  Now,  we  hum4 
bly  conceive  it  to  be  a  complete  and  final  jus- 
tification for  the  whole  body  of  the  English 
nation,  who  understand  French  as  well  as 
English  and  yet  prefer  Shakespeare  to  Racine, 
just  to  state,  modestly  and  firmly,  the  fact  of 
that  preference;  and  to  declare,  that  their 
habits  and  tempers,  and  studies  and  occupa- 
tions, have  been  such  as  to  make  them  receive 
far  greater  pleasure  from  the  more  varied 
imagery — the  more  flexible  tone — the  closer 
imitation  of  nature — the  more  rapid  succes- 
sion of  incident,  and  vehement  bursts  of  pas- 
sion of  the  English  author,  than  from  the 
unvarying  majesty — the  elaborate  argument 
— and  epigrammatic  poetry  of  the  French  dra- 
matist. For  the  taste  of  the  nation  at  large, 
we  really  cannot  conceive  that  any  other  apol- 
ogy can  be  necessary;  and  though  it  might 
be  very  desirable  that  they  should  agree  with 
their  neighbours  upon  this  point,  as  well  as 
upon  many  others,  we  can  scarcely  imagine 
any  upon  which  their  disagreement  could  be 
attended  with  less  inconvenience.  For  the 
authors,  again,  that  have  the  misfortune  not 
to  be  so  much  admired  by  the  adjoining  na- 
tions as  by  their  own  countrymen,  we  can 
only  suggest,  that  this  is  a  very  common  mis- 
fortune ;  and  that,  as  they  wrote  in  the  lan- 
guage of  their  country,  and  will  probably  be 
always  most  read  within  its  limits,  it  was  not 
perhaps  altogether  unwise  or  unpardonable  in 
them  to  accommodate  themselves  to  the  taste 
M'hich  was  there  established. 

Madame  de  Stael  has  a  separate  chapter 
upon  Shakespeare ;  in  which  she  gives  him 
full  credit  for  originality,  and  for  having  been 
the  first,  and  perhaps  the  only  considerable 
author,  who  did  not  copy  from  preceding 
models,  but  drew  all  his  greater  conceptions 
directly  from  his  owti  feelings  and  observa- 
tions. His  representations  of  human  passions, 
therefore,  are  incomparably  more  true  and 
touching,  than  those  of  any  other  writer ;  and 
are  presented,  moreover,  in  a  far  more  elemen- 
tary and  simple  state,  and  without  any  of 
those  circumstances  of  dignity  or  contrast 
with  which  feebler  artists  seem  to  have  held 
it  indispensable  that  they  should  be  set  off. 
She  considers  him  as  the  first  writer  who  has 
ventured  upon  the  picture  of  overwhelming 
sorrow  and  hopeless  wretchedness; — that  de 
solation  of  the  heart,  which  arises  from  the 
long  contemplation  of  ruined  hopes  and  irre 
parable  privation ; — that  inward  anguish  and 
bitterness  of  soul  which  the  public  life  of  the 
ancients  prevented  them  from  feelings  and 


58 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


ihejr  stoical  precepts  interdicted  them  from 
disclosing.  The  German  poets,  and  some 
Biicceeding  English  authors,  have  produced  a 
prodigious  effect  by  the  use  of  this  powerful 
instrument ;  but  nothing  can  exceed  the  orig- 
inal sketches  of  it  exhibited  in  Lear,  in  Ham- 
let; in  Timon  of  Athens,  and  in  some  parts  of 
Kichard  and  of  Othello.  He  has  likewise 
drawn,  with  the  hand  of  a  master,  the  strug- 
gles of  nature  under  the  immediate  contem- 
plation of  approaching  death ;  and  that  with- 
out those  supports  of  conscious  dignity  or 
exertion  with  which  all  other  writers  have 
thought  it  necessary  to  blend  or  to  contrast 
their  pictures  of  this  emotion.  But  it  is  in  the 
excitement  of  the  two  proper  tragic  passions 
of  pity  and  terror,  that  the  force  and  origin- 
ality of  his  genius  are  most  conspicuous ;  pity 
not  only  for  youth  and  innocence,  and  noble- 
ness and  virtue,  as  in  Imogen  and  Desdemona, 
Brutus  and  Cariolanus — ^but  for  insignificant 
persons  like  the  Duke  of  Clarence,  or  profli- 
gate and  worthless  ones  like  Cardinal  Wolsey ; 
— terror,  in  all  its  forms,  from  the  madness 
of  Lear,  and  the  ghost  of  Hamlet,  up  to  the 
dreams  of  Richard  and  Lady  Macbeth.  In 
comparing  the  effects  of  such  delineations 
with  the  superstitious  horror  excited  by  the 
mythological  persons  of  the  Greek  drama,  the 
vast  superiority  of  the  English  author  cannot 
fail  to  be  apparent.  Instead  of  supernatural 
beings  interfering  with  their  cold  and  impas- 
sive natures,  in  the  agitations  and  sufferings 
of  men,  Shakespeare  employs  only  the  magic 
of  powerful  passion,  and  of  the  illusions  to 
which  it  gives  birth.  The  phantoms  and  ap- 
paritions which  he  occasionally  conjures  up 
to  add  to  the  terror  of  the  scene,  are  in  truth 
but  a  bolder  personification  of  those  troubled 
dreams,  and  thick  coming  fancies,  which  har- 
row up  the  souls  of  guilt  and  agony;  and 
even  his  sorcery  and  incantation  are  but'traits 
of  the  credulity  and  superstition  which  so 
frequently  accompany  the  exaltation  of  the 
greater  passions.  But  perhaps  the  most  mi- 
raculous of  all  his  representations,  are  those 
in  which  he  has  pourtrayed  the  wanderings 
of  a  disordered  intellect,  and  especially  of 
that  species  of  distraction  which  arises  from 
excess  of  sorrow.  Instead  of  being  purely 
terrible,  those  scenes  are,  in  his  hands,  in  the 
highest  degree  touching  and  pathetic ;  and 
the  wildness  of  fancy,  and  richness  of  imagery 
which  they  display,  are  even  less  admirable 
than  the  constant,  though  incoherent  expres- 
sion of  that  one  sentiment  of  agonizing  grief 
which  had  overborne  all  the  faculties  of  the 
soul. 

Such  are  the  chief  beauties  which  Madame 
de  Stael  discovers  in  Shakespeare ;  and  though 
they  are  not  perhaps  exactly  what  an  English 
reader  would  think  of  bringing  most  into  np- 
tice,  it  is  interesting  to  know  what  strikes  an 
intelligent  foreigner,  in  pieces  with  which  we 
ourselves  have  always  been  familiar.  The 
chief  fault  she  imputes  to  him,  besides  the 
iiiixture  of  low  buffoonery  with  tragic  passion, 
are  occasional  tediousness  and  repetition — too 
much  visible  horror  and  bloodshed — and  the 
personal  deformity  of  Caliban  and  Richard 


III.;  for  all  which  W!^  shall  leave  it  to  om 
readers  to  make  the  best  apology  they  can. 

Madame  de  Stael  thinks  very  poorly  of  oui 
talent  for  pleasantry ;  and  is  not  very  success- 
ful in  her  delineation  of  what  we  call  humour. 
The  greater  part  of  the  nation,  she  says,  lives 
either  in  the  serious  occupations  of  busmess 
and  politics,  or  in  the  tranquil  circle  of  family 
affection.  What  is  called  society,  therefore, 
has  scarcely  any  existence  among  them ;  and 
yet  it  is  m  that  sphere  of  idleness  and  frivolity, 
that  taste  is  matured,  and  gaiety  made  ele- 
gant. They  are  not  at  all  trained,  therefore, 
to  observe  the  finer  shades  of  character  and 
of  ridicule  in  real  life ;  and  consequently  nei- 
ther think  of  delineating  them  in  their  com- 
positions, nor  are  aware  of  their  merit  when 
delineated  by  others.  We  are  unwilling  to 
think  this  perfectly  just ;  and  are  encouraged 
to  suspect,  that  the  judgment  of  the  ingenious 
author  may  not  be  altogether  without  appeal 
on  such  a  subject,  by  observing,  that  she  rep- 
resents the  paltry  flippancy  and  disgusting 
affectation  of  Sterne,  as  the  purest  specimen 
of  true  English  humour ;  and  classes  the  char- 
acter of  Falstaff'  along  with  that  of  Pistol,  as 
parallel  instances  of  that  vulgar  caricature 
from  which  the  English  still  condescend  tc 
receive  amusement.  It  is  more  just,  how- 
ever, to  observe,  that  the  humour,  and  in 
general  the  pleasantry,  of  our  nation,  has  very 
frequently  a  sarcastic  and  even  misanthropic 
character,  which  distinguishes  it  from  the 
mere  playfulness  and  constitutional  gaiety  of 
our  French  neighbours ;  and  that  we  have  not, 
for  the  most  part,  succeeded  in  our  attempts 
to  imitate  the  graceful  pleasantry  and  agree- 
able trifling  of  that  ingenious  people.  We 
develope  every  thing,  she  maintains,  a  great 
deal  too  laboriously;  and  give  a  harsh  and 
painful  colouring  to  those  parts  which  the 
very  nature  of  their  style  requires  to  be  but 
lightly  touched  and  delicately  shaded.  We 
never  think  we  are  heard,  unless  we  cry  out ; 
— nor  understood,  if  we  leave  any  thing  un- 
told : — an  excess  of  diffuseness  and  labour 
which  could  never  be  endured  out  of  our  own 
island.  It  is  curious  enough,  indeed,  to  ob- 
serve, that  men  who  have  nothing  to  do  with 
their  time  but  to  get  rid  of  it  in  amusement, 
are  always  much  more  impatient  of  any  kind 
of  tediousness  in  their  entertainers,  than  those 
who  have  but  little  leisure  for  entertainment. 
The  reason  is,  we  suppose,  that  familiarity 
with  business  makes  the  latter  habitually 
tolerant  of  tediousness;  while  the  less  en- 
grossing pursuits  of  the  former,  in  order  to 
retain  any  degree  of  interest,  require  a  very 
rapid  succession  and  constant  variety.  On 
the  whole,  we  do  not  think  Madame  de  Stael 
very  correct  in  her  notions  of  English  gaiety; 
and  cannot  help  suspecting,  that  she  must 
have  been  in  some  respects  unfortunate  in  hor 
society,  during  her  visit  to  this  country. 

Her  estimate  of  our  poetry,  and  of  our  worka 
of  fiction,  is  more  unexceptionable.  She  does 
not  allow  us  much  invention,  in  the  strictest 
sense  of  that  word ;  and  still  less  grace  and 
sprightliness  in  works  of  a  light  and  playful 
character:    But,  for  glowing  descriptions  of 


MADAME  DE  STAEL  HOLSTEIN. 


5$ 


nature — lor  the  pure  language  of  the  affec- 
tions— for  profound  thought  and  lofty  senti- 
ment, she  admits,  that  the  greater  poets  of 
England  are  superior  to  any  thing  else  that 
the  world  has  yet  exhibited.  Milton,  Young, 
Thomson,  Goldsmith,  and  Gray,  seem  to  be 
her  chief  favourites.  We  do  not  find  that 
Cowper,  or  any  later  author,  had  come  to  her 
knowledge.  The  best  of  them,  however,  she 
says,  are  chargeable  with  the  national  faults 
of  exaggeration,  and  ^des  longueurs.^  She 
overrates  the  merit,  we  think,  of  our  novels, 
when  slie  says,  that  with  the  exception  of  La 
Nouvelle  Heloise,  which  belongs  exclusively  to 
the  genius  of  the  singular  individual  who  pro- 
duced it,  and  has  no  relation  to  the  character 
of  his  nation,  all  the  novels  that  have  suc- 
ceeded in  France  have  been  undisguised  imi- 
tations of  the  English,  to  whom  she  ascribes, 
without  qualification,  the  honour  of  that  meri- 
torious invention. 

The  last  chapter  upon  English  literature  re- 
lates to  their  philosophy  and  eloquence ;  and 
here,  though  the  learned  author  seems  aware 
of  the  transcendent  merit  of  Bacon,  we  rather 
think  she  proves  herself  to  be  unacquainted 
with  that  of  his  illustrious  contemporaries  or 
immediate  successors.  Hooker,  Taylor,  and 
Barrow — for  she  places  Bacon  as  the  only  lu- 
minary of  our  sphere  in  the  period  preceding 
the  Usurpation,  and  considers  the  true  era  of 
British  philosophy  as  commencing  with  the 
reign  of  King  William.  We  cannot  admit  the 
accuracy  of  this  intellectual  chronology.  The 
character  of  the  English  philosophy  is  to  be 
patient,  profound,  and  always  guided  by  a 
view  to  utility.  They  have  done  wonders  in 
the  metaphysic  of  the  understanding;  but 
have  not  equalled  De  Retz,  La  Bruyere,  or 
even  JNIontaig-ne,  in  their  analysis  of  the  pas- 
sions and  dispositions.  The  following  short 
passage  is  full  of  sagacity  and  talent. 

*'  Les  Anglais  ont  avance  dans  les  sciences  phi- 
losophiques  comme  dans  I'industrie  commerciale, 
a  I'aide  de  la  patience  et  du  temps.  Le  penchant 
de  leurs  philosophes  pour  les  abstractions  sembloit 
devoir  les  entrainer  dans  des  systemes  qui  pouvoient 
etre  contraires  a  la  raison  ;  mais  I'esprit  de  calcul, 
qui  regularise,  dans  leur  application,  les  combinai- 
sons  abstraites,  la  moralite,  qui  est  la  plus  experi- 
mentale  de  toutes  les  idees  humaines,  I'interet  du 
commerce,  Tamour  de  la  liberie,  ont  toujours  ramene 
les  philosophes  Anglais  a  des  resultats  pratiques. 
Que  d'ouvrages  entrepris  pour  servir  utilement  les 
homms3,  pour  1' education  des  enfans,  pour  le  sou- 
lagement  des  malhenreux,  pour  I'economie  politi- 
que, la  legislation  criminelle,  les  sciences,  la  morale, 
lametaphysique  I  Quelle  philosophie  dans  les  con- 
ceptions !  quel  respect  pour  rexperience  dans  le 
choix  des  moyens ! 

"  C'est  a  la  liberte  qu'il  faut  attribuer  cette 
Emulation  et  cette  sagesse.  On  pouvoit  si  rarement 
86  flatter  en  France  d'influer  par  ses  ecrits  sur  les 
institutions  de  son  pays,  qu'on  ne  songeoit  qu'a 
montrer  de  I'esprit  dans  les  discussions  meme  les 
plus  serieuses.  On  poussoit  jusqu'au  paradoxeun 
systeme  vrai  dans  une  certaine  mesure  ;  la  raison 
ne  pouvant  avoir  une  eflfet  utile,  on  vouloit  au  moins 
que  le  paradoxe  ffit  brillant.  D'ailleurs  sous  une 
monarchie  absolue,  on  pouvoit  sans  danger  vanter,, 
.  comme  dans  le  Contrat  Social,  la  democratic  pure  ; 
mais  on  n'auroit  point  ose  approcher  des  idees 
possibles.  Tout  etoit  jeu  d'efeprit  en  France,  hors 
*o.s  arrets  du  conseil  du  roi:  tandis  qu'en  Angle- 


terre,  chacun  pouvant  agir  d'une  maniere  quelcon- 
que  sur  les  resolutions  de  ses  representans,  I'oR 
prend  I' habitude  de  comparer  la  pensee  avec  Tac- 
tion, et  Ton  s'accoutume  a  I'amour  du  bien  public 
par  I'espoir  d'y  contribuer." — Vol.  ii.  pp.  5 — 7. 

She  returns  again,  however,  to  her  foiTnei 
imputation  of  "/ojigMewrs,"  and  repetitions, 
and  excessive  development;  and  maintain*-^ 
that  the  greater  part  of  English  books  are 
obscure,  in  consequence  of  their  prolixity,  and 
of  the  author's  extreme  anxiety  to  be  perfectly 
understood.  We  suspect  a  part  of  the  confu- 
sion is  owing  to  her  want  of  familiarity  with 
the  language.  In  point  of  fact,  we  know  of 
no  French  writer  on  similar  subjects  so  con- 
cise as  Hume  or  Smith;  and  believe  we  might 
retort  the  charge  of  longueurs,  in  the  name 
of  the  whole  English  nation,  upon  one  half  of 
the  French  classic  authors — upon  their  Rollin 
and  their  Masillon — their  D'Alembert — their 
Buffon — their  Helvetius — and  the  whole  tribe 
of  their  dramatic  writers: — while  as  to  repe- 
titions, we  are  quite  certain  that  there  is  no 
one  English  author  who  has  repeated  the  same 
ideas  half  so  often  as  Voltaire  himself — cer- 
tainly not  the  most  tedious  of  the  fraternity. 
She  complains  also  of  a  want  of  warmth  and 
animation  in  our  prose  writers.  And  it  is 
true  that  Addison  and  Shaftesbury  are  cold ; 
but  the  imputation  only  convinces  us  the 
more,  that  she  is  unacquainted  with  the  writ- 
ings of  Jeremy  Taylor,  and  that  illustrious 
train  of  successors  which  has  terminated,  we 
fear,  in  the  person  of  Burke.  Our  debates  in 
parliament,  she  says,  are  more  remarkable  for 
their  logic  than  their  rhetoric ;  and  have  more 
in  them  of  sarcasm,  than  of  poetical  figure 
and  ornament.  And  no  doubt  it  is  so — and 
must  be  so — in  all  the  discussions  of  perma- 
nent assemblies,  occupied  from  day  to  day, 
and  from  month  to  month,  with  great  ques- 
tions of  internal  legislation  or  foreign  policy. 
If  she  had  heard  Fox  or  Pitt,  however,  or 
Burke  or  Windham,  or  Grattan,  we  cannot 
conceive  that  she  should  complain  of  our  want 
of  animation;  and,  warm  as  she  is  in  her  en- 
comiums on  the  eloquence  of  Mirabeau,  and 
some  of  the  orators  of  the  first  revolution,  she 
is  forced  to  confess,  that  our  system  of  elo- 
quence is  better  calculated  for  the  detection 
of  sophistry,  and  the  effectual  enforcement 
of  all  salutary  truth.  We  really  are  not  aware 
of  any  other  purposes  which  eloquence  can 
serve  in  a  great  national  assembly. 

Here  end  her  remarks  on  our  English  litera- 
ture— and  here  we  must  contrive  also  to  close 
this  desultory  account  of  her  lucubrations — 
though  we  have  accompanied  her  through 
little  more  than  one  half  of  the  work  before 
us.  It  is  impossible,  however,  that  we  can 
now  find  room  to  say  any  thing  of  her  expo- 
sition of  German  or  of  French  literature — and 
still  less  of  her  anticipations  of  the  change 
which  the  establishment  of  a  Republican  gov- 
i  ernment  in  the  last  of  those  countries  is  likely 
to  produce, — or  of  the  hints  and  cautions  with 
which,  in  contemplation  of  that  event,  she 
thinks  it  necessary  to  provide  her  countrjinen. 
These  are  perhaps  the  most  curious  parts  of 
the  work : — but  we  cannot  enter  upon  them 


60 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


at  present:— and  indeed,  in  what  we  have 
ah-eady  said,  we  have  so  far  exceeded  the 
limits  to  which  we  always  wish  to  confine 
ourselves,  that  we  do  not  very  well  know  what 
apology  to  make  to  our  readers — except 
merely,  that  we  are  not  without  hope,  that 
the  miscellaneous  nature  of  the  subject,  by 
which  we  have  been  insensibly  drawn  into 
this  great  prolixity,  may  have  carried  them 
also  along,  with  as  moderate  a  share  of  fatigue 
as  we  have  ourselves  experienced.  If  it  be 
otherwise — we  must  have  the  candour  and 
the  gallantry  to  say,  that  we  are  persuaded 
the  fault  is  to  be  imputed  to  us.  and  not  to 


the  ingenious  author  upon  whose  work  w« 
have  been  employed;  and  that,  if  we  had 
confined  ourselves  to  a  mere  abstract  of  hej 
lucubrations,  or  interspersed  fewer  of  our  own 
remarks  with  the  account  we  have  attempted 
to  give  of  their  substance,  we  might  have 
extended  this  article  to  a  still  greater  length, 
without  provoking  the  impatience  even  of  the 
more  fastidious  of  our  readers.  As  it  is,  we 
feel  that  we  have  done  but  scanty  justice, 
either  to  our  author  or  her  subject — thougli 
we  can  now  make  no  other  amends,  than  by 
earnestly  entreating  our  readers  to  study  both 
of  them  for  themselves. 


(Inla,  1S06.) 

The  Complete  Works,  in  Philosophy,  Politics,  and  Morals,  of  the  late  Dr.  BE^^JAMIN  Franklin. 
Notv  first  collected  and  arranged.  With  Memoirs  of  his  Early  Life,  written  by  himself. — 
3  vols.  8vo.  pp.  1450.     Johnson,  London :  1806. 


Nothing,  we  think,  can  show  more  clearly 
the  singular  want  of  literary  enterprise  or 
activity,  in  the  United  States  of  America, 
than  that  no  one  has  yet  been  found  in  that 
flourishing  republic,  to  collect  and  publish 
the  works  of  their  only  philosopher.  It  is  not 
even  very  creditable  to  the  liberal  curiosity 
of  the  English  public,  that  there  should  have 
been  no  complete  edition  of  the  writings  of 
Dr.  Franklin,  till  the  year  1806  :  and  we 
should  have  been  altogether  unable  to  ac- 
count for  the  imperfect  and  unsatisfactory 
manner  in  which  the  task  has  now  been  per- 
formed, if  it  had  not  been  for  a  statement  in 
the  prefatory  advertisement,  which  removes 
all  blame  from  the  editor,  to  attach  it  to  a 
higher  quarter.  It  is  there  stated,  that  re- 
cently after  the  death  of  the  author,  his 
grandson,  to  M^hom  the  whole  of  his  papers  ! 
had  been  bequeathed,  made  a  voyage  to  I 
London,  for  the  purpose  of  preparing  and  dis- 1 
posing  of  a  complete  collection  of  all  his  | 
published  and  unpublished  writings,  with  1 
memoirs  of  his  life,  brought  down  by  himself 
to  the  year  1757,  and  continued  to  his  death 
by  his  descendant.  It  was  settled,  that  the 
work  should  be  published  in  three  quarto 
vohimes,  in  England,  Germany,  and  France ; 
and  a  negotiation  was  commenced  with  the 
booksellers,  as  to  the  terms  of  the  purchase 
and  publication.  At  this  stage  of  the  busi- 
ness, however,'  the  proposals  were  suddenly 
withdrawn  ;  and  nothing  more  has  been  heard 
of  the  work,  in  this  its  fair  and  natural  mar- 
ket. ^^  The  proprietor,  it  seems,  had  found  a 
bidder  of  a  different  description,  in  some  emis- 
sary of  Government,  whose  object  was  to 
withhold  the  manuscripts  from  the  w^orld, — 
not  to  benefit  it  by  their  publication ;  and 
they  thus  either  passed  into  other  hands,  or 
the  person  to  whom  they  were  bequeathed,  re- 
ceived a  remuneration  ior  suppressing  them." 

If  this  statement  be  correct,  we  have  no 
hesitation  in  saying,  that  no  emissary  of  Gov- 
ernment was  ever  employed  on  a  more  miser- 


able and  unworthy  service.  It  is  ludicroua 
to  talk  of  the  danger  of  disclosing  in  1795, 
any  secrets  of  state,  with  regard  to  the  war 
of  American  independence;  and  as  to  any 
anecdotes  or  observations  that  might  giv,e 
offence  to  individuals,  we  think  it  should 
always  be  remembered,  that  public  func- 
tionaries are  the  property  of  the  public ;  that 
their  character  belongs  to  history  and  to  pos- 
terity ;  and  that  it  is  equally  absurd  and  dis- 
creditable to  think  of  suppressing  any  part  of 
the  evidence  by  which  their  merits  must  be 
ultimately  determined.  But  the  whole  of  the 
works  that  have  been  suppressed,  certainly 
did  not  relate  to  republican  politics.  The 
history  of  the  author's  life,  down  to  1757, 
could  not  well  contain  any  matter  of  offence ; 
and  a  variety  of  general  remarks  and  specu- 
lations which  he  is  understood  to  have  left 
behind  him,  might  have  been  permitted  to 
see  the  light,  though  his  diplomatic  revelations 
had  been  forbidden.  The  emissary  of  Gov- 
ernment, however,  probably  took  no  care  of 
those  things.  He  was  resolved,  we  suppose. 
"  to  leave  no  rubs  nor  botches  in  his  work ;" 
and,  to  stifle  the  dreaded  revelation,  he  thought 
the  best  way  was  to  strangle  all  the  innocents 
in  the  vicinage. 

Imperfect  as  the  work  now  before  us  nec- 
essarily is,  we  think  the  public  is  very  much 
indebted  to  its  editor.  It  is  presented  in  a 
cheap  and  unostentatious  form ;  and  though 
it  contains  little  that  has  not  been  already 
printed  as  the  composition  of  the  author,  and 
does  not  often  settle  any  point  of  disputed 
authenticity  in  a  satisfactory  manner,  it  seems, 
on  the  whole,  to  have  been  compiled  with 
sufficient  diligence,  and  arranged  with  con- 
siderable judgment.  Few  writings,  indeed, 
require  the  aid  of  a  commentator  less  than 
those  of  Dr.  Franklin;  and  though  this  editor 
is  rather  too  sparing  of  his  presence,  we  are 
infinitely  better  satisfied  to  be  left  now  and 
then  to  our  conjectures,  than  to  be  incumber- 
ed with  the  explanations,  and  overpowered 


DR.  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 


with  the  loquacity;  of  a  more  officious  at- 
tendant. 

We  do  not  propose  to  give  any  thing  like  a 
regular  account  of  the  papers  contained  in 
these  volumes.  The  best  of  them  have  long- 
been  familiar  to  the  public;  and  there  are 
many  -\vliich  it  was  proper  to  preserve,  that 
cannot  now  be  made  interesting  to  the  general 
reader.  Dr.  Franklin,  however,  is  too  great 
a  man  to  be  allowed  to  walk  past,  w^ithout 
some  observation ;  and  our  readers,  we  are 
persuaded,  will  easily  forgive  us,  if  we  yield 
to  the  temptation  of  making  a  few  remarks  on 
his  character. 

This  self-taught  American  is  the  most  ra- 
tional, perhaps,  of  all  philosophers.  He  never 
loses  sight  of  common  sense  in  any  of  his 
speculations ;  and  when  his  philosophy  does 
not  consist  entirely  in  its  fair  and  vigorous 
application,  it  is  always  regulated  and  con- 
trolled by  it  in  its  application  and  result.  No 
individual,  perhaps,  ever  possessed  a  juster 
understanding ;  or  was  so  seldom  obstructed 
in  the  use  of  it,  by  indolence,  enthusiasm,  or 
authority. 

Dr.  Franklin  received  no  regular  education  j 
and  he  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  life  in  a 
society  where  there  was  no  relish  and  no  en- 
couragement for  literature.  On  an  ordinary 
mind,  these  circumstances  would  have  pro- 
duced their  usual  effects,  of  repressing  all 
sorts  of  intellectual  ambition  or  activity,  and 
perpetuating  a  generation  of  incurious  me- 
chanics :  but  to  an  understanding  like  Frank- 
lin's, we  cannot  help  considering  them  as 
peculiarly  propitious;  and  imagme  that  we 
can  trace  back  to  them,  distinctly,  almost  all 
the  peculiarities  of  his  intellectual  charac- 
ter. 
/  Regular  education,  we  think,  is  unfavour- 
\  able  to  vigour  or  originality  of  understanding. 
/  Like  civilization,  it  makes  society  more  in- 
telligent and  agreeable ;  but  it  levels  the  dis- 
tinctions of  nature.  It  strengthens  and  assists 
the  feeble ;  but  it  deprives  the  strong  of  his 
triumph,  and  casts  down  the  hopes  of  the 
aspiring.  It  accomplishes  this,  not  only  by 
training  up  the  mind  in  an  habitual  veneration 
for  authorities,  but,  by  leading  us  to  bestow  a 
disproportionate  degree  of  attention  upon 
studies  that  are  only  valuable  as  keys  or  in- 
struments for  the  understanding,  they  come 
at  last  to  be  regarded  as  ultimate  objects  of 
pursuit ;  and  the  means  of  education  are  ab- 
surdly mistaken  for  its  end.  How  many 
powerful  understandings  have  been  lost  in 
the  Dialectics  of  Aristotle !  And  of  how 
"  much  good  philosophy  are  we  daily  defraud- 
ed, by  the  preposterous  error  of  taking  a 
knowledge  of  prosody  for  useful  learning ! 
The  mind  of  a  man,  who  has  escaped  this 
training;  will  at  least  have  fair  play.  What- 
ever other  errors  he  may  fall  into,  he  will  be 
safe  at  least  from  these  infatuations :  And  if 
he  thinks  proper,  after  he  grows  up,  to  study 
Greek,  it  will  probably  be  for  some  better 
purpose  than  to  become  critically  acquainted 
with  its  dialects.  His  prejudices  will  be 
those  of  a  man,  and  not  of  a  schoolboy ;  and 
ais  speculations  and  conclusions  will  be  inde- 


pendent of  the  maxims  of  tutors,  and  the 
oracles  of  literary  patrons. 

The  consequences  of  living  in  a  refined  and 
literary  community,  are  nearly  of  the  same 
kind  with  those  of  a  regular  education.  There 
are  so  many  critics  to  be  satisfied — so  man^ 
qualifications  to  be  established — so  many  ri- 
vals to  encounter,  and  so  much  derision  to  be 
hazarded,  that  a  young  man  is  apt  to  be  de- 
terred from  so  perilous  an  enterprise,  and  led 
to  seek  for  distinction  in  some  safer  line  of 
exertion.  He  is  discouraged  by  the  fame  and 
the  perfection  of  certain  models  and  favourites, 
who  are  always  in  the  mouths  of  his  judges, 
and,  "  under  them,  his  genius  is  rebuked," 
and  his  originality  repressed,  till  he  sinks  into 
a  paltry  copyist,  or  aims  at  distinction,  by  ex- 
travagance and  affectation.  In  such  a  state 
of  society,  he  feels  that  mediocrity  has  no 
chance  of  distinction :  and  what  beginner  can 
expect  to  rise  at  once  into  excellence'?  He 
imagines  that  mere  good  sense  will  attract  no 
attention;  and  that  the  manner  is  of  much 
more  importance  than  the  matter,  in  a  candi- 
4ate  for  public  admiration.  In  his  attention 
to  the  manner,  the  matter  is  apt  to  be  ne- 
glected; and,  in  his  solicitude  to  please  those 
who  require  elegance  of  diction,  brilliancy  of 
wit,  or  harmony  of  periods,  he  is  in  some  dan- 
ger of  forgetting  that  strength  of  reason,  and 
accuracy  of  observation,  by  which  he  first  pro- 
posed to  recommend  himself.  His  attention, 
when  extended  to  so  many  collateral  objects, 
is  no  longer  vigorous  or  collected ; — the  stream, 
divided  into  so  many  channels,  ceases  to  flow 
either  deep  or  strong; — he  becomes  an  unsuc- 
cessful pretender  to  fine  writing,  or  is  satis- 
fied with  the  frivolous  praise  of  elegance  or 
vivacity. 

We  are  disposed  to  ascribe  so  much  power 
to  these  obstructions  to  intellectual  originality, 
that  we  cannot  help  fancying,  that  if  Franklin 
had  been  bred  in  a  college,  he  would  have 
contented  himself  with  expounding  the  me- 
tres of  Pindar,  and  mixing  argument  with  his 
port  in  the  common  room;  and  that  if  Boston 
had  abounded  with  men  of  letters,  he  would 
never  have  ventured  to  come  forth  from  his 
printing-house ;  or  been  driven  back  to  it,  at 
any  rate,  by  the  sneers  of  the  critics,  after  the 
first  publication  of  his  Essays  in  the  Busy 
Body. 

This  will  probably  be  thought  exaggerated ; 
but  it  cannot  be  denied,  we  think,  that  the 
contrary  circumstances  in  his  history  had  a 
powerful  effect  in  determining  the  character 
of  his  understanding;  and  in  producing  those 
peculiar  habits  of  reasoning  and  investigation 
by  which  his  writings  are  distinguished.  He 
was  encouraged  to  publish,  because  there  wag 
scarcely  any  one  around  him  whom  he  could 
not  easily  excel.  He  wrote  with  great  brevi- 
ty, because  he  had  not  leisure  for  more  volu- 
minious  compositions,  and  because  he  knew 
that  the  readers  to  whom  he  addressed  him- 
self were,  for  the  most  part,  as  busy  as  him- 
self. For  the  same  reason,  he  studied  great 
perspicuity  and  simplicity  of  statement.  His 
countrymen  had  then  no  relish  for  fine  writ- 
ing, and  could  not  easily  be  made  to  under 


62 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


«tand  a,  deduction  depending  on  a  long  or 
lilaboiate  process  of  reasoning.  He  was 
forced,  therefore,  to  concentrate  what  he  had 
to  say;  and  since  he  had  no  chance  of  being 
admired  for  the  beauty  of  his  composition,  it 
was  natural  for  him  to  aim  at  making  an  im- 
pression by  the  force  and  the  clearness  of  his 
statements. 

His  conclusions  were  often  rash  and  inaccu- 
rate, from  the  same  circumstances  which  ren- 
dered his  productions  concise.  Philosophy 
and  speculation  did  not  form  the  business  of 
his  life ;  nor  did  he  dedicate  himsplf  to  any 
particular  study,  with  a  view  to  exhaust  and 
complete  the  investigation  of  it  in  all  its  parts, 
and  under  all  its  relations.  He  engaged  in 
every  interesting  inquiry  that  suggested  itself 
to  him,  rather  as  the  necessary  exercise  of  a 
powerful  and  active  mind,  than  as  a  task 
which  he  had  bound  himself  to  perform.  He 
cast  a  quick  and  penetrating  glance  over  the 
facts  and  the  data  that  were  presented  to  him  5 
and  drew  his  conclusions  with  a  rapidity  and 
precision  that  have  not  often  been  equalled. 
But  he  did  not  generally  stop  to  examine  the 
completeness  of  the  data  upon  which  he  pro- 
ceeded, nor  to  consider  the  ultimate  effect  or 
application  of  the  principles  to  which  he  had 
been  conducted.  In  all  questions,  therefore, 
where  the  facts  upon  which  he  was  to  deter- 
mine, and  the  materials  from  which  his  judg- 
ment was  to  be  formed,  were  either  few  in 
number,  or  of  such  a  nature  as  not  to  be  over- 
looked, his  reasonings  are,  for  the  most  part, 
perfectly  just  and  conclusive,  and  his  decisions 
unexceptionably  sound;  but  where  the  ele- 
ments of  the  calculation  were  more  numerous 
and  widely  scattered,  it  appears  to  us  that  he 
has  often  been  precipitate,  and  that  he  has 
either  been  misled  by  a  partial  apprehension  of 
the  conditions  of  the  problem,  or  has  discovered 
only  a  portion  of  the  truth  which  lay  before 
him.  In  all  physical  inquiries;  in  almost  all 
questions  of  particular  and  immediate  policy ; 
and  in  much  of  what  relates  to  the  practical 
wisdom  and  happiness  of  private  hfe,  his 
views  will  be  found  to  be  admirable,  and  the 
reasoning  by  which  they  are  supported  most 
masterly  and  convincing.  But  upon  subjects  of 
general  politics,  of  abstract  morality,  and  politi- 
cal economy,  his  notions  appear  to  be  more  un- 
satisfactory and  incomplete.  He  seems  to  have 
wanted  leisure,  and  perhaps  inclination  also, 
to  spread  out  before  him  the  whole  vast  pre- 
mises of  those  extensive  sciences,  and  scarcely 
to  have  had  patience  to  hunt  for  his  con- 
clusions through  so  wide  and  intricate  a  region 
as  that  upon  which  they  invited  him  to  enter. 
He  has  been  satisfied,  therefore,  on  many  occa- 
sions, with  reasoning  from  a  very  limited  view 
of  the  facts,  and  often  from  a  particular  in- 
stance; and  he  has  done  all  that  sagacity  and 
sound  sense  could  do  with  such  materials: 
but  it  cannot  excite  wonder,  if  he  has  some- 
times overlooked  an  essential  part  of  the  argu- 
ment, and  often  advanced  a  particular  truth 
into  the  place  of  a  general  principle.  He  sel- 
dom reasoned  upon  those  subjects  at  all,  we 
believe,  without  having  some  practical  appli- 
caiJDn  of  them  immediately  in  view;  and  as 


he  began  the  investigation  rather  to  determrnp. 
a  particular  case,  than  to  establish  a  general 
maxim,  so  he  probably  desisted  as  soon  as  hp 
had  relieved  himself  of  the  present  difficulty. 

There  are  not  many  among  the  thorougn- 
bred  scholars  and  philosophers  of  Europe,  who 
can  lay  claim  to  distinction  in  more  than  one 
or  two  departments  of  science  or  literature. 
The  uneducated  tradesman  of  America  has 
left  writings  that  call  for  our  respectful  atten- 
tion, in  natural  philosophy, — in  politics, — in 
political  economy, — and  in  general  literature 
and  morality. 

Of  his  labours  in  the  department  of  Physics^ 
we  do  not  propose  to  say  much.  They  were' 
almost  all  suggested  by  views  of  utility  in  the 
beginning,  and  were,  without  exception,  ap- 
plied, we  believe,  to  promote  such  views  in 
the  end.  His  letters  upon  Electricity  have 
been  more  extensively  circulated  than  any  of 
his  other  writings  of  this  kind ;  and  are  en- 
titled to  more  praise  and  popularity  than  they 
seem  ever  to  have  met  with  in  this  country. 
Nothing  can  be  more  admirable  than  the  lu- 
minous and  graphical  precision  with  which 
the  experiments  are  narrated:  the  ingenuity 
with  which  they  are  projected ;  and  the  saga- 
city with  which  the  conclusion  is  inferred, 
limited,  and  confirmed. 

The  most  remarkable  thing,  however,  in 
these,  and  indeed  in  the  whole  of  his  physical 
speculations,  is  the  unparalleled  simplicity 
and  facility  with  which  the  reader  is  con- 
ducted from  one  stage  of  the  inquiry  to  an- 
other. The  author  never  appears  for  a  mo- 
ment to  labour  or  to  be  at  a  loss.  The  most 
ingenious  and  profound  explanations  are  sug- 
gested, as  if  they  were  the  most  natural 
and  obvious  way  of  accounting  for  the  phe- 
nomena; and  the  author  seems  to  value  him- 
self so  little  on  his  most  important  discoveries, 
that  it  is  necessary  to  compare  him  with 
others,  before  we  can  form  a  just  notion  of  his 
merits.  As  he  seems  to  be  conscious  of  no 
exertion,  he  feels  no  partiality  for  any  part  of 
his  speculations,  and  never  seeks  to  raise  the 
reader's  idea  of  their  importance,  by  any  arts 
of  declamation  or  eloquence.  Indeed,  the  ha- 
bitual precision  of  his  conceptions,  and  his 
invariable  practice  of  referring  to  specific  facts 
and  observations,  secured  him,  in  a  great  mea- 
sure, both  from  those  extravagant  conjectures 
in  which  so  many  naturalists  have  indulged, 
and  from  the  zeal  and  enthusiasm  which 
seems  so  naturally  to  be  engendered  in  their 
defence.  He  w^as  by  no  means  averse  to  give 
scope  to  his  imagination,  in  suggesting  a  va- 
riety of  explanations  of  obscure  and  unman- 
ageable phenomena;  but  he  never  allowed 
himself  to  confound  these  vague  and  conjec- 
tural theories  with  the  solid  results  of  experi- 
ence and  obsei-vation.  In  his  Meteorological 
papers,  and  in  his  Observations  upon  Heat  and 
Light,  there  is  a  great  deal  of  such  bold  and 
original  suggestions:  but  he  evidently  sets  but 
little  value  upon  them;  and  has  no  sooner 
disburdened  his  mind  of  the  impressions  from 
which  they  proceeded,  than  he  seems  to  dis 
miss  them  entirely  from  his  consideration, 
and  turns  to  the  legitimate  philosophy  of  ex 


DR.  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 


65 


periment  with  unabated  diligence  and  hu- 
mility. As  an  instance  of  this  disposition,  we 
may  quote  part  of  a  letter  to  the  Abbe  Sou- 
laive,  upon  a  new  Theory  of  the  Earth,  which 
ne  proposes  and  dismisses,  without  concern  or 
anxiety,  in  the  course  of  a  few  sentences; 
though,  if  the  idea  had  fallen  upon  the  brain 
of  an  European  philosopher,  it  might  have  ger- 
minated into  a  volume  of  eloquence,  like 
BufFon's,  or  an  infinite  array  of  paragraphs  and 
observations,  like  those  of  Parkinson  and  Dr. 
Hutton. 

After  remarking,  that  there  are  manifold 
indications  of  some  of  the  highest  parts  of  the 
land  having  been  formerly  covered  by  sea, 
Dr.  Franklin  observes — 

"Such  changes  in  the  superficial  parts  of  the 
globe,  seemed  to  me  unhkely  to  happen,  if  the 
earth  were  solid  in  the  centre.  I  therefore  imagined, 
that  the  internal  parts  might  be  a  fluid  more  dense, 
and  of  greater  specific  gravity  than  any  of  the  solids 
we  are  acquainted  with,  vvhich  therefore  might 
swim  in  or  upon  that  fluid.  Thus  the  surface  of 
the  globe  would  be  a  shell,  capable  of  being  broken 
and  disordered  by  the  violent  movements  of  the 
fluid  on  which  it  rested.  And  as  air  has  been  com- 
pressed by  art  so  as  to  be  twice  as  dense  as  water, 
and  as  we  know  not  yet  the  degree  of  density  to 
which  air  may  be  compressed,  and  M.  Amontons 
calculated  that  its  density  increasing  as  it  approached 
the  centre  in  the  same  proportion  as  above  the  sur- 
face, it  would,  at  the  depth  of  leagues,  be  heavier 
than  gold,  and  possibly  the  dense  fluid  occupying 
the  internal  parts  of  the  globe  might  therefore  be 
air  compressed.  Ahd  as  the  force  of  expan^sion  in 
dense  air,  when  heated,  is  in  proportion  to  its 
density,  this  central  air  might  affbrd  another  agent 
to  move  the  surface,  as  well  as  be  of  use  in  keeping 
alive  the  subterraneous  fires;  though,  as  you  observe, 
the  sudden  rarefaction  of  water  coming  into  contact 
with  those  fires,  may  also  be  an  agent  sufficiently 
strong  for  that  purpose,  when  acting  between  the 
incumbent  earth  and  the  fluid  on  which  it  rests. 

"  If  one  might  indulge  imagination  in  supposing 
how  such  a  globe  was  formed,  I  should  conceive, 
that  all  the  elements  in  separate  particles  being 
originally  mixed  in  confusion,  and  occupying  a  great 
space,  they  would  (as  soon  as  the  Almighty  fiat  or- 
dained gravity,  or  the  mutual  attraction  of  certain 
parts,  and  the  mutual  repulsion  of  others  to  exist) 
all  move  to  their  common  centre  :  that  the  air  being 
a  fluid  whose  parts  repel  each  other,  though  drawn 
to  the  common  centre  by  their  gravity,  would  be 
densest  towards  the  centre,  and  rarer  as  more  re- 
mote ;  consequently,  all  matters  lighter  than  the 
central  parts  of  that  air,  and  immersed  in  it,  would 
recede  from  the  centre,  and  rise  till  they  arrived  at 
that  region  of  the  air  which  was  of  the  same  specific 
gravity  with  themselves,  where  they  would  rest ; 
while  other  matter,  mixed  with  the  lighter  air, 
would  descend,  and  the  two,  meeting,  would  form 
the  shell  of  the  first  earth,  leaving  the  upper  atmos- 
phere  nearly  clear.  The  original  movement  of  the 
parts  towards  their  common  centre,  would  natu- 
rally form  a  whirl  there  ;  which  would  continue, 
upon  the  turning  of  the  new-formed  globe  upon  its 
axis :  and  the  greatest  diameter  of  the  shell  would 
be  in  its  equator.  If,  by  any  accident  afterwards, 
the  axis  should  be  changed,  the  dense  mternal  fluid, 
by  altering  its  form,  must  burst  the  shell,  and  throw 
all  its  substance  into  the  confusion  in  which  we  find 
it.  I  will  not  trouble  you  at  present  with  my  fan- 
cies concerning  the  manner  of  forming  the  rest  of 
our  system.  Superior  beings  smile  at  our  theories, 
and  at  our  presumption  in  making  them." — vol.  ii. 
pp.  117—119. 

He  afterwards  makes  his  theory  much  finer 
and  more  extravagant,  by  combining  with  it  a 


very  wild  speculation  upon  magnetism ;  and. 
notwithstanding  the  additional  temptation  ot 
this  new  piece  of  ingenuity,  he  abandons  it  in 
the  end  with  as  much  unconcern,  as  if  he 
had  had  no  share  in  the  making  of  it.  We 
shall  add  the  whole  passage. 

"  It  has  long  been  a  supposition  of  mine,  that  the 
iron  contained  in  the  surface  of  the  globe  has  made 
it  capable  of  becoming,  as  it  is,  a  great  magnet ; 
that  the  fluid  of  magnetism  perhaps  exists  in  all 
space ;  so  that  there  is  a  magnetical^  north  and 
south  of  the  Universe,  as  well  as  of  this  globe,  so 
that  if  it  were  possible  for  a  man  to  fly  from  star  to 
star,  he  might  govern  his  course  by  the  compass  ; 
that  it  was  by  the  power  of  this  general  magnetism 
this  globe  became  a  particular  magnet.  In  soft  or 
hot  iron  the  fluid  of  magnetism  is  naturally  diflTused 
equally:  But  when  within  the  influence  of  the 
magnet,  it  is  drawn  to  one  end  of  the  iron  ;  made 
denser  there,  and  rarer  at  the  other.  While  the 
iron  continues  soft  and  hot,  it  is  only  a  temporary 
magnet :  if  it  cools  or  grows  hard  in  that  situation, 
it  becomes  a  permanent  one,  the  magnetic  fluid  not 
easily  resuming  its  equihbrium.  Perhaps  it  may 
be  owing  to  the  permanent  magnetism  of  this  globe, 
which  it  had  not  at  first,  that  its  axis  is  at  present 
kept  parallel  to  itself  and  not  liable  to  the  changes 
it  formerly  suffered,  which  occasioned  the  rupture 
of  its  shell,  the  submersions  and  emersions  of  its 
lands,  and  the  confusion  of  its  seasons.  The  present 
polar  and  equatorial  diameters  differing  from  each 
other  near  ten  leagues,  it  is  easy  to  conceive,  in  case 
some  power  should  shift  the  axis  gradually,  and 
place  it  in  the  present  equator,  and  make  the  new 
equator  pass  through  the  present  poles,  what  a 
sinking  of  the  waters  would  happen  in  the  present 
equatorial  regions,  and  what  a  rising  in  the  present 
polar  regions  ;  so  that  vast  tracts'^ would  be  dis- 
covered, that  now  are  under  water,  and  others 
covered,'  that  are  now  dry,  the  water  rising  and 
sinking  in  the  different  extremes  near  five  leagues. 
Such  an  operation  as  this  possibly  occasioned  much 
of  Europe,  and  among  the  rest  this  Mountain  of 
Passy  on  which  I  live,  and  which  is  composed  of 
limestone  rock  and  sea-shells,  to  be  abandoned  bv 
the  sea,  and  to  change  its  ancient  climate,  which 
seems  to  have  been  a  hot  one.  The  globe  being 
now  become  a  perfect  magnet,  we  are,  perhaps, 
safe  from  any  change  of  its  axis.  But  we  are  still 
subject  to  the  accidents  on  the  surface,  which  are 
occasioned  by  a  wave  in  the  internal  ponderous 
fluid  ••  and  such  a  wave  is  producible  by  the  sudden 
virulent  explosion  you  mention,  happening  from  the 
junction  of  water  and  fire  under  the  earth,  which 
not  only  Ufts  the  incumbent  earth  that  is  over  the 
explosion,  but  impressing  with  the  same  force  the 
fluid  under  it,  creates  a  wave,  that  may  run  a 
thousand  leagues,  hfting,  and  thereby  shaking,  suc- 
cessively, all  the  countries  under  which  it  passes.  I 
know  not  whether  I  have  expressed  myself  so 
clearly,  as  not  to  get  out  of  your  sight  in  these 
reveries.  If  they  occasion  any  new  inquiries,  and 
produce  a  better  hypothesis,  they  will  not  be  quite 
useless.  You  see  I  have  given  a  loose  to  imagination; 
but  I  approve  much  more  your  method  of  philoso- 
phizing, which  proceeds  upon  actual  observation, 
makes  a  collection  of  facts,  and  concludes  no  further 
than  those  facts  will  warrant.  In  my  present  cir- 
cumstances, that  mode  of  studying  the  nature  of 
the  globe  is  out  of  my  power,  and  therefore  I  have 
permitted  myself  to  wander  a  Uttle  in  the  wilds  of 
fancy."— vol.  ii.  p.  119—121. 

Our  limits  will  not  permit  us  to  make  any 
analysis  of  the  other  physical  papers  contained 
in  tliis  collection.  They  are  all  admirable  for 
the  clearness  of  the  description,  the  felicity 
and  familiarity  of  the  illustrations,  and  the 
singular  sagacity  of  the  remarks  with  which 
they  are  interspersed.     The  theory  of  whirl 


64 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


windfl  and  waterspouts,  as  well  as  the  obser- 
vations on  the  course  of  the  wmds  and  on  cold, 
seem  to  be  excellent.  The  paper  called  Mari- 
time Observations  is  full  of  ingenuity  and 
practical  good  sense ;  and  the  remarks  on 
Evaporation,  and  on  the  Tides,  most  of  which 
are  contained  in  a  series  of  letters  to  a  young 
lady,  are  admirable,  not  merely  for  their  per- 
spicuity, but  for  the  interest  and  amusement 
they  are  calculated  to  communicate  to  every 
description  of  readers.  The  remarks  on  Fire- 
places and  Smoky  chimnies  are  infinitely  more 
original,  concise,  and  scientiiic,  than  those  of 
Count  Rumford ;  and  the  observations  on  the 
Gulph-stream  afford,  we  beheve,  the  first 
example  of  just  theory,  and  accurate  investi- 
gation, applied  to  that  phenomenon. 

Dr.  Franklin,  we  think,  has  never  made  use 
of  the  mathematics,  in  his  investigation  of  the 
phenomena  of  nature ;  and  though  this  may 
render  it  surprising  that  he  has  fallen  into  so 
few  errors  of  importance,  we  conceive  that  it 
helps  in  some  measure  to  explain  the  un- 
equalled perspicuity  and  vivacity  of  his  expo- 
sitions. An  algebraist,  who  can  work  wonders 
with  letters,  seldom  condescends  to  be  much 
indebted  to  words ;  and  thinks  himself  enti- 
tled to  make  his  sentences  obscure,  provided 
his  calculations  be  distinct.  A  writer  who 
has  nothing  but  words  to  make  use  of,  must, 
make  all  the  use  he  can  of  them :  he  cannot 
afford  to  neglect  the  only  chance  he  has  of 
being  understood. 

We  should  now  say  something  of  the  politi- 
cal writings  of  Dr.  Franklin, — the  productions 
which  first  raised  him  into  public  office  and 
eminence,  and  which  will  be  least  read  or 
attended  to  by  posterity.  They  may  be  di- 
vided into  two  parts;  those  which  relate  to 
the  internal  affairs  and  provincial  differences 
of  the  American  colonies,  before  their  quarrel 
with  the  mother  country;  and  those  which 
relate  to  that  quarrel  and  its  consequences. 
The  former  are  no  longer  in  any  degree  in- 
teresting :  and  the  editor  has  done  wisely,  we 
think,  in  presenting  his  readers  with  an  ab- 
stract only  of  the  longest  of  them.  This  was 
published  in  1759,  under  the  title  of  an  His- 
\orical  Review  of  the  Constitution  of  Pennsyl- 
vania, and  consisted  of  upwards  of  500  pages, 
composed  for  the  purpose  of  showing  that  the 
political  privileges  reserved  to  the  founder  of 
the  colony  had  been  illegally  and  oppressively 
used.  The  Canada  pamphlet,  written  in  1760, 
for  the  purpose  of  pointing  out  the  importance 
of  retaining  that  colony  at  the  peace,  is  given 
entire ;  and  appears  to  be  composed  with  great 
force  of  reason,  and  in  a  style  of  extraordinary 
perspicuity.  The  same  may  be  said  of  what 
are  called  the  Albany  Papers,  or  the  plan  for 
a  general  political  union  of  the  colonies  in 
1754 ;  and  a  variety  of  other  tracts  on  the 
provincial  politics  of  that  day.  All  these  are 
worth  preserving,  both  as  monuments  of  Dr. 
F'-anklin's  talents  and  activity,  and  as  afford- 
ing, in  many  places,  very  excellent  models  of 
strong  reasoning  and  popular  eloquence :  but 
the  interest  of  the  subjects  is  now  completely 
gone  by;  and  the  few  specimens  of  general 
reasoning  which  wo  meet  with,  serve  only  to 


increase  our  regret,  that  the  talents  of  th« 
author  should  have  been  wasted  on  such 
perishable  materials. 

There  is  not  much  written  on  the  subject  ol 
the  dispute  with  the  colonies;  and  most  of  Dr 
Franklin's  papers  on  that  subject  are  already 
well  known  to  the  pubhc.  His  examination  be- 
fore the  House  of  Commons  in  1766  affords  a 
striking  proof  of  the  extent  of  his  information, 
the  clearness  and  force  of  his  extempore  com- 
position, and  the  steadiness  and  self-possession 
which  enabled  him  to  display  these  qualities 
with  so  much  effect  upon  such  an  occasion. 
His  letters  before  the  commencement  of  hos- 
tilities are  full  of  grief  and  anxiety;  but,  no 
sooner  did  matters  come  to  extremities,  than 
he  appears  to  have  assumed  a  certain  keen 
and  confident  cheerfulness,  not  unmixed  with 
a  seasoning  of  asperity,  and  more  vindictive- 
ness  of  spirit  than  perhaps  became  a  philoso- 
pher. In  a  letter  written  in  October  1775,  he 
expresses  himself  in  this  manner: — 

"  Tell  our  dear  good  friend  *  *  *,  who  sometimes 
has  his  doubts  and  despondencies  about  our  firm- 
ness, that  America  is  determined  and  unanimous; 
a  very  few  Tories  and  placemen  excepted,  "who 
will  probably  soon  export  themselves.  Britain,  at 
the  expense  of  three  millions,  has  killed  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  Yankies  this  campaian,  which  ia 
20,000Z.  a  head ;  and,  at  Bunker's  Hifl,  she  gained 
a  mile  of  ground,  half  of  which  she  lost  again  by 
our  taking  post  on  Ploughed  Hill.  During  the 
same  time,  sixty  thousand  children  have  been  born 
in  America.  From  these  data,  his  mathematical 
head  will  easily  calculate  the  time  and  expense  nec- 
essary to  kill  us  all,  and  conquer  our  whole  terri- 
tory."— vol.  iii,  p.  357,  358. 

The  following  letters,  M'hich  passed  between 
Dr.  Franklin  and  Lord  Howe,  when  his  Lord- 
ship arrived  off  the  American  coast  with  what 
were  called  the  pacificatory  proposals  in  1776, 
show  not  only  the  consideration  in  which  the 
former  was  held  by  the  Noble  Commissioner, 
but  contain  a  very  striking  and  prophetic  state- 
ment of  the  consequences  to  be  apprehended 
from  the  perseverance  of  Great  Brhain  in  her 
schemes  of  compulsion.  His  Lordship  writes, 
in  June  1776, — 

"  I  cannot,  my  worthy  friend,  permit  the  letters 
and  parcels,  which  I  have  sent  (in  the  state  I  re- 
ceived them,)  to  be  landed,  without  adding  a  word 
upon  the  subject  of  the  mjunous  extremities  in 
which  our  unhappy  disputes  have  engaged  us. 

"  You  will  learn  the  nature  of  my  mission,  from 
the  official  despatches  which  I  have  recommended 
to  be  forwarded  by  the  same  conveyance.  Retain- 
ing all  the  earnesttiess  I  ever  expressed,  to  see  our 
diifierences  accommodated ;  I  shall  conceive,  if  I 
meet  with  the  disposition  in  the  colonies  which  I 
was  once  taught  to  expect,  the  most  flattering  hopes 
of  proving  serviceable  in  the  objects  of  the  King's 
paternal  solicitude,  by  promoting  the  establishment 
of  lasting  peace  and  union  with  the  Colonies.  But, 
if  the  deep-rooted  prejudices  of  America,  and  the 
necessity  of  preventing  her  trade  from  passing  into 
foreign  channels,  must  keep  us  still  a  divided  people, 
I  shall,  from  every  private  as  well  as  public  motive, 
most  heartily  lament,  that  this  is  not  the  moment, 
wherein  those  great  objects  of  my  ambition  are  to 
be  attained,  and  that  I  am  to  be  longer  deprived  of 
an  opportunity  to  assure  you,  personally,  of  the  re- 
gard  with  which  I  am,  &c." — vol.  iii.  p.  365—367. 

Dr.  Franklin  answered, — 

"I  received  safe  '.he  letters  your  Lordship  go 


DR.  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 


65 


kindly  forwarded  to  me,  and  beg  you  to  accept  my 
thanks. 

"  The  official  despatches  to  which  you  refer  me, 
contain  nothing  more  than  what  we  had  seen  in  the 
act  of  Parliament,  viz.  '  Offers  of  pardon  upon  sub- 
mission ;'  which  I  was  sorry  to  find ",  as  it  must 
give  your  Lordship  pain  to  be  sent  so  far  on  so 
hopeless  a  business. 

"  Directing  pardons  to  be  offered  to  the  colonies, 
who  are  the  very  parties  injured,  expresses  indeed 
that  opinion  of  our  ignorance,  baseness,  and  insen- 
sibility, which  your  uninformed  and  proud  nation 
has  long  been  pleased  to  entertain  of  us  x,  but  it  can 
have  no  other  effect  than  that  of  increasing  our  re- 
sentments. It  is  impossible  we  should  think  of 
submission  to  a  government  that  has,  with  the  most 
wanton  barbarity  and  craelty,  burned  our  defence- 
less towns  in  the  inidst  of  winter ;  excited  the 
savages  to  massacre  our  (peaceful)  farmers,  and  our 
slaves  to  murbcr  their  masters  ;  and  is  even  now* 
bringing  foreign  mercenaries  to  deluge  our  settle- 
ments with  blood.  These  atrocious  injuries  have 
extinguished  every  spark  of  affection  for  that  parent 
country  we  once  held  so  dear:  but,  were  it  possible 
for  us  to  forget  and  forgive  them,  it  is  not  possible 
for  you  (I  mean  the  British  nation)  to  forgive  the 
people  you  have  so  heavily  injured.  You  can 
never  confide  again  in  those  as  fellow-subjects,  and 
permit  them  to  enjoy  equal  freedom,  to  whom  you 
know  you  have  given  such  just  causes  of  lasting 
enmity:  and  this  must  impel  you,  were  we  again 
under  your  government,  to  endeavour  the  breaking 
our  spirit  by  the  severest  tyranny,  and  obstructing, 
bv  every  means  in  your  power,  our  growing  strength 
and  prosperity. 

"But  your  Lordship  mentions  'the  King's  pa- 
ternal solicitude  for  promoting  the  establishment  of 
lasting  peace  and  union  with  the  Colonies.'  If  by 
peace  is  here  meant,  a  peace  to  be  entered  into  by 
distinct  states,  now  at  war ;  and  his  Majesty  has 
given  your  Lordship  powers  to  treat  with  us  of  such 
a  peace  ;  I  may  venture  to  say,  though  without  au- 
thority, that  I  think  a  treaty  for  that  purpose  not 
quite  impracticable,  before  we  enter  into  foreign 
alliances.  But'  I  am  persuaded  you  have  no  such 
powers.  Your  nation,  though,  by  punishing  those 
American  governors  who  have  fomented  the  discord, 
rebuilding  our  burnt  towns,  and  repairing  as  far  as 
possible  tne  mischiefs  done  us,  she  might  recover  a 
great  share  of  our  regard,  and  the  greatest  share 
of  our  growing  commerce,  with  all  the  advantages 
of  that  additional  strength,  to  be  derived  from  a 
friendship  with  us ;  yet  I  know  too  well  her  abound- 
ing pride  and  deficient  wisdom,  to  believe  she  will 
ever  take  such  salutary  measures.  Her  fondness  for 
conquest  as  a  warhke  nation  ;  her  lust  of  dominion 
as  an  ambitious  one ;  and  her  thirst  for  a  gainful 
monopoly  as  a  commercial  one,  (none  of  them  legit- 
imate causes  of  war,)  will  join  to  hide  from  her 
eyes  every  view  of  her  true  interest,  and  con- 
tinually goad  her  on  in  those  ruinous  distant  expe- 
ditions, so  destructive  both  of  lives  and  of  treasure, 
that  they  must  prove  as  pernicious  to  her  in  the  end, 
as  the  Croisades  formerly  were  to  most  of  the  na- 
tions of  Europe. 

"I  have  not  the  vanity,  my  Lord,  to  think  of  in- 
timidating, by  thus  predicting  the  effects  of  this 
war ;  for  I  know  it  will  in  England  have  the  fate 
of  all  my  former  predictions — not  to  be  believed 
till  the  event  shall  verify  it. 

"  Long  did  I  endeavour,  with  unfeigned  and  un- 
wearied zeal,  to  preserve  from  breaking  that  fine 
and  noble  porcelain  vase — the  British  empire  ;  for  I 
knew  that,  being  once  broken,  the  separate  parts 
could  not  retain  even  their  share  of  the  strength  and 
value  that  existed  in  the  whole  ;  and  that  a  perfect 
reunion  of  those  parts  could  scarce  ever  be  hoped 
for.  Your  Lordship  may  possibly  remember  the 
tears  of  joy  that  wetted  my  cheek,  when,  at  your 
good  sister's  in  London,  you  once  gave  me  expec- 


♦  About  this  time  the  Hessians,  &c.  had  jnst  arrived 
from  Europe  at  Slaten  Island  and  New  York.     B.  V. 

5 


tations  that  a  reconciliation  might  soon  take  place. 
I  had  the  misfortune  to  find  these  expectations  dis- 
appointed, and  to  be  treated  as  the  cause  of  the 
mischief  I  was  labouring  to  prevent.  My  consola- 
tion under  that  groundless  and  malevolent  treatment 
was,  that  I  retained  the  friendship  of  many  wise 
and  good  men  in  that  country  ;  and,  among  the 
rest,  some  share  in  the  regard  of  Lord  Howe. 

"  The  well-founded  esteem,  and,  permit  me  to 
say,  affection,  which  I  shall  always  have  for  your 
Lordship,  make  it  painful  to  me  to  see  you  engaged 
in  conducting  a  war,  the  great  ground  of  which  (as 
described  in  your  letter)  is  '  the  necessity  of  pre- 
venting the  American  trade  from  passing  into 
foreign  channels.'  To  me  it  seems,  that  neither 
the  obtaining  or  retaining  any  trade,  how  valuable 
soever,  is  an  object  for  which  men  may  justly  spill 
each  other's  blood ;  that  the  true  and  sure  means 
of  extending  and  securing  commerce,  are  the  good- 
ness and  cheapness  of  commodities  ;  and  that  the 
profits  of  no  trade  can  ever  be  equal  to  the  ex- 
pense of  compellini  it,  and  holding  it  by  fleets  and 
armies.  I  consider  this  war  against  us,  therefore, 
as  both  unjust  and  unwise ;  andl  am  persuaded  that 
cool  and  dispassionate  posterity  will  condemn  to 
infamy  those  who  advised  it ;  and  that  even  success 
will  not  save  from  some  degree  of  dishonour,  those 
who  have  voluntarily  engaged  to  conduct  it. 

"  I  know  your  great  motive  in  coming  hither  was 
the  hope  of  being  instrumental  in  a  reconciliation  ; 
and  I  believe,  when  you  find  that  to  be  impossible, 
on  any  terms  given  you  to  propose,  you  will  then 
relinquish  so  odious  a  command,  and  return  to  a 
more  honourable  private  station. 

"  With  the  greatest  and  most  sincere  respect,  I 
have  the  honour  to  be,  &c." — vol.  iii.  p.  367 — 371. 

None  of  Dr.  Franklin's  political  writings, 
during  the  nine  years  when  he  resided  as 
Ambassador  at  the  Court  of  France,  have  yet 
been  made  public.  Some  of  them,  we  should 
imagine,  must  be  highly  interesting. 

Of  the  merit  of  this  author  as  a  political 
economist,  we  have  already  had  occasion  to 
say  something,  in  the  general  remarks  which 
we  made  on  the  character  of  his  genius ;  and 
we  cannot  now  spare  time  to  go  much  into 
particulars.  He  is  perfectly  sound  upon  many 
important  and  practical  points; — upon  the 
corn-trade,  and  the  theory  of  money,  for  in- 
stance ;  and  also  upon  the  more  general  doc- 
trines, as  to  the  freedom  of  commerce,  and 
the  principle  of  population.  In  the  more  ele 
mentary  and  abstract  parts  of  the  science, 
however,  his  views  seem  to  have  been  less 
just  and  luminous.  He  is  not  very  consistent 
or  profound  in  what  he  says  of  the  effects  of 
luxurv;  and  seems  to  have  gone  headlong 
into  the  radical  error  of  the  Economistes,  when 
he  maintains,  that  all  that  is  done  by  manu- 
facture, is  to  embody  the  value  of  the  manu- 
facturer's subsistence  in  his  work,  and  that 
agriculture  is  the  only  source  from  which  a 
real  increase  of  wealth  can  be  derived.  An 
other  favourite  pcsition  is,  that  all  commerce 
is  cheating^  where  a  commodity,  produced  by 
a  certain  quantity  of  labour,  is  exchanged  for 
another,  on  which  more  labour  has  been  ex- 
pended ;  and  that  the  only  fair  price  of  any 
thing,  is  some  other  thing  requiring  the  same 
exertion  to  bring  it  to  majket.  This  is  evi- 
dently  a  very  narrow  and  erroneous  view  of 
the  nature  of  commerce.  The  fair  price  to 
the  purchaser  is,  whatever  he  deliberately 
chooses  to  give,  rather  than  go  without  the 
commodity ; — it  is  no  ma  ;ter  to  him,  whether 


«6 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


he  sell'^r  bestowed  much  or  little  labour  upon 
it,  or  whether  it  c:\viq  into  his  possession 
without  any  labour  at  all  y-  whether  it  be  a 
diamond,  which  he  picked  up,  or  a  picture,  at 
which  he  had  been  working  for  years.  The 
commodity  is  not  valued  by  the  purchaser, 
on  account  of  the  labour  which  is  supposed  to 
be  embodied  in  it,  but  solely  on  account  of 
certain  qualities,  which  he  finds  convenient 
or  agreeable :  he  compares  the  convenience 
and  delight  which  he  expects  to  derive  from 
this  object,  with  the  convenience  and  delight 
which  is  afforded  by  the  things  asked  in  ex- 
change for  it ;  and  if  he  find  the  former  pre- 
ponderate, he  consents  to  the  exchange,  and 
makes  a  beneficial  bargain. 

We  have  stated  the  case  in  the  name  of  a 
purchaser,  because,  in  bag;er,  both  parties 
are  truly  purchasers,  and  act  upon  the  same 
principles ;  and  it  is  easy  to  show,  that  all 
commerce  resolves  itself,  ultimately,  into  bar- 
ter. There  can  be  no  unfairness  in  trade, 
except  where  there  is  concealment  on  the 
part  of  the  seller,  either  of  the  defects  of  the 
commodity,  or  of  the  fact  that  the  purchaser 
may  be  supplied  with  it  at  a  cheaper  rate  by 
another.  It  is  a  matter  of  fact,  but  not  of 
morality,  that  the  price  of  most  commodities 
will  be  influenced  by  the  labour  employed  in 
producing  them.  If  they  are  capable  of  being- 
produced  in  unlimited  quantities,  the  compe- 
tition of  the  producers  will  sink  the  price  very 
nearly  to  what  is  necessary  to  maintain  this 
labour;  and  the  impossibility  of  continuing 
the  production,  without  repaying  that  labour, 
will  prevent  it  from  sinking  lower.  The  doc- 
trine does  not  apply  at  all,  to  cases  where  the 
materials,  or  the  skill  necessary  to  work  them 
up,  are  scarce  in  proportion  to  the  demand. 
The  author's  speculations  on  the  effects  of 
paper-money,  seem  also  to  be  superficial  and 
inaccurate.  Statistics  had  not  been  carefully 
studied  in  the  days  of  his  activity;  and,  ac- 
cordingly, we  meet  with  a  good  deal  of  loose 
assumption,  and  sweeping  calculation  in,  his 
writings.  Yet  he  had  a  genius  for  exact  ob- 
servation, and  complicated  detail ;  and  proba- 
bly wanted  nothing  but  leisure,  to  have  made 
very  great  advances  in  this  branch  of  economy. 
\  As  a  writer  on  morality  and  general  litera- 
'  ture,  the  merits  of  -  Dr.  Franklin  cannot  be 
estimated  properly,  without  taking  into  con- 
sideration the  peculiarities  that  have  been 
already  alluded  to  in  his  early  history  and 
situation.  He  never  had  the  benefit  of  any 
academical  instruction,  nor  of  the  society  of 
men  of  letters ; — his  style  was  foiTned  entirely 
by  his  own  judgment  and  occasional  reading : 
and  most  of  his  moral  pieces  were  writteri 
while  he  was  a  tradesman,  addressing  him- 
§elf  to  the  tradesmen  of  his  native  city.  We 
cannot  expect,  therefore,  either  that  he  should 
write  with  extraordinary  elegance  or  grace ; 
or  that  he  should  treat  of  the  accomplish- 
ments, follies,  and  occupations  of  polite  Kfe. 
He  had  no  great  occasion,  as  a  moralist,  to 
expose  the  guilt  and  the  folly  of  gaming  or 
seduction  ;  or  to  point  a  poignant  and  playful 
ridicule  against  the  lighter  immoralities  of 
fashionable  life.     To  the  mechanics  and  tra- 


ders of  Boston  and  Philadelphia,  such  warri^ 
ings  were  altogether  unnecessary;  and  he 
endeavoured,  therefore,  with  more  appropri- 
ate eloquence,  to  impress  upon  them  the  im- 
portance of  industry,  sobriety,  and  economy, 
and  to  direct  their  wise  and  humble  ambition 
to  the  attainment  of  useful  knowledge  and 
honourable  independence.  That  morality^ 
after  all.  is  certainly  the  most  valuable,  which 
is  adapted  to  the  circumstances  of  the  greatei 
part  of  mankind ;  and  that  eloquence  the  most 
meritorious,  that  is  calculated  to  convince  and 
persuade  the  multitude  to  virtue.  Nothing 
can  be  more  perfectly  and  beautifully  adapted 
to  its  object,  than  most  of  Dr.  Franklin's 
compositions  of  this  sort.  The  tone  of  famili- 
arity, of  good-w^ill,  and  homely  jocularit}- — 
the  plain  and  pointed  illustrations — the  short 
sentences,  made  up  of  short  words — and  the 
strong  sense,  clear  information,  and  obvious 
conviction  of  the  author  himself,  make  most 
of  his  moral  exhortations  perfect  models  of 
popular  eloquence ;  and  afford  the  finest  spec- 
imens of  a  style  which  has  been  but  too  little 
cultivated  in  a  country  which  numbers  per- 
haps more  than  half  a  million  of  readers 
among  its  tradesmen  and  artificers. 

In  waitings  which  possess  such  solid  and 
unusual  merit,  it  is  of  no  great  consequence 
that  the  fastidious  eye  of  a  critic  can  discover 
many  blemishes.  There  is  a  good  deal  of 
vulgarity  in  the  practical  writings  of  Dr. 
Franklin ;  and  more  vulgarity  than  was  any 
way  necessary  for  the  object  he  had  in  view. 
There  is  something  childish,  too,  in  some  of 
his  attempts  at  pleasantry ;  his  story  of  the 
Whistle,  and  his  Parisian  letter,  announcing 
the  discovery  that  the  sun  gives  light  as  soon 
as  he  rises,  are  instances  of  this.  The  solilo- 
quy of  an  Ephemeris,  however,  is  much  bet- 
ter ;  and  both  it,  and  the  Dialogue  with  the 
Gout,  are  executed  with  the  lightness  and 
spirit  of  genuine  French  compositions.  The 
Speech  in  the  Divan  of  Algiers,  composed  as 
a  parody  on  those  of  the  defenders  of  the 
slave  trade,  and  the  scriptural  parable  against 
persecution  are  inimitable; — they  have  all 
the  point  and  facility  of  the  fine  pleasantries 
of  Swift  and  Arbuthnot,  with  something  more 
of  directness  and  apparent  sincerity. 

The  style  of  his  letters,  in  general,  is  ex- 
cellent. They  are  chiefly  remarkable,  for 
great  simplicity  of  language,  admirable  good 
sense  and  ingenuity,  and  an  amiable  and 
inoffensive  cheerfulness,  that  is  never  over- 
clouded or  eclipsed.  Among  the  most  valua- 
ble of  the  writings  that  are  published  for  the 
first  time,  in  the  present  edition,  are  four  let- 
ters from  Dr.  Franklin  to  Mr.  Whatley,  writ- 
ten within  a  few  years  of  his  death,  and 
expressive  of  all  that  unbroken  gaiety,  phi- 
lanthropy, and  activity,  which  distingxiish  the 
compositions  of  his  earlier  years.  We  give 
with  pleasure  the  following  extracts. 

"  I  am  not  acquainted  with  the  saying  of  Alphon- 
sus,  which  you  allude  to  as  a  sanctification  of  your 
rigidity,  in  refusing  to  allow  me  the  plea  of  old  age 
as  an  excuse  for  my  want  of  exactitude  in  corre- 
spondence. What  was  that  saying  ? — You  do  not,  it 
seems,  feel  any  occasion  for  such  an  excuse,  though 


DR.  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 


67 


you  are,  as  you  say,  rising  seventy-five,  but  I  am 
rising  (perhaps  more  properly  falling)  eighty — and 
I  leave  the  excuse  with  you  till  you  arrive  at  that 
age  ;  perhaps  you  may  then  be  more  sensible  of  its 
validity,  and  see  fit  to  use  it  for  yourself. 

'•  I  must  agree  with  you  that  the  gout  is  bad,  and 
that  the  stone  is  worse.  I  am  happy  in  not  having 
them  both  together  ;  and  I  join  in  your  prayer,  that 
you  may  live  till  you  die  without  either.  But  I  doubt 
the  author  of  the  epitaph  yoa  sent  me  is  a  little  mis- 
taken, when,  speaking  of  the  world,  he  says,  that 

*  he  ne'er  car'd  a  pin 

What  they  said  or  may  say  of  the  mortal  within.' 
"It  is  so  natural  to  wish  to  be  well  spoken  of, 
whether  alive  or  dead,  that  I  imagine  he  could  not 
be  quite  exempt  from  that  desire ;  and  that  at  least 
he  wished  to  be  thought  a  wit,  or  he  would  not 
have  given  himself  the  trouble  of  writing  so  good 
an  epitaph  to  leave  behind  him." — "You  see  I 
have  some  reason  to  wish  that  in  a  future  state  I 
mav  not  only  be  as  well  as  I  was,  but  a  little  better. 
And  I  hope  it:  for  I,  too,  with  your  poet,  trust  i?i 
God.  And  when  I  observe,  that  there  is  great  fru- 
gaUty  as  well  as.wisdom  in  his  works,  since  he  has 
been  evidently  sparing  both  of  labour  and  materials ; 
for,  by  the  various  wonderful  inventions  of  propa- 
gation, he  has  provided  for  the  continual  peopling 
his  world  with  plants  and  animals,  without  being 
at  the  trouble  of  repeated  new  creations :  and  by 
the  natural  reduction  of  compound  substances  to 
their  original  elements,  capable  of  being  employed 
in  new  compositions,  he  has  prevented  the  neces- 
sity of  creating  new  matter;  for  that  the  earth, 
water,  air,  and  perhaps  fire,  which  being  compound- 
ed, form  wood,  do,  when  the  wood  is  dissolved,  re- 
turn, and  again  become  air,  earth,  fire  and  water  i — 
I  say,  that  wdien  I  see  nothing  annihilated,  and  not 
even  a  drop  of  water  wasted,  I  cannot  suspect  the 
annihilation  of  souls  j  or  believe  that  he  will  suffer 
the  daily  waste  of  millions  of  minds  ready  made 
that  now  exist,  and  put  himself  to  the  continual 
trouble  of  making  new  ones.  Thus  finding  my- 
self to  exist  in  the  world,  I  believe  I  shall  in  some 
shape  or  other  always  exist.  And  with  all  the  in- 
conveniences human  life  is  liable  to,  I  shall  not 
object  to  a  new  edition  of  mine  ;  hoping,  however, 
that  the  errata  of  the  last  may  be  corrected." — Vol. 
iii.  pp.  546 — 548. 

"  Our  constitution  seems  not  to  be  well  under- 
stood with  you.  If  the  congress  were  a  permanent 
body,  there  would  be  more  reason  in  being  jealous 
of  giving  it  powers.  But  its  members  are  chosen 
annually,  and  cannot  be  chosen  more  than  three 
years  successively,  nor  more  than  three  years  in 
seven,  and  any  of  them  may  be  recalled  at  any  time, 
whenever  their  constituents  shall  be  dissatisfied 
with  their  conduct.  They  are  of  the  people,  and 
return  again  to  mix  with  the  people,  having  no 
more  durable  preeminence  than  the  different  grains 
of  sand  in  an  hour-glass.  Such  an  assembly  can- 
not easily  become  dangerous  to  liberty.  They  are 
the  servants  of  the  people,  sent  together  to  do  the 
people's  business,  and  promote  the  public  welfare  ; 
their  powers  must  be  sufficient,  or  their  duties  can- 
not be  performed.  They  have  no  profitable  ap- 
pointments, but  a  mere  payment  of  daily  wages, 
Buch  as  are  scarcely  equivalent  to  their  expenses ; 
so  that,  having  no  chance  of  great  places  and  enor- 
rnous  salaries  or  pensions,  as  in  some  countries, 
there  is  no  intriguing  or  bribing  for  elections.  I 
wish  Old  England  were  as  happy  in  its  govern- 
ment, but  I  do  not  see  it.  Your  people,  however, 
think  their  constitution  the  best  in  the  world,  and 
affect  to  despise  ours.  It  is  comfortable  to  have  a 
good  opinion  of  one's  self,  and  of  every  thing  that 
belongs  to  us ;  to  think  one's  own  religion,  king, 
and  wife,  the  best  of  all  possible  wives,  kings,  and 
religions.  I  remember  three  Greenlanders,  who 
had  travelled  two  years  in  Europe,  under  the  care 
of  some  Moravian  missionaries,  and  had  visited 
Germany,  Denmark,  Holland,  and  England :  when 
I  asked  them  at  Philadelphia  (when  they  were  in 


their  way  home)  whether,  now  they  had  seen  how 
much  inore  commodiously  the  whue  people  lived 
by  the  help  of  the  uris,  they  would  not  choose  to 
remain  aniong  us — their  answer  was,  that  they  were 
pleased  with  having  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing 
many  fine  things,  but  they  chose  to  live  in  their  own 
country:  which  country,  by  the  way,  consisted  of 
rock  only  :  for  the  Moravians  were  obliged  to  car- 
ry earth  in  their  ship  from  New  York,  lor  the  pur- 
pose of  making  there  a  cabbage  garden !" — Vol.  iii. 
pp.  550,  551. 

"  You  are  now  seventy-eight,  and  I  am  eighty- 
two.  You  tread  fast  upon  my  heels;  but,  though 
you  have  more  strength  and  spirit,  you  cannot 
come  up  with  me  till  I  stop,  which  must  now  be 
soon  ;  for  I  am  grown  so  old  as  to  have  buried  most 
of  the  friends  of  my  youth  ;  and  I  now  oiten  hear 
persons,  whom  I  knew  when  children,  called  old 
Mr.  such  a  one,  to  distinguish  them  from  their  sons, 
now  men  grown,  and  in  business ;  so  that,  by  liv- 
ing twelve  years  Ijeyond  DavicVs  period,  I  seem  to 
have  intruded  myself  into  the  company  of  posterity, 
when  I  ought  to  have  been  abed  and  asleep.  Yet 
had  I  gone  at  seventy,  it  would  have  cut  off  twelve 
of  the  most  active  years  of  my  life,  employed,  too, 
in  matters  of  the  greatest  importance:  but  whether 
I  have  been  doing  good  or  mischief,  is  for  time  to 
discover.  I  only  know  that  I  intended  well,  and 
I  hope  all  will  end  well. 

"Be  so  good  as  to  present  my  affectionate  re- 
spects to  Dr.  Rowley.  I  am  under  great  obliga- 
tions to  him,  and  shall  write  to  him  shortly.  It 
will  be  a  pleasure  to  him  to  hear  that  my  malady 
does  not  grow  sensibly  worse,  and  that  is  a  great 
point;  for  it  has  always  been  so  tolerable,  as  not 
to  prevent  my  enjoying  the  pleasures  of  society, 
and,  being  cheefful  in  conversation.  I  owe  this  in 
a  great  measure  to  his  good  counsels." — Vol.  iii. 
pp.  555,  556. 

"  Your  eyes  must  continue  very  good,  since  you 
are  able  to  write  so  small  a  hand  without  specta- 
cles. I  cannot  distinguish  a  letter  even  of  large 
print ;  but  am  happy  in  the  invention  of  double 
spectacles,  which,  serving  for  distant  objects  as  well 
as  near  ones,  make  my  eyes  as  useful  to  me  as 
ever  they  were.  If  all  the  other  defects  and  in- 
firmities of  old  age  could  be  as  easily  and  cheaply 
remedied,  it  would  be  worth  while,  my  friend,  to  live 
a  good  deal  longer.  But  I  look  upon  death  to  be  as 
necessary  to  our  constitutions  as  sleep.  We  shall 
rise  refreshed  in  the  morning.  Adieu,  and  believe 
me  ever,  &c." — Vol.  iii.  pp.  544,  545. 

There  is  something  extremely  amiable  in 
old  age,  when  thus  exhibited  without  queru- 
lousness,  discontent,  or  impatience,  and  free, 
at  the  same  time,  from  any  affected  or  unbe- 
coming levity.  We  think  there  must  be 
many  more  of  Dr.  Franklin's  letters  in  exist- 
ence, than  have  yet  been  given  to  the  public  j 
and  from  the  tone  and  tenor  of  those  which 
we  have  seen,  we  are  satisfied  that  they 
would  be  read  with  general  avidity  and  im- 
provement. 

His  account  of  his  own  life,  down  to  the 
year  1730,  has  been  in  the  hands  of  the  pub- 
lic since  1790.  It  is  written  with  great  sim- 
plicity and  liveliness,  though  it  contains  too 
many  trifling  details  and  anecdotes  of  obscure 
individuals.  It  affords  however  a  striking 
example  of  the  irresistible  force  with  which 
talents  and  industry  bear  upwards  in  society ; 
as'well  as  an  impressive  illustration  of  the 
substantial  wisdom  and  good  policy  of  invaria- 
ble integrity  and  candour.  We  should  think 
it  a  very  useful  reading  for  all  young  persont 
of  unconfirmed  principles,  who  have  theil 
fortunes  to  make  or  to  mend  in  the  world. 


da 


LITERATURE  ANb  BIOGRAPHY. 


Upon  the  whole,  we  look  upon  the  life  and 
writings  of  Dr.  Franklin  as  aifording  a  striking 
illustration  of  the  incalculable  value  of  a 
sound  and  well  directed  understanding ;  and 
of  the  comparative  uselessness  of  learning 
and  laborious  accomplishments.  Without  the 
slightest  pretensions  to  the  character  of  a 
scholar  or  a  man  of  science,  he  has  extended 
the  bounds  of  human  knowledge  on  a  variety 
of  subjects,  which  scholars  and  men  of  sci- 
ence had  previously  investigated  without  suc- 


cess; and  has  only  been  found  deficient  in 
those  studies  which  the  learned  have  gene- 
rally turned  from  in  disdain.i  We  would  not  be 
understood  to  say  any  thing  in  disparagement 
of  scholarship  and  science;  but  the  value 
of  these  instruments  is  apt  to  be  over-rated 
by  their  possessors;  and  it  is  a  wholesome 
mortification,  to  show  them  that  the  work 
may  be  done  without  them.  We  have  long 
known  that  their  employment  does  not  insure 
its  success.  ) 


(Sept^mbn-,  ISlfi.) 

The  Works  of  Jonathan  Swift,  D.  D.,  Dean  of  St.  Patrick'' s.,  Dublin.  Containing  Addi- 
tional  Letters  J  Tracts,  and  Poems  not  hitherto  published.  With  Notes,  and  a  life  of  the  Au- 
thor, by  Walter  Scott,  Esq.     19  vols.  8vo.     Edinburgh:  1815. 


By  far  the  most  considerable  change  which 
has  taken  place  in  the  world  of  letters,  in  our 
days,  is  that  by  which  the  wits  of  Queen 
Anne's  time  have  been  gradually  brought 
down  from  the  supremacy  which  they  had 
enjoyed,  without  competition,  for  the  best  part 
of  a  century.  When  we  were  at  our  studies, 
some  twenty-five  years  ago,  we  can  perfectly 
remember  that  every  young  man  was  set  to 
read  Pope,  Swift,  and  Addison,  as  regularly 
as  Virgil,  Cicero,  and  Horace.  \  All  who  had 
any  tincture  of  letters  were  lalmliar  with  their 
writings  and  their  history ;  allusions  to  them 
abounded  in  all  popular  discourses  and  all 
ambitious  conversation;  and  they  and  their 
contemporaries  were  universally  acknow- 
ledged as  our  great  models  of  excellence,  and 
placed  without  challenge  at  the  head  of  our 
national  literature.  New  books,  even  when 
allowed  to  have  merit,  were  never  thought 
of  as  fit  to  be  placed  in  the  same  class,  but 
were  generally  read  and  forgotten,  and  passed 
away  like  the  transitory  meteors  of  a  lower 
sky ;  while  they  remained  in  their  brightness, 
and  were  supposed  to  shine  with  a  fixed  and 
unalterable  glory. 

All  this,  however,  we  take  it,  is  now  pretty 
well  altered ;  and  in  so  far  as  persons  of  our 
antiquity  can  judge  of  the  training  and  habits 
of  the  rising  generation,  those  celebrated 
writers  no  longer  form  the  manual  of  our  stu- 
dious youth,  or  enter  necessarily  into  the  in- 
stitution of  a  liberal  education.  Their  names, 
indeed,  are  still  famihar  to  our  ears ;  but  their 
writings  no  longer  solicit  our  habitual  notice, 
and  their  subjects  begin  already  to  fade  from 
our  recollection.'?  Their  high  privilieges  and 
proud  distincfiorfs,  at  any  rate,  have  evidently 
passed  into  other  hands.  It  is  no  longer  to 
them  that  the  ambitious  look  up  with  envy, 
or  the  humble  with  admiration ;  nor  is  it  in 
their  pages  that  the  pretenders  to  wit  and 
eloquence  now  search  for  allusions  that  are 
sure  to  captivate,  and  illustrations  that  cannot 
be  mistaken.  In  this  decay  of  their  reputa- 
tion they  have  few  advocates,  and  no  imita- 
tors :  aud  from  a  comparison  of  many  obser- 
rations,  it  seems  to  be  clearly  ascertained, 


that  they  are  declined  considerably  from  '  the 
high  meridian  of  their  glory,'  and  may  fairly 
be  appmjiended  to  be  '  hastening  to  their  set- 
ting.' fNeither  is  it  time  alone  that  has 
wrought  this  obscuration;  for  the  fame  of 
Shakespeare  still  shines  in  undecaying  bright- 
ness; and  that  of  Bacon  has  been  steadily 
advancing  and  gathering  new  honours  during 
the  whole  period  which  has  witnessed  the  rise 
an.d  decline  of  his  less  vigorous  successors..,^ 

There  are  but  two  possible  solutions  for 
phenomena  of  this  sort.  Our  taste  has  either 
degenerated — ^^or  its  old  models  have  been 
fairly  surpassed;  and  we  have  ceased  to  ad- 
mire the  writers  of  the  last  century,  only  be- 
cause they  are  too  good  for  us — or  because 
they  are  not  good  enough.  Now,  we  confess 
we  are  no  believers  in  the  absolute  and  per- 
manent corruption  of  national  taste;  on  the 
contrary,  we  think  that  it  is,  of  all  facultiesy 
that  which  is  most  sure  to  advance  and  im- 
prove with  time  and  experience;  and  that, 
with  the  exception  of  those  great  physical  or 
political  disasters  which  have  given  a  check 
to  civilization  itself,  there  has  always  been  a 
sensible  progress  in  this  particular;  and  that 
the  general  taste  of  every  successive  genera- 
tion is  better  than  that  of  its  predecessors. 
There  are  little  capricious  fluctuations,  no 
doubt,  and  fits  of  foolish  admiration  or  fasti- 
diousness, which  cannot  be  so  easily  account- 
ed for :  but  the  great  movements  are  all  pro- 
gressive :  and  though  the  progress  consists  at 
one  time  in  withholding  toleration  from  gross 
faults,  and  at  another  in  giving  their  high 
prerogative  to  great  beauties,  this  alternation 
has  no  tendency  to  obstruct  the  general  ad- 
vance; but,  on  the  contrary,  is  the  best  and 
the  safest  course  in  which  it  can  be  con- 
ducted. 

We  are  of  opinion,  then,  that  the  writers 
who  adorned  the  beginning  of  the  last  cen- 
tury have  been  eclipsed  by  those  of  our  own 
time ;  and  that  they  have  no  chan:e  of  ever 
regaining  the  supremacy  in  which  they  have 
thus  been  supplanted.  There  is  not,  however, 
in  our  judgment,  any  thing  very  stupendous 
in  this  triumph  of  our  contemporaries    and 


W0RK:S  of  JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


69 


the  greater  wonder  with  us,  is,  that  it  was  so 
long  delayed,  and  left  for  them  to  achieve. 
For  the  truth  is,  that  the  writers  of  the  former 
age  had  not  a  great  deal  more  than  their  judg- 
ment and  industry  to  stand  on:  a^djwere 
always  much  more  remarkable  for  the  few- 
ness of  their  faults  than  the  greatness  of  their 
beauties.  Their  laurels  were  won  much  more 
by  good  conduct  and  discipline,  than  by  en- 
terprising boldness  or  native  force ; — nor  can 
it  be  regarded  as  any  very  great  merit  in  those 
who  had  so  little  of  the  inspiration  of  genius, 
to  have  steered  clear  of  the  dangers  to  which 
that  inspiration  is  liable./  Speaking  generally 
of  that  generation  of  authors,  it  may  be  said 
that,  as  poets,  they  had  no  force  or  greatness 
of  fancy — no  pathos,  and  no  enthusiasm; — 

;  and,  as  philosophers,  no  comprehensiveness, 
depth,  or  originality.    They  are  sagacious,  no 

I   doubt,  neat,  clear,  and  reasonable;   but  for 

^he   most  part   cold,  tiniid,  and  superficial. 

/  They  never  meddle  with  the  great  scenes  of 
nature,  or  the  great  passions  of  man ;  but 
content  themselves  with  just  and  sarcastic 
representations  of  city  life,  and  of  the  paltry 
passions  and  meaner  vices  that  are  bred  in 

^hat  lower  element.  Their  chief  care  is  to 
avoid  being  ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  the 
witty,  and  above  all  to  eschew  the  ridicule 
of  excessive  sensibility  or  enthusiasm — to  be 
at  once  witty  and  rational  themselves,  with 

/as  good  a  grace  as  possible;  but  to  give  their 

/  countenance  to  no  wisdom,  no  fancy,  and  no 

^  morality,  which  passes  the  standards  current 
in  good  company.     Their  inspiration,  accord- 

, ingly,  is  little  more  than  a  sprightly  sort  of 

i  good  sense ;  and  they  have  scarcely  any  in- 
vention but  what  is  subservient  to  the  pur- 
poses of  derision  and  satire.  Little  gleamsl 
of  pleasantry,  and   sparkles  of  wit,  glitter/ 

•  through  their  compositions;  but  no  glow  on 
feeling — no  blaze  of  imagination — no  flashed 

;  of  genius,  ever  irradiate  their  substance.  They 
never  pass  beyond  '-'the  visible  diurnal 
sphere,"  or  deal  in  any  thing  that  can  either 
lift  us  above  our  vulgar  nature,  or  ennoble  its 
reality.  With  these  accomplishments,  they 
may  pass  well  enough  for  sensible  and  polite, 
writers, — but  scarcely  for  men  of  genius ;  and 
it  is  certainly  far  more  surprising,  that  per- 
sons of  this  description  should  have  maintain- 
ed themselves,  for  near  a  century,  at  the  head 
of  the  literature  of  a  country  that  had  pre- 
viously produced  a  Shakespeare,  a  Spenser,  a 
Bacon,  and  a  Taylor,  than  that,  towards  the 
end  of  that  long  period,  doubts  should  have 
arisen  as  to  the  legitimacy  of  the  title  by 
which  they  laid  claim  to  that  high  station. 
Both  parts  of  the  phenomenon,  however,  we 
dare  say,  had  causes  which  better  expounders 
might  explain  to  the  satisfaction  of  all  the 
world.  We  see  them  but  imperfectly,  and 
have  room  only  for  an  imperfect  sketch  of 
what  we  see. 

Our  fiist  literature  consisted  of  saintly  le- 
gends, and  romances  of  chivalry, — though 
Chaucer  gave  it  a  more  national  and  popular 
character,  by  his  original  descriptions  of  ex- 
ternal nature,  and  the  familiarity  and  gaiety 
"  his  social  humour.     In  the  time  of  Eliza- 


rf 


beth,  it  received  a  copious  infusion  of  classical 
images  and  ideas :  but  it  was  still  intrinsically 
romantic — serious — and  even  somewhat  lofty, 
and  enthusiastic.  Authors  were  then  so  few] 
in  number,  that  they  were  looked  upon  with/ 
a  sort  of  veneration,"and  considered  as  a  kind 
of  inspired  persons ;  at  least  they  were  not 
yet  so  numerous,  as  to  be  obliged  to  abuse 
each  other,  in  order  to  obtain  a  share  of  dis- 
tinction for  t^iemselves; — and  they  neither 
affected  a  tone  of  derision  in  their  writings, 
nor  wrote  in  fear  of  derision  from  others. 
They  were  filled  with  their  subjects,  and  dealt 
with  them  fearlessly  in  their  own  way;  and 
the  stamp  of  originality,  force,  and  freedom, 
is  consequently  upon  almost  all  their  produc- 
tions. In  the  reign  of  James  I.,  our  literature, 
with  some  few  exceptions,  touching  rather 
the  foi-m  than  the  substance  of  its  merits,  ap- 
pears to  us  to  have  reached  the  greatest  per- 
fection to  which  it  has  yet  attained;  though 
it  would  probably  have  advanced  still  farther 
in  the  succeeding  reign,  had  not  the  great  na- 
tional dissensions  which  then  arose,  turned 
the  talent  and  energy  of  the  people  into  other 
channels — first,  to  the  assertion  of  their  civil 
rights,  and  afterwards  to  the  discussion  of 
their  religious  interests.  The  graces  of  litera- 
ture suffered  of  course  in  those  fierce  conten- 
tions; and  a  deeper  shade  of  austerity  was 
thrown  upon  .the  intellectual  character  of  the 
nation.  Her  genius,  however,  though  less  cap- 
tivating and  adorned  than  in  the  happier  days 
which  preceded,  was  still  active,  fmitful,  and 
commanding;  and  the  period  of  the  civil  wars, 
besides  the  mighty  minds  that  guided  the 
public  councils,  and  were  absorbed  in  public 
ca/es,  produced  the  giant  powers  of  Taylor.  ' 
and  Hobbes,  and  Barrow — the  muse  of  Mil- 
ton— the  learning  of  Coke — and  the  ingenuity 
of  Cowley. 

The  Restoration  introduced  a  French  court 
— under  circumstances  more  favourable  for 
the  effectual  exercise  of  court  influence  than 
ever  before  existed  in  England :  but  this  of 
itself  would  not  have  been  sufficient  to  ac- 
count for  the  sudden  change  in  our  literature 
which  ensued.  It  was  seconded  by  causes 
of  far  more  general  operation.  The  Restora- 
tion Avas  undoubtedly  a  popular  act; — and, 
indefensible  as  the  conduct  of  the  army  and 
the  civil  leaders  was  on  that  occasion,  there 
can  be  no  question  that  the  severities  of  Crom- 
well, and  the  extravagancies  of  the  sectaries, 
had  made  republican  professions  hateful,  and 
religious  ardour  ridiculous,  in  the  eyes  of  a 
great  proportion  of  the  people.  All  the  emi- 
nent writers  of  the  preceding  period,  however, 
had  inclined  to  the  party  that  was  now  over- 
thrown; and  their  writings  had  not  merely 
been  accommodated  to  the  character  of  the 
government  under  which  they  were  produced, 
but  were  deeply  imbued  with  its  obnoxious 
principles,  which  were  those  of  their  respect- 
ive authors.  When  the  restraints  of  authority 
were  taken  off,  therefore,  and  it  became  pro- 
fitable, as  well  as  popular,  to  discredit .  the 
fallen  party,  it  was  natural  that  the  leading 
authors  should  affect  a  style  of  levity  and 
derision,  as  most  opposite  to  ttat  of  their  op- 


70 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY 


ponents,  and  best  calculated  for  the  purposes 
they  had  hi  view.  The  nation,  too,  was  now 
for  the  first  time  essentially  divided  in  point 
of  character  and  principle,  and  a  much  greater 
■  proportion  were  capable  both  of  waiting  in 
support  of  their  own  notfons,  and  of  bemg  in- 
fluenced by  what  was  written.  Add  to  all 
this,  that  there  were  real  and  serious  defects 
in  the  style  and  manner  of  the  former  gener- 
ation; and  that  the  grace,  and  brevity,  and 
vivacity  of  that  gayer  manner  which  was  now 
introduced  from  France,  were  not  only  good 
and  captivating  in  themselves,  but  had  then 
all  the  charms  of  novelty  and  of  contrast ; 
and  it  will  not  be  difficult  to  understand  how 
it  came  to  supplant  that  which  had  been  es- 
tablished of  old  in  the  country, — and  that  so 
suddenly,  that  the  same  generation,  among 
whom  Milton  had  been  formed  to  the  severe 
sanctity  of  wisdom  and  the  noble  independ- 

Ience  of  genius,  lavished  its  loudest  applauses 
on  the  obscenity  and  servility  of  such  writers 
as  Rochester  and  Wych&rly. 

This  change,  however,  like  all  sudden 
changes,  was  too  fiercq  and  violent  to  be  long 
maintained  at  the  same  pitch ;  and  when  the 
wits  and  profligates  of  King  Charles  had  suf- 
ficiently insulted  the  seriousness  and  virtue 
of  their  predecessors,  there  would  probably 
have  been  a  revulsion  towards  the  accustomed 
taste  of  the  nation,  had  not  the  party  of  the 
innovators  been  reinforced  by  champions  of 
more  temperance  and  judgment.  The  result 
seemed  at  one  time  suspended  on  the  will 
of  Dryden — ^in  whose  individual  person  the 
genius  of  the  English  and  of  the  French  school 
of  literature  may  be  said  to  have  maintained 
a  protracted  struggle.  But  the  evil  principle 
prevailed  !  Carried  by  the  original  bent  of 
his  genius,  and  his  familiarity  with  our  older 
models,  to  the  cultivation  of  our  native  style, 
to  which  he  might  have  imparted  more  steadi- 
ness and  correctness — for  in  force  and  in 
sweetness  it  was  already  matchless — he  was 
unluckily  seduced  by  the  attractions  of  fash- 
ion, and  the  dazzling  of  the  dear  wit  and  gay 
rhetoric  in  which  it  delighted,  to  lend  his 
powerful  aid  to  the  new  corruptions  and  re- 
finements; and  in  fact,  to  prostitute  his  great 
gifts  to  the  purposes  of  party  rage  or  licentious 
ribaldry. 

The  sobriety  of  the  succeeding  reigns  al- 
layed this  fever  of  profanity ;  but  no  genius 
arose  sufficiently  powerful  to  break  the  spell 
that  still  withheld  us  from  the  use  of  our  own 
peculiar  gifts  and  faculties.  On  the  contrary, 
it  was  the  unfortunate  ambition  of  the  next 
generation  of  authors,  to  improve  and  perfect 
the  new  style,  rather  than  to  return  to  the  old 
one ; — and  it  cannot  be  denied  that  they  did 
improve  it.  They  corrected  its  gross  indecen- 
cy— increased  its  precision  and  correctness 
---made  its  pleasantry  and  sarcasm  more  pol- 
ished and  elegant — and  spread  through  the 
whole  of  its  irony,  its  narration,  and  its  re- 
flection, a  tone  of  clear  and  condensed  good 
Bense,  which  recommended  itself  to  all  who 
had,  and  all  who  had  not  any  relish  for  higher 
beauties. 

This  is  the  praise  of  Queen  Anne's  wits — 


and  to  this  praise  they  are  justly  entitled. 
This  was  left  for  them  to  do,  and  they  did  it 
well.  They  were  invited  to  it  by  the  circum- 
stances of  their  situation,  and  do  not  seem  t« 
have  been  possessed  of  any  such  bold  or  vigor 
ous  spirit,  as  either  to  neglect  or  to  outgo  thej 
invitation.  Coming  into  life  immediately  aftei 
the  consummation  of  a  bloodless  revolution, 
eftected  much  more  by  the  cool  sense,  than 
the  angry  passions  of  the  nation,  (they  seem 
to  have  felt  that  they  were  born  in  an  age  of 
reason,  rather  than  of  feeling  or  fancyjand' 
that  men'«  minds,  though  considerably  di- 
vided and  unsettled  upon  many  points,  were 
in  a  much  better  temper  to  relish  judicious 
argument  and  cutting  satire,  than  the  glow 
of  enthusiastic  passion,  or  the  richness  of  a 
luxuriant  imagination^)  To  those  accordingly 
they  made  no  pretensions ;  but,  writing  with 
infinite  good  sense,  and  great  grace  and  vi- 
vacity, and,  above  all,  writing  for  the  first 
time  in  a  tone  that  was  peculiar  to  the  upper 
ranks  of  society,  and  upon  subjects  that  were 
almost  exclusively  interesting  to  them,  they 
naturally  figured,  at  least  while  the  manner 
was  new,  as  the  most  accomplished,  fashiona- 
ble, and  perfect  writers  which  the  world  had 
ever  seen ;  and  made  the  wild,  luxuriant,  and 
humble  sweetness  of  our  earlier  authors  ap- 
pear rude  and  untutored  in  the  comparison, 
^len  grew  ashamed  of  admiring,  and  afraid  of 
imitating  writers  of  so  little  skill  and  smart- 
ness; and  the  opinion  became  general,  not 
only  that  their  faults  were  intolerable,  but 
that  even  their  beauties  were  puerile  and  bar- 
barous, and  unworthy  the  serious  regard  of  a 
polite  and  distinguishing  age. 

These,  and  similar  considerations,  will  go 
far  to  account  for  the  celebrity  which  those 
authors  acquired  in  their  day ;  but  it  is  not 
quite  so  easy  to  explain  how  they  should 
have  so  long  retained  their  ascendant.  One 
cause  undoubtedly  was,  the  real  excellence 
of  their  productions,  in  the  style  which  they 
had  adopted.  It  was  hopeless  to  think  of 
surpassing  them  in  that  style ;  and,  recom- 
mended as  it  was,  by  the  felicity  of  their  exe- 
cution, it  required  some  courage  to  depart 
from  it,  and  to  recur  to  another,  which  seemed 
to  have  been  so  lately  abandoned  for  its  sake. 
The  age  which  succeeded,  too.  was  not  the 
age  of  courage  or  adventure.  There  never 
was,  on  the  whole,  a  quieter  time  than  the 
reigns  of  the  two  first  Georges,  and  the  great- 
er  part  of  that  which  ensued.  There  were 
two  little  provincial  rebellions  indeed,  and  a 
fair  proportion  of  foreign  war;  but  there  was 
nothing  to  stir  the  minds  of  the  pecple  at 
large,  to  rouse  their  passions,  or  excite  theii 
imaginations — nothing  like  the  agitations  of 
the  Reformation  in  the  sixteenth  century,  or 
of  the  civil  wars  in  the  seventeenth.  They 
went  on,  accordingly,  minding  their  old  busi- 
ness, and  reading  their  old  books,  with  great 
patience  and  stupidity :  And  certainly  there 
never  was  so  remarkable  a  dearth  of  original 
talent — so  long  an  interregnum  of  native  ge- 
nius— as  during  about  sixty  years  in  the 
middle  of  the  last  century.  The  dramatic 
art  was  dead  fifty  years  before — and  poetrj 


VVCRKS  OF  JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


seemed  verging  to  a  similar  extinction.  The 
few  sparks  that  appeared,  too,  showed  that 
the  old  fire  was  burnt  out,  and  that  the  altar 
must  hereafter  be  heaped  with  fuel  of  another 
quality.  Gray,  with  the  talents,  rather  of  a 
critic  than  a  poet — with  learning,  fastidious- 
ness, and  scrupulous  delicacy  of  taste,  instead 
of  fire,  tenderness,  or  invention — began  and 
ended  a  small  school,  which  we  could  scarce- 
ly have  wished  to  become  permanent,  admir- 
able in  many  respects  as  some  of  its  produc- 
tions are — being  far  too  elaborate  and  artifi- 
cial, either  for  grace  or  for  fluency,  and  fitter 
to  excite  the  admiration  of  scholars,  than  the 
delight  of  ordinary  men.  However,  he  had 
the  merit  of  not  being  in  any  degree  French, 
and  of  restoring  to  our  poetry  the  .dignity  of 
seriousness,  and  the  tone  at  least  of  force  and 
enei-gy.  The  Whartons,  both  as  critics  and 
as  poets,  were  of  considerable  service  in  dis- 
crediting the  high  pretensions  of  the  former 
race,  and  in  bringing  back  to  public  notice 
the  great  stores  and  treasures  of  poetry  which 
lay  hid  in  the  records  of  our  older  literature. 
Akenside  attempted  a  sort  of  classical  and 
philosophical  rapture,  which  no  elegance  of 
language  could  easily  have  rendered  popular, 
but  which  had  merits  of  no  vulgar  order  for 
those  who  could  study  it.  Goldsmith  wrote 
with  perfect  elegance  and  beauty,  in  a  style 
of  mellow  tenderness  and  elaborate  simplici- 
ty. He  had  the  harmony  of  Pope  without  his 
quaintness,  and  his  selectness  of  diction  with- 
out his  coldness  and  eternal  vivacity.  And, 
last  of  all,  came  Cowper,  with  a  style  of  com- 
plete originality, — and,  for  the  first  time,  made 
it  apparent  to  readers  of  all  descriptions,  that 
Pope  and  Addison  were-  no  longer  to  be  the 
models  of  English  poetry. 

In  philosophy  and  prose  writing  in  general, 
the  case  was  nearly  parallel.  The  name  of 
Hume  is  by  far  the  most  considerable  which 
occurs  in  the  period  to  which  we  have  al- 
luded. But;  though  his  thinking  was  English, 
his  style  is  entirely  French ;  and  being  natu- 
rally of  a  cold  fancy,  there  is  nothing  of  that 
eloquence  or  richness  about  him,  which  char- 
acterizes the  writings  of  Taylor,  and  Hooker, 
and  Bacon — «ind  continues,  with  less  weight 
of  matter,  to  please  in  those  of  Cowley  and 
Clarendon.  Warburton  had  great  powers ; 
and  wrote  with  more  force  and  freedom  than 
the  wits  to  whom  he  succeeded — but  his 
faculties  were  perverted  by  a  paltry  love  of 
paradox,  and  rendered  useless  to  mankind  by 
an  unlucky  choice  of  subjects,  and  the  arro- 
gance and  dogmatism  of  his  temper.  Adam 
Smith  was  nearly  the  first  who  made  deeper 
reasonings  and  more  exact  knowledge  popu- 
lar among  us;  and  Junius  and  Johnson  the 
first  who  again  familiarized  us  with  more 
glowing  and  sonorous  diction — and  made  us 
feel  the  tameness  and  poorness  of  the  serious 
Btyle  of  Addison  and  Swift. 

This  brings  us  down  almost  to  the  present 
times — in  which  the  revolution  in  our  litera- 
ttire  has  been  accelerated  and  confirmed  by 
the  concurrence  of  many  causes.  The  agita- 
tions of  the  French  revolution,  and  the  discus- 
sions as  well  as  the   hopes  and   terrors  to 


which  it  gave  occasion — the  genius  of  Ed- 
mund Burice,  and  some  others  of  his  land  of 
genius — the  impression  of  the  new  literatuiG 
of  Germany,  evidently  the  original  of  oui 
lake-school  of  poetry,  and  many  innovations 
in  our  drama — the  rise  or  revival  of  a  more 
evangelical  spirit,  in  the  body  of  the  people 
— and  the  vast  extension  of  our  political  and 
commercial  relations,  which  have  not  only 
familiarized  all  ranks  of  people  with  distant 
countries,  and  great  undertakings,  but  have 
brought  knowledge  and  enterprise  home,  not 
merely  to  the  imagination,  but  to  the  actual 
experience  of  almost  every  individual. — All 
these,  and  several  other  circumstances,  have 
so  far  improved  or  excited  the  character  of 
our  nation,  as  to  have  created  an  effectual 
demand  for  more  profound  speculation,  and 
more  serious  emotion  than  Avas  dealt  in  by 
the  writers  of  the  former  century,  and  which, 
if  it  has  not  yet  produced  a  corresponding 
supply  in  all  branches,  has  at  least  had  the 
effect  of  decrying  the  commodities  that  were 
previously  in  vogue,  as  unsuited  to  the  altered 
condition  of  the  times. 

Of  those  ingenious  writers,  whose  charac- 
teristic certainly  was  not  vigour,  any  more 
than  tenderness  Or  fancy.  Swift  was  indis- 
putably the  most  vigorous — and  perhaps  the 
least  tender  or  fanciful.  The  greater  part  of 
his  works  being  occupied  with  politics  and 
personalities  that  have  long  since  lost  all  in- 
terest, can  now  attract  but  little  attention, 
except  as  memorials  of  the  manner  in  which 
politics  and  personalities  were  then  conduct- 
ed. In  other  parts,  however,  there  is  a  vein 
of  peculiar  humour  and  strong  satire,  which 
will  always  be  agreeable — and  a  sort  of, 
heartiness  of  abuse  and  contempt  of  mankind,- 
which  produces  a  greater  sjTnpathy  and  ani- 
mation in  the  reader  than  the  more  elaborate 
sarcasms  that  have  since  come  into  fashion. 
Altogether  his  merits  appear  to  be  more  unique 
and  inimitable  than  those  of  any  of  his  con- 
temporaries ;  and  as  his  works  are  connected 
in  many  parts  with  historical  events  which  it 
must  always  be  of  importance  to  understand, 
we  conceive  that  there  are  none,  of  which  a 
new  and  careful  edition  is  so  likely  to  be  ac- 
ceptable to  the  public,  or  so  worthy  to  engage 
the  attention  of  a  person  qualified  for  the 
undertaking.  In  this  respect,  the  projectors 
of  the  present  publication  must  be  considered 
as  eminently  fortunate — the  celebrated  per- 
son who  has  here  condescended  to  the  func- 
tions of  an  editor,  being  almost  as  much 
distinguished  for  the  skill  and  learning  re- 
quired for  that  humbler  office,  as  for  the 
creative  genius  which  has  given  such -unex- 
ampled popularity  to  his  original  compositions 
— and  uniting  to  the  minute  knowledge  and 
patient  research  of  the  Malones  and  Chal- 
merses, a  vigour  of  judgment  and  a  vivacity 
of  style  to  which  they  had  no  pretensions. 
In  the  exercise  of  these  comparatively  humble 
functions,  he  has  acquitted  himself,  we  think 
on  the  present  occasion,  with  great  judgment 
and  ability.  The  edition,  upon  the  whole,  is 
much  better  than  that  of  Dryden.  It  is  less 
loaded  with  long  notes  and  illustrative  quota- 


n 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


lions;  while  it  furnishefi  all  the  information 
that  can  reasonably  be  desired,  in  a  simple 
and  compendious  form.  It  contains  upwards 
of  a  hundred  letters,  and  other  original  pieces 
of  Swift's  never  before  published — and,  among 
the  rest,  all  that  has  been  preserved  of  his 
correspondence  with  the  celebrated  Vanessa. 
Explanatory  notes  and  remarks  are  supplied 
with  great  diligence  to  all  the  passages  over 
which  time  may  have  thrown  any  obscurity ; 
and  the  critical  observations  that  are  preJEixed 
to  the  more  considerable  productions,  are, 
with  a  reasonable  allowance  for  an  editor's 
partiality  to  his  author,  very  candid  and  in- 
genious. 

The  Life  is  not  every  where  extremely  well 
written,  in  a  literary  point  of  view;  but  is 
drawn  up,  in  substance,  with  great  intelli- 
gence, liberality,  and  good  feeling.  It  is  quite 
Tair  and  moderate  in  politics;  and  perhaps 
rather  too  indulgent  and  tender  towards  indi- 
viduals of  all  descriptions — more  full,  at  least, 
of  kindness  and  veneration  for  genius  and 
social  virtue,  than  of  indignation  at  baseness 
and  profligacy.  Altogether,  it  is  not  much 
like  the  production  of  a  mere  man  of  letters, 
or  a  fastidious  speculator  in  sentiment  and 
morality ;  but  exhibits  throughout,  and  in  a 
very  pleasing  form,  the  good  sense  and  large 
toleration  of  a  man  of  the  world — with  much 
of  that  generous  allowance  for  the 

"  Fears  of  the  brave,  and  follies  of  the  wise," 

which  genius  too  often  requires,  and  should 
therefore  always  be  most  forward  to  show. 
It  is  impossible,  however,  to  avoid  noticing. 
that  Mr.  Scott  is  by  far  too  favourable  to  the 
personal  character  of  his  author ;  whom  we 
think,  it  would  really  be  injurious  to  the  cause 
of  morality  to  allow  to  pass,  either  as  a  very 
dignified  or  a  very  amiable  person.  The  truth 
is,  we  think,  that  he  was  extremely  ambi- 
tious, arrogant,  and  selfish ;  of  a  morose,  vin- 
dictive, and  haughty  temper;  and,  though 
capable  of  a  sort  of  patronizing  generosity 
towards  his  dependants,  and  of  some  attach- 
ment towards  those  who  had  long  known  and 
flattered  him,  his  general  demeanour,  both  in 
public  and  private  life,  appears  to  have  been 
far  from  exemplary.    Destitute  of  temper  and 

;;.    magnanimity — and,  we  will  add,  of  principle, 

I    in  the  former;  and,  in  the  latter,  of  tender- 

'    ness,  fidelity,  or  compassion. 

The  transformation  of  a  young  Whig  into 

■  an  old  Tory — the  gradual  falling  ofl"  of  pru- 
dent men  from  unprofitable  virtues,  is.  per- 
haps, too  common  an  occurrence,  to  deserve 
much  notice,  or  justify  much  reprobation. 
But  Swift's  desertion  of  hin  first  principles 
was  neither  gradual  nor  early — and  was  ac- 
complished under  such  circumstances  as  really 
require  to  be  exposed  a  little,  and  cannot  well 
be  passed  over  in  a  fair  account  of  his  life 
and  character.  He  was  bred  a  Whig  under 
Sir  William  Temple — he  took  the  title  pub- 
licly in.  various  productions ;  and,  during  all 
the  reign  of  King  William,  was  a  strenuous, 
and  indeed  an  intolerant  advocate  of  Revolu- 
tion principles  and  Whig  pretensions.  His 
first  patrons  were  Somers,  Hortland,  and  Hali- 


fax ;  and,  under  that  ministry,  the  members 
of  which  he  courted  in  private  and  defended 
in  public,  he  received  church  preferment  to 
the  value  of  near  400L  a  year  (equal  at  lea«t 
to  1200L  at  present),  wdth  the  promise  of  stiU 
farther  favours.  He  was  dissatisfied,  how- 
ever, because  his  livinas  were  not  in  England  ; 
and  having  been  sent  over  on  the  afl^'airs  of 
the  Irish  clergy  in  1710,  when  he  found  the 
Whig  ministry  in  a  tottering  condition,  he 
temporized  for  a  few  months,  till  he  saw^  that 
their  downfal  w^as  inevitable ;  and  then,  with- 
out even  the  pretext  of  any  public  motive, 
but  on  the  avowed  ground  of  not  having  been 
sufficiently  rewarded  for  his  former  services, 
he  went  over  in  the  most  violent  and  decided 
manner  to  the  prevailing  party;  for  whose 
gratification  he  abused  his  former  friends  and 
benefactors,  wuth  a  degree  of  virulence  and 
rancour,  to  which  it  would  not  be  too  much 
to  apply  the  term  of  brutality ;  and,  in  the 
end,  when  the  approaching  death  of  the 
Queen,  and  their  internal  dissensions  made 
his  services  of  more  importance  to  his  new 
friends,  openly  threatened  to  desert  them  also, 
and  retire  altogether  from  the  scene,  unless 
they  made  a  suitable  provision  for  him ;  and 
having,  in  this  way,  extorted  the  deanery  of 
St.  Patrick's,  which  he  always  complained 
of  as  quite  inadequate  to  his  merits,  he  coun- 
selled measures  that  must  have  involved  the 
country  in  a  civil  w^ar,  for  the  mere  chance 
of  keeping  his  party  in  power;  and,  finally, 
on  the  Queen's  death,  retired  in  a  state  of 
despicable  despondency  and  bitterness  to  hia 
living,  w^here  he  continued,  to  the  end  of  his 
life,  to  libel  liberty  and  mankind  with  unre- 
lenting and  pitiable  rancour — to  correspond 
with  convicted  traitors  to  the  constitution  they 
had  sworn  to  maintain — and  to  lament  as  the 
worst  of  calamities,  the  dissolution  of  a  minis- 
try which  had  no  merit  but  that  of  having 
promised  him  advancement,  and  of  which 
several  of  the  leading  members  immediately 
indemnified  themselves  by  taking  ofiice  in 
the  court  of  the  Pretender. 

As  this  part  of  his  conduct  is  passed  over  a 
great  deal  too  slightly  by  his  biographer ;  and 
as  nothing  can  be  more  pernicious  than  the 
notion,  that  the  political  sins  of  eminent  per- 
sons should  be  forgotten  in  the  estimate  of 
their  merits,  we  must  beg  leave  to  verify  the 
comprehensive  sketch  we  have  now  given,  by 
a  few  references  to  the  documents  that  are  to 
be  found  in  the  volumes  before  us.  Of  his 
original  Whig  professions,  no  proof  will  pro- 
bably be  required ;  the  fact  being  notorious, 
and  admitted  by  all  his  biographers.  Abundant 
evidence,  however,  is  furnished  by  his  first 
successful  pamphlet  in  defence  of  Lord  So- 
mers,  and  the  other  Whig  lords  impeached  in 
1701; — by  his  own  express  declaration  in 
another  work  (vol.  iii.  p.  240),  that  "having 
been  long  conversant  with  the  Greek  and 
Latin  authors,  and  therefore  a  lover  of  liberty, 
he  was  naturally  inclined  to  be  what  they  call 
a  Whig  in  politics;" — by  the  copy  of  verses 
in  which  he  deliberately  designates  himself 
''a  Whig,  and  one  who  wears  a  gown;" — by 
his  exulting  statement  to  Tisdal,  whom  he 


WORKS  OF  JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


73 


/epro&ches  with  being  a  Tory,  and  says — "  To 
cool  your  insolence  a  little,  know  that  the 
Queen,  and  Court,  and  House  of  Lords,  and 
half  the  Commons  almost,  are  Whigs,  and  the 
number  daily  increases :" — And,  among  in- 
numerable other  proofs,  by  the  memorable 
verses  on  Whitehall,  in  which,  alluding  to  the 
execution  of  King  Charles  in  front  of  that 
building,  he  is  pleased  to  say,  with  more  zeal 
than  good  prosody, 

"  That  theatre  produced  an  action  truly  great, 
On  which  eternal  acclamations  wait,"  &,c. 

Such  being  the  principles,  by  the  zealous 
profession  of  which  he  had  first  obtained  dis- 
tinction and  preferment,  and  been  admitted 
to  the  friendship  of  such  men  as  Somers,  Ad- 
dison, and  Steele,  it  only  remains  to  be  seen 
on  what  occasion,  and  on  what  considerations, 
he  afterwards  renounced  them.  It  is,  of  itself, 
a  tolerably  decisive  fact,  that  this  change 
took  place  just  when  the  Whig  ministry  went 
out  of  power,  and  their  adversaries  came  into 
full  possession  of  all  the  patronage  and  inter- 
est of  the  government.  The  whole  matter, 
however,  is  fairly  spoken  out  in  various  parts 
of  his  own  writings ; — and  we  do  not  believe 
there  is  anywhere  on  record  a  more  barefaced 
avowal  of  political  apostasy,  undisguised  and 
unpalliated  by  the  slightest  colour  or  pretence 
of  public  or  conscientious  motives.  It  is  quite 
a  singular  fact,  we  believe,  in  the  history  of 
this  sort  of  conversion,  that  he  nowhere  pre- 
tends to  say  that  he  had  become  aware  of  any 
danger  to  the  country  from  the  continuance 
of  the  Whig  ministry— nor  ever  presumes  to 
call  in  question  the  patriotism  or  penetration 
of  Addison  and  the  rest  of  his  former  asso- 
ciates, who  remained  faithful  to  their  first 
professions.  His  only  apology,  in  short,  for 
this  sudden  dereliction  of  the  pririOipics 
which  he  had  maintained  for  near  forty  years 
—for  it  was  at  this  ripe  age  that  he  got  the 
first  glimpse  of  his  youthful  folly — is  a  pre- 
tence of  ill  usage  from  the  party  wuth  whom 
he  had  held  them ;  a  pretence — to  say  nothing 
of  its  inherent  baseness — which  appears  to  be 
utterly  without  foundation,  and  of  which  it  is 
enough  to  say,  that  no  mention  is  made,  till 
that  same  party  is  overthrown.  While  they 
remain  in  office,  they  have  full  credit  for  the 
sincerity  of  their  good  wishes  (see  vol.  xv.  p. 
250,  &c. ) : — and  it  is  not  till  it  becomes  both 
safe  and  profitable  to  abuse  them,  that  we 
hear  of  their  ingratitude.  Nay,  so  critically 
and  judiciously  timed  is  this  discovery  of 
their  unworthiness,  that,  even  after  the  worthy 
author's  arrival  in  London  in  1710,  when  the 
movements  had  begun  which  terminated  in 
their  ruin,  he  continues,  for  some  months,  to 
keep  on  fair  terms  with  them,  and  does  not 
give  way  to  his  well  considered  resentment, 
till  it  is  quite  apparent  that  his  interest  must 
gain  by  the  indulgence.  He  says,  in  the 
Journal  to  Stella,  a  few  days  after  his  arrival, 
"The  Whigs  would  gladly  lay  hold  on  me,  as 
a  twig,  while  they  are  drowning — and  their 
great  men  are  making  me  their  clumsy  apolo- 
gies But  my  Lord  Treasurer  (Godolphin) 
received  me  with  a  great  deal  of  coldness, 
which  has  enraged  me  so,  that  I  am  almost 


vowing  revenge."  In  a  few  weeks  after- - 
the  change  being  by  that  time  complete — ho 
takes  his  part  definitively,  and  makes  his  ap- 
proaches to  Harley,  in  a  manner  which  we 
should  really  imagine  no  rat  of  the  present 
day  would  have  confidence  enough  to  imitate. 
In  mentioning  his  first  interview  with  that 
eminent  person,  he  says,  "I  had  prepared 
him  before  by  another  hand,  where  he  was 
very  intimate,  and  got  myself  represented 
(which  I  might  justly  do)  as  one  extremely  ill 
used  by  the  last  ministry^  after  some  obligation, 
because  I  refused  to  go  certain  lengths  they 
would  have  me."  (Vol.  xv.  p.  350.)  About 
the  same  period,  he  gives  us  farther  lights 
into  the  conduct  of  this  memorable  conver- 
sion, in  the  following  passages  of  the  JoumaL 

"  Oct.  7.  He  (Harley)  told  me  he  must  bring 
Mr.  St.  John  and  me  acquainted ;  and  spoke  so 
many  things  of  personal  kindness  and  esteem,  that 
I  am  inclined  to  believe  what  some  friends  had  told 
me,  that  he  would  do  every  thing  to  hrhif;:  vie  over. 
He  desired  me  to  dine  with  him  on  Tuesday ;  and, 
after  four  hours  being  with  him,  set  me  down  at 
St.  James's  coffee-house  in  a  Hackney-coach. 

"  I  must  tell  you  a  great  piece  of  refinement  in 
Harley.  He  charged  me  to  come  and  see  him 
often;  I  told  him  I  was  loath  to  trouble  him,  in  so 
much  business  as  he  had,  and  desired  I  might  have 
leave  to  come  at  his  levee  ;  which  he  immediately 
refused,  and  said,  '  That  was  no  place  lor  friends.' 

"  I  believe  never  was  any  thing  compassed  so 
soon :  and  purely  done  by  my  personal  credit  with 
Mr.  Harley ;  who  is  so  excessively  obliging,  that  1 
know  not  what  to  make  of  it,  unless  to  shew  the  ras- 
cals of  the  other  "party,  that  they  used  a  man  unwor- 
thily who  had  deserved  letter.  He  speaks  all  the 
kind  things  of  me  in  the  world. — Oct.  14.  I  stand 
wich  the  new  people  ten  times  better  than  ever  I 
did  with  the  old,  and  forty  times  more  caressed." 
Life,  vol.  i.  p.  126. 

"  Nov.  8.  Why  should  the  Whigs  think  I  came 
to  England  to  leave  them  ?  But  who  the  devil  cares 
what  they  think  ?  Am  1  under  obligations  in  the 
least  to  any  of  them  all?  Rot  them,  ungrateful 
dogs.  I  will  make  them  repent  their  usage  of  me, 
before  I  leave  this  place.  They  say  the  same  thing 
here  of  my  leaving  the  Whigs  ;  but  they  own  they 
cannot  blame  me,  considering  the  treatment  I  have 
had,^'  &c.  ^i^ 

If  he  really  ever  scrupled  about  going 
lengths  with  his  Whig  friends  (which  we. do 
believe),  he  seems  to  have  resolved,  that  hia 
fortune  should  not  be  hurt  by  any  delicacy  of 
this  sort  in  his  new  connection ; — for  he  took 
up  the  cudgels  this  time  with  the  ferocity  of 
a  hireling,  and  the  rancour  of  a  renegade.  In 
taking  upon  himself  the  conduct  of  the  paper 
called  "The  Examiner,"  he  gave  a  new  char- 
acter of  acrimony  and  bitterness  to  the  ccci- 
tention  in  which  he  mingled — and  not  only 
made  the  most  furious  and  unmeasured  at- 
tacks upon  the  body  of  the  party  to  which  it  had 
foi-merly  been  his  boast  that  he  belonged,  but 
singled  out,  with  a  sort  of  savage  discourtesy, 
a  variety  of  his  former  friends  and  benefac- 
toip,  and  made  them,  by  name  and  descrip- 
tion, the  objects  of  the  most  malignant  abuse. 
Lord  Somers,  Godolphin,  Steele,  and  many 
others  with  whom  he  had  formerly  lived  in 
intimacy,  and  from  whom  he  had  received 
obligations,  were  successively  attacked  in  pub- 
lic with  the  most  rancorous  personalities,  and 
often  with  the  falsest  insinuations :  In  short 


74 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHf, 


as  he  ha$  himself  emphatically  expressed  it 
in  the  Journal,  he  '•  libelled  them  all  round." 
While  he  was  thus  abusing  men  he  could  not 
have  ceased  to  esteem,  it  is  quite  natural,  and 
in  course,  to  find  him  professing  the  greatest 
affection  for  those  he  hated  and  despised.  A 
thorough  partisan  is  a  thorough  despiser  of 
sincerity ;  and  no  man  seems  to  have  got  over 
that  weakness  more  completely  than  the  rev- 
erend person  before  us.  In  every  page  of 
the  Journal  to  Stella,  we  find  a  triumphant 
statement  of  things  he  was  writing  or  saying 
to  the  people  about  him,  in  direct  contradic- 
tion to  his  real  sentiments.  We  may  quote  a 
Ime  or  two  from  the  first  passage  that  pre- 
sents itself.  "I  desired  my  Lord  Radnor's 
brother  to  let  my  lord  know  I  would  call  on 
him  at  six,  which  I  did;  and  w^as  arguing 
with  him  three  hours  to  bring  him  over  to  us ; 
and  I  spoke  so  closely,  that  I  believe  he  will 
be  tractable.  But  he  is  a  scoundrel;  and 
though  I  said  I  only  talked  from  my  love  to  him^ 
I  told  a  lie ;  for  I  did  not  care  if  he  were  ' 


ed :   but  every  one   gained   over  is  of  conse^ 


M  every 
."—Vol. 


quence/' — Vol.  m.  p.  2.  We  think  there  are 
not  many  even  of  those  who  have  served  a 
regular  apprenticeship  to  corruption  and  job- 
bing, who  could  go  through  their  base  task 
wi  h  more  coolness  and  hardihood  than  this 
pious  neophyte. 

These  few  references  are,  of  themselves,  suf- 
ficient to  show  the  spirit  and  the  true  motives 
of  this  dereliction  of  his  first  principles ;  and 
seem  entirely  to  exclude  the  only  apology 
which  the  partiality  of  his  biographer  has 
been  able  to  suggest,  viz.  that  though,  from 
first  to  last,  a  Whig  in  politics,  he  was  all 
along  still  more  zealously  a  High-Church- 
man as  to  religion ;  and  left  the  Whigs  merely 
because  the  Tories  seemed  more  favourable  to 
ecclesiastical  pretensions.  It  is  obvious,  how- 
ever, that  this  is  quite  inadmissible.  The 
Whigs  were  as  notoriously  connected  wnth  the 
Low-Church  party  w-hen  he  joined  and  de- 
fended them,  as  when  he  deserted  and  re- 
viled them ; — nor  is  this  anywhere  made  the 
specific  ground  «^^  his  revilings.  It  would  not 
have  been  very  easy,  indeed,  to  have  asserted 
such  a  principle  as  the  motive  of  his  libels  on 
the  Earl  of  Nottingham,  who,  though  a  Whig, 
was  a  zealous  High-Churchman,  or  his  eulo- 
gies on  Bolingbroke,  who  w^as  pretty  well 
known  to  be  no  churchman  at  all.  It  is  plain, 
indeed,  that  Swift's  High-Church  principles 
were  all  along  but  a  part  of  his  selfishness  and 
ambition ;  an  d  meant  nothing  else  than  a  de- 
sire to  raise  the  consequence  of  the  order  to 
which  he  happened  to  belong.  If  he  had 
been  a  layman,  we  have  no  doubt  he  would 
have  treated  the  pretensions  of  the  priesthood, 
as  he  treated  the  persons  of  all  priests  who 
were  opposed  to  him,  with  the  most  bitter 
and  irreverent  disdain.  Accordingly,  he  is  so 
far  from  ever  recommending  Whig  principles 
of  government  to  his  High-Church  friends,  St 
from  confining  his  abuse  of  the  Whigs  to  their 
tenets  in  matters  ecclesiastical,  that  he  goes 
the  whole  length  of  proscribing  the  party,  and 
proposing,  with  the  desperation  of  a  true 
apostate,  that  the  Monarch  should  be  made 


substantially  absolute  by  the  assistance  of  )k 
military  force,  in  order  to  make  it  impossible 
that  their  principles  should  ever  again  acquire 
a  preponderance  in  the  country.  It  is  impos- 
sible, we  conceive,  to  give  any  other  mean- 
ing to  the  advice  contained  in  his  ''Free 
Thoughts  on  the  State  of  Afiairs,"  which  he 
wrote  just  before  the  Queen's  death,  and 
which  Bolingbroke  himself  thought  too  strong 
for  publication,  even  at  that  critical  period. 
His  leading  injunction  there,  is  to  adopt  a  sys- 
tem of  the  most  rigorous  exclusion  of  all 
Whigs  from  every  kind  of  employment ;  and 
that,  as  they  cannot  be  too  much  or  too  soon 
disabled,  they  ought  to  be  proceeded  against 
with  as  strong  measures  as  can  possibly  con- 
sist with  the  lenity  of  our  government;  so 
that  in  no  time  to  come  it  should  be  in  the 
power  of  the  Crown,  even  if  it  wished  it,  to 
choose  an  ill  majority  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. This  great  work,  he  adds  very  explic- 
itly, could  only  be  well  carried  on  by  an 
entire  new-modelling  of  the  army :  and  espe- 
cially of  the  Royal  Guards, — which,  as  they 
then  stood,  he  chooses  to  allege  w^ere  fitter  to 
guard  a  prince  to  the  bar  of  a  high  court  of 
justice,  than  to  secure  him  on  the  throne. 
(Vol.  V.  p.  404.)  This,  even  Mr.  Scott  is  so 
little  able  to  reconcile  with  the  alleged  Whig 
principles  of  his  author,  that  he  is  forced  to 
observe  upon  it,  that  it  is  "  daring,  uncom- 
promising counsel ;  better  suited  to  the  genius 
of  the  man  who  gave  it,  than  to  that  of  the 
British  nation,  and  most  likely,  if  follow^ed,  to 
have  led  to  a  civil  war."  After  this  admis- 
sion, it  really  is  not  very  easy  to  understand 
by  what  singular  stretch  of  charity  the  learn- 
ed editor  conceives  he  may  consistently  hold, 
that  Swift  was  always  a  good  Revolution 
Whig  as  to  politics,  and  only  sided  with  the 
Tories — reluctantly,  we  must  suppose,  and 
with  great  tenderness  to  his  political  oppo- 
nents— out  of  his  overpowering  zeal  for  the 
Church. 

While  he  thus  stooped  to  the  dirtiest  and 
most  dishonourable  part  of  a  partisan's  drudge- 
ry, it  was  not  to  be  expected  that  he  should 
decline  any  of  the  mean  arts  by  which  a  Court 
party  may  be  maintained.  Accordingly,  we 
find  him  regular  in  his  attendance  upon  Mrs. 
Masham,  the  Queen's  favourite;  and,  after  : 
reading  the  contemptuous  notices  that  occur  J 
of  her  in  some  of  his  Whig  letters,  as  "  one 
of  the  Queen's  dressers,  who,  by  great  in- 
trigue and  flattery,  had  gained  an  ascendant 
over  her,"  it  is  very  edifying  to  find  him 
writing  periodical  accounts  of  the  progress  of 
her  pregnancy,  and  "  praying  God  to  preserve 
her  life,  which  is  of  great  importance  to  this 
nation,"  &c.  &c. 

A  connection  thus  begun  upon  an  avowed 
dissatisfaction  with  the  reward  of  former 
services,  cannot,  with  consistency,  be  sup- 
posed to  have  had  any  thing  but  self-interest 
as  its  foundation  :  and  though  Swift's  love  of 
power,  and  especially  of  the  power  of  wound- 
ing, was  probably  gratified  by  his  exertions 
in  behalf  of  the  triumphant  party,  no  room  is 
left  for  doubting  that  these  exertions  were 
substantially  prompted  by  a  des're  to  beite. 


WORKS  OF  JONATHAN  SWIFT 


75 


tds  own  fortune,  and  that  his  opinion  of  the 
merits  of  the  party  depended  entirely  upon 
their  power  and  apparent  inclination  to  per- 
form this  first  of  all  duties.  The  thing  is 
spoken  out  continually  in  the  confidential 
Journal  to  Stella;  and  though  he  was  very 
angry  with  Harley  for  offering  him  a  bank 
note  for  fifty  pounds,  and  refused  to  be  his 
chaplain,  this  was  very  plainly  because  he 
considered  these  as  no  sufficient  pay  for  his 
services — by  no  means  because  he  wished  to 
serve  without  pay.  Very  soon  after  his  pro- 
fsssion  of  Toryism,  he  writes  to  Stella — -^  This 
is  the  last  sally  I  shall  ever  make ;  but  I  hope 
it  will  turn  to  some  account.  I  have  done  more 
for  these,  and  l'  think  they  are  more  honest 
than  the  last."  And  a  little  after — '-My  new 
friends  are  very  kind ;  and  I  have  promises 
enough.  To  return  without  some  mark  of 
distinction,  would  look  extremely  little ;  and 
I  ivoidd  likewise  gladly  be  somewhat  richer  than 
I  on.'^  At  last,  lie  seems  to  have  fairly  asked 
for  the  see  of  Hereford  (Vol.  xvi.  p.  45.);  and 
when  this  is  refused,  he  says.  "I  dined  with 
Lord  Treasurer,  who  chid  me  for  being  absent 
three  days.  JVIighty  kind  with  a  p — !  Less 
of  civility,  and  more  of  interest !'"'  At  last, 
when  the  state  of  the  Queen's  health  made 
the  duration  of  the  ministry  extremely  pre- 
carious, and  the  support  of  tieir  friends  more 
essential,  he  speaks  out  like  a  true  Swiss,  and 
tells  them  that  he  will  run  away  and  leave 
them,  if  they  do  not  instantly  make  a  provi- 
sion for  him.  In  the  Journal  to  Stella,  he 
writes,  that  having  seen  the  warrants  for  three 
deaneries,  and  none  of  them  for  him,  he  had 
gone  to  the  Lord  Treasurer,  and  "  told  him  I 
had  nothing  to  do  but  to  go  back  to  Ireland 
immediately ;  for  I  could  not,  with  any  reputa- 
tion, stay  longer  here,  unless  I  had  something 
honourable  immediately  given  to  me.  He  after- 
wards told  me  he  had  stopped  the  warrants, 
and  hoped  something  might  be  compassed  for 
me,"  &c.  And  in  the  page  following  we  find, 
that  all  his  love  for  his  dear  friend  the  Lord 
Treasurer,  would  not  mduce  him  ever  to  see 
him  ag-ain,  if  he  was  disappointed  in  this  ob- 
ject of  ambition.  "The  warrants  for  the 
deaneries  are  still  stopped,  for  fear  I  should 
be  gone.  Do  you  think  any  thing  will  be 
done  ?  In  the  mean  time,  I  prepare  for  my 
journe)'^  and  see  no  great  people ; — nor  will  I 
sez  Lord  Treasurer  any  more,  if  I  go."  (Vol.  iii. 
p.  207.)  It  is  under  this  threat  that  he  extorts 
the  Deanery  of  St.  Patrick's, — which  he  ac- 
cepts with  much  grumbling  and  discontent, 
»nd  does  not  enter  into  possession  till  all  hope 
of  better  preferment  seems  for  the  time  at  an 
end.  In  this  extremity  he  seems  resolved, 
however,  to  make  the  most  of  it ;  and  finding 
that  the  expenses  of  his  induction  and  the 
usual  payments  to  government  on  the  occa- 
sion come  to  a  considerable  sum,  he  boldly 
"resolves  to  ask  a  thousand  pounds  from  the 
ministers,  on  the  score  of  his  past  services,  in 
order  to  make  himself  easy.  This  he  an- 
nounces to  Stella  sc'*"  after  the  appointment. 
"I  hope  in  time  they  will  be  persuaded  to 
give  me  some  money  to  clear  off"  these  debts. 
jChey  expect   I   shall  pass   the   next  winter 


here ;  and  then  I  will  drive  them  to  give  me  a 
sum  of  money. '^  And  a  little  after — -'I  shall 
be  sadly  cramped,  unless  the  Queen  will  give 
me  a  thousand  pounds.  I  am  sure  she  owes 
me  a  great  deal  more.  Lord  Treasurer  rallies 
me  upon  it,  and,  I  am  sure,  intends  it — but 
qaandoV^  And  again — " Lord  Treasurer  uses 
me  barbarously.  He  laughs  when  I  mention  a 
thousand  pounds — though  a  thousand  pounds 
is  a  very  serious  thing."  It  appears,  however 
that  this  modest  request  never  was  complied 
with ;  for,  though  Bolingbroke  got  the  Queen's 
warrant  for  it,  to  secure  Swift's  attachment 
after  he  had  turned  out  Harley,  yet  her  ma- 
jesty's immediate  death  rendered  the  gift 
unavailing. 

If  any  thing  were  wanting  to  show  that  his 
change  of  party  and  his  attachment  to  that 
which  was  now  uppermost,  was  wholly  foun- 
ded on  personal,  and  in  no  degree  on  public 
considerations,  it  would  be  supplied  by  the 
innumerable  traits  of  personal  vanity,  and  the 
unrestrained  expressions  of  eulogy  or  abuse, 
accoiding  as  that  vanity  was  gratified  or 
thwarted,  that  are  scattered  over  the  whole 
journal  and  correspondence, — and  which  are 
utterly  irreconcileable  with  the  conduct  of  a 
man  who  was  acting  on  any  principle  of  dig- 
nity or  fairness.  With  all  his  talent  and  all 
his  pride,  indeed,  it  appears  that  Swift  ex- 
hibited, during  this  period  of  favour,  as  much 
of  the  ridiculous  airs  of  a  parvenu — of  a  low- 
bred underling  brought  suddenly  into  contact 
with  wealth  and  splendour,  as  any  of  the  base 
understrappers  that  ever  made  party  disgust 
ing.  The  studied  rudeness  and  ostentatious 
arrogance  with  which  he  withheld  the  usual 
tribute  of  respect  that  all  M-ell-bred  persons 
pay  to  rank  and  office,  may  be  reckoned 
among  the  signs  of  this.  But  for  a  fuller  pic- 
ture, we  would  refer  to  the  Diary  of  Bishop 
Kennet,  who  thus  describes  the  demeanour 
of  this  politic  partisan  in  the  year  1713. 

"  Dr.  Swift  came  into  the  coffee-house, ^nd  had  a 
bow  from  every  body  but  me.  When  I  came  to 
the  antichamber  to  wait  before  prayers,  Dr.  Swift 
was  the  principal  man  of  talk  and  business,  and 
acted  as  a  master  of  requests.  He  was  soliciting 
the  Earl  of  Arran  to  speak  to  his  brother  the  Duiie 
of  Ormond,  to  gret  a  chaplain's  place  established  in 
the  garrison  of  Hull  for  Mr.  Fiddes,  a  clergyman  in 
that  neighbourhood,  who  had  lately  been  in  jail,  and 
published  sermons  to  pay  fees.  He  was  promising 
Mr.  Thorold  to  undertake  with  my  Lord  I'reasurer, 
that,  according  to  his  petition,  he  should  obtain  a 
salary  of  200Z.  per  annumas  minister  of  the  English 
church  at  Rotterdam.  He  stopped  F.  Gwynne, 
Esq.,  going  in  with  the  red  bag  to  the  Queen,  and 
told  him  aloud  he  had  something  to  say  to  him  from 
my  Lord  Treasurer.  He  talked  with  the  son  of 
Dr.  Davenant  to  be  sent  abroad,  and  took  out  his 
pocket-book,  and  wrote  down  several  things,  as 
memoranda,  to  do  for  him.  He  turned  to  the  fire, 
and  took  out  his  gold  watch,  and  telling  the  time  of 
the  day,  complained  it  was  very  late.  A  gentleman 
said  'he  was  toipfest.' — '  How  can  I  help  if,'  saya 
ilie  doctor,  '  if  the  courtiers  give  me  a  watch  that 
won't  go  right?'  Then  he  instructed  a  young  no- 
bleman, that  the  best  poet  in  England  was  Mr. 
Pope  (a  papist),  w^ho  had  begun  a  translation  of 
Homer  into  English  verse,  for  which  '  he  must  have 
them  all  subscribe;' — 'for,'  says  he,  'tibe  authoi 
shall  not  begin  to  print  till  /  have  a  thousand  guineas 
for  him.'   Lord  Treasurer,  after  leaving  the  Queen, 


74 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


cam«;  through  the  room,  beckoning  Dr.  Swift  to 
follow  him:  both  went  off  just  before  prayers.'^ — 
Life,  vol.  i.  p.  139,  140. 

We  are  very  unwilling,  in  any  case,  to  as- 
cribe to  unworthy  motives,  what  may  be  suf- 
ficiently accounted  for  upon  better  considera- 
tions; but  we  really  have  not  charity  enough 
to  impute  Swift's  zealous  efforts  to  prevent  the 
rupture  between  Harley  and  Bolingbroke,  or 
his  continued  friendship  with  both  after  that 
rupture  took  place,  to  his  personal  and  disin- 
terested affection  for  those  two  individuals. 
In  the  first  place,  he  had  a  most  manifest  in- 
terest to  prevent  their  disunion,  as  that  which 
plainly  tended  to  the  entire  dissolution  of  the 
ministry,  and  the  ruin  of  the  party  on  which 
he  depended;  and,  as  to  his  remaining  the 
friend  of  both  after  they  had  become  the  most 
rancorous  enemies  of  each  other,  it  must  be 
remembered  that  they  were  still  respectively 
the  two  most  eminent  individuals  with  whom 
he  had  been  connected ;  and  that,  if  ever  that 
party  should  be  restored  to  power,  from  which 
alone  he  could  now  look  for  preferment,  he 
who  stood  well  with  both  these  statesmen 
would  have  a  double  chance  of  success.  Con- 
sidering, indeed,  the  facility  with  which  he 
seems  to  have  cast  off  friendships  far  more 
intimate  than  the  inequality  of  their  condition 
renders  it  possible  that  those  of  Oxford  or  Bo- 
lingbroke could  be  with  him,  whenever  party 
interest  interfered  with  them; — considering 
the  disrespect  with  which  he  spoke  of  Sir 
William  Temple's  memory,  after  he  had  ab- 
jured his  principles; — the  coarseness  with 
which  he  calls  Lord  Somers  "  a  false  deceit- 
ful rascal,"  after  having  designated  him  as  the 
modern  Aristides,  for  his  blameless  integrity ; 
— and  the  unfeeling  rancour  with  which  he 
exposes  the  personal  failings  and  pecuniary 
embarrassments  of  Steele,  with  whom  he  had 
been  long  so  closely  united ; — it  would  seem 
to  require  something  more  than  the  mere  per- 
sonal attachment  of  a  needy  pamphleteer  to 
two  rival  peers,  to  account  for  his  expressions 
of  affection  for  both,  after  one  had  supplanted 
the  other.  The  natural  solution,  indeed, 
seems  to  lie  sufficiently  open.  After  the  per- 
fidy he  had  shown  to  the  Whig  party,  and  the 
virulence  with' which  he  had  revenged  his 
own  apostasy,  there  was  no  possibility  of  his 
being  again  received  by  them.  His  only 
chance,  therefore,  was  in  the  restoration  of  the 
Tories,  and  his  only  policy  to  keep  well  with 
both  their  great  leaders. 

Mr.  Scott,  indeed,  chooses  to  represent  him 
as  actuated  by  a  romantic  attachment  to  Lord 
Oxford,  and  pronounces  an  eloquent  encomium 
on  his  devoted  generosity  in  applying  for 
leave  of  absence,  upon  that  nobleman's  dis- 
grace, in  order  to  be  able  to  visit  him  in  his 
retirement.  Though  he  talks  of  such  a  visit, 
however,  it  is  certain  that  hMnever  did  pay 
it ;  and  that  he  was  all  the  time  engaged  in 
the  most  friendly  correspondence  with  Bo- 
lingbroke, from  whom  the  very  day  after  he 
had  kicked  out  his  dear  friend  with  the  most 
undisguised  anger  and  contempt,  he  conde- 
scended to  receive  an  order  for  the  thousand 
pounds  he  had  so  long  solicited  from  his  pre- 


decessor in  vain.  The  followir^,  too,  are  llw 
terms  in  which  Bolingbroke,  at  that  very  time, 
thought  there  was  no  impropriety,  and  could 
be  no  offence,  in  writing  of  Oxford,  in  a  jiri- 
vate  confidential  letter  to  this  his  dear  de- 
voted friend.  "Your  state  of  late  passages  is 
right  enough.  I  reflect  upon  them  with  in- 
dignation; and  shall  never  forgive  myself  foi 
having  trusted  so  long  to  so  much  real  pride 
and  awkward  humility ; — to  an  air  of  such  fa^ 
miliar  friendship,  and  a  heart  so  void  of  all 
tenderness; — to  such  a  temper  of  engrossing 
business  and  power,  and  so  perfect  an  inca- 
pacity to  manage  one,  with  such  a  tyrannical 
disposition  to  abuse  the  other,"  &c.  &c.  (Vol, 
xvi.  p.  219.)  If  Swift's  feelings  for  Oxford  had 
borne  any  resemblance  to  those  which  Mr. 
Scott  has  imputed  to  him,  it  is  not  conceiv- 
able that  he  should  have  continued  upon  a 
footing  of  the  greatest  cordiality  with  the  man 
who,  after  supplanting  him,  could  speak  in 
those  terms  of  his  fallen  rival.  Yet  Swift's 
friendship,  as  they  called  it,  with  Bolingbroke, 
continued  as  long  as  that  with  Oxford ;  and 
w^e  find  him  not  only  giving  him  his  advice 
how  to  act  in  the  government  which  had  now 
fallen  entirely  into  his  hands,  but  kindly  of- 
fering, "  if  his  own  services  may  be  of  any 
use,  to  attend  him  by  the  beginning  of  win- 
ter." (Id.  p.  215.)  Those  who  know  of  what 
stuff  political  friendships  are  generally  made, 
indeed,  will  not  require  even  this  evidence  to 
prove  the  hollowness  of  those  in  which  Swift 
was  now  connected.  The  following  passage, 
in  a  letter  from  Lewis,  the  most  intimate  ana 
confidential  of  all  his  coadjutors,  dated  only  a 
week  or  two  before  Oxford's  disgrace,  gives  a 
delicious  picture,  w^e  think,  of  the  whole  of 
those  persons  for  whom  the  learned  Dean  was 
thus  professing  the  most  disinterested  attach- 
ment, and  receiving,  no  doubt,  in  return,  pro- 
fessions not  less  animated  and  sincere.  It  is 
addressed  to  Swift  in  July,  1714. 

"I  meet  with  no  man  or  woman,  who  pretend 
upon  any  probable  grounds  to  judge  who  will  carry 
the  great  point.  Our  female  friend  (Mrs.  Masham) 
told  the  dragon  (Lord  Oxford)  in  her  own  house, 
last  Thursday  morning,  these  words :  '  You  never 
did  the  Queen  any  service,  nor  are  you  capable  of 
doing  her  any.'  He  made  no  reply,  but  supped 
with  her  and  Mercurialis  (Bolingbroke)  that  night 
at  her  ow7i  house. — His  reveiige  is  not  the  less  medi- 
tated for  that.  He  tells  the  words  clearly  and  dis- 
tinctly to  all  mankind.  Those  who  range  under  his 
banner,  call  her  ten  thottsand  bitches  and  kitchen- 
wenches.  Those  who  hate  him  do  the  same.  And 
irom  my  heart,  I  grieve  that  she  should  give  such 
a  loose  to  her  passion  ;  for  she  is  susceptible  of  true 
friendship,  and  has  many  social  and  domestic  vir- 
tues. The  great  attorney  (Lord  Chancellor  liar- 
court)  who  made  you  the  sham  offer  of  the  York- 
shire living,  had  a  long  conference  with  the  dragon 
on  Thursday,  kissed  him  at  parting,  and  cursed  him 
at  7iightr' — vol.  xvi.  p.  173,  174. 

The  death  of  Queen  Anne,  however,  which 
happened  on  the  1st  of  August  thereafter, 
speedily  composed  all  those  dissensions,  ana 
confounded  the  victors  and  the  vanquished  in 
one  common  proscription.  Among  the  most 
miserable  and  downcast  of  all  the  mournerg 
on  that  occasion,  we  confess  we  were  some- 
what surprised  to  find  our  reverend  author. 


WORKS  OF  JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


He  who,  but  a  few  months  before,  was  willing 
to  have  hazarded  all  the  horrors  of  a  civil  war, 
for  the  chance  of  keeping  his  party  in  office, 
8unk  instantly  into  pitiable  and  unmanly  des- 
pondency upon  the  final  disgrace  of  that  party. 
We  are  unwilling  to  believe,  and  we  do  not 
m  fact  believe,  that  Swift  was  privy  to  the  de- 
signs of  Bolingbroke,  Ormond,  and  Mar,  to 
bring  in  the  Pretender  on  the  Queen's  demise, 
and  are  even  disposed  to  hold  it  doubtful 
whether  Oxford  concurred  in  those  measures; 
but  we  are  sure  that  no  man  of  common  firm- 
ness could  have  felt  more  sorrow  and  despair, 
if  the  country  had  been  conquered  by  a  law- 
less invader,  than  this  friend  of  the  Act  of 
Settlement  did  upon  the  quiet  and  regular 
transmission  of  the  sceptre  to  the  appointed 
heir;  and  the  discomfiture  of  those  ministers 
who  are  proved  to  have  traitorously  conspired 
to  accomplish  a  counter  revolution,  and  re- 
store a  dynasty  which  he  always  afiected  to 
consider  as  justly  rejected.  How  all  this  sor- 
row is  to  be  reconciled  to  the  character  of  a 
good  Revolution  Whig,  we  leave  it  to  the 
learned  editor,  who  has  invested  him  with 
that  character,  to  discover.  To  us  it  merely 
affords  new-evidence  of  the  selfishness  and 
ambition  of  the  individual,  and  of  that  utter 
and  almost  avowed  disregard  of  the  public, 
which  constituted  his  political  character.  Of 
the  sorrow  and  despondency  itself,  we  need 
produce  no  proofs, — for  they  are  to  be  found 
in  every  page  of  his  subsequent  writings. 
His  whole  life,  indeed,  after  this  event,  was 
one  long  fit  of  spleen  and  lamentation :  and, 
to  the  very  end  of  his  days,  he  never  ceases 
bewailing  the  irreparable  and  grievous  calam- 
ity which  the  world  had  suffered  in  the  death 
of  that  most  imbecile  princess.  He  speaks 
of  it,  in  short,  throughout,  as  a  pious  divine 
might  be  supposed  to  speak  of  the  fall  of 
primeval  man  from  the  state  of  innocence. 
The  sun  seems  darkened  for  ever  in  his  eyes, 
and  mankind  degenerated  beyond  the  tolera- 
tion of  one  who  was  cursed  with  the  remem- 
brance of  their  former  dignity  I  And  all  this 
for  what  1 — because  the  government  was,  with 
the  full  assent  of  the  nation,  restored  to  the 
hands  of  those  whose  talents  and  integrity  he 
had  once  been  proud  to  celebrate — or  rather, 
because  it  was  taken  from  those  who  would 
ha.ve  attempted,  at  the  evident  risk  of  a  civil 
war.  to  defeat  that  solemn  settlement  of  which 
he  nad  always  approved,  and  in  virtue  of 
which  alone  the  late  Sovereign  had  succeed- 
ed ; — because  the  liberties  of  the  nation  were 
again  to  be  secured  in  peace,  under  the  same 
councils  which  had  carried  its  glories  so  high 
in  war — and  the  true  friends  of  the  Revolution 
of  1688  to  succeed  to  that  patronage  which 
had  previously  been  exercised  by  its  virtual 
enemies  !  Such  were  the  public  calamities 
which  he  had  to  lament  as  a  patriot ; — and 
the  violence  done  to  his  political  attachments 
seems  to  have  been  of  the  same  character. 
His  two  friends  were  Bolingbroke  and  Ox- 
ford :  and  both  these  had  been  abusing  each 
')ther,  and  endeavouring  to  supplant  each 
«ther,  with  all  their  might,  for  a  long  period 
ot  time ; — and,  at  last,  one  of  them  did  this 


good  office  for  the  other,  in  the  most  insult- 
ing and  malignant  manner  he  could  devise : 
and  yet  the  worthy  Dean  had  charity  enough 
to  love  them  both  just  as  dearly  as  e-v  er.  He 
was  always  a  zealous  advocate,  too,  for  the 
Act  of  Settlement ;  and  has  in  twenty  places 
expressed  his  abomination  of  all  who  could 
allow  themselves  to  think  of  the  guilt  of  call- 
ing in  the  Pretender.  If,  therefore,  he  coulc 
love  and  honour  and  flatter  Bolingbroke,  whc 
not  only  turned  out  his  beloved  Oxford,  but 
actually  went  over  to  the  Pretender,  it  is  not 
easy  to  'see  why  he  should  have  been  so  im- 
placable towards  those  older  friends  of  his, 
who  only  turned  out  Bolingbroke  in  order  to 
prevent  the  Pretender  from  being  brought  in. 
On  public  grounds,  in  short,  there  is  nothing 
to  be  said  for  him ; — nor  can  his  conduct  or 
feelings  ever  receive  any  explanation  upon 
such  principles.  But  every  thing  becomes 
plain  and  consistent  when  we  look  to  another 
quarter — when  we  consider,  that  by  the  ex- 
tinction of  the  Tory  party,  his  hopes  of  pre- 
ferment were  also  extinguished ;  and  that  he 
was  no  longer  to  enjoy  the  dearer  delight  of 
bustling  in  the  front  of  a  triumphant  party — 
of  inhaling  the  incense  of  adulation  from  its 
servile  dependants — and  of  insulting  with  im- 
punity the  principles  and  the  benefactors  he 
had  himself  deserted. 

That  this  M^as  the  true  key  to  his  feelings, 
on  this  and  on  every  other  occasion,  may  be 
concluded  indeed  with  safety,  not  only  from 
his  former,  but  from  his  after  life.  His  Irish 
politics  may  all  be  referred  to  one  principle — 
a  desire  to  insult  and  embarrass  the  govern- 
ment by  which  he  was  neglected,  and  with 
which  he  despaired  of  being  reconciled : — A 
single  fact  is  decisi'C'e  upon  this  point.  While 
his  friends  were  in  power,  we  hear  nothing 
of  the  grievances  of  Ireland ;  and  to  the  last 
we  hear  nothing  of  its  radical  grievance,  the 
oppression  of  its  Catholic  population.  His 
object  was,  not  to  do  good  to  Ireland,  but  to 
vex  and  annoy  the  English  ministry.  To  do 
this  however  with  effect,  it  was  necessary 
that  he  should  speak  to  the  interests  and  the 
feelings  of  some  party  who  possessed  a  cer- 
tain degree  of  power  and  influence.  This 
unfortunately  was  not  the  case  in  that  day 
with  the  Catholics ;  and  though  this  gave  thein 
only  a  stronger  title  to  the  services  of  a  truly 
brave  or  generous  advocate,  it  was  sufficient 
to  silence  Swift.  They  are  not  so  much  as 
named  above  two  or  three  times  in  his  writ- 
ings— and  then  only  with  scorn  tmd  reproba- 
tion. In  the  topics  which  he  does  take  up,  it 
is  no  doubt  true,  that  he  frequently  inveighs 
against  real  oppression  and  acts  of  indisput- 
able impolicy ;  yet  it  is  no  want  of  charity  to 
say,  that  it  is  quite  manifest  that  these  w^ere 
not  his  reasons  for  bringing  them  forward,  and 
that  he  had  jn^  as  little  scruple  to  make  an 
outcry,  where  no  public  interest  was  concern- 
ed, as  where  it  was  apparent.  It  was  suffi- 
cient for  him,  that  the  subject  was  likely  to 
excite  popular  prejudice  and  clamour, — or 
that  he  had  some  personal  pique  or  animosity 
to  gratify.  The  Drapier's  letters  are  a  suffi 
cient  proof  of  the  influence  of  the  fo/mex 


78 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


principle ;  and  the  Legion  Club,  and  the  num- 
berless brutalities  against  Tighe  and  Bettes- 
worth,  of  the  latter.  Every  body  is  now 
satisfied  of  the  perfect  harmlessness,  and  in- 
deed of  the  great  utility  of  Wood's  scheme 
for  a  new  copper  coinage ;  and  the  only  pre- 
texts for  the  other  scurrilities  to  which  we 
have  alluded  were,  that  the  Parliament  had 
shown  a  disposition,  to  interfere  for  the  alle- 
viation, in  some  inconsiderable  particulars,  of 
the  intolerable  oppression  of  the  tithe  system, 
— to  the  detriment,  as  Swift  imagined,  of  the 
order  to  which  he  himself  belonged ;  and  that 
Mr.  Tighe  had  obtained  for  a  friend  of  his 
own.  a  living  which  Swift  had  wished  to  se- 
cure for  one  of  his  dependants.  . 

His  main  object  in  all  this,  we  make  no 
doubt,  was  personal  pique  and  vengeance ; — 
yet  it  is  probable,  that  there  was  occasionally, 
or  throughout,  an  expectation  of  being  ag-ain 
brought  into  the  paths  of  power  and  prefer- 
ment, by  the  notoriety  which  these  publica- 
tions enabled  him  to  maintain,  and  by  the 
motives  which  they  held  out  to  each  succes- 
sive ministry,  to  secure  so  efficient  a  pen  in 
their  favour.  That  he  was  willing  to  have 
made  his  peace  with  Walpole,  even  during 
the  reign  of  George  I.,  is  admitted  by  Mr. 
Scott, — though  he  discredits  the  details  which 
Lord  Chesterfield  and  others  have  given,  ap- 
parently from  very  direct  authority,  of  the 
humiliating  terms  upon  w-hich  he  was  willing 
to  accede  to  the  alliance; — and  it  is  certain, 
that  he  paid  his  court  most  assiduously  to  the 
successor  of  that  Prince,  both  while  he  was 
Prince  of  Wales,  and  after  his  accession  to 
the  throne.  The  manner  in  which  he  paid 
his  court,  too,  was  truly  debasing,  and  espe- 
cially unworthy  of  a  High-Churchman  and  a 
public  satirist.  It  was  chiefly  by  flatteries 
and  assiduity  to  his  mistress,  Mrs.  Howard ! 
with  whom  he  maintained  a  close  correspond- 
ence, and  upon  whom  he  always  professed 
mainly  to  rely  for  advancement.  When 
George  I.  died,  Swift  was  among  the  first  to 
kiss  the  hands  of  the  new  sovereign,  and  in- 
dulged anew  in  the  golden  dreams  of  prefer- 
ment. Walpole's  recal  to  power,  however, 
soon  overcast  those  visions;  and  he  then  wrote 
to  the  mistress,  humbly  and  earnestly  entreat- 
ing her,  to  tell  him  sincerely  what  were  his 
chances  of  success.  She  flattered  him  for 
a  while  with  hopes;  but  at  last  he  discovered 
that  the  prejudice  against  him  was  too  strong 
to  be  overcome ;  and  ran  back  in  terrible  hu- 
mour to  Ireland,  where  he  railed  evei:  after 
with  his  usual  vehemence  against  the  King, 
the  Queen,  and  the  concubine.  The  truth,  it 
seems,  was,  that  the  latter  was  disposed  to  fa- 
vour him ;  but  that  her  influence  with  the  King 
was  subordinate  to  that  of  the  Queen,  who 
made  it  a  principle  to  thwart  all  applications 
which  were  made  through  thgL channel. 

Such,  we  think,  is  a  faithfm  sketch  of  the 
political  career  of  this  celebrated  person; — 
and  if  it  be  correct  in  the  main,  or  even  in 
any  material  particulars,  we  humbly  conceive 
that  a  more  unprincipled  and  base  course  of 
proceeding  never  was  held  up  to  the  scorn 
tnd  ridicule  of  mankin-^.     To  the  errors  and 


even  the  inconsistencies  of  honest  minds,  wa 
hope  we  shall  always  be  sufficiently  indulgent ; 
and  especially  to  such  errors  in  practical  life 
as  are  incident  to  literary  and  ingenious  men. 
For  Swift,  however,  there  is  no  such  apology. 
His  profession,  through  life,  was  much  more 
that  of  a  politician  than  of  a  clergyman  or  an 
author.  He  was  not  led  away  in  any  degxee 
by  heated  fancy,  or  partial  affection— 43y  de- 
luding  visions  of  impossible  improvements,  or 
excessive  indignation  at  incurable  vices.  He 
followed,  from  first  to  last,  the  eager,  but 
steady  impulse  of  personal  ambition  and  per- 
sonal animosity ;  and  in  the  dirty  and  devious 
career  into  which  they  impelled  him,  he  never 
spared  the  character  or  the  feelings  of  a  single 
individual  who  appeared  to  stand  in  his  way. 
In  no  respect,  therefore,  can  he  have  any 
claim  to  lenity; — and  now,  when  his  faults 
are  of  importance  only  as  they  may  serve  the 
purpose  of  warning  or  misleading  to  others, 
we  consider  it  as  our  indispensable  duty  to 
point  them  out  in  their  true  colours ;  and  to 
show  that,  even  when  united  to  talents  as 
distinguished  as  his,  political  profligacy  and 
political  rancour  must  lead  to  universal  dis- 
trust and  avoidance  during  the  life  of  the  in- 
dividual, and  to  contempt  and  infamy  there- 
after. 

Of  Swift's  personal  character,  his  ingenious 
biographer  has  given  almost  as  partial  a  rep- 
resentation, as  of  his  political  conduct; — a 
great  part  of  it  indeed  has  been  anticipated, 
in  tracing  the  principles  of  that  conduct; — 
the  same  arrogance  and  disdain  of  mankind, 
leading  to  profiio-ate  ambition  and  scurrility  in 
public  life,  and  to  domineering  and  selfish 
habits  in  private.  His  character  seems  to  have 
been  radically  overbearing  and  tyrannical ; — 
for  though,  like  other  tyrants,  he  could  stoop 
low  enough  where  his  interests  required  it,  it 
was  his  delight  to  exact  an  implicit  compli- 
ance with  his  humours  and  fancies,  and  to 
impose  upon  all  around  him  the  task  of  ob- 
serving and  accommodating  themselves  to  his 
habits,  without  the  slightest  regard  to  their 
convenience  or  comfort.  Wherever  he  came, 
the  ordinary  forms  of  society  were  to  give  way 
to  his  pleasure ;  and  every  thing,  even  to  the 
domestic  arrangements  of  a  family,  to  be  sus- 
pended for  his  caprice. — If  he  was  to  be  intro- 
duced to  a  person  of  rank,  he  insisted  that  the 
first  advances  and  the  first  visit  should  be  made 
to  him.  If  he  went  to  see  a  friend  in  the  coun- 
try, he  would  order  an  old  tree  to  be  cut  down, 
if  it  obstructed  the  view  from  his  window — and 
was  never  at  his  ease  unless  he  was  allowed 
to  give  nicknames  to  the  lady  of  the  house, 
and  make  lampoons  upon  her  acquaintance. 
On  going  for  the  first  time  into  any  family,  he 
frequently  prescribed  beforehand  the  hours 
for  their  meals,  sleep,  and  exercise :  and  in- 
sisted rigorously  upon  the  literal  fulfilment  of 
the  capitulation.  From  his  intimates  he  uni- 
formly exacted  the  most  implicit  submission 
to  all  his  whims  and  absurdities ;  and  carried 
his  prerogative  so  far,  that  he  sometimes  used 
to  chase  the  Grattans  and  other  accommodating 
friends,  through  the  apartments  of  the  Dean- 
ery, and  up  and  down  stairs,  driving  them  Jiktf 


WORKS  OF  JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


norses,  with  a  large  whip,  till  he  thought  he 
had  enough  of  exercise.  All  his  jests  have 
the  same  character  of  insolence  and  coarse- 
ness. When  he  first  came  to  his  curate's 
house,  he  announced  himself  as  "his  mas- 
ter;"— look  possession  of  the  fireside,  and  or- 
dered his  wife  to  take  charge  of  his  shirts  and 
stockings.  When  a  young  clergj-man  was  in- 
troduced to  him,  he  offered  him  the  dregs  of 
a  bottle  of  wine,  and  said,  he  always  kept  a 
poor  parson  about  him  to  drink  up  his  dregs. 
Even  in  hiring  servants,  he  always  chose  to 
insult  them,  by  inquiring  into  their  qualifica- 
tions for  some  filthy  and  degrading  office. 
And  though  it  may  be  true,  that  his  after 
conduct  was  not  exactly  of  a  piece  with  those 
preliminaries,  it  is  obvious,  that  as  no  man  of 
proper  feelings  could  submit  to  such  imperti- 
nence, so  no  man  could  have  a  right  to  inddge 
in  it.  Even  considered  merely  as  a  manner 
assumed  to  try  the  character  of  those  with 
whom  he  lived,  it  was  a  test  which  no  one 
but  a  tyrant  could  imagine  himself  entitled  to 
apply ; — and  Swift's  practical  conclusion  from 
it  was  just  the  reverse  of  what  might  be  ex- 
pected. He  attached  himself  to  those  only 
who  were  mean  enough  to  bear  this  usage, 
and  broke  with  all  who  resented  it.  While 
he  had  something  to  gain  or  to  hope  from  the 
world,  he  seems  to  have  been  occasionally 
less  imperious :  but,  after  he  retired  to  Ireland, 
he  gave  w^ay  without  restraint  to  the  native 
arrogance  of  his  character ;  and,  accordingly, 
confined  himself  almost  entirely  to  the  society 
of  a  few  easy-tempered  persons,  who  had  no 
talents  or  pretensions  to  come  in  competition 
with  his :  and  who,  for  the  honour  of  his  ac- 
quaintance, were  willing  to  submit  to  the  do- 
minion he  usurped. 

A  singular  contrast  to  the  rudeness  and  ar- 
rogance of  this  behaviour  to  his  friends  and 
dependants,  is  afforded  by  the  instances  of 
extravagant  adulation  and  base  humility, 
which  occur  in  his  addresses  to  those  upon 
whom  his  fortune  depended.  After  he  gets 
into  the  society  of  Bolingbroke  and  Oxford, 
and  up  to  the  age  of  forty,  these  are  composed 
in  something  of  a  better  taste ;  but  the  true 
models  are  to  be  found  in  his  addresses  to  Sir 
William  Temple,  the  first  and  most  honoured 
of  his  patrons,  upon  whose  sickness  and  re- 
covery he  has  indited  a  heroic  epistle  and  a 
Pindaric  ode,  more  fulsome  and  extravagant 
than  any  thing  that  had  then  proceeded  from 
the  pen  even  of  a  poet-laureate  ;  and  to  whom, 
after  he  had  left  his  family  in  bad  humour, 
he  sends  a  miserable  epistle,  entreating  a  cer- 
tificate of  character,  in  terms  which  are  scarce- 
ly consistent  with  the  consciousness  of  de- 
serving it;  and  are,  at  all  events,  infinitely 
inconsistent  with  the  proud  and  peremptory 
tone  which  he  assumed  to  those  who  would 
bear  with  it.  A  few  lines  may  be  worth 
quoting.  He  was  then  full  twenty-seven  years 
of  age,  and  a  candidate  for  ordination.  After 
explaining  this,  he  adds — 

"I  entreat  that  your  honour  will  consider  this, 
and  will  please  to  send  me  some  certificate  of  my 
behaviour  during  almost  three  vears  in  your  family; 
wherein  f  shall  stand  in  n«  3d  o(  all  your  goodness  to 


excuse  my  many  weaknesses  and  oversights,  much 
more  to  say  any  thing  to  my  advantage.  The  par- 
ticulars expected  of  me  are  what  relate  to  morals 
and  learning,  and  the  reasons  of  quitting  your 
honour's  family,  that  is,  whether  the  last  was  oc- 
casioned by  any  ill  actions.  They  are  all  left  entirely 
to  your  honour's  mercy,  though  in  the  first  I  think 
I  cannot  reproach  myself  any  farther  than  for  in- 
firmilies. 

' '  This  is  all  I  dare  beg  at  present  from  your  honour, 
under  circumstances  of  life  not  worth  your  regard. 
What  is  left  me  to  wish  (next  to  the  health  and  pros- 
perity of  your  honour  and  family),  is,  that  Heaven 
would  one  day  allow  me  the  opportunity  of  leaving 
my  acknowledgments  at  your  feet  for  so  many  fa- 
vours I  have  received  ;  which,  whatever  effect  they 
have  had  upon  my  fortune,  shall  never  fail  to  have 
the  greatest  upon  my  mind,  in  approving  myself, 
upon  all  occasions,  your  honour's  most  obedienf 
and  most  dutiful  servant." — Vol.  xv.  pp.  230,  231. 

By  far  the  most  characteristic,  and  at  tho 
same  time  most  discreditable  and  most  inter- 
esting part  of  Swift's  history,  however,  is  that 
which  relates  to  his  connection  with  the  three 
unfortunate  women,  Avhose  happiness  he  ru- 
ined, and  whose  reputation  he  did  what  was 
in  him  to  destroy.  We  say,  the  three  women 
— for  though  Varina  was  cast  off  before  he 
had  fame  or  practice  enough  in  composition 
to  celebrate  her  in  song,  like  Stella  or  Vanessa, 
her  injuries  seem  to  have  been  nearly  as  great, 
and  altogether  as  unpardonable  as  those  of  the 
other  two.  Soon  after  leaving  college,  he 
appears  to  have  formed,  or  at  best  professed, 
an  attachment  to  a  Miss  Jane  Waryng.  the 
sister  of  a  fellow-student,  to  whom  his  assidu- 
ities seemed  to  have  rendered  him  acceptable, 
and  with  whom  he  corresponded  for  a  series 
of  years,  under  the  preposterous  name  of  Va- 
rina. There  appear  to  be  but  two  letters  of  this 
correspondence  preserved,  both  written  by 
Swift,  one  in  the  height  of  his  passion,  and 
the  other  in  its  decline — and  both  extremely 
characteristic  and  curious.  The  first  is  dated 
in  1696,  and  is  chiefly  remarkable  for  its  ex- 
treme badness  and  stupidity;  though  it  is  full 
enough  of  love  and  lamentation.  The  lady, 
it  seems,  had  long  before  confessed  a  mutual 
flame;  but  prudential  considerations  made 
her  averse  to  an  immediate  union, — upon 
which  the  lover  raves  and  complains  in  the 
following  deplorable  sentences, — written,  it 
will  be  observed,  when  he  was  on  the  borders 
of  thirty,  and  proving,  along  wath  his  early 
poems,  how  very  late  he  came  to  the  use  of 
his  faculties. 

"  Madam — Impatience  is  the  most  inseparable 
quality  of  a  lover,  and  indeed  of  every  person  who 
is  in  pursuit  of  a  design  whereon  he  conceives  his 
greatest  happiness  or  misery  to  depend.  It  is  the 
same  thing  in  war,  in  courts,  and  in  common  busi- 
ness. Every  one  who  hunts  after  pleasure,  or  fame, 
or  fortune,  is  still  restless  and  uneasy  till  he  has 
hunted  down  his  game ;  and  all  this  is  not  only 
very  natural,  but  something  reasonable  loo:  for  a 
violent  desire  is  little  better  than  a  distemper,  and 
therefore  men  j^re  not  to  blame  in  looking  after 
a  cure.  /  find  myself  hugely  infected  with  this 
malady,  and  am  easily  vain  enough  to  believe  it 
has  some  very  good  reasons  to  excuse  it.  For  in- 
deed, in  my  case,  there  are  some  circumstances 
which  will  admit  pardon  for  more  than  ordinary 
disquiets.  That  dearest  object  upon  which  all 
my  prospect  of  happiness  entirely  depends,  is  in 
perpetual  danger  to  be  removed  for  ever  from  mv 


M 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


Bight.  Varina's  life  is  daily  wasting  ;  and  though 
one  just  and  honourable  action  would  furnish  health 
to  her,  and  unspeakable  happiness  to  us  both,  yet 
some  power  that  repines  at  human  felicity  has  that 
influence  to  hold  her  continually  doating  upon  her 
cruelty,  and  me  on  the  cause  of  it. 

"  Would  to  Heaven  you  were  but  a  while  sensi- 
ble of  the  thoughts  into  which  my  present  distrac- 
tions plunge  me;  they  hale  me  a  thousand  ways, 
and  I  not  able  to  bear  them.  It  is  so,  by  Heave7i: 
The  love  of  Varina  is  of  more  tragical  consequence 
than  her  cruelty.  Would  to  God  you  had  treated 
and  scorned  me  from  the  beginning.  It  was  your 
pity  opened  the  first  way  to  my  misfortune  ;  and 
now  your  love  is  finishing  my  ruin:  and  is  it  so 
then  ?  In  one  fortnight  I  must  take  eternal  farewell 
of  Varina :  and  (I  wonder)  will  she  weep  at  part- 
ing, a  Httle  to  justify  her  poor  pretences  of  some 
affection  to  me  ? 

"  Surely,  Varina,  you  have  but  a  very  mean 
opinion  of  the  joys  that  accompany  a  true,  honour- 
able, unlimited  love  ;  yet  either  nature  and  our  an- 
cestors have  highly  deceived  us,  or  else  all  other 
sublunary  things  are  dross  in  comparison.  Is  it 
possible  you  can  be  yet  insensible  to  the  prospect 
of  a  rapture  and  delight  so  innocent  and  so  exalted  ? 
By  Heaven,  Varina,  you  are  more  experieiiced  and 
have  less  virgin  innocence  than  I.  Would  not  your 
conduct  make  one  think  you  were  hugely  skilled 
in  all  the  httle  pohtic  methods  of  intrigue  ?  Love, 
with  the  gall  of  too  much  discretion,  is  a  thousand 
times  worse  than  with  none  at  all.  It  is  a  peculiar 
part  of  nature  which  art  debauches,  but  cannot 
improve. 

"  Farewell,  madam;  and  may  love  make  you  a 
while  forget  your  temper  to  do  me  justice.  Only 
remember,  that  if  you  still  refuse  to  be  mine,  you 
will  quickly  lose,  for  ever  lose,  him  that  has  resolved 
to  die  as  he  has  lived,  all  yours,  io^.  Swift." — 
Vol.  XV.  pp.  232—237. 

Notwithstanding  these  tragic  denunciations, 
he  neither  died — nor  married — nor  broke  off 
the  connection,  for  four  years  thereafter;  in 
the  latter  part  of  which,  having  been  at  last 
presented  to  two  livings  in  Ireland,  worth 
near  400Z.-a  year,  the  lady  seems  to  have 
been  reduced  to  remind  him  of  his  former 
impatience,  and  fairly  to  ask  him,  whether 
his  affections  had  suffered  any  alteration.  His 
answer  to  this  appeal  is  contained  in  the 
second  letter; — and  is,  we  think,  one  of  the 
most  complete  patterns  of  meanness,  selfish- 
ness, and  brutality,  we  have  ever  met  with. 
The  truth  undoubtedly  was,  that  his  affections 
were  estranged,  and  had  probably  settled  by 
this  time  on  the  unfortunate  Stella:  but  in- 
stead of  either  fairly  avowing  this  inconstancy, 
or  honourably  fulfilling  engagements,  from 
which  inconstancy  perhaps  could  not  release 
him,  he  thinks  fit  to  write,  in  the  most  frigid, 
insolent,  and  hypocritical  terms,  undervaluing 
her  fortune  and  person,  and  finding  fault  with 
her  humour ; — and  yet  pretending,  that  if  she 
would  only  comply  with  certain  conditions 
which  he  specifies,  he  might  still  be  persuaded 
to  venture  himself  with  her  into  the  perils  of 
matrimony.  It  will  be  recollected,  that  when 
he  urged  immediate  marriage  so  passionately 
in  1696,  he  had  no  provision  in. the  world,  and 
must  have  intended  to  live  on  her  fortune, 
which  yielded  about  lOOl.  a  year,  and  that  he 
thought  her  health  as  well  as  happiness  would 
be  saved  by  the  match.  In  1700.  when  he 
had  got  two  livings,  he  addresses  ner  as  fol- 
lows— 

"I  desire,  therefore,  you  will  let  me   know  if 


your  health  be  otherwise  than  it  was  when  yoij 
told  me  the  doctors  advised  you  against  marriage, 
as  what  would  certainly  hazard  your  life.  Ar« 
they  or  you  grown  of  another  opinion  in  this  partic- 
ular ?  are  you  in  a  condition  to  manage  domestic 
afiairs,  with  an  income  of  less  (perhaps)  than  300Z. 
a-year  ?  (it  must  have  been  near  500Z.)  have  you 
such  an  incUnation  to  my  person  and  humour,  aa 
to  comply  whh  my  desires  and  way  of  living,  and 
endeavour  to  make  us  both  as  happy  as  you  can  ? 
can  you  bend  your  love  and  esteem  and  indifference 
to  others  the  same  way  as  I  do  mine  ?  shall  I  have 
so  much  power  in  your  heart,  or  you  so  much  gov- 
ernment of  your  passions,  as  to  grow  in  good 
humour  upon  my  approach,  though  provoked  by  a 
?  have   you  so  much  good  nature  as  to 


endeavour  by  soft  words  to  smooth  any  rugged 
humour  occasioned  by  the  cross  accidents  of  life  ? 
shall  the  place  wherever  your  husband  is  thrown 
be  more  welcome  than  courts  or  cities  without 
him  ?  In  short,  these  are  some  of  the  necessary  me- 
thods to  please  men,  who,  like  me,  are  deep  read  in 
the  world  ;  and  to  a  person  thus  made,  I  should  be 
proud  in  giving  all  due  returns  towards  making 
her  happy.'' — Vol.  xv.  pp.  247,  248. 

He  then  tells  her,  that  if  every  thing  'else 
were  suitable,  he  should  not  care  whether 
her  person  were  beautiful,  or  her  fortune  large. 

"  Cleanliness  in  the  first,  and  competency  in  the 
other,  is  all  I  look  for.  I  desire,  indeed,  a  plentiful 
revenue,  but  would  rather  it  should  be  of  my  own  ; 
though  I  should  bear  from  a  wife  to  be  reproached 
for  the  greatest." — Vol.  xv.  pp.  248. 

To  complete  the  picture  of  his  indifference, 
or  rather  his  ill-disguised  disinclination,  he 
adds — 

"  The  dismal  account  you  say  I  have  given  you 
of  my  livings  I  can  assure  you  to  be  a  true  one ; 
and,  since  it  is  a  dismal  one  even  in  your  own 
opinion,  you  can  best  draw  consequences  from  it. 
The  place  where  Dr.  Bolton  lived  is  upon  a  living 
which  he  keeps  with  the  deanery ;  but  the  place 
of  residence  for  that  they  have  given  me  is  within 
a  mile  of  a  town  called  Trim,  twenty  miles  from 
hence ;  and  there  is  no  other  way  but  to  hire  a 
house  at  Trim,  or  build  one  on  the  spot :  the  first 
is  hardly  to  be  done,  and  the  other  I  am  too  poor  to 
perform  at  present.'' — Vol.  xv.  p.  246. 

The  lady,  as  was  to  be  expected,  broke  off 
all  correspondence  after  this  letter — and  so 
ended  Swift's  first  matrimonial  engagement, 
and  first  eternal  passion  ! — What  became  of 
the  unhappy  person,  whom  he  thus  heartlessly 
abandoned,  with  impaired  health,  and  morti- 
fied affections,  after  a  seven-years'  courtship, 
is  nowhere  explained.  The  fate  of  his  next 
victim  is  at  least  more  notorious. 

Esther  Johnson,  better  known  to  the  reader 
of  Swift's  works  by  the  name  of  Stella^  was 
the  child  of  a  London  merchant,  who  died  in 
her  infancy ;  when  she  went  with  her  mother, 
who  was  a  friend  of  Sir  W.  Temple's  sister, 
to  reside  at  Moorpark,  where  Swift  was  then 
domesticated.  Some  part  of  the  charge  of  her 
education  devolved  upon  him; — and  though 
he  was  twenty  years  her  senior,  the  interest 
with  which  he  regarded  her,  appears  to  have 
ripened  into  something  as  much  like  affection 
as  could  find  a  place  in  his  selfish  bosom. 
Soon  after  Sir  William's  death,  he  got  his 
Irish  livings,  besides  a  considerable  legacy;—- 
and  as  she  had  a  small  independence  of  her 
own,  it  is  obvious  that  there  was  nothmg  to 
prevent  their  honourable  and  immediate  unioiL 
Some  cold-blooded  vanity  or  ambition,  how 


WORKS  OF  JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


erer,  or  some  politic  anticipation  of  .his  own 
possible  inconstancy,  deterred  him  from  this 
onward  and  open  course ;  and  led  him  to  an 
arrangement  which  w^as  dishonourable  and 
absurd  in  the  beginning,  and  in  the  end  pro- 
auctive  of  the  most  accumulated  misery.  He 
prevailed  upon  her  to  remove  her  residence 
from  the  bosom  of  her  own  family  in  Eng- 
land, to  his  immediate  neighbourhood  in  Ire- 
land, where  she  took  lodgings  with  an  elderly 
companion,  of  the  name  of  Mrs.  Dingley — 
avowedly  for  the  sake  of  his  society  and  pro- 
tection, and  on  a  footing  of  intimacy  so  very 
strange  and  unprecedented,  that  w^henever  he 
left  his  parsonage  house  for  England  or  Dub- 
lin, these  ladies  immediately  took  possession, 
ana  occupied  it  till  he  came  back. — A  situa- 
tion so  extraordinary  and  undefined,  was  liable 
of  course  to  a  thousand  misconstructions  ]  and 
must  have  been  felt  as  degrading  by  any 
woman  of  spirit  and  delicacy:  and  accord- 
mgly,  though  the  master  of  this  Platonic  se- 
raglio seems  to  have  used  all  manner  of  paltry 
and  insulting  practices,  to  protect  a  reputation 
which  he  had  no  right  to  bring  into  question, 
— by  never  seeing  her  except  in  the  presence 
of  Mrs.  Dingley,  and  never  sleeping  under 
the  same  roof  with  her, — it  is  certain  both 
that  the  connection  was  regarded  as  indeco- 
rous by  persons  of  her  own  sex,  and  that  she 
herself  felt  it  to  be  humiliating  and  improper. 
Accordingly,  within  two  years  after  her  set- 
tlement in  Ireland,  it  appears  that  she  encou- 
raged the  addresses  of  a  clergyman  of  the 
name  of  Tisdall,  between  whom  and  Swift 
there  was  a  considerable  intimacy ;  and  that 
she  would  have  married  him,  and  thus  sacri- 
ficed her  earliest  attachment  to  her  freedom 
and  her  honour,  had  she  hot  been  prevented 
by  the  private  dissuasions  of  that  false  friend, 
who  did  not  choose  to  give  up  his  own  claims 
to  her,  although  he  had  not  the  heart  or  the 
nonour  to  make  her  lawfully  his  own.  She 
was  then  a  blooming  beauty,  of  little  more 
than  twenty,  with  fine  black  hair,  delicate 
features,  and  a  playful  and  affectionate  char- 
acter, it  seems  doubtful  to  us,  whether  she 
originally  felt  for  Swift  any  thing  that  could 
properly  be  called  love — and  her  willing-ness 
to  marry  another  in  the  first  days  of  their 
connection,  seem.s  almost  decisive  on  the 
subject :  but  the  ascendancy  he  had  acquired 
over  her  mind,  and  her  long  habit  of  submit- 
ting her  own  judgment  and  inclinations  to 
his,  gave  him  at  least  an  equal  power  over 
her,  and  moulded  her  pliant  afl^ections  into 
too  deep  and  exclusive  a  devotion.  Even 
before  his  appointment  to  the  Deanery  of  St. 
Patrick's,  it  is  utterly  impossible  to  devise 
any  apology  for  his  not  marrying  her,  or  allow- 
ing her  to  marry  another;  the  only  one  that 
lie  ever  appears  to  have  stated  himself,  viz. 
the  want  of  a  sufficient  fortune  to  sustain  the 
expenses  of  matrimony,  being  palpably  absurd 
in  the  mouth  of  a  man  born  to  nothing,  and 
already  more  wealthy  than  nine-tenths  of  his 
order :  but,  after  he  obtained  that  additional 
preferment,  and  was  thus  ranked  among  the 
well  beneficed  dignitaries  of  the  establish- 
ment, it  was  plainly  an  insult  upon  common 


sense  to  pretend  that  it  was  the  want  of  mo- 
ney that  prevented  him  from  fulfilling  hia 
engagements.  Stella  was  then  twenty-six, 
and  he  near  forty -live ;  and  both  had  liitherto 
lived  very  far  within  an  income  that  was  now 
more  than  doubled.  That  she  now  expected 
to  be  made  his  \v:fe,  a]3pears  from  the  pains 
he  takes  m  the  Journal  indirectly  to  destroy 
that  expectation;  and  though  the  awe  in 
which  he  habitually  kept  her,  probably  pre- 
vented her  either  from  complaining,  or  in- 
quiring into  the  cause,  it  is  now  certain  that 
a  new  attachment,  as  heartless,  as  unprinci- 
pled, and  as  fatal  in  its  consequences  as  either 
of  the  others,  was  at  the  bottom  of  this  cruel 
and  unpardonable  pioceeding. 

During  his  residence  in  London,  from  1710 
to  1712,  he  had  leisure,  in  the  intervals  of  his 
political  labours,  to  form  the  acquaintance  of 
Miss  Esther  Vanhomrigh,  whose  unfortunate 
love  he  has  recorded,  with  no  great  delicacy, 
under  the  name  of  Vanessa.  This  young 
lady,  then  only  in  her  twentieth  year,  joined 
to  all  the  attractions  of  youth,  fashion,  and 
elegance,  the  still  more  dangerous  gifts  of  a 
lively  imagination,  a  confiding  temper,  and  a 
capacity  of  strong  and  permanent  afibction — 
Swift,  regardless  of  the  ties  which  bound  him 
to  Stella,  allowed  himself  to  be  engaged  by 
those  qualities;  and,  without  explaining  the 
nature  of  those  ties  to  his  new  idol,  strove  by 
his  assiduities  to  obtain  a  return  of  affection — 
while  he  studiously  concealed  from  the  un- 
happy Stella  the  wrong  he  was  conscious  of 
doing  her.  We  willingly  borrow  the  words 
of  his  partial  biographer,  to  tell  the  rest  of  a 
story,  which,  w^e  are  afraid,  we  should  telJ 
with  little  temper  ourselves. 

"  While  Vanessa  was  occupying  much  of  hie 
time,  and  much  doubtless  of  liis  thoughts,  she  is 
never  once  mentioned  in  the  Journal  directly  by 
name,  and  is  only  twice  casually  indicated  by  the 
title  of  Vanhomrigh's  eldest  daughter.  There  was, 
therefore,  a  consciousness  on  Swift's  part,  that  his 
attachment  to  his  younger  pupil  was  of  a  nature 
which  could  not  be  gratifying  to  her  predeces^sor, 
although  he  probably  shut  his  own  eyes  to  ine  con- 
sequences of  an  intimacy  which  he  wished  to  con 
ceal  from  those  of  Stella.  Miss  Vanhomrigh,  in 
the  mean  while,  conscious  of  the  pleasure  which 
Swift  received  from  her  society,  and  of  the  advan- 
tages of  youth  and  fortune  which  she  possessed, 
and  ignorant  of  the  peculiar  circumstances  in  which 
he  stood  with  respect  to  another,  naturally,  and 
surely  without  offence  either  to  reason  or  virtue, 
gave  way  to  the  hope  of  forming  an  union  with  a 
man  whose  talents  had  first  attracted  her  admira- 
tion, and  whose  attentions,  in  the  course  of  their 
mutual  studies,  had,  by  degrees,  gained  her  affec- 
tions, and  seemed  to  warrant  his  own.  The  frienda 
continued  to  use  the  language  of  friendship,  bui 
with  the  assiduity  find  earnestness  of  a  warmer 
passion,  until  Vanessa  rent  asunder  the  veil,  by  in 
timating  to  Swift  the  state  of  her  affections ;  and  in 
this,  as  she  conceived,  she  was  justified  by  his  own 
favourite,  though  dangerous  maxim,  of  doing  thai 
which  seems  in  itself  right,  without  respect  to  the 
common  opinion  of  the  world.  We  cannot  doubt 
that  he  actually  felt  the  'shame,  disappointment, 
guilt,  surprise,'  expressed  in  his  celebrated  poem, 
though  he  had  not  courage  to  take  the  open  and 
manly  course  of  avowing  those  engagements  with 
Stella,  or  other  impediments  which  prevented  him 
from  accepting  the  hand  and  fortune  of  her  rival. — 
Without,  therefore,  making  this  painful  but  just 


82 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


confeftsi'f'T,  he  answered  the  avowal  of  Vanessa's 
passion,  at  first  in  rrii'i  'ry,  and  afurwards  by  an 
offer  of  devoted  and  tvyilasting  friend  ship,  founded 
on  the  basis  of  ^yrtuous  esteem.  Vanessa  seems 
neither  to  have  been  contented  nor  silenced  by  the 
resuh  of  her  declaration ;  but  to  the  very  close  of 
her  life  persisted  in  endeavouring,  by  entreaties  and 
arguments,  to  extort  a  more  hvely  return  to  her 
passion,  than  this  cold  proffer  w^as  calculated  to 
dFord. 

"  The  effect  of  his  increasing  intimacy  with  the 
fascinating  Vanessa,  may  be  plainly  traced  in  the 
Journal  to  Stella,  which,  in  the  course  of  its  pro- 
gress, becomes  more  and  more  cold  and  indiffer- 
ent,— breathes  fewer  of  those  aspirations  after  the 
quiet  felicity  of  a  life  devoted  to  M,  D.  and  the 
willows  at  Laracor, — uses  less  frequently  the  affec- 
tionate jargon,  called  the  '  httle  language,'  in  which 
his  fondness  at  first  displays  itself, — and,  in  short, 
exhibits  all  the  symptoms  of  waning  affection. 
Stella  was  neither  blind  to  the  altered  style  of  his 
correspondence,  nor  deaf  to  the  rumours  which 
were  wafted  to  Ireland.  Her  letters  are  not  pre- 
Gervedj  but,  from  several  passages  of  the  Journal, 
it  appears  that  they  intimated  displeasure  and  jea- 
lousy, which  Swift  endeavours  to  appease. 

"  Upon  Swift's  return  to  Ireland,  we  may  guess 
at  the  disturbed  state  of  his  feelings,  wounded  at 
once  by  ungratified  ambition,  and  harassed  by  his 
affection  being  divided  between  two  objects,  each 
worthy  of  his  attachment,  and  each  having  great 
claims  upon  him,  while  neither  was  likely  to  remain 
contented  with  the  hmited  return  of  friendship  in 
exchange  for  love,  and  that  friendship  too  divided 
with  a  rival.  The  claims  of  Stella  were  preferable 
in  point  of  date;  and,  to  a  man  of  honour  and  good 
faith,  in  every  respect  irresistible.  She  had  resigned 
her  country,  her  friends,  and  even  hazarded  her 
character,  in  hopes  of  one  day  being  united  to 
Swift.  But  if  Stella  had  made  the  greatest  sacri- 
fice, Vanessa  was  the  more  important  victim.  She 
had  3'outh,  fortune,  fashion;  all  the  acquired  ac- 
complishments and  information  in  which  Stella  was 
deficient ;  possessed  at  least  as  much  wit,  and  cer- 
tainly higher  powers  of  imagination.  That  he  had 
no  intention  to  marry  Vanessa,  is  evident  from  pas- 
sages in  his  letters,  which  are  inconsistent  with 
such  an  arrangement;  as,  on  the  other  hand,  their 
whole  tenor  excludes  that  of  guiUy  intimacy.  On 
the  other  hand,  his  conduct,  with  respect  to  Stella, 
was  equally  dubious.  So  soon  as  he  was  settled  in 
the  Deanery-house,  his  first  care  was  to  secure 
lodgings  for  Mrs.  Dingley  and  Stella,  upon  Or- 
mond's  Quay,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Liffy ;  and 
to  resume,  with  the  same  guarded  caution,  the  in- 
tercourse which  b«d  formerly  existed  between  them. 
But  circumstances  soon  compelled  him  to  give  that 
connection  ^  more  definite  character. 

"  Mrs.  Vanhomrigh  was  now  dead.  Her  two 
sons  survived  her  but  a  short  time ;  and  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  young  ladies  were  so  far  em- 
barrassed by  inconsiderate  expences,  as  gave  them 
a  handsome  excuse  for  retiring  to  Ireland,  where 
their  father  had  left  a  small  property  near  Celbridge. 
The  arrival  of  Vanessa  in  Dublin  excited  the  ap- 
prehensions of  Swift,  and  the  jealousy  of  Stella. 
However  imprudently  the  Dean  might  have  in- 
dulged himself  and  the  unfortunate  young  lady,  by 
frequenting  her  society  during  his  residence  in  lEng 
land,  there  is  no  doubt  that  he  was  alive  to  all  the 
hazards  that  might  accrue  to  the  reputation  and 
peace  of  both,  by  continuing  the  same  intimacy  in 
Dublin.  But  the  means  of  avoiding  it  were  no 
longer  in  his  power,  although  his  reiterated  re- 
monstrances assumed  even  the  character  of  unkind- 
ness.  She  importuned  him  with  complaints  of  ne- 
glect and  cruelty ;  and  it  was  obvious,  that  any 
decisive  measure  to  break  their  correspondence, 
would  be  attended  with  some  such  tragic  conse- 
quence, as,  though  late,  at  length  concluded  their 
Btory.  Thus  engaged  in  a  labyrinth,  where  perse- 
verance was  wrong,  and  retreat  seemed  almost  im- 


possible, Swift  resolved  to  temporise,  in  hopes 
probably,  that  time,  accident,  the  mutability  inci- 
dent to  violent  affections,  might  extricate  himself 
and  Vanessa  from  the  snare  in  which  his  own 
culpable  imprudence  had  involved  them.  Mean 
while,  he  continued  to  bestow  on  her  those  marka 
of  regard  which  it  was  impossible  to  refuse  to  her 
feelings  towards  him,  even  if  they  had  not  been 
reciprocal.  But  the  conduct  which  he  adopted 
as  kindest  to  Miss  Vanhomrigh,  was  hkely  to  prove 
fatal  to  Stella.  His  fears  and  affections  were  next 
awakened  for  that  early  favourite,  whose  suppress- 
ed  grief  and  jealousy,  acting  upon  a  frame  naturally 
delicate,  menaced  her  health  in  an  alarming  man- 
ner. The  feelings  with  which  Swift  beheld  the 
wreck  which  his  conduct  had  occasioned,  will  not 
bear  description.  Mrs.  Johnson  had  forsaken  her 
country,  and  clouded  even  her  reputation,  to  be- 
come the  sharer  of  his  fortunes,  when  at  their 
lowest ;  and  the  implied  ties  by  which  he  was  bound 
to  make  her  compensation,  were  as  strong  as  the 
most  solemn  promise,  if  indeed  even  promises  of 
future  marriage  had  not  been  actually  exchanged 
between  them.  He  employed  Dr.  St.  George 
Ashe,  Bishop  of  Clogher,  his  tutor  and  early  friend, 
to  request  the  cause  of  her  melancholy ;  and  he 
received  the  answer  which  his  conscience  must 
have  anticipated — it  was  her  sensibihty  to  his  recent 
indifference,  and  to  the  discredit  which  her  own 
character  sustained  from  the  long  subsistence  of 
the  dubious  and  mysterious  connection  between 
them.  To  convince  her  of  the  constancy  of  his 
affection,  and  to  remove  her  beyond  the  reach  of 
calumny,  there  was  but  one  remedy.  To  this  com- 
munication Swift  replied,  that  he  had  formed  two 
resolutions  concerning  matrimony  : — one,  that  he 
would  not  marry  till  possessed  of  a  competent  for- 
tune ;  the  other,  that  the  event  should  take  place 
at  a  time  of  life  which  gave  him  a  reasonable  pros- 
pect to  see  his  children  settled  in  the  world.  The 
independence  proposed,  he  said,  he  had  not  yet 
achieved,  being  still  embarrassed  by  debt;  and,  on 
the  other  hand,  he  was  past  that  term  of  life  after 
which  he  had  determined  never  to  marry.  Yet  he 
was  ready  to  go  through  the  ceremony  ibr  the  ease 
of  Mrs.  Johnson's  mind,  providing  it  should  re- 
main a  strict  secret  from  the  public,  and  that  they 
should  continue  to  live  separately,  and  in  the  same 
guarded  manner  as  formerly.  To  these  hard  terms 
Stella  subscribed  ;  they  relieved  her  own  mind  at 
least  from  all  scruples  on  the  impropriety  of  their 
connection ;  and  they  soothed  her  jealousy,  by 
rendering  it  impossible  that  Swift  should  ever  give 
his  hand  to  her  rival.  They  were  married  in  the 
garden  of  the  Deanery,  by  the  Bishop  of  Clogher, 
in  the  year  1716."— Vol.  i.  pp.  229—238. 

Even  admitting  all  the  palliations  that  are 
here  suggested,  it  is  plain  that  Swift's  conduct 
is  utterly  indefensible — and  that  his  ingenious 
biographer  thinks  nearly  as  ill  of  it  as  we  do. 
Supposing  it  possible  that  a  man  of  his  pene- 
tration should  have  inspired  an  innocent  young 
girl  with  a  violent  passion,  without  being  at 
all  aware  of  it,  what  possible  apology  can 
there  be  for  his  not  disclosing  his  engage- 
ments with  Mrs.  Johnson,  and  peremptorily 
breaking  off  all  intercourse  with  her  rejected 
rival? — He  was  bound  to  her  by  ties  even 
more  sacred  than  those  of  actual  marriage — 
and  was  no  more  at  liberty,  under  such  cir- 
cumstances, to  disguise  that  connection  than 
the  other: — or  if  he  had  himself  unconsciously 
imbibed  an  irresistible  passion  for  his  younger 
admirer,  it  would  have  been  far  less  guilty  or 
dishonourable  to  have  avov/ed  this  to  Stella, 
and  followed  the  impulse  of  such  a  fatal  at- 
tachment.    In  either  of  these  ways,  he  would 


WORIiS  OF  JONATHAN  SYHFT. 


83 


have  spared  at  least  one  of  his  victims.  But 
tie  had  not  the  apology  of  any  such  passion ; 
and,  desirous  apparently  of  saving  himself 
the  shock  of  any  unpleasant  disclosure,  or 
wishing  to  secure  to  himself  the  gratilication 
of  both  their  attachments,  he  endeavoured 
basely  to  conceal  from  each  the  share  which 
the  other  had  in  his  affections,  and  sacrificed 
the  peace  of  both  to  the  indulgence  of  this 
mean  and  cold-blooded  duplicity.  The  same 
disgusting  selfishness  is,  if  possible,  still  more 
apparent,  in  the  mortifying  and  degrading 
conditions  he  annexed  to  his  nominal  marriage 
with  Stella,  for  the  concealment  of  which  no 
reason  can  be  assigned,  to  which  it  is  possible 
to  listen  with  patience, — at  least  after  the 
death  of  Vanessa  had  removed  all  fear  of  its 
afflicting  or  irritating  that  unhappy  rival.  This 
tragical  event,  of  which  Swift  was  as  directly 
and  as  guiltily  the  cause,  as  if  he  had  plunged 
a  dagger  into  her  heart,  is  described  with 
much  feeling  by  Mr.  Scott,  who  has  added  a 
fuller  account  of  her  previous  retirement  than 
any  former  editor. 

"  About  the  year  1717,  she  retired  from  Dubhn, 
to  her  house  and  property  near  Celbridge,  to  nurse 
her  hopeless  passion  in  seclusion  from  the  world. 
Swift  seems  to  have  foreseen  and  warned  her 
against  the  consequences  of  this  step.  His  letters 
uniformly  exhort  her  to  seek  general  society,  to 
take  exercise,  and  to  divert,  as  much  as  possible, 
the  current  of  her  thoughts  from  the  unfortunate 
subject  which  was  preying  upon  her  spirits.  He 
even  exhorts  her  to  leave  Ireland.  Until  the  year 
1720,  he  never  appears  to  have  visited  her  at  Cel- 
bridge :  they  only  met  when  she  was  occasionally 
in  DubUn.  Bat  in  that  year,  and  down  to  the  time 
of  her  death,  Swift  came  repeatedly  to  Celbridge  ; 
and,  from  the  information  of  a  most  obliging  cor- 
respondent, I  am  enabled  to  give  account  of  some 
minute  particulars  attending  them. 

"  Marley  Abbey,  near  Celbridge,  where  Miss 
Vanhomrigh  resided,  is  built  much  in  the  form  of  a 
real  cloister,  especially  in  its  external  appearance. 
An  aged  man  (upwards  of  ninety  by  his  own  ac- 
count) showed  the  grounds  to  my  correspondent. 
He  was  the  son  of  Mrs.  Vanhomrigh' s  gardener, 
and  used  to  work  with  his  father  in  the  garden  when 
a  boy.  He  remembered  the  unfortunate  Vanessa 
well,  and  his  account  of  her  corresponded  with  the 
usual  description  of  her  person,  especially  as  to  her 
embonpoint.  He  said  she  went  seldom  abroad,  and 
saw  little  company  :  her  constant  amusement  was 
reading,  or  walking  in  the  garden.  Yet,  according 
to  this  authority,  her  society  was  courted  by  several 
families  in  the  neighbourhood,  who  visited  her, 
notwithstanding  her  seldom  returning  that  atten- 
tion,— and  he  added,  that  her  manners  interested 
every  one  who  knew  her.  But  she  avoided  com- 
pany, and  was  always  melancholy  save  when  Dean 
Swift  was  there,  and  then  she  seemed  happy. — 
The  garden  was  to  an  uncommon  degree  crowded 
with  laurels.  The  old  man  said,  that  when  Miss 
Vanhomrigh  expected  the  Dean,  she  always  plant- 
ed, with  her  own  hand,  a  laurel  or  two  against  his 
arrival.  He  showed  her  favourite  seat,  still  called 
Vanessa's  Bower.  Three  or  four  trees,  and  some 
laurels,  indicate  the  spot.  They  had  formerly, 
according  to  the  old  man's  information,  been  train- 
ed into  a  close  arbour.  There  were  two  seats  and 
and  a  rude  table  within  the  bower,  the  opening  of 
which  commanded  a  view  of  the  LifTy,  which  had 
a  romantic  effect ;  and  there  was  a  small  cascade 
that  murmured  at  some  distance.  In  this  seques- 
tered spot,  according  to  the  old  gardener's  account, 
the  Dean  and  Vanessa  used  often  to  sit,  with  books 
•ad  writing-materials  on  the  table  before  them. 


"Vanessa,  besides  musing  over  her  unhappy 
attachment,  liad,  during  her  residence  in  this  soli 
tude,  the  care  of  nursing  the  declining  health  of 
her  younger  sister,  who  at  length  died  about  1720. 
i  his  event,  as  it  left  her  alone  in  the  world,  seems 
to  have  increased  the  energy  of  her  fatal  passion  for 
Swift,  while  he,  on  the  contrary,  saw  room  for  still 
greater  reserve,  when  her  situation  became  that  of 
a  solitary  female,  without  the  society  or  counte- 
nance of  a  female  relation.  But  Miss  Vanhomrigh, 
irritated  at  the  situation  in  which  she  found  herself, 
determined  on  bringing  to  a  crisis  those  expecta- 
tions of  an  union  w'xih.  the  object  of  her  affections, 
to  the  hope  of  which  she  had  clung  amid  every 
vicissitude  of  his  conduct  towards  her.  The  most 
probable  bar  was  his  undefined  connection  with 
Mrs.  Johnson,  which,  as  it  must  have  been  per- 
fectly known  to  her,  had,  doubtless,  long  excited 
her  secret  jealousy  :  although  only  a  single  hint  to 
that  purpose  is  to  be  found  in  their  correspondence, 
and  that  so  early  as  1713,  when  she  writes  to  him, 
then  in  Ireland,  "  If  you  are  very  happy,  it  is  ill- 
natured  of  you  not  to  tell  me  so,  except  'tis  what 
is  inconsistent  tvith  mine.'  Her  silence  and  pa- 
tience under  this  state  of  uncertainty,  ibr  no  less 
than  eight  years,  must  have  been  partly  owing  to 
her  awe  for  Swift,  and  partly  perhaps  to  the  weak 
state  of  her  rival's  health,  which  from  year  to  year, 
seemed  to  announce  speedy  dissolution.  At  length, 
however,  Vanessa's  impatience  prevailed  ;  and  she 
ventured  on  the  decisive  step  of  writing  to  Mrs. 
Johnson  herself,  requesting  to  know  the  nature  of 
that  connection.  Stella,  in  reply,  informed  her  of 
her  marriage  with  the  Dean  ;  and,  full  of  the  high- 
est resentment  against  Swift  for  having  given  an- 
other female  such  a  right  in  him  as  Miss  Vanhom- 
righ's  inquiries  imphed,  she  sent  to  him  her  rival's 
letter  of  interrogation,  an(^  without  seeing  him,  or 
awaiting  his  reply,  retired  to  the  house  of  Mr. 
Ford,  near  Dublin.  Every  reader  knows  the  con- 
sequence. Swift,  in  one  of  those  paroxysms  of 
fury  to  which  he  was  liable,  both  from  temper  and 
disease,  rode  instantly  to  Marley  Abbey.  As  he 
entered  the  apartment,  the  sternness  of  his  counte- 
nance, which  was  peculiarly  formed  to  express  the 
fiercer  passions,  struck  the  unfortunate  Vanessa 
with  such  terror,  that  she  could  scarce  ask  whether 
he  would  not  sit  down.  He  answered  by  flinging 
a  letter  on  the  table :  and,  instantly  leaving  the 
house,  mounted  his  horse,  and  returned  to  Dublin. 
When  Vanessa  opened  the  packet,  she  only  found 
her  own  letter  to  Stella.  It  was  her  death  warrant. 
She  sunk  at  once  under  the  disappointment  of  the 
delayed,  yet  cherished  hopes,  wh'ch  had  so  long 
sickened  her  heart,  and  beneath  the  unrestrainea 
wrath  of  him  for  whose  sake  she  had  indulged 
them.  How  long  she  survived  this  last  interview, 
is  uncertain,  but  the  time  does  not  seem  to  have 
exceeded  a  few  weeks." — Life,  vol.i.  pp.  248 — 255. 

Among  the  novelties  of  the  present  edition, 
is  what  is  called  a  complete  copy  of  the  cor- 
respondence betwixt  Swift  and  this  unfortu- 
nate lady.  To  us  it  is  manifest,  that  it  is  by 
no  means  a  complete  copy; — and,  on  the 
whole,  the  parts  that  are  now  published  foi 
the  first  time,  are  of  less  moment  than  those 
that  had  been  formerly  printed.  But  it  is 
altogether  a  very  interesting  and  painful  col- 
lection; and  there  is  something  to  us  inex- 
pressibly touching  in  the  innocent  fondness, 
and  almost  childish  gaiety,  of  Vanessa  at  its 
commencement,  contrasted  with  the  deep 
gloom  into  which  she  sinks  in  its  later  stages; 
while  the  ardour  of  affection  which  breathes 
through  the  whole,  and  the  tone  of  devoted 
innocence  and  simphcity  of  character  which 
are  every  where  preserved,  make  us  both 
hate  and  wonder  at  the  man  who  could  de- 


«4 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


libei-alely  break  a  heart  so  made  to  be  cner- 
ished.  We  cannot  resist  the  temptation  of 
extracting  a  little  of  the  only  part  of  this 
whole  publication  in  which  any  thing  like 
heart  or  tenderness  is  to  be  discovered.  His 
first  letter  is  written  immediately  after  their 
first  separation,  and  while  she  yet  believed 
that  his  slowness  in  returning  her  passion 
arose,  as  he  had  given  her  ample  warrant  to 
suppose,  (see  the  whole  of  the  poem  of  Cad- 
en  as  and  Vanessa,  vol.  xiv,)  from  nothing  but 
a  sense  of  the  unsuitableness  of  their  years 
and  habits,  which  would  give  way  to  the  con- 
tinued proofs  of  its  constancy  and  ardour. 
He  had  written  her  a  cold  note  on  his  journey, 
to  which  she  thus  rapturously  answers : — 

"  Now  you  are  good  beyond  expression,  in  send- 
ing me  that  dear  voluntary  from  St.  Alban's.  It 
gives  me  more  happiness  than  you  can  imagine,  or 
I  describe,  to  find  that  yom*  head  is  so  much  better 
aheady.  I  do  assure  yon  all  my  wishes  are  em- 
ployed for  the  continuance  of  it.  I  hope  the  next 
will  tell  me  they  have  been  of  force.  Pray,  why 
did  not  you  remember  me  at  Dunstable,  as  well  as 
Moll  ?  Lord  !  what  a  monster  is  Moll  grown  since. 
But  nothing  of  poor  Hess ;  except  that  the  mark 
will  be  in  the  same  place  of  Davilla  where  you  left 
it.  Indeed,  it  is  not  much  advanced  yet,  for  I  have 
been  studying  of  Rochefoucault  to  see  if  he  de- 
scribed as  much  of  love  as  I  found  m  myself  a  Sun- 
day, and  I  find  he  falls  very  short  of  it.  I  am  very 
impatient  to  hear  from  you  at  Chester.  It  is  im- 
possible to  tell  you  how  often  I  have  wished  you  a 
cup  of  coffee  and  an  orange  at  your  inn." — Vol. 
xix,  pp.  403,  404. 

Upon  hearing  of  his  arrival  in  Ireland,  she 
writes  again  in  the  same  spirit. 

"Here  is  now  three  long  weeks  passed  since 
you  wroie  to  me.  Oh !  happy  Dublin,  that  can 
employ  all  your  thoughts,  and  happy  Mrs.  Emer- 
son, that  could  hear  from  you  the  moment  you 
landed.  Had  it  not  been  for  her,  I  should  be  yet 
more  uneasy  than  I  am.  I  really  believe,  before 
you  leave  Ireland,  I  shall  give  you  just  reason  to 
wish  I  did  not  know  my  letters,  or  at  least  that  I 
could  not  write  :  and  I  had  rather  you  should  wish 
so,  than  entirely  forget  me.  Mr.  Lewis  has  given 
me  *  Les  Dialogues  Des  Mortes,''  and  I  am  so 
charmed  with  them,  that  I  am  resolved  to  quit  my 
body,  let  the  consequence  be  what  it  will,  except 
you  will  talk  to  me,  for  I  find  no  conversation  on 
earth  comparable  to  yours  ;  so,  if  you  care  I  should 
stay,  do  but  talk,  and  you  will  keep  me  with  plea- 
sure."— Vol.  xix,  pp.  407 — 409. 

There  is  a  great  deal  more  of  this  trifling 
of  a  heart  at  ease,  and  supported  by  enchant- 
ing hopes.  It  is  miserable  to  think  how  sadly 
the  style  is  changed,  w^hen  she  comes  to  know 
better  the  object  on  whom  she  had  thus  irre- 
trievably lavished  her  affections.  The  follow- 
ing is  the  first  letter  that  appears  after  she  fol- 
lowed him  to  Ireland  in  1714  ;  and  it  appears 
to  us  infinitely  more  touching  and  pathetic, 
in  the  truth  and  simplicity  of  the  wretched- 
ness it  expresses,  than  all  the  eloquent  despair 
of  all  the  heroines  of  romance.  No  man, 
with  a  heart,  we  think,  could  receive  such 
letters  and  live. 

"  You  bid  me  be  easy,  and  you'd  see  me  as  often 
as  you  could  .  you  had  better  have  said  as  often  as 
you  could  get  (he  better  of  your  inclinations  so 
much ;  or  as  often  as  you  remembered  there  was 
8uch  a  oerson  in  the  world.     If  you  continue  to 


treat  me  as  you  do,  you  will  not  be  made  uneasy 
by  me  long.  'Tis  impossible  to  deiicribe  what  I 
have  suffered  since  I  saw  you  last ;  I  am  sure  I 
could  have  borne  ihe  rack  much  better  than  those 
killing,  killing  words  of  yours.  Sometimes  I  have 
resolved  to  die  without  seeing  you  more,- but  those 
resolves,  to  your  misfortune,  did  not  last  long:  for 
there  is  something  in  human  nature  that  prompts 
one  so  to  find  relief  in  this  world  :  I  must  give  way 
to  it,  and  beg  you'd  see  me,  and  speak  kindly  to 
me  !  for  I  am  sure  you  wt)uld  not  condemn  any 
one  to  suffer  what  I  have  done,  could  you  but  know 
it.  The  reason  I  write  to  you  is,  because  I  cannot 
tell  it  you,  should  I  see  you ;  for  when  I  begin  to 
complain,  then  you  are  angry,  and  there  is  some- 
thing in  your  look  so  awful,  that  it  strikes  me  dumb. 
Oh  !  that  you  may  but  have  so  much  regard  for  me 
left,  that  this  complaint  may  touch  your  soul  with 
pity.  I  say  as  little  as  ever  I  can.  Did  you  but 
know  what  I  thought,  I  am  sure  it  would  move 
you.  Forgive  me,  and  believe  I  cannot  help  tell- 
ing you  this,  and  live." — Vol.  xix.  p.  421. 

And  a  little  after, 

"  I  am,  and  cannot  avoid  being  in  the  spleen  to 
the  last  degree.  Every  thing  combines  to  make 
me  so.  Yet  this  and  all  other  disappointments  in 
life  I  can  bear  with  ease,  but  that  of  being  neglected 
by  ...  .  Spleen  I  cannot  help,  so  you  must  ex- 
cuse it.  I  do  all  I  can  to  get  the  better  of  it ;  but 
it  is  too  strong  for  me.  I  have  read  more  since  1 
saw  Cad,  than  I  did  in  a  great  while  passed,  and 
chose  those  books  that  required  most  attention,  on 
purpose  to  engage  my  thoughts,  but  I  find  the  more 
I  think  the  more  unhappy  I  am. 

"  I  had  once  a  mind  not  to  have  wrote  to  you, 
for  fear  of  making  you  uneasy  to  find  me  so  dull ; 
but  I  could  not  keep  to  that  resolution,  for  the 
pleasure  of  writing  to  you.  The  satisfaction  I  have 
in  your  remembering  me,  when  you  read  my  letters, 
and  the  delight  I  have  in  expecting  one  from  Cad, 
makes  me  rather  choose  to  give  you  some  uneasi- 
ness, than  add  to  my  own."— Vol.  xix.  pp.  431,  432 

As  the  correspondence  draws  to  a  close,  hei 
despair  becomes  more  eloquent  and  agonizing 
The  following  two  letters  are  dated  in  1720. 

"  Believe  me,  it  is  with  the  utmost  regret  that  I 
now  complain  to  you ; — yet  what  can  I  do  ?  I  must 
either  unload  my  heart,  and  tell  you  all  its  griefs, 
or  sink  under  the  inexpressible  distress  I  now  suffei 
by  your  prodigious  neglect  of  me.  'Tis  now  ten 
long  weeks  since  I  saw  you,  and  in  all  that  time  1 
have  never  received  but  one  letter  from  you,  and 
a  little  note  with  an  excuse.  Oh,  how  have  you 
forgot  me !  You  endeavour  by  severities  to  force 
me  from  you :  Nor  can  I  blame  you  ;  for  with  the 
utmost  distress  and  confusion,  I  behold  myself  the 
cause  of  uneasy  reflections  to  you,  yet  I  cannot 
comfort  you,  but  here  declare,  that  'tis  not  in  the 
power  of  time  or  accident  to  lessen  the  inexpressible 
passion  which  I  have  for 

"  Put  my  passion  under  the  utmost  restraint,— 
send  me  as  distant  from  you  as  the  earth  will  allow, 
— yet  you  cannot  banish  those  charming  ideas  which 
will  ever  stick  by  me  whilst  I  have  the  use  of 
memory.  Nor  is  the  love  I  bear  you  only  seated 
in  my  soul,  for  there  is  not  a  single  atom  of  my 
frame  that  is  not  blended  with  it.  Therefore,  don'( 
flatter  yourself  that  separation  will  ever  change  my 
sentiments  ;  for  I  find  myself  unquiet  in  the  midst 
of  silence,  and  my  heart  is  at  once  pierced  with 
sorrow  and  love.  For  Heaven's  sake,  tell  me  what 
has  caused  this  prodigious  change  on  you,  which  I 
have  found  of  late.  If  you  have  the  least  remains  of 
pity  for  me  left,  tell  me  tenderly.  No :  don't :  teU 
it  so  that  it  may  cause  my  present  death,  and  don't 
suffer  me  to  hve  a  life  like  a  languishing  death, 
which  is  the  only  life  I  can  lead,  it  you  have  lost 
any  of  your  tenderness  for  me." — Vol.  xix.  pp.441, 
442. 

"  Tell  me  sincerely,  if  you  have  once  wished 


WORKS  OF  JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


85 


with  earnestness  to  see  me.  since  I  wrote  last  to 
you.  No,  ya  tar  from  that,  you  have  not  once 
pitied  me,  though  I  told  you  how  1  was  distressed. 
SoUtude  IS  insupportable  to  a  mind  which  is  not  at 
ease.  I  have  worn  on  my  days  in  sighing,  and  my 
nights  with  watching  and  thinking  of .  .  .  .  who 
thinks  not  of  me.  How  many  letters  must  I  send 
you  before  I  shall  receive  an  answer  ?  Can  you 
deny  me  in  my  misery  the  only  comfort  which  I 
can  expect  at  present?  Oh  !  that  I  could  hope  to 
Bee  you  here,  or  that  1  could  go  to  you  I  I  was 
born  with  violent  passions,  which  terminate  all  in 
one,  that  inexpressible  passion  I  have  for  you. 
Consider  the  killing  emotions  which  I  feel  Irom 
your  neglect,  and  show  some  tenderness  for  me,  or 
1  shall  lose  my  senses.  Sure  you  cannot  possibly 
be  so  much  taken  up,  but  vou  might  command  a 
moment  to  write  to  me,  and.  force  your  inclinations 
ID  do  so  great  a  charity.  I  firmly  believe,  could  I 
know  your  thoughts  which  no  human  creature  is 
capable  of  guessing  at,  (because  never  any  one 
living  thought  like  you,)  I  should  find  you  have 
often  in  a  rage  wished  me  religious,  hoping  then  I 
should  have  paid  my  devotions  to  Heaven:  but 
that  would  not  spare  you, — for  was  I  an  enthusiast, 
still  you'd  be  the  deity  1  should  worship.  What 
marks  are  there  of  a  deity,  but  what  you  are  to  be 
known  by  ? — you  are  present  everywhere  :  your 
dear  image  is  always  before  mine  eyes.  Some- 
times you  strike  me  with  that  prodigious  awe,  I 
tremble  with  fear,  at  other  times  a  charming  com- 
passion shines  through  your  countenance,  which 
revives  my  soul.  Is  it  not  more  reasonable  to  adore 
a  radiant  "form  one  has  seen,  than  one  only  de- 
scribed ?"— Vol.  xix.  pp.  442,  443. 

From  this  heart-breaking  scene  we  turn  to 
another,  if  possible,  still  more  deplorable. 
Vanessa  was  now  dead.  The  grave  had 
heaped  its  tranquillising  mould  on  her  agi- 
tated heart,  and  given  her  tormentor  assur- 
ance, that  he  should  no  more  suffer  from  her 
reproaches  on  earth :  and  yet,  though  with  her 
the  last  pretext  was  extinguished  for  refusing 
to  acknowledge  the  wife  he  had  so  infamously 
abused,  we  find  him,  with  this  dreadful  ex- 
ample before  his  eyes,  persisting  to  withhold 
f'-om  his  remaining  victim,  that  late  and  im- 
perfect justice  to  which  her  claim  was  so 
apparent,  and  from  the  denial  of  which  she 
was  sinking  before  his  eyes  in  sickness  and 
Borrow  to  the  grave.  It  is  utterly  impossible 
to  suggest  any  excuse  or  palliation  for  such 
cold-blooded  barbarity.  Even  though  we 
were  to  believe  with  Mr.  Scott,  that  he  had 
ceased  to  be  a  man,  this  would  afford  no 
apology  for  his  acting  like  a  beast !  He 
might  still  have  acknowledged  his  wife  in 
public;  and  restored  to  her  the  comfort  and 
the  honour,  of  which  he  had  robbed  her  with- 
orit  the  excuse  of  violent  passion,  or  thought- 
less precipitation.  He  was  rich,  far  beyond 
what  either  of  them  could  have  expected 
when  their  union  was  first  contemplated ;  and 
had  attained  a  name  and  a  station  in  society 
which  made  him  independent  of  riches.  Yet, 
for  the  sake  of  avoiding  some  small  awkward- 
ness or  inconvenience  to  himself — to  be  se- 
cured from  the  idle  talking  of  those  who  might 
wonder  why,  since  they  were  to  marry,  they 
did  not  marry  before — or  perhaps  merely  to 
retain  the  object  of  his  regard  in  more  com- 
plete subjectioQ  and  dependence,  he  could 
bear  to  see  her  pining,  year  after  year,  in 
solitude  and  degradation,  and  sinking  at  last 
into  an  untimely  grave,  prepared  by  his  hard 


and  unrelenting  refusal  to  clear  her  honour  to 
the  world,  even  at  her  dying  hour.  There 
are  two  editions  of  this  dying  scene — one  on 
the  authority  of  Mr.  Sheridan,  the  other  on 
that  of  Mr.  Theophilus  Swift,  who  is  said  to 
have  received  it  from  Mrs.  Whiteway.  JNlr. 
Scott,  who  is  unable  to  discredit  the  former, 
and  is  inclined  at  the  same  time  to  prefer  the 
least  disreputable  for  his  author,  is  reduced 
to  the  necessity  of  supposing,  that  both  may 
be  true,  and  that  Mr.  Sheridan's  story  may 
have  related  to  an  earlier  period  than  that 
reported  by  Mrs.  Whiteway.  We  shall  lay 
both  before  our  readers.     Mr.  Sheridan  saya^ 

"  '  A  short  time  before  her  death,  a  scene  passed 
between  the  Dean  and  her,  an  account  of  which  I 
had  from  my  father,  and  which  I  shall  relate  with 
reluctance,  as  it  seems  to  bear  more  hard  on  Swifi's 
humanity  than  any  other  part  of  his  conduct  in  life. 
As  she  found  her  final  dissolution  approach,  a  few 
days  before  it  happened,  in  the  presence  of  Dr. 
Sheridan,  she  addressed  Swift  in  the  most  earnest 
and  pathetic  terms  to  grant  her  dying,  request ; 
"  That,  as  the  ceremony  of  marriage  had  passed 
between  them,  though  for  sundry  considerations 
they  had  not  cohabited  in  that  state,  in  order  to  put 
it  out  of  the  power  of  slander  to  be  busy  with  her 
fame  after  death,  she  adjured  him  by  their  friend- 
ship to  let  her  have  the  satisfaction  of  dying  at 
least,  though  she  had  not  lived,  his  acknowledged 
wife." 

"  •  Swift  made  no  reply,  but,  turning  on  his  heel, 
walked  silently  out  of  the  room,  nor  ever  saw  her 
afterward,  during  the  few  days  she  lived.  This 
behaviour  threw  Mrs.  Johnson  into  unspeakable 
agonies,  and  for  a  time  she  sunk  under  the  weight 
of  so  cruel  a  disappointment.  But  soon  after, 
roused  by  indignation,  she  inveighed  against  his 
cruelty  in  the  bitterest  terms;  and,  sending  for  a 
lawyer,  made  her  will,  bequeathing  her  furtune  by 
her  own  name  to  charitable  uses.  This  was  done 
in  the  presence  of  Dr.  Sheridan,  whom  she  ap- 
pointed one  of  her  executors.'  " — Vol.  i.  p.  357. 

If  this  be  true.  Swift  must  have  had  the 
heart  of  a  monster ;  and  it  is  of  little  conse- 
quence, whether,  when  her  death  was  nearer, 
he  pretended  to  consent  to  what  his  unhappy 
victim  herself  then  pathetically  declared  to 
be  'too  late;'  and  to  what,  at  all  events,  cer- 
tainly never  was  done.  Mrs.  Whiteway's 
statement  is  as  follows : — 

"  *  When  Stella  was  in  her  last  weak  state,  and 
one  day  had  come  in  a  chair  to  the  Deanery,  she 
was  with  difiiculty  brought  into  the  parlour.  1  iie 
Dean  had  prepared  some  mulled  wine,  and  kept  «t 
by  the  fire  for  her  refreshment.  After  tasting  it, 
she  became  very  faint,  but  having  recovered  a  little 
by  degrees,  when  her  breath  (for  she  was  asthmatic), 
was  allowed  her,  she  desired  to  lie  down.  She 
was  carried  up  stairs,  and  laid  on  a  bed ;  the  Dean 
sitting  by  her,  held  her  hand,  and  addressed  her  in 
the  most  affectionate  manner.  She  drooped,  how- 
ever,  very  much.  Mrs.  Whiteway  was  the  only 
third  person  present.  After  a  short  time,  her  po- 
liteness induced  her  to  withdraw  to  the  adjoining 
room,  but  it  was  necessary,  on  account  of  air,  that 
the  door  should  not  be  closed, — it  was  half  shut: 
the  rooms  were  close  adjoining.  Mrs.  Whiteway 
had  too  much  honour  to  listen,  but  could  not  avoid 
observing,  that  the  Dean  and  Mrs.  Johnson  con- 
versed together  in  a  low  tone  ;  the  latter,  indeed, 
was  too  weak  to  raise  her  voice.  Mrs.  Whiteway 
paid  no  attention,  having  no  idle  curiosity,  but  at 
lenorth  she  heard  the  Dean  say,  in  an  audible  voice, 
"  Well,  my  dear,  if  you  wish  it,  it  thall  he  owTied,** 
to  which  Stella  answered  with  a  sigh,  "if  is  to* 
later— Yol  i.  pp.  355,  356. 


Stf 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


With  the  consciousness  of  having  thus  bar- 
barously destroyed  all  the  women  for  whom 
he  had  ever  professed  affection,  it  is  not  won- 
derful that  his  latter  days  should  have  been 
overshadowed  with  gloom  and  dejection:  but 
it  was  not  the  depression  of  late  regret,  or  un- 
availing self-condemnation,  that  darkened  his 
closing  scene.     It  was  but  the  rancour  of  dis- 
appointed ambition,  and  the  bitterness  of  proud 
misanthropy :  and  we  verily  believe,  that  if 
his  party  had  got  again  into  power,  and  given 
him  the  preferaient  he  expected,  the  pride 
and  joy  of  his  vindictive  triumph  would  have 
been  but  little  alloyed  by  the  remembrance 
of  the  innocent  and  accomplished  women  of 
whom  we  have  no  hesitation  to  pronounce  him 
the   murderer.     In   the   whole   of  his  later 
writings,  indeed,  we  shall  look  in  vain  for  any 
traces  of  that  penitential  regret,  which  was 
due  to  the  misery  he  had  occasioned,  even  if 
it  had  arisen  without  his  guilt,  or  even  of  that 
humble  and  solemn  self-reproach,  which  is 
apt  to  beset  thoughtful  men  in  the  decline  of 
life  and  animation,  even  when  their  conduct 
ha^  been  generally  blameless,  and  the  judg- 
ment of  the  candid  finds  nothing  i'n  them  to 
condemn :  on  the  contrary,  there  is  nowhere 
to  be  met  with,  a  tone  of  more  insolent  re- 
proach, and  intolerant  contempt  to  the  rest  of 
the  world,  or  so  direct  a  claim  to  the  posses- 
sion of  sense  and  virtue,  which  that  world 
was  no  longer  worthy  to  employ.    Of  women, 
too,  it  is  very  remarkable,  that  he  speaks  with 
unvaried  rudeness  and  contempt,  and  rails 
indeed  at  the  whole  human  race,  as  wretches 
with  whom  he  thinks  it  an  indignity  to  share 
a  common  nature.     All  this,  we  confess,  ap- 
pears to  us  intolerable ;  for,  whether  we  look 
to  the  fortune,  or  the  conduct  of  this  extraor- 
dinary person,  we  really  recollect  no  individual 
who  was  less  entitled  to  be  either  discontented 
or  misanthropical — to  complain  of  men  or  of 
accidents.     Born  almost  a  beggar,  and  neither 
very  industrious  nor  very  engaging  in  his  early 
habits,  he  attained,  almost  with  his  first  eflTorts, 
the  very  height  of  distinction,  and  was  re- 
warded by  appointments,  which  placed  him 
in  a  state  of  independence  and  respectability 
for  life.    He  was  honoured  with  the  acquaint- 
ance of  all  that  was  distinguished  for  rank, 
literature,  or   reputation; — and,   if  not  very 
generally  beloved,  was,  what    he    probably 
valued  far  more,  admired  and  feared  by  most 
of  those   with   whom    he   was    acquainted. 
When  his  party  was  overthrown,  neither  his 
person  nor  his  fortune  sufi'ered ; — but  he  was 
indulged,  through  the  whole  of  his  life,  in  a 
licence  of  scurrility  and  abuse,  which  has 
never  been  permitted  to  any  otner  writer, — 
and  possessed  the  exclusive  and  devoted  af- 
fection of  the  only  two  women  to  whom  he 
wished  to  appear  interesting.    In  this  history^ 
we  confess,  we  see  but  little  apology  for  dis- 
content and  lamentation ; — and,  in  his  conduct^ 
there  is  assuredly  still  less  for  misanthropy. 
In  public  life,  we  do  not  know  where  we 
(xmld  have  found  any  body  half  so  profligate 
and  unprincipled  as  himself,  and  the  friends 
to  whom  he  finally  attached  himself; — nor 
can  we  conceive  that  complaints  of  venality, 


and  want  of  patriotism,  could  eve-  come  With 
so  ill  a  grace  from  any  quarter,  »s  from  him 
who  had  openly  deserted  and  liDelled  his 
original  party,  without  the  pretext  of  any 
other  cause  than  the  insufficiency  of  the  re- 
wards they  bestowed  upon  him, — and  joined 
himself  with  men,  who  were  treacherous  not 
only  to  their  first  professions,  but  to  their 
country  and  to  each  other,  to  all  of  whom  he 
adhered,  after  their  mutual  hatred  and  vil- 
lanies  were  detected.  In  private  life,  again, 
with  what  face  could  he  erect  himself  into  a 
rigid  censor  of  morals,  or  pretend  to  complain 
of  men  in  general,  as  unworthy  of  his  notice, 
after  breaking  the  hearts  of  two,  if  not  three, 
amiable  women,  whose  affections  he  had  en- 
gaged by  the  most  constant  assiduities. — after 
savagely  libelling  almost  all  his  early  friends 
and  benefactors,  and  exhibiting,  in  his  daily 
life  and  conversation,  a  picture  of  domineering 
insolence  and  dogmatism,  to  which  no  parallel 
could  be  found,  we  believe,  in  the  history  of 
any  other  individual,  and  which  rendered  his 
society  intolerable  to  all  who  were  not  subdued 
by  their  awe  of  him,  or  inured  to  it  by  long 
use  1  He  had  some  right,  perhaps,  to  look  with 
disdain  iipon  men  of  ordinary  understandings ; 
but  for  all  that  is  the  proper  object  of  reproach, 
he  should  have  looked  only  within:  and  what- 
ever may  be  his  merits  as  a  writer,  we  do 
not  hesitate  to  say,  that  he  was  despicable  as 
a  politician,  and  hateful  as  a  man. 

With  these  impressions  of  his  personal  char- 
acter, perhaps  it  is  not  easy  for  us  to  judge 
quite  fairly  of  his  works.  Yet  we  are  I'ar 
from  being  insensible  to  their  great  and  very 
peculiar  merits.  (Their  chief  peculiarity  is, 
that  they  were  almost  all  what  may  be  called 
occasional  productions — not  written  for  fame 
or  for  posterity — from  the  fulness  of  the  mind, 
or  the  desire  of  instructing  mankind — but  on 
the  spur  of  the  occasion — -for  promoting  some 
temporary  and  immediate  object,  and  pro- 
ducing a  practical  effect,  in  the  attainment 
of  M'hich  their  whole  importance  centered. 
With  the  exception  of  The  Tale  of  a  Tub,  Gul- 
liver,  the  Polite  Conversation,  and  about  half 
a  volume  of  poetry,  this  description  will  ap- 
ply to  almost  all  that  is  now  before  us ; — and 
it  is  no  small  proof  of  the  vigour  and  vivacity 
of  his  genius,  that  posterity  should  have  been 
so  anxious  to  preserve  these  careless  and 
hasty  productions,  upon  which  their  author' 
appears  to  have  set  no  other  value  than  as 
means  for  the  attainment  of  an  end.  The 
truth  is,  accordingly,  that  they  are  very  extra- 
ordinary performances :  And,  considered  with 
a  view  to  the  purposes  for  which  they  were 
intended,  have  probably  never  been  equalled 
in  any  period  of  the  world.  They  are  writ- 
ten with  great  plainness,  force,  and  intrepidity 
— advance  at  once  to  the  matter  in  dispute — 
give  battle  to  the  strength  of  the  enemy,  and 
never  seek  any  kind  of  advantage  from  dark 
ness  or  obscurity.  Their  distinguishing  fea- 
ture, however,  is  the  force  and  the  vehe- 
mence of  the  invective  in  which  they  abound ; 
— the  copiousness,  the  steadiness,  the  perse- 
verance, and  the  dexterity  with  w^hich  abuse 
and  ridicule  are  showered  upoi  the  adver* 


WORKS  OF  JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


r 


v!> 


!*ary.  This,  we  think,  was,  beyond  all  doubt, 
Swift's  great  talent,  and  the  weapon  by  which 
he  made  himself  formidable.  He  was,  with- 
out exception,  the  greatest  and  most  efficient 
-f-^iheller  that  ever  exercised  the  trade;  and 
possessed,  in  an  eminent  degree,  all  the  quali- 
fications which  it  requires : — a  clear  head — a 
cold  heart — a  vindictive  temper — no  admira- 
tion of  noble  qualities — no  sympathy  with  suf- 
fering— not  much  conscience — not  much  con- 
CgHstency — a  ready  wit — a  sarcastic  humour — 
a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  baser  parts  of 
human  nature  —  and  a  complete  familiarity 
with  every  thing  that  is  low,  homely,  and  fa- 
miliar in  language.)  These  were  his  gifts; — 
and  he  soon  felt4"or  what  ends  they  w^ere 
given.  Almost  all  his  works  are  libels;  gene- 
rally upon  individuals,  sometimes  upon  sects 
and  parties,  sometimes  upon  human  nature. 
Whatever  be  his  end,  however,  personal 
abuse,  direct,  vehement,  unsparing  invective, 
is  his  means.  It  is  his  sword  and  his  shield, 
his  panoply  and  his  chariot  of  war.  In  all  his 
writings,  accordingly,  there  is  nothing  to  raise 
or  exalt  our  notions  of  human  nature, — but 
every  thing  to  vilify  and  degrade.  We  may 
learn  from  them,  perhaps,  to  dread  the  con- 
sequences of  base  actions,  but  never  to  love 
the  feelings  that  lead  to  generous  ones.  There 
is  no  spirit,  indeed,  of  love  or  of  honour  in  any 
part  of  them ;  but  an  unvaried  and  harassing 
display  of  insolence  and  animosity  in  the, 
writer,  and  villany  and  folly  in  those  of  whom 
he  is  writing.  Though  a  great  polemic,  he 
makes  no  use  of  general  principles,  nor  ever 
enlarges  his  views  to  a  wide  or  comprehen- 
sive conclusion.  Every  thing  is  particular 
with  him,  and,  for  the  most  part,  strictly  per- 
sonal. To  make  amends,  however,  we  do 
think  him  quite  without  a  competitor  in 
personalities.  With  a  quick  and  sagacious 
spirit,  and  a  bold  and  popular  manner,  he 
joms  an  exact  knowledge  of  all  the  strong  and 
the  weak  parts  of  every  caase  he  has  to  man- 
age ;  and,  without  the  least  restraint  from 
delicacy,  either  of  taste  or  of  feeling,  he 
seems  always  to  think  the  most  eff'ectual 
blows  the  most  advisable,  and  no  advantage 
unlawful  that  is  likely  to  be  successful  for 
the  moment.  Disregarding  all  the  laws  of 
polished  hostility,  he  uses,  at  one  and  the 
same  moment,  his  sword  and  his  poisoned 
dagger — his  hands  and  his  teeth,  and  his  en- 
venomed breath, — and  does  not  even  scruple, 
upon  occasion,  to  imitate  his  own  yahoos,  by 
discharging  on  his  unhappy  victims  a  shower 
of  filth,  from  which  neither  courage  nor  dex- 
terity can  afford  any  protection, — Against 
such  an  antagonist,  it  was,  of  course,  at  no 
time  very  easy  to  make  head ;  and  accord- 
ingly his  invective  seems,  for  the  most  part, 
to  have  been  as  much  dreaded,  and  as  tre- 
r  mendous  as  the  personal  ridicule  of  Voltaire. 
/  Both  were  inexhaustible,  well-directed,  and 
(  unsparing ;  but  even  when  Voltaire  drew  blood, 
-  he  did  not  mangle  the  victim,  and  was  only 
mischievous  when  Swift  was  brutal.  Any  one 
who  will  compare  the  epigrams  on  M.  Franc 
de  Pompignan  with  those  on  Tighe  or  Bettes- 
.worth,  will  easily  understand  the  distinction. 


Of  the  few  works  which  he  wrote  in  the 
capacity  of  an  author,  and  not  of  a  patty  zealot 
or  personal  enemy.  The  Tale  of  a  Tub  was 
by  far  the  earliest  in  point  of  time,  and  has, 
by  many,  been  considered  as  the  first  in  point 
of  merit.  We  confess  we  are  not  of  that  opin- 
ion. It  is  by  far  too  long  and  elaborate  for  a 
piece  of  pleasantry; — the  humour  sinks,  in 
many  places,  into  mere  buffoonery  and  non- 
sense ; — and  there  is  a  real  and  extreme  te- 
diousness  arising  from  the  too  successful  mim- 
icry of  tediousness  and  pedantry.  All  these 
defects  are  apparent  enough  even  in  the  main 
story,  in  which  the  incidents  are  without  the 
shadow  of  verisimilitude  or  interest,  and  by 
far  too  thinly  scattered  ;  but  they  become  in- 
suflferable  in  the  interludes  or  digressions, 
the  greater  part  of  which  are  to  us  utterly 
illegible,  and  seem  to  consist  almost  entirely, 
of  cold  and  forced  conceits,  and  exaggerated 
representations  of  long  exploded  whims  and 
absurdities.  The  style  of  this  M'ork,  which 
appears  to  us  greatly  inferior  to  the  History  of 
John  Bull  or  even  of  Martinus  Scriblerus,  is 
evidently  more  elaborate  than  that  of  Swift's 
other  writings, — but  has  all  its  substantia] 
characteristics.  Its  great  merit  seems  to  con- 
sist in  the  author's  perfect  familiarity  with 
all  sorts  of  common  and  idiomatical  expres- 
sions, his  unlimited  command  of  estabUshed 
phrases,  both  solemn  and  familiar,  and  the 
unrivalled  profusion  and  propriety  with  which 
he  heaps  them  up  and  applies  them  to  the 
exposition  of  the  most  fantastic  conceptions. 
To  deliver  absurd  notions  or  incredible  tales 
in  the  most  authentic,  honest,  and  direct 
terms,  that  have  been  used  for  the  commu- 
nication of  truth  and  reason,  and  to  luxuriate 
in  all  the  variations  of  that  grave,  plain,  and 
perspicuous  phraseology,  which  dull  men  ustr 
to  express  their  homely  opinions,  seems  to  be 
the  great  art  of  this  extraordinary  humorist 
and  that  which  gives  their  character  and 
their  edge  to  his  sly  strokes  of  satire,  his 
keen  sarcasms  and  bitter  personalities. 

The  voyages  of  Captain  Lemuel  Gulliver 
is  indisputably  his  greatest  work.  The  idea 
of  making  fictitious  travels  the  vehicle  ol 
satire  as  well  as  of  amusement,  is  at  least  as 
old  as  Lucian;  but  has  never  been  carried 
into  execution  wuth  such  success,  spirit,  and 
originality,  as  in  this  celebrated  performance. 
The  brevity,  the  minuteness,  the  homeliness, 
the  unbroken  seriousness  of  the  narrative,  all 
give  a  character  of  truth  and  simplicity  to  the 
work,  which  at  once  palliates  the  extrava- 
gance of  the  fiction,  and  enhances  the  effect 
of  those  weighty  reflections  and  cutting  se- 
verities in  which  it  abounds.  Yet  though  it 
is  probable  enough,  that  without  those  touch- 
es of  satire  and  observation  the  work  would 
have  appeared  childish  and  preposterous,  we 
are  persuaded  that  it  pleases  chiefly  by  the 
novelty  and  vivacity  of  the  extraordinary  pic- 
tures it  presents,  and  the  entertainment  we 
receive  from  following  the  fortunes  of  the 
traveller  in  his  several  extraordinary  adven- 
tures. The  greater  part  of  the  wisdom  and 
satire  at  least  appears  to  us  to  be  extremely 
vulgar  and  common-place :  and  we  have  no 


$8 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


idea  that  they  coald  possibly  appear  either 
impressi"^e  or  entertaining,  if  presented  with- 
out these  accompaniments.  A  considerable 
j)art  of  the  pleasure  we  derive  from  the  voy- 
Jiges  of  Gulliver,  in  short,  is  of  the  same  de- 
scription with  that  which  we  receive  from 
ihoso  of  Sinbad  the  sailor;  and  is  chiefly 
neightened,  we  believe,  by  the  greater  brevi- 
ty and  mmuteness  of  the  stor3%  and  the  su- 
perior art  that  is  employed  to  give  it  an  ap- 
pearance of  truth  and  probability,  in  the  very 
midst  of  its  wonders.  Among  those  arts,  as 
Mr.  Scott  has  judiciously  observed,  one  of 
ihe  most  important  is  the  exact  adaptation  of 
the  narrative  to  the  condition  of  its  supposed 
author. 

"  The  character  of  the  imaginary  traveller  is  ex- 
actly that  of  Dampier,  or  any  other  sturdy  nautical 
wanderer  of  the  period,  endowed  with  courage  and 
common  sense,  who  sailed  through  distant  seas, 
without  losing  a  single  English  prejudice  which  he 
had  brought  from  Portsmouth  or  Plymouth,  and 
on  his  return  gave  a  grave  and  simple  narrative  of 
what  he  had  seen  or  heard  in  foreign  countries. 
The  character  is  perhaps  strictly  English,  and  can 
be  hardly  relished  by  a  foreigner.  The  reflections 
and  observations  of  Gulliver  are  never  more  refined 
or  deeper  than  might  be  expected  from  a  plain  mas- 
ter of  a  merchantman,  or  surgeon  in  the  Old  Jew- 
ry ;  and  there  was  such  a  reality  given  to  his  whole 
person,  that  one  seaman  is  said  to  have  sworn  he 
knew  Captain  Gulliver  very  well,  but  he  lived  at 
Wapping,  not  at  Rotherhithe.  It  is  the  contrast 
between  the  natural  ease  and  simplicity  of  such  a 
style,  and  the  marvels  which  the  volume  contains, 
that  forms  one  great  charm  of  this  memorable  satire 
on  the  imperfections,  follies,  and  vices  of  mankind. 
The  exact  calculations  preserved  in  the  first  and 
second  part,  have  also  the  effect  of  qualifying  the 
extravagance  of  the  fable.  It  is  said  that  in  natural 
objects  where  proportion  is  exactly  preserved,  the 
marvellous,  whether  the  object  be  gigantic  or  di- 
minutive, is  lessened  in  the  eyes  of  the  spectator; 
and  it  is  certain,  in  general,  that  proportion  forms 
an  essential  attribute  of  truth,  and  consequently  of 
verisimilitude,  or  that  which  renders  a  narration 
probable.  If  the  reader  is  disposed  to  grant  the 
traveller  his  postulates  as  to  the  existence  of  the 
strange  people  whom  he  visits,  it  would  be  difficult 
to  detect  any  inconsistency  in  his  narrative.  On 
the  contrary,  it  would  seem  that  he  and  they  con- 
duct themselves  towards  each  other,  precisely  as 
must  necessarily  have  happened  in  the  respective 
circumstances  which  the  author  has  supposed.  In 
this  point  of  view,  perhaps  the  highest  praise  that 
could  have  been  bestowed  on  Gulliver's  Travels 
was  the  censure  of  a  learned  Irish  prelate,  who 
Baid  the  book  contained  some  things  which  he  could 
not  prevail  upon  himself  to  believe." — Vol.  i.  pp. 
340,  341. 

That  the  interest  does  not  arise  from  the 
satire  but  from  the  plausible  description  of 
physical  wonders,  seems  to  be  farther  proved 
by  the  fact,  that  the  parts  which  please  the 
least  are  those  in  which  there  is  most  satire 
and  least  of  those  wonders.  In  the  voyage 
to  Laputa,  after  the  first  description  of  the 
flying  island,  the  attention  is  almost  exclu- 
sively directed  to  intellectual  absurdities; 
and  every  one  is  aware  of  the  dulness  that  is 
the  result.  Even  as  a  satire,  indeed,  this 
part  is  extremely  poor  and  defective ;  nor  can 
any  thing  show  more  clearly  the  author's  in- 
capacity for  large  and  comprehensive  views 
than  his  signal  failure  in  all  those  parts  which 
iiviie  h'm  to  such  contemplations.     In  the 


multitude  of  his  vulgar  and  farcical  represen- 
tations of  particular  errors  in  philosophy,  he 
nowhere  appears  to  have  any  sense  of  its 
true  value  or  principles;  but  satisfies  him- 
self with  collecting  or  imagining  a  number 
of  fantastical  quackeries,  which  tend  to  illus- 
trate nothing  but  his  contempt  for  human  un- 
derstanding. Even  where  his  subject  seems 
to  invite  him  to  something  of  a  higher  flight, 
he  uniformly  shrinks  back  from  it,  and  lakes 
shelter  in  common-place  derision.  Vvhat,  for 
instance,  can  be  poorer  than  the  use  he  makes 
of  the  evocation  of  the  illustrious  dead — in 
which  Hannibal  is  conjured  up,  just  to  say 
that  he  had  not  a  drop  of  vinegar  in  his  camp; 
and  Aristotle,  to  ask  two  of  his  commentators, 
^•whether  the  rest  of  the  tribe  were  as  great 
dunces  as  themselves?"  The  voyage  to  the 
Houyhnhmns  is  commonly  supposed  to  dis- 
please by  its  vile  and  degrading  representa- 
tions of  human  nature ;  but.  if  we  do  not 
strangely  mistake  our  own  feelings  on  the 
subject,  the  impression  it  produces  is  not  so 
much  that  of  disgust  as  of  dulness.  The  pic- 
ture is  not  only  extravagant,  but  bald  and 
tame  in  the  highest  degree ;  Avhile  the  story 
is  not  enlivened  by  any  of  those  numerous 
and  uncommon  incidents  which  are  detailed 
in  the  two  first  parts,  with  such  an  inimitable 
air  of  probability  as  almost  to  persuade  us  of 
their  reality.  For  the  rest,  we  have  observed 
already,  that  the  scope  of  the  whole  work, 
BTid  indeed  of  all  his  writings,  is  to  degrade 
Bnd  vilify  human  nature ;  and  though  some 
of  the  images  which  occur  in  this  part  may 
be  rather  coarser  than  the  others,  we  do  not 
think  the  difference  so  considerable  as  to  ac- 
count for  its  admitted  mferiority  m  the  power 
of  pleasing. 

His  only  other  considerable  works  in  prose, 
are  the  '-'Polite  Conversation,"  which  we 
think  admirable  in  its  sort,  and  excessively 
entertaining;  and  the  "Directions  to  Ser- 
vants," which,  though  of  a  lower  pitch,  con- 
tains as  much  perhaps  of  his  peculiar,  vigor- 
ous and  racy  humour,  as  any  one  of  his  pro- 
ductions. The  Journal  to  Stella,  which  was 
certainly  never  intended  for  publication,  is 
not  to  be  judged  of  as  a  literary  work  at  all 
— but  to  us  it  is  the  most  mteresting  of  all 
his  productions — exhibiting  not  only  a  minute 
and  masterly  view  of  a  very  extraordinary 
political  crisis,  but  a  truer,  and,  upon  the 
whole,  a  more  favourable  picture  of  his  own 
mind,  than  can  be  g-athered  from  all  the  rest 
of  his  writings — together  with  innumerable 
anecdotes  characteristic  not  only  of  various 
eminent  individuals,  but  of  the  private  man- 
ners and  public  taste  and  morality  of  the 
times,  more  nakedly  and  surely  authentic 
than  any  thing  that  can  be  derived  from  con- 
temporary publications. 

Of  his  Poetry,  we  do  not  think  there  is 
much  to  be  said; — for  we  cannot  persuade 
ourselves  that  Swift  was  in  any  respect  a 
poet.  It  would  be  proof  enough,  we  think, 
just  to  observe,  that,  though  a  popular  and 
most  miscellaneous  writer,  he  does  not  men- 
tion the  name  of  Shakespeare  above  two  or 
three  times  in  any  part  of  his  works,  and  bw 


WORKS  OF  JONATHAN  SUIFT. 


n 


nowhere  said  a  word  in  his  praise.  His  par- 
tial editor  admits  that  he  has  produced  noth- 
ing which  can  be  called  either  sublime  or 
pathetic ;  and  we  are  of  the  same  opinion  as 
to  the  beautiful.  The  merit  of  correct  rh}-m.es 
and  easy  diction,  we  shall  not  deny  him ;  but 
the  diction  is  almost  invariably  that  of  the 
most  ordinary  prose,  and  the  matter  of  his 
pieces  no  otherwise  poetical,  than  that  the 
Muses  and  some  o'ther  persons  of  the  Hea- 
then mythology  are  occasionally  mentioned. 
He  lias  written  lampoons  and  epigrams,  and 
satirical  ballads  and  abusive  songs  in  gteat 
abundance,  and  with  infinite  success.  But 
these  things  are  not  poetry ; — and  are  better 
in  verse  than  in  prose,  for  no  other  reason 
than  that  the  sting  is  more  easily  remem- 
bered, and  the  ridicule  occasionally  enhanced, 
by  the  hint  of  a  ludicrous  parody,  or  the  drol- 
lery of  an  extraordinary  rhyme.  His  witty 
verses,  when  they  are  not  made  up  of  mere 
filth  and  venom,  seem  mostly  framed  on  the 
model  of  Hudibras ;  and  are  chiefly  remarka- 
ble, like  those  of  his  original,  for  the  easy  and 
apt  application  of  homely  and  familiar  phrases, 
to  illustrate  ingenious  sophistry  or  luiexpected 
allusions.  One  or  two  of  his  imitations  of 
Horace,  are  executed  with  spirit  and  elegance, 
and  are  the  best,  we  think,  of  his  familiar 
pieces ;  unless  we  except  the  verses  on  his 
own  death,  in  which,  however,  the  great 
charm  arises,  as  we  have  just  stated,  from 
the  singular  ease  and  exactness  with  w-hich 
he  has  imitated  the  style  of  ordinary  society, 
and  the  neatness  with  which  he  has  brought 
together  and  reduced  to  metre  such  a  number 
of  natural,  characteristic,  and  common-place 
expressions.  The  Cadenus  and  Vanessa  is, 
of  itself,  complete  proof  that  he  had  in  him 
none  of  the  elements  of  poetry.  It  was  writ- 
ten when  his  faculties  were  in  their  perfec- 
tion, and  his  heart  animated  with  all  the  ten- 
derness of  which  it  was  ever  capable — and 
yet  it  is  as  cold  and  as  flat  as  the  ice  of  Thule. 
Though  describing  a  real  passion,  and  a  real 
perplexity,  there  is  not  a  spark  of  fire  nor  a 
throb  of  emotion  in  it  from  one  end  to  the 
other.  All  the  return  he  makes  to  the  warm- 
hearted creature  who  had  put  her  destiny  into 
his  hands,  consists  in  a  frigid  mythological 
fiction,  in  which  he  sets  forth,  that  Venus  and 
tlie  Graces  lavished  their  gifts  on  her  in  her 
infancy,  and  moreover  got  Minerva,  by  a  trick, 
to  inspire  her  with  wit  and  wisdom.  The  style 
is  mere  prose — or  rather  a  string  of  familiar 
ani  vulgar  phrases  tacked  together  in  rhyme, 
like  the  general  tissue  of  his  poetry.  How- 
ever, it  has  been  called  not  only  easy  but 
elegant,  by  some  indulgent  critics — and  there- 
fore, as  we  take  it  for  granted  nobody  reads  it 
aow-a-days,  we  shall  extract  a  few  lines  at 
random,  to  abide  the  censure  of  the  judicious. 
To  us  they  seem  to  be  about  as  much  poetry 
as  80  many  lines  out  of  Coke  upon  Littleton. 

"  But  in  the  poets  we  may  find 
A  wholesome  law,  time  out  of  mind, 
Had  been  confirm'd  by  Fate's  decree, 
That  gods,  of  whatsoe'er  degree. 
Resume  not  what  themselves  have  given, 
Or  any  brother  god  in  Heaven : 


Which  keeps  the  peace  among  the  gods, 
Or  they  must  always  be  at  odds  : 
And  Pallas,  it"  she  broke  the  laws, 
Must  yield  her  foe  the  stronger  cause*, 
A  shame  to  one  so  much  ador"d 
For  wisdom  at  Jove's  council  board ; 
Besides,  she  fear'd  the  Queen  of  Love 
Would  meet  with  better  friends  above. 
And  though  she  must  whh  grief  reflect, 
To  see  a  mortal  virgin  deck*d 
With  graces  hitherto  unknown 
To  female  breasts  except  her  own  . 
Yet  she  would  act  as  best  became 
A  goddess  of  unspotted  fame. 
She  knew  by  augury  divine, 
Venus  would  fail  in  her  design  : 
She  studied  well  the  point,  and  found 
Her  foe's  conclusions  were  not  sound, 
From  premises  erroneous  brought ; 
And  therefore  the  deduction's  naught, 
And  must  have  contrary  effects. 
To  what  her  treacherous  foe  expects." 

Vol.  xiv.  pp,  448,  449. 

The  Rhapsody  of  Poetry,  and  the  Legion 
Club,  are  the  ordy  two  pieces  in  which  there 
is  the  least  glow  of  poetical  animation ;  though, 
in  the  latter,  it  takes  the  shape  of  ferocious 
and  almost  frantic  invective,  and,  in  the  for- 
mer, shines  out  but  by  fits  in  the  midst  of  the 
usual  small  wares  of  cant  phrases  and  snap- 
pish misanthropy.  In  the  Rhapsody,  the  fol- 
lowing lines,  for  instance,  near  the  beginning 
are  vigorous  and  energetic. 

"  Not  empire  to  the  rising  sun 
By  valour,  conduct,  fortune  won  ; 
'  Not  highest  wisdom  in  debates 
For  framing  laws  to  govern  states: 
Not  skill  in  sciences  profound 
So  large  to  grasp  the  circle  round  : 
Such  heavenly  influence  require, 
As  how  to  strike  the  Muse's  lyre. 

Not  beggar's  brat  on  bulk  begot; 
Not  bastard  of  a  pedlar  Scot ; 
Not  boy  brought  up  to  cleaning  shoes. 
The  spawn  of  bridewell  or  the  stews ; 
Nor  infants  dropped,  the  spurious  pledges 
Of  gypsies  littering  under  hedges  ^ 
Are  so  disqualified  by  fate 
To  rise  in  church,  or  law,  or  state. 
As  he  whom  Phoebus  in  his  ire 
Has  blasted  with  poetic  fire." 

Vol.  xiv.  pp.  310,  311. 
Yet,  immediately  after  this  nervous  and  po- 
etical line,  he  drops  at  once  into  the  lowness 
of  vulgar  flippancy. 

"  What  hope  of  custom  in  the  fair. 

While  not  a  soul  demands  your  ware?"  &c. 

There  are  undoubtedly  many  strong  lines, 
and  much  cutting  satire  in  this  poem;  but 
the  staple  is  a  mimicry  of  Hudibras,  without 
the  richness  or  compression  of  Butler ;  as,  for 
example, 

"And  here  a  simile  comes  pat  in  : 
Though  chickens  take  a  month  to  fatten. 
The  guests  in  less  than  half  an  hour, 
Willmore  than  half  a  score  devour. 
So,  after  toiling  twenty  days 
To  earn  a  stock  of  pence  and  praise, 
Thy  labours,  grown  the  critic's  prey. 
Are  swallow'd  o'er  a  dish  of  tear 
Gone  to  be  never  heard  of  more. 
Gone  where  the  chickens  went  before. 
How  shall  a  new  attempter  learn 
Of  different  spirits  to  discern. 
And  how  distinguish  which  is  wnich. 
The  poet's  vein,  or  scribbling  itch  ?" 

Vol.  xiv.  pp.  311,312, 


90 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


The  Legion  Club  is  a  satire,  or  rather  a 
tremendous  invective  on  the  Irish  House  of 
Commons,  who  had  incurred  the  reverend 
author's  displeasure  fpr  entertaining  some 
propositions  about  alleviating  the  burden  of 
the  tithes  in  Ireland  j  and  is  chiefly  remarka- 
ble, on  the  whple,  as  a  proof  of  the  extraor- 
dinary liberty  of  the  press  which  was  in- 
dulged to  the  disaffected  in  those  days — no 
prosecution  having  been  instituted,  either  by 
that  Honourable  House  itself,  or  by  any  of  the 
individual  members,  who  are  there  attacked 
in  a  way  in  which  no  public  men  w^ere  ever 
attacked,  before  or  since.  It  is  also  deserving 
of  attention,  as  the  most  thoroughly  animated, 
fierce,  and  energetic,  of  all  Swift's  metrical 
compositions;  and  though  the  animation  be 
altogether  of  a  ferocious  character,  and  seems 
occasionally  to  verge  upon  absolute  insanity, 
there  is  still  a  force  and  a  terror  about  it  which 
redeems  it  from  ridicule,  and  makes  us  shud- 
der at  the  sort  of  demoniacal  inspiration  with 
which  the  malison  is  vented.  The  invective 
of  Swift  appears  in  this,  and  some  other  pieces, 
like  the  infernal  fire  of  Milton's  rebel  angels, 
which 

"  Scorched  and  blasted  and  o'erthrew — " 

and  was  launched  even  against  the  righteous 
with  such  impetuous  fury, 

"  That  whom  it  hit  none  on  their  feet  might  stand, 
Though  standing  else  as  rocks — but  down  they 

fell 
By  thousands,  angel  on  archangel  rolled." 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  remark,  however, 
that  there  is  never  the  least  approach  to  dig- 
nity or  nobleness  in  the  style  of  these  terrible 
invectives ;  and  that  they  do  not  even  pretend 
to  the  tone  of  a  high-minded  disdain  or  gene- 
rous impatience  of  unworthiness.  They  are 
honest,  coarse,  and  violent  efftisions  of  furious 
anger  and  rancorous  hatred ;  and  their  effect 
depends  upon  the  force,  heartiness,  and  ap- 
parent sincerity  with  which  those  feelings  are 
expressed.  The  author's  object  is  simply  to 
vilify  his  opponent, — by  no  means  to  do  honour 
to  himself.  If  he  can  make  his  victim  writhe, 
he  cares  not  what  may  be  thought  of  his  tor- 
mentor ; — or  rather,  he  is  contented,  provided 
he  can  make  him  sufficiently  disgusting,  that 
a  good  share  of  the  filth  which  he  throws 
should  stick  to  his  own  fingers ;  and  that  he 
should  himself  excite  some  of  the  loathing 
of  which  his  enemy  is  the  principal  object. 
In  the  piece  now  before  us,  many  of  the 
personalities  are  too  coarse  and  filthy  to  be 
qnoted ;  but  the  very  opening  shows  the  spirit 
m  which  it  is  written. 

"  As  I  stroll  the  city  oft  I 
See  a  building  large  and  lofty, 
Not  a  bow-shot  from  the  college, 
Half  the  globe  from  sense  and  knowledge  ! 
By  the  prudent^architect, 
Plac'd  against  the  church  direct, 
Making  good  my  grandam's  jest, 
'  Near  the  church' — you  know  the  rest. 

"  Tell  us  what  the  pile  contains  ? 
Many  a  head  that  holds  no  brains. 
These  demoniacs  let  me  dub 
With  the  name  of  Legion  Club. 
Such  assemblies,  you  might  swear, 
Meet  when  butchers  bait  a  bear : 


Such  a  noise  and  such  haranguing, 

When  a  brother  thief  is  hanging; 

Such  a  rout  and  such  a  rabble 

Run  to  hear  Jackpudding  gabble  : 

Such  a  crowd  their  ordure  throws 

On  a  far  less  villain's  nose. 

"  Could  I  from  the  building's  top 

Hear  the  rattling  thunder  drop, 

While  the  devil  upon  the  roof 

(If  the  devil  be  thunder  proof) 

Should  with  poker  fiery  red 

Crack  the  stones,  and  melt  the  lead  ; 

Drive  them  down  on  every  scull. 

When  the  den  of  thieves  is  full; 
■  Quite  destroy  the  harpies'  nest; 

How  then  might  our  isle  be  blest ! 
"  Let  them,  when  they  once  get  in, 

Sell  the  nation  for  a  pin  ; 

While  they  sit  a  picking  straws, 

Let  them  rave  at  making  laws; 

While  they  never  hold  their  tongue, 

Let  them  dabble  in  their  dung; 

Let  them  form  a  grand  committee. 

How  to  plague  and  starve  the  city  ; 

Let  them  stare,  and  storm,  and  frown 

When  they  see  a  cfergy  gown  ; 

Let  them,  ere  they  crack  a  louse  ; 

Call  for  th'  orders  of  the  House  ; 

Let  them,  with  their  gosling  quills, 

Scribble  senseless  heads  of  bills; 

We  may,  while  they  strain  their  ^hroats, 

Wipe  our  noses  with  their  votes. 
"  Let  Sir  Tom,  that  rampant  asi. 

Stuff  his  guts  with  flax  and  grass ; 

But  before  the  priest  he  fleeces. 

Tear  the  Bible  all  to  pieces  : 

At  the  parsons,  Tom,  halloo,  boy! 

Worthy  offspring  of  a  shoeboy, 

Footman  !  traitor  !  vile  seducer  ! 

Perjur'd  rebel !  brib'd  accuser  ! 

Lay  thy  paltry  privilege  aside. 

Sprung  from  Papists,  and  a  regicide  ! 

Fall  a  working  like  a  mole. 

Raise  the  dirt  about  your  hole  !" 

Vol.  X.  pp.  548—550. 
This  is  strong  enough,  we  suspect,  for  most 
readers ;  but  we  shall  venture  on  a  few  lines 
more,  to  show  the  tone  in  which  the  leading 
characters  in  the  country  might  be  libelled 
by  name  and  surname  in  those  days. 

"In  the  porch  Briareus  stands, 
Shows  a  bribe  in  all  his  hands; 
Briareus  the  secretary. 
But  we  mortals  call  hire  Carey. 
When  the  rogues  their  country  fleece. 
They  may  hope  for  pence  a-piece. 

"  Clio,  who  had  been  so  wise 
To  put  on  a  fool's  disguise, 
To  bespeak  some  approbation. 
And  be  thought  a  near  relation. 
When  she  saw  three  hundred  brutes 
All  involv'd  in  wild  disputes. 
Roaring  till  their  lungs  were  spent. 
Privilege  of  Parliament, 
Now  a  new  misfortune  feels. 
Dreading  to  be  laid  by  th'  heels,"  &.c. 

"  Keeper,  show  me  where  to  fix 
On  the  puppy  pair  of  Dicks  : 
By  their  lantern  jaws  and  leathern. 
You  might  swear  they  both  are  brethreri* 
Dick  Fitzbaker,  Dick  the  player  ! 
Old  acquaintance,  are  you  there  ? 
Dear  companions,  hug  and  kiss, 

Toast  Old  Glorious  in  your ; 

Tie  them,  keeper,  in  a  tether, 
Let  them  starve  and  stink  together; 
Both  are  apt  to  be  unruly, 
Lash  them  daily,  lash  them  duly; 
Though  'tis  hopeless  to  reclaim  them. 
Scorpion  rods,  perhaps,  may  tame  them." 
Vol.  X.  pp.  553,  5H. 


WORKS  OF  JONATHAN  SWIFT, 


Such  were  the  libels  which  a  Tory  writer 
lound  it  safe  to  publish  under  a  Whig  admin- 
istration in  1736  ;  and  we  do  not  find  that  any- 
national  disturbance  arose  from  their  impu- 
nity.— though  the  libeller  was  the  most  cele- 
brated and  by  far  the  most  popular  writer  of 
the  age.  Nor  was  it  merely  the  exasperation 
ot  bad  fortune  that  put  that  polite  party  upon 
the  use  of  this  discourteous  style  of  discus- 
sion. In  all  situations,  the  Tories  have  been 
the  great  libellers — and,  as  is  fitting,  the 
great  prosecutors  of  libels ;  and  even  in  this 
early  age  of  their  glory,  had  themselves,  when 
in  power,  encouraged  the  same  licence  of 
defamation,  and  in  the  same  hands.  It  will 
scarcely  be  believed,  that  the  following  char- 
acter of  the  Earl  of  Wharton,  then  actually 
Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland,  was  publicly 
printed  and  sold,  with  his  Lordship's  name 
and  addition  at  full  length,  in  1710,  and  was 
one  of  the  first  productions  by  wdiich  the  rev- 
erend penman  bucklered  the  cause  of  the 
Tory  ministry,  and  revenged  himself  on  a 
parsimonious  patron.  We  cannot  afford  to 
give  it  at  full  length — ^but  this  specimen  will 
answer  our  purpose. 

"  Thomas,  Earl  of  Wharton,  Lord  Lieutenant 
of  Ireland,  by  the  force  of  a  wonderful  constitution, 
has  soriie  years  passed  his  grand  climateric,  without 
any  visible  effects  of  old  age,  either  on  his  body  or 
his  mind  ;  and  in  spite  of  a  continual  prostitution  to 
those  vices  which  usually  wear  out  both.  His  be- 
haviour is  in  all  the  forms  of  a  young  man  at  five- 
and- twenty.  Whether  he  walks,  or  whistles,  or 
talks  bawdy,  or  calls  names,  he  acquits  himself  in 
each,  beyond  a  templar  of  three  years'  standing. — 
He  seems  to  be  but  an  ill  dissembler,  and  an  ill  liar, 
although  they  are  the  two  talents  he  most  practises, 
and  most  values  himself  upon.  The  ends  he  has 
gained  by  lying,  appear  to  be  more  owing  to  the  fre- 
quency, than  the  art  of  them  :  his  lies  being  sorne- 
times  detected  in  an  hour,  often  in  a  day,  and  al- 
ways in  a  week.  He  tells  them  freely  in  mixed 
companies,  although  he  knows  half  of  those  that 
hear  him  to  be  his  enemies,  and  is  sure  they  will 
discover  them  the  moment  they  leave  him.  He 
swears  solemnly  he  loves  and  will  serve  you ;  and 
your  back  is  no  sooner  turned,  but  he  tells  those 
about  him,  you  are  a  dog  anvl  a  rascal.  He  goes 
constantly  to  prayers  in  the  forms  of  his  place,  and 
will  talk  bawdy  and  blasphemy  at  the  chapel-door. 
He  is  a  presbyterian  in  politics,  and  an  atheist  in 
religion  ;  but  he  chooses  at  present  to  whore  with  a 
papist, — He  has  sunk  his  fortune  by  endeavouring 
tc  ruin  one  kingdom,  and  has  raised  it  by  going  far 
m  the  ruin  of  another. 

"  He  bears  the  gallantries  of  his  lady  with  the 
indifference  of  a  stoic ;  and  thinks  them  well  re- 
compensed, by  a  return  of  children  to  support  his 
family,  without  the  fatigues  of  being  a  father. 

"  He  has  three  predominant  passions,  which  you 
will  seldom  find  united  in  the  same  man,  as  arising 
from  different  dispositions  of  mind,  and  naturally 
thwarting  each  other  :  these  are,  love  of  power, 
'Ove  of  money,  and  love  of  pleasure;  they  ride  him 
sometimes  by  turns,  sometimes  all  together.  Since 
he  went  into  Ireland,  he  seems  most  disposed  to 
the  second,  and  has  met  with  great  success  ;  hav- 
ing gained  by  his  goverment,  of  under  two  years, 
five-and-forty  thousand  pounds  by  the  most  favour- 
able computation,  half  in  the  regular  way,  and  half 
vn  the  prudential. 

"  He  was  never  yet  known  to  refuse,  or  keep  a 
promise,  as  I  remember  he  told  a  lady,  but  with  an 
exception  to  the  promise  he  then  made  (which  was 
to  get  her  a  pension) ;  yet  he  broke  even  that,  and, 
I  ronfess,  deceived  us  both.     But  here  I  desire  to 


91 


distinguish  betweeri  a  promise  and  a  bjfl'gaiB  Afoi 
he  will  be  sure  to  keep  the  latter,  when  he  has  |he 
fairest  offer." — Vol.  ivj  pp.  149—152.  , 

We  have  not  leftVqurselves  room  now  to 
say  much  of  Swift's  '^tyle,  or  of  the  general 
character  of  his  literary  genius  :-:-;Put  our 
opinion  maybe  collected  from:  the' 'remarki 
we  have  made  on  particular  passages,  and 
from  our  introductory  observations  on  the 
school  or  class  of  authors,  with  whom  he 
must  undoubtedly  be  rated.  On  the  subjects 
to  which  he  confines  himself,  he  is  unques- 
tionably a  strong,  masculine,  and  perspicuous 
writer.  He  is  never  finical,  fantastic,  or 
absurd — takes  advantage  of  no  equivocations 
in  arg-ument — and  puts  on  no  tawdriness  for 
ornament.  Dealing  always  with  particulars, 
he  is  safe  from  all  great  and  systematic  mis- 
takes ;  and,  in  fact,  reasons  mostly  in  a  series 
of  small  and  minute  propositions,  in  the  hand- 
ling of  which,  dexterity  is  more  requisite  than 
genius;  and  practical  good  sense,  with  an 
exact  knowledge  of  transactions,  of  far  more 
importance  than  profound  and  high-reaching 
judgment.  He  did  not  WTite  history  or  phi- 
losophy, but  party  pamphlets  and  journals ; — 
not  satire,  but  particular  lampoons; — not 
pleasantries  for  all  mankind,  but  jokes  for  a 
particular  circle.  Even  in  his  pamplilets,  the 
broader  questions  of  party  are  always  waved, 
to  make  way  for  discussions  of  personal  or  im- 
mediate interest.  His  object  is  not  to  show 
that  the  Tories  have  better  principles  of  gov- 
ernment than  the  Whigs, — but  to  prove  Lord 
Oxford  an  angel,  and  Lord  Somers  a  fiend,  to 
convict  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  of  avarice 
or  Sir  Richard  Steele  of  insolvency  ; — not  to 
point  out  the  wrongs  of  Ireland,  in  the  depres- 
sion of  her  Catholic  population,  her  want  of 
education,  or  the  discouragement  of  her  in- 
dustry; but  to  raise  an  outcry  ag-ainst  an 
amendment  of  the  copper  or  the  gold  coin,  or 
against  a  parliamentary  proposition  for  remit- 
ting the  tithe  of  agistment.  For  those  ends, 
it  cannot  be  denied,  that  he  chose  his  means 
judiciously,  and  used  them  with  incomparable 
skill  and  spirit.  But  to  choose  such  ends, 
we  humbly  conceive,  was  not  the  part  either 
of  a  high  intellect  or  a  high  character ;  and 
his  genius  must  share  in  the  disparage- 
ment which  ought  perhaps  to  be  confined  to 
the  impetuosity  and  vindictiveness  of  his 
temper. 

Of  his  style,  it  has  been  usual  to  speak  with 
great,  and,  we  think,  exaggerated  praise.  It 
is  less  mellow  than  Dryden's — less  elegant 
than  Pope's  or  Addison's — less  free  and  noble 
than  Lord  Bolingbroke's — and  utterly  without 
the  glow  and  loftiness  which  belonged  to  our 
earlier  masters.  It  is  radically  a  low  and 
homely  style — without  grace  and  without  af- 
fectation ;  and  chiefly  remarkable  for  a  great 
choice  and  profusion  of  common  words  and 
expressions.  Other  writers,  who  have  used  a 
plain  and  direct  style,  have  been  for  the  most 
part  jejune  and  limited  in  their  diction,  and 
generally  give  us  an  impression  of  the  poverty 
as  well  as  the  tameness  of  their  language ; 
but  Swift,  without  ever  trespassing  into  figured 
or  poetical  expressions,  or  ever  emplojing  a 


92 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


word  that  can  be  called  fine^  or  pedantic,  has 
a  pn^digious  variety  of  good  set  phrases  al- 
ways at  his  3onimand.  and  displays  a  sort  of 
homely  richness,  like  the  plenty  of  an  old 
English  dinner,  or  the  wardrobe  of  a  wealthy 
burgess.  This  taste  for  the  plain  and  sub- 
stantial was  fatal  to  his  poetry,  which  subsists 
not  on  such  elements ;  but  was  in  the  highest 
degree  favourable  to  the  effect  of  his  humour, 
very  much  of  which  depends  on  the  imposing 
gravity  with,  which  it  is  delivered,  and  on  the 
various  turns  and  heightenings  it  may  receive 
from  a  rapidly  shifting  and  always  appropriate 
expression.  Almost  all  his  works,  after  The 
Tale  of  a  Tub,  seem  to  have  been  written 
very  fast,  and  with,  very  little  minute  care  of 
the  diction.  For  his  own  ease,  therefore,  it 
is  probable  they  were  all  pitched  on  a  low 
key,  and  set  about  on  the  ordinary  tone  of  a 
familiar  letter  or  conversation ;  as  that  from 
which  there  was  a  little  hazard  of  falling, 
even  in  moments  of  negligence,  and  from 
which  any  rise  that  could  be  effected,  must 
always  be  easy  and  conspicuous.  A  man 
fully  possessed  of  his  subject,  indeed,  and 
confident  of  his  cause,  may  almost  always 
Vvrite  with  vigour  and  effect,  if  he  can  get 
over  the  temptation  of  w-riting  finely,  and 
really  confine  himself  to  the  strong  and  clear 
exposition  of  the  matter  he  has  to  bring  for- 
ward. Half  of  the  affectation  and  offensive 
pretension  we  meet  with  in  authors,  arises 
from  a  want  of  matter, — and  the  other  half, 
from  a  paltry  ambition  of  being  eloquent  and 
ingenious  out  of  place.  Swift  had  complete 
confidence  in  himself;  and  had  too  much  real 
business  on  his  hands,  to  be  at  leisure  to  in- 
trigue for  the  fame  of  a  fine  writer; — in  con- 
sequence of  which,  his  writings  are  more  ad- 
mired by  the  judicious  than  if  he  had  bestowed 
all  his  attention  on  their  style.  He  was  so 
much  a  man  of  business,  indeed,  and  so  much 
accustomed  to  consider  his  writings  m-erely  as 
means  for  the  attainment  of  a  practical  end — 
whether  that  end  was  the  strengthening  of  a 
party,  or  the  wounding  a  foe — that  he  not  only 
disdained  the  reputation  of  a  composer  of 
pretty  sentences,  but  seems  to  have  been 
thoroughly  indifferent  to  all  sorts  of  literary 
fame.  He  enjoyed  the  notoriety  and  influence 
which  he  had  procured  by  his  writings;  but 
it  was  the  glory  of  having  carried  his  point, 
and  not  of  having  written  well,  that  he  valued. 
As  soon  as  his  publications  had  served  their 
turn,  they  seem  to  have  been  entirely  forgot- 
ten by  their  author ; — and,  desirous  as  he  was 
of  being  ricier,  he  appears  to  have  thought 
as  little  of  making  money  as  immortality  by 
means  of  tliem.     He  mentions  somewhere, 


that  except  3001.  which  he  got  for  Gulliver,  ho 
never  made  a  farthing  by  any  of  his  writings. 
Pope  understood  his  trade  better, — and  not 
only  made  knowing  bargains  for  his  own 
works,  but  occasionally  borrowed  his  friends' 
pieces,  and  pocketed  the  price  of  the  whole. 
This  w^as  notoriously  the  case  with  three 
volumes  of  Miscellanies,  of  which  the  greater 
part  were  from  the  pen  of  Swift. 
^  In  humour  and  in  irony,  and  in  the  talent  of  . 
'debasing  and  defihng  what  he  hated,  we  join  \ 
I  with  all  the  world  in  thinking  the  Dean  of  St,  J 
Patrick's  without  a  rival.  His  humour,  though 
sufficiently  marked  and  peculiar,  is  not  to  bo 
easily  defined.  The  nearest  description  we 
can  give  of  it,  w^ould  make  it  consist  in  ex- 
pressing sentiments  the  most  absurd  and 
ridiculous — the  most  shocking  and  atrocious 
— or  sometimes  the  most  energetic  and  origi 
nal — in  a  sort  of  composed,  calm,  and  uncon- 
scious w-ay,  as  if  they  were  plain,  undeniable, 
commonplace  truths,  which  no  person  could 
dispute,  or  expect  to  gain  credit  by  announcing 
— and  in  maintaining  them,  always  in  the 
gravest  and  most  familiar  language,  with  a 
consistency  wdiich  somewhat  palliates  their 
extravagance,  and  a  kind  of  perverted  inge- 
nuity, which  seems  to  give  pledge  for  their 
sincerity.  The  secret,  in  short,  seems  to  con- 
sist in  employing  the  language  of  humble 
good  sense,  and  simple  undoubting  conviction, 
to  express,. in  their  honest  nakedness,  senti- 
ments which  it  is  usually  thought  necessary 
to  disguise  under  a  thousand  pretences — or 
truths  w^hich  are  usually  introduced  wnth  a 
thousand  apologies.  The  basis  of  the  art  is 
the  personating  a  character  of  great  simplicity 
and  openness,  for  w^iom  the  conventional  or 
artificial  distinctions  of  society  are  supposed 
to  have  no  existence;  and  making  use  of  this 
character  as  an  instrument  to  strip  vice  and 
folly  of  their  disguises,  and  expose  guilt  in  all 
its  deformity,  and  truth  in  all  its  terrors,  fn- 
dependent  of  the  moral  or  satire,  of  which 
they  may  thus  be  the  vehicle,  a  great  part  of 
the  entertainment  to  be  derived  from  w^orks 
of  humour,  arises  from  the  contrast  betw^een 
the  grave,  unsuspecting  indifference  of  the 
character  personated,  and  the  ordinary  feel- 
ings of  the  world  on  the  subjects  which  he 
discusses.  This  contrast  it  is  easy  to  heighten, 
by  all  sorts  of  imputed  absurdities :  in  which 
case,  the  humour  degenerates  into  mere  farce 
and  buffoonery.  Swift  has  yielded  a  little  to 
this  temptation  in  The  Tale  of  a  Tub ;  but 
scarcely  at  all  in  Gulliver,  or  any  of  his  later 
writings  in  the  same  style.  Of  his  talent  for 
reviling,  we  have  already  said  at  .'least  enough^ 
in  some  of  the  preceding  pages. 


maD.  du  deffand  and  mlle.  de  lespinasse. 


94 


(ianuarp,  1810.) 

Correspondance  inedite  de  Madame  du  Deffand,  avec  D^Alembert,  Montesquieu,  le  Presiderii 
Henault,  La  Buchesse  du  Maine,  Mesdames  de  Choiscul,  Be  Staal,  ^'c.  fyc.  3  tomes,  12nio. 
Paris:  1809. 

Lettres  de  MadExMoiselle  de  Lespinasse,  ecnfes  depuis  VAnnee  1773  jusqu^ a  VAnnee  1776,  &c, 
3  tomes.  12mo.    Paris:  1809. 


The  popLilar  works  of  La  Harpe  and  Mar- 
montel  have  made  the  names  at  least  of  these 
ladies  pretty  well  known  in  this  country;  and 
we  have  been  induced  to  place  their  corres- 

Eondence  under  one  article,  both  because  their 
istory  is  in  some  measure  connected,  and 
because,  though  extremely  unlike  each  other, 
they  both  form  a  decided  contrast  to  our  own 
national  character,  and,  taken  together,  go  far 
to  exhaust  what  was  peculiar  in  that  of  France. 
Most  of  our  readers  probably  remember 
what  La  Harpe  and  Marmontel  have  said  of 
these  two  distinguished  women  j  and,  at  all 
events,  it  is  not  necessary  for  our  purpose  to 
give  more  than  a  very  superficial  account  of 
them.  Madame  du  Deffand  was  left  a  widow 
with  a  moderate  fortune,  and  a  great  reputa- 
tion for  wit,  about  1750;  and  soon  after  gave 
up  her  hotel,  and  retired  to  apartments  in  the 
convent  de  St.  Joseph,  where  she  continued  to 
receive,  almost  every  evening,  whatever  was 
most  distinguished  in  Paris  for  rank,  talent, 
or  accomplishment.  Having  become  almost 
blind  in  a  few  years  thereafter,  she  found  she 
required  the  attendance  of  some  intelligent 
young  woman,  who  might  read  and  write  for 
her,  and  assist  in  doing  the  honours  of  her 
conversazioni.  For  this  purpose  she  cast  her 
eyes  on  Mademoiselle  Lespinasse,  the  illegiti- 
mate daughter  of  a  man  of  rank,  who  had 
been  boarded  in  the  same  convent,  and  was 
for  some  time  delighted  with  her  election. 
By  and  bye,  however,  she  found  that  her 
young  companion  began  to  engross  more  of 
the  notice  of  her  visitors  than  she  thought 
suitable ;  and  parted  from  her  Avith  violent, 
ungenerous,  and  implacable  displeasure. 
Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse,  however,  carried 
with  her  the  admiration  of  the  greater  part  of 
her  patroness'  circle ;  and  having  obtained  a 
small  pension  from  government,  opened  her 
own  doors  to  a  society  not  less  brilliant  than 
that  into  whidi  she  had  ])een  initiated  under 
Madame  du  DeiTani,  Tie  fatigue,  however, 
which  she  had  undergone  in  reading  the  old 
marchioness  asleep,  had  irreparably  injured 
her  health,  which  was  still  more  impaired  by 
the  agitations  of  her  own  inflammable  and 
ambitious  spirit;  and  she  died,  before  she  had 
obtained  middle  age,  about  1776, — leaving  on 
the  minds  of  almost  all  the  eminent  men  in 

France,  an  impression  of  talent,  and  of  ardour 
of  imagination,  which  seems  to  have  been 
considered  as  without  example.  Madame  du 
Deffand  continued  to  preside  in  her  circle  till 
a  period  of  extreme  old  age;   and  died  in 

1780,  in  full  possession  of  her  faculties. 


Where  the  letters  that  are  now  given  to  the 
world  have  been  secreted  for  the  last  thirty 
years,  or  by  whom  they  are  at  last  publish- 
ed, we  are  not  informed  in  either  of  the  works 
before  us.  That  they  are  authentic,  we  con 
ceive,  is  demonstrated  by  internal  evidence 
though,  if  more  of  them  are  extant,  the  selec- 
tion that  has  been  made  appears  to  us  to  be  a 
little  capricious.  The  correspondence  of 
Madame  du  Deffand  reaches  from  the  year 
1738  to  1764;— that  of  Mademoiselle  de  Les- 
pinasse extends  only  from  1773  to  1776.  The 
two  works,  therefore,  relate  to  different  pe- 
riods ;  and,  being  entirely  of  different  charac- 
ters, seem  naturally  to  call  for  a  separate 
consideration.  We  begin  with  the  correspon- 
dence of  Madame  du  Deffand,  both  out  of 
respect  to  her  seniority,  and  because  the  va 
riety  which  it  exhibits  seems  to  afford  room 
for  more  observation. 

As  this  lady's  house  was  for  fifty  years  the 
resort  of  every  thing  brilliant  in  Paris,  it  is 
natural  to  suppose,  that  she  herself  must  have 
possessed  no  ordinary  attraction — and  to  feel 
an  eager  curiosity  to  be  introduced  even  to 
that  shadow  of  her  conversation  which  we 
may  expect  to  meet  with  in  her  correspond- 
ence. Though  the  greater  part  of  the  letters 
are  addressed  to  her  by  various  correspond- 
ents, yet  the  few  which  she  does  write  are 
strongly  marked  with  the  traces  of  her  pecu- 
liar character  and  talent;  and  the  whole  taken- 
together  give  a  very  lively  idea  of  the  struc- 
ture and  occupations  of  the  best  French  so- 
ciety, in  the  days  of  its  greatest  splendour. 
Laying  out  of  view  the  greater  constitutional 
gaiety  of  our  neighbours,  it  appears  to  us,  that 
this  society  was  distinguished  from  any  that 
has  ever  existed  in  England,  by  three  circum- 
stances chiefly: — in  the  first  place,  by  the 
exclusion  of  all  low-bred  persons;  secondly, 
by  the  superior  intelligence  and  cultivation  of 
the  women ;  and,  finally,  by  the  want  of  politi- 
cal avocations,  and  the  absence  of  politicnJ 
antipathies. 

By  the  first  of  these  circumstances,  the  old 
Parisian  society  was  rendered  considerably 
more  refined,  and  infinitely  more  easy  and 
natural.  The  general  and  peremptory  pro- 
scription of  the  bourgeois,  excluded,  no  doubt. 
a  good  deal  of  vulgarity  and  coarseness ;  but 
it  had  a  still  better  effect  in  excluding  those 
feelings  of  mutual  jealousy  and  contempt,  and 
that  conflict  of  family  pride  and  consequential 
opulence,  which  can  only  be  prevented  from 
disturbing  a  more  promiscuous  assembly,  by 
means  of  universal  and  systematic  reserve. 


94 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


Where  all  are  noble,  all  are  equal ; — there  is 
no  room  for  ostentation  or  pretension  of  any 
sort; — every  one  is  in  his  place  everywhere; 
and  the  same  manners  being  familiar  to  the 
whole  society  from  their  childhood,  manners 
cease  in  a  great  measure  to  be  an  object  of 
attention.  Nobody  apprehends  any  imputa- 
tion of  vulgarity ;  and  nobody  values  himself 
on  being  free  from  it.  The  little  peculiarities 
by  w^hich  individuals  are  distinguished,  are 
ascribed,  not  to  ig-norance  or  awkwardness, 
but  to  caprice  merely,  or  to  peculiarity  of  dis- 
position ;  and  not  being  checked  by  contempt 
or  derision,  are  indulged,  for  the  most  part,  as 
caprice  or  disposition  may  dictate ;  and  thus 
the  very  highest  society  is  brought  back,  and 
by  the  same  causes,  to  much  of  the  freedom 
and  simplicity  of  the  lowest. 

In  England,  we  have  never  had  this  ar- 
rangement. The  great  wealth  of  the  mercan- 
tile classes,  and  the  privilege  which  every 
man  here  possesses  of  aspiring  to  every  situa- 
tion, has  always  prevented  any  such  complete 
separation  of  the  high  and  the  low-born,  even 
in  ordinary  society,  and  made  all  large  assem- 
blages of  people  to  a  certain  degree  promis- 
cuous. Great  wealth,  or  great  talents,  being 
sufficient  to  raise  a  man  to  power  and  emi- 
nence, are  necessarily  received  as  a  sufficient 
passport  into  private  company ;  and  fill  it,  on 
the  large  scale,  with  such  motley  and  dis- 
cordant characters,  as  visibly  to  endanger 
either  its  ease  or  its  tranquillity.  The  pride 
of  purse,  and  of  rank,  and  of  manners,  mutu- 
illy  provoke  each  other ;  and  vanities  which 
were  undiscovered  while  they  were  univer- 
sal, soon  become  visible  in  the  light  of  oppo- 
.site  vanities.  With  us,  therefore,  society, 
when  it  passes  beyond  select  clubs  and  asso- 
ciations, is  apt  either  to  be  distracted  with 
little  jealousies  and  divisions,  or  finally  to 
settle  into  constraint,  insipidity,  and  reserve. 
People  meeting  from  all  the  extremes  of  life, 
are  afraid  of  being  misconstrued,  and  despair 
of  being  understood.  Conversation  is  left  to 
a  few  professed  talkers ;  and  all  the  rest  are 
satisfied  to  hold  their  tongues,  and  despise 
each  other  in  their  hearts. 

The  superior  cultivation  of  French  Women, 
however,  was  productive  of  still  more  sub- 
stantial advantages.  Ever  since  Europe  be- 
came civilised,  the  females  of  that  country 
have  stood  more  on  an  intellectual  level  with 
the  men  than  in  any  other, — and  have  taken 
their  share  in  the  politics  and  literature,  and 
public  controversies  of  the  day,  far  more 
largely  than  in  any  other  nation  with  which 
we  are  acquainted.  For  more  than  two  cen- 
turies, they  have  been  the  umpires  of  polite 
letters,  and  the  depositaries  and  the  agents  of 
those  intrigues  by  which  the  functions  of  gov- 
ernment are  usually  forwarded  or  impeded. 
They  could  talk,  therefore,  of  every  thing  that 
men  could  wish  to  talk  about ;  and  general 
conversation,  consequently,  assumed  a  tone, 
both  less  frivolous  and  less  uniform,  than  it 
has  ever  attained  in  our  country. 

The  grand  source,  hoAvever,  of  the  difTer- 
ence  between  the  good  society  of  France  and 
of  England,  is,  that,  in  the  foraier  counry,  men 


had  nothing  but  society  to  attend  to ;  whereas, 
in  the  latter,  almost  all  who  are  considerable 
for  ranks  or  for  talents,  are  continually  en- 
grossed with  politics.  They  have  no  leisure, 
therefore,  for  society,  in  the  first  place :  in  the 
second  place,  if  they  do  enter  it  at  all,  they  are 
apt  to  regard  it  as  a  scene  rather  of  relaxation 
than  exertion ;  and,  finally,  they  naturally 
acquire  those  habits  of  thinking  arid  of  talk- 
ing, which  are  better  adapted  to  carry  on 
business  and  debate,  than  to  enliven  people 
assembled  for  amusement.  In  England,  men 
of  condition  have  still  to  perform  the  high 
duties  of  citizens  and  statesmen,  and  can  only 
rise  to  eminence  by  dedicating  their  days  and 
nights  to  the  study  of  business  and  affairs — 
to  the  arts  of  influencing  those,  with  whom, 
and  by  whom,  they  are  to  act — and  to  the 
actual  management  of  those  strenuous  con- 
tentions by  which  the  government  of  a  free 
state  is  perpetually  embarrassed  and  pre- 
served. In  France,  on  the  contrary,  under 
the  old  monarchy,  men  of  the  first  rank  had 
no  political  functions  to  discharge — no  control 
to  exercise  over  the  government — and  no  rights 
to  assert,  either  for  themselves  or  their  fellow 
subjects.  They  were  either  left,  therefore, 
to  solace  their  idleness  with  the  frivolous  en- 
chantments of  polished  society,  or,  if  they  had 
any  object  of  public  ambition,  were  driven  to 
pursue  it  by  the  mediation  of  those  favourites 
or  mistresses  who  were  most  likely  to  be  won 
by  the  charms  of  an  elegant  address,  or  the 
assiduities  of  a  skilful  flatterer. 

It  is  to  this  lamentable  inferiority  in  the 
government  and  constitution  of  their  country, 
that  the  French  are  indebted  for  the  superi- 
ority of  their  polite  assemblies.  Their  saloons 
are  better  filled  than  ours,  because  they  have  no 
senate  to  fill  out  of  their  population ;  and  their 
conversation  is  more  sprightly,  and  their  so- 
ciety more  animated  than  ours,  because  there 
is  no  other  outlet  for  the  talent  and  ingenuity 
of  the  nation  but  society  and  conversation. 
Our  parties  of  pleasure,  on  the  other  hand,  are 
mostly  left  to  beardless  youths  and  superan- 
nuated idlers — not  because  our  men  want 
talents  or  taste  to  adorn  them,  but  because 
their  ambition,  and  their  sense  of  public  duty,  ' 
have  dedicated  them  to  a  higher  service.  A 
When  we  lose  our  constitution — when  the 
houses  of  parliament  are  shut  up,  our  assem- 
blies, we  have  no  doubt,  will  be  far  more  ani- 
mated and  rational.  It  would  be  easy  to  have 
splendid  gardens  and  parterres,  if  we  would 
only  give  up  our  com  fields  and  our  pastures: 
nor  should  w^e  want  for  magnificent  fountains 
and  ornamental  canals,  if  we  were  contented 
to  drain  the  whole  surrounding  country  of  the 
rills  that  maintain  its  fertility  and  beauty. 

But,  while  it  is  impossible  to  deny  that  the 
French  enjoyed,  in  the  agreeable  constitution 
of  their  higher  society,  no  slight  compensation 
for  the  want  of  a  free  government,  it  is  curious, 
and  not  unsatisfactory,  to  be  able  to  trace  the 
operation  of  this  same  compensating  principle 
through  all  the  departments  we  have  alluded 
to.  It  is  obviously  to  our  free  government, 
and  to  nothing  else,  that  we  owe  that  mixture 
of  ranks  and  of  characters,  which  certainly 


MAD.  DU  DEFFAND  AND  MLLE.  DE  LESPINASSE. 


9ft 


renders  our  large  society  less  amiable,  and 
less  unconstrained,  than  tnat  of  the  old  French 
nobility.  Men,  possessed  of  wealth  and  po- 
litical power,  must  be  associated  with  by  all 
with  whom  they  choose  to  associate,  and  to 
whom  their  friendship  or  support  is  material. 
A  trader  who  has  bought  his  borough  but  yes- 
terday, will  not  give  his  influence  to  any  set 
of  noblemen  or  ministers,  who  will  not  receive 
him  and  his  family  into  their  society,  and 
agree  to  treRt  them  as  their  equals.  The  same 
principle  extends  downwards  by  impercepti- 
ble gradations ; — and  the  whole  community  is 
mingled  in  private  life,  it  must  be  owned  with 
some  little  discomfort,  by  the  ultimate  action 
of  the  same  principles  which  combine  them, 
to  their  incalculable  benefit,  in  public. 

Even  the  backwardness  or  the  ignorance  of 
our  women  may  be  referred  to  the  same  no- 
ble origin.  Women  have  no  legal  or  direct 
political  functions  in  any  country  in  the  uni- 
verse. In  the  arbitrary  goverimaents  of  Eu- 
rope, however,  they  exert  a  personal  influence 
over  those  in  power  and  authority,  which 
raises  them  into  consequence,  familiarizes 
them  in  some  degree  with  business  and  affairs, 
and  leads  them  to  study  the  character  and  the 
dispositions  of  the  most  eminent  persons  of 
their  day.  In  free  states,  again,  where  the 
personal  inclination  of  any  individual  can  go 
but  a  little  way,  and  where  every  thing  must 
be  canvassed  and  sanctioned  by  its  legitimate 
censors,  this  influence  is  very  inconsiderable ; 
and  women  are  excluded  almost  entirely  from 
any  concern  in  those  affairs,  with  which  the 
leading  spirits  of  the  country  are  necessarily 
occupied.  They  come,  therefore,  almost  un- 
avoidably, to  be  considered  as  of  a  lower  order 
of  intellect,  and  to  act,  and  to  be  treated,  upon 
that  apprehension.  The  chief  cause  of  their 
inferiority,  however,  arises  from  the  circum- 
stances that  have  been  already  stated.  Most 
of  the  men  of  talent  in  upper  life  are  engaged 
in  pursuits  from  which  women  are  necessarily 
excluded,  and  have  no  leisure  to  join  in  those 
pursuits  which  might  occupy  them  in  com- 
mon. Being  thus  abandoned  in  a  good  degree 
to  the  society  of  the  frivolous  of  our  sex,  it  is 
impossible  that  they  should  not  be  frivolous 
in  their  turn.  In  old  France,  on  the  contrary, 
the  men  of  talents  in  upper  life  had  little  to 
do  but  to  please  and  be  pleased  with  the  wo- 
men; and  they  naturally  came  to  acquire  that 
knowledge  and  those  accomplishments  which 
fitted  them  for  such  society. 

The  last  distinction  between  good  French 
and  good  English  society,  arises  from  the  dif- 
ferent position  which  was  occupied  in  each 
&j  the  men  of  letters.  In  France,  certainly, 
they  mingled  much  more  extensively  with  the 
polite  world, — incalculably  to  the  benefit  both 
of  that  world,  and  of  themselves.  In  England, 
our  great  scholars  and  authors  have  commonly 
lived  in  their  studies,  or  in  the  society  of  a 
few  learned  friends  or  dependants ;  and  their 
life  has  been  so  generally  gloomy,  laborious 
and  inelegant,  that  literature  and  intellectual 
eminence  have  lost  some  of  their  honours,  and 
much  of  their  attraction.  With,  us,  when  a  , 
Tian  takes  to  authorship,  he  is  commonly  j 


looked  upon  as  having  renounce(i  both  the  gay 
and  busy  world ;  and  the  consequence  is,  tlial 
the  gay  are  extremely  frivolous,  and  the  ac- 
tive rash  and  superficial ;  while  the  man  of 
genius  is  admired  by  posterity,  and  finishes 
his  days  rather  dismally,  without  knowing  or 
caring  for  any  other  denomination  of  men, 
than  authors,  booksellers  and  critics. 

This  distinction  too,  we  think,  arises  out  of 
the  difference  of  government,  or  out  of  some 
of  its  more  immediate  consequences.  Our 
politicians  are  too  busy  to  mix  with  men  of 
study ;  and  our  idlers  are  too  weak  and  too 
frivolous.  The  studious,  therefore,  are  driven 
in  a  great  measure  to  herd  with  each  other, 
and^  to  form  a  little  world  of  their  own,  in 
which  all  their  peculiarities  are  aggravated, 
their  vanity  encouraged,  and  their  awkward- 
ness confirmed.  In  Paris,  where  talent  and 
idleness  met  together,  a  society  grew  up,  both 
more  inviting  and  more  accessible  to  men  of 
thought  and  erudition.  What  they  commu- 
nicated to  this  society  rendered  it  more  intel- 
ligent and  respectable ;  and  what  they  learned 
from  it,  made  them  much  more  reasonable, 
amiable,  and  happy.  They  learned,  in  short, 
the  true  value  of  knowledge  and  of  wisdom, 
by  seeing  exactly  how  much  they  could  con- 
tribute to  the  government  or  the  embellish- 
ment of  life ;  and  discovered,  that  there  were 
sources  both  of  pride  and  of  happiness,  far 
more  important  and  abundant  than  thinking, 
writing,  or  reading. 

It  is  curious,  accordingly,  to  trace  in  the 
volumes  before  us,  the  more  intimate  and 
private  life  of  some  of  those  distinguished 
men,  whom  vje  find  it  difficult  to  represent  to 
ourselves  under  any  other  aspect,  than  that 
of  the  authors  of  their  learned  publications. 
D'Alembert,  Montesquieu,  Henault,  and  sev- 
eral others,  all  appear  in  those  letters  in  their 
true  and  habitual  character,  of  cheerful  and 
careless  men  of  the  world — whose  thoughts 
Tan  mostly  on  the  little  exertions  and  amuse- 
ments of  their  daily  society ;  who  valued  even 
their  greatest  works  chiefly  as  the  means  of 
amusing  their  leisure,  or  of  entitling  them  to 
the  admiration  of  their  acquaintances;  and 
occupied  themselves  about  posterity  far  less 
than  posterity  will  be  occupied  about  them. 
It  will  probably  scandalize  a  good  part  of  our 
men  of  learning  and  science  (though  we  think 
it  will  be  consolatory  to  some)  to  be  told,  that 
there  is  great  reason  for  suspecting  that  the 
most  profound  of  those  authors  looked  upon 
learning  chiefly  as  a  sort  of  tranquil  and  in- 
nocent amusement ;  to-which  it  was  very  well 
to  have  recourse  when  more  lively  occupa- 
tions were  not  at  hand,  but  which  it  was  wise 
and  meritorious,  at  all  times,  to  postpone  to 
pleasant  parties,  and  the  natural  play,  either 
of  the  imagination  or  of  the  affections.  It  ap- 
pears, accordingly,  not  only  that  they  talked 
easily  and  familiarly  of  all  their  works  to  theit 
female  friends,  but  that  they  gave  themselves 
very  little  anxiety  either  about  their  sale,  oj 
their  notoriety  out  of  the  sphere  of  their  own 
acquaintances,  and  made  and  invited  all  sorta 
of  jokes  upon  them  with  unfeigned  g-aiety  and 
indifference.     The  lives  of  our  learned  men 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


would  be  much  happier,  and  their  learning 
much  more  useful  and  amiable,  if  they  could 
be  persuaded  to  see  things  in  the  same  light. 
It  is  more  than  time,  however,  to  introduce 
the-  reader  to  the  characters  in  the  volumes 
before  us. 

Madame  du  Deffand's  correspondence  con- 
sists of  letters  from  Montesquieu,  D'Alem- 
bert,  Renault,  D'Argens,  Formont,  Bernstorff, 
SchefFer,  &c.  among  the  men, — and  Mesdames 
de  Staal,  de  Choiseul,  &c.  among  the  women. 
Her  own  letters,  as  we  have  already  intimat- 
ed, form  but  a  very  inconsiderable  part  of 
the  collection ; — and,  as  these  distinguished 
names  naturally  excite,  in  persons  out  of  Paris, 
more  interest  than  that  of  any  witty  r^ar- 
chioness  whatsoever,  we  shall  begin  with 
some  specimens  of  the  intimate  and  j)rivate 
style  of  those  eminent  individuals,  who  are 
already  so  well  known  for  the  value  and  the 
beauty  of  their  public  instructions. 

Of  these,  the  oldest  and  the  most  popularly 
known,  was  Montesquieu, — an  author  who 
frequently  appears  profound  when  he  is  only 
paradoxical,  and  seems  to  have  studied  Avith 
great  success  the  art  of  hiding  a  desultory  and 
fantastical  style  of  reasoning  in  imposing 
aphorisms,  and  epigrams  of  considerable  ef- 
fect. It  is  impossible  to  read  the  Esprit  des 
Loix,  without  feeling  that  it  is  the  work  of  an 
indolent  and  very  ingenious  person,  who  had 
fits  of  thoughtfulness  and  ambition ;  and  had 
meditated  the  different  points  which  it  com- 
prehends at  long  intervals,  and  then  connect- 
ed them  as  he  best  could,  by  insinuations, 
metaphors,  and  vague  verbal  distinctions. 
There  is  but  little  of  him  in  this  collection ; 
but  what  there  is,  is  extremely  characteristic. 
D'Alembert  had  proposed  that  he  should  write 
the  articles  Democracy  and  Despotism,  for  the 
Encyclopedie ;  to  which  proposal  he  answers 
with  much  naivete,  as  follows : 

"  Quant  a  mon  introduction  dans  1' Encyclope- 
die, c'est  un  beau  palais  ou  je  serais  bien  glorieux 
de  mettre  les  pieds ;  mais  pour  les  deux  articles 
Democratie  et  Despotisme,  je  ne  voudrais  pas  pren- 
dre ceux-la ;  j'ai  tire,  sur  ces  articles,  de  mon  cer- 
veau  tout  ce  qui  y  etait.  L*  esprit  que  fat  est  un 
moule;  on  rC  en  tire  jamais  que  les  memes  portraits: 
ainsi  je  ne  vous  dirais  que  ce  que  j'ai  dit,  et  peut- 
etre  plus  mal  que  je  ne  I'ai  dit.  Ainsi,  si  vous 
voulez  de  moi,  laissez  a  mon  esprit  le  choix  de  quel- 
ques  articles ;  et  si  vous  voulez  ce  choLx,  ce  fera 
chez  madame  du  DefTand  avec  da  marasquin.  Le 
pore  Castel  dit  qu'il  ne  peut  pas  se  corriger,  parce 
qu'encorrigeant son  ouvrage,  il  en  fait  im  autre;  et 
moi  je  ne  puis  pas  me  corriger,  parce  que  je  chanle 
toujours  la  meme  chose,  il  me  vient  dans  Tesprit 
que  je  pourrais  prendre  peut-etre  I'article  Gout,  et 
10  prouverai  bien  que  difficile  est  proprie  communia 
Jicere."— Vol.  i.  pp.  30,  31. 

There  is  likewise  another  very  pleasing  let- 
ter to  M.  de  Renault,  and  a  gay  copy  of  verses 
to  Madame  de  Mirepoix ; — but  we  hasten  on 
to  a  personage  still  more  engaging.  Of  all 
the  men  of  genius  that  ever  existedj  D'Alem- 
bert perhaps  is  the  most  amiable  and  truly 
respectable.  The  great  extent  and  variety  of 
his  learning,  his  vast  attainments  and  dis- 
coveries in  the  mathematical  sciences,  and  the 
Deauty  and  eloquence  of  his  literary  composi- 
tions, are  known  to  all  the  world :  But  the 


simplicity  and  opeimess  of  his  character- -hia 
perpetual  gentleness  and  gaiety  in  society- 
the  unostentatious  independence  of  his  senti- 
ments and  conduct-7-his  natural  and  cheerful 
superiority  to  all  feelings  of  worldly  ambition, 
jealousy,  or  envy — and  that  air  of  perpetual 
youth  and  unassuming  kindness,  which  made 
him  so  delightful  and  so  happy  in  the  society 
of  women, — are  traits  which  we  scarcely  ex- 
pect to  find  in  combination  with  those  splendid 
qualifications;  and  compose  altogether  a  char- 
acter of  which  we  should  have  been  tempted 
to  question  the  reality,  were  we  not  fortunate 
enough  to  be  familiar  with  its  counterpart  in 
one  living  mdividual.* 

It  is  not  possible,  perhaps,  to  give  a  better 
idea  of  the  character  of  D'Alembert,  than 
merely  to  state  the  fact,  and  the  reason  of  his 
having  refused  to  go  to  Berlin,  to  preside  over 
the  academy  founded  there  by  Frederic.  In 
answer  to  a  most  flattering  and  urgent  appli- 
cation from  that  sovereign,  he  writes  thus  to 
M.  D'Argens.t 

"  La  situation  ou  je  suis  seroit  peut-etre,  mon- 
sieur, un  motif  suffisant  pour  bien  d'autres,  de  re- 
noncer  a  leur  pays.  Ma  fortune  est  au-dessous  du 
mediocre  ;  1700  liv.  de  rente  font  tout  mon  revenu : 
entierement  independant  et  maitre  de  mes  volontes, 
je  n'ai  point  de  famille  qui  s'y  oppose;  oublie  du 
gouvernement  comme  tant  de  gens  le  sont  de  la 
Providence,  persecute  meme  autant  qu'on  peut 
I'etre  quand  on  evite  de  donner  trop  d'avantages 
sur  soi  a  la  mechancete  des  hommes  ;  je  n'ai  aucune 
part  aux  recompenses  qui  pleuvent  ici  sur  les  gens 
de  lettres,  avec  plus  de  profusion  que  de  lumieres. 
Malgre  tout  cela,  monsieur,  la  tranquillite  dont  je 
jouis  est  si  parfaite  et  si  douce,  que  je  ne  puis  me 
resoudre  a  lui  faire  courir  le  moindre  risque." — 
"  Superieur  a  lamauvaise  fortune,  les  epreuves  de 
toute  espece  que  j'ai  essuyees  dans  ce  genre,  m'ont 
endurci  a  I'indisence  et  au  malheur,  et  ne  m'ont 
laisse  de  sensibilite  que  pour  ceux  qui  me  ressem- 
blent.  A  force  de  privations,  je  me  suis  accoutume 
sans  effort  a  me  contenter  du  plus  etroit  necessaire, 
et  je  serois  meme  en  etat  de  partager  mon  peu  de  ibr- 
tune  avec  d'honnetesgenspluspauvres  que  moi.  J'ai 
commence,  comme  les  autres  hommes,  par  desirer 
les  places  et  les  richesses,  j'ai  fini  par  y  renoncer  ab- 
solument ;  et  de  jour  en  jour  je  m'en  trouve  mieux. 
La  vie  retiree  et  assez  obscure  que  je  mene  est 
parfaitement  conforme  a  mon  caractere,  a  mon 
amour  extreme  pour  I'independance,  et  peut-etre 
meme  a  un  peu  d'eloignement  que  les  evenemens 
de  ma  vie  m'ont  inspire  pour  les  hommes.  -La  rc- 
traite  011  le  regime  que  me  prescrivent  mon  etat  et 
mon  gout  m'ont  procure  la  sante  la  plus  parfaite  et 
la  plus  egale — c'est-a-dire,  le  premier  bien  d'un 
philosophe  ;  enfin  j'ai  le  bonheur  de  jouir  d'un  petit 
nombre  d'amis,  dont  le  commerce  et  la  confiance 
font  la  consolation  et  le  charme  de  ma  vie.  Jugez 
maintenant  vous-meme,  monsieur,  s'il  ni'est  possi- 
ble de  renoncer  a  ces  avantages,  et  de  changer  un 
bonheur  sur  pour  une  situation  toujours  incertaine, 
quelque  brillante  qu'elle  puisse  etre.  Je  ne  doute 
nullement  des  bontes  du  roi,  et  de  tout  ce  qu'il  peut 

*  It  cannot  now  offend  the  modesty  of  any  living 
reader,  if  I  explain  that  the  person  here  alluded  to 
was  my  excellent  and  amiable  friend,  the  late  Pro- 
fessor Play  fair. 

t  This  learned  person  writes  in  a  very  affected 
and  prccieuse  style.  He  ends  one  of  his  letters  to 
D'Alembert  with  the  following  eloquent  expres- 
sion : — '•  Ma  sante  s'effoiblit  tous  les  jours  de  plus 
en  plus  ;  et  je  me  dispose  a  alter  faire  bientot  mes 
revere?ices  au  pere  eternel:  mais  tandis  que  je  res- 
terai  dans  ce  monde  je  serai  le  plus  zele  de  vos  ad- 
mirateurs." 


MAD   DV  PEFFAND  AND  MLLE.  DE  LESPINASSE. 


ft7 


faire  pour  me  rendre  agreable  mon  nouvel  etat  ; 
mais,  mailieureusement  pour  moi,  toutesles  circon- 
stances  essentielles  a  mon  bonheur  ne  sont  pas  en 
son  pouvoir.  Si  nia  sante  venoit  a  s'alterer,  cequi 
ne  seroit  que  trop  a  craindre,  que  deviendrois-je 
alors  ?  Inoopable  de  me  rendre  utile  au  roi,  je  me 
rerrois  force  a  aller  finir  mes  jours  loin  de  lui,  et  a 
reprendre  dans  rna  patrie,  ou  ailleurs,  mon  ancien 
etat,  qui  auroit  perdu  ses  premiers  charmes.  Peut- 
etre  menie  n'aurois-je  plus  la  consolation  de  re- 
trouver  en  France  les  amis  que  j'y  aurois  laisses,  et 
a  qui  je  perierois  le  coeur  par  mon  depart.  Je  vous 
avoue,  monsieur,  que  cette  derniere  raison  seule 
pent  tout  sur  moi. 

"  Enfin  (et  je  vous  prie  d'etre  persuade  que  je  ne 
cherche  point  a  me  parer  ici  d'une  fausse  modestie) 
je  doute  que  je  fusse  aussi  propre  a^cette  place  que 
St.  M.  veut  bien  le  croire.  Livre  des  mon  enfance 
a  des  etudes  continuelles,  je  n'ai  que  dans  la  theorie 
la  connoissance  des  hommes,  qui  est  si  necessaire 
dans  la  pi  atique  quand  on  a  affaire  a  eux.  La  tran- 
quillite,  et,  si  je  I'ose  dire,  Voisivete  du  cabinet, 
m'ont  rendu  absolument  incapable  des  details  aux- 
quels  le  chef  d'un  corps  doit  se  livrer.  D'ailleurs, 
dans  les  differens  objets  dent  l' Academic  s'occupe, 
il  en  est  qui  me  sont  entierement  inconnus,  comme 
la  chimie,  I'histoire  naturelle,  et  plusieurs  autres, 
sur  lesquels  par  consequent  je  ne  pourrois  etre  aussi 
utile  que  je  le  ddsirerois.  Enfin  une  place  aussi 
brillante  que  celle  dont  le  roi  veut  m'honorer,  oblige 
a  une  sorte  de  representation  tout-a-fait  eloignee 
du  train  de  vie  que  j'ai  pris  jusqu'ici;  elle  engage 
a.  un  grand  nombre  de  devoirs :  et  les  devoirs  sont 
les  entraves  d'nn  homme  iibre." — Vol.  ii.  pp.73— 78. 

This  whole  transaction  was  kept  quite  se- 
.-r3t  for  many  months ;  and.  when  it  began  to 
take  air,  he  speaks  of  it  to  Madame  du  Def- 
fandj  in  the  follo\ving  natural  manner. 

"  Apres  tout,  que  cela  se  repande  ou  ne  se  re- 
pande  pas,  je  n'en  suis  ni  fache  ni  bien-aise.  Je 
garderai  auroi  de  Prusseson  secret,  meme  lorsqu'il 
ne  I'exige  plus,  et  vous  verrez  aisement  que  mes 
lettrec  n'ont  pas  etc  faites  pour  etre  vues  du  minis- 
*tie  de  France  ;  je  suis  bien  resolu  de  ne  lui  pas 
demander  plus  de  graces  qu'aux  ministresduroi  de 
Congo ;  et  je  me  contenterai  que  la  posterite  lise 
5ur  mon  tombeau  ;  ilfut  estimt  des  honnetes  gens, 
et  fzi  mort  pauvre,  parce  qu' il  Vahienvoulu.  Voila, 
madame,  de  quelle  maniere  je  pense.  Je  ne  veux 
braver  ni  aussi  flatter  les  gens  qui  m'ont  fait  du  mal, 
ou  qui  sont  dans  la  disposition  de  m'en  faire ;  mais  je 
me  conduirai  de  maniere  que  je  les  reduirai  seule- 
ment  a  ne  me  pas  faire  du  bien." — Vol.  ii.  pp.  33,  34. 

Upon  publishing  his  Melanges,  he  was 
f'lriously  attacked  by  a  variety  of  acrimonious 
writeis;  and  all  his  revenge  was  to  retire  to 
tiis  geometry,  and  to  write  such  letters  as  the 
following  to  Madame  du  Deffand. 

*'  Me  voila  claquemure  pour  long-temps,  et  vrai- 
gemblablement  pour  toujours,  dans  ma  triste,  mais 
tres-chere  et  tres-paisible  Geometric  !  Je  suis  fort 
content  de  trouver  un  pretexte  pour  ne  plus  rien 
faire,  dans  le  dechainement  que  mon  livre  a  excite 
contre  moi.  Je  n'ai  pourtant  ni  attaque  personne, 
ni  meme  designe  qui  que  ce  soit,  plus  que  n'a  fait 
I'auteur  du  Mechant,  et  vingt  autres,  contre  lesquels 
personne  ne  s'est  dechaine.  Mais  il  n'y  a  qu'heur 
et  nialheur.  Je  n'ai  b'esoin  ni  de  I'amitie  de.  tons 
ces  gens-la.  puisque  assurement  je  ne  veux  rien 
Isur  dernander,  ni  de  leur  estime,  puisque  j'ai  bien 
nSsolu  de  ne  jamais  vivre  avec  eux :  aussi  je  les  mets 
a  pis  faire. 

"  Adieu,  Madame ;  hatez  votre  retour.  Que  ne 
savez-vous  de  la  geometric !  qu'avec  elle  on  se 
passe  de  bien  des  choses!" — Vol.  i.  pp.  104,  105. 

"  Mon  ouvrage  est  publie  ;  il  s'est  un  peu  vendu  ; 

les  frais  de  I'impression   sont  retires ;  les  eloges, 

les  critiques   et  I'argent  viendront  quand  ils  vou- 

dront  '*-  -"Je  n'ai  encore  rien  touche.  Je  vous  man- 

7 


derai  ce  que  je  gagnerai :  il  n'y  a  pas  d'apparence 
que  cela  se  monte  fort  haut ;  il  n'y  a  pas  d'appa- 
rence  non  plus  que  je  continue  a  travailler  dans  co 

fenre.  Jeftrai  de  la  geometrie,  et  je  lirai  Tacite.' 
1  me  semble  qu'on  a  grande  envie  que  je  me  taise 
et  en  verite  je  ne  demande  pas  mieux.  Quand  ma 
petite  fortune  ne  suffira  plus  a  ma  subsistence,  je 
me  retirerai  dans  quelque  endroit  ou  je  puisse  vivre 
et  mourir  a  bon  marche.  Adieu,  Madame.  Es- 
timez,  comme  moi,  les  hommes  ce  qu'ils  valent,  et 
il  ne  vous  manquera  rien  pour  etre  heureuse.  On 
dit  Voltaire  raccommode  avec  le  roi  de  Prusse,  et 
Maupertuis^  retombe.  Ma  foi,  les  hommes  sont 
bien  foux,  a  commencer  par  les  sages."— Vol.  ii., 
pp.  50,  51. 

"  Eh  bien !  vous  ne  voulez  done  pas,  ni  Ferment 
non  plus,  que  je  me  claquemure  dans  ma  geome- 
tric ?  J'en  suis  pourtant  bien  tente.  Si  vous  saviez 
combien  cette  geometric  est  une  retraite  douce  a  la 
paresse  !  et  puis  les  sots  ne  vous  lisent  point,  et  par 
consequent  ne  vous  blament  ni  ne  vous  louent:  et 
comptez-vous  cet  avantage-ia  pour  rien  ?  En  tout 
cas,  j'ai  de  la  geometric  pour  un  an,  tout  au  moins. 
Ah  !  que  je  fais  a  present  de  belles  choses  que  per- 
sonne ne  lira ! 

"J'ai  bien  quelques  morceaux  de  litterature  a 
traiter,  qui  seroient  peut-etre  assez  agroables  j  mais 
je  chasse  tout  cela  de  ma  tete,  comme  mauvais  train. 
La  geometric  est  ma  femme,  et  je  me  suis  remis  en 
menage. 

"Avec  cela,  j'ai  plus  d'argent  devant  moi  que 
je  n'en  puis  depenser.  Ma  foi,  on  est  bien  fou  de 
se  tani  tourmenter  pour  des  choses  qui  ne  rendem 
pas  plus  heureux :  on  a  bien  plutot  fait  de  dire  :  Ne 
pourrois-je  pas  me  passer  de  cela  ?  Et  c'est  la  recette 
dont  j'use  depuis  long-temps." — Vol.  ii.  pp.52,  53. 

With  all  this  softness  and  carelessness  of 
character,  nothing  could  be  more  firm  and 
inflexible  when  truth  and  justice  were  in 
question.  The  President  Henault  was  the 
oldest  and  first  favourite  of  Madame  du  Def- 
fand ;  and,  at  the  time  of  publishii^g  the  En 
cyclopaedia,  Madame  du  Deffand  had  more 
power  over  D'Alembert  than  any  other  person. 
She  wished  very  much  that  something  flatter- 
ing should  be  said  of  her  favourite  in  the  In- 
troductory Discourse,  M'hich  took  a  review  of 
the  progress  of  the  arts  and  sciences;  but 
D'Alembert  resisted,  with  heroic  courage,  all 
the  entreaties  that  were  addressed  to  him  on 
this  subject.  The  following  may  serve  as 
specimens  of  the  tone  which  he  maintained 
on  the  occasion. 

"  Je  suis  devenu  cent  fois  plus  amoureux  de  la 
retraite  et  de  la  solitude,  que  je  ne  I'etois  quand 
vous  avez  quitte  Paris.  Je  dine  et  soupe  chez  moi 
tous  les  jours,  ou  presque  tons  les  jours,  et  je  me 
trouve  tres-bien  de  cette  maniere  de  vivre.  Je  voua 
verrai  done  quand  vous  n'aurez  personne,  et  aux 
heures  ou  je  pourrai  esperer  de  vous  ^rouver  seule: 
dans  d'autres  temps,  j'y  rencontrerois  votre  presi- 
dent, qui  m'embarrasseroit,  parce  qu'il  croiroit  avoir 
des  reproches  a  me  faire,  que  je  ne  crois  point  en 
meriter,  et  que  je  ne  veux  pas  etre  dans  le  cas  de  le 
desobliger,  en  me  jnsiifiant  aupres  de  lui.  Ce  que 
vous  me  demandez  pour  lui  est  impossible,  et  je 
puis  vous  assurer  qu'il  est  bien  impossible,  puisque 
je  ne  fais  pas  cela  pour  vous.  En  premier  lieu,  le 
Discours  preliminaire  est  imprime,  il  y  a  plus  de  six 
semaines:  ainsi  je  ne  pourrois  pas  I'y  fourrer  au- 
jourd'hui,  meme  quand  je  le  voudrois.  En  second 
lien,  pensez-vous  de  bonne  foT,  madame,  que  dans 
un  ouvrage  destine  a  celebrer  les  grands  genies  de 
la  nation  et  les  ouvrages  qui  ont  veritablement  con- 
trihue  aux  progres  des  lettres  et  des  sciences,  je 
doive  parler  de  I'Abrege  chronologique  ?  C'est 
un  ouvrage  utile,  j'en  conviens,  et  assez  commode ; 
mais  voila  tout  en  verite:  c'est  la  ce  qtip  les  gen« 


98 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


de  lettres  'upensent,  c'es:  la  cequ'on  (iidiraquand 
le  president  ne  sera  pin-- :  et  quand  je  iie  serai  plus 
moi,  je  suis  jaloux  q;ro.i  ne  me  nproche  pas 
d'avoir  donne  d'eloges  excessifs  a  personne." — 
Vol.  ii.  pp.  35,  36.  ^ 

"  J'ai  une  confession  a  vous  faire  :  j'ai  parle  de 
lui  dans  TEncycIopedie,  non  pas  a  Chronologic,  car 
cela  est  pour  Newton,  Petau  et  Scaliger,  mais  a 
Chronologique.  J'y  dis  que  nous  avons,  en  notre 
langue,  plusieurs  bons  abreges  chronologiques  :  le 
sien,  un  autre  qui  vaut  pour  le  moins  autant,  et  un 
troisieme  qui  vaut  mieux.  Cela  n'est  pas  dit  si 
crument,  ainsi  ne  vous  fachez  pas.  II  trouvera  la 
louange  bien  mince,  surtout  la  partageant  avec 
d'autres,  mais  Dieu  et  vous,  et  meme  vous  toute 
seule,  ne  me  feroient  pas  changer  de  langage." — 
"  II  fera  sur  1' Academic  tout  ce  qui  lui  plaira;  ma 
conduite  prouve  que  je  ne  desire  point  d'en  etre,  et 
en  verite  je  le  serois  sans  lui,  si  j'en  avois  bien 
envie  ;  mais  le  plaisir  de  dire  la  verite  librement 
quand  on  n'outrage  ni  n'attaque  personne,  vaut 
mieux  que  toutes  les  Academies  du  monde,  depuis 
la  Frangoise,  jusqu'a  celle  de  Dugast." — "  Puisque 
je  suis  deja  d'une  Academic,  c'est  un  petit  agre- 
ment  de  plus  que  d'etre  des  autres  ;  mais  si  j'avois 
mon  experience,  et  quinze  ans  de  moins,  je  vous 
reponds  que  je  ne  serois  d'aucune." — Vol.  ii.  pp. 
56—64. 

We  may  now  take  a  peep  at  the  female 
correspondents, — in  the  first  rank  of  whom 
we  must  place  Madame  de  Staal,  so  well 
known  to  most  of  our  readers  by  her  charm- 
ing Memoirs.  This  lady  was  attached  to  the 
court  of  the  Duchess  of  Maine;  and  her  let- 
ters, independent  of  the  wit  and  penetration 
they  display,  are  exceedingly  interesting,  from 
the  near  and  humiliating  view  they  afford  of 
the  miserable  ennui,  the  selfishness  and  paltry 
jealousies  which  brood  in  the  atmosphere  of 
a  court, — and  abundantly  avenge  the  lowly 
for  the  outward  superiority  that  is  assumed 
by  its  inhabitants.  There  are  few  things  more 
instructive,  or  more  compassionable,  than  the 
picture  which  Madame  de  Staal  has  drawn,  in 
the  following  passages,  of  her  poor  princess 
dragging  herself  about  in  the  rain  and  the 
burning  sun,  in  the  vain  hope  of  escaping  from 
the  load  of  her  own  inanity, — seeking  relief, 
in  the  multitude  of  her  visitors,  from  the  sad 
vacuity  of  friendship  and  animation  around 
her, — and  poorly  trying  to  revenge  herself  for 
her  own  unhappiness,  by  making  every  body 
near  her  uncomfortable. 

"  Je  lus  avant-hier  votre  lettre,  ma  reine,  a  S.  A. 
Elle  etait  dans  un  accesde  frayeurdu  tonnerre,  qui 
ne  fit  pas  valoir  vos  galanteries.  J'aurai  soin  une 
autre  fois  de  ne  vous  pas  exposer  a  I'orage.  Nous 
nageons  ces  jours  passes  dans  lajoie;  nousnageons 
a  present  dans  la  pluie.  Nos  idecs,  devenues  douces 
et  agreables,  vont  reprendre  toute  leur  noirceur, 
Pardessus  cela  est  arrive,  depuis  deux  jours,  a  notre 
princesse  un  rhume,  avec  de  la  ficvre  :  ce  nonob- 
Btant  et  malgre  le  temps  diabolique,  la  promenade 
va  toujours  son  train.  II  semble  quo  la  Providence 
prenne  soin  de  construire  pour  les  princes  des  corps 
a  I'usage  de  leurs  fantaisies,  sans  quoi  ils  ne  pour- 
raient  attraperage  d'homme." — Vol.  i.  pp.  161, 162. 

"  En  depit  d'un  troisieme  orage  plus  violent  que 
les  deux  precedena,  nous  arrivons  d'unc  chasse  : 
nous  avons  essuye  la  bordee  au  beau  milieu  de  la 
foret.  J'esperais  eviter  comme  a  I'ordinaire  cettc 
belle  partie  ;  mais  on  aadroilementtire  parti  des  rai- 
Bons  que  j'avais  alleguees  pour  m'en  dispenser ;  ce 
qui  m'a  mis  hors  d'etat  de  reculer.  C'est  dommage 
qu'un  art  si  ingenieux  soit  employe  a  desoler  les 
gens." — Vol.  i.  p.  164. 

"  Je  suis  tres  fachee  que  vous  manquiez  d'amuse- 


mens :  c'est  un  medicament  necessaire  a  la  sant^ , 
notre  princesse  le  pense  bien  ;  car  etant  veritable- 
ment  malade,  elle  va  sans  fin,  sans  cesse,  quelque 
temps  qu'il  fasse." — Vol.  i.  p.  163. 

"  Nous  faisons,  nous  disons  toujours  les  meme« 
choses  :  les  promenades,  les  observations  sur  le 
vent,  le  cavagnole,  les  remarques  sur  la  perte  et  la 
gain,  les  mesures  pour  tenir  les  portes fermees  qieU 
que  chaud  qu'il  fasse,  la  desolation  de  ce  qu'on  ap- 
pelle  les  etouffes,  au  nombre  desquels  je  suis.  e 
dont  vous  n'etes  pas,  qualite  qui  redouble  le  desi 
de  votre  societe." — Vol.  i.  p.  197.    • 

"  Rien  n'est  egal  a  la  surprise  et  au  chagrin  ou 
Ton  est,  ma  reine,  d'avoir  appris  que  vous  avez  et6 
chez  Madame  la  Duchesse  de  Modene.  Un  amant 
bien  passionne  et  bien  jaloux  supporte  plus  tran- 
quillement  les  demarches  les  plus  suspectes,  qu'on 
n'endure  celle-ci  de  votre  part.  '  Vous  allez  voua 
devouer  la,  abandonner  tout  le  reste  ;  voila  a  quoi 
on  etoit  reserve:  c'est  une  destinee  bien  cruelle  !' 
&c.  J'ai  dit  ce  qu'il  y  avait  a  dire  pour  ramener 
le  calme  ^  on  n'a  voulu  rien  entendre.  Quoique  je 
ne  doive  plus  m'etonner,  cette  scene  a  encore  trouve 
moyen  de  me  surprendre.  Venez,  je  vous  conjure, 
ma  reine,  nous  rassurer  contre  cette  alarme :  ne 
louez  point  la  personne  dont  il  s'agit,  et  surtout  ne 
parlez  pas  de  son  affliction  ;  car  cela  serait  pris  pour 
un  reproche." — Vol.  ii.  pp.  22,  23. 

All  this  is  miserable:  but  such  are  the 
necessary  consequences  of  being  bred  up 
among  flatterers  and  dependants.  A  prince 
has  more  chance  to  escape  this  heartlessness 
and  insignificance  ',  because  he  has  high  and 
active  duties  to  discharge,  which  necessarily 
occupy  his  time,  and  exercise  his  understand- 
ing 5  but  the  education  of  a  princess  is  a  work 
of  as  great  difficulty  as  it  may  come  to  be  oi" 
importance.  We  must  make  another  extraot 
or  two  from  Madame  de  Staal,  before  taking 
leave  of  her. 

"  Madame  du  Chatelet  et  Voltaire,  qui  s'etaient 
annonces  pour  aujourd'hui  et  qu'on  avait  perdus  d3 
vue,  parurent  hier,  sur  le  minuit,  comme  deux 
spectres,  avec  une  odeur  de  corps  embaumes  qu'ils 
semblaient  avoir  apportee  de  leurs  tombeaux.  On 
sortait  de  table.  C'etaient  pourtant  des  spectres 
affames :  il  leur  fallut  un  souper,  et  qui  plus  est,  des 
lits,  qui  n'etaient  pas  prepares.  La  concierge,  deja 
couchee,  se  leva  a  grande  hate.  Gaya,  qui  avait 
offert  son  logement  pour  les  cas  pressans,  iut  force 
de  le  ceder  dans  celui-ci,  demenagea  avec  autant 
de  precipitation  et  de  deplaisir  qu'une  armee  sur- 
prise dans  son  camp,  laissant  une  partie  de  son 
bagage  au  pouvoir  de  I'ennemi.  Voltaire  s'est 
bien  trouve  du  gite;  cela  n'a  point  du  tout  console 
Gaya.  Pour  la  dame,  son  lit  ne  s'est  pas  trouve 
bien  fait :  il  a  fallu  la  deloger  aujourd'hui.  Notez 
que  ce  lit  elle  I'avait  fait  elle-meme,  faute  de  gens, 
et  avait  trouve  un  defaut  de  . . .  .  dans  les  matelas, 
ce  qui,  je  crois,  a  plus  blesse  son  esprit  exact  que 
son  corps  peu  delicat." — "Nos  revenans  ne  so 
montrent  point  de  jour,  ila  apparurent  hier  a  dix 


ni  jouer  ni  se  promener :  ce  sont  bien  des  non-va- 
leurs  dans  une  societe,  ou  leurs  doctes  ecrits  ne  sont 
d'aucun  rapport." — "Madame  du  Chatelet  est 
d'hier  a  son  troisieme  logement :  elle  ne  pouvait 
plus  supporter  celui  qu'elle  avait  choisi ;  il  y  avait 
du  bruit,  de  la  fumce  sans  feu  (il  me  semble  que 
c'est  son  embleme).  Le  bruit,  ce  n'est  pas  la  null 
qu'il  I'incommode,  a  ce  qu'elle  m'a  dit,  mais  le 
jour,  au  fort  de  son  travail :  cela  derange  ses  idees. 
Elle  fait  actuellement  la  revue  de  ses  principes  ! 
c'est  un  exercice  qu'elle  reitere  chaque  annee,  sans 
quoi  ils  pourraient  s'echapper,  etpeut-etre  s'en  allei 
si  loin  qu'elle  n'en  retrouverait  pas  un  seul.  Je 
crois  bien  que  sa  tete  est  pour  cux  une  maison  de 


MAD.  DU  DEFFAND  AND  MLLE.  DE  LESPIMASSE. 


99 


torce,  et  non  pas  le  iieu  de  leur  naissance  :  c'est  le 
cas  d«»  veiller  sois;neusement  a  leur  garde.  Elle 
prefere  le  bon;»ir  de  cette  occupation  a  tout  amuse- 
ment, et  persiste  a  ne  se  montrer  qu'a  la  nuit  close. 
Voltaire  a  fait  des  vers  galan?,  qui  reparent  un  peu 
le  mauvais  effet  de  leur  conduite  inusitee." — Vol.  i. 
pp.  178,  179.  182.  185,  186. 

After  all  this  experience  of  the  follies  of  the 
great  and  the  learnedj  this  lively  little  woman 
concludes  in  the  true  tone  of  French  practical 
pliilosophy. 

"  O  ma  reine  !  que  les  hommes  et  leurs  femelles 
sent  de  plaisans  animaux  !  Je  ris  de  leurs  manoeu- 
vres, le  jour  que  j'ai  bien  dormi;  quand  le  som- 
meil  me  manque,  je  suis  prete  a  les  assommer. 
Cette  variete  de  mes  dispositions  me  fait  voir  que 
je  ne  degenere  pas  de  mon  espece.  Moquons-nous 
des  autres,  et  qu'ils  se  moquent  de  nous ;  c'est 
bien  fait  de  loute  part !" — Vol.  i.  p.  181. 

Among  the  lady  writers  in  these  volumes, 
we  do  not  know  if  there  be  any  entitled  to 
take  precedence  of  la  Duchesse  de  Choiseul, 
who  writes  thus  learnedly  on  the  subject  of 
ennui  to  Madame  du  Delfand. 

"  Savez-vous  pourquoi  vous  vous  ennuyez  tant, 
ma  chere  enfant  ?  C'est  justement  par  la  peine 
que  vous  prenez  d'eviter,  de  prevoir,  de  combattre 
I'ennui.  Vivez  au  jour  la  journee  ;  prenez  le  temps 
comme  il  vient ;  profitez  de  tous  les  momens,  et 
avec  cela  vous  verrez  que  vous  ne  vous  ennuierez 
pas  :  si  les  circonstances  vous  sont  contraires,  cedez 
au  torrent  et  ne  pretendez  pas  y  resister." — 

"  Je  m'aper5ois,  ma  chere  enfant,  que  je  vous 
dis  des  choses  bien  communes;  mais  accoutumez- 
vous  a  les  supporter,  1°,  parce  que  je  ne  suis  pas 
en  etat  de  vous  en  dire  d'autres  ;  2°,  parce  qu'en 
morale  elles  sont  toujours  les  plus  vraies,  parce 
qu'elles  tiennent  a  la  nature.  Apres  avoir  bien 
exerce  son  esprit,  le  philosophe  le  plus  eclaire  sera 
oblige  d'en  revenir,  a  cet  egard,  a  I'axiome  du  plus 
grand  sot,  de  meme  qu'il  partage  avec  lui  I'air  qu'il 
respire." — "Les  prejuges  se  multiplient,  les  arts 
s'accroissent,  les  sciences  s'approfondissent :  mais 
la  morale  est  toujours  la  meme,  parce  que  la  nature 
ne  change  pas  ;  elle  est  toujours  reduite  a  ces  deux 
points:  etre  juste  pour  etre  bon,  etre  sage  pour 
etre  heureux.  Sadi,  poete  Persan,  dit  qite  la  sa- 
eesse  est  dejouir,  la  bonte  de  fairs  jouir:  j'yajoute 
la  justice."— 

"  II  y  a  trois  choses  dont  vous  dites  que  les  fem- 
mes  ne  conviennent  jamais :  I'une  d'entre  elles  est 
de  s'ennuyer.  Je  n'en  conviens  pas  non  plus  ici: 
malgre  vos  soupgons,  je  vols  mes  ouvriers,  je  crois 
conduire  leurs  ouvrages.  A  ma  toilette,  j'ai  cette 
petite  Corbie  qui  est  laide,  maisfraiche  comme  una 
peche,  foUe  comme  un  jeune  chien  ;  qui  chante, 
qui  rit,  qui  joue  du  clavecin,  qui  danse,  qui  saute 
au  lieu  de  marcher,  qui  ne  sait  ce  qu'elle  fait,  et 
fait  tout  avec  grace,  qui  nesait  ce  qu'elle  dit,  et  dit 
tout  avec  esprit,  et  surtout  une  naivete  charmante. 
La  nuit  je  dors,  le  jour  je  reve,  et  ces  plaisirs  si 
doux,  si  passifs,  si  betes,  sont  precisement  ceux  qui 
me  conviennent  le  mieux." — Vol.  ii.  pp.  134,  135. 

It  is  time  now  that  we  should  come  to 
Madame  du  DefFand  herself: — the  wittiest,  the 
most  selfish,  and  the  most  ennuye  of  the  whole 
party.  Her  wit,  to  be  sure,  is  very  enviable 
and  very  entertaining ;  but  it  is  really  con- 
solatory to  common  mortals,  to  find  how  little 
it  could  amuse  its  possessor.  This  did  not 
proceed  in  her,  however,  from  the  fastidious- 
ness which  is  sometimes  supposed  to  arise 
from  a  long  familiarity  with  excellence,  so 
much  as  from  a  long  habit  of  selfishness,  or 
rather  from  a  radical  want  of  heart  or  aifec- 
non.     La  Ha?pe  says  of  her,  "Qu'il  etoit  dif- 


ficile d'avoir  moins  do  sensibilite,  et  plug 
d'egoisme."  With  all  /his,  she  was  greatly 
given  to  gallantry  in  her  youth ;  though  her 
attachments,  it  would  seem,  were  of  a  kind 
not  very  likely  to  interfere  with  her  peace  of 
mind.  The  very  evening  her  first  lover  died, 
after  an  intimacy  of  twenty  years,  La  Harpe 
assures  us,  "Qu'elle  vint  souper  en  grande 
compagnie  chez  Madame  de  Marchais,  ou 
j'etais;  et  on  lui  parla  de  la  perte  qu'elle  ve- 
nait  de  faire.  Helas !  il  est  mort  ce  soir  a  six 
heures ;  sans  cela,  vous  ne  me  verriez  pas  ici 
Ce  furent  ses  propres  paroles ',  et  elle  soupa 
comme  a  son  ordinaire,  c'est-a-dire  fort  bien; 
car  elle  etait  tres-gourmande."  (Pref.  p.  xvi.) 
She  is  also  recorded  to  have  frequently  de- 
clared, that  she  could  never  bring  herself  to 
love  any  thing, — though,  in  order  to  take 
every  possible  chance,  she  had  several  times 
attempted  to  become  devote — with  no  great 
success.  This,  w^e  have  no  doubt,  is  the 
secret  of  her  ennui ;  and  a  fine  example  it  ia 
of  the  utter  w^orthlessness  of  all  talent,  ac- 
complishment, and  glory,  when  disconnected 
from  those  feelings  of  kmdness  and  generosity, 
which  are  of  themselves  sufficient  for  happi- 
ness. Madame  du  Deffand,  however,  must 
have  been  delightful  to  those  who  sought  only 
for  amusement.  Her  tone  is  admirable  ;  her 
wit  flowing  and  natural ;  and  though  a  little 
given  to  detraction,  and  not  a  little  importu- 
nate and  exigeante  towards  those  on  whose 
complaisance  she  had  claims,  there  is  always 
an  air  of  politeness  in  her  raillery,  and  of 
knowledge  of  the  world  in  her  murmurs,  that 
prevents  them  from  being  either  wearisome 
or  offensive. 

Ahnost  all  the  letters  of  her  wTiting  which 
are  published  in  these  volumes,  seem  to  have 
been  written  in  the  month  of  July  1742, 
when  she  spent  a  few  weeks  at  the  waters  of 
Forges,  and  wrote  almost  daily  to  the  Presi- 
dent Henault  at  Paris.  This  close  corres- 
pondence of  theirs  fills  one  of  these  volumes ; 
and,  considering  the  rapidity  and  carelessness 
with  which  both  parties  must  have  WTitten,  * 

must  give,  we  should  think,  a  very  correct, 
and  certainly  a  very  favourable  idea  of  the 
style  of  their  ordinary  conversation.  We 
shall  give  a  few  extracts  very  much  at  ran- 
dom. She  had  made  the  journey  along  with 
a  Madame  de  Pequigni,  of  whom  she  gives 
the  following  account. 

"  Mais  venons  a  un  article  bien  plus  interessant, 
c'est  ma  compagne.  O  mon  Dieu !  qu'elle  me 
deplait !  Elle  est  radicalement  folle  ;  elle  ne  con- 
noit  point  d'heure  pour  ses  repas ;  elle  a  dejeune  a 
Gisors  a  huit  heures  du  matin,  avec  du  veau  froid  ; 
a  Gournay,  elle  a  mange  du  pain  trempe  dans  le 
pot,  pour  nourrir  un  Limousin,  ensuite  un  morceau 
de  brioche,  et  puis  trois  assez  grands  biscuits.  Nous 
arrivons,  il  n'est  que  deux  heures  et  demie,  et  elle 
veut  du  riz  el  une  capilotade  ;  elle  mange  comme 
un  singe ;  ses  mains  ressemblent  a  leurs  pattes ;  elle 
ne  cesse  de  bavarder.  Sa  pretention  est  d'avoir  de 
r imagination,  et  de  voir  toutes  choses  sous  des  faces 
singulieres,  et  comme  la  nouveaute  des  idees  lui 
manque,  elle  y  supplee  par  la  bizarrerie  de  I'ex- 
pression,  sous  pretexte  qu'elle  est  naturelle.  Elle 
me  declare  toutes  ses  fantaisies,  en  m'assurant 
qu'elle  ne  veut  que  ce  qui  me  convient ;  mais  ja 
crains  d'etre  force  a  etre  sa  complaisante;  cepea 


too 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPm'. 


aant  je  conipte  bien  que  cela  ne  s'etendra  pas  sur 
ce  qui  interessera  mon  regime.  Ella  comptoit  tout 
a  I'heure  s'etablir  dans  ma  chambre  pour  y  fairs 
ses  repas,  mais  je  lui  ai  dit  que  j'allois  ecrire  :  je 
I'ai  price  de  laire  dire  a  Madame  Laroche  les  heures 
ou  elle  vouloit  manger  et  ce  qu'elle  voudroit  man- 
ger, et  ou  elle  vouloit  manger ;  et  que,  pour  moi, 
je  comptois  avoir  la  meme  liberie  :  en  consequence 
je  manaerai  du  riz  et  un  poulet  a  huit  heures  du 
soir."— Vol.  ii.  pp.  191,  192. 

After  a  few  days  she  returns  again  to  this 
unfortunate  companion. 

"  La  Pequigni  n'est  d'aucune  ressource,  et  son 
esprit  est  comme  I'espace  :  il  y  a  etendue,  profon- 
deur,  et  peut-etre  toutes  les  autres  dimensions  que 
je  ne  saurais  dire,  parce  que  je  ne  les  sais  pas ; 
mais  cela  n'est  que  du  vide  pour  I'usage.  Elle 
a  tout  senti,  tout  juge,  tout  eprouve,  tout  choisi, 
tout  rejete  ;  elle  est,  dit-elle,  d'une  difficulte  sin- 
guliere  en  compagnie,  et  cependant  elle  est  toute 
la  journee  avec  toutes  nos  petites  madames  a 
jaboter  comme  une  pie.  Mais  ce  n'est  pas  cela 
qui  me  deplait  en  elle :  cela  m'est  commode  des 
aujourd'hui,  et  cela  me  sera  tres  agreable  sitot 
que  Formont  sera  arrive.  Ce  qui  m'est  insup- 
portable, c'est  le  diner ;  elle  a  I'air  d'une  folle 
en  mangeant ;  elle  depece  une  poularde  dans  le 
plat  ou  on  la  sert,  ensuite  elle  la  met  dans  un  autre, 
se  fait  rapporter  du  bouillon  pour  mettre  dessus, 
tout  semblable  a  celui  qu'elle  rend,  et  puis  elle 
prend  un  haut  d'aile,  ensuite  le  corps  dont  elle  ne 
mange  que  la  moitie  ;  et  puis  elle  ne  veut  pas  que 
Ton  retourne  le  veau  pour  couper  un  os,  de  peur 
qu'on  n'amollisse  la  peau ;  elle  coupe  un  os  avec 
toute  la  peine  possible,  elle  le  I'onge  a  demi,  puis 
retourne  a  sa  poularde ;  apres  elle  ^ele  tout  le 
dessus  du  veau,  ensuite  elle  revient  a  ronger  sa 
poularde  :  cela  dure  deux  heures.  Elle  a  sur  son 
assiette  des  morceaux  d'os  rongees,  du  peaux  su- 
cees,  et  pendant  ce  temps,  ou  je  m'ennuie,  a  la 
mort,  ou  je  mange  plus  qu'il  ne  faudrait.  C'est 
une  curiosite  de  lui  voir  manger  un  biscuit;  cela 
dure  une  dcmi-heure,  et  le  total,  c'est  qu'elle 
mange  comme  un  loup:  il  est  vrai  qu'elle  fait  un 
exercice  enrage.  Je  suis  f^chee  que  vous  ayez  de 
commun  avec  elle  I'impossibilite  de  rester  une 
minute  en  repos." — Vol.  iii.  pp.  39 — 41. 

The  rest  of  her  company  do  not  come  any 
better  off.  The  lady  she  praises  most,  seems 
to  come  near  to  the  English  character. 

**  Madame  de  Bancour  a  trente  ans;  elle  n'est 
pas  vilaine  ;  elle  est  tres  douce  et  tres  polie,  et  ce 
n'est  pas  sa  faute  de  n'etre  pas  plus  amusante ; 
c'est  faute  d' avoir  rien  vu :  car  elle  a  du  bon  sens, 
n'a  nulle  pretention,  et  est  fort  naturelle  ;  son  ton 
de  vo\x  est  doux,  naif  et  meme  un  peu  niais,  dans 
le  gout  de  Jeliot ;  si  elle  avaitvecu  dans  le  monde, 
elle  serait  aimable :  je  lui  fais  conter  sa  vie  ;  elle 
est  occupee  de  ses  devoirs,  sans  austerite  ni  osten- 
tation ;  si  elle  ne  m'ennuyait  pas,  elle  me  plairait 
assez." — Vol.  iii.  p.  26. 

The  following  are  some  of  her  wailings 
over  her  banishment. 

"  II  me  prend  des  etonnemens  funestes  d'etre  ici : 
c'est  comme  la  pensee  de  la  mort ;  si  je  ne  m'en 
distrayais,  j'en  mourrais  reellement.  Vous  nesau- 
riez  vous  figurer  la  tristesse  de  ce  sejour ;  mais  si 
fait,  puisque  vous  etes  a  Plombieres :  mais  non ; 
c'est  que  ce  n'est  point  le  lieu,  c'est  la  compagnie 
dort  il  est  impossible  de  faire  aucun  usage.  Heu- 
reusement  depuis  que  je  suis  ici,  j'ai  un  certain 
hebetement  qui  ferait  que  je  n'entendrais  pas  le  plus 
Betit  raisonnement :  je  vegete." — "Je  ne  crois 
pas  qu'aucun  remede  puisse  etre  bon  lorsqu'on 
K'ennuie  autant  que  je  fais:  ce  n'est  pas  que  je 
§upporte  mon  mal  patiemment ;  mais  jamais  je  ne 
suis  bien-aise,  et  ce  n'est  que  parce  que  je  vegete 
que  je  suis  tranquille  :  quand  dix  heurea  arrivent  je 


suis  ravie,  je  vols  la  fin  ae  la  journee  avec  oelres. 
Si  je  n' avals  pas  mon  lit  et  mon  fauteuil,  je  seraia 
cent  fois  plus  malheureuse." — Vol.  iii.  pp.  96 — 98. 

The  following,  though  short,  is  a  good  spec^ 
imen  of  the  tone  in  which  she  treats  hei 
lover. 

"  Je  crois  que  vous  me  regrettez,  c'«;st-a-dire, 
que  vous  pensez  beaucoup  a  moi.  Mais  (comme 
de  raison)  vous  vous  divertissez  fort  bien  :  vous  etea 
comme  les  quieiistes,  vous  faites  tout  en  moi,  pour 
moi  et  par  moi  ^  mais  le  fait  est  que  vous  faites  tout 
sans  moi  et  que  vos  journees  se  passent  gaiement, 
que  vous  jouissez  d'une  certaine  liberie  qui  voua 
plait,  et  vous  etes  fort  aise  que  pendant  ce  temps-la. 
je  travaille  a  me  bien  porter.  Mes  nuits  ne  sont 
pastrop  bonnes,  et  je  crois  que  c'est  que  je  mange 
un  peu  trop :  hier  je  me  suis  retranche  le  bcEuf,  au- 
jourd'hui je  compte  reformer  la  quantile  de  pain." 
— "  N'allez  point  vous  corriger  sur  rien,  j'aime  que 
vous  me  parliez  ormeaux,  ruisseaux,  moineaux,  etc., 
et  ce  m'est  une  occasion  tres-agreable  de  vous  don- 
ner  des  dementis,  de  vous  conlbndre,  de  vous  lour- 
menter,  c'est  je  crois  ce  qui  contribue  le  plus  a  me 
faire  passer  mes  eaux." — Vol.  iii.  pp.  126, 127.  129. 

We  have  scarcely  left  ourselves  room  to 
give  any  of  the  gentleman's  part  of  this  cor- 
respondence. It  is  very  pleasingly  and  gaily 
sustained  by  him, — though  he  deals  mostly  in 
the  tittle-tattle  of  Paris,  and  appears  a  little 
vain  of  his  own  currency  and  distinction.  We 
extract  the  following  paragraphs,  just  as  they 
turn  up  to  us. 

"  Je  ne  crois  pas  que  Ton  puisse  etre  heureux  en 
province  quand  on  a  passe  sa  vie  a  Paris ;  mais 
heureux  qui  n'a  jamais  connu  Paris,  et  qui  n'ajoute 
pas  necessairem.ent  a  cette  vie  les  maux  chime- 
riques,  qui  sont  les  plus  grands !  car  on  peut  guerir  un 
seigneur  qui  gemit  de  ce  qu'il  a  ete  grele,  en  lui 
faisant  voir  qu'il  se  trompe,  et  que  sa  vigne  est  cou- 
verte  de  raisin  ;  mais  la  grele  metaphysique  ne  peut 
etre  combattue.  La  nature,  ou  la  providence  n'est 
pas  si  injuste  qu'on  le  veut  dire;  n'y  mettons  rien 
du  notre,  et  nous  serons  moins  a  plaindre ;  et  puis 
regardons  le  terme  qui  approche,  le  marteau  qui  va 
frapper  I'heure,  et  pensons  que  tout  cela  va  dis- 
paraitre. 

"  Ah !  I'inconcevable  Pont  de  Veyle  !  il  vient  dc 
donner  une  parade  chez  M.  le  due  d' Orleans:  cettc 
scene  que  vous  connaissez  du  vendeur  d'orvietan. 
Au  lieu  du  Forcalquier,  c'eiait  le  petit  Gauffin  qui 
faisait  le  Giles ;  et  Pont  de  Veyle  a  distribue  au 
moins  deux  cents  boites  avec  un  couplet  pour  tout 
le  monde:  il  est  plus  jeune  que  quand  vous  I'avez 
vu  la  premiere  fois  ;  il  s^ amuse  de  tout;  iCaime  rien; 
et  n'a  conserve  de  la  memoire  de  la  defunte  que  la 
haine  pour  la  musique  fran§aise." — Vol.  i.  pp. 
110,  111. 

At  the  end  of  the  letters,  there  are  placed 
a  variety  of  yjcrtraits,  or  characters  of  the  most 
distinguished  persons  in  Madame  du  Def- 
fand's  society,  written  by  each  other — some- 
times with  great  freedom,  and  sometimea 
with  much  flattery — but  almost  always  with 
wit  and  penetration.  We  give  the  following 
by  Madame  du  DefTand  as  a  specimen, 
chiefly  because  it  is  shorter  than  most  of  the 
others. 

"Madame  la  Duchesse  d'Aiguillon  a  la  bDucho 
enfonce,  le  nez  de  travers,  le  regard  fol  et  hardi,— 
et  malgre  cela  elle  est  belle.  L'eclat  de  son  teint 
I'emporte  sur  I'irregularite  de  ces  traits. 

"  Sa  taille  est  grossiere,  sa  gorge,  ses  bras  sont 
enormes;  cependant  elle  n'a  ^oint  I'air  pesant  ni 
epais :  la  force  supplee  en  elle  a  la  legcrete. 

"  Son  esprit  a  beaucoup  de  rapport  a  sa  fig  jre  :  ij 
est  pour  ainsi  dire  aussi  mal  dcssine  que  son  visage 


MAD.  DU  DEFFAND  AND  MLLE.  LESPINASSE. 


101 


fit  aussi  eclatant :  I'abondance,  I'activi.e,  I'impetu- 
osite  en  son*  les  qualites  dominantes.  Sans  gout, 
sans  grace,  et  sans  justesse,  elle  etonne,  elle  sur- 
prend,  mais  elle  ne  plait  ni  n'interesse. 

"On  pourrait  comparer  Madame  la  Duchesse 
d'Aiguillon  a  ces  statues  faites  pour  lecintre,  etqui 
paraissent  monstrueuses  etant  dans  le  parvis-  Sa 
figure  ni  son  esprit  ne  veulent  point  etre  vus  ni  ex- 
amines de  troppres  ;  unecertaine  distance  est  neces- 
saire  a  sa  beaute:  des  juges  peu  eclaires  et  peu 
delicats  sont  les  seuls  qui  puissent  etre  favorables  a 
son  esprit. 

"  Semblable  ala  trompette  du  jugement,  elle  est 
faite  pour  resusciter  les  morts  ;  ce  sont  les  inipuis- 
fians  qui  doivent  I'aimer,  ce  sont  les  sourds  qui  doi- 
vent  I'entendre." — Vol.  iii.  pp.  154 — 156. 

There  are  three  characters  of  Madame  du 
DefFand  herself,  all  very  flattering.  That  by 
the  President  Henault  is  the  least  so.  It  ends 
as  follows. 

"  Cependant,  pour  ne  pas  marquer  trop  de  pre- 
vention et  obtenir  plus  de  croyance,  j'ajouterai  que 
I'age,  sans  lui  oter  ses  talens,  I'avait  rendue  ja- 
louse  et  mefiante,  cedant  a  ses  premiers  mouve- 
mens,  maladroite  pour  conduire  les  hommes  dont 
elle  disposait  naturellement ;  enfin  de  I'humeur 
inegale,  injuste,  ne  cessant  d'etre  aimable  qu'aux 
yeux  des  personnes  auxquelles  il  lui  importait  de 
plaire,  et,  pour  finir,  la  personne  par  laquelle  j'ai 
ete  le  plus  heureux  et  le  plus  malheureux,  parce 
qu'elle  est  ce  que  j'ai  leplus  aime." — Vol.  iii.  p.  188. 

He  is  infinitely  more  partial  to  a  Madame 
de  Flamarens,  whose  character  he  begins 
with  great  elegance  as  follows. 

"  Madame  de  Flamarens  a  le  visage  le  plus 
touchant  et  le  plus  modeste  quifut  jamais  ;  c'est  un 
genre  de  beaute  que  la  nature  n'a  attrape  qu'une 
fois  :  il  y  a  dans  ses  traits  quelque  chose  de  rare  et 
de  mysterieux,  qui  aurait  fait  dire,  dans  les  temps 
fabuleux,  qu'une  immortelle,  sous  cette  forme,  ne 
s'etait  pas  assez  deguisee!" — Vol.  iii.  p.  196. 

We  take  our  leave  now  of  these  volumes : 
and  of  the  brilliant  circle  and  brilliant  days 
of  Madame  du  Deffand.  Such  a  society  pro- 
bably never  will  exist  again  in  the  world  : — 
nor  can  we  say  we  are  very  sorry  for  it. 
It  was  not  very  moral,,  we  are  afraid ;  and  we 
have  seen,  that  the  most  distinguished  mem- 
bers of  it  were  not  very  happy.  When  we 
say  that  it  must  have  been  in  the  highest  de- 
gree delightful  to  those  who  sought  only  for 
amusement,  we  wish  it  to  be  understood,  not 
only  that  amusement  does  not  constitute  hap- 
piness, but  that  it  can  afford  very  little  plea- 
sure to  those  who  have  not  other  sources  of 
happiness.  The  great  extent  of  the  accom- 
plished society  of  Paris,  and  the  familiarity 
of  its  intercourse,  seems  to  have  gradually 
brought  almost  all  its  members  to  spend  their 
whole  lives  in  public.  They  had  no  notion, 
therefore,  of  domestic  enjoyments ;  and  their 
affections  being  dissipated  among  so  many 
competitors,  and  distracted  by  such  an  inces- 
sant variety  of  small  occupations,  came  natur- 
ally to  be  weakened  and  exhausted  ',  and  a 
certain  heartless  gaiety  to  be  extended  indis- 
criminately to  the  follies  and  the  misfortunes 
of  their  associates.  Bating  some  little  fits  of 
gallantry,  therefore,  there  could  be  no  devo- 
tedness  of  attachment ;  and  no  profound  sym- 
pathy for  the  sufferings  of  the  most  intimate 
friends.  Every  thing,  we  find  accordingly, 
was  made  i  subject  for  epigrams;  and  those 


who  did  not  make  jests  at  their  friends'  ca- 
lamities, were  glad,  at  any  rate,  to  forget  thera 
in  the  society  of  those  who  did.  When  wo 
recollect,  too,  that  the  desertion  of  all  the  high 
duties  of  patriots  and  statesmen,  and  the  in« 
suiting  and  systematic  degradation  of  the  great 
oody  of  the  people  were  necessary  conditions 
of  the  excellence  of  this  society,  we  cannot 
hesitate  in  saying,  that  its  brilliancy  was 
maintained  at  far  too  great  a  cost ,  and  that 
the  fuel  which  was  waited  in  its  support, 
would  have  been  infinitely  better  applied  in 
diffusing  a  gentler  light,  and  a  more  genial 
heat,  through  the  private  dwellings  of  the 
land. 

We  have  occupied  ourselves  so  long  with 
Madame  du  Deffand  and  her  associates,  that 
we  can  afford  but  a  small  portion  of  our  atten- 
tion for  Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse.  A  very 
extraordinary  person  we  will  allow  her  to  have 
been ;  and  a  most  extraordinary  publication 
she  has  left  us  to  consider.  On  a  former  oc- 
casion, we  took  some  notice  of  the  account 
which  Marmontel  had  given  of  her  character 
and  conduct,  and  expressed  our  surprise  that 
any  one,  who  had  acted  the  unprincipled  and 
selfish  part  which  he  imputes  to  her,  should 
be  thought  worthy,  either  of  the  admiration 
he  expresses,  or  of  the  friendship  and  patron- 
age of  so  many  distinguished  characters,  or 
of  the  devoted  attachment  of  such  a  man  as 
D'Alembert.  After  reading  these  letters,  we 
see  much  reason  to  doubt  of  the  accuracy  of 
MarmontePs  representation ;  but,  at  the  same 
time,  find  great  difficulty  in  settling  our  own 
opinion  of  the  author.  Marmontel  describes 
her  as  having  fiist  made  a  vain  attempt  upon 
the  heart  of  M.  de  Guibert,  the  celebrated 
author  of  the  Tactics, — and  the7i  endeavoured 
to  indemnify  herself  by  making  a  conquest  of 
M.  de  Mora,  the  son  of  the  Spanish  ambassa- 
dor, upon  whose  death  she  is  stated  to  have 
died  of  mortification ;  and,  in  both  cases,  she 
is  represented  as  having  been  actuated  more 
by  a  selfish  and  paltry  ambition,  than  by  any 
feeling  of  affection.  The  dates,  and  the  tenor 
of  the  letters  before  us,  enable  us  to  detect 
many  inaccuracies  in  this  statement;  while 
they  throw  us  into  new  perplexity  as  to  the 
true  character  of  the  writer.  They  begin  in 
1773,  after  M.  de  Mora  had  been  recalled  to 
Spain  by  his  relations,  and  when  her  whole 
soul  seems  to  be  occupied  with  anguish  for 
this  separation ;  and  they  are  all  addressed  to 
M.  de  Guibert,  who  had  then  recently  recom- 
mended himself  to  her,  by  the  tender  interest 
he  took  in  her  affliction.  From  the  very  be- 
ginning, however,  there  is  more  of  love  in 
them,  than  we  can  well  reconcile  with  the 
subsistence  of  her  first  engrossing  passion; 
and,  long  before  the  death  of  M.  Mora,  she 
expresses  the  most  vehement,  unequivocal, 
and  passionate  attachment  to  M.  Guibert. 
Sometimes  she  has  fits  of  remorse  for  this; 
but,  for  the  most  part,  she  seems  quite  uncon- 
scious, either  of  inconsistency  or  impropriety: 
and  M.  Guibert  is,  in  the  same  letter,  ad- 
dressed in  terms  of  the  most  passionate  ado- 
ration, and  made  the  confident  of  her  un- 
speakable, devoted,  and  unalterable  love  for 


102 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


M.  Mora.  So  she  goes  on, — most  furiously  and 
outrageoufely  in  love  with  them  both  at  the 
same  time, — till  the  death  of  M.  Mora,  in 
1774.  This  event,  however,  makes  no  differ- 
ence in  her  feelings  or  expressions  3  she  con- 
tinues to  love  his  memory,  just  as  ardently  as 
his  living  successor  in  her  affection ;  and  her 
letters  are  divided,  as  before,  between  ex- 
pressions of  heart-rending  grief  and  unbounded 
attachment — between  her  besoi7i  de  mourir  for 
M.  Mora,  and  her  delight  in  hving  for  M. 
Guibert.  There  are  still  more  inexplicable 
things  in  those  letters.  None  of  Guibert' s 
letters  are  given, — so  that  we  cannot  see  how 
he  responded  lo  all  these  raptures;  but,  from 
the  very  first,  or  almost  from  the  first,  she 
complains  bitterly  of  his  coldness  and  dissipa- 
tion ',  laments  that  he  has  a  heart  incapable 
of  tenderness ;  and  that  he  feels  nothing  but 
gratitude  or  compassion  for  a  being  whom  he 
had  fascinated,  exalted,  and  possessed  with 
the  most  ardent  and  unbounded  passion.  We 
cannot  say  that  we  see  any  clear  traces  of  her 
ever  having  hoped,  or  even  wished  that  he 
should  marry  her.  On  the  contrary,  she  re- 
commends several  wives  to  him ;  and  at  last 
he  takes  one,  wdth  her  approbation  and  con- 
sent, while  the  correspondence  goes  on  in  the 
same  tone  as  before.  The  vehemence  and 
excess  of  her  passion  continue  to  the  last  of 
the  letters  here  published,  which  come  down 
to  within  a  few  weeks  of  her  death,  in  1776. 
The  account  which  we  have  here  given  ap- 
pears ridiculous:  and  there  are  people,  and 
wise  people,  who,  even  after  looking  into  the 
book,  will  think  Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse 
deserving  of  nothing  but  ridicule,  and  consign 
her  and  her  ravings  to  immeasurable  con- 
tempt. Gentle  spirits,  however,  will  judge 
more  gentlyj  and  there  are  few,  we  believe, 
who  feel  interest  enough  in  the  work  to  read 
it  through,  who  will  not  lay  it  down  with 
emotions  of  admiration  and  profound  com- 
passion. Even  if  we  did  not  know  that  she 
was  the  chosen  companion  of  D'Alembert, 
and  the  respected  friend  of  Turgot,  Condillac, 
Condorcet,  and  the  first  characters  in  France, 
there  are,  in  the  strange  book  before  us,  such 
traces  of  a  powerful,  generous,  and  ardent 
mind,  as  necessarily  to  command  the  respect 
even  of  those  who  may  be  provoked  with  her 
inconsistencies,  and  wearied  out  with  the  ve- 
hemence of  her  sorrow.  There  is  something 
80  natural  too,  so  eloquent,  and  so  pathetic  in 
her  expression — a  tone  of  ardour  and  enthusi- 
asm so  infectious,  and  so  much  of  the  true 
and  agonizing  voice  of  heart-struck  wretched- 
ness, that  it  burdens  us  with  something  of  the 
weight  of  a  real  sorrow ;  and  we  are  glad  to 
make  ourselves  angry  at  her  unaccountable- 
ness,  in  order  to  get  rid  of  the  oppression.  It 
ought  to  be  recollected  also,  that  during  the 
whole  course  of  the  correspondence,  this  poor 
young  woman  was  dying  of  a  painful  and  ir- 
ritating disease.  Tortured  with  sickness,  or 
agitated  with  opium,  her  blood  never  seems 
in  all  that  time  to  have  flowed  peaceably  in 
^er  veins,  and  her  nerves  and  her  passions 
teem  to  nave  reacted  upon  each  other  in  a 
series  of  cruel  agitations.    Why  she  is  so  very 


wretched,  and  so  very  angry,  we  do  not  it 
deed  always  understand ;  but  there  is  no  iiiipi« 
taking  the  language  and  real  emotion;  anc' 
while  there  is  something  wearisome,  perhaps, 
in  the  uniformity  of  a  vehemence  of  which  we 
do  not  clearly  see  the  cause,  there  is  some- 
thing tmly  dechirant  in  the  natural  and  pite- 
ous iteration  of  her  eloquent  complainings, 
and  something  captivating  and  noble  in  the 
fire  and  rapidity  with  which  she  pours  out  her 
emotions.  The  style  is  as  original  and  extra- 
ordinary as  the  character  of  its  author.  It  is 
quite  natural,  and  even  negligent — altogether 
without  gaiety  or  assumed  dignity — and  yet 
full  of  elegance  and  spirit,  and  burning  with 
the  flames  of  a  heart  abandoned  to  passion, 
and  an  imagination  exalted  by  enthusiasm. 
It  is  not  easy  to  fall  into  the  measure  of  such 
a  composer,  in  running  over  a  miscellany  of 
amusement;  but  we  cannot  avoid  adduig  a 
few  extracts,  if  it  were  only  to  make  what 
we  have  been  saying  intelligible,  to  some  at 
least  of  our  readers. 

"  Je  me  sentois  une  repugnance  mortelie  a  ouvrir 
votre  lettre :  si  je  n'avois  craint  de  vous  offenser, 
j'allois  vous  la  renvoyer.  Quelque  chose  me  disoit 
qu'elle  irriteroit  mes  maux,  et  je  voulois  me  me- 
nager.  La  souffrance  continuelle  de  mon  corps 
affaisse  mon  ame  :  j'ai  encore  eu  la  fievre  ;  je  n'ai 
pas  ferme  I'ceil ;  je  n'en  puis  plus.  De  grace,  par 
pitie,  ne  tourmentez  plus  une  vie  qui  s'eteint,  et  dont 
tous  les  instans  sont  devoues  a  la  douleur  et  aux 
regrets.  Je  ne  vous  accuse  point,  je  n'exige  rien, 
vous  ne  me  devez  rien  :  car,  en  effet,  je  n'ai  pas  eu 
un  mouvement,  pas  un  sentiment  auquel  j'ai  con- 
senti ;  et  quand  j'ai  eu  le  malheur  d'y  ceder,  j'ai 
toujours  deteste  la  force,  ou  la  foiblesse,  qui  m'en- 
trainoit.  Vous  voyez  que  vous  ne  me  devez  aucune 
reconnaissance,  et  que  je  n'ai  le  droit  de  vous  faire 
aucun  reproche.  Soyez  done  libre,  retournez  a  ce 
que  vous  aimez,  et  a  ce  qui  vous  convient  plus  que 
vous  ne  croyez  peut-etre.  Laissez-moi  a  ma  dou- 
leur ;  laissez-moi  m'occuper  sans  distraction  du  seul 
objet  que  j'ai  adore,  et  dont  le  souvenir  m'est  plus 
cher  que  tout  ce  qui  reste  dans  la  nature.  Men 
Dieu!  je  ne  devrois  pas  le  pleurer;  j'aurois  du  le 
suivre  :  c'est  vous  qui  me  faites  vivre,  qui  faites  le 
tourment  d'une  creature  que  la  douleur  consume, 
et  qui  emploie  ce  qui  lui  reste  de  forces  a  invoquer 
la  mort.  Ah !  vous  en  faites  trop,  et  pas  assez  pour 
moi.  Je  vous  le  disois  bien  il  y  a  huit  jours,  vous 
me  rendez  difficile,  exigeante  :  en  donnant  tout,  on 
veut  obtenir  quelque  chose.  Mais,  encore  une  fois, 
je  vous  pardonne,  et  je  ne  vous  hais  point :  ce  n'est 
pas  par  generosite  que  je  vous  pardonne,  ce  n'est 
pas  par  bonto  que  je  ne  vous  hais  pas ;  c'est  que 
mon  ame  est  lasse,  qu'elle  meurt  de  fatigue.  Ah ! 
mon  ami,  laissez-moi,  ne  me  dites  plus  que  vous 
m'aimez  :  ce  baume  devient  du  poison ;  vous  calmez 
et  dechirez  ma  plaie  tour  a  tour.  Oh  !  que  vous 
me  faites  mal !  que  la  vie  me  pese !  que  je  voua 
aime  pourtant,  et  que  je  serois  desolee  de  mettre  de 
la  tristesse  dans  voire  ame  !  Mon  ami,  elle  est  trop 
partagee,  trop  dissipee,  pour  que  le  vrai  plaisir  y 
puisse  perietrer.  Vous  voulez  que  je  vous  voie  ce 
soir  ;  et  bien,  venez  done  !" — Vol.  ii,  pp.  206 — 208. 

"  Combien  de  fois  aurois-je  pu  me  plaindre ;  com- 
bien  de  fois  vous  ai-je  cache  mes  lannes  !  Ah  !  je 
le  vois  trop  bien:  on  ne  sauroit  ni  retenir,  ni  ra- 
mener  un  cceur  qui  est  entraine  par  un  autre  pen- 
chant ;  je  me  le  dis  sans  cesse,  quelquefois  je  me 
crois  gucrie ;  vous  paroissez,  et  tout  est  detruit. 
La  reflexion,  mes  resolutions,  le  malheur,  tout  perd 
sa  force  an  premier  mot  que  vous  prononcez.  Je 
ne  vois  plus  d'asile  que  la  mort,  et  jamais  aucun 
malheureux  ne  I'a  iiivoquee  avec  plus  d'ardeui 
Je  retiens  la  moiiie  de  mon  ame:  sa  chaieur,  son 
mouvement  vous  importuneroit,  et  vous  ete/ndrw 


MAD.  DU  DEFFAND  AND  MLLE.  DE  LESPINASSE. 


lOJ 


•a-fait :  le  fe 


qui  n'echauffe  pas,  incommode,    the  heart;  and,  when  we  think  that  t.lis  ex- 
traordinary woman  wrote  all  this,  not  in  the 


tout 

Ah  !  si  vous  saviez,  si  vous  lisiez  comiiio  j'ai  tait 
jouir  une  ame  tone  et  passionnee,  du  plaisir  d'etre 
aimee!  11  comparoit  ce  qui  I'avoit  aime,  ce  qui 
I'aimoit  encore,  et  il  me  disoit  sans  ccsse :  '  Oh ! 
elles  ne  sont  pas  dignes  d'etre  yos  ecolieres  ;  votre 
ame  a  ete  chauffee  par  le  soleil  de  Lima,  et  mes 
compatriotes  semblent  efre  nees  sous  les  glaces  de 
la  Laponie.'  Et  c'etoit  de  Madrid  qu'il  me  mandoit 
cela!  Mon  ami,  il  ne  me  louoit  pas;  il  jouissoit; 
et  je  ne  crois  point  me  louer,  quand  je  vous  dis 
qu'en  vous  aimant  a  la  folie,  je  ne  vous  donne  que 
ce  que  je  ne  puis  pas  garder  ou  relenir." — Vol.  ii. 
pp.  215—217. 

"  Oh,  mon  Dieu !  que  I'on  \'\lfort  lorsqu'on  est 
mort  a  tout,  excepte  a  un  objet  qui  est  I'univers 
pour  nous,  et  qui  s'empare  tellement  de  toutes 
nos  facultes,  qu'il  n'est  plus  possible  de  vivre  dans 
d'autres  temps  que  dans  le  moment  ou  Von  est! 
Eh !  comment  voulez-vous  que  je  vous  dise  si  je 
vous  aimerai  dans  trois  7nois  ?     Comment  pourrois- 
je,  avec  ma  pensee,  me  distraire  de  mon  senti- 
ment ?     Vous  voudriez  que,  lorsque  je  vous  vois, 
lorsque  votre  presence  charme  mes  sens  et  mon 
ame,  je  pusse  vous  rendre  compte  de  I'efTet  que  je 
recevrai  de  votre  mariage ;  mon  ami,  je  n'en  sais 
rien, — mais  rien  du  tout.     S'il  me   guerissoit,  je 
vous  le  dirois,  et  vous  etes  asscz  juste  pour  ne  m'en 
pas'blamer.     Si,  au  contraire,  il  portoit  le  desespoir 
dans  mon  ame,  je  ne  me  plaindrois  pas,  et  je  soufTri- 
rois  bien  peu  de  temps.     Alors  vous  seriez  assez 
sensible  et  assez  delicat  pour  approuver  un  parti  qui 
ne  vous  couteroit  que  des  regrets  passagers,  et  dont 
votre  nouvelle  situation  vous  distrairoit  bien  vite  ;  et 
je  vous  assure  que  cette  pensee  est  consolante  pour 
moi:  je  m'en  sens  plus  libre.     Ne  me  demandez 
done  plus  ce  que  je  ferai  lorsque  vous  aurez  engage 
votre  vie  a  une  autre.    Si  je  n'avois  que  de  la  vanite 
et  de  I'amour-propre,  je  serois  bien  plus  eclairee  sur 
ce  que  j'eprouverai  alors.    II  n'y  a  guere  de  meprise 
aux   calculs   de   1' amour-propre  ;  il  prevoit  assez 
juste:  la  passion  n'a  point  d'avenir;  ainsi  en  vous 
disant :  je  vous  aime,  je  vous  dis  tout  ce  que  je  sais 
et  tout  ce  que  je  sens. — Oh  !  mon  ami,  je  me  sens 
capable  de  tout,  excepte  de  plier:  j'aurois  la  force 
d'un  martyr,  pour  satisfaire  ma  passion  ou  celle  de 
la  personne  qui  m'aimeroit:  mais  je  ne  trouve  rien 
en  moi  qui  me  reponde  de  pouvoir  jamais  faire  le 
sacrifice  de  mon  sentiment.     La  vie  n'est  rien  en 
comparaison,  et  vous  verrez  si  ce  ne  sont  la  que  les 
discours  d'une  tete  exaltee.     Oui,  peut-etre  ce  sont 
la  les  pensees  d'une  ame  exaltee,  mais  a  laquelle 
appartiennent  les  actions  fortes.    Seroit-ce  a  la  rai- 
son  qui  est  si  prevoyante,  si  foible  dans  ses  vues,  et 
meme  si  impuissante  dans  ses  moyens,  que  ces 
pensees  pourroient  appartenir  ?   Mon  ami,  je  ne  suis 
point  raisonnable,  et  c'est  peut-etre  a  force  d'etre 
passionnee  que  j'ai  mis  toute  ma  vie  tant  de  raison  a 
tout  ce  qui  est  soumis  au  jugement  et  a  I'opinion  des 
indiffcrens.     Combien  j'ai  usurpe  d'eloges  sur  ma 
moderation,  sur  ma  noblesse  d'ame,  sur  mon  desin- 
teressement,  sur  les  sacrifices   pretendus  que^  je 
faisois  a  une  memoire  respectable  et  chere,  et  a  la 

maison  d'Alb !     Voila  comme  le  monde  juge, 

comme  il  voit !  Eh,  bon  Dieu  !  sots  que  vous  etes, 
je  ne  merite  pas  vos  louanees:  mon  ame  n'etoit 
pas  faite  pour  les  petits  interets  qui  vous  occupent ; 
toute  entiere  au  bonheur  d'aimer  et  d'etre,  aime  il 
ne  m'afallu  ni  force,  ni  honnetete  pour  supporter 
la  pauvrete,  et  pour  dedaigner  les  avantages  de  la 
vanite.  J'ai  tant  joui,  j'ai  si  bien  senti  le  prix  de  la 
vie,  que  s'il  falloit  recommencer,  je  voudrois  que  ce 
flit  aux  memes  conditions.  Aimer  et  souffrir — le 
ciel,  I'enfer, — voila  a  quoi  je  me  devouerois,  voila 
ce  que  je  voudrois  sentir,  voila  le  climat  que  je  vou- 
drois habiter  ;  et  non  c§t  etat  tempere  dans  lequel 
vivent  tous  les  sots  et  tons  les  automates  dont  nous 
tommes  environnes." — Vol.  ii.  pp.  228 — 233. 

AU  this  is  raving  no  doubt ;  but  it  is  the 
raving  of  real  passion,  and  of  a  lofty  and 
pwerful  spirit.     It  is  the  eloquent  raving  of 


not  in 
days  of  impatient  youth,  when  the  heart  is 
strong  for  suffering,  and  takes  a  strange  de- 
light in  the  vehemence  even  of  its  painful 
emotions,  but  after  years  of  misery,  and  with 
death  before  her  eyes — advancing  by  gradual 
but  visible  steps,  it  is  impossible  not  to  feel 
an  indescribable  emotion  of  pity,  resentment, 
and  admiration.     One  little  word  more. 

"Oh!  que  vous  pesez  sur  mon  coeur,  lorsque 
vous  voulez  me  prouver  qu'il  doit  etre  content  du 
voire  !  Je  ne  me  plaindrois  jamais,  mais  vous  me 
forcez  souvent  a  crier,  tant  le  mal  que  vous  me 
faites  est  aigu  et  profond !  Mon  ami,  j'ai  etc  aimee, 
je  le  suis  encore,  et  je  meurs  de  regret  en  pensant 
que  ce  n'est  pas  de  vous.  J'ai  beau  me  dire  que  je 
ne  meritai  jamais  le  bonheur  que  je  regrette  ;  mon 
cceur  cette  fois  fait  taire  mon  amour-propre  :  il  me 
dit  que,  si  je  dus  jamais  etre  aimee,  c'etoit  de  celui 
qui  auroit  assez  de  charme  a  mes  yeux,  pour  me  dis- 
traire de  M.  de  M et  pour  me  retenir  a  la  vie, 

apres  I'avoir  perdu.  Je  n'ai  fait  que  languir  depuis 
votre  depart ;  je  n'ai  pas  ete  une  heure  sans  sout- 
france  :  Ic  mal  de  mon  ame  passe  a  mon  corps  ;  j'ai 
tous  les  jours  la  fievre,  et  mon  medecin,  qui  n'est 
pas  le  plus  habile  de  tous  les  hommes,  me  repete 
sans  cesse  que  je  suis  consumee  de  chagrin,  que 
mon  pouls,  que  ma  respiration  annoncent  une  dou- 
leur  active ;  et  il  s'en  va  toujours  en  me  disant : 
nous  n'avons  point  de  remtde  pour  Vame.  II  n'y  en 
a  plus  pour  moi :  ce  n'est  pas  guerir  que  je  voudrois, 
mais  me  calmer,  mais  retrouyer  quelques  momens 
de  repos  pour  me  conduire  a  celui  que  la  nature 
m'accordera  bientot." — Vol.  iii.  pp.  146,  147. 

"  Je  n'ai  plus  assez  de  force  pour  mon  ame— elle 
me  tue.  Vous  ne  pouvez  plus  rien  sur  moi,  que 
me  faire  souffrir.  Ne  tachez  done  plus  a  me  conso- 
ler, et  cessez  de  vouloir  me  faire  le  victime  de  votre 
morale,  apres  m'avoir  fait  celle  de  votre  legerete.-— 
Vous  ne  m'avez  pas  vue,  parce  que  la  journee  n'a 
que  douze  heures,  et  que  vous  aviez  de  quoi  lea 
remplir  par  des  interets  et  des  plaisirs  qui  vous  sont, 
et  qui  doivent  vous  etre  plus  chers  que  monmal- 
heur.  Je  ne  reclame  rien,  je  n'exige  rien,  et  je  me 
dis  sans  cesse  que  la  source  de  mon  bonheur  et  de 
mon  plaisir  est  perdu  pour  jamais." — Vol.  iii.  p.  59. 

We  cannot  leave  our  readers  with  these 
painful  impressions ;  and  shall  add  just  one 
word  or  two  of  Avhat  is  gayest  in  these  deso- 
lating volumes. 

"M.  Grimjn  est  de  retour;  je  I'ai  accable  de 
questions.  II  peint  la  Czarine,  non  pas  comme  una 
souveraine,  mais  comme  une  femme  aimable,  pleine 
d'esprit,  de  saiUies,  et  de  tout  ce  qui  pent  seduire 
et  charmer.  Mais  dans  tout  ce  qu'il  me  disoit,  je 
reconnoissois  plutoi  cet  art  charmant  d'une  courti- 
sane  grecque,  que  la  dignhe  et  1' eclat  de  I'lmpera- 
trice  d'un  grand  empire." — Vol.  ii.  p.  105. 

"  Avant'diner  je  vais  voir  rue  de  Clery  des  auto- 
mates ;  qui  sont  prodigieux,  a  ce  qu'on  dit.  Quand 
j'allois  dans  le  monde,  je  n'aurois  pas  eu  cette  cu- 
riosite:  deux  ou  trois  soupers  en  donnent  satiete; 
mais  ceux  de  la  rue  de  Clery  valent  mieux :  ils 
agissent  et  ne  parlent  point.  Venez-y,  en  allant 
au  Marais,  et  je  vous  dirai  la  si  j'ai  la  loge  de  M. 
leducd'Aumont.  Madame  de  Ch.  .  .  ne  vous  croit 
point  coupable  de  negligence  :  elle  m'a  demande 
aujourd'hui  si  votre  retraite  duroit  encore.  Ce  que 
les  femmes  veulent  seulement,  c'est  d'etre  prete 
rees.  Presque  personne  n'a  besoin  d'etre  aime,  et 
cela  est  bien  heureux:  car  c'est  ce  qui  se  fait  le 
plus  mal  a  Paris.  Ils  osent  dire  qu'ils  ainent ;  et 
ils  sont  calmes  et  dissipes  !  c'est  assurement  bien 
connoiire  le  sentiment  et  la  passion.  Pauvres  gens ! 
il  faut  les  louer  comme  les  Liliputiens:  ils  sont 
bien  jolis,  bien  gentils,  bien  aimables.  Adieu,  raon 
ami."— Vol.  ii.  pp.  197,  ICS. 


/04 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


We  have  left  ourselves  no  room  to  make 
any  reflections;  except,  only,  that  the  French 
fashion  of  living,  and  almost  of  dying,  in 
public,  is  nowhere  so  strikingly  exemplified, 
as  in  the  letters  of  this  victim  of  passion  and 
of  fancy.  While  her  heart  is  torn  with  the 
most  agonizing  passions,  and  her  thoughts 
turned  hourly  on  suicide,  she  dines  out,  and 
makes  visits  every  dayj  and,  when  she  is 


visibly  within  a  few  weeks  of  her  end,  and  w 
wasted  with  coughs  and  spasms,  she  still  ha-i 
her  salon  filled  twice  a  day  with  company^ 
and  drags  herself  out  to  supper  with  all  the 
countesses  of  her  acquaintance.  There  is  a 
great  deal  of  French  character,  indeed,  iji 
both  the  works  of  which  we  now  take  our 
leave ; — a  great  deal  to  admire,  and  to  wonder 
at — ^but  very  little,  we  think,  to  envy. 


(August.  1829.)  ,^  ^^.,,^,_- 

Wilhelm  Meister^s  Apprenticeship:  a  Novel.     From  the  German  of  Goethe.     3  vols.  12mo. 

pp.1030.     Edinburgh:  1824.  ^ 


There  are  few  things  that  at  first  sight  ap- 
pear more  capricious  and  unaccountable,  than 
the  diversities  of  national  taste  ',  and  yet  there 
are  not  many,  that,  to  a  certain  extent  at  least, 
admit  of  a  clearer  explanation.  They  form 
evidently  a  section  in  the  great  chapter  of 
National  Character;  and,  proceeding  on  the 
assumption,  that  human  nature  is  everywhere 
fundamentally  the  same,  it  is  not  perhaps 
very  difficult  to  indicate,  in  a  general  way, 
the  circumstances  which  have  distinguished 
it  into  so  many  local  varieties. 

These  may  be  divided  into  two  great  class- 
es,— the  one  embracing  all  that  relates  to  the 
newness  or  antiquity  of  the  society  to  which 
they  belong,  or,  in  other  words,  to  the  stage 
which  any  particular  nation  has  attained  in 
that  gTcat  progress  from  rudeness  to  refine- 
ment, in  which  all  are  engaged ; — the  other 
comprehending  w^hat  may  be  termed  the  ac- 
cidental causes  by  which  the  character  and 
condition  of  communities  may  be  afl'ected ; 
such  as  their  government,  their  relative  posi- 
tion as  to  power  and  civilization  to  neighbour- 
ing countries,  their  prevailing  occupations, 
determined  in  some  degree  by  the  capabilities 
of  their  soil  and  climate,  and  more  than  all 
perhaps,  as  to  the  question  of  taste,  the  still 
more  accidental  circumstance  of  the  character 
of  their  first  models  of  excellence,  or  the 
kind  of  merit  by  which  their  admiration  and 
national  vanity  had  first  been  excited. 

It  is  needless  to  illustrate  these  obvious 
sources  of  peculiarity  at  any  considerable 
length.  It  is  not  more  certain,  that  all  primi- 
tive communities  proceed  to  civilization  by 
nearly  the  same  stages,  than  that  the  progress 
of  taste  ismarked  by  corresponding  gradations, 
and  may.  in  most  cases,  be  distinguished  into 
j>eriods,  the  order  and  succession  of  which  is 
nearly  as  uniform  and  determined.  If  tribes 
of  savage  men  always  proceed,  under  ordinary 
circumstances,  from  the  occupation  of  hunting 
lo  that  of  pasturage,  from  that  to  agriculture, 
and  from  that  to  commerce  and  manufactures, 
tlie  sequence  is  scarcely  less  invariable  in  ther 
fiistory  of  letters  and  art.  In  the  former, 
verse  is  uniformly  antecedent  to  prose — mar- 
vellous legends  to  correct  history — exagge- 
rated sentiments  to  just  representations  of 
nature.     Invention,  in  short,  regularly  comes 


before  judgment,  warmth  of  feeling  before 
correct  reasoning — and  splendid  declamation 
and  broad  humour  before  delicate  simplicity 
or  refined  wit.  In  the  arts  again,  the  progress 
is  strictly  analagous — from  mere  monstrosity 
to  ostentatious  displays  of  labour  and  design, 
first  in  massive  foraiality,  and  next  in  fantas- 
tical minuteness,  variety,  and  flutter  of  parts; 
— and  then,  through  the  gradations  of  start- 
ling contrasts  and  overwrought  expression,  to 
the  repose  and  simplicity  of  graceful  nature 

These  considerations  alone  explain  much 
of  that  contrariety  of  taste  by  which  different 
nations  are  distinguished.  They  not  only 
start  in  the  great  career  of  improvement  at 
different  times,  but  they  advance  in  it  with 
different  velocities — some  lingering  longer  in 
one  stage  than  another — some  obstructed  and 
some  helped  forward,  by  circumstances  oper- 
ating on  them  from  within  or  from  without. 
It  is  the  unavoidable  consequence,  however, 
of  their  being  in  any  one  particular  position, 
that  they  will  judge  of  their  own  productions 
and  those  of  their  neighbours,  according  to 
that  standard  of  taste  which  belongs  to  the 
place  they  then  hold  in  this  great  circle ; — 
and  that  a  whole  people  will  look  on  their 
neighbours  with  wonder  and  scorn,  for  ad- 
miring what  their  own  grandfathers  looked  on 
with  equal  admiration, — while  they  them- 
selves are  scorned  and  vilified  in  return,  for 
tastes  which  will  infallibly  be  adopted  by  the 
grandchildren  of  those  who  despise  them. 

What  we  have  termed  the  accidental  causes 
of  great  differences  in  beings  of  the  same 
nature,  do  not  of  course  admit  of  quite  so 
simple  an  exposition.  But  it  is  not  in  reality 
more  difficult  to  prove  their  existence  and 
explain  their  operation.  Where  great  and 
degrading  despotisms  have  been  early  estab- 
lished, either  by  the  aid  of  superstition  or  of 
mere  force,  as  in  most  of  the  states  of  Asia, 
or  where  small  tribes  of  mixed  descent  have 
been  engaged  in  perpetual  contention  for  free- 
dom and  superiority,  as  in  ancient  Greece— 
where  the  ambition  and  faculties  of  individ 
uals  have  been  chained  up  by  the  institution 
of  castes  and  indelible  separations,  as  in  India 
and  Egypt,  or  where  all  men  practise  all  oc- 
cupations and  aspire  to  all  honours,  as  in  Ger- 
many or  Britain — where  the  sole  occupation 


GOETHE'S  WILHELM  MEISTER. 


100 


of  the  people  has  been  Avar,  as  in  infant  Rome, 
or  where  a  vast  pacific  population  has  been 
for  ages  inured  to  mechanical  drudgery,  as  in 
China — it  is  needless  to  say,  that  very  oppo- 
site notions  of  what  conduces  to  delight  and 
amusement  must  necessarily  prevail;  and  that 
the  Taste  of  the  nation  must  be  aifected  both 
by  the  sentiments  which  it  has  been  taught  to 
cultivate,  and  the  capacities  it  has  been  led 
to  unfold. 

The  influence  of  early  models,  however,  is 
perhaps  the  most  considerable  of  any;  and 
may  be  easily  enough  understood.  When 
men  have  been  accustomed  to  any  particular 
kind  of  excellence,  they  naturally  become 
good  judges  of  it,  and  account  certain  consid- 
erable degrees  of  it  indispensable, — while 
they  are  comparatively  blind  to  the  merit  of 
other  good  qualities  to  which  they  had  been 
less  habituated,  and  are  neither  offended  by 
their  absence,  nor  at  all  skilful  in  their  estima- 
tion. Thus  those  nations  who,  like  the  English 
and  the  Dutch,  have  been  long  accustomed  to 
great  cleanliness  and  order  in  their  persons 
and  dwellings,  naturally  look  with  admiration 
on  the  higher  displays  of  those  qualities,  and 
are  proportionally  disgusted  by  their  neglect; 
while  they  are  apt  to  undervalue  mere  pomp 
and  stateliness,  when  destitute  of  these  re- 
commendations:  and  thus  also  the  Italians 
and  Sicilians,  bred  in  the  midst  of  dirt  and 
magnificence,  are  curiously  alive  to  the  beau- 
ties of  architecture  and  sculpture,  and  make 
but  litis  account  of  the  more  homely  comforts 
which  are  so  highly  prized  by  the  others.  In 
the  same  way,  if  a  few  of  the  first  successful 
adventurers  in  art  should  have  excelled  in 
'^ly  particular  qualities,  the  taste  of  their  na- 
tion will  naturally  be  moulded  on  that  stand- 
ard— will  regard  those  qualities  almost  ex- 
c]>:-:Tely  as  entitled  to  admiration,  and  will 
p.o*  only  consider  the  want  of  them  as  fatal  to 
dll  pretensions  to  excellence,  but  will  unduly 
despise  and  undervalue  other  qualities,  in 
♦themselves  not  less  valuable,  but  with  which 
their  national  models  had  not  happened  to 
make  them  timeously  familiar.  If,  for  ex- 
ample, the  first  great  writers  in  any  country 
onould  have  distinguished  themselves  by  a 
pompous  and  severe  regularity,  and  a  certain 
elaborate  simplicity  of  design  and  execution, 
it  will  naturally  follow,  that  the  national  taste 
will  not  only  become  critical  and  rigorous  as 
to  those  particulars,  but  will  be  proportionally 
deadened  to  the  merit  of  vivacity,  nature,  and 
invention,  when  combined  with  irregularity, 
homeliness,  or  confusion.  While,  if  the  great 
patriarchs  of  letters  had  excelled  in  variety 
and  rapidity  of  invention,  and  boldness  and 
truth  of  sentiment,  though  poured  out  with 
considerable  disorder  and  incongruity  of  man- 
ner, those  qualities  would  quickly  come  to  be 
the  national  criterion  of  merit,  and  the  cor- 
rectness and  decorum  of  the  other  school  be 
despised,  as  mere  recipes  for  monotony  and 
tameness. 

These,  we  think,  are  the  plain  and  certain 
effects  of  the  peculiar  character  of  the  first 
great  popular  writers  of  all  countries.  But 
itill  we  do  not  conceive  that  they  depend  al- 


together on  any  thing  so  purely  accidental  as 
the  temperament  or  early  history  of  a  few  in- 
dividuals. No  doubt  the  national  taste  oi 
France  and  of  England  would  at  this  moment 
have  been  different,  had  Shakespeare  been  a 
Frenchman,  and  Boileau  and  Racine  written 
in  English.  But  then,  we  do  not  think  that 
Shakespeare  could  have  been  a  Frenchipan ; 
and  we  conceive  that  his  character,  and  that 
of  other  original  writers,  though  no  doubt  to 
be  considered  on  the  whole  as  casual,  must 
yet  have  been  modified  to  a  great  extent  by 
the  circumstances  of  the  countries  in  which 
they  were  bred.  It  is  plain  that  no  original 
force  of  genius  could  have  enabled  Shakespeare 
to  write  as  he  had  done,  if  he  had  been  bom 
and  bred  among  the  Chinese  or  the  Peruvians. 
Neither  do  we  think  that  he  could  have  done 
so,  in  any  other  country  but  England — free, 
sociable,  discursive,  reformed,  familiar  Eng- 
land— whose  motley  and  mingling  population 
not  ..only  presented  "  every  change  of  many- 
coloured  life"  to  his  eye,  but  taught  and  per- 
mitted every  class,  from  the  highest  to  the 
lowest,  to  know  and  to  estimate  the  feelings 
and  the  habits  of  all  the  others — and  thus 
enabled  the  gifted  observer  not  only  to  deduce 
the  true  character  of  human  nature  from  this 
infinite  variety  of  experiments  and  examples, 
but  to  speak  to  the  sense  and  the  hearts  of 
each,  with  tbat  truly  universal  tongue,  which 
every  one  feels  to  be  peculiar,  and  all  enjoy 
as  common. 

We  have  said  enough,  however,  or  rather 
too  much,  on  these  general  views  of  the  sub- 
ject— which  in  truth  is  sufficiently  clear  ixi 
those  extreme  cases,  where  the  contrariety  is 
great  and  universal,  and  is  only  perplexing 
when  there  is  a  pretty  general  conformity 
both  in  the  causes  which  influence  taste  and 
in  the  results.  Thus,  we  are  not  at  all  sur- 
prised to  find  the  taste  of  the  Japanese  or  the 
Iroquois  very  different  from  our  own — and 
have  no  difficulty  in  both  admitting  that  our 
human  nature  and  human  capacities  are  sub- 
stantially the  same,  and  in  referring  this  dis- 
crepancy to  the  contrast  that  exists  in  the 
whole  state  of  society,  and  the  knowledge, 
and  the  opposite  qualities  of  the  objects  to 
which  we  have  been  respectively  accustomed 
to  give  our  admiration.  That  nations  living  in 
times  or  places  altogether  remote,  should  dis- 
agree in  taste,  as  in  every  thing  else,  seems 
to  us  quite  natural.  They  are  only  the  nearer 
cases  that  puzzle.  And,  that  great  European 
countries,  peopled  by  the  same  mixed  racey, 
educated  in  the  admiration  of  the  same  clas- 
sical models — venerating  the  same  remains 
of  antiquity — engaged  substantially  in  the 
same  occupations — communicating  everyday, 
on  business,  letters,  and  society — bound  up  in 
short  in  one  gTeat  commonwealth,  as  ag-ainst 
the  inferior  and  barbarous  parts  of  the  world, 
should  yet  differ  so  widely — not  only  as  to 
the  comparative  excellence  of  their  respective 
productions,  but  as  to  the  constituents  of  ex- 
cellence in  all  works  of  genius  or  skill,  dops 
indeed  sound  like  a  paradox,  the  solution  of 
which  every  one  may  not  be  able  to  deduca 
from  *he  preceding  observations. 


106 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


The  great  practical  equation  on  which  we 
in  this  country  have  been  hitherto  most  fre- 
quently employed,  has  been  between  our  own 
«tandard  of  taste  and  that  which  is  recognized 
among  our  neighbours  of  France : — And  cer- 
tainly, though  feelings  of  rivalry  have  some- 
what aggravated  its  apparerd,  beyond  its  real 
amount,  there  is  a  great  and  substantial  differ- 
ence to  be  accounted  for. — in  the  way  we  have 
suggested — or  in  some  other  way.  Stating  that 
difference  as  generally  as  possible,  we  would 
say,  that  the  French,  compared  witn  ourselves, 
are  more  sensitive  to  faults,  and  less  trans- 
ported with  beauties — more  enamoured  of  art. 


^  _  ,  r/ 
and  less  indulgent  to  nature — ^more  charme4^  Ji^e  most  deliberate  consideration,  to  be  emj-l 
with  overcoming  difficulties,  than  with  tha|  [nently  absurd,  puerile,  incongruous,  vulgak  \ 


power  which  makes  us  unconscious  of  their 
existence — more  averse  to  strong  emotions,  or 
at  Ifeast  less  covetous  of  them  in  their  intensity 
— more  students  of  taste,  in  short,  than  adorers 
of  genius — and  far  more  disposed  than  any 
other  people,  except  perhaps  the  Chinese,  to 
circumscribe  the  rules  of  taste  to  such  as  they 
themselves  have  been  able  to  practise,  and  to 
limit  the  legitimate  empire  of  genius  to  the 
provinces  they  have  explored.  There  has 
been  a  ^ood  deal  of  discussion  of  late  years, 
in  the  face  of  literary  Europe,  on  these  de- 
batable grounds;  and  we  cannot  but  think 
that  the  result  has  been  favourable,  on  the 
whole,  to  the  English,  and  that  the  French 
have  been  compelled  to  recede  considerably 
from  many  of  their  exclusive  pretensions — a 
result  which  we  are  inclined  to  ascribe,  less 
to  the  arguments  of  our  native  champions, 
than  to  those  circumstances  in  the  recent  his- 
tory of  Europe,  which  have  compelled  our 
ingenious  neighbours  to  mingle  more  than 
they  had  ever  done  before  with  the  surround- 
ing nations — and  thus  .to  become  better  ac- 
quainted with  the  diversified  fomis  which 
genius  and  talent  may  assume. 

But  while  we  are  thus  fairly  in  the  way  of 
settling  our  differences  wnth  France,  we  are 
little  more  than  beginning  them,  we  fear,  with 
Gennany ;  and  the  perusal  of  the  extraordinary 
volumes  before  us,  which  has  suggested  all 
the  preceding  reflections,  has  given  us,  at  the 
same  time,  an  impression  of  such  radical,  and 
apparently  irreconcilable  disagreement  as  to 
principles,  as  we  can  scarcely  hope  either  to 
remove  by  our  reasonings,  or  even  very  satis- 
factorily to  account  for  by  our  suggestions. 

This  is  allowed,  by  the  general  consent  of  all 
Germany,  to  be  the  very  greatest  work  of  their 
Tery  greatest  writer.  The  most  original,  the 
most  varied  and  inventive, — the  most  charac- 
teristic, in  short,  of  the  author,  and  of  his  coun- 
liy.  We  receive  it  as  such  accordingly,  with 
iaiplicit  faith  and  suitable  respect;  and  have 
perused  il  in  consequence  with  very  great  at- 
tention and  no  common  curiosity.  We  have 
pei-used  it,  indeed,  only  in  the  translation  of 
which  we  have  prefixed  the  title :  But  it  is  a 
translation  by  a  professed  admirer;  and  by  one 
who  is  proved  by  his  Preface  to  be  a  person  of 
talents ,  and  by  every  part  of  the  work  to  be  no 
ordinary  master,  at  least  of  one  of  the  languages 
with  which  he  has  to  deal.  We  need  scarcely 
Hay^  that  we  profess  to  judge  of  the  work  only 


according  to  our  omu  principles  of  judgment  anO 
habits  of  feeling;  and,  meaning  nothing  less  tha»i 
to  dictate  to  the  readers  or  the  critics  of  Ge**- 
many  what  they  should  think  of  their  favour- 
ite authors,  propose  only  to  let  them  know,  in 
all  plainness  and  modesty,  what  v»e,  and  we 
really  believe  most  of  our  countrymen,  actually 
think  of  this  chef-d^auvrc  of  Teutonic  genius. 
We  must  say,  then,  at  once,  that  v.e  cainiot 
enter  into  the  spirit  of  this  German  idolatry ; 
nor  at  all  comprehend  upon  what  grounds  the 
w^ork  before  us  could  ever  be  considered  aa 
an  admirabIg^_or_  even  a  commendable_4i£i- 
formaujoau  To  us  If'^ceTtainly  appears,  after/ 


;and  affected ;— and,  though  redeemed  by  corjp 
jsiderable  powers  of  invention,  and  some  traita 
^■of  vivacity,  to  be  so  far  from  perfection,  as  to\ 
be,  almost  from  beginning  to  end.  one  flagrant^ 
lofTence  against  every  principle  of^tagley-and  \ 
|everj  just  rule  of  coniijpgition.^  Though  indi- 
c^tThg,  m  many'pTaces,  a  capable  both 

of  acute  and  profound  reflection,  it  is  full  of 
mere  silliness  and  childish  affectation ; — and 
though  evidently  the  work  of  one  who  had 
seen  and  observed  much,  it  is  throughout  al- 
together unnatural,  and  not  so  properly  im- 
probable, as  affectedly  fantastic  and  absurd — 
kept,  as  it  were,  studiously  aloof  from  general^ 
or  ordinary  nature — never  once  bringing  us    •' 
into  contact  with  real  life  or  genuine  character    I 
— and,  where  not  occupied  with  the  profes-   « 
sional  squabbles,  paltry  jargon,  and  scenical   I 


proflig-acy  of  strolling  players,  tumblers,  and 
mummers  (which  may  be   said  to  fonn  its 
staple),  is  conversant  only  with  incomprehen- 
sible mystics  and  vulgar  m.en  of  whim,  with 
whom,  if  it  were  at  all  possible  to  understand  / 
them,  it  would  be  a  baseness  to  be  acquainted.if 
Every  thing,  and  every  body  we  meet  withj 
is  a  riddle  and  an  oddity ;  and  though  the  tis^ 
sue  of  the  story  is  sufficiently  coarse,  and  th^ 
manners  and  sentiments  infected  with  a  strong 
tinge  of  vulgarity,  it  is  all  kept  in  the  air,  like 
a  piece  of  machinery  at  the  minor  theatres/ 
and  never  allowed  to  touch  the  solid  ground] 
or  to  give  an  impression  of  reality,  by  the\ 
disclosure  of  known  or  living  features.     Ipl 
the  midst  of  all  this,  however,  there  are,  every  \ 
now  and  then,  outbreakings  of  a  fine  specula- 
tion,  and  gleams  of  a  warm  and  sprightly 
imagination — an  occasional  wild  and  exotic 
glow  of  fancy  and  poetry — a  vigorous  heaping 
up  of  incidents,  and  touches  of  bright  and 
powerful  description. 

It  is  not  very  easy  certainly  to  account  for 
these  incongruities,  or  to  suggest  an  intelligi- 
ble theory  for  so  strange  a  practice.  But  in 
so  far  as  we  can  guess,  these  peculiarities 
of  German  taste  are  to  be  referred,  in  part,  to 
the  comparative  newness  of  original  compo- 
sition among  that  ingenious  people,  and  to 
the  state  of  European  literature  when  they 
first  ventured  on  the  experiment — and  in  part 
to  the  state  of  society  in  that  great  country 
itself,  and  the  comparatively  humble  condition 
of  the  greater  part  of  those  who  write,  or  to 
whom  writing  is  there  addressed. 

The  Germans,  though  undoubtedly  an  ima« 


'I 


GOETHE'S  WILHELM  MKISTER. 


101 


ginative  and  even  enthusiastic  race,  had  ne- 
glected their  native  literature  for  two  hundred 
years — and  were  chiefly  known  for  their 
learning  and  industry.  They  wrote  huge 
Latin  treatises  on  Law  and  Theology — and 
put  forth  bulky  editions  and  great  tomes  of 
annotations  on  the  classics.  At  last,  however, 
they  grew  tired  of  being  respected  as  the 
learned  drudges  of  Europe,  and  reproached 
with  their  consonants  and  commentators;  and 
determined,  about  fifty  years  ago,  to  show 
what  metal  they  were  made  of,  and  to  give 
the  world  a  taste  of  their  quality,  as  men  of 
genius  and  invention.  In  this  attempt  the 
first  thing  to  be  eff"ected  was  at  all  events  to 
avoid  the  imputation  of  being  scholastic  imi- 
tators of  the  classics.  That  would  have  smelt 
too  much,  they  thought,  of  the  old  shop ;  and 
in  order  to  prove  their  claims  to  originality,  it 
was  necessary  to  go  a  little  into  the  opposite 
extreme, — to  venture  on  something  decidedly 
modern,  and  to  show  at  once  their  indepen- 
dence o^their  old  masters,  and  their  supe- 
riority to  the  pedantic  rules  of  antiquity. 
With  this  view  some  of  them  betook  them- 
selves to  the  French  models — set  seriously  to 
study  how  to  be  gay — appendre  a  etnmf — and 
composed  a  variety  of  petites  pieces  and 
novels  of  polite  gallantry,  in  a  style — of  which 
we  shall  at  present  say  nothing.  This  manner, 
however,  ran  too  much  counter  to  the  general 
character  of  the  nation  to  be  very  much  fol- 
lowed— and  undoubtedly  the  greater  and  bet- 
ter part  of  their  writers  turned  rather  to  us, 
for  hints  and  lessons  to  guide  them  in  their 
ambitious  career.  There  was  a  greater  original 
affinity  in  the  temper  and  genius  of  the  two 
nations — and,  in  addition  to  that  consideration, 
our  great  authors  were  indisputably  at  once 
more  original  and  less  classical  than  those  of 
France.  England,  however,  we  are  sorry  to 
sa)'-,  could  furnish  abundance  of  bad  as  well 
as  of  good  models — and  even  the  best  were 
perilous  enough  for  rash  imitators.  As  it 
happened,  however,  the  worst  were  most 
generally  selected — and  the  worst  parts  of  the 
good.  Shakespeare  was  admired — but  more 
for  his  flights  of  fancy,  his  daring  improprie- 
ties, his  trespasses  on  the  borders  of  absurdity, 
than  for  the  infinite  sagacity  and  rectifying 
good  sense  by  which  he  redeemed  those  ex- 
travagancies, or  even  the  profound  tenderness 
and  simple  pathos  which  alternated  with  the 
lofty  soaring  or  dazzling  imagery  of  his  style. 
Altogether,  however,  Shakespeare  was  beyond 
their  rivalry ;  and  although  Schiller  has-dared, 
and  not  ingloriously,  to  emulate  his  miracles. 
ii  was  plainly  to  other  merits  and  other  rival- 
ri3s  that  the  body  of  his  ingenious  country- 
men aspired.  The  ostentatious  absurdity — 
the  aflected  oddity — the  pert  familiarity — the 
broken  style,  and  exaggerated  sentiment  of 
Tristram  Shandy — the  mawkish  morality, 
dawdling  details,  and  interminable  agonies  of 
Ricnardson — the  vulgar  adventures,  and  home- 
ly, though,  at  the  same  time,  fantastical  specu- 
lations of  John  Buncle  and  others  of  his  for- 
gotten class,  found  far  more  favour  in  their 
eyes.  They  were  original,  startling,  unclas- 
«ical,  and  puzzling-.     They  excited  cui'osity 


by  not  being  altogether  intelligible — efi'ectu- 
ally  excluded  monotony  by  the  rapidity  and 
violence  of  their  transitions,  and  promised  to 
rouse  the  most  torpid  sensibility,  by  the  vio- 
lence and  perseverance  with  which  they  thun- 
dered at  the  heart.  They  were  the  very 
things,  in  short,  which  the  German  originals 
were  in  search  of; — and  they  were  not  slow, 
therefore,  in  adopting  and  improving  on  them. 
In  order  to  make  them  thoroughly  their  own, 
they  had  only  to  exaggerate  their  peculiarities 
— to  mix  up  with  them  a  certain  allowance 
of  their  old  visionary  philosophy,  misty  meta- 
physics, and  superstitious  visions — and  to  in- 
troduce a  few  crazy  sententious  theorists,  to 
sprinkle  over  the  whole  a  seasoning  of  rash 
speculation  on  morality  and  the  fine  arts. 

The  style  was  also  to  be  relieved  by  a  va- 
riety of  odd  comparisons  and  unaccountable 
similes — borrowed,  for  the  most  part,  from 
low  and  revolting  objects,  and  all  the  better 
if  they  did  not  exactly  fit  the  subject,  or  even 
introduced  new  perplexity  into  that  which 
they  professed  to  illustrate. 

This  goes  far,  we  think,  to  explain  the  ab- 
surdity, incongruity,  and  aff"ectation  of  the 
works  of  which  we  are  speaking.  But  there 
is  yet  another  distinguishing  quality  for  which 
we  have  not  accounted — and  that  is  a  peculiar 
kind  of  vulgarity  which  pervades  all  their  va- 
rieties, and  constitutes,  perhaps,  their  most 
repulsive  characteristic.  We  do  not  know 
very  well  how  to  describe  this  unfortunate 
peculiarity,  except  by  saying  that  it  is  the 
vulgarity  of  pacific,  comfortable  burghers,  oc- 
cupied with  stuffing,  cooking,  and  providing 
for  their  coarse  personal  accommodations. 
There  certainly  never  were  any  men  of  genius 
who  condescended  to  attend  so  minutely  to 
the  non-naturals  of  their  heroes  and  heroines 
as  the  novelists  of  modern  Germany.  Their 
works  smell,  as  it  w^ere,  of  groceries — of 
brown  papers  filled  with  greasy  cakes  and 
slices  of  bacon, — and  fryings  in  frowsy  back 
parlours.  All  the  interesting  recollections  of 
childhood  turn  on  remembered  tidbits  and 
plunderings  of  savoury  store-rooms.  In  the 
midst  of  their  most  passionate  scenes  there  is 
always  a  serious  and  affectionate  notice  of  the 
substantial  pleasures  of  eating  and  drinking. 
The  raptures  of  a  tete-a-tete  are  not  complete 
without  a  bottle  of  nice  wune  and  a  ^'-  trim 
collation."  Their  very  sages  deliver  their 
oracles  over  a  glass  of  punch ;  and  the  en- 
chanted lover  finds  new  apologies  for  his 
idolatry  in  taking  a  survey  of  his  mistress' 
/•combs,  soap,  and  towels,  with  the  traces  of 
their  use."  These  baser  necessities  of  our 
nature,  in  short,  M-hich  all  other  writers  who 
have  aimed  at  raising  the  imagination  or 
touching  the  heart  have  xj:ept  studiously  out 
of  view,  are  ostentatiously  brought  forward, 
and  fondly  dwelt  on  by  the  pathetic  authors 
of  Germany. 

We  really  cannot  well  account  for  this  ex- 
traordinary taste.  But  we  suspect  it  is  owing 
to  the  importance  that  is  really  attached  to 
those  solid  comforts  and  supplies  of  neces- 
saries, by  the  greater  part  of  the  readers  and 
writers  of  that  country.     Though  ihere  i«  a 


108 


LITERAT  JRE  Ai>  D  BIOGRAPHY. 


great  dsa]  of  freedom  in  Germany,  it  operates 
less  by  raising  the  mass  of  the  people  to  a 
potential  equality  with  the  nobles,  than  by 
securing  to  them  their  inferior  and  plebeian 
privileges:  and  consists  rather  in  the  immu- 
nities of  their  incorporated  tradesmen,  which 
may  enable  them  to  become  rich  as  such,  than 
in  any  general  participation  of  national  rights, 
by  which  they  may  aspire  to  dignity  and  ele- 
g-ance.  as  well  as  opulence  and  comfort.  Now. 
the  writers,  as  well  as  the  readers  in  that 
country,  belong  almost  entirely  to  the  plebeian 
and  vulgar  class.  Their  learned  men  are 
almost  all  wolully  poor  and  dependent ;  and 
the  comfortable  burghers,  who  buy  entertain- 
ing books  by  the  thousand  at  the  Frankfort 
fair,  probably  agree  with  their  authors  in  noth- 
ing so  much  as  the  value  they  set  on  those 
homely  comforts  to  which  their  ambition  is 
mutually  limited  by  their  condition ;  and  enter 
into  no  part  of  them  so  heartily  as  those  which 
set  forth  their  paramount  and  continual  im- 
portance. 

It  is  time,  however,  that  we  should  proceed 
to  give  some  more  particular  account  of  the 
work  which  has  given  occasion. _tp, all,. thege 
observatiQiis,-/'lSJ^or  indeed  have  we  anythingj 
more  of  a  general  nature  to  premise,  except' 
that  we  really  cannot  join  in  the  censure  whichj 
we  have  found  so  generally  be&to«:^d  on  i 
forJla..a<lleged  grossness  andgmmorahty^  I 
is  (coarse^  certainly,  in  its  examples,  and  byi 
no  nieails  very  rigorous  in  its' ethic.al- precepts,] 
Bat  it  is  not  worse  in  those  respects  than  manjq 
works  on  which  we  pride  ourselves  at  home-H 
'Torn  Jones,  for  example,  or  Roderick  Random.! 
There  are  passages,  no  doubt,  that  would/ 
shock  a  dehcate  young  lady ;  but  to  the  bulkj 
of  male  readers,  for  whom  we  suppose  it  wasj 
chiefly  intended,  we  do  not  apprehend  that  ili 
will  either  do  any  great  harm,  or^giYe  any 
;  greaX.ofFence ._^/' — 

WilKelin  Meister  is  the  son  of  a  plodding 
merchant,  in  one  of  the  middling  towns  of 
Germany,  who,  before  he  is  out  of  his  ap- 
prenticeship, takes  a  passion  for  play-going ; 
which  he  very  naturally  follows  up  by  en- 
gaging in  an  intrigue  with  a  little  pert  actress, 
who  performed  young  officers  and  other  male 
parts  with  great  success.  The  book  opens 
with  a  supper  at  her  lodgings;  where  he  tells 
her  a  long  silly  story  of  his  passion  for  puppet- 
shows  in  his  childhood — how  he  stole  a  set 
of  puppets  out  of  a  pantry  of  his  mother's,  into 
which  he  had  slipped  to  filch  sugar-plums — 
how  he  fitted  up  a  puppet-show  of  his  own,  in 
a  garret  of  his  father's  house,  and  enacted 
David  and  Goliah,  to  the  wonder  and  delight 
of  the  whole  family,  and  various  complaisant 
neighbours,  who  condescended  to  enact  audi- 
ence— how  a  half-pay  lieutenant  assisted  him 
in  painting  the  figures  and  nailing  up  the 
boards — and  how  out  of  all  this  arose  his  early 
taste  for  playhouses  and  actresses.  This 
goodly  stuff  extends  through  fifty  mortal 
pages — all  serious,  solemn,  and  silly,  far  be- 
yond the  pitch  of  the  worst  gilt  thing  ever 
published  by  Mr  Newberry.  As  this-  is  one 
i)f  the  most  characteristic  parts  of  the  work, 
x^e  must  verify  the  account  we  have  ventured 


to  give  of  it  by  a  few  extracts,  Wilhelm  i.i 
describing  the  dress  of  the  prophet  Samuel  in 
his  Punch's  Opera  of  Goliah,  and  telling  "how 
the  taffeta  of  the  cassock  had  been  taken  from 
a  gown  of  his  grandmother's,"  when  a  noise 
is  heard  in  the  street,  and  the  old  maid  Bar- 
bara informs  them  that 

"  The  disturbance  arose  from  a  set  of  jolly  com- 
panions, who  were  just  then  sallying  out  of  the 
Italian  Tavern,  hard  by,  where  they  had  been  busy 
discussinw yresA  oysters,  a  cargo  of  which  had  just 
arrived,  and  by  no  means  sparing  their  champagne. 
'  Pity,'  Mariana  said,  '  that  we  did  not  think  of  it 
in  time  ;  we  might  have  had  some  entertainment  to 
ourselves.'  '  It  is  not  yet  too  late,'  said  Wilhelm, 
giving  Barbara  a  louis  d'or :  '  get  us  what  we  want ; 
then  come  and  take  a  share  with  us.'  The  old 
dame  made  speedy  work  ;  ere  long  a  trimly- covered 
table,  with  a  neat  collation,  stood  before  the  lovers, 
^rhey  made  Barbara  sit  with  them  ;  ihey  ate  and 
drank,  and  enjoyed  themselves.  On  such  occa- 
sions, there  is  never  want  of  enough  to  say.  Mari- 
ana soon  took  up  little  Jonathan  again,  and  the  old 
dame  turned  the  conversation  upon  Wilhelm'a 
favourite  topic.  '  You  were  telling  us,'  she  said, 
'about  the  first  exhibition  of  a  puppet-show  on 
Christmas-eve  :  I  remember  you  were  interrupted, 
just  as  the  ballet  was  going  to  begin.'  '  I  assure 
you,'  said  Wilhelm,  'it  went  off  quite  well.  And 
certainly  the  strange  caperings  of  these  Moors  and 
Mooresses,  these  shepherds  and  shepherdesses, 
these  dwarfs  and  dwarfesses.  will  never  altogether 
leave  my  recollection  while  I  live,'  "  &c.  &c. 

We  spare  our  readers  some  dozen  pages  of 
doll-dressing  and  joinery,  and  come  to  th« 
following  choice  passage. 

"  'In  well  adjusted  and  regulated  hout^es,'  con- 
tinued Wilhelm,  '  children  have  a  feeling  not  unlike 
what  I  conceive  rats  and  mice  to  have ;  they  keep 
a  sharp  eye  on  all  crevices  and  holes,  where  they 
may  come  at  any  forbidden  dainty;  they  enjoy  it 
also  with  a  fearful,  stolen  satisfaction,  which  forma 
no  small  part  of  the  happiness  of  childhood.  More 
than  any  other  of  the  young  ones,  I  was  in  the  habit 
of  looking  out  attentively  to  see  if  I  could  notice 
a7iy  cupboard  left  open,  or  key  standing  in  its  lock. 
The  more  reverence  I  bore  in  my  heart  for  those 
closed  doors,  on  the  outside  of  which  I  had  to  pasa 
by  for  weeks  and  months,  catchfng  only  a  furtive 
glance  when  our  mother  now  and  then  opened  the 
consecrated  place  to  take  something  from  it, — the 
quicker  was  I  to  make  use  of  any  opportunities 
which  the.forgetfulness  of  our  housekeepers  at  times 
afforded  me.  Among  all  the  doors,  that  of  the  store- 
room was,  of  course,  the  one  I  watched  most  nar- 
rowlv.  Few  of  the  joyful  anticipations  in  life  can 
equal  the  feeling  which  I  used  to  have,  when  my 
mother  happened  to  call  me,  that  I  might  help  her  to 
carry  out  any  thing,  after  which  I  might  pick  up  a 
few  dried  plums,  either  with  her  kind  permission, 
or  by  help  of  my  own  dexterity.  The  accumulated 
treasures  of  this  chamber  took  hold  of  my  imagina- 
tion by  their  magnitude  ;  the  very  fragrance  exhalea 
by  so  multifarious  a  collection  of  sweet-smellinn; 
sjyices  produced  such  a  craving  effect  on  me,  that  1 
never  failed,  when  passing  near,  to  linger  for  a  little, 
and  regale  myself  at  least  on  the  unbolted  atmos- 
phere. At  length,  one  Sunday  morning,  my  mo- 
ther, being  hurried  by  the  ringing  of  the  church 
bells,  forgot  to  take  this  precious  key  with  heron 
shutting  the  door,  and  went  away  leaving  all  the 
house  in  a  deep  sabbath  stillness.  No  sooner  had 
I  marked  this  oversight,  than  gliding  softly  once  or 
twice  to  and  from  the  place,  I  at  last  approached 
very  gingerly,  opened  the  door,  and  felt  myself, 
after  a  single  step,  in  immediate  contact  with  these 
manifold  and  long-wished-for  means  of  happiness. 
I  glanced  over  glasses,  chests,  and  hacs,  and  drawers 
and  boxe$,  with  a  quick  and  doubtful  eye,  consider- 


GOETHE'S  WILHELM  MEISTER. 


109 


ing  what  I  ought  v«i  take ;  turned  finally  to  my  dear 
withered  plums,  provided  myself  also  with  a  lew 
dried  apples,  and  completed  the  forage  witli  an 
orange-chip.  I  was  quietly  retreating  with  my 
plunder,  when  some  little  chests,  lying  piled  over 
one  another,  caught  my  attention  :  the  more  so,  as  I 
noticed  a  wire  with  hooks  at  the  end  of  it,  sticking 
through  the  joint  of  the  lid  in  one  of  them.  Full 
of  eager  hopes,  I  opened  this  singular  packa<:e  ; 
and  judge  of  my  emotions,  when  I  found  my  glad 
world  of  heroes  all  sleeping  safe  within  !  I  meant 
to  pick  out  the  topmost,  and,  having  examined  them, 
to  pull  up  those  below  ;  but  in  tliis  attempt  the 
wires  got  very  soon  entangled,  and  I  fell  into  a 
fright  and  flutter,  more  particularly  as  the  cook  just 
then  began  making  some  stir  i?i  the  kitchen,  which 
lay  close  by;  so  that  I  had  nothing  for  it  but  to 
squeeze  the  whole  together,  the  best  way  I  could, 
and  to  simt  the  chest,  having  stolen  from  it  nothing 
but  a  little  written  book,  which  happened  to  be 
lying  above,  and  contained  the  whole  drama  of 
Goliah  and  David.  With  this  booty  I  made  good 
my  retreat  into  the  garret.'  " — pp.  20 — 22. 

Thds,  we  suppose,  will  be  received  as  a 
sufficient  specimen  of  the  true  German  taste 
for  comfits,  cooking,  and  cockering.  If  any 
one  should  wish  for  a  sample  of  pure  childish- 
ness, or  mere  folly,  there  are  pages  on  pages 
like  the  following. 

"  '  It  was  natural  that  the  operas,  with  their 
manifold  adventures  and  vicissitudes,  should  attract 
me  more  than  any  thing  beside.  In  these  compo- 
sitions, I  found  stormy  seas ;  gods  descenduig  in 
chariots  of  cloud;  and,  what  most  of  all  delighted 
me,  abundance  of  thunder  and  lightning.  I  did  my 
best  with  pasteboard,  paint,  and  paper;  I  could 
make  night  very  prettily  ;  my  lightning  was  fearful 
to  behold  ;  only  my  thunder  did  not  always  pros- 
per, which  however  was  of  less  importance.  In 
operas,  more6ver,  I  found  frequent  opportunities  of 
introducing  my  David  and  Goliah,  persons  whom 
the  regular  drama  would  hardly  admit.  Daily  I  felt 
more  attachment  for  the  hampered  spot  where  I 
enjoyed  so  many  pleasures;  and,  I  must  confess, 
the  fragrance  which  the  puppets  had  acquired  from 
the  store-room  added  not  a  little  to  my  satisfaction. 

"  '  The  decorations  of  my  theatre  were  now  in  a 
tolerable  state  of  completeness.  I  had  always  had 
the  nack  of  drawing  with  compasses,  and  clipping 
pasteboard,  and  colouring  figures;  and  here  it  serv- 
ed me  in  good  stead.  But  the  more  sorry  was  I,  on 
the  other  hand,  when,  as  frequently  happened,  my 
sto^k  of  actors  would  not  suffice  for  representing 
great  affairs. — My  sisters  dressing  and  undressing 
their  dolls,  awoke  in  me  the  project  of  furnishing 
my  heroes  by  and  by  with  garments,  which  might 
also  be  put  off"  and  on.  Accordingly,  I  slit  the 
scraps  of  cloth  from  off"  their  bodies ;  tacked  the 
fragments  together  as  well  as  possible ;  saved  a  par- 
ticle of  money  to  buy  new  ribbons  and  lace  ;  beg- 
ged many  a  rag  of  taffeta ;  and  so  formed,  by  de- 
grees, a  full  theatrical  wardrobe,  in  which  hoop- 
petticoats  for  the  ladies  were  especially  remember- 
ed.— My  troop  was  now  fairly  provided  with  dresses 
for  the  most  important  piece,  and  you  might  have 
expected  that  henceforth  one  exhibition  would  fol- 
low close  upon  the  heels  of  another.  But  it  hap- 
pened with  me,  as  it  often  happens  with  children  ; 
they  embrace  wide  plans,  make  mighty  prepara- 
tions, then  a  i'ew  trials,  and  the  whole  undertaking 
•s  abandoned.    I  was  guilty  of  this  fault,'  "  «fec.  &lc. 

But  we  must  get  on  with  our  story.  While 
he  is  lulling  his  little  actress  to  sleep  by  these 
edifying  discourses,  and  projecting  to  go  on 
the  stage  along  with  her,  our  mercantile  hero 
is  suddenly  sent  off  by  his  father,  to  collect 
debts  from  their  country  customers.  The  in- 
genious author,  however,  cannot  possibly  let 
iiira  go,  without  presenting  his  readers  with 


an  elaborate  character  of  the  worthy  c.d  tradei 
and  his  partner.     Old  Meister,  it  seems,  had 

"  A  peculiar  incHnaiion  for  magnificence,  for 
whatever  catches  the  eye  and  possesses  at  the  same 
time  real  worth  and  durability.  In  his  house,  he 
would  have  all  things  solid  nw'd  massive  ;  his  stores 
must  be  copious  and  rich,  all  his  plate  must  be 
heavy,  the  furniture  of  his  table  must  be  costly. 
On  the  other  hand,  his  guests  were  seldom  invited; 
for  every  diymer  yvas  a  festival,  which,  both  for  its 
expense  and  for  its  inconvenience,  could  not  often 
be  repeated.  The  economy  of  his  house  went  on  at 
a  settled  uniform  rate,  and  every  thing  that  moved 
or  had  a  place  in  it  was  just  what  yielded  no  one 
any  real  enjoyment. 

"  The  elder  Werner,  in  his  dark  and  hampered 
house,  led  quite  another  sort  of  life.  The  business 
of  the  day,  in  his  narrow  counting-room,  at  his  an- 
cient desk,  once  done,  Werner  liked  to  eat  well  and 
it  possible  to  drink  better.  Nor  could  he  fully  en- 
joy good  things  in  solitude ;  with  his  family  he  must 
always  see  at  table  his  friends  and  any  stranger 
that  had  the  slightest  connection  with  his  house. 
His  chairs  were  of  unknown  age  and  antic  fashion, 
but  he  daily  invited  some  to  sit  on  them.  The  dainty 
victuals  arrested  the  attention  of  his  guests,  and 
none  remarked  that  they  were  served  up  in  com- 
mon ware.  His  cellar  held  no  great  stock  of  wine  : 
but  the  emptied  niches  were  usually  filled  by  more 
of  a  superior  sort." — pp.  56,  57. 

This  must  be  admitted  not  to  be  the  very 
best  exemplification  of  the  style  noble.  Nor 
is  the  outfit  of  the  hero  himself  described  in 
a  vein  more  lofty. 

"  He  must  prepare,"  said  Meister,  "  and  set 
forth  as  soon  as  possible.  Where  shall  we  get  a 
horse  for  him  to  suit  this  business  ? — We  shall  not 

seek  far.     The  shopkeeper  in  H ,  who  owes  us 

somewhat,  but  is  withal  a  good  man,  has  offered  me 
a  horse  instead  of  payment.  My  son  knows  it,  and 
tells  me  it  is  a  serviceable  beast.  He  may  fetch  it 
himself;  let  him  go  with  the  diligence  ;  the  day 
after  to-morrow  he  is  back  again  betimes  ;  we  have 
his  saddle-bags  and  letters  made  ready  in  the  mean 
time;  he  can  set  out  Monday  morning." 

The  following  passage,  however,  is  a  fairer 
sample  of  the  average  merit  of  the  work; 
and  exhibits  some  traits  of  vivacity  and  elo- 
quence, though  debased  by  that  affectation 
of  singularity,  and  that  predominating  and 
characteristic  vulgarity,  of  which  we  have 
already  said  so  much.  He  is  describing  hia 
hero's  hours  of  fascination,  in  the  playhouse, 
and  elsewhere. 

"  For  hours  he  would  stand  by  the  sooty  ligh* 
frame,  inhahng  the  vapour  of  tallow  lamps,  look- 
ing out  at  his  mistress  ;  and  when  she  returned  and 
cast  a  kindly  glance  upon  him,  he  was  himself 
lost  in  ecstacy,  and,  though  close  upon  laths  and 
bare  spars,  he  seemed  transported  into  paradise. 
The  stuffed  bunches  of  wool  denominated  lambs, 
the  water-falls  of  tin,  the  paper  roses,  and  the  one- 
sided huts  of  straw,  awoke  in  him  fair  poetic  visions 
of  an  old  pastoral  world.  Nay,  the  very  dancing 
girls,  ugly  as  they  were  when  seen  at  hand,  did 
not  always  inspire  him  with  dissust.  Tliey  trod 
the  same  floor  with  Mariana.  So  true  is  it,  that 
love,  which  alone  can  give  their  full  charm  to  rose- 
bowers,  myrtle-groves,  and  moonshine,  can  also 
communicate,  even  to  shavings  of  wood  and  paper 
clippings,  the  aspect  of  animated  nature.  It  is  so 
strong  a  spice,  that  tasteless,  or  even  nauseout 
soups,  are  by  it  rendered  palatable  ! 

•'So  potent  a  spice  was  certainly  required  to  ren 
der  tolerable,  nay  at  last  agreeable,  the  state  in 
which  he  usually  found  her  chamber,  not  to  say 
herself. — Brought   up   in  a  substantial   burgher's 
house,  cleanliness  and  order  were  the  element  iu 


tio 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


which  he  breathed  ;  and  inheriting  as  he  did  a  por- 
tion of  his  father's  taste  for  finery,  it  had  always 
been  his  care,  in  boyhood,  to  furnish  up  his  cham- 
ber, which  he  regarded  as  his  Uttle  kingdom,  in  the 
BtateUest  fashion.  He  had  got  himself  a  carpet  for 
the  middle  of  his  chamber,  and  a  finer  one  for  his 
table.  He  had  also  a  white  cap,  which  he  wore 
straight  up  like  a  turban !  and  the  sleeves  of  his 
night-gown  he  had  caused  to  be  cut  short,  in  the 
mode  of  the  Orientals.  As  a  reason  for  this,  he 
pretended,  that  long  wide  sleeves  encumbered  him 
In  writing. 

"  In  those  times,  how  happy  did  he  think  the 
players,  whom  he  saw  possessed  of  so  many  splen- 
did garments,  trappings,  and  arms ;  and  in  the  con- 
stant practice  of  a  lofty  demeanour,  the  spirit  of 
which  seemed  to  hold  up  a  mirror  of  whatever,  in 
the  opinions,  relations,  and  passions  of  men,  w^as 
Btatehestand  most  magnificent.  Of  a  piece  with 
this,  thought  Wilhelm,  is  also  the  player's  domes- 
tic life  ;  a  series  of  dignified  transactions  and  em- 
ployments, whereof  their  appearance  on  the  stage 
IS  but  the  outmost  portion  !  Like  as  a  mass  of  sil- 
ver, long  simmering  about  in  the  purifying  furnace, 
at  lengtn  gleams  with  a  bright  and  beautiful  tinge 
in  the  eye  of  the  refiner,  and  shows  him,  at  the  same 
time,  that  the  metal  now  is  cleansed  of  all  foreign 
mixture. 

"Great,  accordingly,  was  his  surprise  at  first, 
when  he  found  himself  beside  his  mistress,  and 
looked  down,  through  the  cloud  that  environed 
him,  on  tables,  stools,  and  floor.  The  wrecks  of  a 
transient,  light,  and  false  decoration  lay,  like  the 
glittering  coat  of  a  skinned  fish,  dispersed  in  wild 
disorder.  The  implements  of  personal  cleanliness, 
combs,  soap,  towels,  with  the  traces  of  their  use! 
were  not  concealed.  Music,  portions  of  plays  and 
pairs  of  shoes,  washes  and  Italian  flowers,  pin- 
cushions, hair-skewers,  rouge-pots  and  ribbons, 
books,  and  straw-hats;  no  article  despised  the 
neighbourhood  oi  another  ;  all  were  united  by  a 
common  element,  powder  and  dust.  Yet  as  Wil- 
helm scarcely  noticed  in  her  presence  aught  except 
herself;  nay,  as  all  that  had  belonged  to  her,  that 
she  had  touched,  was  dear  to  him,  he  came  at  last 
to  feel,  in  this  chaotic  housekeeping,  a  charm  which 
the  proud  pomp  of  his  own  habitation  never  had 
communicated.  When,  on  this  hand,  he  lifted 
aside  her  boddice,  to  get  at  the  harpsicord  ;  on  that, 
threw  her  gown  upon  the  bed,  that  he  might  find  a 
seat:  when  she  herself,  with  careless  freedom,  did 
not  seek  to  hide  from  him  many  a  natural  office  ! 
which,  out  of  respect  for  the  presence  of  a  second  per- 
son, is  usually  concealed;  he  felt  as  if  by  all  this 
he  was  coming  nearer  to  her  every  moment,  as  if 
the  communion  betwixt  them  was  fastening  by  in- 
visible ties !" 

In  the  midst  of  all  these  raptures,  and  just 
after  he  had  been  gallantly  serenading  her 
with  the  trumpets  of  a  travelling  shovraian, 
he  detects  his  frail  fair  one  in  an  intrigue  with 
a  rival ;  and  falls  into  the  most  horrible  ago- 
nies, the  nature  and  violence  of  which  the  in- 
genious author  illustrates  by  the  following 
very  obvious  and  dignified  simile. 

"  As  when  by  chance,  in  the  preparation  of  some 
artificial  fire-works,  any  part  of  the  composition 
kindles  before  its  time,  and  the  skilfully  bored  and 
loaded  barrels, — which,  arranged,  and  burning 
after  a  settled  plan,  would  have  painted  in  the  air  a 
magnificently  varying  series  of  flaming  images, — 
now  hissin<T  and  roaring,  promiscuously  explode 
with  a  confused  and  dangerous  crash ;  so,  in  our 
hero's  case,  did  happiness  and  hope,  pleasure  and 
joys,  realities  and  dreams,  clash  together  with  de- 
structive tumult,  all  at  once  in  his  bosom." 

He  sets  off,  however,  on  his  journey,  and 
gpeedily  gets  into  those  more  extensive  theat- 
rical connections,  from  which  he  can  scarcely 


be  said  to  escape  till  the  end  of  the  woik. 
Nothing,  indeed,  can  be  more  ludicrously  un- 
natural than  the  luck  he  has  in  meeting  witu 
nothing  but  players,  and  persons  connectec* 
with  playhouses.  On  his  very  first  sally,  he 
falls  in  with  a  player  who  had  run  away  with 
a  young  lady,  whom  he  had  captivated  from 
the  stage — and  has  scarcely  had  time  to  ad- 
mire the  mountain  scenery  among  which  he 
has  to  pass  his  first  evening,  when  he  is  sur- 
prised to  learn  that  the  work-people  in  the 
adjacent  village  are  about  to  act  a  play  1 — the 
whole  process  of  which  is  described  with  ag 
solemn  a  tediousness  as  his  own  original  pup- 
pet-show. In  the  first  town  to  which  he 
descends,  he  meets  first  with  a  seducing  com- 
pany of  tumblers  and  rope-dancers,  reinforced 
by  the  valuable  addition  of  a  Strong  Man ; 
and  in  half  an  hour  after  makes  acquaintance 
with  a  gay  and  bewitching  damsel — who 
sends  across  the  street  to  beg  a  nosegay  shs 
sees  in  his  hands — and  turns  out,  by  the  hap- 
piest accident  in  the  world,  to  be  a  strolling 
actress,  waiting  there  for  the  chance  of  em- 
ployment. To  give  our  readers  an  idea  of 
the  sort  of  descriptions  Math  which  the  great 
writers  in  Germany  now  electrify  their  read- 
ers, we  copy  the  following  simple  and  impres- 
sive account  of  the  procession  of  the  tumbling 
party. 

"  Preceded  by  a  drum,  the  manager  advanced  on 
horseback;  he  was  followed  by  a  female  dancer 
mounted  on  a  corresponding  hack,  and  holding  a 
child  before  her,  all  bedizened  with  ribbons  and 
spangles.  Next  came  the  remainder  of  the  troop 
on  foot ;  some  of  them  carrying  children  on  their 
shoulders  in  dangerous  postures,  yet  smoothly  and 
lightly  ;  among  these  the  young,  dark,  black-haired 
figure  again  attracted  Wilhelm'a  notice. — Pickle- 
herring  ran  gaily  up  and  down  the  crowded  multi- 
tude, distributing  his  hand-bills  with  much  practical 
fun  ;  here  smacking  the  lips  of  a  girl,  there  breech- 
ing a  boy,  and  awakening  generally  among  the 
people  an  invincible  desire  to  know  more  of  him.- 
On  the  painted  flags,  the  manifold  science  of  the 
company  was  visibly  delineated." 

The  new  actress,  to  whom  he  is  introduced 
by  another  of  the  fraternity  whom  he  finds  at 
his  inn,  is  named  Philina;  and  her  characte^ 
is  sketched  and  sustained  throughout  the  boola 
with  far  more  talent  than  could  be  expecteq 
from  any  thing  we  have  hitherto  cited.  Sha 
is  gay,  forward,  graceful,  false,  and  good-na-j 
tured ;  with  a  daring  and  capricious  pleasantry^ 
which,  if  it  often  strikes  as  unnatural,  is  fre-i 
quently  original  and  effective.  Her  debut,' 
however,  we  must  say,  is  in  the  author's  most 
characteristic  manner. 

"  She  came  out  from  her  room  in  a  pair  of  tight 
little  slippers  with  high  heels,  to  give  them  welcome. 
She  had  thrown  a  black  mantle  over  her,  above  a 
white  negligee,  not  indeed  superstitiously  clean, 
but  which,  for  that  very  reason,  gave  her  a  more 
frank  and  domestic  air!  Her  short  dress  did  not 
hide  a  pair  of  the  prettiest  feet  and  ancles  in  the 
world. — '  You  are  welcome,'  she  cried  to  Wilhelm, 
'  and  I  thank  you  for  your  charming  flowers.'  She 
led  him  into  her  chamber  with  the  one  hand,  press- 
ing the  nosegay  to  her  breast  with  the  other.  Be- 
ing all  seated,  and  got  into  a  pleasant  train  of  general 
talk,  to  which  she  had  the  art  of  giving  a  delightful 
turn,  Laertes  threw  a  handful  of  gingerbread  nuts 
into  her  lap,  and  she  immediately  began  to  eai 
,  them. — '  Look  what  a  child  this  young  gallant  is  !' 


GOETHE'S  WILHELM  MEISTER. 


Ill 


she  saia  i  '  He  wants  to  persuade  you  that  T  am 
tond  of  such  confectionary  ;  and  it  is  himself  that 
cannot  live  without  lickiyig  Iiis  lips  over  something 
of  the  kind.' — '  Let  us  confess,'  replied  Laertes, 
'  that,  in  this  point,  as  in  others,  you  and  I  go  hand 
in  nand.  For  example,'  he  continued,  '  the  weather 
IS  delightful  to-day  :  what  if  we  should  take  a  drive 
into  the  country,  and  eat  our  dinjiei- at  the  Mill?'  " 
—Vol.  i.  pp.  143,  144. 

Even  at  the  mill  they  are  fortunate  enough 
to  meet  with  a  dramatic  representation — some 
miners  in  the  neighbourhood  having,  by  great 
good  luck,  taken  it  into  their  heads  to  set  forth 
me  utility  of  their  craft  in  a  sort  of  recitative 
dispute  with  some  unbelieving  countrymen, 
and  to  sing  through  a  part  of  Werner's  Lec- 
tures on  Mineralogy — upon  which  very  natural 
and  probable  occurrence  our  apprentice  com- 
ments, in  this  incredible  manner. 

"  '  In  this  little  dialogue,'  said  Wilhelm,  when 
seated  at  table,  '  we  have  a  lively  proof  how  useful 
the  theatre  might  be  to  all  ranks  ;  what  advantage 
even  the  State  might  procure  from  it,  if  the  occupa- 
tions, trades,  and  undertakings  of  men  were  all 
brought  upon  the  stage!  and  presented  on  their 
praiseworthy  side,  in  that  point  of  view  in  which 
the  State  itself  should  honour  and  protect  them  ! 
As  matters  stand,  we  exhibit  only  the  ridiculous 
side  of  men. — Might  it  not  be  a  worthy  and  pleasing 
task  for  a  statesman  to  survey  the  natural  and  re- 
ciprocal influence  of  all  classes  on  each  other,  and 
to  guide  some  poet,  gifted  with  sufficient  humour, 
in  such  labours  as  these?  In  this  way,  I  am  per- 
suaded, many  very  entertaining,  both  agreeable 
and  useful  pieces,  might  be  executed.'  " 

Such  is  the  true  sublime  of  German  specu- 
lation !  and  it  is  by  writing  such  sheer  non- 
Bense  as  this  that  men  in  that  country  acquire 
the  reputation  of  great  genius — and  of  uniting 
with  pleasant  inventions  the  most  profound 
suggestions  of  political  wisdom  !  Can  we  be 
wrong  in  maintaining,  after  this,  that  there 
are  diversities  of  national  taste  that  can  never 
be  reconciled,  and  scarcely  ever  accounted 
for? 

On  another  day  they  go  in  a  boat,  and  agree, 
by  way  of  pastime,  to  ^'  extemporise  a  Play," 
by  each  taking  an  ideal  character,  and  at- 
tempting to  sustain  it — and  this,  '•  because  it 
forces  each  to  strain  his  fancy  and  his  wit  to 
the  uttermost,"  is  pronounced  to  be  a  most 
'•'comfortable  occupation," — and  is  thus  mo- 
ralized upon  by  a  reverend  clergyman  who 
had  joined  their  party,  and  enacted  a  country 
parson  with  great  success. 

"  '  I  think  this  practice  very  useful  among  actors, 
and  even  in  the  company  of  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances. It  is  the  best  mode  of  drawing  men  out  of 
themselves,  and  leading  them,  by  a  circuitous  path, 
back  into  themselves  again.'  " 

Their  evening  occupation  is  not  less  intel- 
lectual and  dramatic;  though  it  ends,  we 
must  own,  with  rather  too  much  animation. 
They  all  meet  to  read  a  new  play;  and 

— "between  the  third  and  fourth  act,  the  punch 
arrived,  in  an  ample  bowl ;  and  there  being  much 
fighting  and  drinking  in  the  piece  itself,  nothing 
was  more  natural  than  that,  on  every  such  occur- 
rence, the  company  should  transport  themselves 
into  the  situation  of  the  heroes,  should  flourish  and 
strike  along  with  them,  and  drink  long  life  to  their 
fevourites  among  the  dramatis  persoucB. 

"  Each  individual  of  the  party  was  inflamed  with 
the  most  noble  fire  of  national  spirit.   How  it  grati- 


fied this  German  company  td  .^e  poetically  enter- 
tained, according  to  their  own  character,  on  stuff 
of  their  oiun  manufacture  !  In  particular,  the  vaults 
and  caverns,  the  ruined  castles,  the  moss  and  hol- 
low trees ;  but  above  all  the  nocturnal  Gipsey- 
scenes,  and  the  Secret  Tribunal,  produced  a  quite 
incredible  effect. 

"  Towards  the  fifth  act  the  approbation  became 
more  impetuous  and  louder;  and  at  last,  when  the 
hero  actually  trampled  down  his  oppressor,  and 
the  tyrant  met  his  doom,  the  ecstasy  increased  to 
such  a  height,  that  all  averred  they  had  never 
passed  such  happy  moments.  Melina,  whom  ikt 
liquor  had  inspired,  was  the  noisiest ;  and  when  the 
second  bowl  was  empty,  and  midnight  near,  Laertes 
swore  through  thick  and  thin,  that  no  living  mortal 
was  worthy  ever  more  to  put^  these  glasses  to  hia 
lips;  and,  so  swearing,  he  pitched  his  own  right 
over  his  head,  through  a  window-pane,  out  into  the 
street.  The  rest  followed  his  example  ;  and  not- 
withstanding the  protestations  of  the  landlord,  who 
came  running  in  at  the  noise,  the  punch-howl  itself, 
never  after  this  festivity  to  be  polluted  by  unholy 
drink,  was  dashed  into  a  thousand  shreds.  Philina, 
whose  exhilaration  was  the  least  noticed,  the  other 
two  girls  by  that  time  having  laid  themselves  upon 
the  sofa  in  no  very  elegant  positions,  maliciously 
encouraged  her  companions  in  their  tumult. 

"  Meanwhile  the  town-guard  had  arrived,  and 
were  demanding  admission  to  the  house.  Wilhelm, 
much  heated  by  his  reading,  though  he  had  drank 
but  little,  had  enough  to  do  with  the  landlord's  help 
to  content  these  people  by  money  and  good  words, 
and  afterwards  to  get  the  various  members  of  his 
party  sent  home  in  that  unseemly  case." 

Most  of  our  readers  probably  think  they 
have  had  enough  of  this  goodly  matter.  But 
we  cannot  spare  them  a  taste  of  the  maimer  of 
courtship  and  flirtation  that  prevailed  among 
these  merry  people.  Philina  one  day  made  a 
garland  of  flowers  for  her  own  hair — and  then 
another,  which  she  placed  on  the  brows  of 
our  hero. 

"'And  I,  it  appears,  must  go  empty!'  said 
Laertes. — '  Not  by  any  means ;  you  shall  not  have 
reason  to  complain,'  replied  Philina,  taking  off  the 
garland  from  her  own  head,  and  putting  it  on  his. — 
'  If  we  were  rivals,'  said  Laertes,  '  we  might  now 
dispute  very  warmly  which,  of  us  stood  higher  in 
thy  favour.' — '  And  the  more  fools  you,'  said  she, 
whilst  she  bent  herself  towards  him,  and  ofl^ered 
him  her  lips  to  kiss:  and  then  immediately  turned 
round,  threw  her  arm  about  Wilhelm,  and  be- 
stowed a  kind  salute  on  him  also.  '  Which  of 
them  tastes  best  V  said  she  archly. — '  Surprisingly !' 
exclaimed  Laertes :  '  it  seems  as  if  nothing  else 
had  ever  such  a  tang  of  wormw^ood  in  it.' — '  As 
little  wormwood,'  she  replied,  'as  any  gift  that  a 
man  may  enjoy  without  envy  and  without  conceit. 
But  now,'  cried  she,  'I  should  like  to  have  an 
hour's  dancing,  and  after  that  we  must  look  to  our 
vaulters.'  " 

Another  evening,  as  Wilhelm  was  sitting 
pensively  on  the  bench  at  the  inn  door, 

"  Philina  came  singing  and  skipping  along 
through  the  front  door.  She  sat  down  by  him  ;  nay, 
we  might  almost  say,  on  him,  so  close  did  she 
press  herself  towards  him ;  she  leant  upon  hia 
shoulders,  began  playing  with  his  hair,  patted  him, 
and  gave  him  the  best  words  in  the  world.  She 
begged  of  him  to  stay  with  them,  and  not  leave  her 
alone  in  that  company,  or  she  must  die  of  ennui: 
she  could  not  Hve  any  longer  in  the  same  house 
with  Melina,  and  had  come  over  to  lodge  in  the 
other  inn  for  that  very  reason. — He  tried  in  vain  to 
satisfy  her  with  denials ;  to  make  her  understand 
that  he  neither  could  nor  would  remain  any  longer. 
She  did  not  cease  her  entreaties ;  nay,  suddenly 
she  threw  her  arm  about  his  neck,  and  kissed  hij» 


112 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


with  the  liveliest  expression  of  fondness. — '  Are 
you  mad,  Philina?'  cried  VVilhelm,  endeavouring 
to  disengage  himself;  '  to  make  the  open  street  the 
scene  of  such  caresses,  which  I  nowise  merit !  Let 
me  go  ;  I  cannot  and  I  will  not  stay.' — '  And  I  will 
hold  thee  fast,'  said  she,  '  and  kiss  thee  here  on 
the  open  street,  and  kiss  thee  till  thou  promise 
what  I  want.  I  shall  die  of. laughing,'  she  con- 
tinued: '  By  this  familiarity  the  good  people  here 
must  take  me  for  thy  wife  of  four  weeks'  standing ; 
end  husbands  that  witness  this  touching  scene  will 
commend  me  to  their  wives  as  a  pattern  of  child- 
like simple  tenderness.' — Some  persons  were  just 
then  going  by ;  she  caressed  him  in  the  most 
graceful  way  ;  and  he,  to  avoid  giving  scandal,  was 
constrained  to  play  the  part  of  the  patient  husband. 
Then  she  made  faces  at  the  people,  when  their 
backs  were  turned;  and,  in  the  wildest  humour, 
continued  to  commit  all  sorts  of  improprieties,  till 
at  last  he  was  obhged  to  promise  that  he  would  not 
go  that  day,  or  the  morrow,  or  the  next  day. — 
'  You  are  a  true  clod  !  '  said  she,  quitting  him ; 
'  and  I  am  but  a  fool  to  spend  so  much  kindness 
on  you.'  "—Vol.  i.  pp.  208,  209. 

But  we  are  tired  of  extracting  so  much 
trash,  and  must  look  out  for  something  better. 
Would  any  one  believOj  that  the  same  work 
which  contains  all  these  platitudes  of  vulgarity 
should  have  furnished  our  great  novelist  with 
one  of  his  most  fantastical  characters,  and 
Lord  Byron  with  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
passages  in  his  poetry?  Yet  so  it  is.  The 
character  of  Fenella,  in  Peveril  of  the  Peak, 
is  borrowed  almost  entire  from  the  Mignon 
of  the  work  before  us — and  the  prelude  to 
the  Bride  of  Abydos,  beginning,  "O  know 
you  the  land  where  the  cypress  and  myrtle  ?" 
is  taken,  with  no  improvement,  from  a  little 
wild  air  which  she  sings.  It  is  introduced 
here,  too,  with  more  propriety,  and  effect 
than  in  the  work  of  the  noble  author  ]  for  she 
is  represented  as  having  been  stolen  from 
Italy ;  and  the  song,  in  this  its  original  form, 
fehadows  out  her  desire  to  be  restored. to  that 
delightful  land  and  the  stately  halls  of  her 
ancestors, — retracing  her  way  by  the  wild 
passes  of  the  Alps.  It  is  but  fair  to  the  poet- 
ical powers  of  Goethe  to  give  this  beautiful 
pong,  as  it  is  here,  apparently,  very  ably  trans- 
lated. 

"Know'st  thou  the  land  where  the  lemon-trees 
bloom  ? 

Where  the  gold  orange  glows  in  the  deep  thick- 
et's gloom? 

Where  a  wind  ever  soft  from  the  blue  heaven 
blows. 

And  the  groves  are  of  laurel  and  myrtle  and  rose  ? 

Know' St  thou  it  ? 

Thither !  O  thither. 

My  dearest  and  kindest,  with  thee  would  I  go. 

Know'st  thou  the  house,  with  its  turreted  walls, 
Where  the  chamb^ers  are  glancing,  and  vast  are 

the  halls  ? 
Where  the  figures  of  marble  look  on  me  so  mild. 
As  if  thinking :  '  Why  thus  did  they  use  thee, 

poor  child  ?' 
Know'st  thou  it  ? 

Thither !  O  thither, 
My  guide  and  my  guardian,  with  thee  would  I  go. 

Know'st  thou  the  mountain,  its  cloud-cover'd 
arch, 

W  nere  the  mules  among  mist  o'er  the  wild  tor- 
rent march  ? 

fn  the  clefts  of  it,  dragons  lie  coil'd  with  their 
brood: 


The  rent  crag  rushes  down,  and  above  it  the  flood. 
Know'st  thou  it? 

Thither !  O  thither, 
Our  way  leadeth :   Father  !  O  come  let  us  go  !" 
Vol.  i.  p.  229. 

The  mystery  that  hangs  over  the  original 
condition  of  Fenella  in  Rushin  Castle,  is  (lis* 
carded,  indeed,  as  to  Mignon,  from  the  first  fyj 
for  she  is  first  exhibited  to  us  as  actually  tum-\\ 
Ming! — and  is  rescued  by  our  hero  from  the* 
scourge  of  the  master  tumbler,  who  was  dis- 
satisfied with  her  performance.  But  the  fonds 
of  the  character  is  the  same.  She  is  beautiful 
and  dwarfish,  unaccountable,  and  full  of  sen- 
sibility, and  is  secretly  in  love  with  her  pro- 
tector, who  feels  for  her  nothing  but  common 
kindness  and  compassion.  She  comes  at  last, 
to  be  sure,  to  be  rather  more  mad  than  Fenel- 
la, and  dies  the  victim  of  her  hopeless  passion. 
The  following  is  the  description,  something 
overworked  perhaps,  and  not  quite  intelligible, 
but,  on  the  whole,  most  powerful  and  impres- 
sive, of  this  fairy  creature's  first  indication 
of  her  love  to  her  youthful  deliverer. 

"  Nothing  is  mo7e  touching  than  the  first  disclo- 
sure of  a  love  which  has  been  nursed  in  silence,  of 
a  faith  grown  strong  in  secret,  and  which  at  last 
comes  forth  in  the  hour  of  need,  and  reveals  itself 
to  him  who  formerly  has  reckoned  it  of  small  ac- 
count. The  bud,  which  had  been  closed  so  long 
and  firmly,  was  now  ripe,  to  burst  its  swathings, 
and  Wilhelm's  heart  could  never  have  been  readier 
to  welcome  the  impressions  of  affection. 

"  She  stood  before  him,  and  noticed  his  disquiet- 
ude. '  Master!'  she  cried,  *  if  thou  art  unhappy, 
what  will  become  of  Mignon?'  'Dear  little  crea- 
ture,' said  he,  taking  her  hands,  *  thou  too  art  part 
of  my  anxieties.  I  must  go.'  She  looked  at  his 
eyes,  glistening  with  restrained  tears,  and  knelt 
down  with  vehemence  before  him.  He  kept  her 
hands  ;  she  laid  her  head  upon  his  knees,  and  re- 
mained quite  still.  He  played  with  her  hair,  patted 
her,  and  spoke  kindly  to  her.  She  continued  mo- 
tionless for  a  considerable  time.  At  last  he  felt  a  sort 
of  palpitating  movement  in  her,  which  began  very 
sofily,  and  then  by  degrees  with  increasing  violence 
diffused  itself  over  all  her  frame.  '  What  ails  thee, 
Mignon  ?'  cried  he  ;  '  what  ails  thee  ?'  She  raised 
up  her  little  head,  looked  at  him,  and  all  at  once 
laid  her  hand  upon  her  heart,  with  the  countenance 
of  one  repressing  the  utterance  of  pain.  He  raised 
her  up,  and  she  fell  upon  his  breast;  he  pressed 
her  towards  him,  and  kissed  her.  She  replied  not 
by  any  pressure  of  the  hand,  by  any  motion  what- 
ever.  She  held  firmly  against  her  heart ;  and  all  at 
once  gave  a  cry,  which  was  accompanied  by  spas- 
modic movements  of  the  body.  She  started  up, 
and  immediately  fell  down  before  him,  as  if  broken 
in  every  joint.  It  was  an  excruciating  moment ! 
'  My  child!'  cried  he,  raising  her  up,  and  clasping 
her  fast ;  '  My  child,  what  ails  thee  ?'  The  palpita- 
tions continued,  spreading  from  the  heart  over  all 
the  lax  and  powerless  limbs ;  she  was  merely 
hanging  in  his  arms  !  All  at  once  she  again  became 
quite  stiff,  like  one  enduring  the  sharpest  corporeal 
agony ;  and  soon  with  a  new  vehemence  all  her 
frame  once  more  became  alive  ;  and  she  threw  her- 
self about  his  neck,  like  a  bent  spring  that  is  closing; 
while  in  her  soul,  as  it  were  a  strong  rent  took 
place,  and  at  the  same  moment  a  stream  of  tears 
flowed  from  her  shut  eyes  into  his  bosom.  He  held 
her  fast.  She  wept !  and  no  tongue  can  express 
the  force  of  these  tears.  Her  long  hair  had  loosened, 
and  was  hanging  down  before  her ;  it  seemed  as  if 
her  whole  being  was  melting  incessantly  into  a 
brook  of  tears  !  Her  rigid  limbs  were  ac:ain  become 
relaxed  ;  her  inmost  soul  was  pouring  itself  fortli ! 
In  the  wild  confusion  of  the  moment,  Withelm  was 


GOETHE'S  WILHELM  MEISTER. 


13 


afraid  siie  would  dissolve  in  his  arms,  and  leavo 
nothing  thr/re  for  him  to  grasp.  He  held  her  fasier 
and  faster.  'My  child!'  cried  he,  '  mj'  child!' 
Her  tears  continued  flowing.  At  last  she  raised  her- 
self; a  faint  gladness  shone  upon  her  face.  'My 
taiher  !'  cried  she,  '  thou  wilt  not  forsake  me  ?  Wilt 
'»e  my  father?  I  am  thy  child.'  " 

We  cannot  better  illustrate  the  strange  in- 
consistency of  our  author's  manner,  than  by 
subjoining  to  this  highly  passionate  and  really 
'■•eautiful  scene,  his  account  of  the  egg  dance, 
vhich  this  little  creature  performs  a  few  days 
after,  for  her  friend's  entertainment. 

"  She  came  mto  his  room  one  evening  carrying  a 
little  carpet  below  her  arm,  which  she  spread  out 
upon  the  floor.  She  then  brought  four  candles,  and 
placed  one  upon  each  corner  of  the  carpet.  A  little 
basket  of  eggs,  which  she  next  carried  in,  made  her 
purpose  clearer.  Carefully  measuring  her  steps, 
she  then  walked  to  and  fro  on  the  carpet,  spreading 
out  the  eggs  in  certain  figures  and  positions  ;  which 
done,  she  called  in  a  man  that  was  waiting  in  the 
house,  and  could  play  on  the  viohn.  He  retired 
with  his  instrument  into  a  corner  ;  she  tied  a  band 
about  her  eyes,  gave  a  signal,  and,  like  a  piece  of 
wheel-work  set  a-going,  she  began  moving  the 
same  instant  as  the  music,  accompanying  her  beats 
and  the  notes  of  the  tune  with  the  strokes  of  a  pair 
of  castanets. 

"  Lightly,  nimbly,  quickly,  and  with  hairsbreadth 
accuracy,  she  carried  on  the  dance.  She  skipped 
60  sharply  and  surely  along  between  the  eggs,  and 
trode  so  closely  down  beside  them,  that  you  would 
have  thought  every  instant  she  must  trample  one 
of  them  in  pieces,  or  kick  the  rest  away  in  her  rapid 
turns.  By  no  means  !  She  touched  no  one  of  them, 
tliough  winding  herself  through  their  mazes  with 
all  kinds  of  steps,  wide  and  narrow,  nay  even  with 
leilps,  and  at  last  half  kneeling. — Constant  as  the 
movement  of  a  clock,  she  ran  her  course  ;  and  the 
strange  music,  at  each  repetition  of  the  tune  gave  a 
nev/ impulse  to  the  dance,  recommencing  and  again 
rushing  off  as  at  first. 

"The  dance  being  ended,  she  rolled  the  eggs 
together  softly  with  her  foot  into  a  httle  heap,  left 
none  behind,  harmed  none  ;  then  placed  herself 
beside  it,  taking  the  bandage  from  her  eyes,  and 
concluding  her  performance  with  a  little  bow." 

Soon  after  this,  the  whole  player  party  are 
taken  to  the  castle  of  a  wealthy  Count,  to  as- 
sist him  in  entertaining  a  great  Prince  and  his 
numerous  attendants,  from  whom  he  was  ex- 
pecting a  visit.  Our  hero  is  prevailed  on  to 
go  also,  and  takes  Mignon  along  with  him — 
and  though  treated  with  some  indignity,  and 
very  ill  lodged  and  attended,  condescends  to 
compose  a  complimentary  piece  in  honour  of 
the  illustrious  stranger,  and  to  superintend,  as 
well  as  to  take  a  part  in,  all  the  private  theat- 
ricals. By  degrees,  however,  he  steals  into 
the  favour  of  the  more  distinguished  guests — 
is  employed  to  read  to  the  Countess,  and  at 
last  is  completely  fascinated  with  her  elegance 
and  beauty — w^hile,  as  it  turns  out,  he  has  un- 
consciously made  some  impression  on  her  in- 
nocent heart.  He  is  not  a  little  assisted  in  his 
designs,  whatever  they  may  have  been,  by  a 
certain  intriguing  Baroness,  who  dresses  him 
out,  on  one  occasion,  in  the  Count's  clothes, 
when  that  worthy  person  was  from  home,  in- 
lending  to  send  the  Countess  in  upon  him.  by 
telling  her  that  her  lord  was  suddenly  return- 
ed. But  this  scheme  is  broken  up  by  the 
unexpected  verification  of  her  fable ;  for  the 
Count  actually  returns  at  the  moment ;  and, 


on  stepping  into  his  dressing-room,  is  so  much 
terrified  at  seeing  himself  sitting  quietly  in  an 
arm-chair  by  the  fire,  that  he  runs  out  in  a 
great  fright,  and  soon  after  becomes  a  vision- 
ary, and  joins  the  insane  flock  of  Swedenboig. 
A  critical  scene,  however,  is  at  last  brought 
on  accidentally — and  though  the  transactioji 
recorded  is  by  no  means  quite  correct,  we 
cannot  help  inserting  the  account  of  it,  as  a 
very  favourable  specimen  of  the  author's  most 
animated  and  most  natural  style.  WilheJm 
had  been  engaged  in  reading,  as  usual,  to  the 
Countess  and  her  female  party,  when  they 
are  interrupted  by  the  approach  of  visitors. 
The  Baroness  goes  out  to  receive  them ; 

"  And  the  Countess,  while  about  to  shut  her 
writing-desk,  which  was  standing  open,  took  up 
her  casket,  and  put  some  other  rings  upon  her  fin- 
ger. '  We  are  soon  to  part,'  said  she,  keeping  her 
eyes  upon  the  casket :  '  accept  a  memorial  of  a  true 
friend,  who  wishes  nothing  more  earnestly,  than 
that  you  may  always  prosper'  She  then  took  out 
a  ring,  which,  underneath  a  crystal,  bore  a  httle 
plate  of  woven  hair,  beautifully  set  with  diamonds. 
She  held  it  out  to  Wilhelm,,  who,  on  taking  it, 
knew  neither  what  to  say  nor  do,  but  stood  as  if 
rooted  to  the  ground.  The  Countess  shut  her  desk, 
and  sat  down  upon  the  sofa.  '  And  I  must  go 
empty  ?'  said  Philina,  kneeUng  down  at  the  Count- 
ess' right  hand.  '  Do  but  look  at  the  man  I  he 
carries  such  a  store  of  words  in  his  mouth,  when 
no  one  wants  to  hear  them  ;  and  now  he  cannot 
stamnier  out  the  poorest  syllable  of  thanks.  Quick, 
sir  !  Express  your  services,  by  way  of  pantomime 
at  least ;  and  if  to-day  you  can  invent  nothing  ;  then, 
for  Heaven's  sake,  be  my  imitator  !'  Philina  seized 
the  right  hand  of  the  Countess,  and  kissed  it  warm- 
ly. Wilhelm  sank  upon  his  knee,  laid  hold  of  the 
left,  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips.  The  Countess  seem- 
ed embarrassed,  yet  without  displeasure.  '  Ah  !' 
cried  Philina  ;  '  so  much  splendour  of  attire  I  may 
have  seen  before  ;  but  never  one  so  fit  to  wear  it. 
What  bracelets,  but  also  what  a  hand!  What  a 
neck-dress,  but  also  what  a  bosom  !'  '  Peace,  little 
cozener!'  said  the  Countess.  '  Is  this  his  Lordship 
then?'  said  Phihna,  pointing  to  a  rich  medallion, 
which  the  Countess  wore  on  her  left  side,  by  a 
particular  chain.  '  He  is  painted  in  his  bridal  dress,' 
replied  the  Countess.  '  Was  he  then  so  young  V 
inquired  Philina ;  I  know  it  is  but  a  year  or  two 
since  you  were  married.'  '  His  youth  must  be 
placed  to  the  artist's  account,'  replied  the  lady. 
'  He  is  a  handsome  man,'  observed  Philina.  '  But 
was  there  never,'  she  continued,  placing  her  hand 
upon  the  Countess'  heart,  '  never  any  other  image 
that  found  its  way  in  secret  hither?'  'Thou  art 
very  bold,  Philina!'  cried  she;  'I  have  spoiled 
thee.  Let  me  never  hear  such  another  speech. 
'  If  you  are  angry,  then  am  I  unhappy,'  said  Phi 
lina,  springing  up,  and  hastening  from  the  room. 

"  Wilhelm  still  held  that  lovely  hand  in  both  # 
his.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  bracelet-clasp 
he  noticed,  with  extreme  surprise,  that  his  initia. 
were  traced  on  it,  in  lines  of  brilliants.  *  Have  i 
then,'  he  modestly  inquired,  '  you  own  hair  in  th.^ 
precious  ring  ?'  '  Yrs.'  replied  she  in  a  faint  voice  , 
then  suddenly  collecting  herself,  she  said,  and 
pressed  his  hand:  'Arise,  and  fare  you  well  I' 
*  Here  is  my  name,'  cried  he,  '  by  the  most  curious 
chance!'  Hepointed  to  the  bracelet-clasp.  'How?' 
cried  the  Countess;  '  it  is  the  cipher  of  a  female 
friend !'  '  They  are  the  initials  of  my  name.  For- 
get me  not.  Your  image  is  engraven  on  my  heart, 
and  will  never  be  effaced.  Farewell !  I  must  be 
gone.'  He  kissed  her  hand,  and  meant  to  rise;  but 
as  in  dreams,  some  strange  thing  fades  and  changes 
into  something  stranger,  and  the  succeeding  wonder 
takes  us  by  surprise  ;  so,  without  knowing  how  it 
happened,  he  found  the  Countess  in  his  arms !    Her 


114 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHr 


lips  werf  resting  ipon  his,  and  their  warm  mutual 
kisses  were  yielding  the  i  that  blessedness,  which 
mortals  sip  from  the  i..piiiost  sparkling  foam  on  the 
freshly  poured  cup  of  love  ! 

"  Her  head  lay  upon  his  shoulder  ;  the  disordered 
ringlets  and  ruffles  were  forgotten.  She  had 
thrown  her  arm  around  him  ;  he  clasped  her  with 
fivacity  ;  and  pressed  her  again  and  again  to  his 
breast.  O  that  such  a  moment  could  but  last  for- 
ever !  And  wo  to  envious  fate  that  shortened  even 
this  brief  moment  to  our  friends !  How  terrified 
was  Wilhelm,  how  astounded  did  he  start  from  this 
happy  dream,  when  the  Countess,  with  a  shriek, 
on  a  sudden  tore  herself  away,  and  hastily  pressed 
her  hand  against  her  heart.  He  stood  conlbunded 
before  her ;  she  held  the  other  hand  upon  her  eyes, 
and,  after  a  moment's  pause,  exclaimed  :  '  Away  ! 
leave  me!  delay  not!'  He  continued  standing. 
'Leave  me!'  she  cried;  and  taking  off  her  hand 
from  her  eyes,  she  looked  at  him  with  an  indescrib- 
able expression  of  countenance  ;  and  added,  in  the 
most  tender  and  affecting  voice :  '  Fly,  if  you  love 
me.'  Wilhelm  was  out  of  the  chamber,  and  again 
in  his  room,  before  he  knew  what  he  was  doing. 
Unhappy  creatures  I  What  singular  warning  of 
chance  or  of  destiny  tore  them  asunder  ?'  " 

These  questionable  doings  are  followed  up 
by  long  speculations  on  the  art  of  playing,  and 
the  proper  studies  and  exercises  of  actors. 
But  in  the  end  of  these,  which  are  mystical 
and  prosing  enough,  we  come  suddenly  upon 
what  we  do  not  hesitate  to  pronounce  the 
most  able,  eloquent,  and  profound  exposition 
of  Jhe  character  of  Hamlet,  as  conceived  by 
our  great  dramatist,  that  has  ever  been  given 
to  the  world.  In  justice  to  the  author,  we 
shall  give  a  part  of  this  admirable  critique. 
He  first  delineates  him  as  he  was  before  the 
calamities  of  his  family. 

"  '  Soft,  and  from  a  noble  stem,  this  royal  flower 
had  sprung  up  under  the  immediate  influences  of 
itiajesty :  the  idea  of  moral  rectitude  with  that  of 
princely  elevation,  the  feeling  of  the  good  and  dig- 
nified with  the  consciousness  of  high  birth,  had  in 
him  been  unfolded  simultaneously.  He  was  a 
prince,  by  birth  a  prince  ;  and  he  wished  to  reign, 
only  that  good  men  might  be  good  without  obstruc- 
tion. Pleasing  in  form,  polished  by  nature,  cour- 
teous from  the  heart,  he  was  meant  to  be  the  pat- 
tern of  youth  and  the  joy  of  the  world. 

"  *  Without  any  prominent  passion,  his  love  for 
Ophelia  was  a  still  presentiment  of  sweet  wants. 
His  zeal  in  knightly  accomplishments  was  not  en- 
tirely his  own;  it  needed  to  be  quickened  and  in- 
flamed by  praise  bestowed  on  others  for  excelling 
in  them.  He  was  calm  in  his  temper,  artless  in  his 
conduct,  neither  pleased  with  idleness,  nor  too  vio- 
lently eager  for  employment.  The  routine  of  a 
'iniversity  he  seemed  to  continue  when  at  couri. 
lie  possessed  more  mirth  of  humour  than  of  heart ; 
ne  was  a  good  companion,  pliant,  courteous,  dis- 
creet, and  able  to  forget  and  forgive  an  injury  ;  yet 
never  able  to  unite  himself  with  those  who  over- 
stept  the  limits  of  the  right,  the  good,  and  the 
becoming.'  " 

He  then  considers  the  effects  of  the  mis- 
fortunes of  his  house  on  such  a  disposition. 
The  first  is  the  death  of  his  father,  by  which 
his  fair  hopes  of  succession  are  disappointed. 

"He  is  now  poor  in  goods  and  favour,  and  a 
stranger  in  the  scene  which  from  youth  he  had 
looked  upon  as  his  inheritance.  His  {emper  here 
assumes  its  first  mournful  tinge.  He  feels  that  now 
he  is  not  more,  that  he  is  less,  than  a  private  no- 
bleman ;  he  offers  himself  as  the  servant  of  every 
one  ;  he  is  not  courteous  and  condescending,  Ii  is 
needy  and  degraded. 


"'The  second  stroke  that  came  upon  h:n> 
wounded  deeper,  bowed  still  more.  I-  was  the 
marriage  of  his  mother.  The  faithful  tender  sou 
had  yet  a  mother,  when  his  father  passed  away. 
He  hoped,  in  the  company  of  his  surviving  and 
noble-minded  parent,  to  reverence  the  heroic  form 
of  the  departed  ;  but  his  mother  too  he  loses.!  and 
it  is  something  worse  than  death  that  robs  him  cf 
her.  The  trustful  image,  which  a  good  child  loveg 
to  form  of  his  parents,  is  gone.  With  the  dead 
there  is  no  help — on  the  living  no  hold  !  She  also 
is  a  woman,  and  her  name  is  Frailty,  like  that  of  all 
her  sex. 

"  'Figure  to  yourselves  this  youth,'  cried  he, 
'  this  son  of  princes ;  conceive  him  vividly,  bring 
his  state  before  your  eyes,  and  then  observe  him 
when  he  learns  that  his  father's  spirit  walks ! 
Stand  by  him  in  the  terrors  of  the  night,  when  the 
venerable  ghost  itself  appears  before  him.  A  hor- 
rid shudder  passes  over  him  ;  he  speaks  to  the  mys- 
terious form ;  he  sees  it  beckon  him  ;  he  follows  it, 
and  hears.  The  fearful  accusation  of  his  uncle 
rings  in  his  ears ;  the  summons  to  revenge,  and  the 
piercing  oft-repeated  prayer.  Remember  me  ! 

"  'And  when  the  ghost  has  vanished,  who  is  it 
that  stands  before  us  ?  A  young  hero  panting  for 
vengeance  ?  A  prince  by  birth,  rejoicing  to  be 
called  to  punish  the  usurper  of  his  crown  ?  No ! 
Trouble  and  astorashment  take  hold  of  the  solitary 
young  man  :  he  grows  bitter  against  smiling  vil- 
lains, swears  that  he  will  not  forget  the  spirit,  and 
concludes  with  the  expressive  ejaculation  : 

The  time  is  out  of  joint :  O !  cursed  spite, 
That  ever  I  was  born  to  set  them  riglit ! 

"  '  In  these  words,  I  imagine,  will  be  found  the 
key  to  Hamlet's  whole  procedure.  To  me  it  is 
clear  that  Shakespeare  meant,  in  the  present  case, 
to  represent  the  effects  of  a  great  action  laid  upon  a 
soul  unfit  for  the  performance  of  it.  In  this  view 
the  whole  piece  seems  to  me  to  be  composed.  An 
oak-tree  is  planted  in  a  costly  jar,  which  should 
have  borne  only  pleasant  flowers  in  its  bosom  ;  the 
roots  expand,  the  jar  is  shivered  !  A  lovely,  pure, 
noble,  and  most  moral  nature,  without  the  strength 
of  nerve  which  forms  a  hero,  sinks  beneath  a  bur- 
den which  it  cannot  bear,  and  must  not  cast  away. 
All  duties  are  holy  for  him ;  the  present  is  too  hard. 
Impossibilities  have  been  required  of  him ;  not  in 
themselves  impossibilities,  but  such  for  him.  He 
winds,  and  turns,  and  torments  himself;  he  advances 
and  recoils ;  is  ever  put  in  mind,  ever  puts  himself 
in  mind ;  at  last  does  all  but  lose  his  purpose  from 
his  thoughts;  yet  still  without  recovering  his  peace  jA;^ 
of  mind.'  "  ^   '^ 

There  is  nothing  so  good  as  this  in  any  of 
our  own  commentators — nothing  at  once  so 
poetical,  so  feeling,  and  so  just.  It  is  incon- 
ceivable that  it  should  have  been  written  by 
the  chronicler  of  puppet-shows  and  gluttonous 
vulgarities. 

The  players,  with  our  hero  at  their  head, 
now  travel  across  the  country,  rehearsing, 
lecturing,  squabbling,  and  kissing  as  usual. 
There  is  war  however  on  their  track  j  and 
when  seated  pleasantly  at  dinner  in  a  wood 
on  their  j'ourney,  they  are  attacked  by  some 
armed  marauders,  robbed  of  their  goods,  and 
poor  Wilhelm  left  wounded  and  senseless  on 
the  field.  What  follows,  though  not  very 
original  in  conception,  is  described  with  effect 
and  vivacity. 

"  On  again  opening  his  eyes,  he  found  himself  in 
the  strangest  posture.  The  first  thing  that  pierced 
fhe"dimness  which  yet  swam  before  his  vision,  was 
Philina's  face  bent  down  over  his.  He  felt  himself 
weak ;  and  making  a  movement  to  rise,  he  dis- 
covered that  he  was  in  Philina's  lap ;  into  which, 
indeed,  he  again  sank  down.     She  was  sitting  on 


GOETHE'S  WILHELM  MEISTER. 


115 


Itic  sward.  She  had  softly  pressed  towards  her  the 
heud  of  the  fallen  young  man  ;  and  made  for  him 
an  easy  couch,  as  far  as  this  was  in  her  power. 
Mignon  was  kneeUng  with  dishevelled  and  bloody 
hair  at  his  feet,  which  she  embraced  with  many 
tears.  Philina  let  him  know  that  this  true-hearted 
creature,  seeing  her  friend  wounded,  and  in  the 
hurry  of  the  instant,  being  able  to  think  of  nothing 
which  would  staunch  the  blood,  had  taken  her  own 
hair  that  was  flowing  round  her  head,  and  tried  to 
stop  the  wounds  with  it ;  but  had  soon  been  obliged 
to  give  up  the  vain  attempt ;  that  afterwards  they 
had  bound  with  moss  and  dry  mushrooms,  Philina 
herself  giving  up  her  neck-kerchief  for  that  purpose. 
"  After  a  few  moments,  a  young  lady  issued  from 
the  thickets,  riding  on  a  gray  courser,  and  accom- 
panied by  an  elderly  gentleman  and  some  cavaliers. 
Grooms,  servants,  and  a  troop  of  hussars,  closed  up 
the  rear.  Philina  stared  at  this  phenomenon,  and 
was  about  to  call,  and  entreat  the  Amazon  for  help  ; 
when  the  latter,  turning  her  astonished  eyes  on  the 
group,  instantly  checked  her  horse,  rode  up  to 
them,  and  halted.  She  inquired  eagerly  about  the 
wounded  man,  whose  posture  in  the  lap  of  this  light- 
minded  Samaritan  seemed  to  strike  her  as  peculiar- 
ly strange.  '  Is  it  your  husband  ?'  she  inquired  of 
Philina.  '  Only  a  friend,'  replied  the  other,  with  a 
tone  that  Wilhelm  liked  extremely  ill.  He  had 
fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  soft,  elevated,  calm,  sympa- 
thizing features  of  the  stranger :  he  thought  he  had 
never  seen  aught  nobler  or  more  lovely.  Her  shape 
he  could  not  see :  it  was  hid  by  a  man's  great-coat, 
which  she  seemed  to  have  borrowed  from  some  of 
her  attendants,  to  screen  her  from  the  chill  evening 
air."— Vol.  ii.  pp.  38—43. 

A  surgeon  in  this  compassionate  party  ex- 
amines his  wounds,  and  the  lovely  young 
woman,  after  some  time 

— "turned  to  the  old  gentleman,  and  said,  'Dear 
uncle,  may  I  be  generous  at  your  expense  ?'  She 
took  off  the  great-coat,  with  the  visible  intention  to 
give  it  to  the  stript  and  wounded  youth. 

"  Wilhelm,  whom  the  healing  look  of  her  eyes 
had  hitherto  held  fixed,  was  now,  as  the  surtout  fell 
away,  astonished  at  her  lovely  figure.  She  came 
near,  and  softly  laid  the  coat  above  him.  At  this 
moment,  as  he  tried  to  open  his  mouth,  and  stam- 
mer out  some  words  of  gratitude,  the  lively  impres- 
sion of  her  presence  worked  so  strongly  on  his 
senses,  already  caught  and  bewildered,  that  all  at 
once  it  appeared  to  him  as  if  her  head  were  encir- 
cled with  rays  ;  and  a  glancing  light  seemed  by  de- 
grees to  spread  itself  over  all  her  form !  At  this 
moment  the  surgeon,  endeavouring  to  extract  the 
ball  from  his  wound,  gave  him  a  sharper  twinge  ; 
the  angel  faded  away  from  the  eyes  of  the  fainting 
patient :  he  lost  all  consciousness ;  and,  on  returning 
to  himself,  the  horsemen  and  coaches,  the  fair  one 
with  her  attendants,  had  vanished  like  a  dream. 

"  He,  meanwhile,  wrapt  up  in  his  warm  surtout, 
was  lying  peacefully  upon  the  litter.  An  electric 
warmth  seemed  to  flow  from  the  fine  wool  into  his 
body:  in  short,  he  felt  himself  in  the  most  delight- 
ful frame  of  mind.  The  lovely  being,  whom  this 
garment  lately  covered,  had  aflfected  him  to  the 
very  heart.  He  still  saw  the  coat  falling  down 
from  her  shoulders:  saw  that  noble  form,  begirt 
with  radiance,  stand  beside  him  ;  and  his  soul  hied 
over  rocks  and  forests  on  the  footsteps  of  his  de- 
parted benefactress. — "Vol.  ii.  pp.  45 — 47. 

The  party  afterwards  settles  iri  a  large 
town,  under  the  charge  of  a  regular  manager. 
There  are  endless  sqabbles  and  intrigues,  and 
interminable  dissertations  on  acting.  Our  hero 
performs  Hamlet  with  great  applause,  and 
gets  tipsy  with  the  whole  company  at  a  riotous 
supper  after  it — the  rehearsals,  the  acting, 
and  the  said  supper  being  all  described  with 


great  spirit  and  animation.     We  may  extract 
the  end  of  the  latter. 

"  Amid  the  pleasures  of  the  entertainment,  it 
had  not  been  noticed  that  the  children  and  the  Harpei 
were  away.  Ere  long  they  made  their  entrance, 
and  were  blithely  welcomed  by  the  company. 
They  came  in  together,  very  strangely  decked : 
Felix  was  beating  a  triangle,  Mignon  a  tambou- 
rine ;  the  old  man  had  his  large  harp  hung  round 
his  neck,  and  was  playing  on  it  whilst  he  carried  it 
before  him.  They  marched  round  and  round  the 
table,  and  sang  a  multitude  of  songs.  Eatalles 
were  handed  to  them  ;  and  the  guests  believed 
they  could  not  do  a  greater  kindness  to  the  children, 
than  by  giving  them  as  much  sweet  wine  as  ihey 
chose  to  drink.  For  the  company  themselres  had 
not  by  any  means  neglected  a  stock  of  savoury 
flasJcs,  presented  by  the  two  amateurs,  which  had 
arrived  this  evening  in  baskets.  The  children 
tripped  about  and  sang ;  Mignon  in  particular  was 
frolicsome  beyond  what  any  one  had  ever  seen  her.. 
She  beat  the  tambourine  with  the  greatest  liveli- 
ness and  grace :  now,  with  her  finger  pressed 
against  the  parchment,  she  hummed  across  it  quick- 
ly to  and  fro  ;  now  rattled  on  it  with  her  knuckles, 
now  with  the  back  of  her  hand ;  nay  sometimes, 
with  alternating  rliythm,  she  struck  it  first  against 
her  knee  and  then  against  her  head ;  and  anon 
twirling  it  in  her  hand,  she  made  the  shells  jingle 
by  themselves  ;  and  thtts,  from  the  simplest  instru- 
ment, elicited  a  great  variety  of  tones.  The  com- 
pany, as  much  as  they  had  laughed  at  her  at  first, 
were  in  fine  obliged  to  curb  her.  But  persuasion 
was  of  small  avail ;  for  she  now  sprang  up,  and 
raved,  and  shook  her  tambourine,  and  capered 
round  the  table.  With  her  hair  flying  out  behind 
her,  with  her  head  thrown  back,  and  her  Hmbs  aa 
it  were  cast  into  the  air,  she  seemed  like  one  of 
those  antique  Masnades,  whose  wild  and  all  but 
impossible  positions  still  strike  us  with  astonish- 
ment when  seen  on  classic  monuments,  &c. 

"  It  was  late  ;  and  Aurelia,  perhaps  the  only  one 
retaining  self-possession  in  the  party,  now  stood  up, 
and  signified  that  it  was  time  to  go.  By  way  of 
termination,  Serlo  gave  a  firework,  or  what  resem- 
bled one  :  for  he  could  imitate  the  sound  of  crack- 
ers, rockets,  and  fire-wheels  with  his  mouth,  in  a 
style  of  nearly  inconceivable  correctness.  You 
had  only  to  shut  yonr  eyes,  and  the  deception  wag 
complete.  On  reaching  the  open  air,  almost  all 
of  them  observed  that  they  had  drank  too  liberally. 
They  glided  asunder  without  taking  leave. 

"The  instant  Wilhelm  gained  his  room,  he 
stripped,  and,  extinguishing  his  candle,  hastened 
into  bed.  Sleep  was  overpowering  him  without 
delay,  when  a  noise,  that  seemed  to  issue  from  be- 
hind the  stove,  aroused  him.  In  the  eye  of  his 
heated  fancy,  the  image  of  the  harnessed  king  was 
hovering  near  him  :  he  sat  up  that  he  might  address 
the  spectre  ;  but  he  felt  himself  encircled  with  soft 
arms,  and  his  mouth  was  shut  with  kisses,  which 
he  had  not  force  to  push  away !" — Vol.  ii.  pp.  205 — 
209. 

In  this  division  of  the  story  we  hear  a  great 
deal  of  an  Aurelia — a  sister  of  the  manager's — 
an  actress  of  course — but  a  woman  of  talent 
and  sentiment — who  had  been  perfidiously 
left  by  her  lover — and  confided  all  the  bitter 
ness  of  her  heart  to  our  hero.  There  is  a 
good  deal  of  eloquence  in  some  of  these  dia- 
logues— and  a  nearer  approach  to  nature,  than 
in  any  other  part  of  the  work.  This  is  a 
sample  of  them. 

"'One  more  forsaken  -voman  in  the  world!' 
you  will  say.  You  are  a  man.  You  are  thinking : 
'  What  a  noise  she  makes,  the  fool,  about  a  neces- 
sary evil,  which  certainly  as  death  awaits  women 
when  such  is  the  fidelity  of  men  !'  Oh,  my  friend! 
if  my  fate  were  common,  I  would  gladly  u'  d^'gd 


116 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


A  common  evil.  But.  it  is  so  singular  :  why  cannot 
I  present  it  to  you  in  a  mirror,  why  not  command 
some  one  to  tell  it  you  ?  Oh,  had  I,  had  I  been 
seduced,  surprised,  and  afterwards  forsaken  !  there 
would  then  be  comfort  in  despair :  but  I  am  far 
more  miserable  ;  I  have  been  my  own  deceiver ;  I 
have  wittingly  betrayed  myself;  and  this,  this  is 
what  shall  never  be  forgiven  me.' 

"  '  I  hate  the  French  language,'  slie  added, 
'from  the  bottom  of  my  soul.  During  the  period 
of  our  kindliest  connection,  he  wrote  in  German, 
and  what  genuine,  powerful,  cordial  German  !  It 
was  not  till  he  wanted  to  get  quit  of  me,  that  he 
began  seriously  to  write  in  French.  I  marked,  I 
felt  what  he  meant.  What  he  would  have  blushed 
to  utter  in  his  mother  tongue,  he  could  by  this 
means  write  with  a  quiet  conscience.  It  is  the  lan- 
guage of  reservations,  equivocations,  and  lies  :  it  is 
a  perfidious  language  !  Heaven  be  praised  !  I  can- 
not find  another  word  to  express  this  perfide  of 
theirs  in  all  its  compass.  Our  poor  treulos,  the 
faithless  of  the  English,  are  innocent  as  babes  be- 
side it.  Perfide  means  faithless  with  enjoyment, 
with  insolence  and  malice.  How  enviable  is  the 
culture  of  a  nation  that  can  figure  out  so  many 
shades  of  meaning  by  a  single  word  !  French  is 
exactly  the  language  of  the  world ;  worthy  to  be- 
come the  universal  language,  that  all  may  have  it 
in  their  power  to  cheat,  and  cozen,  and  betray  each 
other !  His  French  letters  were  always  smooth 
and  pleasant  while  you  read  them.  If  you  chose 
to  believe  it,  they  sounded  warmly,  even  passion- 
ately :  but  if  you  examined  narrowly,  they  were 
but  phrases,  accursed  phrases  !  He  has  spoiled  my 
feehng  to  the  whole  language,  to  French  hterature, 
even  to  the  beautiful  delicious  expressions  of  noble 
souls  which  may  be  found  in  it.  I  shudder  when 
a  French  word  is  spoken  in  my  hearing.'  " 

What  follows  is  still  more  in  the  raving 
style — and  we  suppose  is  much  more  admired 
in  Germany. 

"  She  sunk  in  thought ;  then  after  a  brief  pause, 
she  exclaimed  with  violence  :  '  You  are  accustomed 
to  have  all  things  fly  into  your  arms.  No,  you 
cannot  feel ;  no  man  is  in  a  case  to  feel  the  worth 
of  a  woman  that  can  reverence  herself.  By  all  the 
holy  angels,  by  all  the  images  of  blessedness  which 
a  pure  and  kindly  heart  creates,  there  is  not  any 
thing  more  heavenly  than  the  soul  of  a  woman  that 
gives  herself  to  the  man  she  loves!  We  are  cold, 
proud,  high,  clear-sighted,  wise,  while  we  deserve 
the  name  of  women  ;  and  all  these  quahties  we 
lay  down  at  your  feet,  the  instant  that  we  love,  that 
we  hope  to  excite  a  return  of  love.  Oh  !  how  have 
I  cast  away  my  entire  existence  wittingly  and  wil- 
lingly !  But  now  will  I  despair,  purposely  despair. 
There  is  no  drop  of  blood  within  me  but  shall 
BuflTer,  no  fibre  that  I  will  not  punish.  Smile,  I 
pray  you ;  laugh  at  this  theatrical  display  of  pas- 
sion.' 

**  Wilhelm  was  far  enough  from  any  tendency 
to  laugh.  This  horrible,  half-natural,  half-fictitious 
condition  of  his  friend  afflicted  him  but  too  deeply. 
She  looked  him  intently  in  the  face,  and  asked : 
'  Can  you  say  that  you  never  yet  betrayed  a  woman, 
that  you  never  tried  with  thoughtless  gallantry, 
with  false  asseverations,  with  cajoling  oaths,  to 
wheedle  favour  from  her  ?'  '  I  can,'  said  Wilhelm, 
'  and  indeed  without  much  vanity ;  my  life  has  been 
so  simple  and  sequestered,  I  have  had  but  few  en- 
ticements to  attempt  such  things.  And  what  a 
warning,  my  beautiful,  my  noble  friend,  is  this 
melancholy  state  in  which  I  see  you  !  Accept  of 
me  a  vow,  which  is  suited  to  my  heart,  &c. ;  no 
woman  shall  receive  an  acknowledgment  of  love 
from  my  lips,  to  whom  I  cannot  consecrate  my 
life.'  She  looked 'at  him  with  a  wild  indiflerence  ; 
imd  drew  back  some  steps  as  he  offered  her  his 
hand.  '  'Tis  of  no  moment !'  cried  she :  '  so  many 
tromen't  tears  more  or  fewer !  the  ocean  will  not 


swell  by  reason  of  them !  And  yet,'  continued 
she,  '  among  thousands  o7ie  woman  saved  !  that  still 
is  something :  among  thousands  one  honest  man 
discovered ;  this  is  not  to  be  refused.  Do  yon 
know  then  what  you  promise  ?'  '  I  know  it,'  an 
swered  Wilhelm  with  a  smile,  and  holding  out  hia 
hand.  'I  accept  it  then,'  said  she,  and  made  a 
movement  with  her  right  hand,  as  if  meaning  to 
take  hold  of  his  :  but  instantly  she  darted  it  mti* 
her  pocket,  pulled  out  her  dagger  as  quick  as  light 
ning,  and  scored  with  the  edge  and  point  of  it 
across  his  hand  !  He  hastily  drew  back  his  arm 
but  the  blood  was  already  running  down. 

"  *  One  must  mark  you  men  rather  sharply,  if 
one  means  you  to  take  heed,'  cried  she  with  a  wild 
mirth,  which  soon  passed  into  a  quick  assiduity. 
She  took  her  handkerchief,  and  bound  his  hand 
with  it  to  staunch  the  fast-flowing  blood.  '  For- 
give a  half-crazed  being,'  cried  she,  '  and  regret 
not  these  few  drops  of  blood.  I  am  appeased,  I 
am  again  myself.  On  my  knees  will  I  cr^ve  your 
pardon  :  leave  me  the  comfort  of  healing  you.'  " — 
Vol.  ii.  pp.  128—132. 

Alternating  with  these  agonies,  we  have 
many  such  scenes  as  the  following. 

"  '  'Tis  a  pity,  I  declare,'  said  Serlo  to  Philina, 
'  that  we  have  no  ballet ;  else  I  would  make  you 
dance  me  a  pas  de  duex  with,  your  first,  and  another 
with  your  second  husband  :  the  harper  might  be 
lulled  to  sleep  by  the  measure ;  and  your  bits  of 
feet  and  ancles  would  look  so  pretty,  tripping  to 
and  fro  upon  the  side  stage.'  '  Of  my  ancles  you 
do  not  know  much,'  repHed  she  snappishly ;  '  and 
as  to  my  bits  of  feet,'  cried  she,  hastily  reaching 
below  the  {hhle,j)ulli?ig  off  her  slippers,  and  hold- 
ing them  out  to  Serlo ;  '  here  are  the  cases  of  them, 
and  I  give  you  leave  to  find  me  nicer  ones,'  '  It 
were  a  serious  task,'  said  he,  looking  at  the  elegant 
half-shoes.  '  In  truth,  one  does  not  often  meet 
with  any  thing  so  dainty.'  They  were  of  Parisian 
workmanship  ;  Philina  had  obtained  them  as  a  pre- 
sent from  the  countess,  a  lady  whose  foot  was 
celebrated  for  its  beauty.  '  A  charming  thing !' 
cried  Serlo  ;  '  my  heart  leaps  at  the  sight  of  them.' 
'  What  gallant  throbs !'  replied  Philina.  '  There  is 
nothing  in  the  world  beyond  a  pair  of  slippers,'  said 
he ;  '  of  such  pretty  manufacture,  in  their  proper 

time  and  place '     Philina  took  her  slippers 

from  his  hands,  crying,  *  You  have  squeezed  them 
all !  They  are  far  too  wide  for  me !'  She  played 
with  them,  and  rubbed  the  soles  of  them  together. 
'  How  hot  it  is  !'  cried  she,  clapping  the  sole  upon 
her  cheek,  then  again  rubbing,  and  holding  it  to 
Serlo.  He  was  innocent  enough  to  stretch  out  his 
hand  to  feel  the  warmth.  '  Clip  !  clap  !'  cried  she, 
giving  him  a  smart  rap  over  the  knuckles  with  the 
heel,  that  he  screamed  and  drew  back  his  hand; 
'  I  will  teach  you  how  to  use  my  slippers  better.' 
'  And  I  will  teach  you  also  how  to  use  old  folk  like 
children,'  cried  the  other ;  then  sprang  up,  seized 
her,  and  plundered  many  a  kiss,  every  one  of  which 
she  artfully  contested  with  a  show  of  serious  reluct- 
ance. In  this  romping,  her  long  hair  goot  loase, 
and  floated  round  the  group;  the  chair  overset  ;  and 
Aurelia,  inwardly  indignant  at  such  rioting,  arose 
in  great  vexation." — Vol.  ii.  pp.  166,  167. 

This  said  Aurelia  has  a  little  boy  called 
Felix — and  dying  at  last  of  her  sorrow,  leaves 
a  letter  for  her  betrayer,  which  she  had  en- 
gaged our  hero  to  deliver  to  him  in  person. 
But  between  the  giving  and  execution  of  this 
mandate,  the  ingenious  author  has  interpo- 
lated a  separate  piece,  which  he  has  entitled 
"  the  confessions  of  a  fair  Saint" — and  which 
has  no  other  apparent  connection  with  the 
story,  than  that  poor  Aurelia's  physician  had 
lent  it  to  her  to  read  in  her  last  moments. 
Thcugh  eminently  characteristic  of  the  authc- 


GOETHE'S  WILHELM  MEISTER. 


117 


II  need  not  detain  us  long.  The  first  part  is 
full  of  vulgarity  and  obscurity — the  last  ab- 
solutely unintelligible.  This  fair  saint  lived 
in  her  youth  among  a  set  of  people  whom  she 
calls  German  courtiers,  and  says,  \vith  singu- 
lar delicacy , 

"  I  look  upon  it  as  a  providential  guidance,  that 
none  of  these  many  handsome,  rich,  and  well- 
dressed  men  could  take  my  fancy.  They  were 
rakes,  and  did  not  hide  it ;  this  scared  me  back  : 
their  speech  was  frequently  adorned  with  double 
meanings;  this  offended  me,  and  made  me  act  with 
coldness  towards  them.  Many  times  their  impro- 
prieties surpassed  belief!  and  I  did  not  prevent  my- 
self from  being  rude.  Besides,  my  ancient  coun- 
sellor had  once  in  confidence  contrived  to  tell  me, 
that,  with  the  greater  part  of  these  lewd  fellows, 
health  as  v.-ell  as  virtue  was  in  danger !  I  now 
shuddered  at  the  sight  of  them  ;  I  was  afraid,  if  one 
of  them  in  any  way  approached  too  near  me.  I 
would  not  touch  their  cups  or  glasses,  even  the 
chairs  they  had  been  sitting  on  !  Thus  morally 
and  physically  I  remained  apart  from  them." 

She  then  falls  in  love  with  a  certain  Narciss, 
with  whom  her  first  acquaintance  was  formed 
at  a  ball,  where,  "after  having  jigged  it  for  a 
while  in  the  crowd,  he  came  into  the  room 
where  I  was,  in  consequence  of  a  bleeding  at 
the  nose,  with  which  he  had  been  overtaken, 
and  began  to  speak  about  a  multitude  of 
things  !"  In  spite  of  this  promising  beginning, 
however,  the  mutual  flame  is  not  caught  till 
they  meet  again  at  a  dinner,  where, 

"  Even  at  table,  we  had  many  things  to  suffer; 
for  several  of  the  gentlemen  had  drank  too  much: 
and  after  rising  from  it,  they  insisted  on  a  game  at 
forfeits.  It  went  on  with  great  vivacity  and  tumult. 
Narciss  had  lost  a  forfeit :  they  ordered  him,  by 
way  of  penalty,  to  whisper  something  pleasant  in 
the  ear  of  every  member  of  the  company.  It  seems, 
he  staid  too  long  beside  my  neighbour,  the  lady  of 
a  captain.  The  latter  on  a  sudden  struck  him  such 
a  box  with  his  fist,  that  the  powder  flew  about  my 
eyes  and  blinded  me!  When  I  had  cleared  my 
Bight,  and  in  some  degree  recovered  from  my  terror, 
I  saw  that  both  of  them  had  drawn  their  swords. 
Narciss  was  bleeding ;  and  the  other,  mad  with 
wine,  and  rage,  and  jealousy,  could  scarcely  be 
held  back  by  all  the  company :  I  seized  Narciss, 
led  him  by  tlie  arm  up  stairs;  and  as  I  did  not  think 
my  friend  even  here  in  safety  from  his  frantic 
enemy,  I  shut  the  door  and  bolted  it." 

After  this  they  are  soon  betrothed ;  but  she 
grows  Methodistical,  and  he  cold, — and  their 
engagement  flies  off; — And  then  she  becomes 
pious  in  good  earnest,  and  is  by  turns  a  Hd- 
leaa  and  a  Herrnhuther,  and  we  do  not  know 
how  many  other  things,  and  raves  through 
seventy  or  eighty  pages,  of  which  we  hare 
not  courage  to  attempt  any  analysis. 

We  now  get  rid  in  a  great  degree  of  plays 
and  players,  and  emerge  into  the  region  of 
mysticism.  Wilhelm  goes  to  the  country  to 
deliver  Aurelia's  letter  to  Lothario ;  but  finds 
that  worthy  Baron  so  busy  preparing  to  fight 
a  duel,  that  he  cannot  find  an  opportunity  to 
discharge  himself  of  his  mission.  He  remains, 
however,  in  the  castle,  and  soon  finds  himself 
in  the  midst  of  several  peremptory  and  om- 
niscient people,  who  make  what  they  please 
of  him.  In  discourse,  they  happen  to  make 
mention  of  a  certain  Count,  a  brother-in-law 
of.Lothario's,  who  had  grown  melancholy,  and 
talked  of  joining  the  Herrnhuthers,  with  his 


H^ 


beautiful  wife.  Wilhelm  immediately  inquire; 
what  Count  they  are  speaking  of. 

"  '  One  whom  you  know  very  well,'  said  Jarno 
'  You  yourself  are  the  ghost  that  have  chased  th<. 
unhappy  wiseacre  info  piety  ;  you  are  tiie  villaij 
who  have  brought  his  pretty  wife  to  such  a  state 
that  she  inclines  accompanying  him.'  *  And  shf. 
is  Lothario's  sister  ?'  cried  our  friend.  '  No  other !" 
— '  And  Lothario  knows  ?' — '  The  whole.'  '  O  le 
me  fly  !'  cried  Wilhelm  :  '  How  shall  I  appear  be 
fore  him?  What  can  he  say  to  me?'  '  That  m 
man  should  cast  a  stone  at  his  brother;  that  wher 
one  composes  long  speeches,  with  a  view  to  sham< 
his  neighbours,  he  should  speak  them  to  a  looking 
glass.'  'Do  you  know  that  also?'  'And  many 
things  beside,'  said  Jarno  with  a  smile." 

From  this  moment  our  hero  gives  up  the 
idea  of  reproaching  the  Baron  v;ilh  his  perfidy 
to  Aurelia.  and  offers  his  services  to  decoy 
away  from  him  another  love-sick  damsel  who 
is  then  in  the  house,  and  whose  hysterics,  it 
is  thought,  might  retard  the  cure  of  the  wound 
he  has  just  received  in  his  duel.     He  takes 
her  away,  accordingly,  under  some  false  pre- 
text, to  a  certain  Theresa,  another  deserted 
love  of  Lothario,  and  who  is  distinguished  by 
a  singular  passion  for  housekeeping  and  all 
rnanner  of  economical   employments.     Thel 
conception  of  this  character,  which  is  dwelt  | 
on  at  great  length,  is  one  of  the  most  glaring  I 
absurdities  and  affectations  in  the  book.    Thef^oJ^ 
author  has  actually  endeavoured,  in  serious T  ^^^ 
earnest,  to  exalt  the  common  qualifications! 
of  a  domestic  drudge,  or  notable  housewife,'' 
into  heroic  virtues,  and  to  elaborate  his  fa- 
vourite heroine  out  of  these  base  materials. 
The  whole  scene  is  tinged,  even  beyond  the 
average  standard  of  the  book,  with  the  appa- 
rently opposite  faults  of  vulgarity  and  extrava- 
gance.    This  is  the  debut.  '^ 

"She  entered  Wilhelm's  room,  inquiring  if  he 
wanted  anything.  'Pardon  me,'  said  she,  'for 
having  lodged  you  in  a  chamber  which  the  smell  of 
paint  still  renders  disagreeable:  my  little  dwelling 
is  but  just  made  ready;  you  are  handselling  this 
room,  which  is  appointed  for  my  guests ;  also,  you. 
will  have  many  things  to  pardon.  My  cook  has  run 
away  from  me,  at  this  unseasonable  time  ;  and  a 
serving-man  has  bruised  his  hand.  1  might  be 
forced  to  manage  all  myself;  and  if  it  were  so,  we 
must  just  put  up  with  it.  One  is  plagued  with  no 
body  so  much  as  with  one's  servants:  not  one  of 
them  will  serve  you,  scarcely  even  serve  himself.' 
She  said  a  good  deal  more  on  different  matters :  in 
general  she  seemed  to  like  to  speak. 

They  then  take  a  w^lk  together,  and,  on 
their  return, 

"  Wilhelm  testified  his  admiration  at  her  skill  in 
husbandry  concerns.  '  Decided  inclination,  early 
opportunity,  external  impulse,  and  continued  occu- 
pation in  a  useful  business,'  said  she,  '  make  many 
things,  which  were  at  first  far  harder,  possible  in 
life.'  On  returning  home,  she  sent  him  to  her  Hitle 
garden.  Here  he  scarce  could  turn  himself,  so 
narrow  were  the  walks,  so  thickly  was  it  sown  and 
planted.  On  looking  over  to  the  court,  he  could 
not  keep  from  smiling:  \\\e  firewoodwas\y\n^  there, 
as  accurately  sawed,  split,  and  piled,  as  it  it  had 
been  part  of  the  building,  and  had  been  intended  to 
abide  there  constantly.  The  tiihs  and  implements, 
all  clean,  were  standing  in  their  places:  the  house 
was  painted  v>hite  and  red;  it  was  really  pleasanl 
to  behold  !  Whatever  can  be  done  by  handicraft, 
that  knows  not  beautiful  proportions,  but  that  la- 
bours for  convenience,  cheevfulness,  and  durability 
appeared  united  on  (he  soot." 


118 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


She  then  puts  on  menh  clothes !  which,  in- 
deed, she  generally  wore  as  most  handy;  and 
they  have  another  walk,  in  the  course  of  which 
she  tells  him  her  story.  She  was  nobly  born. 
But 

"  '  From  my  earliest  youth,  the  kitchen,  the  store- 
room, the  granaries,  the  field,  were  my  selected 
element!  Cleanliness  and  order  in  the  house 
seemed,  even  while  I  was  playing  in  it,  to  be  my 
peculiar  instinct,  my  peculiar  object.  This  tendency 
gave  pleasure  to  my  father  ;  and  he  by  degrees  af- 
forded it  the  most  suitable  employment.  When  we 
were  by  ourselves,  when  walking  through  the  fields, 
when  I  was  helping  to  examine  his  accounts,  I 
could  perceive  what  happiness  he  was  enjoying.'  " 

Her  mother  took  great  delight  in  a  private 
theatre — "But  I,"  she  observed,  "very  seldom 
staid  among  the  audience  ]  however,  /  always 
snuffed  their  candles^  and  prepared  the  supper ^ 
— and  put  the  wardrobe  in  order."  After  her 
father's  death,  her  mother  wastes  the  property, 
and  she  goes  as  a  kind  of  steward  or  manager, 
into  the  family  of  a  neighbouring  lady,  whom 
"  she  faithfully  assisted  in  struggling  with  her 
steward  and  domestics." 

"'I  am  neither  of  a  niggardly  nor  grudging 
temper ;  but  we  women  are  accustomed  to  insist, 
more  earnestly  than  men,  that  nothing  shall  he 
wasted.  Embezzlement  of  all  sorts  is  intolerable 
to  us.     Here  1  was  in  my  element  once  more.'  " 

This  is  enough,  we  suppose,  for  the  char- 
acter of  Theresa.  But  the  accomplished  Lo- 
thario falls  in  love  with  this  angel,  and  here 
are  the  grounds  on  which  he  justifies  his  pre- 
ference. 

'•' '  What  is  the  highest  happiness  of  mortals,  if 
not  to  execute  what  we  consider  right  and  good ; 
to  be  really  masters  of  the  means  conducive  to  our 
aims?  And  where  should  or  can  our  first  and 
nearest  aims  be  but  within  the  house  ?  All  those 
indispensable,  and  still  to  be  renewed  supplies, 
where  do  we  expect,  do  we  require  to  find  them, 
if  it  is  not  in  the  place  where  we  arise  and  where 
we  go  to  sleep,  where  kitchen  and  cellar,  and  every 
species  of  accommodation  for  ourselves  and  ours  is 
to  be  always  ready  ?  What  unvarying  activity  is 
needed  to  conduct  this  constantly  recurring  series 
in  unbroken  living  order  !  It  is  when  a  woman  has 
attained  this  inward  mastery,  that  she  truly  makes 
the  husband  whom  she  loves  a  master :  her  atten- 
tion will  acquire  all  sorts  of  knowledge  for  her  ;  her 
activity  will  turn  them  all  to  profit.  Thus  is  she  de- 
pendent upon  no  one  ;  and  she  procures  her  husband 
genuine  independence,  that  which  is  interior  and 
omestic  :  whatever  he  possesses  he  beholds  se- 
cured;  what  he  earns,  well  employed.'  "  &c. 

They  are  engaged 'accordingly  to  be  mar- 
ried ;  but  the  match  is  broken  off  by  an  un- 
lucky discovery,  that  this  gay  Lothario  had 
formerly  had  a  \6\e  affair  with  Theresa's 
mother,  when  she  was  travelling  abroad  under 
a  feigned  name !  We  are  rather  surprised, 
we  confess,  at  the  notable  fair  one's  delicacy, 
in  considering  this  as  a  bar  to  their  union — for 
her  notions  on  the  subject  of  conjugal  fidelity 
must  be  owned  to  be  sufficiently  liberal, 
having  intimated,  in  reference  to  her  lover's 
subsequent  intrigues  with  Aurelia  and  others, 
that 

"Even  if  he  had  been  her  husband,  she  would 
nave  had  sufficient  spirit  to  endure  a  matter  of  this 
kind,  if  it  had  not  trouhled  her  domestic  order:  at 
least  she  often  used  to  say,  that  a  wife,  who  pro- 
perly conducted  her  economy,  should  take  no  um- 


brage at  S7ich  little  fancies  of  her  hz^shand,  bui  o« 
always  certain  that  he  would  return." 

Our  hero  returns  to  the  castle  quite  en 
chanted  with  this  paragon  of  women— and 
his  rising  flame  is  fed  by  the  co;iversation 
which  takes  place  with  regard  to  her.  Aftei 
amusing  themselves  with  each  telling  confi- 
dentially their  pretty  love  adventures,  the 
accomplished  Lothario  holds  forth  in  this 
edifying  and  decided  manner. 

"'It  is  true,'  observed  Lothario,  'there  can 
scarcely  any  feeling  in  the  world  be  more  agreea- 
ble, than  when  the  heart,  after  a  pause  of  indiffer- 
ence, again  opens  to  love  for  some  new  object.  Yet 
I  would  for  ever  have  renounced  that  happiness, 
had  fate  been  pleased  to  unite  me  with  Theresa. 
What  a  heaven  had  I  figured  for  myself  beside 
Theresa  !  Not  the  heaven  of  an  enthusiastic  bliss ; 
but  of  a  su?-e  life  on  earth :  order  in  prosperity, 
courage  in  adversity,  care  for  the  smallest,  and  a 
spirit  capable  of  comprehending  and  managing  the 
greatest.  You  may  well  forgive  me,'  added  he, 
and  turned  to  Wilhelm  with  a  smile,  'that  I  for- 
sook Aureha  for  Theresa:  with  the  one  I  could 
expect  a  calm  and  cheerful  life,  with  the  other  not 
a  happy  hour.'  '  I  will  confess,'  said  Wilhelm, 
'  that  in  coming  hither,  I  had  no  small  anger  in  my 
heart  against  you  ;  that  I  proposed  to  censure  with 
severity  your  conduct  to  Aurelia.'  '  It  was  really 
censurable,'  said  Lothario :  '  I  should  not  have  ex- 
changed my  friendship  for  her  with  the  sentiment 
of  love  ;  I  should  not,  in  place  of  the  respect  which 
she  deserved,  have  intruded  an  attachment  she  was 
neither  calculated  to  excite  nor  maintain.  Alas  ! 
she  was  not  lovely  when  she  loved!  the  greatest  misery 
which  can  befall  a  woman.'  " 

And  in  this  cavalier  manner  is  the  subject 
dismissed.  He  denies,  however,  that  Felix  is 
his  child,  or  Aurelia's  either;  and  avers  that 
he  was  brought  to  her  by  the  old  woman 
Barbara,  by  whom  the  boy  was  generally 
attended.  On  this  hint  Wilhelm  flies  back 
to  the  town,  finds  out  Barbara,  in  whom  he 
at  length  recognises  the  attendant  of  his  first 
love,  Mariana,  and  learns  from  her  that  the 
boy  Felix  is  the  offspring  of  their  early  con- 
nexion, and  that  the  unhappy  mother  died  in 
consequence  of  his  desertion,  not  only  heart- 
broken but  innocent !  He  is  long  incredulous, 
and  appoints  the  ancient  crone  to  come  to  him 
again  at  night,  and  abide  all  his  interrog-a- 
tions. — The  scene  which  follows,  we  think,  is 
very  powerfully  executed,  and  is  the  only  part 
almost  of  the  book  which  produces  any  thing 
of  a  pathetic  effect. 

"  Midnight  was  past,  when  something  rustled  at 
the  half-open  door,  and  Barbara  came  in  with  a 
little  basket.  *  I  am  to  tell  you  the  story  of  our 
woes,'  said  she  ;  '  and  I  must  believe  that  you  will 
sit  unmoved  at  the  recital ;  that  you  are  waiting  for 
me  but  to  satisfy  your  curiosity  ;  that  you  will  now, 
as  you  did  formerly,  retire  within  your  cold  selfish- 
ness, while  our  hearts  are  breaking.  But  look  you 
here  !  Tfms,  on  that  happy  evening,  did  I  bring  you 
the  bottle  of  champagne  !  thus  did  I  place  the  three 
glasses  on  the  table  !  and  as  you  then  began,  with 
soft  nursery  tales,  to  cozen  us  and  lull  us  asleep, 
so  will  I  now  with  stern  truths  instruct  you  and 
keep  you  waking.' 

"  Wilhelm  knew  not  what  to  say,  when  the  crono 
in  fact  let  go  the  cork,  and  filled  three  glasses  to 
the  brim.  '  Drink!'  cried  she,  having  emptied  at 
a  draught  her  foaming  glass.  '  Drink,  ere  the  spirit 
of  it  pass  !  This  third  glass  shall  froth  away  un 
tasted,  to  the  memory  of  my  unhappy  Mariana  . 
How  red  were  her  lips,  when  she  then  drank  youi 


GOETHE'S  WILHELM  MEISTER. 


lit 


heallh  !  Ah !  and  now  for  ever  pale  and  cold  I' 
'  Sibyl!  Fury!'  Wilhelm  cried,  springing  up,  and 
striking  the  table  with  his  fist.  '  iSotily,  Mein 
Herr!'  replied  the  crone;  'you  shall  not  ruffle 
me.  Your  debts  to  us  are  deep  and  dark  :  the 
railing  of  a  debtor  does  not  anger  one.  But  you 
are  right  :  the  simplest  narrative  will  punish  you 
sufficiently.  Hear,  then,  the  struggle  and  the  vic- 
tory of  Mariana  striving  to  continue  yours.'  " 

She  then  tells  a  long  story,  explaining  away 
the  indications  of  perfidy,  on  the  strength  of 
which  he  had  quitted  her;  and  the  scene 
ends  in  this  very  dramatic  and  truly  touching 
manner. 

"  '  Good,  dear  Barbara  !'  cried  Wilhelm,  spring- 
ing up,  and  seizing  the  old  woman  by  the  hand, 
'  we  have  had  enough  of  mummery  and  prepara- 
tion !  Thy  indifferent,  thy  calm,  contented  tone 
betrays  thee.  Give  me  back  my  Mariana !  She 
is  living  !  she  is  near  at  hand  !  Not  in  vain  didst 
thou  choose  this  late  lonely  hour  to  visit  me  ;  not 
in  vain  hast  thou  prepared  me  by  thy  most  delicious 
narrative.  Where  is  she  ?  where  hast  thou  hid 
her  ?  I  believe  all,  1  will  promise  to  believe  all. 
Thy  object  is  attained.  Where  hast  thou  hid  her  ? 
Let  me  light  thee  with  this  candle, — let  me  once 
more  see  her  fair  and  kindly  face !' 

"  He  had  pulled  old  Barbara  from  her  chair :  she 
stared  at  him  ;  tears  started  to  her  eyes  ;  wild  pangs 
of  grief  took  hold  of  her.  '  What  luckless  error,' 
cried  she,  leaves  you  still  a  moment's  hope  ?  Yes, 
I  have  hidden  her — but  beneath  the  ground !  nei- 
ther the  light  of  the  sun  nor  any  social  taper  shall 
ngain  illuminate  her  kindly  face.  Take  the  boy 
Felix  to  her  grave,  and  say  to  him:  "  There  lies 
thy  mother,  whom  thy  father  doomed  unheard." 
The  heart  of  Mariana  beats  no  longer  whh  impa- 
tience to  behold  you.  Not  in  a  neighbouring 
chamber  is  she  waiting  the  conclusion  of  my  narra- 
tive, or  fable  ;  the  dark  chamber  has  received  her, 
to  which  no  bridegroom  follows,  from  which  none 
comes  to  meet  a  lover."  She  cast  herself  upon  the 
floor  beside  a  chair,  and  wept  bitterly." 

She  then  shows  him  some  of  the  poor  girl's 
letters,  which  he  had  refused  to  receive,  and 
another  which  she  had  addressed  to  him  on 
her  deathbed.    One  of  the  former  is  as  follows. 

"  *  Thou  regardest  me  as  guilty — and  so  I  am  ; 
but  not  as  thou  thinkest.  Come  to  me !  It  in- 
volves the  safety  of  a  soul,  it  involves  a  life,  two 
lives,  one  of  which  must  ever  be  dear  to  thee. 
This,  too,  thy  suspicion  will  discredit ;  yet  I  will 
Bpeak  it  in  the  hour  of  death :  the  child  which  I 
carry  underneath  my  heart,  is  thine.  Since  I 
began  to  love  thee,  no  other  man  has  even  pressed 
my  hand :  O  that  thy  love,  that  thy  uprightness, 
had  been  the  companions  of  my  youth  !'  " 

After  this  he  sends  the  boy  and  Mignon  to 
his  new  love,  Theresa,  and  goes  back  himself 
to  Lothario,'  by  whom,  and  his  energetic 
friends,  the  touching  tale  he  had  to  tell  "  is 
treated  with  indifference  and  levity."  And 
now  comes  the  mystery  of  mysteries.  After 
a  great  deal  of  oracular  talk,  he  is  ordered, 
one  morning  at  sunrise,  to  proceed  to  a  part 
of  the  castle  to  which  he  had  never  before 
found  access ;  and  when  he  gets  to  the  end  of 
a  dark  hot  passage,  he  hears  a  voice  call  "  En- 
ter !"  and  he  lifts  a  tapestry  and  enters ! — 

"  The  hall,  in  which  he  now  stood,  appeared  to 
nave  at  one  time  been  a  chapel ;  instead  of  the  altar 
he  observed  a  large  table  raised  some  steps  above 
the  floor,  and  covered  with  a  green  cloth  hanging 
over  it.  On  the  top  of  this,  a  drawn  curtain  seemed 
B8  if  it  hid  a  picture ;  on  the  sides  were  spaces  beau- 
tifully worked,  and  covered  in  with  fine  wire  net- 
ting, like  the  shelves  of  a  library  ;  only  here,  instead 


of  books,  a  multitude  of  rolls  had  bem  inserted. 
Nobody  was  in  the  hall.  The  rising  sun  shone 
through  the  window,  right  on  Wilhelm,  and  kindly 
saluted  him  as  he  came  in. 

"  *  Be  seated!'  cried  a  voice,  which  seemed  to 
issue  Irom  the  altar.  Wilhelm  placed  himself  in  a 
small  arm-chair,  which  stood  against  the  tapestry 
where  he  had  entered.  There  was  no  seat  but  this 
in  the  room  ;  Wilhelm  was  obliged  to  take  it, 
though  the  morning  radiance  dazzled  him ;  the 
chair  stood  fast,  he  could  only  keep  his  hand  before 
his  eyes.  . 

"  But  now  the  curtain,  which  hung  down  above 
the  altar,  went  asunder  with  a  gentle  rustling  ;  and 
showed,  within  a  picture-frame,  a  dark  empty  aper- 
ture. A  man  stept  forward  at  it,  in  a  common  dress  ; 
saluted  the  astonished  looker-on,  and  said  to  him  : 
'  Do  you  not  recognise  me?'  " 

We  have  not  room,  however,  for  the  detail 
of  all  this  mummery.  A  succession  of  figures, 
known  and  unknown,  present  themselves ; — 
among  others,  the  ghost  of  Hamlet.  At  last, 
after  a  pause. 

"The  Abbe  came  to  view,  and  placed  himself 
behind  the  green  table.  '  Come  hither  !'  cried  he 
to  his  marvelling  friend.  He  went,  and  mounted 
up  the  steps.  On  the  green  cloth  lay  a  little  roll. 
'  Here  is  your  Indenture,^  said  the  Abbe  ;  '  take  it 
to  heart ;  it  is  of  weighty  import.'  Wilhelm  lifted, 
opened  it,  and  read : 

'•  Indenture. — 

"  Art  is  long,  life  short,  judgment  difficult,  occa. 
sion  transient.  To  act  is  easy,  to  think  is  hard  ;  to 
act  according  to  our  thought  is  troublesome.  Every 
beginning  is  cheerful ;  the  threshold  is  the  place  of 
expectation.  The  boy  stands  astonished,  his  im- 
pressions guide  him  ;  he  learns  sportfully,  serious- 
ness comes  on  him  by  surprise.  Imitation  is  born 
with  us  ;  what  should  be  imitated  is  not  easy  to 
discover.  The  excellent  is  rarely  found,  more 
rarely  valued.  The  height  charms  us,  the  steps  to 
it  do  not ;  with  the  summit  in  our  eye,  w^e  love  to 
walk  along  the  plain.  It  is  but  a  part  of  art  that 
can  be  taught ;  the  artist  needs  it  all.  Who  knows 
it  half,  speaks  much  and  is  always  wrong  ;  who 
knows  it  wholly,  inclines  to  act,  and  speaks  seldom 
or  late.  The  former  have  no  secrets  and  no  force  ; 
the  instruction  they  can  give  is  hke  baked  bread, 
savoury  and  satisfying  for  a  single  day  ;  but  flout 
cannot  be  sown,  and  seed-corn  ought  not  to  be 
ground.  Words  are  good,  but  they  are  not  the  best. 
The  best  is  not  to  be  explained  by  words.  The 
spirit  in  which  we  act  is  the  highest  matter.  Action 
can  be  understood  and  again  represented  by  the 
spirit  alone.  No  one  knows  what  he  is  doing,  while 
he  acts  rightly  ;  but  of  what  is  wrong  we  are  always 
conscious.  Whoever  works  with  symbols  only,  is 
a  pedant,  a  hypocrite,  or  a  bungler.  There  are 
many  such,  and  they  hke  to  be  together.  Their 
babbling  detains  the  scholar ;  their  obstinate  medi- 
ocrity vexes  even  the  best.  The  instruction,  which 
the  true  artist  gives  us,  opens  up  the  mind ;  for 
where  words  fail  him,  deeds  speak.  The  true 
scholar  learns  from  the  known  to  unfold  the  un- 
known, and  approaches  more  and  more  to  being  a 
master. 

"  '  Enough  !'  cried  the  Abbe  ;  '  the  rest  in  due 
time.     Now,  look  round  you  among  these  cases.' 

"  Wilhelm  went  and  read  the  titles  of  the  rolls. 
With  astonishment,  he  found  Lothario' s  A j)pr entice- 
ship,  Jarno's  Apprenticeship,  and  his  own  Appren- 
ticeship placed  there,  with  many  others  whose 
names  he  did  not  know.  '  May  I  hope  to  cast  a 
look  into  these  rolls  ?'  '  In  this  chamber,  there  is 
now  nothing  hid  from  you.'  '  May  I  put  a  ques- 
tion ?'  '  Ask  not,'  said  the  Abbe.  '  Hail  to  thee, 
young  man  !  Thy  apprenticeship  is  done  ;  Nature 
has  pronounced  thee  free.'  " 

When  he  afterwards  inspects  this  roll,  he 


1 20 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


finds  "his  whole  life  delineated  with  large, 
sharp  strokes,  and  a  num'ber  of  bland  and 
general  reflections!"  We  doubt  whether 
there  is  any  such  nonsense  as  this,  any 
where  else  in  the  universe. 
■  After  this  illumination,  the  first  step  he 
lakes,  with  the  assent  of  these  oracular  sages, 
is  to  propose  for  Theresa,  in  a  Ions;  letter. 
But  while  w^aiting  for  her  answer,  he  is  sent 
by  Lothario  to  visit  his  sister,  to  whose  care, 
it  appears,  poor  Mignon  had  been  transferred 
by  Theresa.  This  sister  he  takes,  of  course, 
for  the  Countess  from  whom  he  had  parted 
80  strangely  in  the  castle,  and  is  a  little  em- 
barrassed at  the  thought  of  meeting  her.  But 
he  discovers  on  the  road  that  there  is  another 
sister;  and  that  she  is  the  very  healing  an- 
gel who  had  given  him  the  great  coat  when 
wounded  in  the  forest,  and  had  haunted  his 
fancy  ever  since. 

"  He  entered  the  house  ;  he  found  himself  in  the 
most  earnest,  and,  as  he  almost  felt,  the  holiest 
place,  which  he  had  ever  trod.  A  pendent  dazzling 
lustre  threw  its  light  upon  a  broad  and  softly  rising 
stair,  which  lay  before  him,  and  which  parted  into 
two  divisions  at  a  turn  above.  Marble  statues  and 
busts  were  standing  upon  pedestals,  and  arranged  in 
niches  ;  some  of  them  seemed  known  to  him.  The 
impressions  of  our  childhood  abide  with  us,  even 
in  their  minutest  traces.  He  recognised  a  Muse 
which  had  formerly  belonged  to  his  grandfather." 

He  finds  poor  Mignon  in  a  wretched  state 
of  health — and  ascertains  that  it  is  a  secret 
passion  for  him  that  is  preying  on  her  deli- 
cate form.  In  the  mean  time,  and  just  as  his 
romantic  love  for  Natalia  (nis  fair  hostess) 
■f-  has  resumed  its  full  sw^ay,  she  delivers  him 
Theresa's  letter  of  acceptance — very  kind  and 
confiding,  but  warning  him  not  to  lay  out  any 
of  his  money,  till  she  can  assist  and  direct  him 
about  the  investment.  This  letter  perplex- 
es him  a  little,  and  he  replies,  with  a  bad 
grace,  to  the  warm  congratulations  of  Natalia 
— when,  just  at  this  moment  Lothario's  friend 
steps  in  most  opportunely  to  inform  them, 
that  Theresa  had  been  discovered  not  to  be 
the  daughter  of  her  reputed  mother ! — and 
that  the  ba'  to  her  union  with  Lothario  was 
therefore  at  an  end.  Wilhelm  affects  great 
magnanimity  in  resigning  her  to  his  prior 
claims — but  is  puzzled  by  the  warmth  of  her 
late  acceptance — and  still  more,  w'hen  a  still 
more  ardent  letter  arrives,  in  which  she  sticks 
to  her  last  choice,  and  assures  him  that  "  her 
dream  of  living  with  Lothario  has  wandered 
far  away  from  her  soul;"  and  the  matter 
seems  finally  settled,  when  she  comes  post- 
haste in  her  own  person,  flies  into  his  arms, 
and  exclaims,  '-'My  friend — my  love — my 
husband  !  Yes,  for  ever  thine  !  amidst  the 
warmest  kisses" — and  he  responds,  ''0  my 
Theresa!" — and  kisses  in  return.  In  spite 
of  all  this,  however,  Lothario  and  his  friends 
come  to  urge  his  suit ;  and,  with  the  tme  Ger- 
man taste  for  impossibilities  and  protracted 
agonies,  the  whole  party  is  represented  as 
living  together  quite  quietly  and  harmonious- 
ly for  several  weeks — none  of  the  parties 
pressing  for  a  final  determination,  and  all  of 
them  occupied  in  the  interval,  with  a  variety 
of  tasks,  duties,  and  dissertations.     At  last 


the  elective  affinities  prevail.  Theresa  begins 
to  cool  to  her  new  love  ;  and,  on  condition  of 
Natalia  undertaking  to  comfort  Wilhelm,  con- 
sents to  go  back  to  her  engagements  witn  Lo- 
thario — and  the  two  couples,  and  some  more, 
are  happily  united. 

This  is  the  ultimate  catastrophe — though 
they  who  seek  it  in  the  book  w^ill  not  get  at  it 
quite  so  easily — there  being  an  infinite  varie- 
ty of  other  events  intermingled  or  premised. 
There  is  the  death  of  poor  Mignon — and  her 
musical  obsequies  in  the  Hall  of  the  Past — 
the  arrival  of  an  Italian  Marchese,  Mho  turns 
out  to  be  her  uncle,  and  recognises  his  brother 
in  the  old  crazy  harper,  of  whom,  though  he 
has  borne  us  company  all  along,  we  have  not 
had  time  to  take  notice — the  return  of  Phili- 
na  along  with  a  merry  cadet  of  Lothario's 
house,  as  sprightly  and  indecorous  as  ever — 
the  saving  of  Felix  from  poisoning,  by  his 
drinking  out  of  the  bottle  instead  of  the  glass 
— and  the  coming  in  of  the  Count,  w-hom 
Wilhelm  had  driven  into  dotage  and  piety  by 
wearing  his  clothes — and  the  fair  Countess, 
who  is  now  discovered  to  have  suffered  for 
years  from  her  momentary  lapse  in  the  castle 
— the  picture  of  her  husband  having,  by  a 
most  apt  retribution,  been  pressed  so  hard  to 
her  breast  in  that  stolen  embrace,  as  to  give 
pain  at  the  time,  and  to  afflict  her  w4th  fears 
of  cancer  for  very  long  after !  Besides  all 
this,  there  are  the  sayings  of  a  very  decided 
and  infallible  gentleman  called  Jarno — and 
his  final  and  not  very  intelligible  admission, 
that  all  w^hich  our  hero  had  seen  in  the  hall 
of  the  castle  was  '•'  but  the  relics  of  a  youthful 
undertaking,  in  which  the  greater  part  of  the 
initiated 'Were  once  in  deep  earnest,  though 
all  of  them  now  viewed  it  with  a  smile." 

Many  of  the  passages  to  which  we  have 
now  alluded  are  executed  with  great  talent ; 
and  we  are  very  sensible  are  better  worth  ex- 
tracting than  many  of  those  we  have  cited. 
But  it  is  too  late  now  to  change  our  selections 
—and  we  can  still  less  afford  to  add  to  them. 
On  the  whole,  w^e  close  the  book  with  some 
feelings  of  mollification  towards  its  faults, 
and  a  disposition  to  abate,  if  possible,  some 
part  of  the  censure  we  were  impelled  to  be- 
stow on  it  at  the  beginning.  It  improves  cer- 
tainly as  it  advances — and  though  nowh'.?re 
probable,  or  conversant '  indeed  either  \n\h 
natural  or  conceivable  characters,  the  invent- 
ive powers  of  the  author  seem  to  strengthen 
by  exercise,  and  come  gradually  to  be  less 
frequently  employed  on  childish  or  revolting 
subjects.  While  we  hold  out  the  work  there- 
fore as  a  curious  and  striking  instance  of  that 
diversity  of  national  tastes,  which  makes  a 
writer  idolized  in  one  part  of  polished  Europe/ 
who  could  not  be  tolerated  in  another,  we 
would  be  understood  as  holding  it  out  as  an 
object  rather  of  wonder  than  of  contempt; 
and  though  the  grealf^r  part  certainly  coul  ' 
not  be  endured,  and  indeed  could  not  hav^ 
been  written  in  England,  there  are  many  pa  ^, 
sages  of  which  any  country  might  reasonably 
be  proud,  and  which  demonstrate,  that  if  tastd 
be  local  and  variable,  genius  is  permanent  aui^ 
universal. 


CX)RRiiSPONl>b:NCE  OF  SAIVIUEL  RICHARDSON. 


121 


v®ctcibn-,  1S04O 

The  Correspondence  of  Sajmuel  Richardson,  Author  of  Pamela,  Clarissa,  and  Sir  Ckarla 
Grandison;  selected  from  the  original  Manuscripts  bequeathed  to  his  Family.  To  which  are 
prefixed,  a  Biographical  account  of  that  Author-  and  Observations  on  his  Writings.  By  Anna 
L^TiTiA  Barbauld.     6  vols,  8vo.     PhillipSj  London:   1804. 


The  public  has  great  reason  to  be  satisfied, 
we  think,  with  Mrs.  Barbauld's  share  in  this 
publication.  She  has  contributed  a  very  well 
written  Introduction ;  and  she  has  suppressed 
about  twice  as  many  letters  as  are  now  pse- 
sented  to  our  consideration.  Favourably  as 
we  are  disposed  to  think  of  all  for  which 
she  is  directly  responsible,  the  perusal  of  the 
whole  six  volumes  has  fully  convinced  us 
that  we  are  even  more  indebted  to  her  for- 
bearance than  to  her  bounty. 

The  fair  biographer  unquestionably  posses- 
ses very  considerable  talents,  and  exercises 
her  powers  of  writing  with  singular  judgment 
and  propriety.  Many  of  her  observations  are 
acute  and  striking,  and  several  of  them  very 
fine  and  delicate.  Yet  this  is  not,  perhaps, 
the  general  character  of  her  genius;  and  it 
must  be  acknowledged,  that  she  has  a  tone 
and  manner  which  is  something  formal  and 
heavy  3  that  she  occasionally  delivers  trite  and 
obvious  truths  with  the  pomp  and  solemnity 
of  important  discoveries,  and  sometimes  at- 
tempts to  exalt  and  magnify  her  subject  by 
a  very  clumsy  kind  of  declamation.  With 
all  those  defects,  however,  we  think  the  life 
and  observations  have  so  much  substantial 
merit,  that  most  readers  will  agree  M'ith  us 
in  thinking  that  they  are  worth  much  more 
than  all  the  rest  of  the  publication. 

She  sets  off  indeed  with  a  sort  of  foiTnal 
dissertation   upon   novels  and    romances   in 
general:  and,  after  obligingly  recapitulating 
the  whole  history  of  this  branch  of  literature, 
from  the  Theagenes  and  Chariclea  of  !He]io- 
dorus  to  the  Gil  Bias  and  Nouvelle  Heloise 
of  modern  times,  she  proceeds  to  distinguish 
these  performances  into  three  several  classes, 
according  to  the  mode  and  form  of  narration 
adopted  by  the   author.     The   first,    she   is 
pleased  to  inform  us,  is  the  narrative  or  epic 
lorm,  in  which  the  whole  story  is  put  into  the 
mouth  of  the  author,  who  is  supposed,  like 
the  Muse,  to  know  every  thing,  and  is  not 
obliged  to  give  any  account  of  the  sources  of 
his  information ;  the  second  is  that  in  which 
the  hero  relates  his  own  adventures;  and  the 
third   is  that   of  epistolary  correspondence, 
where  all  the  agents  in  the  drama  successive- 
ly narrate  the  incidents  in  which  they  are  ! 
principally  concemed.     It  was  with  Richard-  ; 
eon,  Mrs.  Barbauld  then  informs  us,  that  this  | 
last'  mode  of  novel  writing  originated ;  and  { 
she  enters  into  a  critical  examination  of  its  ad-  j 
vantages  and  disadvantages,  and  of  the  com-  I 
parative  probability  of  a  person  dispatching  a  ! 
narrktive  of  every  interesting  incident  or  con-  i 
versatiou  in  his  life  to  his  friends  by  the  post,  | 


are  concluded,  to  give  a  particular  account  cf 
them  to  the  pubhc. 

There   is  something  rather  childish,   we 
think,  in  all  this  investigation ;  and  the  prob- 
lem of  comparative  probability  seems  to  be 
stated  purely  for  the  pleasure  of  the  solution. 
No  reader  was  ever  disturbed,  in  the  middle 
of  an  interesting  story,  by  any  scruple  about 
the  means  or  the  inducements  which  the  nar- 
rator may  be  presumed  to  have  had  for  tell- 
ing it.     While  he  is  engaged  with  the  story, 
such  an  inquiry  never  suggests  itself;  and 
when  it  is  suggested,  he  recollects  that  the 
whole  is  a  fiction,  invQuted  by  the  author  fur 
his  amusement,  and  that   the  best  way  of 
communicating  it  must  be  that  by  which  he 
is  most  interested  and  least  fatigued.     To  ua 
it  appears  very  obvious,  that  the  first  cf  the 
three  modes,  or  the  author's  own  narrative,  is 
by  far  the  most  eligible ;  and  for  this  plain 
reason,  that  it  lays  him  under  much  less  re- 
straint than  either  of  the  other  two.     He  can 
introduce  a  letter  or  a  story  Mhenever  he 
finds  it  convenient,  and  can  make  use  of  the 
dramatic   or  conversation   style  as  often  as 
the  subject  requires  it.     In  epistolary  writing 
there  must  be  a  great  deal  of  repetition  and 
egotism;    and  we   must  submit,  as  on   the 
stage,  to  the  intolerable  burden  of  an  insipid 
confidant,  with  whose  admiration  of  the  hero's 
epistles  the  reader  may  not  always  be  dis- 
posed to  s}-mpathize.     There  is  one  species 
of  novel  indeed  (but  only  one),  to  which  the 
epistolary  style  is  peculiarly  adapted ;  that  is, 
the  novel,  in  which  the  whole  interest  de- 
pends, not  upon  the  adventures,  but  on  the 
characters  of  the  persons  represented,  and  in 
which  the  story  is  of  very  subordinate  im- 
portance, and  only  serves  as  an  occasion  to 
draw  forth  the  sentiments  and  feelings  of  Ihe 
agents.     The  Heloise  of  Rousseau  may  be 
considered  as  the  model  of  this  species  of 
writing;  and  Mrs.  Barbauld  certainly  over- 
looked this  obvious  distinction,  when  she  as- 
serted that  the  author  of  that  extraordinary 
work  is  to  be  reckoned  among  the  imitators  of 
Richardson.     In  the  Heloise,  there  is  scarcely 
any  narrative  at  all ;  and  the  interest  may  be 
said  to  consist  altogether  in  the  eloquent  ex 
pression  of  fine  sentiments  and  exalted  pas- 
sion.    All  Richardson's  novels,  on  the  other 
hand,  are  substantially  narrative ;    and  the 
letters  of  most  of  his  characters  contain  little 
more  than  a  minute  journal  of  the  conversa- 
tions and  transactions  in  which  they  were 
successively  engaged.     The  style  of  Richard- 
son might  be  perfectly  copied,   though    tho 


i22 


LITERA  rURE  AND  BIOGRAPHy. 


epistolary  form  were  to  be  dropped  ]  but  no 
imitation  of  the  Heloise  could  be  recognised, 
if  it  were  not  in  the  shape  of  letters. 

After  finishing  her  discourse  upon  Novels, 
Mrs,  Barbauld  proceeds  to  lay  before  her 
readers  some  account  of  the  life  and  perform- 
ances of  Richardson.  The  biography  is  very 
scanty,  and  contains  nothing  that  can  be 
thought  very  interesting.  He  was  the  soi>  of 
a  joiner  in  Derbyshire ,  but  always  avoided 
mentioning  the  town  in  which  he  was  born. 
He  was  intended  at  first  for  the  church;  but 
his  father,  finding  that  the  expense  of  his 
education  would  be  too  heavy,  at  last  bound 
him  apprentice  to  a  printer.  He  never  was 
acquainted  with  any  language  but  his  own. 
From  his  childhood,  he  was  remarkable  for 
invention,  and  was  famous  among  his  school- 
fellows for  amusing  them  with  tales  and 
stories  which  he  composed  extempore,  and 
usually  rendered,  even  at  that  early  age,  the 
vehicle  of  some  useful  moral.  He  was  con- 
stitutionally shy  and  bashful ',  and  instead  of 
mixing  with  his  companions  in  noisy  sports 
and  exercises,  he  used  to  read  and  converse 
with  the  sedate  part  of  the  other  sex,  or  assist 
them  in  the  composition  of  their  love-letters. 
The  following  passage,  extracted  by  Mrs. 
Barbauld  from  one  of  the  suppressed  letters 


is  more  curious  and   interesting 


e  think. 


than  any  thing  in  those  that  are  published. 

"As  a  bashful  and  not  forward  boy,  I  was  an 
early  favourite  with  all  the  young  women  of  taste 
and  reading  in  the  neighbourhood.  Half  a  dozen 
of  them,  when  met  to  work  with  their  needles, 
used,  when  they  got  a  book  they  liked,  and  thought 
I  should,  to  borrow  me  to  read  to  them ;  their 
mothers  sometimes  with  them  ;  and  both  mothers 
and  daughters  used  to  be  pleased  with  the  observa- 
tions they  put  me  upon  making. 

"I  was  not  more  than  thirteen,  when  three  of 
these  young  women,  unknown  to  each  other,  having 
an  high  opinion  of  my  taciturnity,  revealed  to  me 
their  love-secrets  in  order  to  induce  me  to  give  theip 
copies  to  write  after,  or  correct,  for  answers  to  their 
lovers'  letters ;  nor  did  any  of  them  ever  know  that 
I  was  the  secretary  to  the  others.  I  have  been  di- 
rected to  chide,  and  even  to  repulse,  when  an 
offence  was  either  taken  or  given,  at  the  very  time 
that  the  heart  of  the  chider  or  repulser  was  open 
before  me,  overflowing  with  esteem  and  affection; 
and  the  iair  repulser,  dreading  to  be  taken  at  her 
word,  directing  this  word,  or  that  expression,  to  be 
softened  or  changed.  One  highly  gratified  with 
her  lover's  fervour  and  vows  of  everlasting  love, 
has  said,  when  I  have  asked  her  direction — I  can- 
not tell  you  what  to  write;  but  (her  heart  on  her 
lips)  you  cannot  write  too  kindly.  All  her  fear 
was  only  that  she  should  incur  slight  for  her  kind- 
ness."— Vol.  i.  Introduction,  p.  xxxix.  xl. 

We  add  Mrs.  Barbauld's  observation  on 
this  passage,  for  the  truth  of  the  sentiment  it 
contains,  though  more  inelegantly  written 
than  any  other  sentence  in  her  performance. 

"  Human  nature  is  human  nature  in  every  class  ; 
the  hopes  and  the  fears,  the  perplexities  ai'id  the 
struggles,  of  these  low-bred  girls  in  probably  an 
obscure  village,  supplied  the  future  author  with 
those  ideas  which,  by  their  gradual  development, 
produced  the  characters  of  a  Clarissa  and  a  Cle- 
mentina ;  nor  was  he  probably  happier,  or  amused 
in  a  more  lively  manner,  when  sitting  in  his  grotto, 
with  a  circle  of  the  best  informed  women  in  Eng- 
land about  him,  who  in  after  times  courted  his 


society,  than  in  reading  to  these  girls  in,  it  may  he, 
a  little  back  shop,  or  a  mantua-maker's  parloul 
with  a  brick  floor." — p.  xl.  xli. 

During  his  apprenticeship,  he  distingiushec 
himself  only  by  exemplary  diligence  and 
fidelity ;  though  he  informs  us,  that  he  even 
then  enjoyed  the  correspondence  of  a  gentle 
man,  of  great  accomplishments,  from  whose 
patronage,  if  he  had  lived,  he  entertained  the 
highest  expectations.  The  rest  of  his  worldly 
history  seems  to  have  bee^  pretty  nearly  that 
of  Hogarth's  virtuous  apprentice.  He  married 
his  master's  daughter,  and  succeeded  to  hia 
business ;  extended  his  wealth  and  credit  by 
sobriety,  punctuality,  and  integrity ;  bought  a 
residence  in  the  country ;  and,  though  he  did 
not  attain  to  the  supreme  dignity  of  Lord 
Mayor  of  London,  arrived  in  due  time  at  the 
respectable  situation  of  Master  of  the  Wor- 
shipful Company  of  Stationers.  In  this  course 
of  obscure  prosperity,  he  appears  to  have 
contiimed  till  he  had  passed  his  fiftieth  year, 
without  giving  any  intimation  of  his  future 
celebrity,  and  even  without  appearing  to  be 
conscious  that  he  was  differently  gifted  from 
the  other  flourishing  traders  of  the  metropolis. 
He  says  of  himself,  we  observe,  in  one  of 
these  letters — "My  business,  till  within  these 
few  years,  filled  all  my  time.  I  had  no 
leisure  :  nor,  being  unable  to  write  by  a  regu- 
lar plan,  knew  I  that  I  had  so  much  invention, 
till  I  almost  accidentally  slid  into  the  writing 
of  Pamela.  And  besides,  little  did  I  imagine 
that  any  thing  I  could  write  would  be  so 
kindly  received  by  the  world."  Of  the  origin 
and  progress  of  this  first  work  he  has  himself 
left  the  following  authentic  account. 

"Two  booksellers,  my  particular  friends,  en- 
treated me  to  write  for  them  a  little  volume  of 
letters,  in  a  common  style,  on  such  subjects  as 
might  be  of  use  to  those  country  readers  who  were 
unable  to  indite  for  themselves.  Will  it  be  any 
harm,  said  I,  in  a  piece  you  want  to  be  written  so 
low,  if  we  should  instruct  them  how  they  should 
think  and  act  in  common  cases,  as  well  as  indite? 
They  were  the  more  urgent  with  me  to  begin  the 
Httle  volume  for  this  hint.  I  set  about  it ;  and,  in 
the  progress  of  it,  writing  two  or  three  letters  to 
instruct  handsome  girls,  who  were  obliged  to  go 
out  to  service,  as  we  phrase  it,  how  to  avoid  the 
snares  that  might  be  laid  against  their  virtue  ;  the 
above  story  recurred  to  my  thought:  and  hence 
sprung  Pamela." — Introd.  p.  liii. 

This  publication,  we  are  told,  which  made 
its  first  appearance  in  1740,  was  received  with 
a  burst  of  applause.  Dr.  Sherlock  recom- 
mended it  from  the  pulpit.  Mr.  Pope  said  it 
would  do  more  good  than  volumes  of  seimons: 
and  another  literary  oracle  declared,  that  if 
all  other  books  were  to  be  burnt,  Pamela  and 
the  Bible  should  be  preserved  I  Its  success 
was  not  less  brilliant  in  the  world  of  fashion. 
"  Even  at  Ranelagh,"  Mrs.  Barbauld  assures 
us,  "it  was  usual  for  the  ladies  to  hold  up  the 
volumes  to  one  another,  to  show  they  had  got 
the  book  that  every  one  was  talking  of."  And, 
what  will  appear  still  more  extraordinary,  one 
gentleman  declares,  that  he  will  give  it  to  his 
son  as  soon  as  he  can  read,  that  he  may  have 
an  early  impression  of  virtue. — After  faithfully 
reciting  these  and  other  testimonies  of  the 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  SAMUEL  RICHARDSON. 


123 


nign  estimation  in  which  this  work  was  once 
held  by  all  ranks  of  people,  Mrs.  Barbauld 
fiubjoins  some  very  acute  and  judicious  ob- 
servations both  on  its  literary  merits  and  its 
moral  tendency.  We  cannot  find  room  for  the 
«vhole  of  this  critique ;  but  there  is  so  much 
good  sense  and  propriety  in  the  following  pas- 
\Bage,  that  we  cannot  refrain  from  inserting  it. 

-T^'^o  long  as  Pamela  is  solely  occupied  in  scliernSS' 
jto  escape  from  her  persecutor,  her  virtuous  resist- 
/ance  obtains  our  unquaHfied  approbation  ;  but  from 
'  the  moment  she  begins  to  entertain  hopes  of  mar- 
rying him,  we  admire  her  guarded  prudence,  rather 
than  her  purity  of  mind.     She  has  an  end  in  view,' 
an  interested  end  ;  and  we  can  only  consider  her  as.; 
the  conscious  possessor  of  a  treasure,  which  she  is;' 
Ljwisely  resolved  not  to  part  .with.liut.ibr  its  just  price. 
Her  staying  in  his  house  a  moment  after  she  found 
herself  at  liberty  to  leave  it,  was  totally  unjustifiable: 
her  repentant  lover  ought  to  have  followed  her  to 
her  father's  cottage,  and  to  have  married  her  from 
thence.     The  familiar  footing  upon  which  she  con- 
descends to  live  with  the  odious  Jewkes,  shows 
also,  that  her  fear  of  offending  the  man  she  hoped 
to  make  her  husband,  had  got  the  better  of  her 
delicacy  and  just  resentment ;   and  the  same  fear 
leads  her  to  give  up  her  correspondence  with  honest 
Mr,  Williams,  who  had  generously  sacrificed  his 
interest  with  his  patron  in  order  to  effect  her  deliv- 
erance.    In  real  life,  we  should,  at  this  period,  con- 
sider Pamela  as  an  interesting  girl :  but  the  author 
says,  she  married  Mr.  B.  because  he  had  won  her 
affection :  and  we  are  bound,  it  may  be  said,  to  be- 
lieve  a n. .auilior ' a jQ WJi ,accamuuj£-his,.jiharacters. 
rBut  again,  it  is  quite  natural  that  a  girl,  who  had\ 
f  such  a  genuine  love  for  virtue,  should  feel  her  heart] 
I  attracted  to  a  man  who  was  endeavouring  to  destroy 
I  that  virtue?    Can  a  woman  value  her  honour  infi- 
ll nitely  above  her  life,  and  hold  in  serious  detestation  j 
I  every  word  and  look  contrary  to  the  nicest  purity, 
iand  yet  be  won  by  those  very  attempts  against  her 
Uiaiiour  to  which  she  expresses  so  much  repugnancglJ 
— ^His"atT5Ynprs' W~ere'  oTtTie'gfbssesT'natilre  ;  and 
previous  to,  and  during  those  attempts,  he  endeav- 
oured to  intimidate  her  by  sternness.     He  puts  on 
the  master  too  much,  to  win  upon  her  as  the  lover. 
Can  affection  be  kindled  by  outrage   and  insult? 
Surely,  if  her  passions  were  capable  of  being  awa- 
kened in  his  favour,  during  such  a  persecution,  the 
circumstance  would  be  capable  of  an  interpretation 
very  little  consistent  with  that  delicacy  the  author 
meant  to  give  her.     The  other  alternative  is,  that 
she  married  him  for 

'  The  gilt  coach  and  dappled  Flanders  mares.' 
Indeed,  the  excessive  humility  and  gratitude  ex- 
pressed by  herself  and  her  parents  on  her  exaltation, 
shews  a  regard  to  rank  and  riches  beyond  the  just 
{ measure  of  an  independent  mind.   The  pious  good- 
\  man  Andrews  should  not  have  thought  his  virtuous 
"  daughter  so  infinitely  beneath  her  licentious  mas- 
ter, who,  after  all,  married  her  to  gratify  his  own 
passions. — Introd.  pp.  Ixiii. — Ixvi. 

The  first  part  of  this  work,  which  concludes 
with  the  marriage  of  the  heroine,  was  written 
in  three  months ;  and  was  founded,  it  seems, 
on  a  real  story  which  had  been  related  to 
Richardson  by  a  gentleman  of  his  acquaint- 
ance. It  was  followed  by  a  second  part,  con- 
fessedly very  inferior  to  the  first,  and  was 
ridiculed  by  Fielding  in  his  Joseph  Andrews; 
an  offence  for  which  he  was  never  forgiven. 

Within  eight  years  after  the  appearance  of 
Pamela,  Richardson's  reputation  may  be  said 
to  have  attained  its  zenith,  by  the  successive 
publication  of  the  volumes  of  his  Clarissa. 
vVe  -fiave  great  pleasure  in  laying  before  our 
readers  a  part  of  Mrs.  Barbaul  ''s  very  judi- 


cious observations  upon  this  popular  and 
original  performance.  After  a  slight  sketch 
of  the  story,  she  observes, 

"  The  plot,  as  we  have  seen,  is  simple,  and  no 
underplots  interfere  with  the  main  design — no  di- 
gressions, no  episodes.  It  is  wonderful  that,  without 
these  helps  of  common  writers,  he  could  support  a 
work  of  such  length.  With  Clarissa  it  begins, — 
with  Clarissa  it  ends.  We  do  not  come  upon  un- 
expected adventures  and  wonderful  recognitions,  by 
quick  turns  and  surprises  :  We  see  her  fate  from 
afar,  as  it  were  through  a  long  avenue,  the  gradual 
approach  to  which,  without  ever  losing  sight  of  the 
object,  has  more  of  simplicity  and  grandeur  than  the 
most  cunning  labyrinth  that  can  be  contrived  by 
art.  In  the  approach  to  the  modern  country  seat, 
we  are  made  to  catch  transiently  a  side-view  of  it 
through  an  opening  of  the  trees,  or  to  burst  upon  it 
from  a  sudden  turning  in  the  road  ;  but  the  old 
mansion  stood  full  in  the  eye  of  the  traveller,  as  he 
drew  near  it,  contemplating  its  turrets,  which  grew 
larger  and  more  distinct  e/ery  step  that  he  ad- 
vanced; and  leisurely  filling  his  eye  and  his  imagin- 
ation with  still  increasing  ideas  of  its  magnificence. 
As  the  work  advances,  the  character  rises;  the 
distress  is  deepened  ;  our  hearts  are  torn  with  pity 
and  indignation  ;  bursts  of  grief  succeed  one  another, 
till  at  length  the  mind  is  composed  and  harmonized 
with  emotions  of  milder  sorrow ;  we  are  calmed 
into  resignation,  elevated  with  pious  hope,  and  dis- 
missed glowing  with  the  conscious  triumphs  of  vii-- 
tue. — Introd.  pp.  Ixxxiii.  Ixxxiv. 

She  then  makes  some  excellent  remarks  on 
the  conduct  of  the  story,  and  on  the  characters 
that  enliven  it ;  on  that  of  the  heroine,  she 
observes, 

"In  one  instance,  however,  Clarissa  certainly 
sins  against  the  delicacy  of  her  character,  that  is, 
in  allowing  herself  to  be  made  a  show  of  to  the 
loose  companions  of  Lovelace.  But,  how  does  her 
character  rise,  when  we  come  to  the  more  distress- 
ful scenes;  the  view  of  her  horror,  when,  deluded 
by  the  pretended  relations,  she  re-enters  the  fatal 
house  ;  her  temporary  insanity  after  the  outrage,  in 
which  she  so  affectingly  holds  up  to  Lovelace  tne  li- 
cence  he  had  procured,  and  her  dignified  behavioui 
when  she  first  sees  her  ravisher,  after  the  perpetra- 
tion of  his  crime  !  What  finer  subject  could  be  pre- 
sented to  the  painter,  than  the  prison  scene,  where 
she  is  represented  kneeling  amidst  the  gloom  and 
horror  of  that  dismal  abode ;  illuminating,  as  it 
were,  the  dark  chamber,  her  face  recUned  on  her 
crossed  arms,  her  white  garments  floating  round 
her  in  the  negligence  of  woe  ;  Belford  contemplating 
her  with  respectful  commiseration :  Or,  the  scene 
of  calmer  but  heart-piercing  sorrow,  in  the  interview 
Colonel  Morden  has  with  her  in  her  dying  mo- 
ments !  She  is  represented  fallen  into  a  slumber,  in 
her  elbow-chair,  leaning  on  the  widow  Lovick, 
whose  left  arm  is  around  her  neck :  one  faded 
cheek  resting  on  the  good  woman's  bosom,  the 
kindly  warmth  of  which  had  overspread  it  with  a 
faintish  flush,  the  other  pale  and  hollow,  as  if  al- 
ready iced  over  by  death  ;  her  hands,  the  blueness 
of  the  veins  contrasting  their  whiteness,  hanging 
lifeless  before  her — the  widow's  tears  dropping  un- 
feltupon  her  face — Colonel  Morden,  with  his  arms 
folded,  gazing  on  her  in  silence,  her  coffin  just  ap- 
pearing behind  a  screen.  What  admiration,  what 
reverence,  does  the  author  inspire  us  with  for  the 
innocent  sufferer,  the  sufferings  too  of  such  a  pecu- 
liar nature  !_  .     ..  .„^™  ,.,_^..._ -  -         -i. 

Tliere  is  something  m^rfgiti^^purity,  to  which 


the  imagination  willingly  pays  homage.  In  all  ages, 
something  saintly  has  been  attached  to  the  idea  of  i 
unblemished  chastity ;  but  it  was  reserved  foi  *" 
Richardson  to  overcome  all  circumstances  of  dis-i 
honour  and  disgrace,  and  to  throw  a  splendours 
around  the  violated  virgiji,  more  radiant  than  shoj 
in  her  first  bloom.^^e  has  drawn  th«i 


124 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


triumph  of  mental  chastity ;  he  has  drawn  it  un- 
coniaminated.  untarnished,  and  incapable  of  min- 
gUng  with  polhition. — The  scenes  which  follow  the 
death  of  the  heroine,  exhibit  grief  in  an  aflfecting 
variety  of  forms,  as  it  is  modified  by  the  characters 
of  different  survivors.  They  run  into  considerable 
length,  but  we  have  been  so  deeply  interested,  that 
we  feel  it  a  relief  to  have  our  grief  drawn  off,  as  it 
were,  by  a  variety  of  sluices,  and  we  are  glad  not 
to  be  dismissed  till  we  have  shed  tears,  even  to 
satiety." — Introd.  pp.  xciii. — xcvii. 

-"""'xhis  criticism  we  think  is  equally  judicious 
and  refined ',  alid  we  could  easily  prolong  this 
extract,  in  a  style  not  at  all  inferior.  With 
regard  to  the  morality  of  the  work,  Mrs.  Bar- 
bauld  is  very  indignant  at  the  notion  of  its 
being  intended  to  exhibit  a  rare  instance  of 
female  chastity. 

She  objects  with  some  reason,  to  the  num- 
ber of  interviews  which  Clarissa  is  represented 
to  have  had  with  Lovelace  after  the  catas- 
trophe ;  and  adds,  •'  If  the  reader,  on  casually 

^  opening  the  book,  can  doubt  of  any  scene  be- 
tween them,  whether  it  passes  before  or  after 
the  outrage,  that  scene  is  one  too  much." — 
The  character  of  Lovelace,  she  thinks,  is  very 
much  of  a  fancy  piece ;  and  affirms,  that  our 
national  manners  do  not  admit  of  the  existence 
of  an  original.  If  he  had  been  placed  in 
France,  she  observes,  and  his  gallantries  di- 
rected to  married  women,  it  might  have  been 
more  natural;  "but,  in  England,  Lovelace 
would  have  been  run  through  the  body,  long 
before  he  had  seen  the  face  either  of  Clarissa 
or  Colonel  Morden." 

Mrs.  Barbauld  gives  us  a  copious  account 
of  the  praise  and  admiration  that  poured  in 
upon  the  author  from  all  quarters,  on  the  pub- 
lication of  this  extraordinary  work:  he  was 
overwhelmed  with  complimentary  letters, 
messages,  and  visits.  But  we  are  most  grati- 
fied with  the  enthusiasm  of  one  of  his  female 
correspondents,  who  tells  him  that  she  is  very 
sorry,  '-'that  he  was  not  a  woman,  and  blest 
with  the  means  of  shining  as  Clarissa  did ;  for 
a  person  capable  of  drawing  such  a  character, 
would  certainly  be  able  to  act  in  the  same 
manner,  if  in  a  like  situation  V 

After  Clarissa,  at  an  interval  of  about  five 
years,  appeared  his  Sir  Charles  Grand ison. 
Upon  this  work,  also,  Mrs.  Barbauld  has  made 
many  excellent  observations,  and  pointed  out 
both  its  blemishes  and  beauties,  with  a  very 
dehcate  and  discerning  hand.  Our  limits  will 
not  permit  us  to  enter  upon  this  disquisition : 
we  add  only  the  following  acute  paragraph. 

"  Sir  Charles,  as  a  Christian,  was  not  to  fi^ht  a 
duel ;  yet  he  was  to  be  recognised  as  the  finished 
gentleman,  and  could  not  be  allowed  to  want  the 
most  essential  part  of  the  character,  the  deportment 
of  a  man  of  honour,  courage,  and  spirit.  And,  in 
order  to  exhibit  his  spirit  and  courage,  it  was  neces- 
sary to  bring  them  into  action  by  adventures  and 
rencounters.  His  first  appearance  is  in  the  rescue 
of  Miss  Byron,  a  meritorious  action,  but  one  which 
must  necessarily  expose  him  to  a  challenge.  How 
must  the  author  untie  this  knot?  He  makes  hiin 
80  very  good  a  swordsman,  that  he  is  always  capa- 
ble of  disarming  his  adversary  without  endangering 
either  of  their  lives.  But  are  a  man's  principles 
to  depend  on  the  science  of  his  fencing-master? 
Every  one  oannot  have  the  skill  of  Sir  Charles  ; 
every  one  c^anot  be  the  hest  swordsman ;  and  the 


man  whose  study  it  is  to  avoid  fighting  is  not  quite 
so  hkely  as  another  to  be  the  best." 

Introd.  pp.  cxxvii.  cxxviii. 

Besides  his  great  works,  Richardson  pub- 
lished only  a  paper  in  the  Rambler  (the  97th)  j 
an  edition  of  ^sop's  Fables,  with  Reflections  j 
and  a  volume  of  Familiar  Letters  for  the  use 
of  persons  in  inferior  situations.  It  was  this 
latter  work  which  gave  occasion  to  Pamela : 
it  is  excellently  adapted  to  its  object,  and  we 
think  may  be  of  singular  use  to  Mr.  Words^ 
worth  and  his  friends  in  their  great  scheme 
of  turning  all  our  poetry  into  the  language  of 
the  common  people.  In  this  view,  we  re- 
commend it  very  earnestly  to  their  considera- 
tion. 

There  is  little  more  to  be  said  of  the  trans- 
actions or  events  of  Richardson's  life.  Hia 
books  were  pirated  by  the  Dublin  booksellers: 
at  which  he  was  very  angry,  and  could  obtain 
no  redress.  He  corresponded  with  a  great 
number  of  females  ]  and  gradually  withdrew 
himself  from  the  fatigues  of  business  to  hia 
country  residence  at  Parson's  Green  ]  where 
his  life  was  at  last  temiinated  in  1761,  by  a 
stroke  of  apoplexy,  at  the  age  of  seventy-two. 

His  moral  character  was  in  the  highest  de- 
gree exemplary  and  amiable.  He  was  tem- 
perate, industrious,  and  upright ;  punctual  and 
honourable  in  all  his  dealings;  and  with  a 
kindness  of  heart,  and  a  liberality  and  gene- 
rosity of  disposition,  that  must  have  made  him 
a  very  general  favourite,  even  if  he  had  never 
acquired  any  literary  distinction. — He  had  a 
considerable  share  of  vanity,  and  was  observ- 
ed to  talk  more  willingly  on  the  subject  of  hia 
own  works  than  on  any  other.  The  lownesa 
of  his  original  situation,  and  the  lateness  of 
his  introduction  into  polite  society,  had  given 
to  his  manners  a  great  shyness  and  reserve  ; 
and  a  consciousness  of  his  awkwardness  and 
his  merit  together,  rendered  him  somewhat 
jealous  in  his  intercourse  with  persons  in  more 
conspicuous  situations,  and  made  him  require 
more  courting  and  attention,  than  every  one 
was  disposed  to  pay.  He  had  high  notions  of 
parental  authority,  and  does  not  seem  always 
quite  satisfied  with  the  share  of  veneration 
which  his  wife  could  be  prevailed  on  to  show 
for  him.  He  was  particularly  partial  to  the 
society  of  females;  and  lived,  indeed,  as  Mrs. 
Barbauld  has  expressed  it,  in  a  fiower-g-arden 
of  ladies.  Mrs.  Barbauld  will  have  it,  that 
this  was  in  the  way  of  his  profession  as  an 
author ;  and  that  he  frequented  their  society 
to  study  the  female  heart,  and  instruct  him- 
self in  all  the  niceties  of  the  female  charac- 
ter. From  the  tenor  of  the  correspondence 
now  before  us,  however,  we  are  more  inclin- 
ed to  believe,  with  Dr.  Johnson,  that  this  par- 
tiality was  owing  to  his  love  of  continual 
superiority,  and  that  he  preferred  the  conver- 
sation of  ladies,  because  they  were  more 
lavish  of  their  admiration,  and  more  easily  en- 
gaged to  descant  on  the  perplexities  of  Sir 
Charles,  or  the  distresses  of  Clarissa.  His 
close  application  to  business,  and  the  seden- 
tary habits  of  a  literary  life,  had  materially 
injured  his  health :  He  loved  to  complain,  as 
most  invalids  do  who  have  any  hope  of  being 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  SAMUEL  RICHARDSON. 


\2t 


iifttenod  to.  and  scarcely  writes  a  letter  with- 
out some  notice  vi  his  nervous  tremors,  his 
giddiness  and  catchings.  "  I  had  originally 
a  good  constitution,"  he  says,  in  one  place, 
"  and  hurt  it  by  no  intemperance,  but  that  of 
application." 

In  presenting  our  readers  with  this  imper- 
fect summary  of  Mrs.  Barbauld's  biographical 
dissertation,  we  have  discharged  by  far  the 
most  pleasing  part  of  our  task ;  and  proceed 
to  the  consideration  of  the  correspondence 
which  it  introduces,  with  considerable  heavi- 
ness of  spirit,  and  the  most  unfeigned  reluct- 
ance. The  letters  are  certainly  authentic; 
and  they  were  bought,  we  have  no  doubt,  for 
a  fair  price  from  the  legal  proprietors :  but 
their  publication,  we  think,  was  both  im- 
proper and  injudicious,  as  it  can  only  tend  to 
lower  a  very  respectable  character,  without 
communicating  any  gratification  or  instruction 
to  others.  We  are  told,  indeed,  in  the  pre- 
face, "  that  it  was  the  employment  of  Mr. 
Richardson's  declining  years,  to  select  and 
arrange  the  collection  from  which  this  publi- 
cation has  been  made;  and  that  he  always 
looked  forward  to  their  publication  at  some 
distant  period;"  nay,  "  that  he  was  not  with- 
out thoughts  of  publishing  them  in  his  life- 
time; and  that,  after  his  death,  they  remain- 
ed in  the  hands  of  his  last  surviving  daughter, 
upon  whose  decease  they  became  the  property 
of  his  grandchildren,  and  were  purchased 
from  them  at  a  very  liberal  price  by  Mr.  Phil- 
lips." We  have  no  doubt  that  what  Mrs. 
Barbauld  has  here  stated  to  the  public,  was 
stated  to  her  by  her  employers  :  But  we  can- 
not- read  any  one  volume  of  the  letters,  with- 
out being  satisfied  that  the  idea  of  such  a 
publication  could  only  come  into  the  mind  of 
Richardson,  after  his  judgment  was  impaired 
by  the  infirmities  of  "  cZecZimng  years ;"  and 
we  have  observed  some  passages  in  those 
which  are  now  published,  that  seem  to  prove 
sufficiently  his  own  consciousness  of  the  im- 
propriety of  such  an  exposure,  and  the  ab- 
sence of  any  idea  of  giving  them  to  the  w^orld. 
In  the  year  1755,  when  nine-tenths  of  the 
whole  collection  must  have  been  completed, 
we  find  him  expressing  himself  in  these  words 
to  his  friend  Mr.  Edwards : 

"I  am  employing  myself  at  present  in  looking 
over  and  sorting  and  classing  my  correspondences 
and  other  papers.  This,  when  done,  will  amuse 
me,  by  reading  over  again  a  very  ample  corres- 
pondence, and  in  comparing  the  sentiments  of  my 
correspondents,  at  the  time,  with  the  present,  and 
improving  from  both.  The  many  letters  and  papers 
I  shall  destroy  will  make  an  executor's  work  the 
easier ;  and  if  any  of  my  friends  desire  their  letters 
to  be  returned,  they  will  be  readily  come  at  for  fhat 
purpose.  Otherwise  they  will  amuse  and  direct 
my  children,  and  teach  them  to  honour  their  father's 
friends  in  their  closets  for  the  favours  done  him." 
Vol.  iii.  pp.  113,  114. 

Accordingly,  they  remained  in  the  closet 
till  the  death  of  the  last  of  his  children;  and 
then  the  whole  collection  is  purchased  by  a 
bookseller,  and  put  into  the  hands  of  an 
editor,  who  fijids  it  expedient  to  suppress  two- 
thirds  of  it ! 

Those  who  have  looked  into  the  volumes  | 


in  question,  will  be  at  no  loss  co  comprehend 
the  reasons  of  the  unqualified  reprehension 
we  are  inclined  to  bestow  on  their  publica- 
tion. For  the  information  of  those  who  have 
not  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing  them,  we 
may  observe  that,  so  far  from  containing  any 
view  of  the  literature,  the  politics,  or  manners 
of  the  times — any  anecdotes  of  the  eminent 
and  extraordinary  personages  to  whom  the 
author  had  access — or  any  pieces  of  elegant 
composition,  refined  criticism,  or  interesting 
narrative,  they  consist  almost  entirely  cf  com- 
pliments and  minute  criticisms  on  his  novels, 
a  detail  of  his  ailments  and  domestic  con- 
cerns, and  some  tedious  prattling  disputations 
with  his  female  correspondents,  upon  the 
dkities  of  wives  and  children;  the  whole  so 
loaded  Math  gross  and  reciprocal  flattery,  as 
to  be  ridiculous  at  the  outset,  and  disgusting 
in  the  repetition.  Compliments  and  the  novels 
form  indeed  the  staples  of  the  whole  corres- 
pondence :  we  meet  with  the  divine  Clarissa, 
and  the  more  divine  Sir  Charles,  in  every 
page,  and  are  absolutely  stunned  with  the 
clamorous  raptures  and  supplications  with 
which  the  female  train  demand  the  conver- 
sion of  Lovelace,  and  the  death  or  restoration 
of  Clementina.  Even  when  the  channing 
books  are  not  the  direct  subject  of  the  corres- 
pondence, they  appear  in  eternal  allusions, 
and  settle  most  of  the  arguments  by  an  au- 
thoritative quotation.  In  short,  the  Clarissa 
and  Grandison  are  the  scriptures  of  this  con- 
gregation ;  and  the  members  of  it  stick  as 
close  to  their  language  upon  all  occasions,  as 
any  of  our  sectaries  ever  did  to  that  of  the 
Bible.  The  praises  and  compliments,  again, 
which  are  interchanged  among  all  the  parties, 
are  so  extremely  hyperbolical  as  to  be  ludi- 
crous, and  so  incessant  as  to  be  excessively 
fatiguing.  We  shall  trouble  our  readers  with 
but  a  very  few  specimens. 

The  first  series  of  letters  is  from  Aaron  Hill, 
a  poet  of  some  notoriety,  it  seems,  in  his  day; 
but,  if  we  may  judge  from  these  epistles,  a 
very  bad  composer  in  prose.  The  only  amus- 
ing things  we  have  met  with  in  this  volume 
of  his  inditing,  are  his  prediction  of  his  own 
great  fame,  and  the  speedy  downfal  of  Pope's; 
and  his  scheme  for  making  English  wine  of  a 
superior  quality  to  any  that  can  be  imported. 
Of  Pope  he  says,  that  he  died  "  in  the  wane 
of  his  popularity ;  and  that  it  arose  originally 
only  from  meditated  .little  personal  assiduities, 
and  a  certain  bladdery  swell  of  management.^^ 
And  a  little  after — 

"But  rest  his  memory  in  peace!  It  w*ill  very 
rarely  be  disturbed  by  that  time  he  himself  is  ashes. 
It  is  pleasant  to  observe  the  justice  of  forced  fame  ; 
she  lets  down  those,  at  once,  who  got  themselves 
pushed  upward ;  and  lifts  none  above  the  fear  of 
falling,  but  a  few  who  never  teased  her. 

"What  she  intends  to  do  whh  me,  the  Lord 
knows!"— Vol.  i.  p.  107. 

In  another  place  he  adds,  "  For  my  part,  I 
am  afraid  to  be  popular ;  I  see  so  many  who 
write  to  the  living,  and  deserve  not  to  live, 
that  I  content  myself  with  a  resurrection 
when  dead  :"  And  after  lamenting  the  un. 
popularity  of  some  of  his  writings,  he  says 


:26 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


"  But  there  loill  arise  a  time  in  which  they 
will  be  seen  in  a  far  different  light.  I  know 
tt  on  a  surer  hope  than  that  of  vanity."  The 
wine  project,  which  is  detailed  in  many  pages, 
requires  no  notice.  As  a  specimen  of  the 
adulation  with  which  Richardson  was  in- 
censed by  all  his  correspondents,  we  may 
add  the  following  sentences. 

"  Where  will  your  wonders  end  ?  or  how  could 
I  be  able  to  express  the  joy  it  gives  me  to  discern 
your  genius  rising  with  the  grace  and  boldness  of  a 
pillar !  &c.  Go  on,  dear  sir  (I  see  you  will  and 
must),  to  charm  and  captivate  the  world,  and  force 
a  scribbling  race  to  learn  and  practise  one  rare 
virtue — to  be  pleased  with  what  disgraces  them." 
— "  There  is  a  manner  (so  beyond  the  matter,  ex- 
traordinary too  as  that  is)  in  whatever  you  say  or 
do,  that  makes  it  an  impossibility  to  speak  those 
sentiments  which  it  is  equally  impossible  not  to 
conceive  in  reverence  and  affection  for  your  good- 
ness." 

In  allusion  to  the  promise  of  Sir  Charles, 
he  says— 

"  I  am  greatly  pleased  at  the  hint  you  gave  of  a 
design  to  raise  another  Alps  upon  this  Appenine : 
we  can  never  see  too  many  of  his  works  who  has 
no  equal  in  his  labours." 

These  passages,  we  believe,  will  satisfy 
most  readers ;  but  those  who  have  any  desire 
to  see  more,  may  turn  up  any  page  in  the 
volume  :  It  may  be  of  some  use,  perhaps,  as 
a  great  commonplace  for  the  materials  of 
"  soft  dedication." 

The  next  series  of  letters  is  from  Miss 
Fielding,  who  wrote  David  Simple,  and  Miss 
Collier,  who  assisted  in  writing  The  Cry. 
What  modern  reader  knows  any  thing  about 
the  Cry,  or  David  Simple  1  And  if  the  elabo- 
rate performances  of  these  ladies  have  not 
been  thought  worthy  of  public  remembrance, 
what  likelihood  is  there  tkat  their  private  and 
confidential  letters  should  be  entitled  to  any 
notice  1  They  contain  nothing,  indeed,  that 
can  be  interesting  to  any  description  of  read- 
ers ;  and  only  prove  that  Richardson  was  in- 
dulgent and  charitable  to  them,  and  that  their 
gratitude  was  a  little  too  apt  to  degenerate 
into  flattery. 

The  letters  of  Mrs.  Pilkington  and  of  CoUey 
Cibber  appear  to  us  to  be  still  less  worthy  of 
publication.  The  former  seems  to  have  been 
a  profligate,  silly  actress,  reduced  to  beggary 
in  her  old  age,  and  distressed  by  the  miscon- 
duct of  her  ill-educated  children.  The  com- 
passionate heart  of  Richardson  led  him  to 
^nly  and  relieve  her;  and  she  repays  him 
with  paltry  adulation,  interlarded,  in  the  bom- 
bastic style  of  the  green  room,  with  dramatic 
misquotations  misapplied.  Of  the  letters  of 
Cibber,  Mrs.  B.  says  that  "they  show  in 
every  line  the  man  of  wit  and  the  man  of  the 
world."  We  are  sorry  to  dissent  from  so  re- 
spectable an  opinion ;  but  the  letters  appear 
to  us  in  every  respect  contemptible  and  dis- 
gusting ;  without  one  spark  of  wit  or  genius 
of  any  sort,  and  bearing  all  the  traces  of 
vanity,  impudence,  affectation,  and  superan- 
nuated debauchery,  which  might  have  been 
expected  from  the  author.  His  first  epistle 
is  to  Mrs.  Pilkington  (for  the  editor  has  more 
than  once  favoured  us  with  letters  that  have 


no  sort  of  relation  to  Richardson  or  his  writ- 
ings), and  sets  off  in  this  manner : 

"  Thou  frolicsome  farce  of  fortune  !  What !  la 
there  another  act  of  you  to  come  then?  I  waa 
afraid,  some  time  ago,  you  had  made  your  last  exit. 
Well !  but  without  wit  or  compliment,  I  am  glad 
to  hear  you  are  so  tolerably  alive,"  Sec. 

We  can  scarcely  conceive  that  this  pitiful 
slang  could  appear  to  Mrs.  Barbauld  like  the 
pleasantry  of  a  man  of  fashion.  His  letters 
to  Richardson  are,  if  any  thing,  rather  more 
despicable.  After  reading  some  of  the  proof 
sheets  of  Sir  Charles,  he  writes, 

"  Z ds  !  I  have  not  patience,  till  I  know  what 

has  become  of  her.  Why,  you — I  do  not  know 
what  to  call  you  ! — Ah  !  ah  !  you  may  laugh  if  you 
please  :  but  how  will  you  be  able  to  look  me  in  the 
face,  if  the  lady  should  ever  be  able  to  show  hers 

again  ?     What  piteous,  d d,  disgraceful  pickle 

have  you  plunged  her  in  ?  For  God's  sake  send 
me  the  sequel ;  or — I  dont  know  what  to  say  ! — " 

The  following  is  an  entire  letter ; 

"  The  delicious  meal  I  made  of  Miss  Byron  on 
Sunday  last  has  given  me  an  appetite  for  another 
slice  of  her,  off  from  the  spit,  before  she  is  served 
up  to  the  public  table.  If  about  five  o'clock  to- 
morrow afternoon  will  not  be  inconvenient,  Mrs. 
Brown  and  I  will  come  and  piddle  upon  a  bit  more 
of  her :  but  pray  let  your  whole  family,  with  Mrs. 
Richardson  at  the  head  of  them,  come  in  for  their 
share.  This,  sir,  will  make  me  more  and  more 
yours,"  &c. 

After  these  polite  effusions,  we  have  a  cor- 
respondence with  Mr.  Edwards,  the  author 
of  the  Canons  of  Criticism,  a  good  deal  of 
which  is  occupied  as  usual  with  flattery  and 
mutual  compliments,  and  the  rest  with  con- 
sultations about  their  different  publications, 
Richardson  exclaims,  "  0  that  you  could  re- 
solve to  publish  your  pieces  in  two  pretty 
volumes !"  And  Mr.  Edwards  sends  him 
long  epistles  in  exaltation  of  Sir  Charles  and 
Clarissa.  It  is  in  this  correspondence  that 
we  meet  with  the  first  symptom  of  that  most 
absurd  and  ilhberal  prejudice  which  Richard- 
son indulged  against  all  the  writings  of  Field- 
ing.   He  writes  to  Mr.  Edwards — 

"Mr.  Fielding  has  met  with  the  disapprobation 
you  foresaw  he  would  meet  whh,  of  his  Amelia. 
He  is,  in  every  paper  he  pubHshes  under  the  title 
of  the  Common  Garden,  contributing  to  his  own 
overthrow.  He  has  been  overmatched  in  his  own 
way  by  people  whom  he  had  despised,  and  whom 
he  thought  he  had  vogue  enough,  from  the  success 
his  spurious  brat  Tom  Jones  so  unaccountably  met 
with,  to  write  down,  but  who  have  turned  his  own 
artillery  against  him,  and  beat  him  out  of  the  field, 
and  made  him  even  poorly  in  his  Court  of  Criticism 
give  up  his  Amelia,  and  promise  to  write  no  more 
on  the  like  subjects." — Vol.  iii.  pp.  33 — 34. 

This,  however,  is  but  a  small  specimen  of 
his  antipathy.  He  says  to  his  French  trans- 
lator, "  Tom  Jones  is  a  dissolute  book.  Its  run 
is  over,  even  with  us.  Is  it  true  that  France 
had  virtue  enough  to  refuse  to  license  such  a 
profligate  performance  ?"  But  the  worst  of 
all  is  the  following — 

"  I  have  not  been  able  to  read  any  more  than  tho 
first  volume  of  Amelia.  Poor  Fielding  !  I  could 
not  help  telling  Ids  sister,  that  I  was  equally  sur- 
prised at,  and  concerned  for,  his  continued  lowness 
Had  your  brother,  said  I,  been  born  in  a  stable,  or 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  SAMUEL  RICHARDSON. 


12^ 


oeen  a  runner  at  a  sponging  house,  we  should  have 
thought  him  a  genius,  and  wished  he  had  had  the 
advantage  of  a  liberal  education,  and  of  bein^  ad- 
mitted into  good  company ;  but  it  is  beyond  my 
conception,  that  a  man  of  family,  and  who  had 
some  learning,  and  who  really  is  a  writer,  should 
descend  so  excessively  low  in  all  his  pieces.  Who 
can  care  for  any  of  his  people  ?  A  person  of 
honour  asked  me,  the  other  day,  what  he  could 
mean,  by  saying,  in  his  Covent  Garden  Journal, 
that  he  had  followed  Homer  and  Virgil  in  his 
Amelia  ?  I  answered,  that  he  was  justified  in  say- 
ing so,  because  he  must  mean  Cotton's  Virgil  Tra- 
vestied,  where  the  women  are  drabs,  and  the  men 
scoundrels." — Vol.  vi.  pp.  154,  1551 

It  is  lamentable  that  such  things  should 
have  been  written  confidentially;  it  was  sure- 
ly unnecessary  to  make  them  public. 

After  the  dismissal  of  Mr.  Edwards,  we 
meet  with  two  or  three  very  beautiful  and 
interesting  letters  from  Mrs.  Klopstock,  the 
first  wife  of  the  celebrated  German  poet. 
They  have  pleased  us  infinitely  beyond  any 
thing  else  in  the  collection ;  but  how  far  they 
are  indebted  for  the  charm  we  have  found  in 
them  to  the  lisping  innocence  of  the  broken 
English  in  which  they  are  written,  or  to  their 
intrinsic  merit,  we  cannot  pretend  to  deter- 
mine. We  insert  the  following  account  of 
her  courtship  and  marriage.    » 

"  After  having  seen  him  two  hours,  I  was  obliged 
to  pass  the  evening  in  a  company,  which  never  had 
been  so  wearisome  to  me.  I  could  not  speak,  I 
could  not  play  ;  I  thought  I  saw  nothing  but  Klop- 
Btock.  I  saw  him  the  next  day,  and  the  following, 
and  we  were  very  seriously  friends.  But  the  fourth 
day  he  departed.  It  was  an  strong  hour  the  hour 
of  his  departure  !  He  wrote  soon  after,  and  from 
that  time  our  correspondence  began  to  be  a  very 
diligent  one.  I  sincerely  believed  my  love  to  be 
friendship.  I  spoke  with  my  friends  of  nothing 
but  Klopstock,  and  showed  his  letters.  They 
raillied  at  me,  and  said  I  was  in  love.  I  raillied 
them  again,  and  said  that  they  must  have  a  very 
friendshipless  heart,  if  they  had  no  idea  of  friend- 
ship to  a  man  as  well  as  to  a  woman.  Thus  it 
continued  eight  months,  in  which  time  my  friends 
found  as  much  love  in  Klopstock's  letters  as  in  me. 
I  perceived  it  likewise,  but  I  would  not  believe  it. 
At  the  last  Klopstock  said  plainly  that  he  loved  ; 
and  1  startled  as  for  a  wrong  thing.  I  answered, 
that  it  was  no  love,  but  friendship,  as  it  was  what  I 
felt  for  him  ;  we  had  not  seen  one  another  enough 
to  love  (as  if  love  must  have  more  time  than  friend- 
ship !)  This  was  sincerely  my  meaning,  and  I  had 
this  meaning  till  Klopstock  came  again  to  Ham- 
burg. This  he  did  a  year  after  we  had  seen  one 
another  the  first  time.  We  saw,  we  were  friends, 
we  loved  ;  and  we  believed  that  we  loved  :  and,  a 
short  time  after,  I  could  even  tell  Klopstock  that  I 
loved.  But  we  were  obliged  to  part  again,  and 
wait  two  years  for  our  wedding.  My  mother 
would  not  let  me  marry  a  stranger.  I  could  marry 
then  without  her  consentment,  as  by  the  death  of 
my  father  my  fortune  depended  not  on  her ;  but 
this  was  an  horrible  idea  for  me  ;  and  thank  Hea- 
ven that  I  have  prevailed  by  prayers!  At  this 
time  knowing  Klopstock,  she  loves  him  as  her 
Hfely  son,  and  thanks  God  that  she  has  not  per- 
sisted. We  married,  and  I  am  the  happiest  wife 
in  the  world.  In  some  few  months  it  will  be  four 
vears  that  I  am  so  happy,  and  still  I  dote  upon 
klopstock  as  if  he  was  my  bridegroom. 

"If  you  knew  my  husband,  you  would  not 
wonder.  If  you  knew  his  poem,  I  could  describe 
him  very  briefly,  in  saying  he  is  in  all  respects  what 
he  is  as  a  poet.  This  I  can  say  with  all  wifely  mo- 
desty But  I  dare  not  to  speak  of  my  hus- 
band    I  am  all  raptures  when  I  do  it.     And  as 


happy  as  I  am  in  love,  so  happy  am  I  in  friendship, 
in  my  mother,  two  elder  sisters,  and  five  othei 
women.     How  rich  I  am  !" — Vol.  iii.  pp.  146 — 149. 

One  of  the  best  letters  is  dated  from  Tun- 
bridge  in  1751.  We  shall  venture  on  an  extract. 

"But  here,  to  change  the  scene,  to  see  Mr.  Walsh 
at  eighty  (Mr.  Gibber  calls  him  papa),  and  Mr. 
Gibber  at  seventy-seven,  hunting  after  new  faces; 
and  thinking  themselves  happy  if  they  can  obtain 
the  notice  and  familiarity  of  a  tine  woman  ! — How 
ridiculous! — 

"Mr.  Gibber  was  over  head  and  ears  in  lore  with 
Miss  Ghudleigh.  Her  admirers  (such  was  his  hap- 
piness 1)  were  not  jealous  of  him  ;  but,  pleased  with 
that  wit  in  him  which  they  had  not,  were  always 
for  calling  him  to  her.  She  said  pretty  things — ibr 
she  was  Miss  Ghudleigh.  He  said  pretty  things — 
for  he  was  Mr.  Gibber;  and  all  the  company,  men 
and  women,  seemed  to  think  they  had  an  interest 
in  what  was  said,  and  were  half  as  well  pleased  as 
if  they  had  said  the  sprightly  things  themselves ; 
and  mighty  well  contented  were  they  to  be  second- 
hand repeaters  of  the  pretty  things.  But  once  I 
faced  the  laureate  squatted  upon  one  of  the  benches, 
with  a  face  more  wrinkled  than  ordinary  with  dis- 
appointment. '  I  thought,'  said  I,  '  you  were  of  the 
party  at  the  tea  treats — Miss  Ghudleigh  is  gone  into 
the  tea-room.' — '  Pshaw !'  said  he,  '  there  is  no 
coming  at  her,  she  is  so  surrounded  by  the  toupets.' 
— And  I  left  him  upon  the  fret — But  he  was  called 
to  soon  after-,  and  in  he  flew,  and  his  face  shone 
again,  and  looked  smooth. 

"Another  extraordinary  old  man  we  have  had 
here,  but  of  a  very  different  turn;  the  noted  Mr. 
Whiston,  showing  eclipses,  and  explaining  other 
phenomena  of  the  stars,  and  preaching  the  millen- 
nium and  anabaptism  (for  he  is  now,  it  seems,  of 
that  persuasion)  to  gay  people,  who,  if  they  have 
white  teeth,  hear  him  with  open  mouths,  though 
perhaps  shut  hearts  ;  and  after  his  lecture  is  over, 
not  a  bit  the  wiser,  run  from  him  the  more  eagerly 
to  G — r  and  W — sh,  and  to  flutter  among  the  loud- 
laughing  young  fellows  upon  the  walks,  like  boys 
and  girls  at  a  breaking  up." — Vol.  iii.  p.  316 — 319. 

As  Richardson  was  in  the  habit  of  flattering 
his  female  correspondents,  by  asking  their 
advice  (though  he  never  followed  it)  as  to  the 
conduct  of  his  works,  he  prevailed  on  a  cer 
tain  Lady  Echlin  to  communicate  a  new 
catastrophe  which  she  had  devised  for  his 
Clarissa.  She  had  reformed  Lovelace,  by 
means  of  a  Dr.  Christian,  and  made  him  die 
of  remorse,  though  the  last  outrage  is  not 
supposed  to  be  committed.  How  far  Ladv 
Echlin's  epistles  are  likely  to  meet  with 
readers,  in  this  fastidious  age,  may  be  tiori- 
jectured,  from  the  following  specimen. 

"  I  heartily  wish  every  Ghristain  would  read  and 
wisely  consider  Mr.  Skelton's  fine  and  pious  les- 
sons. I  admire  the  warmth  of  this  learned  gentle- 
man's zeal ;  it  is  laudable  and  necessary,  '  especially 
in  an  age  hke  this,  which,  for  its  coldness  (he  ob- 
serves) may  be  called  the  winter  of  Christianity.' 
A  melancholy  truth,  elegantly  expressed !  I  have 
only  perused  a  small  part  of  this  divine  piece,  and 
am  greatly  delighted  with  what  I  have  read. 
Surely  he  is  a  heavenly  man.  I  am  also  very  fond 
of  Dr.  Clark:  and  excellent  good  Seed!  1  thank 
you,  sir,  for  introducing  another  wise  charmer,  not 
less  worthy  ofevery  body's  regard.  He  merits  atten- 
tion, and  religiously  commands  it." — Vol.  v.  p.  40. 

Next  come  several  letters  from  the  Rever- 
end Mr.  Skelton,  mostly  on  the  subject  of  the 
Dublin  piracy,  and  the  publication  of  some 
works  of  his  own.  He  seems  to  have  been  a 
man  of  strong,  coarse  sense,  but  extreme-y 
irritable.     Some  delay  in  the  publication  of 


128 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


his  sermons  draws  from  him  the  following 
amusing  piec;e  of  fretfulness. 

"Johnston  kept  them  a  month  on  the  way; 
Wilson  kept  them  three,  and  does  notliing,  only 
hints  a  sort  of  contemptuous  censure  of  them  to  you, 
and  huffs  them  out  of  his  hands.  The  booksellers 
despise  them,  and  I  am  forced  to  print  tliem,  when 
the  season  for  sale  is  over,  or  burn  them.  God's 
will  be  done  1  If  I  had  wrote  against  my  Saviour, 
or  his  religion,  my  work  would  long  ago  have  been 
bought,  and  reprinted,  and  bought  again.  Millar 
would  have  now  been  far  advanced  in  his  third 
edition  of  it !  But  why  do  I  make  these  weak  com- 
plaints? I  know  my  work  is  calculated  to  serve 
the  cause  of  God  and  truth,  and  by  no  means  con- 
temptibly executed.  I  am  confident  also,  I  shall, 
if  God  spares  me  life  to  give  it  the  necessary  intro- 
duction, sell  it  to  advantage,  and  receive  the  thanks 
of  every  good  man  for  it.  I  will  therefore  be  in  the 
hands  of  God,  and  not  of  Mr.  Millar,  whose  indif- 
ference to  my  performances  invite  me  not  to  any 
overtures." — Vol.  v.  p.  234,  235. 

Although  Richardson  is  not  responsible  for 
more  than  one  fifth  part  of  the  dulness  ex- 
hibited in  this  collection,  still  the  share  of  it 
that  may  be  justly  imputed  to  him  is  so  con- 
siderable, and  the  whole  is  so  closely  asso- 
ciated with  his  name,  that  it  w^ould  be  a  sort 
of  injustice  to  take  our  final  leave  of  his  works, 
without  casting  one  glance  back  to  those  orig- 
inal and  meritorious  performances,  upon 
which  his  reputation  is  so  firmly  established. 

The  great  excellence  of  Richardson's  novels 
consists,  we  think,  in  the  unparalleled  minute- 
ness and  copiousness  of  his  descriptions,  and 
in  the  pains  he  takes  to  make  us  thoroughly 
and  intimately  acquainted  with  every  particu- 
lar in  the  character  and  situation  of  the  per- 
sonages with  w^hom  we  are  occupied.  It  has 
been  the  policy  of  other  writers  to  avoid  all 
details  that  are  not  necessary  or  impressive,  to 
hurry  over  all  the  preparatory  scenes,  and  to 
reserve  the  whole  of  the  reader's  attention  for 
those  momentous  passages  in  which  sonie  de- 
cisive measure  is  adopted,  or  some  great 
passion  brought  into  action.  The  consequence 
is,  that  we  are  only  acquainted  with  their 
characters  in  their  dress  of  ceremony,  and 
that,  as  we  never  see  them  except  in  those 
critical  circumstances,  and  those  moments  of 
strong  emotion,  which  are  but  of  rare  occur- 
rence in  real  life,  we  are  never  deceived  into 
any  belief  of  their  reality,  and  contemplate 
the  whole  as  an  exaggerated  and  dazzling 
illusion.  With  such  authors  we  merely  make 
a  visit  by  appointment,  and  see  and  hear  only 
what  we  know  has  been  prepared  for  our  re- 
ception. /With  Richardson,  we  slip,  invisible, 
into  the  Semestic  privacy  of  his  characters, 
and  hear  and  see  every  thing  that  is  said  and 
done  among  them,  whether  it  be  interesting 
or  otherwise,  and  whether  it  gratify  our  curi- 
osity or  disappoint  it.  We  sympathise  with 
the  former,  therefore,  only  as  we  sympathise 
with  the  monarchs  and  statesmen  of  history, 
of  whose  condition  as  individuals  we  have  but 
a  very  imperfect  conception.  We  feel  for  the 
latter,  as  for  our  private  friends  and  acquaint- 
ance, with  whose  whole  situation  we  are 
familiar,  and  as  to  whom  we  can  conceive 
exactly  the  effects  that  will  be  produced  by 
every  thing  that  may  befal  them.     In   this 


art  Richardson  is  undoubtedly  without  an' 
equal,  and,  if  we  except  De  Foe,  without  a 
competitor,  we  believe,  in  the  whole  history 
of  literature.  We  are  often  fatig-ued.  as  we 
listen  to  his  prolix  descriptions,  and  the  repeti- 
tions of  those  rambling  and  inconclusive  con- 
versations, in  which  so  many  pages  are  con- 
sumed, without  any  apparent  progress  in  the 
story ;  but,  by  means  of  all  this,  we  get  se 
intimately  acquainted  with  the  characters, 
and  so  impressed  with  a  persua'sion  of  their 
reality,  that  when  any  thing  really  disastroua 
or  important  occurs  to  them,  we  feel  as  for  old 
friends  and  companions,  and  are  irresistibly 
led  to  as  lively  a  conception  of  their  sensa- 
tions, as  if  yre  had  been  spectators  of  a  real 
transaction.!  This  we  certainly  think  the  chief 
merit  of  Ricliardson's  productions :  For,  great 
as  his  knowledge  of  the  human  heart,  and  hia 
powers  of  pathetic  description,  must  be  ad- 
mitted to  be,  we  are  of  opinion  that  he  might 
have  been  equalled  in  those  particulars  by 
many,  whose  productions  are  infinitely  less 

int£restirigi____^ ^__  _ 

That  his  pieces  were  aTTmtended  to  be' 
'strictly  moral,  is  indisputable ;  but  it  is  not 
iquite  so  clear,-  that  they  will  unifomily  be 
bund    to    have    this    tendency.     We    have 
Iready  quoted   some   observations  of  Mrs. 
arbauld's  on  this  subject,  and  shall  only  add, 
in  general,  that  there  is  a  certain  air  of  irk- 
Isome   regxilarity,  gloominess,  and  pedantry, 
|ittached  to  most  of  his  virtuous  characters, 
which  is  apt  to  encourage  more  unfortunate', 
iassociations  than  the  engaging  qualities  with  ■ 
hvhichj^^^  his  vicious 

IgneSj^/  The  mansion  of  the  Harlowes,  which, 
before  the  appearance  of  Lovelace,  is  repre- 
sented as  the  abode  of  domestic  felicity,  is  a 
place  in  which  daylight  can  scarcely  be  sup- 
posed to  shine  j  and  Clarissa,  with  her  formal 
devotions,  her  intolerably  early  rising,  her 
day  divided  into  tasks,  and  her  quantities  of 
needle-work  and  discretion,  has  something  in 
her  much  less  winning  and  attractive  than  in- 
ferior artists  have  often  communicated  to  an 
innocent  beauty  of  seventeen.  VThe  solemX 


^ity  and  moral  discourses  of  Sir  Charles,  hisV 
IbowS;  minuets,  compliments,  and  immoveable  I 
panquillity,  are  much  more  likely  to  excite  I 
the  derision  than  the  admiration  of  a  modem  ,\ 
■reader.     Richardson's  good  people,  in  short, '  \ 
/are  too  wise  and  too  formal,  ever  to  appear  in    \ 
I  the  light  of  desirable  companions,  or  to  excite     j 
iin  a  youthful   mind   any  wish  to  resemble    / 
ithein/'T!re"fflleTy  TrraTThtr ?rhin't[t!l(-^J  s,  tuo,  .^ 
is"  "extremely  girlish  and  silly,  and  is  much 
more  like  the  prattle  of  spoiled  children,  than 
the  wit  and  pleasantry  of  persons  acquainted 
with  the  world.     The  diction  throughout  is 
heavy,  vulgar,  and  embarrassed;  though  the  ^ 
interest  of  the  tragical  scenes  is  too  powerful 
to  allow  us  to  attend  to  any  inferior  considera- 
tion.    The  novels  of  Richardson,  in   short, 
though  praised    perhaps   somewhat  beyond 
will 


their  merits, 


always  be  read  with  ad- 


miration ;  and  certainly  can  never  appear  to 
greater  advantage  than  when  contrasted  with 
the  melancholy  farrago  which  is  here  entitled 
his  Correspondence. 


B^VRON  DE  GRIMM. 


129 


(Sttla,    1813.) 

CorrespoTidance,  Litteratre,  Philosophique  et  Critique.  Addressee  a  un  Souverain  d^Jllemagne, 
depuis  1770  jusqu^d  1782.  Par  le  Baron  de  Grimm,  et  par  Diderot.  5  tomes,  8to. 
pp.  2250.     Paris:   1812. 


This  is  certainly  a  very  entertaining  book 
—though  a  little  too  bulky — and,  the  greater 
part  of  it,  not  very  important.  We  are  glad 
to  see  it,  however ;  not  only  because  we  are 
glad  to  see  any  thing  entertaining,  but  also 
because  it  makes  us  acquamted  with  a  per- 
son, of  whom  every  one  has  heard  a  great 
deal,  and  most  people  hitherto  known  very 
little.  There  is  no  name  which  comes  oftener 
across  us,  in  the  modern  history  of  French 
literature,  than  that  of  Grimm;  and  none, 
perhaps,  whose  right  to  so  much  notoriety 
seemed  to  most  people  to  stand  upon  such 
scanty  titles.  Coming  from  a  foreign  country, 
without  rank,  fortune,  or  exploits  of  any  kind 
to  recommend  him,  he  contrived,  one  does  not 
very  well  see  how,  to  make  himself  conspicu- 
ous for  forty  years  in  the  best  company  of 
Paris ;  and  at  the  same  time  to  acquire  great 
mfluence  and  authority  among  literary  men 
of  all  descriptions,  without  publishing  any 
thing  himself,  but  a  few  slight  observations 
upon  French  and  Italian  music. 

The  volumes  before  us  help,  in  part,  to  ex- 
plain this  enigma ;  and  not  only  give  proof  of 
talents  and  accomplishment's  quite  sufficient 
to  justify  the  reputation  the  author  enjoyed 
among  his  contemporaries,  but  also  of  such  a 
degree  of  industry  and  exertion,  as  entitle 
him,  we  think,  to  a  reasonable  reversion  of 
fame  from  posterity.  Before  laying  before 
our  readers  ^ny  part  of  this  miscellaneous 
chronicle,  we  shall  endeavour  to  give  them  a 
general  idea  of  its  construction — and  to  tell 
them  all  that  we  have  been  able  to  discover 
about  its  author. 

Melchior  Grimm  was  born  at  Ratisbon  in 
1723,  of /very  humble  parentage;  but,  being 
tolerably  well  educated,  took  to  literature  at 
a  very  early  period.  His  first  essays  were 
made  in  his  own  country — and,  as  we  under- 
stand, in  his  native  language — where  he  com- 
posed several  tragedies,  which  were  hissed 
upon  the  stage,  and  unmercifully  abused  in 
the  closet,  by  Lessing,  and  the  other  oracles 
of  Teutonic  criticism.  He  then  came  to  Paris, 
as  a  sort  of  tutor  to  the  children  of  M.  de 
Schomberg,  and  was  employed  in  the  humble 
capacity  of  reader  to  the  Duke  of  Saxe-Gotha, 
when  he  was  first  brought  into  notice  by 
Rousseau,  who  was  smitten  with  his  enthusi- 
asm for  music,  and  made  him  known  to 
Diderot,  the  Baron  d'Holbach,  and  various 
other  persons  of  eminence  in  the  literary 
world.  His  vivacity  and  various  accomplish- 
ments soon  made  liim  generally  acceptable ; 
ivhile  his  uniform  prudence  and  excellent 
good  sense  prevented  him  from  ever  losing 
any  of  the  friends  he  had  gained.  Rousseau, 
indeed,  chose  to  quarrel  with  him  for  life, 


upon  his  sitting  down  one  evening  in  a  seat 
which  he  had  previously  fixed  upon  for  him- 
self; but  with  Voltaire  and  D'Alembert,  and 
all  the  rest  of  that  illustrious  society,  both 
male  and  female,  he  continued  always  on  the 
most  cordial  footing;  and,  while  ne  is  re- 
proached with  a  certain  degree  of  obsequious- 
ness toward  the  rich  and  powerful,  must  be 
allowed  to  have  used  less  flattery  toward  his 
literary  associates  than  was  usual  in  the  in- 
tercourse of  those  jealous  and  artificial  beings. 

When  the  Duke  of  Saxe-Gotha  left  Paris, 
Grimm  undertook  to  send  him  regularly  an 
account  of  every  thing  remarkable  that  oc- 
cured  in  the  literary,  political,  and  scandalous 
chronicle  of  that  great  city;  and  acquitted 
himself  in  this  delicate  office  so  much  to  the 
satisfaction  of  his  noble  correspondent,  that 
he  nominated  him,  in  1776,  his  resident  at 
the  court  of  France,  and  raised  him  at  the 
same  time  to  the  rank  and  dignity  of  a  Baron. 
The  volumes  before  us  are  a  part  of  the  des- 
patches of  this  literary  plenipotentiary ;  and 
are  certainly  the  most  amusing  state  papers 
that  have  ever  fallen  under  our  obversation. 

The  Baron  de  Grimm  continued  to  exercise 
the  functions  of  this  philosophical  diplomacy, 
till  the  gathering  storm  of  the  Revolution 
drove  both  ministers  and  philosophers  from 
the  territories  of  the  new  Republic.  He  then 
took  refuge  of  course  in  the  court  of  his  mas- 
ter, where  he  resided  till  1795;  when  Catha- 
rine of  Russia,  to  whose  shrine  he  had  for- 
merly made  a  pilgrimage  from  Paris,  gave 
him  the  appointment  of  her  minister  at  the 
court  of  Saxony — which  he  continued  to  hold 
till  the  end  of  the  reign  of  the  unfortunate 
Paul,  when  the  partial  loss  of  ^ight  obliged 
him  to  withdraw  altogether  from  business, 
and  to  return  to  the  court  of  Saxe-Gotha, 
where  he  continued  his  studies  in  Hterature 
and  the  arts  with  unabated  ardour,  till  he 
sunk  at  last  under  a  load  of  years  and  infirmi- 
ties in  the  end  of  1807. — He  was  of  an  un- 
comely and  grotesque  appearance — with  huge 
projecting  eyes  and  discordant  features,  which 
he  rendered  still  more  hideous,  by  daubing 
them  profusely  with  white  and  with  red  paint 
— according  to  the  most  approved  costume  of 
petits-maitres,  in  the  year  1748,  when  he 
made  his  debiit  at  Paris. 

The  book  embraces  a  period  of  about  twelve 
years  only,  from  1770  to  1782,  with  a  gap  for 
1775  and  part  of  1776.  It  is  said  in  the  title- 
page  to  be  partly  the  work  of  Grimm,  and 
partly  that  of  Diderot, — ^but  the  contributions 
of  the  latter  are  few,  and  comparatively  of 
little  importance.  It  is  written  half  in  the 
style  of  a  journal  intended  for  the  public,  and 
half  in  that  of  private  and  confidential  cor- 


130 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


respond'  nee;  and,  notwithstanding  the  re- 
trenchments which  lh  '  editor  boasts  of  having 
made  in  the  manuscript,  contains  a  vast  mis- 
oellany  of  all  sorts  of  intelligence ; — critiques 
upon  all  new  publications,  new  operas,  and 
new  performers  at  the  theatres ; — accounts 
of  all  the  meetings  and  elections  at  the  acade- 
mies,— and  of  the  deaths  and  characters  of  all 
the  eminent  persons  who  demised  in  the 
period  to  which  it  extends; — .copies  of  the 
epigrams,  and  editions  of  the  scandalous  sto- 
ries that  occupied  the  idle  population  of  Paris 
during  the  same  period — interspersed  with 
various  original  compositions,  and  brief  and 
pithy  dissertations  upon  the  general  subjects 
that  are  suggested  by  such  an  enumeration. 
Of  these,  the  accounts  of  the  operas  and  the 
actors  are  (now)  the  most  tedious, — the  criti- 
cal and  biographical  sketches  the  most  live- 
ly,— and  the  general  observations  the  most 
striking  and  important.  The  Avhole,  however, 
is  given  with  great  vivacity  and  talent,  and 
with  a  dilgree  of  freedom  which  trespasses 
occasionally  upon  the  borders  both  of  pro- 
priety and  of  good  taste. 

There  is  nothing  indeed  more  exactly  paint- 
ed in  these  graphical  volumes,  than  the  char- 
acter of  M.  Grimm  himself ; — and  the  beauty 
of  it  is,  that  as  there  is  nothing  either  natural 
or  peculiar  about  it,  it  may  stand  for  the  char- 
acter of  most  of  the  wits  aijd  philosophers 
he  frequented.  He  had  more  wit,  perhaps, 
and  more  sound  sense  and  information,  than 
the  greater  part  of  the  society  in  which  he 
lived — But  the  leading  traits  belong  to  the 
whole  class,  and  to  all  classes  indeed,  in 
similar  situations,  in  every  part  of  the  world. 
Whenever  there  is  a  very  large  assemblage 
of  persons  who  have  no  other  occupation  but 
to  amuse  themselves,  there  will  infallibly  be 
generated  acuteness  of  intellect,  refinement 
of  manners,  and  good  taste  in  conversation ; — 
and,  with  the  same  ceitainty,  all  profound 
thought,  and  all  serious  affection,  will  be 
generally  discarded  from  their  society.  The 
multitude  of  persons  and  things  that  force 
themselves  on  the  attention  in  such  a  scene, 
and  the  rajwdity  with  which  they  succeed 
each  other  and  pass  away,  prevent  any  one 
from  making  a  deep  or  permanent  impression ; 
and  the  mind,  having  never  been  tasked  to 
any  course  of  application,  and  long  habituated 
to  this  lively  succession  and  variety  of  objects, 
comes  at  last  to  ^require  the  excitement  of 
perpetual  change,  and  to  find  a  multiplicity 
of  friends  as  indispensable  as  a  multiplicity 
of  amusements.  Thus  the  characteristics  of 
large  and  polished  society,  come  almost  in- 
evitably to  be,  wit  and  heartlessness — acute- 
ness and  perpetual  derision.  The  same  im- 
patience of  uniformity,  and  passion  for  va- 
riety, which  gives  so  much  grace  to  their 
conversation,  by  excluding  tediousness  and 
pertinacious  wrangling,  make  them  incapable 
of  dwelling  for  many  minutes  on  the  feelings 
and  concerns  of  any  one  individual;  while 
the  constant  pursuit  of  little  gratifications,  and 
the  weak  dread  of  all  uneasy  sensations, 
render  them  equally  averse  from  serious  sym- 
pathy and  deep  thought.     They  speedily  find 


out  the  shortest  and  most  pleasant  way  to  a^ 
truths  to  which  a  short  and  a  pleasant  way 
can  readily  be  discovered ;  and  then  lay  it 
down  as  a  maxim,  that  no  others  are  worth 
looking  after — and  in  the  same  way,  they  do 
such  petty  kindnesses,  and  mdulge  such  Ught 
sympathies,  as  do  not  put  them  to  any  troublej 
or  encroach  at  all  on  their  amusements, — 
while  they  make  it  a  principle  to  wrap  them- 
selves up  in  those  amusements  from  the  as- 
sault of  all  more  engrossing  or  importunate 
affections. 

The  turn  for  derision  again  arises  naturally 
out  of  this  order  of  things.  When  passion 
and  enthusiasm,  affection  and  serious  occupa- 
tion have  once  been  banished  by  a  short-sight- 
ed voluptuousnesSj  the  sense  of  ridicule  is 
almost  the  only  lively  sensation  that  remains; 
— and  the  envied  life  of  those  who  have 
nothing  to  do  but  to  enjoy  themselves,  would 
be  utterly  listless  and  without  interest,  if  they 
were  not  allowed  to  laugh  at  each  other. 
Their  quickness  in  perceiving  ordinary  follies 
and  illusions  too,  affords  great  encouragement 
to  this  laudable  practice ;— and  as  none  of 
them  have  so  much  passion  or  enthusiasm 
left,  as  to  be  deeply  wounded  by  the  shafts 
of  derision,  they  fall  lightly,  and  without 
rankling,  on  the  lesser  vanities,  which  supply 
in  them  those  master  springs  of  human  action 
and  feeling. 

The  whole  style  and  tone  of  this  pubhca- 
tion  affords  the  most  striking  illustration  of 
these  general  remarks.  From  one  end  of  it 
to  the  other,  it  is  a  display  of  the  most  com- 
plete heartlessness,  and  the  most  uninterrupt- 
ed levity.  It  chronicles  the  deaths  of  half  the 
author's  acquaintance — and  makes  jests  upon 
them  all;  and  is  much  more  serious  in  dis- 
cussing the  merits  of  an  opera  dancer,  than 
in  considering  the  evidence  for  the  being  of  a 
God,  or  the  first  foundations  of  morality. 
Nothing,  indeed,  can  be  more  just  or  conclu- 
sive, than  the  remark  that  is  forced  from  M. 
Grimm  himself,  upon  the  utter  carelessness 
and  instant  oblivion,  that  followed  the  death 
of  one  of  the  most  distinguished,  active,  and 
amiable  members  of  his  coterie; — "tant  il 
est  vrai  que  ce  qui  nous  appellons  la  Societc^ 
est  ce  qu'il  y  a  de  plus  Jeger,  de  plus  ingrat, 
et  de  plus  frivole  au  monde  !'' 

Holding  this  opinion  very  firaily  ourselves, 
it  will  easily  be  believed  that  we  are  very  far 
from  envying  the  brilliant  persons  who  com- 
posed, or  gave  the  tone  to  this  exquisite  so- 
ciety ; — and  while  we  have  a  due  admiration 
for  the  elegant  pleasantry,  correct  taste,  and 
gay  acuteness,  of  which  they  furnish,  perliaps 
the  only  perfect  models,  we  think  it  more  de- 
sirable, on  the  whole,  to  be  the  spectators, 
than  the  possessors  of  those  accomplishments : 
and  would  no  more  wish  to  buy  them  at  the 
price  of  our  sober  thinking,  and  settled  affec- 
tions, than  we  would  buy  the  dexterity  of  a 
fiddler,  or  a  ropedancer,  at  the  price  of  our 
personal  respectability.  Even  in  the  days  of 
youth  and  high  spirits,  there  is  no  solid  enjoy 
ment  in  living  altogether  with  people  who 
care  nothing  about  us ;  and  when  we  begin  to 
grow  old  and  unaihuseable,   there  can  be 


BARON  DE  GRIMM. 


131 


ncilhing  so  comfortless  as  to  be  surrounded 
with  those  who  think  of  nothing  but  amuse- 
ment. The  spectacle,  however,  is  gay  and 
beautiful  to  those  who  look  upon  it  with  a 
good-natured  sympathy,  or  indulgence;  and 
naturally  suggests  reflections  that  may  be  in- 
teresting to  the  most  serious.  A  judicious 
extractor,  we  have  no  doubt,  might  accom- 
modate both  classes  of  readers,  from  the 
ample  magazine  that  lies  before  us. 

The  most  figuring  person  in  the  work,  and 
indeed  of  the  age  to  which  it  belongs,  was 
beyond  all  question  Voltaire, — or  whom,  and 
of  whose  character,  it  presents  us  with  many 
very  amusing  traits.  He  receives  no  other 
name  throughout  the  book,  than  "  The  Patri- 
arch" of  the  Holy  Philosophical  Church,  of 
which  the  authors,  and  the  greater  part  of 
heir  friends,  profess  to  be  humble  votaries 
and  disciples.  The  infallibihty  of  its  chief, 
however,  seems  to  have  formed  no  part  of  the 
creed  of  this  reformed  religion;  for,  Avith  all 
his  admiration  for  the  wit,  and  playfulness, 
end  talent  of  the  philosophic  pontiff,  nothing 
can  exceed  the  freedoms  in  which  M.  Grimm 
indulges,  both  as  to  his  productions,  and  his 
character.  All  his  poetry,  he  says,  after  Tan- 
cred,  is  clearly  marked  with  the  sjTnptoms 
of  approaching  dotage  and  decay:  and  his 
views  of  many  important  subjects  he  treats 
as  altogether  erroneous,  shallow,  and  con- 
temptible. He  is  particularly  offended  with 
him  for  not  adopting  the  decided  atheism  of 
the  Systeme  de  la  Nature,  and  for  weakly  stop- 
ping short  at  a  kind  of  paltry  deism,  '-Thfi 
Patriarch,"  says  he,  "still  sticks  to  his  Re- 
munerateur-Ven^eur,  without  whom  he  fancies 
the  world  would  go  on  very  ill.  He  is  reso- 
lute enough,  I  confess,  for  putting  down  the 
eod  of  knaves  and  bigots,  but  is  not  for  part- 
ing with  that  of  the  virtuous  and  rational.  He 
reasons  upon  all  this,  too,  like  a  baby — a  very 
pmart  baby  it  must  be  owned — but  a  baby 
notwithstanding.  He  would  be  a  little  puz- 
zled, I  take  it,  if  he  were  asked  what  was 
the  colour  of  his  god  of  the  virtuous  and  wise, 
&c.  &c.  He  cannot  conceive,  he  says,  how 
mere  motion,undirected  by  intelligence,  should 
5ver  have  produced  such  a  world  as  we  in- 
habit— and  we  verily  believe  him.  Nobody 
can  conceive  it — but  it  is  a  fact  nevertheless; 
and  we  see  it — which  is  nearly  as  good." 
We  give  this  merely  as  a  specimen  of  the 
disciple's  irreverence  towards  his  master ;  for 
nothing  can  be  more  contemptible  than  the 
reasoning  of  M.  Grimm  in  support  of  his  own 
desolating  opinions.  He  is  more  near  being 
right,  where  he  makes  himself  merry  with 
the  Patriarch's  ignorance  of  natural  philoso- 
phy. Every  Achilles  however,  he  adds,  has 
a  vulnerable  heel — and  that  of  the  hero  of 
Ferney  is  his  Physics.* 

*  This  is  only  true,  however,  with  regard  to  nat- 
ural history  and  chemistry  •,  for  as  to  the  nobler 
part  of  physics,  which  depends  on  science,  his  at- 
tainments were  equal  perhaps  to  those  of  any  of 
his  age  and  country,  with  the  exception  of  D'Alem- 
bert.  Even  his  astronomy,  however,  though  by 
no  means  "mince  et  raccouriie."  had  a  tendency 

confirm  him  in  that  paltry  Deism,  for  which  he 


f 


M.  Grimm,  however,  reveals  woise  infirmi- 
ties than  this  in  his  great  preceptor.  There 
was  a  young  Mademoiselle  Rancour,  it  seems, 
who,  though  an  actress,  enjoyed  an  unblem- 
ished reputation.  Voltaire,  who  had  never 
seen  her,  chose  one  morning  to  write  to  the 
Marechal  de  Richeheu,  by  whom  she  was 
patronized,  that  she  was  a  notorious  prosti- 
tute, and  ready  to  be  taken  into  keeping  by 
any  one  who  would  offer  for  her.  Tiiis  im- 
putation having  been  thoughtlessly  communi- 
cated to  the  damsel  herself,  produced  no  little 
commotion;  and  upon  Vohaire's  being  re- 
monstrated with,  he  immediately  retracted 
the  whole  story,  which  it  seems  was  a  piece 
of  pure  invention;  and  confessed,  that  the 
only  thing  he  had  to  object  to  Madlle.  Rancour 
was,  that  he  had  understood  they  had  put  off 
the  representation  of  a  new  play  of  his,  in  or- 
der to  gratify  the  public  \\i\h  her  appearance 
in  comedy; — "and  this  was^enough,"  says 
M.  Grimm,  "'  to  irritate  a  child  of  seventy- 
nine,  against  another  child  of  seventeen,  who 
came  in  the  way  of  his  gratification  !" 

A  little  after,  he  tells  another  story  which 
is  not  only  very  disreputable  to  the  Patriarch, 
but  affords  a  striking  example  of  the  monstrous 
evils  that  arise  from  religious  intolerance,  in 
a  'country  where  the  whole  population  is  not 
of  the  same  communion.  A  Mons.  de  B.  in- 
troduced himself  into  a  protestant  family  at 
Montauban,  and  after  some  time,  pubhcly 
married  the  only  daughter  of  the  house,  in  the 
church  of  her  pastor.  He  lived  several  years 
wdth  her,  and  had  one  daughter — dissipated 
her  whole  property — and  at  last  deserted  her, 
and  married  another  woman  at  Paris — upon 
the  pretence  that  his  first  union  was  not  bind- 
ing, the  ceremony  not  having  been  performed 
by  a  Catholic  priest.  The  Parliament  ulti- 
mately allowed  this  plea ;  and  farther  direct- 
ed, that  the  daughter  should  be  taken  from  its 
mother,  and  educated  in  the  true  faith  in  a 
convent.  The  transaction  excited  general  in- 
dignation; and  the  legality  of  the  sentence, 
and  especially  the  last  part  of  it,  was  very 
much  disputed,  both  in  the  profession  and  out 
of  it ; — when  Voltaire,  to  the  astonishment  of 
all  the  world,  thought  fit  to  put  forth  a  pam- 
phlet in  its  defence  I  M.  Grimm  treats  the 
whole  matter  with  his  usual  coldness  and 
pleasantry ; — and  as  a  sort  of  apology  for  this 
extraordinary  proceeding  of  his  chief,  very 
coolly  observes,  "The  truth  is,  that  for  some 
time  past,  the  Patriarch  has  been  suspected, 
and  indeed  convicted,  of  the  most  abominable 
cowardice.  He  defied  the  old  Parliament  in 
his  youth  with  signal  courage  and  intrepidity; 
and  now  he  cringes  to  the  new  one,  and  even 
condescends  to  be  its  panegj'rist,  from  an  ab- 
surd dread  of  being  persecuted  by  it  on  the 
very  brink  of  the  tomb.    "  Ah !  Seigneur  Pat- 


is  so  unmercifully  rated  by  M.  Grimm.  We  do 
not  know  many  quartains  in  French  poetry  more 
beautiful  than  the  following,  which  the  Patriarclf 
indited  impromptu,  one  fine  summer  evening — 

"Tons  ces  vastes  pays  d'Azur  et  de  Lumiere, 
Tir6s  du  sein  du  vide,  et  form6s  sans  niatiere, 
Arrondis  sans  compas,  et  tournans  sans  pivot, 
Ont  &  peine  cout^  la  depense  d'un  mot !" 


132 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY 


riarche  !"  he  concludes,  in  the  true  Parisian 
accent,  '-Horace  was  much  more  excusable  for 
flattering  Augustus,  who  had  honoured  him, 
though  he  destroyed  the  republic,  than  you 
are,  for  justifying,  without  any  intelligible  mo- 
tive, a  proceeding  so  utterly  detestable,  and 
upon  which,  if  you  had  not  courage  to  speak 
as  became  you,  you  were  not  called  upon  to 
sav  any  thing."  It  must  be  a  comfort  to  the 
reader  to  learn,  that  immediately  after  this  sen- 
tence, a  M.  Vanrobais,  an  old  and  most  re- 
spectable gentleman,  was  chivalrous  enough, 
at  the  age  of  seventy,  to  marry  the  deserted 
widow,  and  to  place  her  in  a  situation  every 
way  more  respectable  than  that  of  which  she 
had  been  so  basely  defrauded. 

There  is  a  great  deal,  in  the  first  of  these 
volumes,  about  the  statue  that  was  voted  to 
Voltaire  by  his  disciples  in  1770. — Pigalle  the 
sculptor  was  despatched  to  Ferney  to. model 
him,  in  spite  q^f  the  opposition  he  affects  to 
make  in  a  letter  to  Madame  Necker,  in  which 
he  very  reasonably  observes,  that  in  order  to 
be  modelled,  a  man  ought  to  have  a  face — 
but  that  age  and  sickness  have  so  reduced 
him,  that  it  is  not  easy  to  point  out  where- 
abouts his  had  been ;  that  his  eyes  are  sunk 
into  pits  three  inches  deep,  and  the  small 
remnant  of  his  teeth  recently  deserted ;  that 
his  skin  is  like  old  parchment  wrinkled  over 
dry  bones,  and  his  legs  and  arms  like  dry 
spindles ; — in  short,  "  qu'on  n'a  jamais  sculpte 
un  pauvre  horame  dans  cet  etat."  Phidias 
Pigalle,  however,  as  he  calls  him,  goes  upon 
his  errand,  notwithstanding  all  these  discour- 
agements; and  finds  him,  according  to  M. 
Grimm,  in  a  state  of  great  vivacity.  "He 
skips  up  stairs,"  he  assures  me,  "morenim.bly 
than  all  his  subscribers  put  together,  and  is 
as  quick  as  lightning  in  running  to  shut  doors, 
and  open  windows ;  but,  with  all  this,  he  is 
very  anxious  to  pass  for  a  poor  man  in  the 
last  extremities;  and  would  take  it  much 
amiss  if  he  thought  that  any  body  had  dis- 
covered the  secret  of  his  health  and  vigour." 
Some  awkward  person,  indeed,  it  appears,  has 
been  complimenting  him  upon  the  occasion  ', 
for  he  writes  me  as  follows: — '-My  dear 
friend — though  Phidias  Pigalle  is  the  most 
virtuous  of  mortals,  he  calumniates  me  cruel- 
ly ;  I  understand  he  goes  about  saying  that  I 
am  quite  well,  and  as  sleek  as  a  monk! — 
Such  is  the  ungrateful  return  he  makes  for 
the  pains  I  took  to  force  my  spirits  for  his 
amusement,  and  to  puff  up  my  buccinatory 
muscles,  in  order  to  look  well  in  his  eyes ! — 
Jean  Jacques,  to  be  sure,  is  far  more  puffed 
up  than  I  am ;  but  it  is  with  conceit — from 
which  I  am  free."  In  another  letter  he  says, 
— "  When  the  peasants  iri  my  village  saw  Pi- 
galle laying  out  some  of  the  instraments  of 
his  art,  they  flocked  round  us  with  great  glee, 
and  said.  Ah !  he  is  going  to  dissect  him — 
how  droll ! — so  one  spectacle  you  see  is  just 
as  good  for  some  people  as  another." 

The  account  which  Pigalle  himself  gives 
of  his  mission,  is  extremely  characteristic. 
For  the  first  eight  days,  he  could  make  noth- 
ing of  his  patient, — he  was  so  restless  and 
fall  of  grima?.e8,  starts,  and  gesticulations. 


He  promised  every  night,  indeed,  to  give  him 
a  long  sitting  next  day,  and  always  kept  his 
word; — but  then,  he  could  no  more  sit  still, 
than  a  child  of  three  years  old.  He  dictated 
letters  all  the  time  to  his  secretary :  and,  in 
the  mean  time,  kept  blowing  peas  in  the  air, 
making  pirouettes  round  his  chamber,  or  in- 
dulging in  other  feats  of  activity,  equally  fatal 
to  the  views  of  the  artist.  Poor  Phidias  w^aa 
about  to  return  to  Paris  in  despair,  without 
having  made  the  slightest  progi-ess  in  his  de- 
sign ;  when  the  conversation  happening  by 
good  luck  to  turn  upon  Aaron's  golden  calf, 
and  Pigalle  having  said  that  he  did  not  think 
such  a  thing  could  possibly  be  modelled  and 
cast  in  less  than  six  months,  the  Patriarch 
was  so  pleased  with  him,  that  he  submitted 
to  any  thing  he  thought  proper  all  the  rest  of 
the  day,  and  the  model  was  completed  that 
very  evening. 

There  are  a  number  of  other  anecdotes, 
extremely  characteristic  of  the  vivacity,  im- 
patience, and  want  of  restraint  which  distin- 
guished this  extraordinary  person.  One  of 
the  most  amusing  is  that  of  the  conge  which 
he  gave  to  the  Abbe  Coyer,  who  was  kind 
enough  to  come  to  his  castle  at  Ferney,  with 
the  intention  of  paying  a  long  visit.  The 
second  morning,  however,  the  Patriarch  in- 
terrupted him  in  the  middle  of  a  dull  account 
of  his  travels,  with  this  perplexing  question, 
"  Do  you  know,  M.  L'Abbe,  in  what  you  differ 
entirely  from  Don  Quixotte'?"  The  pooi 
Abbe  was  unable  to  divine  the  precise  point 
of  distinction ;  and  the  philosopher  was  pleas- 
ed to  add,  "  Why,  you  know  the  Don  took  all 
the  inns  on  his  road  for  castles, — but  it  ap- 
pears to  me  that  you  take  some  castles  for 
inns."  The  Abbe  decamped  without  waiting 
for  a  further  reckoning.  He  behaved  still 
worse  to  a  M.  de  Barthe,  whom  he  invited  to 
come  and  read  a  play  to  him,  and  afterwards 
drove  out  of  the  house,  by  the  yawns  and 
frightful  contortions  with  which  he  amused 
himself,  during  the  whole  of  the  perform- 
ance. 

One  of  his  happiest  repartees  is  said  to  have 
been  made  to  an  Englishman,  who  had  re- 
cently been  on  a  visit  to  the  celebrated  Hal- 
ler,  in  whose  praise  Voltaire  enlarged  with 
great  warmth,  extolling  him  as  a  great  poet, 
a  great  naturalist,  and  a  man  of  universal 
attainments.  The  Englishman  answered,  that 
it  was  very  handsome  in  M.  De  Voltaire  to 
speak  so  well  of  Mr.  Haller,  inasmuch  as  he^ 
the  said  Mr.  Haller,  was  by  no  means  so 
liberal  to  M.  de  Voltaire.  "Ah!"  said  the 
Patriarch,  with  an  air  of  philosophic  indul- 
gence, "  I  dare  say  we  are  both  of  us  very 
much  mistaken." 

On  another  occasion,  a  certain  M.  de  St. 
Ange,  who  valued  himself  on  the  graceful    j 
turn  of  his  compliments,  having  come  to  see    j 
him,  took  his  leave  with  this  studied  allusion    i 
to  the  diversity  of  his  talents,  "  My  visit  to-    ! 
day  has  only  been  to  Homer — another  morn- 
ing I  shall  pay  my  respects  to  Sophocles  and 
Euripides — another  to  Tacitus — and  another 
to  Lucian."     "Ah,  Sir!"  replied  the  Patri- 
arch, "I  am  wretchedly  old. — could  you  i^^j 


BARON  DE  GRIMM. 


133 


contrive  to  see  all  these  gentlemen  together?" 
M.  Mercier,  who  had  the  same  passion  for 
fine  speeches,  told  him  one  day,  "You  outdo 
every  body  so  much  in  their  own  way,  that  I 
am  sure  you  will  beat  Fontenelle  even,  in 
longevity."  "No,  no,  Sir!"  answered  the 
Patriarch,  "Fontenelle  was  a  Norman;  and. 
you  may  depend  upon  it,  contrived  to  trick 
Nature  out  of  her  rights." 

One  of  the  most  prolific  sources  of  witti- 
cisms that  is  noticed  in  this  collection,  is  the 
Patriarch's  elevation  to  the  dignity  of  temporal 
father  of  the  Capuchins  in  his  district. ,  The 
cream  of  the  whole,  however,  may  be  found 
"  in  the  following  letter  of  his  to  M.  De  Riche- 
lieu. 

"  Je  voudrais  bien,  monseigneur,  avoir  le  plaisir 
de  vous  donner  ma  benediction  avant  de  mourir. 
L'expression  vous  paraitra  un  peu  forte :  elle  est 
pourtant  dans  la  verite.  J'ai  I'honneur  d'etre  ca- 
pucin.  Notre  general  qui  est  a  Rome,  vient  de 
m'envoyer  mes  patentes ;  mon  titre  est ;  Frtre 
Spirituel  et  Pere  Temporel  des  Capucins.  Man- 
dez-moi  laquelle  devos  maitresses  vous  voulez  re- 
tirer  du  purgatoire :  je  vous  jure  sur  ma  barbe 
qu'elle  n'y  sera  pas  dans  vingtquatre  heures. 
Comme  je  dois  me  detacher  des  biens  de  ce 
monde,  j'ai  abandonne  a  mes  parens  ce  qui  m'est 
du  par  la  succession  de  feu  madame  la  princesse 
de  Guise,  et  par  M.  votre  intendant;  ils  iront  a 
ce  sujet  prendre  vos  ordres  qu'ils  regarderonl 
comme  un  bienfait.  Je  vous  donne  ma  benedic- 
tion. Signe  Voltaire,  Capucin  indigne,  et  qui 
n'a  pas  encore  eu  de  bonne  fortune  de  capucin." — 
pp.  54,  55. 

We  have  very  full  details  of  the  last  days 
of  this  distinguished  person.  He  came  to 
Paris,  as  is  well  known,  after  twenty-seven 
years'  absence,  at  the  age  of  eighty-four; 
and  the  very  evening  he  arrived,  he  recited 
himself  the  whole  of  his  Irene  to  the  players, 
and  passed  all  the  rest  of  the  night  in  cor- 
recting the  piece  for  representation.  A  few 
days  after,  he  was  seized  with  a  violent  vomit- 
ing of  blood,  and  instantly  called  stoutly  for 
a  priest,  saying,  that  they  should  not  throw 
him  out  on  the  dunghill.  A  priest  was  ac- 
cordingly brought ;  and  the  Patriarch  very 
gravely  subscribed  a  profession  of  his  faith 
in  the  Christian  religion — of  which  he  Avas 
ashamed,  and  attempted  to  make  a  jest,  as 
soon  as  he  recovered.  He  was  received  with 
unexampled  honours  at  the  Academy,  the 
whole  members  of  which  rose  together,  and 
\  came  out  to  the  vestibule  to  escort  him  into 
(  the  hall :  while,  on  the  exterior,  all  the  ave- 
I  nues,  windows,  and  roofs  of  houses,  by  which 
b  his  carriage  had  to  pass,  were  crowded  with 
spectators,  and  resounded  with  acclamations. 
But  the  great  scene  of  his  glory  w^as  the  thea- 
tre ;  in  which  he  no  sooner  appeared,  than  the 
'">  whole  audience  rose  up,  and  continued  for 
\  upwards  of  twenty  minutes  in  thunders  of 
applause  and  shouts  of  acclamation  that  filled 
the  whole  house  with  dust  and  agitation. 
When  the  piece  was  concluded,  the  curtain 
was  again  drawn  up,  and  discovered  the  bust 
of  their  idol  in  the  middle  of  the  stage,  while 
the  favourite  actress  placed  a  crown  of  laurel 
on  its  brows,  and  recited  some  verses,  the 
words  of  which  could  scarcely  be  distin- 
truished  amidst  the  tumultuous  shouts  of  the 


spectators.  The  whole  scene,  saya  M.  Grimm, 
reminded  us  of  the  classic  days  of  Greece  and 
Rome.  But  it  became  more  truly  touching  at 
the  moment  when  its  object  rose  to  retire. 
Weakened  and  agitated  by  the  emotions  he 
had  experienced,  his  limbs  trembled  beneath 
him;  and,  bending  almost  to  the  earth,  he 
seemed  ready  to  expire  under  the  weight  of 
years  and  honours  that  had  been  laid  upon 
nim.  His  eyes,  filled  with  tears,  still  sparkled 
with  a  peculiar  fire  in  the  midst  of  his  pale 
and  faded  countenance.  All  the  beauty  and 
all  the  rank  of  France  crowded  round  him  in 
the  lobbies  and  staircases,  and  literally  bore 
him  in  their  arms  to  the  door  of  his  carriage. 
Here  the  humbler  multitude  took  their  turn; 
and,  calling  for  torches  that  all  might  get  a 
sight  of  him,  clustered  round  his  coach,  and 
followed  it  to  the  door  of  his  lodgings,  with 
vehement  shouts  of  admiration  and  triumph. 
This  is  the  heroic  part  of  the  scene ; — but  JNI. 
Grimm  takes  care  also  to  let  us  know",  that  the 
Patriarch  appeared  on  this  occasion  in  long 
lace  rufHes,  and  a  fine  coat  of  cut  velvet,  with 
a  grey  periwig  of  a  fashion  forty  years  old, 
which  he  used  to  comb  every  morning  with 
his  own  hands,  and  to  which  nothing  at  all 
parallel  had  been  seen  for  ages — except  on 
the  head  of  Bachaumont  the  novelist,  who 
was  known  accordingly  among  the  wits  of 
Paris  by  the  name  of  "'Voltaire's  wigblock." 
This  brilliant  and  protracted  career,  how- 
ever, was  fast  drawing  to  a  close. — Retaining 
to  the  last,  that  untameable  spirit  of  activity 
and  impatience  which  had  characterized  all 
his  past  life,  he  assisted  at  rehearsals  and 
meetings  of  the  Academy,  with  the  zeal  and 
enthusiasm  of  early  youth.  At  one  of  the 
latter,  some  objections  were  started  to  his 
magnificent  project,  of  giving  an  improved 
edition  of  their  Dictionary ; — and  he  resolved 
to  compose  a  discourse  to  obviate  those  ob- 
jections. To  strengthen  himself  for  this  task, 
he  swallowed  a  prodigious  quantity  of  strong 
coffee,  and  then  continued  at  work  for  up- 
wards of  twelve  hours  without  intennission. 
This  impmdent  effort  brought  on  an  inflam- 
mation in  his  bladder ;  and  being  told  by  M. 
De  Richelieu,  that  he  had  been  much  relieved 
in  a  similar  situation,  by  taking,  at  intervals, 
a  few  drops  of  laudanum,  he  provided  him- 
self with  a  large  bottle  of  that  medicine,  and 
with  his  usual  impatience,  swallowed  the 
greater  part  of  it  in  the  course  of  the  night. 
The  consequence  was,  as  might  naturally 
have  been  expected,  that  he  fell  into  a  sort 
of  lethargy,  and  never  recovered  the  use  of 
his  faculties,  except  for  a  few  minutes  at  a 
time,  till  the  hour  of  his  death,  which  hap- 
pened three  days  after,  on  the  evening  of  the 
30th  of  May,  1778.  The  priest  to  whom  he 
had  made  his  confession,  and  jmother,  entered 
his  chamber  a  short  time  before  he  breathed 
his  last.  He  recognized  them  with  difficulty 
and  assured  them  of  his  respects.  One  of 
them  coming  close  up  to  him,  he  threv.  his 
arm  round  his  neck,  as  if  to  embrace  him. 
But  when  M.  le  Cure,  taking  advantage  of 
this  cordiality,  proceeded  to  urge  him  to  make 
some  sign  or  acknowledgment  of  his  belief  in 


134 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHV^. 


the  Christian  faith,  he  gently  pushed  him 
back,  and  said,  ^^  Alas !  let  me  die  in  peace." 
The  priest  turned  to  his  companion,  and  with 
great  moderation  and  presence  of  mind,  ob- 
served aloud,  "You  see  his  faculties  are  quite 
gone."  They  then  quietly  left  the  apartment ; 
— and  the  dying  man,  having  testified  his 
gratitude  to  his  kind  and  vigilant  attendants, 
and  named  several  times  the  name  of  his 
favourite  niece  Madame  Denis,  shortly  after 
expired. 

Nothing  can  better  mark  the  character  of 
the  work  before  us,  and  of  its  author,  than  to 
state^  that  the  despatch  which  contains  this 
strikmg  account  of  the  last  hours  of  his  illus- 
trious patron  and  friend,  terminates  with  an 
obscene  epigram  of  M.  Rulhiere,  and  a  gay 
critique  on  the  new  administration  of  the 
opera  BufFa  !  There  are  various  epitaphs  on 
Voltaire,  scattered  through  the  sequel  of  the 
volume  : — we  prefer  this  very  brief  one,  by  a 
lady  of  Lausanne. 

"Ci-git  V enfant  gate  du  monde  qu'il  gata.^^ 

Among  the  other  proofs  which  M.  Grimm 
has  recorded  of  the  celebrity  of  this  extra- 
ordinary person,  the  incredible  multitude  of 
his  portraits  that  were  circulated,  deserves  to 
be  noticed.  One  ingenious  artist,  in  particular, 
of  the  name  of  Huber,  had  acquired  such  a 
facility  in  forming  his  countenance,  that  he 
could  not  only  cut  most  striking  likenesses 
of  him  out  of  paper,  with  scissars  held  be- 
hind his  back,  but  could  mould  a  little  bust 
of  him  in  half  a  minute,  out  of  a  bit  of  bread, 
and  at  last  used  to  make  his  dog  manufacture 
most  excellent  profiles,  by  making  him  bite 
off  the  edge  of  a  biscuit  which  he  held  to 
him  in  three  or  four  diff'erent  positions ! 

There  is  less  about  Rousseau  in  these 
volumes,  than  we  should  expect  from  their 
author's  early  intimacy  with  that  great  writer. 
What  there  is.  however,  is  candid  and  judi- 
cious. M.  Grimm  agrees  with  Madame  de 
Stael,  that  Rousseau  was  nothing  of  a  French- 
man in  his  character; — and  accordingly  he 
observes,  that  though  the  magic  of  his  style 
and  the  extravagance  of  his  sentiments  pro- 
cured him  some  crazy  disciples,  he  never  had 
any  hearty  partisans  among  the  enlightened 

Eart  of  the  nation.  He  laughs  a  good  deal  at 
is  afl'ectations  and  unpardonable  animosi- 
ties,— but  gives,  at  all  times,  the  highest 
E raise  to  his  genius,  an*d  sets  nim  above  all 
is  contemporaries,  for  the  warmth,  the  ele- 
gance, and  the  singular  richness  of  his  style. 
He  says,  that  the  general  opinion  at  Paris  was, 
that  he  had  poisoned  himself; — that  his  natu- 
ral disposition  to  melancholy  had  increased  in 
an  alarming  degree  after  his  return  from  Eng- 
land, and  had  been  aggravated  by  the  sombre 
and  solitary  life  to  which  he  had  condemned 
himself; — that  mind,  he  adds,  at  once  too 
strong  and  too  weak  to  bear  the  burden  of 
existence  with  tranquillity,  was  perpetually 
prolific  of  monsters  and  of  phantoms,  that 
haunted  all  his  steps,  and  drove  him  to  the 
borders  of  distraction.  There  is  no  doubt, 
conti.mes  M.  Grimm,  that  for  many  months 
before  his  death  he  had  firmly  persuaded 


himself  that  all  the  powers  of  Europe  had 
their  eyes  fixed  upon  him  as  a  most  dangei- 
ous  and  portentous  being,  whom  they  should 
take  the  first  opportunity  to  destroy.  He  was 
also  satisfied  that  M.  de  Choiseul  had  pro- 
jected and  executed  the  conquest  of  Corsica, 
for  no  other  purpose  but  to  deprive  him  of  the 
honour  of  legislating  for  it ;  and  that  Prussia 
and  Russia  had  agreed  to  partition  Poland 
upon  the  same  jealous  and  unworthy  con- 
sideration. While  the  potentates  of  Europe 
were  thus  busied  in  thwarting  and  mortifying 
him  abroad,  the  philosophers,  he  was  per- 
suaded, were  entirely  devoted  to  the  same 
project  at  home.  They  had  spies,  he  firmly 
believed,  posted  round  all  his  steps,  and  were 
continually  making  efforts  to  rouse  the  popu- 
lace to  msult  and  murder  him.  At  the  head 
of  this  conspiracy,  of  the  reality  of  which  he 
no  more  doubted  than  of  his  existence,  he 
had  placed  the  Due  de  Choiseul,  his  physi- 
cian Tronchin,  M.  D'Alembert,  and  our  au- 
thor ! — But  we  must  pass  to  characters  less 
known  or  familiar. 

The  gayest,  and  the  most  naturally  gay 
perhaps  of  all  the  coterie,  was  the  Abbe  Ga- 
liani,  a  Neapolitan,  who  had  resided  for  many 
years  in  Paris,  but  had  been  obliged,  very 
much  against  his  will,  to  return  to  his  own 
country  about  the  time  that  this  journal  com- 
menced. M.  Grimm  inserts  a  variety  of  his 
letters,  in  all  of  which  the  infantine  petulance 
and  freedom  of  his  character  are  distinctly 
marked,  as  well  as  the  singular  acuteness  and 
clearness  of  his  understanding.  The  first  is 
written  immediately  after  his  exile  from  Paris 
in  1770. 

"Madame,  je  suis  toujours  inconsolable  d'avoir 
quitte  Paris  ;-et  encore  plus  inconsolable  de  n'avoir 
regu  aucune  nouvelle  ni  de  vous,  ni  du  paresseux 
philosophe.  Est-il  possible  que  ce  monstre,  dans 
son  impassibilitie,  ne  sente  pas  a  quel  point  mon 
honneur,  ma  gloire,  dont  je  me  fiche.  mon  plaisir 
et  celui  de  mes  amis,  dont  je  me  soucie  beaucoup, 
sont  interesses  dans  Taffaire  que  je  lui  ai  confiee,  et 
combien  je  suis  impatient  d'apprendre  qu'en  fin  la 
pacotille  a  double  le  cap  et  passe  le  terrible  defile 
de  la  revision :  car,  aprcs  cela,  je  serai  tranquille 
sur  le  reste. 

"Mon  voyage  a  ete  tres  heureux  sur  la  terre  et 
sur  I'onde ;  il  a  meme  6ted'un  bonheur  inconcevable. 
Je  n'ai  jamais  eu  chand,  et  toujours  le  vent  en  poupe 
sur  le  Rhone  et  sur  la  mer;  il  parait  que  tout  me 
pousse  a  m'eloigner  de  tout  ce  que  j'aime  au  monde. 
L'hero'isme  sera  done  bien  plus  grand  et  bien  plus 
memorable,  de  vaincre  les  elemet^s,  la  nature,  les 
dieux  conspires,  et  de  retourner  a  Paris  en  depit 
d'eux.  Oui,  Paris  est  ma  patrie  ;  on  aura  beau 
m'en  exiler,  j'y  retomberai.  Attendez-vous  done 
a  me  voir  etabli  dans  la  rue  Fromenleau,  au  quatri* 

eme,  sur  le  derriere,  chez  la  nommee ,  fille 

majeure.  La  demeurera  le  plus  grand  genie  de 
notre  age,  en  pension  a  trente  sous  par  jour;  et  il 
sera  heureux.  Quel  plaisir  que  de  delirer  !  ^  Adieu. 
Je  vous  prie  d'envoyer  vos  lettres  toujours  a  1' hotel 
de  I'ambassadeur. 

"  Grimm  est-il  de  retour  de  son  voyage  ?" 

Another  to  the  Baron  Holbach  is  nearly  in 
the  same  tone. 

"  Que  faites-vous,  mon  cher  baron  ?  Vousamusez- 
vous?  La  baronne  se  porte-t-elle  bien  ?  Comment 
vont  vos  enfans?  La  philosophic,  dont  vous  ctea 
In  premier  maitre  d'hotel,  mange-t-elle  touioura 
d'un  aussi  bon  appetii  ? 


BARON  DE  GRIMM. 


135 


"  Pour  nioi,  je  m'ennuie  mortellement  ici ;  je  ne 
vols  pcrsonne,  excepte  deux  ou  trois  Fian^ais.  Je 
suis  le  Gulliver  reveiTu  du  pays  des  Hoyinhyims, 
Qui  ne  fait  plus  societe  qu'avec  ses  deux  chevaux. 
Je  vais  rendre  des  visiles  de  devoir  aux  temmes 
des  deux  ministres  d'etat  et  de  finances  ;  et  puis  je 
dors  ou  je  reve.  Quelle  vie  !  Rien  n'amuse  ici : 
point  d' edits,  point  de  reductions,  point  de  retenues, 
point  de  suspensions  de  paiemens  :  la  vie  y  est  d'une 
uniforniiie  tuante  ;  on  ne  dispute  de  rien,  pas  nieme 
de  religion.  Ah  !  mon  cher  Paris !  ah  !  que  je  te 
regrette  ! 

"  Donnez-moi  quelques  nouvelles  Hiteraires, 
mais  n'en  attendez  pas  en  revanche.  Pour  les 
grands  evenemens  en  Europe,  je  crois  que  nous  en 
allons  devenir  le  bureau.  On  dit,  en  effet,  que  la 
flotte  Russe  a  enfin  debarque  a  Patras,  que  toute  la 
Moree  s'est  revoltee  et  declaree  en  faveur  des  de- 
bar^ques,  et  que  sans  coup  ferir  lis  s'en  sont  rendus 
maitres,  excepte  des  villes  de  Corinthe  et  de  Napoli 
de  Romanic:  cela  merite  confirmation.  Quelle 
avanture  !  Nous  serons  limitrophes  des  Russes ; 
et  d'Otrante  a  Petersbourg  il  n'y  aura  plus  qu'un 

Eas,  et  un  petit  trajet  de  mer:  Dux  foemma  facti. 
Jne  femme  aura  fait  cela  !  Cela  est  trop  beau  pour 
etre  vrai," 

The  next  is  not  such  pure  trifling. 

"  Vous  avez  reconnu  Voltaire  dans  son  sermon  ; 
moi  je  n'y  reconnais  que  I'echo  de  feu  M.  de  Vol- 
taire. Ah  !  il  rabache  trop  a  present.  Sa  Catherine 
est  une  maitresse  femme,  parce  qu'elle  est  intol- 
erante  et  conquerante  ;  tous  les  grands  hommes 
ont  ete  intolerans,  et  il  faut  I'etre.  Si  I'on  rencontre 
sur  son  chemin  un  prince  sot,  il  faut  lui  precher  la 
tolerance,  afin  qu'il  donne  dans  le  piege,  et  que  le 
parti  ecrase  ait  le  temps  de  se  relever  par  la  tolerance 
qu'on  lui  accorde,  et  d'ecraserson  adversaire  a  son 
tour.  Ainsi  le  sermon  sur  la  tolerance  est  un  ser- 
mon fait  aux  sots  ou  aux  gens  dupes,  oil  a  des  gens 
qui  n'ont  aucun  interet  dans  la  chose  :  voila  pour- 
quoi,  quelquefois,  un  prince  seculier  doit  ecouter  la 
tolerance  ;  c'est  lorsque  I'affaire  interesse  les  pretres 
sans  interesser  les  s^ouverains.  Mais  en  Pologne,  les 
eveques  sont  tout  a  la  fois  pretres  et  souverains,  et, 
s'ils  le  peuvent,  ils  feront  fort  bien  de  chasser  les 
Russes,  et  d'envoyer  au  diable  tous  les  Dissidens  ; 
et  Catherine  fera  fort  bien  d'ecraser  les  eveques  si 
cela  lui  reussit.  Moi  je  n'en  crois  rien  ;  je  crois  que 
les  Russes  ecraseront  les  Turcs  par  contre-coup, 
et  ne  feront  qu'agrandir  et  reveiller  les  Polonais, 
comme  Philippe  II.  et  la  maison  d'Autriche  ecra- 
serent  I'Allemagne  et  I'ltalie,  en  voulant  troubler 
la  France  qu'ils  ne  firent  qu'ennoblir  :  voila  mes 
propheties." 

"  Votre  lettre  du  8  juin  n'est  point  gaie ;  il  s'en 
faut  meme  beaucoup  :  vous  ayouez  vous-meme  que 
vous  n'avez  que  quelques  lueurs  de  gaiete  ;  je  crains 
que  cela  ne  tienne  au  physique,  et  que  vous  nevous 
portiez  pas  bien  :  voila  ce  qui  me  fache.  Pour  moi, 
je  fais  tout  ce  que  je  puis  pour  vous  egayer,  et  ce 
n'est  pas  un  petit  effort  pour  moi :  car  je  suis  si 
ennuye  de  mon  existence  ici,  qu'en  verite  je  deviens 
homme  d'affaires  et  liomme  grave  de  jour  en  jour 
davantage,  et  je  finirai  par  devenir  Nepolitain,  tout 
comme  un  autre." 

Another  contains  some  admirable  remarks 
on  the  character  of  Cicero,  introduced  in  the 
same  style  of  perfect  ease  and  familiarity. 

"  On  pent  regarder  Giceron  comme  litierateur, 
comme  philosophe  et  comme  homme  d'etat.  11a 
ete  un  des  plus  grands  litterateurs  qui  aient  jamais 
ete  ;  il  savait  tout  ce  qu'on  savait  de  son  temps, 
excepte  la  geometric  et  autres  sciences  de  ce  genre. 
II  etait  mediocre  philosophe :  car  il  savait  tout  ce 
que  ies  Grecs  avaient  pense,  et  le  rendait  avec  une 
Ciarte  admirable,  mais  il  ne  pensait  rien  et  n'avait 

Sas  la  force  de  rien  imaginer.  Comme  homme 
'etat,  Ciceron,  eiant  d'une  basse  extraction  et 
voulant  parv'enir,  aurait  du  se  jeter  dans  le  pan  de 
I'opposition,- de  la  chambre  basse  ou  du  peuple,  si 


vous  voulez.  Cela  lui  etait  d'autant  plus  aise,  quo 
Marius,  fondateur  de  ce  parti,  etait  de  son  pays.  II 
en  fut  meme  tente,  car  il  debuta  par  attaquer  Sylla 
et  par^se  lier  avec  les  gens  du  parti  de  I'opposiiion, 
a  la  lete  desquels,  apros  la  mort  de  Marius,  etaient 
Claudius, Catilina,  Cesar.  Mais  le  parti  des  grands 
avait  besoin  d'un  jurisconsulte  et  d'un  savant ;  i;ar 
les  grands  seigneurs,  en  general,  ne  savent  ni  lire 
ni  ecrire ;  il  sentit  done  qu'on  aurait  plus  besoin  de 
lui  dans  le  parti  des  grands,  et  qu'il  y  jouerait  un 
role  plus  brillant.  11  s'y  jeta,  et  des-lors  on  vit  un 
homme  nouveau,  un  parvenu  mele  avec  les  patri- 
ciens.  Figurez-vous  en  Angleterre  un  avocat  dont 
la  cour  a  besoin  pour  faire  un  chancelier,  et  qui  suit 
par  consequent  te  parti  du  ministere.  Ciceron  brilla 
done  a  cote  de  Pompee,  etc.,  toutes  les  fois  qu'il 
etait  question  de  choses  de  jurisprudence ;  mais  il 
lui  manquait  la  naissance,  les  richesses  ;  et  surtout 
n'etant  pas  homme  de  guerre,  il  jouait  de  cec6te-la 
un  role  subalterne.  D'ailleurs,  par  inclination 
naturelle,  il  aimait  le  parti  de  Cesar,  et  il  etait 
fatigue  de  la  morgue  des  grands  qui  lui  faisaient 
sentir  souvent  le  prix  des  bienfaits  dont  on  I'avait 
comble.  II  n'etait  pas  pusillanime,  il  etait  incertain; 
il  ne  defendait  pas  des  scelerats,  il  defendait  les  gens 
de  son  parti  qui  ne  valaient  guere  mieux  que  ceux 
du  parti  contraire." 

We  shall  add  only  the  following. 

"  Le  dialogue  des  tableaux  du  Louvre  interesse 
peu  a  cinq  cents  lieues  de  Paris  ;  le  baron  de  Glei- 
chen  et  moi,  nous  en  avons  ri :  personnes  ne  nous 
aurait  entendus.  Au  reste,  a  propos  des  tableaux, 
je  remarque  que  le  caractere  dominant  des  Fran^ais 
perce  toujours ;  ils  sont  causeurs,  raisonneurs,  badma 
par  essence.  Un  mauvais  tableau  eniante  une 
bonne  brochure  ;  ainsi  vous  parlerez  mieux  des  arts 
que  vous  ne  les  cultiverez  jamais.  II  se  trouvera 
au  bout  du  compte,  dans  quelques  siecles,  que  vous 
aurez  le  mieux  raisonne,  le  mieux  discute  ce  que 
toutes  les  autres  nations  auront  fait  de  mieux. 
Cherissez  done  I'imprimerie,  c'est  votre  lot  dans  ce 
bas  monde.  Mais  vous  avez  mis  un  impot  sur  le 
papier.  Quelle  sottise !  Plaisanterie  a  part,  un 
impot  sur  le  papier  est  la  faute  en  politique  la  plus 
forte  que  se  soit  commise  en  France  depuis  un  siecle. 
II  valait  mieux  faire  la  banqueroute  universelle,  et 
Jaisser  au  Frangais  le  plaisir  de  parler  a  I'Europe  a 
peu  de  frais.  Vous  avez  plus  conquis  de  pays  par 
ies  livres  que  par  les  armes.  Vous  ne  devez  la 
gloire  de  la  nation  qu'a  vos  ouvrages,  et  vous  voulez 
vous  forcer  a  vous  taire  !" 

"  Ma  belle  dame,  s'il  servait  a  quelque  chose  de 
pleurer  les  morts,  je  viendrais  pleurer  avec  vous  la 
perte  de  notre  Helvetius;  mais  la  mort  n'est  autre 
chose  que  le  regret  des  vivans  ;  si  nous  ne  le  regret 
tons  pas,  il  n'est  pas  mort :  tout  comme  si  nous  ne 
I'avions  jamais  ni  connu  ni  aime,  il  ne  serait  pas  ne. 
Tout  ce  qui  existe,  existe  en  nous  par  rapport  a 
nous.  Souvenez-vous  que  le  petit  prophete  faisait 
de  la  metaphysique  lorsqu'il  etait  triste  ;  j'en  fais  de 
meme  a  present.  Mais  enfin  le  mal  de  la  perte 
d' Helvetius  est  le  vide  qu'il  laisse  dans  la  ligne  du 
bataillon.  Serrons  done  les  lignes,  aimons-noua 
davantage,  nous  qui  restons,  et  il  n'y  paraitra  pas. 
Moi  qui  suis  le  major  de  ce  malheureux  regiment, 
je  vous  crie  a  tous  :  serrez  les  lignes,  avancez,  feu  ! 
On  ne  s'apercevra  pas  de  notre  perte.  Ses  enfans 
n'ont  perdu  ni  jeunesse  ni  beaute  par  la  mort  de 
leur  pere  ;  elies  ont  gagne  la  qualite  d'heritieres ; 
pourquoi  diable  allez-vous  pleurer  sur  leur  sort? 
Elles  se  marieront,  n'en  doutez  pas:  cet  oracle  est 
plus  siir  que  celui  de  Calchas.  Sa  femme  est  plus  a 
plaindre,  a  moins  qu'elle  ne  rencontre  un  gendre 
aussi  raisonnable  que  son  mari,  ce  qui  n'est  pas 
bien  aise,  mais  plus  aise  a  Paris  qu'ailleurs.  II  y  a 
encore  bien  des  mcsurs,  des  vertus,  de  I'heroisme 
dans  votre  Paris;  il  y  en  a  plus  qu'ailleurs,  croyez- 
moi :  c'est  ce  qui  me  le  fait  regretter,  et  me  le  fera 
peut-elre  revoir  un  jour." 

The  notice  of  the  death  of  Helvetius,  con- 
tained in  this  last  extract,  leads  us  naturally 


136 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


to  luiii  10  the  pai?sage  in  M.  Grimm  in  which 
this  event  is  commemorated;  and  we  there 
find  a  very  full  and  curious  account  of  this 
zealous  philosopher.  Helvetius  was  of  Dutch 
extraction ;  and  his  father  having  been  chief 
physician  to  the  Queen,  the  son  was  speedily 
appointed  to  the  very  lucrative  situation  of 
Farmer-general  of  the  Finances.  He  was  re- 
markably ^ood  tempered,  benevolent,  and 
liberal ;  and  passed  his  youth  in  idle  and  vo- 
luptuous indulgence,  keeping  a  sort  of  seraglio 
as  a  part  of  his  establishment,  and  exercising 
himself  with  universal  applause  in  the  noble 
science  of  dancing,  in  which  he  attained  such 
eminence,  that  he  is  said  to  have  several 
times  supplied  the  place  of  the  famous  Dupre 
in  the  ballets  at  the  opera.  An  unhappy  pas- 
sion for  literary  glory  came,  however,  to  dis- 
turb this  easy  life.  The  paradoxes  and  ef- 
frontery of  Maupertuis  had  brought  science 
into  fashion;  and  for  a  season,  no  supper  was 
thought  complete  at  Paris  without  a  mathe- 
matician. Helvetius,  therefore,  betook  him- 
self immediately  to  the  study  of  geometry : 
But  he  could  make  no  hand  of  it ;  and  for- 
tunately the  rage  passed  away  before  he  had 
time  to  expose  himself  in  the  eyes  of  the  in- 
itiated. Next  came  the  poetical  glory  of  Vol- 
taire ; — and  Helvetius  instantly  resolved  to  be 
a  poet— and  did  with  great  labour  produce  a 
long  poem  on  happiness,  which  was  not  pub- 
lished however  till  after  his  death,  and  has 
not  improved  his  chance  for  immortality.  But 
it  was  the  success  of  the  President  Montes- 
quieu's celebrated  Esprit  des  Loix,  that  final- 
ly decided  the  literary  vocation  of  Helvetius. 
That  work  appeared  in  1749;  and  in  1750  the 
Farmer-general  actually  resigned  his  office ; 
married,  retired  into  the  country,  spent  ten 
long  years  in  digesting  his  own  book  De 
r Esprit,  by  which  he  fondly  expected  to  rival 
the  fame  of  his  illustrious  predecessor.  In 
this,  however,  he  was  wofully  disappointed. 
The  book  appeared  to  philosophers  to  be 
nothing  but  a  paradoxical  and  laborious  repe- 
tition of  truths  and  difficulties  with  which  all 
good  thinkers  had  long  been  familiar ;  and  it 

Erobably  would  have  fallen  into  utter  oblivion, 
ad  it  not  been  for  the  injudicious  clamour 
which  was  raised  against  it  by  the  bigots  and 
devotees  of  the  court.  Poor  Helvetius.  who 
had  meant  nothing  more  than  to  make  him- 
self remarkable,  was  as  much  surprised  at 
the  outcries  of  the  godly,  as  at  the  silence 
of  the  philosophers ;  and  never  perfectly  re- 
covered the  shock  of  this  double  disappoint- 
ment. He  still  continued,  however,  his  habits 
of  kindness  and  liberality — gave  dinners  to 
the  men  of  letters  when  at  Paris,  and  hunted 
and  compiled  philosophy  with  great  perse- 
verance in  the  country.  His  temper  was  so 
good,  that  his  society  could  not  fail  to  be 
agreeable ;  but  his  conversation,  it  seems,  was 
not  very  captivating ;  he  loved  to  push  every 
matter  of  discussion  to  its  very  last  results;  ancl 
reasoned  at  times  so  very  loosely  and  largely, 
as  to  be  in  danger  of  being  taken  for  a  person 
very  much  overtaken  with  liquor.  He  died  of 
trout  in  his  stomach,  at  the  age  of  fifty-six ; 
nnd,  as  an  author,  is  now  completely  forgotten.  1 


Nobody  knows  a  better  or  a  more  amiable 
figure  in  this  book,  than  Madame  G  eoffrin. 
Active,  reasonable,  indulgent,  and  munificent 
beyond  example  for  a  woman  in  private  life, 
she  laid  a  sure  claim  to  popularity  by  taking 
for  her  maxim  the  duty  of  "giving  and  for- 
giving;"  and  showed  herself  so  gentle  in  hor 
deportment  to  children  and  servants,  that  If 
she  had  not  been  overcome  with  an  unlucky 
passion  for  intrigue  aud  notoriety,  she  might 
have  afforded  one  exception  at  least  to  the 
general  heartlessness  of  the  society  to  which 
she  belonged.  Some  of  the  repartees  re- 
corded of  her  in  these  volumes,  are  very 
remarkable.  M.  de  Rulhiere  threatened  to 
make  public,  certain  very  indiscreet  remarks 
on  the  court  of  Russia,  from  the  sale  of  which 
he  expected  great  profits.  Madame  Geoff'rin, 
who  thought  he  would  get  into  difficulties  by 
taking  such  a  step,  offered  him  a  very  hand- 
some sum  to  put  his  manuscript  in  the  fire. 
He  answered  her  with  many  lofty  and  ani- 
mated observations  on  the  meanness  and  un- 
worthiness  of  taking  money  to  suppress  truth. 
To  all  which  the  lady  listened  with  the  utmost 
complacency;  and  merely  replied,  "Well! 
say  yourself  how  much  more  you  must  have." 
Another  mot  of  hers  became  an  established 
canon  at  all  the  tables  of  Paris.  The  Comte 
de  Coigny  was  wearying  her  one  evening 
with  some  interminable  story,  when,  upon 
somebody  sending  for  a  part  of  the  dish  be- 
fore him,  he  took  a  little  knife  out  of  his 
pocket,  and  began  to  carve,  talking  all  the 
time  as  before.  "Monsieur  le  Comte,"  said 
Madame  Goeffrin,  a  little  out  of  patience, 
"  at  table  there  should  only  be  large  knives 
and  short  stories.  In  her  old  age  she  was 
seized  with  apoplexy;  and  her  daughter, 
during  her  illness,  refused  access  to  the  phi- 
losophers. When  she  recovered  a  little,  she 
laughed  at  the  precaution,  and  made  her 
daughter's  apology — by  saying,  "She  had 
done  like  Godfrey  of  Bouillon — defended  her 
tomb  from  the  Infidels."  The  idea  of  her 
ending  in  devotion,  however,  occasioned  much 
merriment  and  some  scandal  among  her  phi- 
losophical associate*. 

The  name  of  Marmontel  occurs  very  often 
in  this  collection  ;  but  it  is  not  attended  with 
any  distinguished  honours.  M.  Grimm  ac- 
cuses him  of  want  of  force  or  passion  in  his 
style,  and  of  poverty  of  invention  and  little- 
ness of  genius.  He  says  something,  however, 
of  more  importance  on  occasion  of  the  first 
representation  of  that  writer's  foolish  little 
piece,  entitled,  "S'?7fam."  The  courtiers  and 
sticklers  for  rank,  he  observes,  all  pretended 
to  be  mightily  alarmed  at  the  tendency  of  this 
little  opera  in  one  act ;  and  the  Due  de  Noailles 
took  the  trouble  to  say,  that  its  plain  object 
was  to  show  that  a  gentleman  could  do  noth- 
ing so  amiable  as  to  marry  his  maid  sen-ant, 
and  let  his  cottagers  kill  his  game  at  their 
pleasure.  It  is  really  amusing,  continues  M. 
Grimm,  to  observe,  how  positive  many  people 
are,  that  all  this  is  the  result  of  a  deep  plot 
on  the  part  of  the  Encyclopedistes,  and  that 
this  silly  farce  is  the  iruit  oi  a  solemn  con- 
spiracy against  the  privileged  orders,  and  in 


BARON  DE  GRIMM. 


137 


support  of  the  horrible  doctrine  of  universal ! 
equality.  If  they  would  only  condescend  to 
consult  me,  however,  he  concludes,  I  could 
oblige  them  with  a  much  simpler,  though  less 
magnificent  solution  of  the  mystery;  the  truth 
being,  that  the  extravagance  of  M.  Marmoii- 
tel's  little  plot  proceeds  neither  from  his  love 
of  equality,  nor  from  the  commands  of  an  anti- 
social conspiracy,  but  purely  from  the  poverty 
of  his  imagination,  and  his  want  of  talent  for 
dramatic  composition.  It  is  always  much 
more  easy  to  astonish  by  extravagance,  than 
to  interest  by  natural  representations;  and 
those  commonplaces,  of  love  triumphing  over 
pride  of  birth,  and  benevolence  getting  the* 
better  of  feudal  prejudices,  E.:e  among  \he 
most  vulgar  resources  of  those  who  are  inca- 
pable of  devising  incidents  at  once  probable 
and  pathetic. 

This  was  written  in  the  year  1770; — and 
while  it  serves  to  show  us,  that  the  imputa- 
tion of  conspiracies  against  the  throne  and 
the  altar,  of  which  succeeding  times  were 
doomed  to  hear  so  much,  were  by  no  means 
an  original  invention  of  the  age  which  gave 
them  the  greatest  encouragement,  it  may 
help  also  to  show  upon  what  slight  founda- 
tion such  imputations  are  usually  hazarded. 
Great  national  changes,  indeed,  are  never  the 
result  of  conspiracies — but  of  causes  laid  deep 
and  wide  in  the  structure  and  condition  of  so- 
ciety.— and  which  necessarily  produce  those 
combinations  of  individuals,  who  seem  to  be 
the  authors  of  the  revolution  when  it  happens 
to  be  ultimately  brought  about  by  their  in- 
strumentality. The  Holy  Church  Philosophic 
of  Paris,  however,  was  certainly  quite  inno- 
cent of  any  such  intention ;  and,  we  verily  be- 
lieve, had  at  no  time  any  deeper  views  in  its 
councils  than  are  expressed  in  the  following- 
extract  from  its  registers. 

"  Comme  11  est  d'usage,  dans  notre  sainte  Eolise 
philosophique,  de  nous  reunir  quelquefois  pour  don- 
ner  aux  fideles  de  salutaires  et  utiles  instructions 
sur  I'etat  actuel  de  la  foi,  les  progres  et  bonnes 
oBuvres  de  nos  freres,  j'ai  I'honneur  de  vous  adres- 
ser  les  annonces  et  bans  qui  ont  eu  lieu  a  la  suite  de 
notre  dernier  sermon." 

"  Frere  Thomas  fait  sayoir  qu'il  a  compose  un 
Essai  sur  les  Femmes,  qui  fera  un  ouvrage  con- 
siderable. L'Eglise  estime  la  purete  de  mcEurs  et 
les  vertus  de  frere  Thomas;  elle  craint  qu'il  ne 
connaisse  pas  encore  assez  les  femmes  ;  elle  lui 
conseille  de  se  lier  plus  intimement,  s'il  se  peut, 
avec  quelques  unes  des  heroines  qu'il  frequente, 
pour  le  plus  grand  bien  de  son  ouvrage  ;  et,  pour 
le  plus  grand  bien  de  son  style,  elle  le  conjure  de 
considerer  combien,  suivant  la  decouverte  de  notre 
illustre  patriarche,  I'adjectif  affaiblit  souvent  le  sub- 
stantif,  quoiqu'il  s'y  rapporte  en  cas,  en  nombre  et 
en  genre. 

"  ScBur  Necker  fait  savoir  qu'elle  donnera  tou- 
jours  a  diner  les  vendredis :  I'Eglise  s'y  rendra, 
parce  qu'elle  fait  caa  de  sa  personne  et  de  celle  de 
son  epoux  ;  elle  voudrait  pouvoir  en  dire  autant  de 
son  cuisinier.  , 

"  Soeur  de  I'Espinasse  fait  savoir  que  sa  fortune 
ne  lui  permet  pas  d'offrir  ni  a  diner,  ni  a  souper,  et 
qu'elle  n'en  a  pas  moins  d'envie  de  recevoir  chez 
elle  les  freres  qui  voudronty  venir  digerer.  L'Eglise 
m'ordonne  de  lui  dire  qu'elle  s'y  rendra,  et  que, 
quand  on  a  autant  d'esprit  et  de  merits,  on  peut  se 
passer  de  beaute  et  de  fortune. 

"  Mtire  Geoffrin  fait  savoir  qu'elle  renouvelle  les 
defenses  ot  lois  prohibitives  des  annees  precedentes, 


et  qu'il  ne  sera  pas  plus  permis  que  parle  passe  de 
purler  chez  elle  ni  d'afliiires  interieures,  ni  d'affaires 
exterieures  ;  ni  d'atlaircs  de  la  cour,  ni  d'affaires  do 
la  ville  ;  ni  de  paix,  ni  de  guerre  ;  ni  de  religion, 
ni  de  gouvernenient ;  ni  de  theologie,  ni  de  meta- 
physique  ;  ni  de  grammaire,  ni  de  musique  ;  ni,  en 
general,  (i'aucune  maticre  quelconque  ;  et  qu'elle 
com  met  dom  Burigni,  benedictin  de  robe  courte, 
pour  faire  taire  tout  le  monde,  a  cause  de  sa  dex- 
terite,  connue,  et  du  grand  credit  doiit  il  jouit,  et 
pour  etre  gronde  par  elle,  en  particulier,  de  touted 
les  contraventions  a  ces  defenses.  L'Eglise,  con- 
siderant  que  le  silence,  et  notamment  sur  les  ma- 
tieres  dont  est  question,  n'est  pas  son  fort,  promet 
d'obeir  autant  qu'elle  y  sera  contrainte  par  forme 
de  violence." 


We^liear  agreat  deal,  of  course,  of  Diderot^ 
I  in  a  work  of  which  he  was  partly  the  author; 
land  it  is  impossible  to  deny  him 'the  praise 
'of  ardour,  originality,  and  great  occasional 
eloquence.     Yet  we  not  only  feel  neither  re- 
spect nor  affection  for  Diderot — but  can  sel- 
;  dom  read  any  of  his  lighter  pieces  without  a 
certain  degree  of  disgust.    There  is  a  tone  of 
blackguardism — (we  really  can  find  no  other 
word) — both  in  his  indecency  and  his  pro- 
'fanity,  which  we  do  not  recollect  to  have  met 
J  with  in  any  other  good  writer;  and  M-hich  is 
japt,  we  think,  to  prove  revolting  even  to  those 
hvho  are  accustomed  to  the  licence  of  this 
[fraternity.     They  who  do  not  choose  to  look 
into  his,  Religieuse  for  the  full  illustration  of 
I  this  remark — and  we  advise  no  one  to  look 
;  there  for  any  thing — may  find  it  abundantly, 
j  though  in  a  less  flagrant  form,  in  a  little  essay 
on  women,  which  is  inserted  in  these  volumes 
as  a  supplement  or  corrective  to  the  larger 
work  ojf  M.  Thomas  on  that  subject.     We 
[must  say,  however,  that  the  whole  tribe  of 
French  writers  who  have  had  any  pretensions 
to  philosophy  for  the  last  seventy  years,  are 
infected  with  a  species  of  indelicacy  which  is 
peculiar,  we  think,  to  their  nation ;  and  strikes 
us  as  more  shameful  and  offensive  than  any 
other.     We  do  not  know  very  well  how  to 
describe  it,  otherwise  than  by  saying,  that  it 
consists  in  a  strange  combination  of  physical 
science  with  obscenity,  and   an   attempt  to 
unite  the  pedantic  and  disgusting  details  of 
anatomy  and  physiology,  with  images  of  vo- 
luptuousness and   sensuality; — an    attempt, 
we   think,    exceedingly  disgusting    and   de- 
basing, but  not  in   the   least   degree   either 
seductive  or  amusing.     Maupertuis  and  Vol- 
taire, and  Helvetius  and  Diderot,  are  full  of 
this.  BufFon  and  d'Alembert  are  by  no  means 
free  of  it ;  and  traces  of  it  may  even  be  dis- 
covered in  the  yvritings  of  RousseaiiJiX^iself^ 
We  could,  pardon  some  details  in  the  Emile 
— or  the  Confessions ; — but  we  own  it  appears 
to  us  the  most  nauseous  and  unnatural  of  all 
things,  to  find  the  divine  Julie  herself  inform- 
ing her  cousin,  with  much  complacency,  that 
she  had  at  last  discovered,  that  "  quoique  son 
ccBur  trop  tendre  avoit  besoin  d'amour,  sea 
sens  n'avoient  plus  besoin  d'un  amant."' 

The  following  epigram  is  a  little  in  the 
taste  we  have  been  condemning ; — but  it  has 
the  merit  of  being  excessively  clever.  Ma- 
dame du  Chatelet  had  long  lived  separate 
from  her  husband,  and  was  understood  to  re- 
ceivfe  the  homage  of  two  lovers — Voltaire  and 


138 


LITERATURE  IiND  BIOGR^'iPHY. 


M.  de  St.  I^mbert.  She  died  in  childbirth; 
and  the  following  dramatic  elegy  \Aas  circu- 
lated all  over  Paris  the  M-eek  after  that  catas- 
trophe. 

"  31.  de  Chatelet. — Ah !  ce  n'est  pas  ma 
faute ! 

"  M.  de  Voltaire. — Je  Pavais  predit ! 

"  M.  de  St.  Lambert.— E\le  Pa  voulu  !" 

Crebillon  the  younger  is  naturally  brought 
to  our  recollection  by  the  mention  of  wit  and 
indecency.  We  have  an  account  of  his  death, 
and  a  just  and  candid  estimate  of  his  merits, 
in  one  of  the  volumes  before  us.  However 
frivolous  and  fantastic  the  style  of  his  novels 
may  appear,  he  had  still  the  merit  of  invent- 
ing that  style,  and  of  adorning  it  Avith  much 
ingenuity,  >vit,  and  character.  The  taste  for 
his  writings,  it  seems,  passed  away  very  ra- 
pidly and  completely  in  France;  and  long 
before  his  death,  the  author  of  the  Sopha^  and 
Les  Egaremens  du  Caur  et  de  VEsprit,  had 
the  mortification  to  be  utterly  forgotten  by 
the  public.  M.  Grimm  thinks  this  reverse  of 
fortune  rather  unmerited ;  and  observes,  that 
in  foreign  countries  he  was  still  held  in  esti- 
mation, and  that  few  French  productions  had 
had  such  currency  in  London  as  the  Sopha. 
The  reason  perhaps  may  be,  that  the  manners 
and  characters  which  the  French  ai  once 
knew  to  be  unnatural,  might  be  mistaken  by 
us  for  true  copies  of  French  originals.  It  is  a 
little  more  difficult,  however,  to  account  for 
the  fact,  that  the  perusal  of  his  works  inspired 
a  young  lady  of  good  family  in  this  country 
with  such  a  passion  for  the  author,  that  she 
ran  away  from  her  friends,  came  to  Paris, 
married  him,  and  nursed  and  attended  him 
with  exemplary  tenderness  and  affection  to 
^  his  dying  day.  But  there  is  nothing  but  luck, 
good  or  bad— as  M.  Grimm  sagely  observes — 
in  this  world.  The  author  of  a  licentious 
novel  inspires  a  romantic  passion  in  a  lady  of 
rank  and  fortune,  who  crosses  seas,  and 
abandons  her  family  and  her  native  country 
for  his  sake ; — while  the  author  of  the  Nouvelle 
Heloise,  the  most  deUcate  and  passionate  of 
all  lovers  that  ever  existed,  is  obliged  to  clap 
up  a  match  with  his  singularly  stupid  cham- 
bermaid ! 

Of  all  the  loves,  however,  that  are  recorded 
in  this  chronicle,  the  loves  of  Madame  du 
DefFant  and  M.  de  Ponte-de-Vesle,  are  the 
most  exemplary ;  for  they  lasted  upwards  of 
fifty  years  without  quarrel  or  intermission. 
The  secret  of  this  wonderful  constancy  is,  at 
all  events,  worth  knowing ;  and  we  give  it  in 
the  words  of  an  authentic  dialogue  between 
♦  this  venerable  Acme  and  Septimius. 

"  Pont-de-Vesle  ? — Madame? — Oii  etes-voiis  ? 
— An  coin  de  voire  cheminee. —  Couche  les  pieds 
sur  les  chenets,  comme  on  est  chez  ses  amis? — 
Oui,  Madame. — II  faut  convenir  qu'il  est  pen  de 
liaisons  aussi  anciennes  que  la  notre. — Cela  est 
vrai. — II  y  a  cinquanie  ans. — Oui,  cinquante  ans 
passes^ — Et  dans  ce  long  intervalle  aucun  nuage, 
pas  meme  I'apparence  d'une  brouillerie. — C'est  ce 
que  j'ai  toujours  admire. — Mais,  Pont-de-VesIe, 
cela  ne  viendrait-il  point  de  ce  qu'au  fond  nous 
pvons  toujours  ete  fort  indifferens  I'un  a  I'autre  ? — 
Cela  se  pourrait  bien,  Madame." 

The  evening  this  veteran  admirer  died,  she 


came  rather  late  to  a  great  supper  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood ;  and  as  it  was  known  tliat  she  made 
it  a  point  of  honour  to  attend  on  him,  the 
catastrophe  was  generally  suspected.  She 
mentioned  it,  however,  herself,  immediately 
on  coming  in ; — adding,  that  it  was  lucky  he 
had  gone  off  so  early  in  the  evening,  as  she 
might  otherwise  have  been  prevented  from 
appearing.  She  theai  sate  do\Mi  to  table,  and 
made  a  very  hearty  and  merry  meal  of  it ! 

Besides  Pont-de-Vesle,  however,  this  cele- 
brated lady  had  a  lover  almost  as  ancient,  in 
the  President  Renault — whom  also  she  had 
the  misfortune  to  survive ;  though  he  had  the 
complaisance,  as  well  as  his  predecessor,  to 
live  to  near  ninety  years  for  her  sake.  The 
poor  president,  however,  fell  into  dotage,  be- 
fore his  death;  and  one  day,  when  in  that 
state,  Madame  du  Deffant  having  happened 
to  ask  him,  whether  he  liked  her  or  Madame 
de  Castelmoron  the  best,  he.  quite  unconscious 
of  the  person  to  whom  he  was  speaking,  not 
only  declared  his  preference  of  the  absent 
lady,  but  proceeded  to  justify  it  by  a  most 
feeling  and  accurate  enumeration  of  the  vices 
and  defects  of  his  hearer,  in  which  he  grew 
so  warm  and  eloquent,  that  it  was  quite  im- 
possible either  to  stop  him,  or  to  prevent  all 
who  were  present  from  profiting  by  the  com- 
munication. When  Madame  de  Chatelet  died, 
Madame  du  Deffant  testified  her  grief  for  the 
most  intimate  of  her  female  acquaintance,  by 
circulating  all  over  Paris,  the  very  next  morn- 
ing, the  most  libellous  and  venomous  attack' 
on  her  person,  her  understanding,  and  her 
morals.  When  she  came  to  die  herself,  how- 
ever, she  met  with  just  about  as  much  sym- 
pathy as  she  deserved.  Three  of  her  dearest 
friends  used  to  come  and  play  cards  every 
evening  by  the  side  of  her  couch — and  as  she 
chose  to  die  in  the  middle  of  a  very  interest- 
ing game,  they  quietly  played  it  out — and 
settled  their  accounts  before  leaving  the  apait- 
ment.  We  hope  these  little  traits  go  near  to 
justify  what  we  ventured  to  say  in  the  outset, 
of  the  tendency  of  large  and  agreeable  society 
to  fortify  the  heart ; — at  all  events,  they  give 
us  a  pretty  lively  idea  of  the  liaisons  that 
united  kindred  souls  at  Paris.  We  might  add 
to  the  number  several  anecdotes  of  the  Presi- 
dent Henault — and  of  the  Baron  d'Holbach, 
who  told  Helvetius,  a  little  time  before  the 
death  of  the  latter,  that  though  he  had  lived 
all  his  life  with  irritable  and  indigent  men  of 
letters,  he  could  not  recollect  that  he  had 
either  quarrelled. with,  or  done  the  smallest 
service  to,  any  one  among  them. 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  admirable  criticism 
in  this  work,  upon  the  writings  and  genius  of 
almost  all  the  author's  contemporaries — Dorat, 
Piron,  Millot,  Bernard,  Mirabeau.  Moncrif, 
Colardeau,  and  many  others,  more  or  less 
generally  known  in  this  country ;  nor  do  we 
know  any  publication,  indeed,  so  well  calcu- 
lated to  give  a  stranger  a  just  and  comprehen- 
sive view  of  the  recent  literature  of  France, 
The  little  we  can  afford  to  extract,  however, 
must  be  hung  upon  names  more  notorious. 

The  publication  of  a  stupid  journal  of  Mon- 
taigne^s  Travels  in  Italy  gives  M.  Grinun  an 


BARON  DE  GRIMM. 


139 


opportunity  of  saying  something  of  the  Essays 
of  that  most  agreeable  veteran.  Notliing  can 
be  more  just  than  the  greater  part  of  the  fol- 
lowing observations. 

"  Quoi-qii'il  y  ait  dans  ses  Essais  xine  infinite  de 
faits  d'anecdotes  et  de  citations,  il  n'est  pas  dilficile 
de  s'appercevoir  que  ses  etudes  n'etaient  ni  vasies 
ni  profondes.  II  n'avait  guere  lu  que  quelques  po- 
etes  latins,  quelques  livres  de  voyage,  et  son  Seneque 
et  son  Plutarque." 

"  De  tous  les  auteurs  qui  nous  restent  de  Tan- 
tiquite,  Plutarque  est,  sans  contredit,  celui  qui  a 
recueilli  le  plus  de  verites  de  fait  et  de  speculation. 
Ses  OBUvres  sont  une  mine  inepuisable  de  iumieres 
et  de  connaissances :  e'est  vraiment  TEncycIopedie 
des  anciens.  Montaigne  nous  en  a  donne  la  fleur, 
et  il  y  a  ajoute  les  reflexions  les  plus  fines,  et  sur- 
tout  les  resultats  les  plus  secrets  de  sa  propre  ex- 
perience. II  me  semble  done  que  si  j'avais  a  donner 
une  idee  de  ses  Essais,  je  dirais  en  deux  mots  que 
c'est  un  commentaire  que  Montaigne  fit  sur  lui- 
m^me  en  meditant  les  ecrits  de  Plutarque.  .  .Je 
pense^encore  que  je  dirais  mal :  ce  serait  lui  preter 
un  projet.  .  .Montaigne  n'en  avait  aucun.  En  met- 
tantla  plume  a  la  main,  il  parait  n'avoir  songe  qu'au 
plaisir  de  causer  familierement  avec  son  lecteur.  II 
lui  rend  compte  de  ses  lectures,  de  ses  pensees,  de 
ees  reflexions,  sans  suite,  sans  dessein  :  il  veut  avoir 
le  plaisir  de  penser  tout  haut,  et  il  en  jouit  a  son 
aise.  II  cite  souvent  Plutarque,  parce  que  Plu- 
tarque etait  son  livre  favori.  La  seule  loi  qu'il 
semble  s'etre  prescrite,  c'est  de  ne  jamais  parler 
que  de  ce  qui  I'interessait  vivement:  de  la  Fenergie 
et  la  vivacite  de  ses  expressions,  la  grace  et  I'origi- 
nalite  de  son  langage.  Son  esprit  a  cette  assurance 
et  cette  franchise  aimable  que  Ton  ne  trouve  que 
dans  ces  enfans  bien  nes,  dont  la  contrainte  du 
nionde  et  de  I'education  ne  gena  point  encore  les 
mouvemens  faciles  et  naturels." 

After  a  still  farther  encomium  on  the  sound 
sense  of  this  favourite  writer,  M.  Grimm  con- 
cludes— 

'*  Personne  n'a-t-il  done  pense  plus  que  Mon- 
taigne ?  Je  I'ignore.  Mais  ce  que  je  crois  bien 
savoir,  c'est  que  personne  n'a  dit  avec  plus  de  sim- 
plicite  ce  qu'il  a  senti,  ce  qu'il  a  pense.  On  ne  peut 
rien  ajouter  a  I'eloge  qu'il  a  fait  lui-meme  de  son 
Duvrage  ;  c'  est  ici  un  livre  de  bonne  foi.  Cela  est 
divin,  et  cela  est  exact." 

**  Qu'est-ce  que  toutes  les  connaissances  hu- 
maines  ?  le  cercle  en  est  si  borne  !  .  .  .  .  Et  depuis 
quatre  mille  ans,  qu'a-t-on  fait  pour  I'etendre? 
Montesquieu  a  dit  quelque  part,  qu'il  iravaillait  a 
un  livre  de  doxize  pases,  qui  contiendrait  tout  ce  que 
nous  Savons  sur  la  M eta-physique,  la  Politique  et  la 
Morale,  et  tout  ce  que  de  grands  auteurs  ont  ouhlie 
dans  les  volumes  quails  ont  donnts  sur  ces  sciences- 
la Je  suis  tres  serieusement  persuade  qu'il 

ne  tenait  qu'a  lui  d'accomplir  ce  grand  projet." 

Montesquieu,  Buffon,  and  Raynal  are  the 
only  authors,  we  think,  of  whom  M.  Grimm 
speaks  with  serious  respeqt  and  admiration. 
Great  praise  is  lavished  upon  Robertson's 
Charles  V. — Young's  Night  Thoughts  are  said, 
and  with  justice,  to  be  rather  ingenious  than 
pathetic ;  and  to  show  more  of  a  gloomy  im- 
agination than  a  feeling  heart. — Thomson's 
Seasons  are  less  happily  stigmatized  as  ex- 
cessively ornate  and  artificial,  and  said  to 
stand  in  the  same  relation  to  the  Georgics, 
that  the  Lady  of  Loretto,  with  all  her  tawdry 
finery,  bears  to  the  naked  graces  of  the  Venus 
de  Medici. — Johnson's  Life  of  Savage  is  ex-  j 
tolled  as  exceedingly  entertaining — though  \ 
\\\e  author  is  laughed  at,  in  the  true  Parisian  '' 
laste,  {ov  not  having  made  a  jest  of  his  hero. 


— Hawkesworth's  Voyages  are  also  very  muct 
commended ;  and  Sir  William  Jones'  letter  ta 
Anquetil  du  Perron,  is  said  to  be  capable,  with 
a  few  retrenchments,  of  being  made  worthy 
of  the  pen  of  the  Patriarch  himself. — jNlrs. 
Montagu's  Essay  on  Shakespeare  is  also  ap 
plauded  to  the  full  extent  of  its  merits ;  and, 
indeed,  a  very  laudable  degree  of  candour  and 
moderation  is  observed  as  to  our  national  taste 
in  the  drama. — Shakespeare,  he  observes,  is 
fit  for  us,  and  Racine  for  them;  and  each 
should  be  satisfied  with  his  lot,  and  would  do 
well  to  keep  to  his  own  national  manner. 
When  W' e  attempt  to  be  regular  and  dignified, 
we  are  merely  cold  and  stiff;  and  when  they 
aim  at  freedom  and  energy,  they  become  ab- 
surd and  extravagant.  The  celebrity  of  Gar- 
rick  seems  to  have  been  scarcely  less  at  Paris 
than  in  London, — their  greatest  actor  being 
familiarly  designated  ^''  Le  Garrick  Francois." 
His  powers  of  pantomime,  indeed,  were  uni- 
versally intelligible,  and  seem  to  have  made 
a  prodigious  impression  upon  the  theatrical 
critics  of  France.  But  his  authority  is  quoted 
by  M.  Grimm,  for  the  obseiTation,  that  there 
is  not  the  smallest  affinity  in  the  tragic  dec- 
lamation of  the  two  countries; — so  that  an 
actor  who  could  give  the  most  astonishing  ef- 
fect to  a  passage  of  Shakespeare,  would  not, 
though  perfectly  master  of  French,  be  able  to 
guess  how  a  single  line  of  Racine  should  be 
spoken  on  the  stage. 

We  cannot  leave  the  subject  of  the  drama, 
however,  without  observing,  with  what  an 
agreeable  surprise  we  discovered  inM.  Grimm, 
an  auxiliary  in  that  battle  which  we  have  for 
some  time  waged,  though  not  without  trepida- 
tion, against  the  theatrical  standards  of  France, 
and  in  defence  of  our  owtl  more  free  and  irreg- 
ular drama.  While  a  considerable  part  of  our 
own  men  of  letters,  carried  a-\vay  by  the  author- 
ity and  supposed  unanimity  of  the  continental 
judges,  were  disposed  to  desert  the  cause  of 
Shakespeare  and  Nature,  and  to  recognize 
Racine  and  Voltaire,  as  the  only  true  models 
of  dramatic  excellence,  it  turns  out  that  the 
greatest  Parisian  critic,  of  that  best  age  of 
criticism,  was  of  opinion  that  the  very  idea 
of  dramatic  excellence  had  never  been  de- 
veloped in  France ;  and  that,  from  the  very 
causes  which  we  have  formerly  specified, 
there  was  neither  powerful  passion  nor  real 
nature  on  their  stage.  After  giving  some  ac- 
count of  a  play  of  La  Harpe's,  he  observes, 
"  I  am  more  and  more  confirmed  in  the 
opinion,  that  true  tragedy,  such  as  has  never 
yet  existed  in  France,  must,  after  all,  be  writ- 
ten in  prose ;  or  at  least  can  never  accommo- 
date itself  to  the  pompous  and  rhetorical  tone 
of  our  stately  versification.  The  ceremonious 
and  aff'ected  dignity  which  belongs  to  such 
compositions,  is  quite  inconsistent  with  the 
just  imitation  of  nature,  and  destructive  of  all 
true  pathos.  It  may  be  very  fine  and  very  po- 
etical; but  it  is  not  dramatic: — and  accoid- 
ingly  I  have  no  hesitation  in  maintaining,  that 
all  our  celebrated  tragedies  belong  to  the  epic 
and  not  to  the  dramatic  division  of  poetry. 
The  Greeks  and  Romans  had  a  dramatic 
verse,  which  did  not  interfere  with  simplic-itjf 


140 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


or  familiarity  of  diction ;  but  as  we  have  none, 
we  must  make  up  our  minds  to  compose  our 
tragedies  in  prose,  if  we  ever  expect  to  have 
any  that  may  deserve  the  name.  What  then  ?" 
he  continues  3  "  must  we  throw  our  Racines 
and  Voltaires  in  the  fire  1 — ^by  no  means ; — 
on  the  contrary,  we  must  keep  them,  and 
study  and  admire  thfem  more  than  ever; — 
but  with  right  conceptions  of  their  true  nature 
and  merit — as  masterpieces  of  poetry,  and 
reasoning,  and  description ; — as  the  first  works 
of  the  first  geniuses  that  ever  adorned  any 
nation  under  heaven : — But  not  as  tragedies, 
— not  as  pieces  intended  to  exhibit  natural 
chai-acters  and  passions  speaking  their  own 
language,  and  to  produce  that  terrible  impres- 
sion which  such  pieces  alone  can  produce. 
Considered  in  that  light,  their  coldness  and 
childishness  will  be  immediately  apparent ', — 
and  though  the  talents  of  the  artist  will  al- 
ways be  conspicuous,  their  misapplication 
and  failure  will  not  be  less  so.  With  the 
prospect  that  lies  before  us,  the  best  thing, 
perhaps,  that  we  can  do  is  to  go  on,  boasting 
of  the  unparalleled  excellence  we  have  at- 
tained. But  how  speedily  should  our  boastings 
be  silenced  if  the  present  race  of  children 
should  be  succeeded  by  a  generation  of  men ! 
Here  is  a  theory,"  concludes  the  worthy  Baron, 
a  little  alarmed  it  would  seem  at  his  own  te- 
merity, "which  it  would  be  easy  to  confirm 
and  illustrate  much  more  completely — if  a 
man  had  a  desire  to  be  stoned  to  death  before 
the  door  of  the  Theatre  Frangois  I  But,  in  the 
mean  time,  till  I  am  better  prepared  for  the 
honours  of  martyrdom,  I  must  entreat  you  to 
keep  the  secret  of  my  infidelity  to  yourself." 

Diderot  holds  very  nearly  the  same  lan- 
guage. After  a  long  dissertation  upon  the 
difi'erence  between  real  and  artificial  dignity, 
he  proceeds, — '•  What  follows,  then,  from  all 
this — but  that  tragedy  is  still  to  be  invented 
in  France ;  and  that  the  ancients,  with  all  their 
faults,  were  probably  much  nearer  inventing 
it  than  we  have  been '? — Noble  actions  and 
sentiments,  with  simple  and  familiar  language, 
are  among  its  first  elements ; — and  I  strongly 
suspect,  that  for  these  two  hundred  years,  we 
have  mistaken  the  stateliness  of  Madrid  for 
the  heroism  of  Rome.  If  once  a  man  of  ge- 
nius shall  venture  to  give  to  his  characters 
and  to  his  diction  the  simplicity  of  ancient 
dignity,  plays  and  players  will  be  very  diff'er- 
ent  things  from  what  they  are  now.  But  how 
much  of  this,"  he  adds  also  in  a  fit  of  sympa- 
thetic terror,  "  could  I  venture  to  say  to  any 
body  but  you  !  I  should  be  pelted  in  the 
streets,  if  I  were  but  suspected  of  the  blas- 
phemies I  have  just  uttered." 

With  the  assistance  of  two  such  allies,  we 
shall  renew  the  combat  against  the  Continental 
dramatists  with  fresh  spirits  and  confidence ; 
and  shall  probably  find  an  early  opportunity 
to  brave  the  field,  upon  that  important  theme. 
In  the  mean  time  we  shall  only  remark,  that 
we  suspect  there  is  something  more  than  an 
analogy  between  the  government  and  political 
constitution  of  the  two  countries,  and  the  char- 
acter of  their  drama.  The  tragedy  of  the 
Continent  is  conceived  in  the  very  genius  and 


spirit  of  absolute  monarchy — the  same  artifi- 
cial stateliness — the  same  slow  moving  of  few 
persons — the  same  suppression  of  ordinary 
emotions,  and  ostentatious  display  of  lofty 
sentiments,  and.  finally,  the  same  jealousy  of 
the  interference  of  lower  agents,  and  the  same 
horror  of  vulgarity  and  tumult.  When  we 
consider  too.  that  in  the  countries  where  this 
form  of  the  drama  has  been  established,  the 
Court  is  the  chief  patron  of  the  theatre,  and 
courtiers  almost  its  only  supporters,  we  shall 
probably  be  inclined  to  think  that  this  uni- 
formity of  character  is  not  a  mere  accidental 
coincidence,  but  that  the  same  causes  which 
have  stamped  those  attributes  on  the  serious 
hours  of  its  rulers,  have  extended  them  to 
those  mimic  representations  which  were  orig- 
inally devised  for  their  amusement.  In  Eng- 
land, again,  our  drama  has  all  along  partaken 
of  the  mixed  nature  of  our  government, — 
persons  of  all  degrees  take  a  share  in  both, 
each  in  his  own  peculiar  character  and  fashion : 
and  the  result  has  been,  in  both,  a  much 
greater  activity,  variety,  and  vigour,  than  was 
ever  exhibited  under  a  more  exclusive  system. 
In  England,  too,  the  stage  has  in  general  been 
dependent  on  the  nation  at  large,  and  not  on 
the  favour  of  the  Court; — and  it  is  natural  to 
suppose  that  the  character  of  its  exhibitions 
has  been  affected  by  a  due  consideration  of 
that  of  the  miscellaneous  patron  whose  feel- 
ings it  was  its  business  to  gratify  and  reflect. 
After  having  said  so  much  about  the  stage, 
we  cannot  afford  room  either  for  the  quarrels 
or  witticisms  of  the  actors,  which  are  report- 
ed at  great  length  in  these  volumes — or  for 
the  absurdities,  however  ludicrous,  of  the 
"  Diou  de  Danse^^  as  old  Vestris  ycleped  him- 
self— or  even  the  famous  "  affaire  du  MenueV^ 
which  distracted  the  whole  court  of  France 
at  the  marriage  of  the  late  King.  We  can 
allow  only  a  sentence  indeed  to  the  elaborate 
dissertation  in  which  Diderot  endeavours  to 
prove  that  an  actor  is  all  the  worse  for  having 
any  feeling  of  the  passions  he  represents,  and 
is  never  so  sure  to  agitate  the  souls  of  his 
hearers  as  when  his  own  is  perfectly  at  ease. 
We  are  persuaded  that  this  is  not  correctly 
true ; — though  it  might  take  more  distinctions 
than  the  subject  is  worth,  to  fix  precisely 
where  the  truth  lies.  It  is  plain  we  think, 
however,  that  a  good  actor  must  have  a  capo- 
city,  at  least,  of  all  the  passions  whose  lan- 
guage he  mimics, — and  we  are  rather  inclined 
to  think,  that  he  must  also  have  a  transient 
feeling  of  them,  whenever  his  mimicry  is 
very  successful.  That  the  emotion  should  be 
very  short-lived,  and  should  give  way  to  tri- 
vial or  comic  sensations,  whh  very  little  in- 
terval, affords  but  a  slender  presumption 
against  its  reality,  when  we  consider  how 
rapidly  such  contradictory  feelings  succeed 
each  other,  in  light  minds,  in  the  real  business 
of  life.  That  real  passion,  again,  never  would 
be  so  graceful  and  dignified  as  the  counter- 
feited passion  of  the  stage,  is  either  an  im- 
peachment of  the  accuracy  of  the  copy,  or  a 
contradiction  in  terms.  The  real  passion  of  a 
noble  and  dignified  character  must  always  be 
dignified  and  graceful, — and  if  Cfiesar,  when 


BARON  DE  GRIMM. 


141 


actually  bleeding  m  the  Senate-house,  folded 
his  robe  around  him,  that  he  might  fall  with 
decorum  at  the  feet  of  his  assassins,  why 
should  we  say  that  it  is  out  of  nature  for  a 
player,  both  to  sympathise  with  the  passions 
of  his  hero,  and  to  think  of  the  figure  he 
makes  in  the  eyes  of  the  spectators?  ■  Strong 
conception  is,  perhaps  in  every  case,  attended 
with  a  temporary  behefi»of  the  reality  of  its 
objects; — and  it  is  impossible  for  any  one  to 
copy  with  tolerable  success  the  symptoms  of 
a  powerful  emotion,  without  a  very  lively  ap- 
prehension and  recollection  of  its  actual  pre- 
sence. We  have  no  idea,  we  own,  that  the 
copy  can  ever  be  given  without  some  partici- 
pation in  the  emotion  itself — or  that  it  is  pos- 
sible to  repeat  pathetic  words,  and  with  the 
true  tone  and  gestures  of  passion,  with  the 
same  indifference  with  which  a  schoolboy  re- 
peats his  task,  or  a  juggler  his  deceptions. 
The  feeling,  we  believe,  is  often  very  mo- 
mentary ;  and  it  is  this  which  has  misled 
those  who  have  doubted  of  its  existence. 
But  there  are  many  strong  feelings  equally 
fleeting  and  undeniable.  The  feelings  of  the 
spectators,  in  the  theatre,  though  frequently 
more  keen  than  they  experience  anywhere 
else,  are  in  general  infinitely  less  durable  thafi 
those  excited  by  real  transactions ',  and  a  lu- 
dicrous incident  or  blunder  in  the  perform- 
ance, will  carry  the  whole  house,  in  an  instant, 
from  sobbing  to  ungovernable  laughter  :  And 
even  in  real  life,  we  have  every  day  occasion 
to  observe,  how  quickly  the  busy,  the  dissi- 
pated, the  frivolous,  and  the  very  youthful, 
can  pass  from  one  powerful  and  engrossing 
emotion  to  another.  The  daily  life  of  Vol- 
taire, we  think,  might  have  furnished  Diderot 
with  as  many  and  as  striking  instances  of  the 
actual  succession  of  incongruous  emotions,  as 
he  has  collected  from  the  theatrical  life  of 
Sophie  Arnoud,  to  prove  that  one  part  of  the 
succession  must  necessarily  have  been  ficti- 
tious. 

There  are  various  traits  of  the  oppressions 
and  abuses  of  the  government,  incidentally 
noticed  in  this  work,  which  maintains,  on  the 
whole,  a  very  aristocratical  tone  of  politics. 
One  of  the  most  remarkable  relates  to  no  less 
a  person  than  the  Marechal  de  Saxe.  This 
great  warrior,  who  is  known  never  to  have 
taken  the  field  without  a  small  travelling  se- 
raglio in  his  suite,  had  engaged  a  certain 
Madlle.  Chantilly  to  attend  him  in  one  of  his 
campaigns.  The  lady  could  not  prudently 
decline  the  honour  of  the  invitation,  because 
she  was  very  poor ;  but  her  heart  and  soul 
were  devoted  to  a  young  pastry  cook  of  the 
name  of  Favart,  for  whose  sake  she  at  last 
broke  out  of  the  Marshal's  camp,  and  took 
refuge  in  the  arms  of  her  lover ;  who  reward- 
ed her  heroism  by  immediately  making  her 
his  wife.  The  history  of  the  Marshal's  la- 
mentation on  finding  himself  deserted,  is 
purely  ridiculous,  and  is  very  well  told ;  but 
our  feehngs  take  a  very  different  character, 
when,  upon  reading  a  little  farther,  we  find 
that  this  illustrious  person  had  the  baseness 
ujid  brutality  to  apply  to  his  sovereign  for  a 
kttre  de  cachet  to  force  this  unfortunate  woman 


from  the  arms  of  her  lawful  husband,  and  to 
compel  her  to  submit  again  to  his  embraces, — 
and  that  the  court  was  actually  guilty  of  the 
incredible  atrocity  of  granting  such  an  order ' 
It  was  not  only  granted,  M.  Grimm  assures 
us,  but  executed, — and  this  poor  creature  was 
dragged  from  the  house  of  her  husband,  and 
conducted  by  a  file  of  grenadiers  to  the  quar- 
ters of  his  higlmess,  where  she  remained  till 
his  death,  the  unwilling  and  disgusted  victim 
of  his  sensuality  1  It  is  scarcely  possible  to 
regret  the  subversion  of  a  form  of  govern- 
ment, that  admitted,  if  but  once  in  a  century, 
of  abuses  so  enormous  as  this:  But  the  tone 
in  which  M.  Grimm  notices  it,  as  a  mere  foi- 
blesse  on  the  part  of  le  Grmd  Maurice,  gives 
us  reason  to  think  that  it  was  by  no  means 
without  a  parallel  in  the  contemporary  history. 
In  England,  we  verily  believe,  there  never 
was  a  time  in  which  it  would  not  have  pro- 
duced insurrection  or  assassination. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  passages  in 
this  philosophical  journal,  is  that  which  con- 
tains the  author's  estimate  of  the  advantages 
and  disadvantages  of  philosophy.  Not  being 
much  more  of  an  optimist  than  ourselves,  M. 
Grimm  thinks  that  good  and  evil  are  pretty 
fairly  distributed  to  the  different  generations 
of  men;  and  that,  if  an  age  of  philosophy  be 
happier  in  some  respects  than  one  of  ignor 
ance  and  prejudice,  there  are  particulars  in 
which  it  is  not  so  fortunate.  Philosophy,  he 
thinks,  is  the  necessary  fruit  of  a  certain  ex- 
perience and  a  certain  maturity ;  and  implies, 
in  nations  as  well  as  individuals,  the  extinc- 
tion of  some  of  the  pleasures  as  well  as  the 
follies  of  early  life.  All  nations,  he  observes, 
have  begun  with  poetry,  and  ended  with  phi- 
losophy— or,  rather,  have  passed  through  the 
region  of  philosophy  in  their  way  to  that  of 
stupidity  and  dotage.  They  lose  the  poetical 
passion,  therefore,  before  they  acquire  the 
taste  for  speculation ;  and,  with  it,  they  lose 
all  faith  in  those  allusions,  and  all  interest  in 
those  trifles  which  make  the  happiness  of  the 
brightest  portion  of  our  existence.  If,  in  this 
advanced  stage  of  society,  men  are  less  brutal, 
they  are  also  less  enthusiastic ; — if  they  are 
more  habitually  beneficent,  they  have  less 
warmth  of  affection.  They  are  delivered  in 
deed  from  the  yoke  of  many  prejudices;  but 
at  the  same  time  deprived  of  many  motives 
of  action.  They  are  more  prudent,  but  more 
anxious — are  more  afTected  with  the  general 
interests  of  mankind,  but  feel  less  for  their 
neighbours;  and,  while  curiosity  takes  the 
place  of  admiration,  are  more  enlightened,  but 
far  less  delighted  with  the  universe  in  which 
they  are  placed. 

The  effect  of  this  philosophical  spirit^on  the 
arts,  is  evidently  unfavourable  on  the  whole. 
Their  end  and  object  is  delight,  and  that  of 
philosophy  is  truth;  and  the  talent  that  seeks 
to  instruct,  will  rarely  condescend  to  aim 
merely  at  pleasing.  Racine  and  Mohere,  and 
Boileau,  were  satisfied  with  furnishing  amuse- 
ment to  such  men  as  Louis  XIV.,  and  Colbert, 
and  Turenne ;  but  the  geniuses  of  the  pres- 
ent day  pretend  to  nothing  less  than  enlight- 
ening their  rulers ;  and  the  same  young  men 


142 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


who  would  iormerly  have  made  their  dehitt 
with  a  pastoral  or  a  tragedy,  now  generally 
leave  college  with  a  new  system  of  philoso- 
phy and  government  in  their  portfolios.  The 
very  metaphysical,  prying,  and  expounding 
turn  of  mind  that  is  nourished  by  the  spirit 
of  philosophy,  unquestionably  deadens  our 
sensibility  to  those  enjoyments  which  it  con- 
verts into  subjects  of  speculation.  It  busies 
itself  in  endeavouring  to  understand  those 
emotions  which  a  simpler  age  was  contented 
with  enjoying ; — and  seeking,  like  Psyche,  to 
have  a  distinct  view  of  the  sources  of  our 
pleasures,  is  punished,  like  her,  by  their  in- 
stant annihilation. 

Religion,  too,  continues  M.  Grimm,  consid- 
ered as  a  source  of  enjoyment  or  consolation 
in  this  world,  has  suffered  from  the  progress 
of  philosophy,  exactly  as  the  fine  arts  and  af- 
fections have  done.  It  has  no  doubt  become 
infinitely  more^  rational,  and  less  liable  to 
atrocious  perversions ;  but  then  it  has  also 
become  much  less  enchanting  and  ecstatic — 
much  less  prolific  of  sublime  raptures,  bea- 
tific .visions,  and  lofty  enthusiasm.  It  has 
suffered,  in  short,  in  the  common  disenchant- 
ment ;  and  the  same  cold  spirit  w^hich  has 
chased  so  many  lovely  illusions  from  the  earth, 
has  dispeopled  heaven  of  half  its  marvels  and 
its  splendours. 

We  could  enlarge  with  pleasure  upon  these 
,ust  and  interesting  speculations^  but  it  is 
time  we  should  think  of  drawing  this  article 
to  a  close  •  and  we  must  take  notice  of  a  very 
extraordinary  transaction  which  M.  Grimm 
hcS  recorded  with  regard  to  the  final  publica- 
tion of  the  celebrated  Encyclopedic .  The  re- 
daction of  this  great  work,  it  is  known,  was 
ultimately  confided  to  Diderot ;  who  thought 
it  best,  after  the  disturbances  that  had  been 
excited  by  the  separate  publication  of  some 
of  the  earlier  volumes,  to  keep  up  the  whole 
of  the  last  ten  till  the  printing  was  finished  j 
and  then  to  put  forth  the  complete  work  at 
once.  A  bookseller  of  the  name  of  Breton, 
who  was  a  joint  proprietor  of  the  work,  had 
the  charge  of  the  mechanical  part  of  the  con- 
cern ;  but,  being  wholly  illiterate,  and  indeed 
without  pretensions  to  literature,  had  of 
course  no  concern  with  the  correction,  or  even 
the  perusal  of  the  text.  This  person,  how- 
ever, who  had  heard  of  the  clamours  and 
threatened  prosecutions  which  were  excited 
by  the  freedom  of  some  articles  in  the  earlier 
volumes,  took  it  into  his  head,  that  the  value 
and  security  of  the  property  might  be  improv- 
ed, by  a  prudent  castigation  of  the  remaining 
parts ;  and  accordingly,  after  receiving  from 
Diderot  the  last  proofs  and  revises  of  the  dif- 
ferent^articles,  took  them  home,  and,  with  the 
assistance  of  another  tradesman,  scored  out, 
altered,  and  suppressed,  at  their  own  discre- 
tion, all  the  passages  which  they  in  their  wis- 
dom apprehended  might  give  offence  to  the 
court,  or  the  church,  or  any  other  persons  in 
authority — giving  themselves,  for  the  most 
part,  no  sort  of  trouble  to  connect  the  disjoint- 
ed passages  that  were  left  after  these  mutila- 
tions— and  sometimes  soldering  them  together 
with  masses  of  their  own  stupid  vulgarity. 


After  these  precious  ameliorations  were  conv 
pleted,  they  threw  of  the  full  impression; 
and,  to  make  all  sure  and  irremediable,  con« 
signed  both  the  manuscript  and  the  origina) 
proofs  to  the  flames  !  Such,  says  M.  Grimm, 
is  the  true  explanation  of  that  mass  of  ira 
pertinences,  contradictions,  and  mcoherenceg. 
with  which  all  the  world  has  been  struck,  in 
the  last  ten  volumes  of  this  great  compilation. 
It  was  not  discovered  till  the  very  eve  of  the 
publication ;  when  Diderot  having  a  desire  to 
look  back  to  one  of  his  own  articles,  printed 
some  years  before,  with  difficulty  obtained  a 
copy  of  the  sheets  containing  it  from  the 
warehouse  of  M.  Breton — and  found,  to  his 
horror  and  consternation,  that  it  had  been  gar- 
bled and  mutilated,  in  the  manner  we  have 
just  stated.  His  rage  and  vexation  on  the 
discovery,  are  well  expressed  in  a  long  letter 
to  Breton,  which  M.  Grimm  has  engrossed  in 
his  register.  The  mischief  however  was  ir- 
remediable, without  an  intolerable  delay  and 
expense ;  and  as  it  was  impossible  for  the 
editor  to  take  any  steps  to  bring  Breton  to 
punishment  for  this  "horrible  forfait,"  with- 
out openly  avowing  the  intended  publication 
of  a  work  which  the  court  only  tolerated  by 
affecting  ignorance  of  its  existence,  it  was  at 
last  resolved,  with  many  tears  of  rage  and 
vexation,  to  keep  the  abomination  secret — at 
least  till  it  was  proclaimed  by  the  indignant 
denunciations  of  the  respective  authors  whose 
V70rks  had  been  subjected  to  such  cruel  mu- 
tilation. The  most  surprising  part  of  the 
story  however  is,  that  none  of  these  authors 
ever  made  any  complaint  about  the  matter. 
Whether  the  number  of  years  that  had  elaps- 
ed since  the  time  when  most  of  them  had 
furnished  their  papers,  had  made  them  in- 
sensible of  the  alterations — whether  they  be- 
lieved the  change  effected  by  the  base  hand 
of  Breton  to  have  originated  with  Diderot, 
their  legal  censor — or  that,  in  fact,  the  altera- 
tions were  chiefly  in  the  articles  of  the  said 
Diderot  himself,  we  cannot  pretend  to  sayj 
but  M.  Grimm  assures  us,  that,  to  his  aston- 
ishment and  that  of  Diderot,  the  mutilated 
publication,  when  it  at  last  made  its  appear- 
ance, was  very  quietly  received  by  the  in- 
jured authors  as  their  authentic  production, 
and  apologies  humbly  made,  by  some  of  them, 
for  imperfections  that  had  been  created  by 
the  beast  of  a  publisher. 

There  are  many  curious  and  original  anec- 
dotes of  the  Empress  of  Russia  in  this  book  3 
and  as  she  always  appeared  to  advantage 
where  munificence  and  clemency  to  individu- 
als were  concerned,  they  are  certainly  calcu- 
lated to  give  us  a  very  favourable  impression 
of  that  extraordinary  woman.  We  can  only 
afford  room  now  for  one,  which  characterises 
the  nation  as  well  as  its  sovereign.  A  popu- 
lar poet,  of  the  name  of  Sumarokoff,  had 
quarrelled  with  the  leading  actress  at  Moscow, 
and  protested  that  she  should  never  again 
have  the  honour  to  perform  in  any  of  his  tra- 
gedies. The  Governor  of  Moscow,  however 
not  being  aM'are  of  this  theatrical  feud, 
thought  fit  to  order  one  of  Sumarokoff's  trage- 
dies for  representation,  and  also  to  command 


LIFE  AND  WHITINGS  OF  VICTOR  ALFIERl. 


143 


the  services  of  the  offending  actress  on  the 
occasion.  Sumarokoff  did  not  venture  to  take 
any  step  against  his  Excellency  the  Gover- 
nor ;  but  when  the  heroine  advanced  in  full 
Muscovite  costume  on  the  stage,  the  indig- 
nant poet  rushed  forward  from  behind  the 
scenesj  seized  her  reluctantly  by  the  collar 
and  waist,  and  tossed  her  furiously  from  the 
boards.  He  then  went  home,  and  indited  two 
querulous  and  sublime  epistles  to  the  Em- 
press. Catherine,  in  the  midst  of  her  gigantic 
schemes  of  conquest  and  improvement,  had 
the  patience  to  sit  down  and  address  the  fol- 
lowing good-humoured  and  sensible  exhorta- 
tion to  the  disordered  bard. 

"Monsieur  Sumarokoff,  j'ai  ete  fort  etonnee  de 
votre  lettre  du  28  Janvier,  et  encore  plus  de  celie 
du  premier  Fevrier.  Toutes  deux  contiennent,  a 
ce  qu'il  me  semble,  des  plaintes  contre  la  Belmon- 
tia  qui  pourtant  n'a  fait  que  suivre  les  ordres  du 
comte  Soltikoff.  Le  feld-marechal  a  desire  de  voir 
representer  votre  tragedie ;  cela  vous  fait  honneur. 
II  etait  convenable  de  vous  conformer  au  desir  de  la 
premiere  personne  en  autorite  a  Moscou ;  mais  si 
elle  a  juge  a  propos  d'ordonner  que  cette  piece  fut 
representee,  il  fallait  executer  sa  volonte  sans  con- 
testation. Je  crois  que  vous  savez  mieux  que  per- 
sonne combien  de  respect  meritent  des  hommes  qui 
ont  servi  avec  gloire,  et  dont  la  tete  est  couverte  de 
cheveux  blancs;  c'est  pourquoi  je  vous  conseille 
d'eviter  de  pareilles  disputes  a  I'avenir.  Par  ce 
moyen  vous  conserverez  la  tranquillite  d'ame  qui 
est  necessaire  pour  vos  ouvrages,  et  il  me  sera  tou- 
jours  plus  agreable  de  voir  les  passions  representees 
dans  vos  drames  quede  les  lire  dans  vos  lettres. 

"  Au  surplus,  je  suis  votre  affectionnee. 

Signe  Catherine." 

"  Je  conseille;"  adds  M.  Grimm,  "a  tout  min- 
istre  charge  du  departement  des  lettres  de  cachet, 
d'enregistrer  ce  formulaire  a  son  greffe,  et  a  tout 
hasard  de  n'en  jamais  deiivrer  d'autres  aux  poetes 
et  a  tout  ce  qui  a  droit  d'etre  du  genre  irritable, 
c'est-a-dire  enfant  et  fou  par  etat.  Apres  cette 
lettre  qui  meriie  peut-etre  autant  I'immortalite  que 
les  monumens  de  la  sagesse  et  de  la  gloire  du  regne 
actuel  de  la  Russia,  je  meurs  de  peur  de  m'affermir 
dans  la  pensee  heretique  que  I'esprit  ne  gate  jamais 
rien,  meme  sur  le  trone." 

But  it  is  at  last  necessary  to  close  these  en- 
tertainmg  volumes, — thoiigh  we  have  not 
been  able  to  furnish  our  readers  with  any 
thing  like  a  fair  specimen  of  their  various  and 


miscellaneous  contents.  Whoever  wishes  to 
see  the  economist  wittily  abused — to  read  a 
full  and  picturesque  account  of  the  tragical 
rejoicings  that  filled  Paris  with  mourning  at 
the  marriage  of  the  late  King — to  learn  how 
Paul  Jones  was  a  writer  of  pastorals  and  love 
songs — or  how  they  made  carriages  of  leather, 
and  evaporated  diamonds  in  1772 — to  trace 
the  deb'ut  of  Madame  de  Stael  as  an  author  at 
the  age  of  tw^elve,  in  the  year 1 — to  un- 
derstand M.  Grimm's  notions  on  suicide  and 
happiness — to  know  in  what  the  unique  charm 
of  Madlle.  Thevenin  consisted — and  in  what 
manner  the  dispute  between  the  patrons  of 
the  French  and  the  Italian  music  was  con- 
ducted— will  do  well  to  peruse  the  five  thick 
volumes,  in  which  these,  and  innumerable 
other  matters  of  equal  importance  are  dis- 
cussed, with  the  talent  and  vivacity  with 
which  the  reader  must  have  been  struck,  in 
the  least  of  the  foregoing  extracts. 

We  add  but  one  trivial  remark,  which  is 
forced  upon  us,  indeed,  at  almost  e\^Yj  page 
of  this  correspondence.  The  profession  of  lit- 
erature must  be  much  wholesomer  in  France 
than  in  any  other  country : — for  though  the 
volumes  before  us  may  be  regarded  as  a  great 
literary  obituary,  and  record  the  deaths,  we 
suppose,  of  more  than  an  hundred  persons  of 
some  note  in  the  world  of  letters,  we  scarcely 
meet  with  an  individual  who  is  less  than 
seventy  or  eighty  years  of  age — and  no  very 
small  proportion  actually  last  till  near  ninety 
or  an  hundred — although  the  greater  part  of 
them  seem  neither  to  have  lodged  so  high, 
nor  lived  so  low,  as  their  more  active  and  ab- 
stemious brethren  in  other  cities.  M.  Grimm 
observes  that,  by  a  remarkable  fatality,  Eu- 
rope w^as  deprived,  in  the  course  of  little  more 
than  six  months,  of  the  splendid  and  com- 
manding talents  of  Rousseau,  Voltaire,  Haller, 
Linnasus,  Heidegger.  Lord  Chatham,  and  Le 
Kain — a  constellation  of  genius,  he  adds,  that 
\vhen  it  set  to  us,  must  have  carried  a  dazzling 
light  into  the  domains  of  the  King  of  Terrors, 
and  excited  no  small  alarm  in  his  ministers — 
if  they  bear  any  resemblance  to  the  minister- 
of  other  sovereigns. 


(lanuartn  ISIO.) 

Memoirs  of  the  Life  and  Writings  of  Victor  Alfieri.    Written  by  Himself. 

pp.  614.     London:  1810. 


2  vols.  8vo. 


This  book  contains  the  delineation  of  an 
extraordinary  and  not  very  engaging  charac- 
ter; and  an  imperfect  sketch  of  the  rise  and 
progress  of  a  great  poetical  genius.  It  is  de- 
serving of  notice  in  both  capacities — but 
chiefly  in  the  first;  as  there  probably  never 
was  an  instance  in  which  the  works  of  an 
author  were  more  likely  to  be  influenced  by 
his  personal  peculiarities.  Pride  and  enthu- 
siasm— irrepressible  vehemence  and  ambition 
—and  an  arrogant,  fastidious,  and  somewhat 
narrow  system  of  taste  and  opinions,  were  the 


great  leading  features  in  the  mind  of  Alfieri . 
Strengthened,  and  in  some  degree  produced, 
by  a  loose  and  injudicious  education,  those 
traits  w^ere  still  further  developed  by  the  pre- 
mature and  protracted  indulgences  of  a  very 
dissipated  youth ;  and  when,  at  last,  they  ad- 
mitted of  an  application  to  study,  imparted 
their  own  character  of  impetuosity  to  those 
more  meritorious  exertions; — converted  a 
taste  into  a  passion ;  and  left  him,  for  a  great 
part  of  his  life,  under  the  influence  of  a  true 
and  irresistible  inspiration.     Every  thmg  in 


144 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


him,  indeed,  appears  to  have  been  passion  and 
ungoverned  impulse;  and,  while  he  was 
raised  above  the  common  level  of  his  degene- 
rate countrymen  by  a  stern  and  self-willed 
haughtiness,  that  might  have  become  an  an- 
cient Roman,  he  was  chiefly  distinguished 
from  other  erect  spirits  by  the  vehemence 
which  formed  the  basis  of  his  character,  and 
by  the  uncontrolled  dominion  which  he  al- 
lowed to  his  various  and  successive  propensi- 
ties. So  constantly  and  entirely,  indeed,  was 
he  under  the  influence  of  these  domineering 
attachments,  that  his  whole  life  and  character 
might  be  summed  up  by  describing  him  as 
the  victim,  successively,  of  a  passion  for 
horses — a  passion  for  travelling — a  passion  for 
literature — and  a  passion  for  what  he  called 
independence. 

The  memoirs  of  such  a  life,  and  the  con- 
fessions of  such  a  man,  seem  to  hold  out  a 
promise  of  no  common  interest  and  amuse- 
ment. Yet,  though  they  are  here  presented 
to  us  with  considerable  fulness  and  apparent 
fidelity,  we  cannot  say  thaf  we  have  been 
much  amused  or  interested  by  the  perusal. 
There  is  a  proud  coldness  in  the  narrative, 
which  neither  invites  sympathy,  nor  kindles 
the  imagination.  The  author  seems  to  dis- 
dain giving  himself  en  spectacle  to  his  readers; 
and  chronicles  his  various  acts  of  extrava- 
gance and  fits  of  passion,  with  a  sober  and 
languid  gravity,  to  which  we  can  recollect  no 
parallel.  In  this  review  of  the  events  and 
feelings  of  a  life  of  adventure  and  agitation, 
he  is  never  once  betrayed  into  the  genuine 
language  of  emotion ;  but  dwells  on  the  scenes 
of  his  childhood  without  tenderness,  and  on 
the  struggles  and  tumults  of  his  riper  years 
without  any  sort  of  animation.  We  look  in 
vain  through  the  whole  narrative  for  one 
gleam  of  that  magical  eloquence  by  which 
Rousseau  transports  us  into  the  scenes  he  de- 
scribes, and  into  the  heart  which  responded 
to  those  scenes, — or  even  for  a  trait  of  that 
social  garrulity  which  has  enabled  Marmontel 
and  Cumberland  to  give  a  grace  to  obsolete 
anecdote,  and  to  people  the  whole  space 
around  them  with  living  pictures  of  the  beings 
among  whom  they  existed.  There  is  not  one 
character  attempted,  from  beginning  to  end 
of  this  biography ; — w-hich  is  neither  lively,  in 
short,  nor  eloquent — neither  playful,  impas- 
sioned, nor  sarcastic.  Neither  is  it  a  mere 
unassuming  outline  of  the  author's  history  and 
publications,  like  the  short  notices  of  Hume 
or  Smith.  It  is,  on  the  contrary,  a  pretty  co- 
pious and  minute  narrative  of  all  his  feelings 
and  adventures;  and  contains,  as  we  should 
suppose,  a  tolerably  accurate  eniimeration  of 
his  migrations,  prejudices,  and  antipathies.  It 
is  not  that  he  does  not  condescend  to  talk 
about  trifling  things,  but  that  he  will  not  talk 
about  them  in  a  lively  or  interesting  manner; 
and  systematically  declines  investing  any  part 
of  his  statement  with  those  picturesque  de- 
tails, and  that  warm  colouring,  by  which  alone 
the  story  of  an  individual  can  often  excite 
much  interest  among  strangers.  Though  we 
have  not  been  able  to  see  the  original  of  these 
Memoirs,  we  will  venture  to  add,  that  they 


are  by  no  means  well  written;  and  that  they 
will  form  no  exception  to  the  general  ohser 
vation,  that  almost  all  Italian  prose  is  feeble 
and  deficient  in  precision.  There  is  some- 
thing, indeed,  quite  remarkable  in  the  wordi- 
ness of  most  of  the  modern  writers  in  this 
language, — the  very  copiousness  and  smooth- 
ness of  which  seems  to  form  an  apology  for 
the  want  of  force  or  exactness — and  to  hide, 
with  its  sweet  and  uniform  flow,  both  from 
the  writer  and  the  reader,  that  penury  of 
thought,  and  looseness  of  reasoning,  which 
are  so  easily  detected  when  it  is  rendered  into 
a  harsher  dialect.  Unsatisfactory,  however, 
as  they  are  in  many  particulars,  it  is  still  im- 
possible to  peruse  the  memoirs  of  such  a  man 
as  Alfieri  without  interest  and  gratification. 
The  traits  of  ardour  and  originality  that  are 
disclosed  through  all  the  reserve  and  gravity 
of  the  style,  beget  a  continual  expectation  and 
curiosity;  and  even  those  parts  of  the  story 
which  seem  to  belong  rather  to  his  youth, 
rank,  and  education,  than  to  his  genius  or  pe- 
culiar character,  acquire  a  degree  of  import- 
ance, from  considering  how  far  those  very 
circumstances  may  have  assisted  the  forma- 
tion, and  obstructed  the  development  of  that 
character  and  genius;  and  in  what  respects 
its  peculiarities  may  be  referred  to  the  obsta- 
cles it  had  to  encounter,  in  misguidance, 
passion,  and  prejudice. 

Alfieri  was  born  at  Asti,  in  Piedmont,  of 
noble  and  rich,  but  illiterate  parents,  in  Janu- 
ary 1749.  The  history  of  his  childhood, 
which  fills  five  chapters,  contains  nothing 
very  remarkable.  The  earliest  thing  he  re- 
members, is  being  fed  with  sweetmeats  by 
an  old  uncle  with  square-toed  shoes.  He  was 
educated  at  home  by  a  good-natured,  stupid 
priest ;  and  having  no  brother  of  his  own  age, 
was  w^ithout  any  friend  or  companion  for  the 
greater  part  of  his  childhood.  When  about 
seven  years  old,  he  falls  in  love  wuth  the 
smooth  faces  of  some  male  novices  in  a  neigh- 
bouring church ;  and  is  obliged  to  walk  about 
with  a  green  net  on  his  hair,  as  a  punishment 
for  fibbing.  To  the  agony  which  he  endured 
from  this  infliction,  he  ascribes  his  scrupulous 
adherence  to  truth  through  the  rest  of  his  life ; 
— all  this  notwithstanding,  he  is  tempted  to 
steal  a  fan  from  an  old  lady  in  the  family, 
and  grows  silent,  melancholy,  and  reserved ; 
— at  last,  when  about  ten  years  of  age,  he  is 
sent  to  tne  academy  at  Turin. 

This  migration  adds  but  little  to  the  interest 
of  the  narrative,  or  the  improvement  of  the 
writer.  The  academy  was  a  great,  ill-reg-u- 
lated  establishment ;  in  one  quarter  of  which 
the  pages  of  the  court,  and  foreigners  of  dis- 
tinction, were  indulged  in  every  sort  of  dissi- 
pation— while  the  younger  pupils  were  stowed 
into  filthy  cells,  ill  fed,  and  wojse  educated. 
There  he  learned  a  little  Latin,  and  tried,  in 
vain,  to  acquire  the  elements  of  mathematics ; 
for,  after  the  painful  application  of  several 
months,  he  was  never  able  to  comprehend 
the  fourth  proposition  of  Euclid ;  and  found, 
he  says,  all  his  life  after,  that  he  had  "a  com- 
pletely anti-geometrical  head  "  From  the 
bad  diet,  and  preposterously  early  hours  ol' 


L1F£  A.x\D  WRITINGS  OF  VICTOR  ALFIERI. 


145 


the  academy,  he  soon  fell  into  wretched 
health,  and,  growing  more  melancholy  and 
solitary  than  ever,  became  covered  over  witn 
sores  and  ulcers.  Even  in  this  situation, 
however,  a  little  glimmering  of  literary  ambi- 
tion became  visible.  He  procured  a  copy  of 
Ariosto  from  a  voracious  schoolfellow,  by  giv- 
ing up  to  him  his  share  of  the  chickens  which 
formed  their  Sunday  regale ;  and  read  Metas- 
tasio  and  Gil  Bias  with  great  ardour  and  de- 
light. The  inflammability  of  his  imagination, 
however,  was  more  strikingly  manifested  in 
tlie  eff'ects  of  the  first  opera  to  which  he  was 
admitted,  when  he  was  only  about  twelve 
years  of  age. 

"  This  varied  and  enchanting  music,"  he  ob- 
serves, sunk  deep  into  my  soul,  and  made  the  mosi 
astonishing  impression  on  my  imagination  ; — it  agi- 
tated the  inmost  recesses  of  my  heart  to  such  a 
degree,  that  for  several  weeks  I  experienced  the 
most  profound  melancholy,  which  was  not,  how- 
ever, wholly  unattended  with  pleasure.  I  became 
tired  and  disgusted  with  my  studies,  while  at  the 
same  time  the  most  wild  and  whimsical  ideas  took 
such  possession  of  my  mind,  as  would  have  led  me 
to  portray  them  in  the  most  impassioned  verses, 
had  I  not  been  wholly  unacquainted  with  the  true 
nature  of  my  own  feelings.  It  was  the  first  time 
music  had  produced  such  a  powerful  effect  on  my 
mind.  I  had  never  experienced  any  thing  similar, 
and  it  long  remained  engraven  on  my  memory. 
When  I  recollect  the  feeUngs  excited  by  the  repre- 
sentation of  the  grand  operas,  at  which  I  was  pre- 
sent during  several  carnivals,  and  compare  them 
with  those  which  I  now  experience,  on  returning 
from  the  performance  of  a  piece  I  have  not  wit- 
nessed for  some  time,  I  am  fully  convinced  that 
nothing  acts  so  powerfully  on  my  mind  as  all  spe- 
cies of  music,  and  particularly  the  sound  of  female 
voices,  and  of  contro-alto.  Nothing  excites  more 
variotis  or  terrific  sensations  in  my  mind.  Thus 
the  p-lofs  of  the  greatest  number  of  my  trasredies 
were  either  formed  while  hstening  to  music,  or  a 
few  hours  afterwards." — p.  71 — 73, 

With  this  tragic  and  Italian  passion  for 
Music,  he  had  a  sovereign  contempt  and  ab- 
horrence for  Dancing.  His  own  account  of 
the  origin  of  this  antipathy,  and  of  the  first 
rise  of  those  national  prejudices,  which  he 
never  afterwards  made  any  effort  to  over- 
come^ is  among  the  most  striking  and  charac- 
teristic passages  in  the  earher  part  of  the 
story. 

"  To  the  natural  hatred  I  had  to  dancing,  was 
joined  an  invincible  antipathy  towards  my  master 
— a  Frenchman  newly  arrived  from  Paris.  He 
possessed  a  certain  air  of  pohte  assurance,  which, 
joined  to  his  ridiculous  motions  and  absurd  dis- 
course, greatly  increased  the  innate  aversion  I  felt 
towards  this  frivolous  art.  So  unconquerable  was 
this  aversion,  that,  after  leaving  school,  I  could 
never  be  prevailed  on  to  join  in  any  dance  what- 
ever. The  very  name  of  this  amusement  still 
makes  me  shudder,  and  laugh  at  the  same  time — 
a  circumstance  by  no  means  unusual  with  me.  I 
attribute,  also,  in  a  great  measure,  to  this  dancing- 
master  the  unfavourable,  and  perhaps  erroneous, 
opinion  T  have  formed  of  the  French  people !  who, 
nevertheless,  it  must  be  confessed,  possess  many 
agreeable  and  estimable  qualities.  But  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  weaken  or  efface  impressions  received  in 
early  youth.  Two  other  causes  also  contributed  to 
render  me  from  my  infancy  disgusted  with  the 
French  character.  The  first  was  the  impression 
made  on  my  mind  by  the  sight  of  the  ladies  who 
accompanied  the  Duchess  of  Parma  in  her  journev 
10 


to  Asti,  and  were  all  bedaubed  with  rouge  the 
use  of  vvhi"h  was  then  exckmively  confined  to  th© 
French.  I  iiave  frequently  mentioned  this  circum. 
stance  several  vears  afterwards,  not  being  able  to 
account  for  such  an  absurd  and  ridiculous  practice, 
which  is  wholly  at  variance  with  nature  ;  for  when 
men,  to  disguise  the  effects  of  sickness,  or  other 
calamities,  besmear  themselves  with  this  detestable 
rouge, — they  carefully  conceal  it ;  well  knowing 
that,  when  discovered,  it  only  excites  the  laughter 
or  pity  of  the  beholders.  These  painted  French 
figures  left  a  deep  and  lasting  impression  on  my 
mind,  and  inspired  me  with  a  certain  feehng  of  dis- 
gust towards  the  females  of  this  nation. 

"  From  my  geographical  studies  resulted  another 
cause  of  antipathy  to  that  nation.  Having  seen  on 
the  chart  the  gieat  difference  in  extent  and  popula- 
tion between  England  or  Prussia  and  France  ;  and 
hearing,  every  time  news  arrived  from  the  armies, 
that  the  French  had  been  beaten  by  sea  and  land  ; 
— recalling  to  mind  the  first  ideas  of  my  infancy, 
during  which  I  was  told  that  the  French  had  fre- 
quently been  in  possession  of  Asti ;  and  that  during 
the  last  time,  they  had  suffered  themselves  to  be 
taken  prisoners  to  the  number  of  six  or  seven 
thousand,  without  resistance,  after  conducting  them- 
selves, while  they  remained  in  possession  of  the 
place,  with  the  greatest  insolence  and  tyranny  ; — 
all  these  different  circumstances,  being  associated 
with  the  idea  of  the  ridiculous  dancing-master!  tend- 
ed more  and  more  to  rivet  in  my  mind  an  aversion 
to  the  French  nation."— pp.  83—86. 

At  the  early  age  of  fourteen,  Alfieri  was 
put  in  possession  of  a  considerable  part  of  his 
fortune :  and  launched  immediately  into  every 
sort  of  fashionable  folly  and  extravagance 
His  passion  for  horses,  from  which  he  was 
never  entirely  emancipated,  now  took  entire 
possession  of  his  soul ;  and  his  days  were 
spent  in  galloping  up  and  down  the  environs 
of  Turin,  in  company  chiefly  with  the  young 
English  who  were  resident  in  that  capital 
From  this  society,  and  these  exercises,  he 
soon  derived  such  improvement,  that  in  a 
short  time  he  became  by  far  the  most  skilful 
jockey,  farrier,  and  coachman,  that  modern 
Italy  could  boast  of  producing. 

For  ten  or  twelve  years  after  this  period, 
the  life  of  Alfieri  presents  a  most  humiliating, 
but  instructive  picture  of  idleness,  dissipation, 
and  ennui.  It  is  the  finest  and  most  flattering 
illustration  of  Miss  Edgeworth's  admirable 
tale  of  Lord  Glenthorn;  and,  indeed,  rather 
outgoes,  than  falls  short  of  that  high-coloured 
and  apparently  exaggerated  representation. — 
Such,  indeed,  is  the  coincidence  between  the 
traits  of  the  fictitious  and  the  real  character, 
that  if  these  Memoirs  had  been  published  when 
Miss  Edgeworth's  story  was  written,  it  would 
have  been  impossible  not  to  suppose  that  she 
had  derived  from  them  every  thing  that  is  strik- 
ing and  extraordinary  in  her  narrative.  For 
two  or  three  years,  Alfieri  contented  himself 
with  miming,  restless  and  discontented,  over 
the  different  states  and  cities  of  Italy ;  almost 
ignorant  of  its  language,  and  utterly  indiffer- 
ent both  to  its  literature  and  its  arts.  Con- 
sumed, at  every  moment  of  inaction,  with  the 
most  oppressive  discontent  and  unhappiness, 
he  had  no  relief  but  in  the  velocity  of  his 
movements  and  the  rapidity  of  his  transitions. 
Disappointed  with  every  thing,  and  believing 
himself  incapable  of  application  or  reflection 
he  passed  his  days  ir  a  perpetual  fever  of 


146 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


impatience  and  dissipntion ; — apparently  pur- 
Buing  enjoyment  v.'itk  an  eagerness  which 
was  in  reahty  inspired  by  the  vain  hope  of 
escaping  from  misery.  There  is  much  gene- 
mi  truthj  as  well  as  peculiar  character,  in  the 
following  simple  confession. 

"In  spite,  however,  of  this  constant  whirl  of 
dissipation,  my  being  master  of  my  own  actions ; 
notwithstanding  I  had  plenty  of  money,  was  in  the 
heyday  of  youth,  and  possessed  a  prepossessing 
figure ;  I  yet  felt  every  where  satiety,  ennui,  and 
disgust.  My  greatest  pleasure  consisted  in  attend- 
ing the  opera  bufFa,  though  the  gay  and  lively 
music  left  a  deep  and  melancholy  impression  in  my 
mind.  A  thousand  gloomy  and  mournful  ideas 
assailed  my  imagination,  in  which  I  delighted  to 
indulge  by  wandering  alone  on  the  shores  near  the 
Chiaja  and  Portici."— Vol.  i.  p.  128. 

When  he  gets  to  Venice,  things  are,  if  pos- 
sible, still  worse, — though  like  other  hypo- 
chondriacs, he  is  disposed  to  lay  the  blame 
on  the  winds  and  the  weather.  The  tumult 
of  the  carnival  kept  him  alive,  it  seems,  for  a 
few  days. 

"  But  no  sooner  was  the  novelty  over,  than  my 
habitual  melancholy  and  ennui  returned.  I  passed 
several  days  together  in  complete  solitude,  never 
leaving  the  house  nor  stirring  from  the  window, 
whence  I  made  signs  to  a  young  lady  who  lodged 
opposite,  and  with  whom  I  occasionally  exchanged 
a  few  words.  During  the  rest  of  the  day,  which 
hung  very  heavy  on  my  hands,  I  passed  my  time 
either  in  sleeping  or  in  dreaming,  I  knew  not  which, 
and  frequently  in  weeping  without  any  apparent 
motive.  I  had  lost  my  tranquillity,  and  1  was  unable 
even  to  divine  what  had  deprived  me  of  it.  A  few 
years  afterwards,  on  investigating  the  cause  of  this 
occurrence,  I  discovered  that  it  proceeded  from  a 
malady  which  attacked  me  every  spring,  some- 
times in  April,  and  sometimes  in  June :  its  dura- 
tion was  longer  or  shorter,  and  its  violence  very 
different,  according  as  my  mind  was  occupied. 

"  I  likewise  experienced  that  my  intellectual 
faculties  resembled  a  barometer,  and  that  I  pos- 
sessed more  or  less  talent  for  composition,  in  pro- 
portion to  the  weight  of  the  atniosphere.  During  the 
prevalence  of  the  solstitial  and  equinoctial  winds, 
I  was  always  remarkably  stupid,  and  uniformly 
evinced  less  penetration  in  the  evening  than  the 
morning.  I  likewise  perceived  that  the  force  of 
my  imagination,  the  ariiourof  enthusiasm,  and  ca- 
pability of  invention,  were  possessed  by  me  in  a 
higher  degree  in  the  middle  of  winter,  or  in  the 
middle  of  summer,  than  during  the  intermediate 
periods.  This  materiality,  which  I  believe  to  be 
common  to  all  men  of  a  delicate  nervous  system, 
has  greatly  contributed  to  lessen  the  pride  with 
which  the  good  I  have  done  might  have  inspired 
me,  in  like  manner  as  it  has  tended  to  diminish 
the  shame  I  might  have  felt  for  the  errors  I  have 
committed,  particularly  in  my  own  art." — Vol.  i. 
pp.  140—142. 

In  his  nineteenth  year,  he  extends  his 
travels  to  France,  and  stops  a  few  weeks  at 
Marseilles,  where  he  passed  his  evenings 
exact.y  as  Lord  Glenthorn  is  represented  to 
have  done  his  at  his  Irish  castle.  To  help 
away  the  hours,  he  went  every  night  to  the 
play,  although  his  Italian  ears  were  disgusted 
with  the  poverty  of  the  recitation ;  and, 

— "after  the  performance  was  over,  it  was  my 
regular  practice  to  bathe  every  evening  in  the  sea. 
I  was  induced  to  indulge  myself  in  this  luxury,  in 
consequence  of  finding  a  very  agreeable  spot,  on  a 
tongue  of  land  lying  to  the  riffht  of  the  harbour, 
where,  seated  on  the  sand,  with  my  back  leaning 


against  a  rock,  I  could   behold  the  sea  and  sky 
without  interruption.   In  the  contemplation  of  these 
objects,  embellished  by  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun 
I  passed  my  time  dreaming  of  future  delights."— 
Vol.  i.  pp.  150,  151. 

In  a  very  short  time,  howevei,  these  reve- 
ries became  intolerable  ',  and  he  very  nearly 
killed  himself  and  his  horses  in  rushing,  with 
incredible  velocity,  to  Paris.  This  is  his  own 
account  of  the  impression  which  was  made 
upon  him  by  his  first  sight  of  this  brilliant 
metropohs. 

"It was  on  a  cold,  cloudy,  and  rainy  morning, 
between  the  15th  and  20ih  of  August,  that  I 
entered  Paris,  by  the  wretched  suburb  of  St.  Mar- 
ceau.  Accustomed  to  the  clear  and  serene  sky  of 
Italy  and  Provence,  I  felt  much  surprised  at  the 
thick  fog  which  enveloped  the  city,  especially  at 
this  season.  Never  in  my  life  did  I  experience 
more  disagreeable  feelings  than  on  entering  the 
damp  and  dirty  suburb  of  St.  Germain,  where  I 
was  to  take  up  my  lodging.  What  inconsiderate 
haste,  what  mad  folly  had  led  me  into  this  sink 
of  filth  and  nastiness  !  On  entering  the  inn,  I  felt 
myself  thoroughly  undeceived ;  and  I  should  cer- 
tainly have  set  off  again  immediately,  had  not  shame 
and  fatigue  withheld  me.  My  illusions  were  still 
further  dissipated  when  I  began  to  ramble  through 
Paris.  The  mean  and  wretched  buildings ;  the 
contemptible  ostentation  displayed  in  a  few  houses 
dignified  with  the  pompous  appellation  of  hotels 
and  palaces  ;  the  filthiness  of  the  Gothic  churches ; 
the  truly  vandal-like  construction  of  the  public 
theatres  at  that  time,  besides  innumerable  other 
disagreeable  objects,  of  which  not  the  least  dis- 
gusting to  me  was  the  plastered  countenances 
of  many  very  ugly  women,  far  outweighed  in  my 
mind  the  beauty  and  elegance  of  the  public  walks 
and  gardens,  the  infinite  variety  of  fine  carriages,' 
the  lofty  fa§ade  of  the  Louvre,  as  well  as  the  num- 
ber of  spectacles  and  entertainments  of  every 
kind."— Vol.  i.  pp.  153,  154. 

There,  then,  as  was  naturally  to  be  ex- 
pected, he  again  found  himself  tormented 
"by  the  demon  of  melancholy;"  and,  after 
trying  in  vain  the  boasted  stimulant  of  play, 
he  speedily  grew  wearied  of  the  place  and 
all  its  amusements,  and  resolved  to  set  off, 
without  delay,  for  England.  To  England, 
accordingly,  he  goes,  at  midwinter ',  and  with 
such  a  characteristic  and  compassionable  cra- 
ving for  all  sorts  of  powerful  sensations,  that 
'•  he  rejoiced  exceedingly  at  the  extreme  cold, 
which  actually  froze  the  wine  and  bread  in  his 
carriage  during  a  part  of  the  journey."  Pre- 
pared, as  he  was,  for  disappointment,  by  the 
continual  extravagance  of  his  expettation, 
Alfieri  was  delighted  w^ith  England.  "  The 
roads,  the  inns,  the  horses,  and,  above  all,  the 
incessant  bustle  in  the  suburbs,  as  well  as  in 
the  capital,  all  conspired  to  fill  my  mind  witli 
delight."  He  passed  a  part  of  the  winter  in 
good  society,  in  London;  but  soon  "becoming 
disgusted  with  assemblies  and  routs,  deter- 
mined no  longer  to  play  the  lord  in  the 
drawing-room,  but  the  coachman  at  the  g-ate  !" 
and  accordingly  contrived  to  get  through 
three  laborious  months,  by  being  "five  or 
six  hours  every  morning  on  horseback,  and 
bei7Jg  seated  on  the  coachbox  for  tu'O  or  three 
hours  every  evening^  whatever  was  the  state 
of  the  weather."  Even  these  great  and 
meritorious    exertions,   however,   could    not 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  VICTOR  ALFIERI. 


147 


fon^  keep  down  his  inveterate  malady,  nor 
quell  the  evil  spirit  that  possessed  him;* and 
he  was  driven  to  make  a  hasty  tour  through 
the  west  of  England,  which  appears  to  have 
afforded  him  very  considerable  relief. 

•'•  The  country  then  so  much  enchanted  me  that 
£  determined  to  settle  in  it ;  not  that  I  was  much 
attached  to  any  individual,  but  because  I  was  de- 
lighted with  the  scenery,  the  simple  manners  of  the 
inhabitants,  the  modesty  and  beauty  of  the  women, 
and,  above  all,  with  the  enjoyment  of  political  lib- 
erty,— all  which  made  me  overlook,  its  mutable 
climale;  the  melancholy  almost  inseparable  from  it, 
and  the  exorbitant  price  of  all  the  necessaries  of 
life."— Vol.  i.  pp.  162,  163. 

Scarcely,  however,  was  this  bold  resolution 
of  settling  adopted,  when  the  author  is  again 
"seized  with  the  mania  of  travelling;"  and 
skims  over  to  Holland  in  the  beginning  of 
summer.  And  here  he  is  still  more  effec- 
tually diverted  than  ever,  by  falling  in  love 
with  a  young  married  lady  at  the  Hague,  who 
was  obligiug  enough  to  return  his  affection. 
Circumstances,  however,  at  last  compel  the 
fair  one  to  rejoin  her  husband  in  Switzer- 
land; and  the  impetuous  Italian  is  affected 
with  such  violent  despair,  that  he  makes  a 
desperate  attempt  on  his  life,  by  takiug  off 
the  bandages  after  being  let  blood ;  and  re- 
turns sullenly  to  Italy,  without  stopping  to 
look  at  any  thing,  or  uttering  a  single  word  to 
his  servant  during  the  whole  course  of  the 
journey. 

This  violent  fit  of  depression,  however,  and 
the  seclusion  by  which  it  w^as  followed,  led 
him,  for  the  first  time,  to  look  into  his  books; 
and  the  perusal  of  the  Lives  of  Plutarch  seems 
to  have  made  such  an  impression  on  his  ardent 
and  susceptible  spirit,  that  a  passion  for  liberty 
and  independence  now  took  the  lead  of  every 
other  in  his  soul,  and  he  became  for  life  an 
emulator  of  the  ancient  republicans.  He  read 
the  story  of  Timoleon,  Brutus,  &c.,  he  assures 
us,  with  floods  of  tears,  and  agonies  of  admi- 
ration. '-I  was  like  one  beside  himself;  and 
shed  tears  of  mingled  grief  and  rage  at  having 
been  born  at  Piedmont ;  and  at  a  period,  and 
under  a  government,  where  it  was  impossible 
to  conceive  or  execute  any  great  design." 
The  same  sentiment,  indeed,  seems  to  have 
haunted  him  for  the  greater  part  of  his  life ; 
and  is  expressed  in  many  passages  of  these 
Memoirs  besides  the  following. 

"Having  lived  two  or  three  years  almost  wholly 
among  the  English  ;  having  heard  their  power  and 
riches  everywhere  celebrated  ;  having  contemplated 
their  great  political  influence,  and  on  the  other  hand 
viewing  Italy  wholly  degraded  from  her  rank  as  a 
nation,  and  the  Italians  divided,  weak,  and  enslaved, 
I  was  ashamed  of  being  an  ItaHan,  and  wished  not 
to  possess  any  thing  in  common  with  this  nation." — 
Vol.i.  p.  121. 

"  I  was  naturally  attached  to  a  domestic  life  ;  but 
after  having  visited  England  at  nineteen,  and  read 
Plutarch  with  the  greatest  interest  at  twenty  years 
of  age,  I  experienced  the  most  insufferable  repug- 
nance at  marrying  and  having  my  children  born  at 
Turin."— Vol.  i.  p.  175. 

The  time,  however,  was  not  yet  come 
when  study  was  to  ballast  and  anchor  this 
agitated  spirit.  Plutarch  was  soon  thrown 
aside ;  and  the  patriot  and  his  horses  gallop 


off  to  Vienna.  The  state  of  his  mmd,  both 
as  to  idleness  and  politics,  is  strikingly  repre- 
sented in  the  following  short  passage. 

"  I  might  easily,  during  my  stay  at  Vienna,  have 
been  introduced  to  the  celebrated  poet  Metastasio, 
at  whose  house  our  minister,  the  old  and  respecta- 
ble Count  Canale,  passed  his  evenings  in  a  select 
company  of  men  of  letters,  whoso  chief  amusement 
consisted  in  reading  portions  from  the  Greek,  La- 
tin, and  Italian  classics.  Having  taken  an  affcc 
tion  for  me,  he  wished,  out  of  pity  to  my  idleness, 
to  conduct  me  thither.  But  I  declined  accompany- 
ing him,  either  from  my  usual  awkwardness,  or 
from  the  contempt  which  the  constant  habit  of 
reading  French  works  had  given  me  for  Italian  pro- 
ductions. Hence  I  concluded,  that  this  assemblage 
of  men  of  letters,  with  their  classics,  could  be  only 
a  dismal  company  of  pedants.  Besides,  I  had  seen 
Metastasio,  in  the  gardens  of  Schoenbrunn,  perform 
the  customary  genuflexion  to  Maria  Theresa  in 
such  a  servile  and  adulatory  manner,  ihat  I,  who 
had  my  head  stuffed  with  Plutarch,  and  who  exag- 
gerated every  thing  I  conceived,  could  not  think  of 
binding  myself,  either  by  the  ties  of  familiaiiiy  or 
friendship,  with  a  poet  who  had  sold  himself  to  a 
despotism  which  I  so  cordiallv  detested." 

Vol.  i.  pp.  182,  183. 

From  Vienna  he  flew  to  Prussia,  \vhich,  he 
says,  looked  all  like  one  great  guardhouse: 
and  where  he  could  not  repress  "  the  horror 
and  indignation  he  felt  at  beholding  oppres- 
sion and  despotism  assuming  the  mask  of 
virtue."  From  Prussia  he  passed  on  to  Den- 
mark ;  where  his  health  was  seriousl)^  affect- 
ed by  the  profligacy  in  which  he  indulged ; 
and  where  the  only  amusement  he  could  rel- 
ish, consisted  in  "driving  a  sledge  with  in- 
conceivable velocity  over  the  snow."  In  this 
way  he  wandered  on  through  Sweden  and 
Finland  to  Russia ;  and  experienced,  as  usual, 
a  miserable  disappointment  on  arriving  at  St. 
Petersburg. 

"  Alas !  no  sooner  had  I  reached  this  Asiatic  as- 
semblage of  wooden  huts,  than  Rome,  Genoa,  Ve- 
nice, and  Florence  rose  to  my  recollection ;  and  1 
could  not  refrain  from  laughing.  What  I  after- 
wards saw  of  this  country  tended  still  more  strongly 
to  confirm  my  first  impression,  that  it  merited  not 
to  be  seen.  Every  thing,  except  their  beards  and 
their  horses,  disgusted  me  so  much,  that,  during  six 
weeks  I  remained  among  these  savages,  I  deter- 
mined not  to  become  acquainted  with  any  one  ;  nor 
even  to  see  the  two  or  three  youths  with  whom  I 
had  associated  at  Turin,  and  who  were  descendea 
from  the  first  families  of  the  country.*  I  took  no 
measure  to  be  presented  to  the  celebrated  Auto- 
cratrix  Catherine  II. ;  nor  did  I  even  behold  the 
countenance  of  a  sovereign  who  in  our  days  has 
outstripped  fame.  On  investigating,  at  a  future  pe- 
riod, the  reason  of  such  extraordinary  conduct,  I 
beeame  convinced  that  it  proceeded  from  a  certain 
intolerance  of  character,  and  a  hatred  to  every  spe- 
cies of  tyranny,  and  which  in  this  particular  instance 
attached  itself  to  a  person  suspected  of  the  most 
horrible  crime — the  murder  of  a  defenceless  hus- 
band."—Vol.  i.  pp.  194,  195. 

This  rage  for  liberty  continued  to  possess 
him  in  his  return  through  Prussia,  and  really 
seems  to  have  reached  its  acme  when  it  dic- 
tated the  following  most  preposterous  pas- 
sage,— which,  we  cannot  help  suspecting,  is 
indebted  for  part  of  its  absurdity  to  the  trans- 
lator. 

"  I  visited  Zorndorff,  a  spot  rendered  famous  by 
the  sanguinary  battle  fought  between  the  Russians 
and  Prussians,  where  thousands  of  men  on  both 


148 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY 


sides  were  immolated  on  the  altar  of  despotipm, 
and  thus  escaped  from  the  galling  yoke  which  op- 
pressed them.  The  place  of  their  interment  was 
easily  recognised  by  its  greater  verdure,  and  by 
yielding  more  abundant  crops  than  the  barren  and 
unproductive  soil  in  its  immediate  vicinity.  On  this 
occasion,  I  reflected,  with  sorrow,  that  slaves  seem 
even/where  only  horn  to  fertilize  the  soil  on  which 
they' vegetate.'' — Vol.  i.  pp.  196,  197. 

After  this  he  meets  with  a  beautiful  ass  at 
Gottingen,  and  regrets  that  his  indolence  pre- 
vented  him  from   availing  himself  of  this 
excellent   opportunity  for  writing  some  im- 
measurably facetious  verses  "upon  this  ren- 
counter of  a  German  and  an  Italian  ass,  in  so 
celebrated  an  university ! ' '     After  a  hasty  ex- 
pedition to  Spa,  he  again  traverses  Germany 
and  Holland,  and  returns  to  England  in  the 
twenty-third  year  of  his  age;  where  he  is 
speedily  involved  in   some  very  distressirig 
and  discreditable  adventures.    He  engages  in 
an  intrigue  with  an  English  lady  of  rank,  and 
is  challenged,  and  slightly  wounded  by  her 
husband.     After  this  eclat,  he  consoles  him- 
self with  the  thought  of  marrying  the  frail 
fair,  with  whom  he  is,  as  usual,  most  heroic- 
ally in  love ;  when  he  discovers,  to  his  infi- 
nite horror  and  consternation,  that,  previous 
to  her  connection  with  him,  she  had  been 
equally  lavish  of  her  favours  to  her  husband's 
groom!    whose  jealous  resentment  had  led 
him  to  watch  and  expose  this  new  infidelity. 
After  many  struggles  between  shame,  resent- 
ment, and  unconquerable  love,  he  at  last  tears 
himself  from  this  sad  sample  of  English  vir- 
tue, and  makes  his  way  to  Holland,  bursting 
with    giief    and    indignation;    but    without 
seeming  to  think  that  there  was  the  slightest 
occasion  for  any  degree  of  contrition  or  self- 
condemnation.      From  Holland  he  goes   to 
France,  and  from  France  to  Spain — as  idle, 
and  more  oppressed  with  himself  than  ever 
— buying  and  caressing  Andalusian  horses, 
and  constantly  ready  to  sink  under  the  heavy 
burden  of  existence.     At  Madrid  he  has  set 
down  an  extraordinary  trait  of  the  dangerous 
impetuosity  of  his  temper.     His  faithful  ser- 
vant, in  combing  his  hair  one  day,  happened 
accidentally  to  give  him  pain  by  stretching 
one   hair  a  little   more  than  the  rest,  upon 
which,  without  saying  a  word,  he  first  seized 
a  candlestick,  and  felled  him  to  the  ground 
with  a  huge  wound  on  his  temple,  and  then 
drew  his  sword  to  despatch  him,  upon  his 
offering  to  make  some  resistance.  The  sequel 
of  the  story  is  somewhat  more  creditable  to 
his  magnanimity,  than  this  part  of  it  is  to  his 
self-command. 

"  I  was  shocked  at  the  brutal  excess  of  passion 
into  which  I  had  fallen.  Though  Ellas  was  some- 
what calmed,  he  still  appeared  to  retain  a  certain 
degree  of  resentment ;  yet  I  was  not  disposed  to 
display  towards  him  the  smallest  distrust.  Two 
liours  after  his  wound  was  dressed  I  went  to  bed, 
leaving  the  door  open,  as  usual,  between  my  apart- 
ment and  the  chamber  in  which  he  slept;  notwith- 
standing the  remonstrance  of  the  Spaniards,  who 
pointed  out  to  me  the  absurdity  of  putting  ven- 
geance in  the  power  of  a  man  whom  I  had  so  much 
irritated.  I  said  even  aloud  to  Elias,  who  was  al- 
ready in  bed,  that  he  might  kill  me,  if  he  was  so 
inclined,  durina  the  night;  and  that!  justly  merited 
Buch  a  fate.    But  this  brave  man,  who  possessed  as 


much  elevation  of  soul  as  myself,  took  no  other  re. 
venge  for  my  outrageous  conduct,  except  preserv- 
ing for  several  years  two  handkercliiefs  stained  with 
blood  which  had  been  bound  round  his  head,  and 
which  he  occiisionally  displayed  to  my  view.  It  ia 
necessary  to  be  fully  acauainted  with  the  character 
and  manners  of  the  Piedmontese,  in  order  to  com- 
prehend the  mixture  of  ferocity  and  generosity  dis- 
played on  both  sides  in  this  affair. 

"  When  at  a  more  mature  age,  I  endeavoured  to 
discover  the  cause  of  this  violent  transport  of  rage. 
I  became  convinced  that  the  trivial  circumstance 
which  gave  rise  to  it,  was,  so  to  speak,  Hke  the  last 
drop  poured  into  a  vessel  ready  to  run  over.  My 
irascible  temper,  which  must  have  been  rendered 
still  more  irritable  by  solitude  and  perpetual  idle- 
ness, required  only  the  slightest  impulse  to  cause  it 
to  burst  forth.  Besides,  I  never  lifted  a  hand 
against  a  domestic,  as  that  would  have  been  putting 
them  on  a  level  with  myself.  Neither  did  I  ever 
employ  a  cane,  nor  any  kind  of  weapon  in  order  to 
chastise  them,  though  I  frequently  threw  at  them 
any  moveable  that  fell  in  my  way,  as  many  young 
people  do,  during  the  first  ebulUtions  of  anger ;  yet 
I  dare  to  affirm  that  I  would  have  approved,  and 
even  esteemed  the  domestic  who  should  on  such 
occasions  have  rendered  me  back  the  treatment  he 
received,  since  I  never  punished  them  as  a  master, 
but  only  contended  with  them  as  one  man  with 
another."— Vol.  i.  pp.  244—246. 

At  Lisbon  he  forms  an  acquaintance  with  a 
literary  countryman  of  his  own,  ai^id  feels,  for 
the  first  time  of  his  life,  a  glow  of  admiration 
on  perusing  some  passages  of  Italian  poetry. 
From  this  he   returns  to   Spain,  and,  after 
lounging  over  the  whole  of  that  kingdom,  re- 
turns through  France  to  Italy,  and  arrives  at 
Turin  in  1773.     Here  he  endeavours  to  main- 
tain the  same  unequal  contest  of  dissipation 
against  ennui  and  conscious  folly,  and  falls 
furiously  in  love,  for  the  third  time,  with  a 
woman  of  more  than  doubtful  reputation,  ten 
years  older  than  himself.     Neither  the  in- 
toxication of  this  passion,  however,  nor  the 
daily  exhibition   of  his  twelve   fine  horses, 
could   repress  the    shame    and   indignation 
which  he  felt  at  thus  wasting  his  days  in  in- 
glorious licentiousness  ',  and  his  health  was  at 
last  seriously  affected  by  those  compunctious 
visitings  of  his  conscience.     In  1774,  while 
watching  by  his  unworthy  mistress  in  a  fit  of 
sickness,  he  sketched  out  a  few  scenes  of  a 
dramatic  work  in  Italian,  which  was  thrown 
aside  and  forgotten  immediately  on  her  re- 
covery; and  it  was  not  till  the  year  after, 
that,  after  many  struggles,  he  formed  the  reso- 
lution of  detaching  himself  from  this  degrad- 
ing connection.     The  eflforts  which  this  cost 
him,  and  the  means  he  adopted  to  ensure  his 
own  adherence  to  his  resolution,  appear  al- 
together wild  and  extravagant  to  our  northern 
imaginations.     In  the  first  place,  he  had  him- 
self lashed  with  strong  cords  to  his  elbow 
chair,  to  prevent  him  from  rushing  into  the 
presence  of  the  syren ;  and,  in  the  next  place, 
he  entirely  cut  off  his  hair,  m  order  to  make 
it  impossible  for  him  to  appear  with  decency 
in  any  society!     The  first  fifteen  days,  he 
assures  us,  he  spent  entirely  "  in  uttering  the 
most  frightful  groans  and  lamentations,"  and 
the  next  in  riding  furious.y  ihrough  all  the 
solitary  places  in  the  neighbourhood.    At  last^ 
however,  this  frenzy  of  grief  began  to  sub- 
side ;  and,  most  fortunately  for  the  world  and 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  VICTOR  ALFIERI. 


149 


the  author,  gave  place  to  a  passion  for  litera- 
ture, which  absorbed  the  powers  of  this  fiery 
spirit  during  the  greater  part  of  his  future  ex- 
istence. The  perusal  of  a  wretched  tragedy 
on  the  story  of  Cleopatra,  and  the  striking  re- 
semblance he  thought  he  discovered  between 
his  own  case  and  that  of  Antony,  first  inspired 
him  with  the  resolution  of  attempting  a  dra- 
matic piece  on  the  same  subject ;  and,  after 
encountering  the  most  extreme  difliculty  from 
his  utter  ignorance  of  poetical  diction,  and  of 
pure  Italian,  he  at  last  hammered  out  a  trage- 
dy, 


which  was  represented  with  tolerable 
success  in  1775.  From  this  moment  his  whole 
heart  was  devoted  to  dramatic  poetry ;  and 
literary  glory  became  the  idol  of  his  imagi- 
nation. 

In  entering  upon  this  new  and  arduous  ca- 
reer, he  soon  discovered  that  greater  sacrifices 
were  required  of  him  than  he  had  hitherto 
off'ered  to  any  of  the  foraier  objects  of  his 
idolatry.     The  defects  of  his  education,  and 
his  long  habits  of  indolence  and  inattention  to 
every  thing  connected  with  letters,  imposed 
upon  him  far  more  than  the  ordinary  labour 
of  a  literary  apprenticeship.     Having  never 
been  accustomed  to  the  use  of  the  pure  Tus- 
can, and  being  obliged  to  speak  French  during 
so  many  years  of  travelling,  he  found  himself 
shamefully  deficient  in  the  knowledge  of  that 
beautiful  language,  in  which  he  proposed  to 
enter  his  claims  to  immortahty ;  and  began, 
•therefore,  a  course  of  the  most  careful  and 
critical  reading  of  the  great  authors  who  had 
adorned  it.      Dante  and   Petrarca  were   his 
great  models  of  purity ;  and,  next  to  them, 
Ariosto  and  Tasso ;  in  which  four  writers,  he 
gives  it  as  his  opinion,  that  there  is  to  be 
found  the  perfection  of  every  style,  except 
that  fitted  for  dramatic  poetry — of  which,  he 
more  than  insinuates,  that  his  own  writings 
are  the  only  existing  example.     In  order  to 
acquire  a  perfect  knowledge  and  command 
of  their  divine  language,  he  not  only  made 
many  long  visits  to  Tuscany,  but  absolutely 
interdicted  himself   the  use  of  every  other 
sort  of  reading,  and  abjured  for   ever  that 
French  literature  which  he  seems  to  have 
always  regarded  with  a  mixture  of  envy  and 
disdain.     To  make  amends  for  this,  he  went 
resolutely  back  to  the  rudiments  of  his  Latin ; 
arid  read  over  all  the  classics  in  that  language 
with  a  most  patient  and  laborious  attention. 
He  likewise  committed  to  memory  many  thou- 
sand lines  from  the  authors  he  proposed  to 
imitate ;  and  sought,  with  the  greatest  assi- 
duity, the  acquaintance  of  all  the  scholars  and 
critics  that  came  in  his  w-ay, — pestering  them 
with  continual  queries,  and  with  requesting 
their  opinion  upon  the  infinite  quantity  of  bad 
verses  which  he  continued  to  compose  by  way 
of  exercise.     His  two  or  three  first  tragedies 
he  composed  entirely  in  French  ptose ;  and 
afterwards  translated,  with  mfinite  labour,  into 
Italian  verse. 


in  verse.  This  was  the  case  with  Charles  I.,  which 
I  began  to  write  in  French  prose,  immediately  alter 
finishinir  Phihppe.  When  I  had  reached  to"aboiit 
the  middle  of  the  third  act,  my  heart  and  my  hand 
became  so  benumbed,  that  I. found  it  impossible  ca 
hold  my  pen.  The  same  thing  happened  in  regard 
to  Romeo  and  Juhet,  the  whole  of  which  I  nearly 
expanded,  though  with  much  labour  to  myself,  and 
at  long  intervals.  On  reperusing  this  sketch,  I 
found  my  enthusiasm  so  much  lowered,  that,  trans- 
ported with  rage  against  myself,  I  could  proceed  no 
further,  but  threw  my  work  into  the  fire." — Vol.  ii. 
pp.  48—51. 


"  In  this  manner,  without  any  other  judge  than 
niy  own  feehngs,  I  have  only  finished  those,  the 
sketches  of  which  I  had  written  with  energy  and 
enthusiasm :  or,  if  I   have  finished   any  other,  I 


Two  or  three  years  were  passed  in  these 
bewitching  studies;   and,  durhig  this  time, 
nine  or  ten  tragedies,  at  least,  were  in  a  con- 
siderable state  of  forwardness.     In  1778,  the 
study  of  Machiavel  revived  all  that  early  zeal 
for  liberty  w^hich  he  had  imbibed  from  tho 
perusal  of  Plutarch;  and  he  composed  with 
great  rapidity  his  two  books  of  '•  La  Tiranide  f 
— perhaps  the  most  nervous  and  eloquent  of 
all  his  prose  compositions.     About  the  same 
period,  his  poetical  studies  ex-perienced  a  s'.ill 
more  serious  interruption,  from  the  commence- 
ment of  his  attachment  to  the  Countess  of 
Albany,  the  wife  of  the  late  Pretender;— an 
attachment  that  continued   to   soothe  or   to 
agitate  all  the  remaining  part  of  his  existence. 
This  lady,  who  was  by  birth  a  princess  of  the 
house  of  Stolberg,  was  then  in  her  twenty- 
fifth  year,  and  resided  wnth  her  ill-matched 
husband  at  Florence.     Her  beauty  and  ac- 
complishments made,  from  the  first,*  a  pow- 
erful impression  on  the  inflammable  heart  of 
Alfieri,  guarded  as  it  now  was  with  the  love 
of  glory  and  of  literature ;  and  the  loftiness 
of  his  character,  and  the  ardour  of  his  admi- 
ration, soon  excited  corresponding  sentiments 
in  her,  who  had  suff'ered  for  some  time  from 
the  ill  temper  and  gross  vices  of  her  super- 
annuated husband.     Though  the  author  takes 
the  trouble  to  assure  us  that  ''  their  intimacy 
never  exceeded  the  strictest  limits  of  honour," 
it  is  not  difficult  to  understand,  that  it  should 
have  agg-ravated  the  ill-humour  of  the  old 
husband;  w^hich  increased,  it  seems,  so  much, 
that  the  lady  was  at  last  forced  to  abandon 
his  society,  and  to  take  refuge  with  his  brother, 
the  Cardinal  York,  at  Rome.     To  this  place 
Alfieri  speedily  followed  her;  and  remained 
there,  divided  between  love  and  study,  for 
upwards  of  two  years :  w^hen  her  holy  guar- 
dian becoming  scandalized  at  their  intimacy, 
it  was  thought  necessary  for  her  reputation, 
that  they  should  separate.     The  efi'ects  of 
this  separation  he  has  himself  described  in 
the  following  short,  but  eloquent  passage. 

"For  two  years  I  remained  incapable  of  any 
kind  of  study  whatever,  so  different  was  my  pres- 


have  at  least  never  taken  the  trouble  to  clothe  them  |  all  the  peaceful  Tnhab 


*  His  first  introduction  to  her,  we  have  been  in- 
formed, was  in  the  great  gallery  of  Florence ;— a 
circumstance  which  led  him  to  signalize  his  admira- 
tion by  an  extraordinary  act  of  gallantry.  As  they 
Slopped  to  examine  the  picture  of  Charles  XH.  of 
Sweden,  the  Countess  observed,  that  the  singular 
uniform  in  which  that  prince  is  usually  painted,  ap- 
peared to  her  extremely  becoming.  Nothing  more 
was  said  at  the  time  ;  but,  in  two  days  after,  Alfieri 
appeared  in  the  streets  in  the  exact  costume  of  that 
warlike  sovereign,— to  the  utter  consternation  of 


160 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


ent  forlorn  state  from  the  happiness  I  enjoyed 
during  my  late  residence  in  Rome  : — there  the  Villa 
Strozzi  near  to  the  warm  baths  of  Dioclesian,  af- 
forded me  a  delightful  retreat,  where  I  passed  my 
mornings  in  study,  only  riding  for  an  hour  or  two 
through  the  vast  solitudes  which,  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Rome,  invite  to  melancholy,  meditation, 
and  poetry.  In  the  evening,  I  proceeded  to  the 
chy,  and  found  a  relaxation  from  study  in  the  so- 
ciety of  her  who  constituted  the  charm  of  my  ex- 
istence;  and,  contented  and  happy,  I  returned  to 
my  solitude,  never  at  a  later  hour  than  eleven 
o'clock.  It  was  impossible  to  find,  in  the  circuit 
of  a  great  city,  an  abode  more  cheerful,  more  re- 
tired,— or  better  suited  to  my  taste,  my  character, 
and  my  pursuits.  Delightful  spot! — the  remem- 
brance of  which  I  shall  ever  cherish,  and  which 
through  life  I  shall  long  to  revisit." — Vol.  ii.  pp. 
121,  122. 

Previously  to  tliis  time,  his  extreme  love  of 
independence,  and  his  desire  to  be  constantly 
with  the  mistress  of  his  affections,  had  in- 
duced him  to  take  the  very  romantic  step  of 
resigning  his  whole  property  to  his  sister; 
reserving  to  himself  merely  an  annuity  of 
14,000  livres,  or  little  more  than  500Z.  As 
this  transference  was  made  with  the  sanction 
of  the  King,  who  was  very  well  pleased,  on 
the  whole,  to  get  rid  of  so  republican  a  sub- 
ject, it  was  understood,  upon  both  sides,  as  a 
tacit  compact  of  expatriation;  so  that,  upon 
his  removal  from  Rome,  he  had  no  house  or 
fixed  residence  to  repair  to.  In  this  desolate 
and  unsettled  state,  his  passion  for  horses  re- 
vived with  additional  fury ;  and  he  undertook 
a  voyage  to  England,  for  the  sole  purpose  of 
purchasing  a  niimber  of  tho'se  noble  animals; 
and  devoted  eight  months  "  to  the  study  of 
noble  heads,  fine  necks,  and  well-turned  but- 
tocks, without  once  opening  a  book  or  pursuing 
any  literary  avocation.''  In  London,  he  pur- 
chased fourteen  horses, — in  relation  to  the 
number  of  his  tragedies  ! — and  this  whimsical 
relation  frequently  presenting  itself  to  his 
imagination,  he  would  say  to  himself  with  a 
smile — '■  Thou  hast  gained  a  horse  by  each 
tragedy  !" — Truly  the  noble  author  must  have 
been  far  gone  in  love,  when  he  gave  way  to 
such  innocent  deliration. — He  conducted  his 
fourteen  friends,  however,  with  much  judg- 
ment across  the  Alps ;  and  gained  great  glory 
and  notoriety  at  Sienna,  from  their  daily  pro- 
cession through  the  streets,  and  the  feats  of 
dexterity  he  exhibited  in  riding  and  driving 
them. 

In  the  mean  time,  he  had  printed  twelve 
of  his  tragedies;  and  imbibed  a  sovereign 
contempt  for  such  of  his  countrymen  as  pre- 
terded  to  find  them  harsh,  obscure,  or  aflect- 
edly  sententious.  In  1784,  after  an  absence 
of  more  than  two  years,  he  rejoined  his  mis- 
tress at  Baden  in  Alsace ;  and,  during  a  stay 
of  two  months  with  her,  sketched  out  three 
new  tragedies.  On  his  return  to  Italy,  he 
took  up  his  abode  for  a  short  time  at  Pisa, — 
where,  in  a  fit  of  indignation  at  the  faults  of 
Pliny's  Panegyric  on  Trajan,  he  composed  in 
five  days  that  animated  and  eloquent  piece 
of  the  same  name,  which  alone,  of  all  his 
works  have  fallen  into  our  hands,  has  left  on 
our  minds  the  impression  of  ardent  and  flow- 
ing eloquence.     His  rage  for  liberty  likewise 


prompted  him  to  compose  seveial  c  Jes  on  the 
subject  of  American  independence,  and  seve- 
ral miscellaneous  productions  of  a  similar 
character: — at  last,  in  1786,  he  is  permitted 
to  take  up  his  permanent  abode  with  his  mis- 
tress, whom  he  rejoins  at  Alsace,  and  never 
afterwards  abandons.  In  the  course  of  the 
following  year,  they  make  a  journey  to  Paris, 
with  which  he  is  nearly  as  much  dissatisfied 
as  on  his  former  visit. — and  makes  arrange- 
ments with  Didot  for  printing  his  tragedies  in 
a  superb  form.  In  1788,  however,  he  resolves 
upon  making  a  complete  edition  of  his  whole 
works  at  KeHl ;  and  submits,  for  the  accom- 
modation of  his  fair  friend,  to  take  up  his 
residence  at  Paris.  There  they  receive  in- 
telligence of  the  death  of  her  husband, 
which  seems,  however,  to  make  no  change  in 
their  way  of  life; — and  there  he  continues 
busily  employed  in  correcting  his  various 
works  for  publication,  till  the  year  1790,  when 
the  first  part  of  these  memoirs  closes  with 
anticipations  of  misery  from  the  progress  of 
the  revolution,  and  professions  of  devoted  at- 
tachment to  the  companion  whom  time  had 
only  rendered  more  dear  and  respected. 

The  supplementary  part  bears  date  in  May 
1803 — but  a  few  months  prior  to  the  death  of 
the  author. — and  brings  down  his  history, 
though  in  a  more  summary  manner,  to  that 
period.  He  seems  to  have  lived  in  much  un- 
easiness and  fear  in  Paris,  after  the  com 
mencement  of  the  revolution;  from  all  ajjpro* 
bation,  or  even  toleration  of  which  tragic 
farce^  as  he  terms  it,  he  exculpates  himself 
with  much  earnestness  and  solemnity;  but, 
having  vested  the  greater  part  of  his  fortune 
in  that  country,  he  could  not  conveniently 
abandon  it.  In  1791,  he  and  his  companion 
made  a  short  visit  to  England,  with  which  he 
was  less  pleased  than  on  any  foimer  occasion, 
— the  damp  giving  him  a  disposition  to  gout, 
and  the  late  hours  interfering  w^ith  his  habits 
of  study.  The  most  remarkable  incident  in 
this  journey,  occurred  at  its  termination.  As 
he  was  passing  along  the  quay  at  Dover,  on 
his  way  to  the  packet-boat,  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  bewitching  woman  on  whose 
account  he  had  sufiered  so  much,  in  his  for- 
mer visit  to  this  country  nearly  twenty  years 
before !  She  still  looked  beautiful,  he  says, 
and  bestowed  on  him  one  of  those  enchanting 
smiles  which  convinced  him  that  he  was  re- 
cognised. Unable  to  control  his  emotion,  he 
rushed  instantly  aboard — hid  himself  below 
— and  did  not  venture  to  look  up  till  he  was 
landed  on  the  opposite  shore.  From  Calais 
he  addressed  a  letter  to  her  of  kind  inquiry 
and  offers  of  service ;  and  received  an  answer 
which,  on  account  of  the  singular  tone  of  can- 
dour and  magnanimity  which  it  exhibits,  he 
has  subjoined  in  the  appendix.  It  is  un- 
doubtedly a  very  remarkable  production,  and 
shows  both  a  strength  of  mind  and  a  kindness 
of  disposition  which  seem  worthy  of  a  nappier 
fortune. 

In  the  end  of  1792,  the  increasing  fury  of 
the  revolution  rendered  Paris  no  longer  a  place 
of  safety  for  foreigners  of  high  birth;  and 
Alfieri  and  his  countess  with  soine  difficulty 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  VICTOR  ALFIERI. 


151 


effected  their  escape  from  it,  and  established 
themselves,  with  a  diminished  income,  at  his 
beloved  Florence.  Here,  with  his  usual  im- 
petuosity, he  gave  vent  to  his  anti-revolution- 
ary feelings,  by  composing  an  apology  for 
Louis  XVI.,  and  a  short  satirical  view  of  the 
French  excesses,  which  he  entitled  "The 
Antig-allican."  He  then  took  to  acting  his 
own  plays ;  and,  for  two  or  three  years,  this 
new  passion  seduced  him  in  a  good  degree 
from  literature.  In  1795,  however,  he  tried 
his  hand  in  some  satirical  productions;  and 
began,  with  much  zeal,  to  reperuse  and  trans- 
late various  passages  from  the  Latin  classics. 
Latin  naturally  led  to  Greek;  and,  in  the 
forty-ninth  year  of  his  age,  he  set  seriously  to 
the  study  of  this  language.  Two  whole  years 
did  this  ardent  genius  dedicate  to  solitary 
drudgery,  without  being  able  to  master  the 
subject  he  had  undertaken.  At  last,  by  dint 
of  perseverance  and  incredible  labour,  he  be- 
gan to  understand  a  little  of  the  easier  authors ; 
and,  by  the  time  he  had  completed  his  fiftieth 
year,  succeeded  in  interpreting  a  considerable 
part  of  Herodotus,  Thucydides,  and  Homer. 
The  pernsal  of  Sophocles,  in  the  following 
year,  impelled  him  to  compose  his  last  trage- 
dy of  Alceste  in  1798.  In  the  end  of  this 
year,  the  progress  of  the  French  armies  threat- 
ened to  violate  the  tranquillity  of  his  Tuscan 
retreat !  and,  in  the  spring  following,  upon 
the  occupation  of  Florence,  he  and  his  friend 
retired  to  a  small  habitation  in  the  country. 
From  this  asylum,  however,  they  returned  so 
precipitately  on  the  retreat  of  the  enemy, 
that  they  were  surprised  by  them  on  their 
second  invasion  of  Tuscany  in  1800 ;  but  had 
more  to  suffer,  it  appears,  from  the  importu- 
nate civility,  than  from  the  outrages  of  the 
conquerors.  The  French  general,  it  seems, 
was  a  man  of  letters,  and  made  several  at- 
tempts to  be  introduced  to  Alfieri.  When 
evasion  became  impossible,  the  latter  made 
the  following  haughty  but  guarded  reply  to 
his  warlike  admirer : — 

"  If  the  general,  in  his  official  capacity,  com- 
mands his  presence,  Victor  Alfieri,  who  never  re- 
sists constituted  authority  of  any  kind,  will  imme- 
diately hasten  to  obey  the  order;  but  if,  on  the 
contrary,  he  requests  an  interview  only  as  a  private 
individual,  Alfieri  begs  leave  to  observe,  that  be- 
ing of  a  very  retired  turn  of  mind,  he  wishes  not  to 
form  any  new  acquaintance ;  and  therefore  entreats 
the  French  general  to  hold  him  excused." — Vol.  ii. 
pp.  286,  287. 

Under  these  disastrous  circumstances,  he 
was  suddenly  seized  with  the  desire  of  sig- 
nalizing himself  in  a  new  field  of  exertion; 
and  sketched  out  no  fewer  than  six  comedies 
at  once,  w^hich  were  nearly  finished  before 
the  end  of  1802.  His  health,  during  this  year, 
was  considerably  weakened  by  repeated  at- 
tacks of  irregular  gout  and  inflammatory  af- 
fections :  and  the  memoir  concludes  with  the 
description  of  a  collar  and  medal  which  he 
had  invented,  as  the  badge  of  "  the  order  of 
Homer,"  w^hich,  in  his  late  sprung  ardour  for 
Greek  literature,  he  had  founded  and  en- 
dowed. Annexed  to  this  record  is  a  sort  of 
postscript,  addressed,  by  his  friend  the  Abbe 
Caluso,  to  the  Countess  of  Albany ;  from  which 


it  appears,  that  he  was  carried  off  by  an  in- 
flammatory or  gouty  attack  in  his  bowels, 
which  put  a  period  to  his  existence  after  a 
few  days'  illness,  in  the  month  of  Octobei 
1803.  We  have  since  learned,  that  the  pub- 
lication of  his  posthumous  works,  which  had 
been  begun  by  the  Countess  of  Albany  at 
Milan,  has  been  stopped  by  the  French  gov- 
ernment ;  and  that  several  of  the  manuscripts 
have,  by  the  same  authority,  been  committed 
to  the  flames. 

We  have  not  a  great  deal  to  add  to  this 
copious  and  extraordinary  narrative.  Many 
of  the  peculiarities  of  Alfieri  may  be  safely 
referred  to  the  accident  of  his  birth,  and  the 
errors  of  his  education.  His  ennui,  arrogance, 
and  dissipation,  are  not  very  unlike  those  of 
many  spoiled  youths  of  condition ;  nor  is  there 
any  thing  very  extraordinary  in  his  subse- 
quent application  to  study,  or  the  turn  of  his 
first  political  opinions.  The  peculiar  nature  of 
his  pursuits,  and  the  character  of  his  literary 
productions,  afford  more  curious  matter  for 
speculation. 

In  reflecting  on  the  peculiar  misery  which 
Alfieri  and  some  other  eminent  persons  are 
recorded  to  have  endured,  while  their  minds 
were  withheld  from  any  worthy  occupation, 
we  have  sometimes  been  tempted  to  con- 
clude, that  to  suffer  deeply  from  ennui  is  an 
indication  of  superior  intellect ;  and  that  it  is 
only  to  minds  destined  for  higher  attainments 
that  the  want  of  an  object  is  a  source  of  real 
affliction.  Upon  a  little  reflection,  however, 
w^e  are  disposed  to  doubt  of  the  soundness  of 
this  opinion ;  and  really  cannot  permit  all  the 
shallow  coxcombs  who  languish  under  the 
burden  of  existence,  to  take  themselves,  on 
our  authority,  for  spell-bound  geniuses.  The 
most  powerful  stream,  indeed,  will  stagnate 
the  most  deeply,  and  will  burst  out  to  more 
wild  devastation  w^hen  obstructed  in  its  peace- 
ful course ;  but  the  weakly  current  is,  upon 
the  whole,  most  liable  to  obstruction ;  and  will 
mantle  and  rot  at  least  as  dismally  as  its  bet- 
ters. The  innumerable  blockheads,  in  short, 
who  betake  themselves  to  suicide,  dram- 
drinking,  or  dozing  in  dirty  nightcaps,  will  not 
allow  us  to  suppose  that  there  is  any  real 
connection  between  ennui  and  talent ;  or  that 
fellows  who  are  fit  for  nothing  but  mending 
shoes,  may  not  be  very  miserable  if  they  are 
unfortunately  raised  above  their  proper  occu- 
pation. 

If  it  does  frequently  happen  that  extraor- 
dinary and  vigorous  exertions  are  found  to 
follow  this  heavy  slumber  of  the  faculties, 
the  phenomenon,  we  think,  may  be  explained 
without  giving  any  countenance  to  the  sup- 
position, that  vigorous  faculties  are  most  liable 
to  such  an  obscuration.  In  the  first  place,  the 
relief  and  delight  of  exertion  must  act  with 
more  than  usual  force  upon  a  mind  which  has 
suffered  from  the  want  of  it ;  and  will  be  apt 
to  be  pushed  further  than  in  cases  where  the 
exertion  has  been  more  regular.  The  chief 
cause,  however,  pf  the  signal  success  which 
has  sometimes  attended  those  who  have  been 
rescued  from  ennui,  we  really  believe  to  be 
their  ignorance  of  the  difficulties  they  liave 


152 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


to   encounter,  and   that   inexperience  which 
makes  them  venture  on  undertakings  which 
more  prudent  calculators  would  decline.   We 
have   already  noticed,  more  than  once,  the 
effect  of  early  study  and  familiarity  with  the 
best  models  in  repressing  emulation  by  de- 
span*  j  and  have  endeavoured,  upon  this  prin- 
ciple, to  explain  why  so  many  original  authors 
have  been  in  a  great  degree  without  educa- 
tion     Now,  a  youth  spent  in  lassitude  and 
dissipation  leads  necessarily  to  a  manhood  of 
ignorance  and  inexperience;  and  has  all  the 
advantages,  as  well  as  the  inconveniences,  of 
fouch  a  situation.     If  any  mward  feeling  of 
strength,  ambition,  or  other  extraordinary  im- 
pulse, therefore,  prompt  such  a  person  to  at- 
tempt any  thing  arduous,  it  is  likely  that  he 
"will  go  about  it  with  all  that  rash  and  vehe- 
ment courage  which  results  from  unconscious- 
ness of  the  obstacles  that  are  to  be  overcome : 
and  it  is  needless  to  say  how  often  success  is 
ensured  by  this  confident  and  fortunate  auda- 
city. Thus  Alfieri,  in  the  outset  of  his  literary 
career,  ran  his  head  ag-ainst  dramatic  poetry, 
almost  before  he  knew  what  was  meant  either 
by  poetry  or  the  drama;  and  dashed  out  a 
tragedy   while    but    imperfectly  acquainted 
with  the  language  in  which  he  was  writing, 
and  utterly  ignorant  either  of  the  rules  that 
had  been  delivered,  or  the  models  w^hich  had 
been  created  by  the  genius  of  his  great  prede- 
cessors.    Had  he  been  trained  up  from  his 
early  youth  in  fearful  veneration  for  these 
rales  and  these  models,  it  is  certain  that  he 
would  have  resisted  the  impulse  which  led 
him  to  place  himself,  with  so  little  prepara- 
tion, within  their  danger ;  and  most  probable 
that  he  would  never  have  thought  himself 
qualified  to  answer  the  test  they  required  of 
him.     In  giving  way,  however,  to  this  pro- 
pensity, with  all  the  thoughtless  freedom  and 
vehemence  which  had  characterised  his  other 
indulgences,  he  found  himself  suddenly  em- 
barked in  an  unexpected  undertaking,  and  in 
sight  of  unexpected  distinction.    The  success 
he  had  obtained  with  so  little  knowledge  of 
the  subject,  tempted  him  to  acquire  what  was 
wanting  to  deserve  it ;  and  justified  hopes  and 
stimulated  exertions  which  earlier  reflection 
would,  in  all  probability,  have  for  ever  pre- 
vented. 

The  morality  of  Alfieri  seems  to  have  been 
at  least  as  relaxed  as  that  of  the  degenerate 
nobles,  whom  in  all  other  things  he  professed 
to  reprobate  and  despise.  He  confesses,  with- 
out the  slightest  appearance  of  contrition,  that 
his  general  intercourse  with  women  was  pro- 
fligate in  the  extreme ;  and  has  detailed  the 
particulars  of  three  several  intrigues  with 
married  women,  without  once  appearing  to 
imagine  that  they  could  require  any  apology 
or  expiation.  On  the  contrar}^,  while  record- 
ing the  deplorable  consequences  of  one  of 
them,  he  observes,  with  great  composure, 
that  it  was  distressing  to  him  to  contemplate 
a  degradation,  of  which  he  had,  '•  though  in- 
nocently," been  the  occasion.  The  general 
arrogance  of  his  manners,  too,  and  the  occa- 
:5ional  brutality  of  his  conduct  towards  his 
infcjiorSj  are  far  from  giving  us  an  amiable 


impression  of  his  general  character;  nor  have 
we  been  able  to  find,  in  the  whole  of  these 
confessions,  a  single  trait  of  kindness  of  heart, 
or  generous  philanthropy,  to  place  in  the  bal- 
ance against  so  many  indications  of  selfish 
ness  and  violence.  There  are  proofs  enough, 
indeed,  of  a  firm,  elevated,  and  manly  spirit ; 
but  small  appearance  of  any  thing  gentle,  or 
even,  in  a  moral  sense,  of  any  thing  very  re- 
spectable. In  his  admiration,  in  shoi  t,  of  the 
worthies  of  antiquity,  he  appears  to  have 
copied  their  harshness  and  indelicacy  at  least 
as  faithfully  as  their  loftiness  of  character; 
and.  at  the  same  time,  to  have  combined  w  ith 
it  all  the  licentiousness  and  presumption  of  a 
modern  Itahan  noble. 

We  have  been  somewhat  perplexed  with 
his  politics.  After  speaking  as  we  have  seen, 
of  the  mild  government  of  the  kings  of  Sar- 
dinia,— after  adding  that,  "when  he  had  read 
Plutarch  and  visited  England,  he  felt  the  most 
unsurmountable  repugnance  at  marrying,  or 
having  his  children  born  at  Turin," — after  re- 
cording that  a  monarch  is  a  master,  and  a 
subject  a  slave. — and  --that  he  shed  tears  of 
mingled  grief  and  rage  at  having  been  born 
in  such  a  state  as  Piedmont :" — after  all  this 
— after  giving  up  his  estates  to  escape  from 
this  bondage,  and  after  writing  his  books  on 
the  Tiranide,  and  his  odes  on  American  lib- 
erty,— we  really  were  prepared  to  find  him 
taking  the  popular  side,  at  the  outset  at  least 
of  the  French  Revolution,  and  exulting  in  the 
downfal  of  one  of  those  hateful  despotisms, 
against  the  whole  system  of  which  he  had 
previously  inveighed  with  no  extraordinary 
moderation.  Instead  of  this,  however,  we 
find  him  abusing  the  revolutionists,  and  ex- 
tolling their  opponents  with  all  the  zeal  of  a 
professed  antijacobin, — writing  an  eulogium 
on  the  dethroned  monarch  like  Mr.  Pybus, 
and  an  Antigallican  like  Peter  Porcupine. 
Now,  we  are  certainly  very  far  from  saying, 
that  a  true  friend  of  liberty  might  not  exe- 
crate the  proceedings  of  the  French  revolu- 
tionists; but  a  professed  hater  of  royalty 
might  have  felt  more  indulgence  for  the  new 
republic ;  such  a  crazy  zealot  for  liberty,  as 
Alfieri  showed  himself  in  Italy,  both  by  his 
writings  and  his  conduct,  might  well  have 
been  carried  away  by  that  promise  of  eman- 
cipation to  France,  which  deluded  sounder 
heads  than  his  in  all  the  countries  of  Europe. 
There  are  two  keys,  we  think,  in  the  work 
before  us,  to  this  apparent  inconsistency. 
Alfieri,  with  all  his  abhorrence  of  tyrants, 
was,  in  his  heart,  a  great  lover  of  aristocracy; 
and,  he  had  a  great  spite  and  antipathy  at 
the  French  nation,  collectively  and  individ- 
ually. 

Though  professedly  a  republican,  it  is  easy 
to  see,  that  the  repulDlic  he  wanted  was  one 
on  the  Roman  model, — where  there  were 
Patricians  as  well  as  Plebeians,  and  where  a 
man  of  great  talents  had  even  a  good  chance 
of  being  one  day  appointed  Dictator.  He  did 
not  admire  kings  indeed, — because  he  did  not 
happen  to  be  bom  one,  and  because  they 
were  the  only  beings  to  whom  he  was  born 
inferior :  but  he  had  the  utmost  veneration 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  VICTOR  ALFIERI. 


153 


for  nobles, — because  fortune  had  placed  him 
hi  that  order,  and  because  the  power  and  dis- 
tmction  which  belonged  to  it  were  agreeable 
to  him,  and,  he  thought,  would  be  exercised 
for  the  good  of  his  inferiors.  When  he  heard 
that  Voltaire  had  written  a  tragedy  on  the 
story  of  Brutus,  he  fell  into  a  great  passion, 
and  exclaimed,  that  the  subject  was  too  lofty 
for  "a  French  plebeian,  who,  during  twenty 
years,  had  subscribed  himself  gentleman  in 
ordinary  to  the  King !" 

This  love  of  aristocracy,  however,  will  not 
explain  the  defence  of  monarchy  and  the  abuse 
of  republics,  which  formed  the  substance  of  his 
Antigallican.  But  the  truth  is,  that  he  was 
antigallican  from  his  youth  up;  and  would 
never  have  forgiven  that  nation,  if  they  had 
succeeded  in  establishing  a  free  government^ 
— especially  while  Italy  wag  in  boriuage. 
The  contempt  which  Voltaire  had  expressed 
for  Italian  literature,  and  the  general  degra- 
dation into  which  the  national  character  had 
fallen,  had  sunk  deep  into  his  fierce  and 
haughty  spirit,  and  inspired  him  with  an 
antipathy  towards  that  people  by  whom  his 
own  countrymen  had  been  subdued,  ridiculed, 
and  outshone.  This  paltry  and  vindictive  feel- 
ing leads  him,  throughout  this  whole  work, 
to  speak  of  them  in  the  most  unjust  and  un- 
candid  terms.  There  may  be  some  truth  in 
his  remarks  on  the  mean  and  meagre  articu- 
lation of  their  language^  and  on  their  "horri- 
ble Uj  with  their  thin  lips  drawn  in  to  pro- 
nounce it,  as  if  they  were  blowing  hot  soup." 
Nay,  we  could  even  excuse  the  nationality 
which  leads  him  to  declare,  that  "'he  would 
rather  be  the  author  of  ten  good  Italian  verses, 
than  of  volumes  written  in  English  or  French^ 
or  any  such  harsh  and  unharmonious  jargon, — 
though  their  cannon  and  their  armies  should 
continue  to  render  these  languages  fashion- 
able." But  we  cannot  believe  in  the  sinceri- 
ty of  an  amorous  Italian,  who  declares,  that 
he  never  could  get  through  the  first  volume 
of  Rousseau's  Heloise  ;  or  of  a  modern  author 
of  regulai-  dramas,  who  professes  to  see  nothing 
at  all  admirable  in  the  tragedies  of  Racine  or 
Voltaire.  It  is  evident  to  us,  that  he  grudged 
those  great  writers  the  glory  that  was  due  to 
them,  out  of  a  vindictive  feeling  of  national 
resentment:  and  that,  for  the  same  reason, 
he  grudged  the  French  nation  the  freedom,  in 
which  he  would  otherwise  have  been  among 
the  first  to  believe  and  to  exult. 

It  only  remains  to  say  a  word  or  two  of  the 
literary  productions  of  this  extraordinary  per- 
son;— a  theme,  however  interesting  awd  at- 
tractive, upon  which  we  can  scarcely  pretend 
to  enter  on  the  present  occasion.  We  have 
not  yet  been  able  to  procure-  a  complete  copy 
of  the  works  of  Alfieri ;  and,  even  of  those 
which  have  been  lately  transmitted  to  us,  we 
will  confess  that  a  considerable  portion  re- 
mains to  be  perused.  We  have  seen  enough, 
however,  to  satisfy  us  that  they  are  deserving 
of  a  careful  analysis,  and  that  a  free  and  en- 
lightened estimate  of  their  merit  may  be  ren- 
dered both  interesting  and  instructive  to  the 
greater  part  of  our  readers.  We  hope  soon  to 
be  in  a  condition  to  attempt  this  task;  and 


shall,  in  the  mean  time,  confine  ourselves  to 
a  very  few  observations  suggested  by  the 
style  and  character  of  the  tragedies  with 
which  we  have  been  for  some  time  ac- 
quainted. 

These  pieces  approach  much  nearer  to  the 
ancient  Grecian  model,  than  any  other  mod- 
ern production  with  which  we  are  acquaint- 
ed; in  the  simplicity  of  the  plot,  the  fewness 
of  the  persons,  the  directness  of  the  action, 
and  the  uniformity  and  elaborate  gravity  oi 
the  composition.  Infinitely  less  declamatory 
than  the  French  tragedies,  they  have  less 
brilliancy  and  variety,  and  a  deeper  tone  of 
dignity  and  nature.  As  they  have  not  adopt- 
ed the  choral  songs  of  the  Greek  stage,  how- 
ever, they  are,  on  the  whole,  less  poetical 
than  those  ancient  compositions;  although 
they  are  worked  throughout  with  a  fine  and 
careful  hand,  and  diligently  purified  from 
every  thing  ignoble  or  feeble  in  the  expres- 
sion. The  author's  anxiety  to  keep  clear  of 
figures  of  mere  ostentation,  and  to  exchide  all 
showpieces  of  fine  writing  in  a  dialogue  of 
deep  interest  or  impetuous  passion,  has  be- 
trayed him,  on  some  occasions,  into  too  sen- 
tentious and  strained  a  diction,  and  given  an 
air  of  labour  and  heaviness  to  many  parts  of 
his  composition.  He  has  felt,  perhaps  a  little 
too  constantly,  that  the  cardinal  virtue  of  a 
dramatic  writer  is  to  keep  his  personages  to 
the  business  and  the  concerns  that  lie  before 
them ;  and  by  no  means  to  let  them  turn  to 
moral  philosophers,  or  rhetorical  describers  of 
their  own  emotions.  But,  in  his  zealous  ad- 
herence to  this  good  maxim,  he  seems  some- 
times to  have  forgotten,  that  certain  passions 
are  declamatory  in  nature  as  well  as  on  the 
stage;  and  that,  at  any  rate,  they  do  not  all 
vent  themselves  in  concise  and  pithy  sayings, 
but  run  occasionally  injo  hyperbole  and  am- 
plification. As  11  is  the  great  excellence,  so 
it  is  occasionally  the  chief  fault  of  Alfieri'.s 
dialogue,  that  every  word  is  honestly  em- 
ployed to  help  forward  the  action  of  the  play, 
by  serious  argument,  necessary  narrative,  or 
the  direct  expression  of  natural  emotion. 
There  are  no  excursions  or  digressions, — no 
episodical  conversations, — and  none  but  the 
most  brief  moralizings.  This  gives  a  certain 
air  of  solidity  to  the  whole  structure  of  the 
piece,  that  is  apt  to  prove  oppressive  to  an  or- 
dinary reader,  and  reduces  the  entire  drama 
to  too  great  uniformity. 

We  make  these  remarks  chiefly  with  a  ref- 
erence to  French  tragedy.  For  our  own 
part,  we  believe  that  those  who  are  duly  sen- 
sible of  the  merits  of  Shakespeare,  will  never 
be  much  struck  with  any  other  dramatical 
compositions.  There  are  no  other  plays,  in- 
deed, that  paint  human  nature, — that  strike 
off"  the  characters  of  men  with  all  the  fresh- 
ness and  sharpness  of  the  original, — and 
speak  the  language  of  all  the  passions,  not 
like  a  mimic,  but  an  echo — neither  softer  nor 
louder,  nor  differently  modulated  from  the 
spontaneous  utterance  of  the  heart.  In  these 
respects  he  disdains  all  comparison  with  Al- 
fieri, or  with  any  other  mortal:  nor  is  it  fair^ 
perhaps,  to  suggest  a  comparison,  where  na 


154 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


rivalry  can  be  imagined.  Alfieri,  like  all  the 
continental  dramatists,  considers  a  tragedy  as 
a  poem.  In  England,  we  look  upon  it  rather 
as  a  representation  of  character  and  passion. 
With  them,  of  course,  the  style  and  diction, 
and  the  congruity  and  proportions  of  the 
piece,  are  the  main  objects: — with  us,  the 
truth  and  the  force  of  the  imitation.  It  is  suf- 
ficient for  them,  if  there  be  character  and 
action  enough  to  prevent  the  composition  from 
languishing,  and  to  give  spirit  and  propriety 
to  the  polished  dialogue  of  which  it  consists ;  I 
— we  are  satisfied,  if  there  be  management 
enough  in  the  story  not  to  shock  credibility 
entirely,  and  beauty  and  polish  enough  in  the 
diction  to  exclude  disgust  or  derision.  In  his 
own  way,  Alfieri,  we  think,  is  excellent.  His 
fables  are  all  admirably  contrived  and  com- 
pletely developed ;  his  dialogue  is  copious  and 
progressive;  and  his  characters  all  deliver 
natural  sentiments  with  great  beauty,  and 
often  with  great  force  of  expression.  In  our 
eyes,  however,  it  is  a  fault  that  the  fable  is  too 
simple,  and  the  incidents  too  scanty;  and  that 
all  the  characters  express  themselves  with 
equal  felicity,  and  urge  their  opposite  views 
and  pretensions  with  equal  skill  and  plausi- 
bility. We  see  at  once,  that  an  ingenious 
author  has  versified  the  sum  of  a  dialogue ; 
and  never,  for  a  moment,  imagine  that  we 
hear  the  real  persons  contending.  There  may 
be  more  eloquence  and  dignity  in  this  style 
of  dramatising; — there  is  infinitely  more  de- 
ception in  ours. 

With  regard  to  the  diction  of  these  pieces, 
itisnotfor  tramontane  critics  to  presume  to 


offer  any  opinion.  They  aie  considered  in 
Italy,  we  believe,  as  the  purest  specimens  of 
the  javella  Toscana  that  late  ages  have  pro- 
duced. To  us  they  certainly  seem  to  want 
something  of  that  flow  and  sweetness  to  which 
we  have  been  accustomed  in  Italian  poetry, 
and  to  be  formed  rather  upon  the  model  of 
Dante  than  of  Petrarca.  At  all  events,  it  is 
obvious  that  the  style  is  highly  elaborate  and 
artificial;  and  that  the  author  is  constantly 
striving  to  give  it  a  sort  of  factitious  force  and 
energy,  by  the  use  of  condensed  and  em- 
phatic expressions,  interrogatories,  antitheses, 
and  short  and  inverted  sentences.  In  all 
these  respects,  as  well  as  in  the  chastised 
gravity  of  the  sentiments,  and  the  temperance 
and  propriety  of  all  the  delineations  of  pas- 
sion, these  pieces  are  exactly  the  reverse  of 
what  we  should  have  expected  from  the  fiery, 
fickle,  and  impatient  character  of  the  author. 
From  all  that  Alfieri  has  told  us  of  himself, 
we  should  have  expected  to  find  in  his  pi  ay  a 
great  vehemence  and  irregular  eloquence — 
subhme  and  extravagant  sentiments — pas- 
sions rising  to  frenzy — and  poetry  swelling 
into  bombast.  Instead  of  this,  we  have  a  sub- 
dued and  concise  representation  of  energetic 
discourses — passions,  not  loud  but  deep — and 
a  style  so  severely  correct  and  scmpulously 
pure,  as  to  indicate,  even  to  unskilful  eyes, 
the  great  labour  w-hich  must  have  been  be- 
stowed on  its  purification.  No  characters  can 
be  more  different  than  that  which  we  should 
infer  from  reading  the  tragedies  of  Alfieri,  and 
that  which  he  has  assigned  to  himself  in  these 
authentic  memoirs. 


(3lpril,   1803.) 

The  Life  and  Posthumous  Writings  of  William  Cowper,  Esq.  With  an  Introductory  Letter 
to  the  Right  Honourable  Earl  Cowper.  By  William  Hayley,  Esq.  2  vols.  4to.  Chi- 
chester: 1803. 


This  book  is  too  long;  but  it  is  composed 
on  a  plan  that  makes  prolixity  unavoidable. 
Instead  of  an  account  of  the  poet's  life,  and  a 
view  of  his  character  and  performances,  the 
biographer  has  laid  before  the  public  a  large 
selection  from  his  private  correspondence,and 
merely  inserted  as  much  narrative  between 
each  series  of  letters,  as  was  necessary  to  pre- 
Beive  their  connection,  and  make  the  subject 
of  them  intelligible. 

This  scheme  of  biography,  which  was  first 
introduced,  we  believe,  by  Mason,  in  his  life 
of  Gray,  has  many  evident  advantages  in 
point  of  liveliness  of  colouring,  and  fidelity 
of  representation.  It  is  something  intermediate 
between  the  egotism  of  confessions^  and  the 
questionable  narrative  of  a  surviving  friend, 
who  must  be  partial,  and  may  be  mistaken  : 
It  enables  the  reader  to  judge  for  himself, 
from  materials  that  weie  not  provided  for  the 
purpose  of  determining  his  judgment;  and 
holds  up  to  him,  instead  of  a  flattering  or  un- 
faithful portrait,  the   living^  lineaments  and 


features  of  the  person  it  intends  to  commemo- 
rate. It  is  a  plan,  however,  that  requires  so 
much  room  for  its  execution,  and  consequently 
so  much  money  and  so  much  leisure  in  those 
who  wish  to  be  masters  of  it,  that  it  ought  to 
be  reserved,  we  conceive,  for  those  great  and 
eminent  characters  that  are  likely  to  excite 
an  interest  among  all  orders  and  generations 
of  mankind.  While  the  biography  of  Shake- 
speare and  Bacon  shrinks  into  tHe  corner  of 
an  octavo,  we  can  scarcely  help  Mondering 
that  the  history  of  the  sequestered  life  and 
solitary  studies  of  Cowper  should  have  ex- 
tended into  two  quarto  volumes. 

The  little  Mr.  Hayley  writes  in  these  vol- 
umes is  bv  no  means  well  written ;  though 
certainly  distinguished  by  a  very  amiable 
gentleness  of  temper,  and  the  strongest  ap- 
pearance of  sincere  veneration  and  affection 
for  the  departed  friend  to  whose  memory  it  is 
consecrated.  It  will  be  very  hard,  too,  if  they 
do  not  become  popular ;  as  Mr.  Hayley  seems 
to  have  exerted  himself  to  conciliate  readers 


HAYLEY'S  LIFE  OF  COWPER, 


155 


of  every  description,  not  only  by  the  most 
lavish  and  indiscriminate  praise  of  every  in- 
dividual he  has  occasion  to  mention,  but  by  a 
general  spirit  of  approbation  and  indulgence 
towards  every  practice  and  opinion  which  he 
has  found  it  necessary  to  speak  of.  Among 
the  other  symptoms  of  book  making  which  this 
publication  contains,  we  can  scarcely  forbear 
reckonir  g  the  expressions  of  this  too  obsequious 
and  unoffending  philanthropy. 

The  constitutional  shyness  and  diffidence 
of  Cowper  appeared  in  his  earliest  childhood, 
and  was  not  subdued  in  any  degree  by  the 
bustle  and  contention  of  a  Westminster  edu- 
cation ;  where,  though  he  acquired  a  consid- 
erable portion  of  classical  learning,  he  has 
himself  declared,  that  "  he  w^as  never  able  to 
raise  his  eye  above  the  shoe-buckles  of  the 
elder  boys,  who  tyrannized  over  him."  From 
this  seminary,  he  seems  to  have  passed,  with- 
out any  academical  preparation,  into  the  So- 
ciety of  the  Inner  Temple,  \vhere  he  continued 
to  reside  to  the  age  of  thirty-three.  Neither 
his  biographer  nor  his  letters  give  any  satis- 
factory account  of  the  way  in  which  this  large 
and  most  important  part  of  his  life  was  spent. 
Although  Lord  Thurlow  was  one  of  his  most 
intimate  associates,  it  is  certain  that  he  never 
made  any  proficiency  in  the  study  of  the  law; 
and  the  few  slight  pieces  of  composition,  in 
which  he  appears  to  have  been  engaged  in 
this  interval,  are  but  a  scanty  produce  for  fif- 
teen years  of  literary  leisure.  That  a  part  of 
those  years  was  very  idly  spent,  indeed,  ap- 

f)ears  from  his  own  account  of  them.     In  a 
etter  to  his  cousin,  in  1786,  he  says, 

"  I  did  actually  live  three  years  with  Mr.  Chap- 
man, a  sohcitor ;  that  is  to  say,  I  slept  three  years 
in  his  house  ;  but  I  hved,  that  is  to  say,  I  spent  my 
days  ill  Southampton  Row,  as  you  very  well  re- 
member. There  was  I,  and  the  future  Lord  Chan- 
cellor, constantly  employed,  from  morning  tonight, 
in  giggling,  and  making  giggle,  instead  of  studying 
the  law."— Vol.  i.  p.  178. 

And  in  a  more  serious  letter  to  Mr.  Rose, 
he  makes  the  following  just  observations. 

"  The  colour  of  our  whole  life  is  generally  such 
as  the  three  or  four  first  years,  in  wiiich  we  are  our 
own  masters,  make  it.  Then  it  is  that  we  may  be 
said  to  shape  our  own  destiny,  and  to  treasure  up 
for  ourselves  a  series  of  future  successes  or  disap- 
pointments. Had  I  employed  my  time  as  wisely  as 
you,  in  a  situation  very  similar  to  yours,  I  had  never 
been  a  poet  perhaps,  but  I  might  by  this  time  have 
acquired  a  character  of  more  importance  in  soci- 
ety ;  a  situation  in  which  my  friends  would  have 
been  better  pleased  to  see  me.  But  three  years 
misspent  in  an  attorney's  office,  were  almost  of 
course  followed  by  several  more  equally  misspent 
in  the  Temple ;  and  the  consequence  has  been,  as 
the  Italian  epitaph  says,  "  Stoqui.^' — The  only  use 
I  can  make  of  myself  now,  at  least  the  best,  is  to 
serve  i?i  lerrorem  to  •others,  when  occasion  may 
happen  to  offer,  that  they  may  escape  (so  far  as  my 
admonitions  can  have  any  weight  with  them)  my 
folly  and  my  fate."— Vol.  i.  pp.  333,  334. 

Neither  the  idleness  of  this  period,  however, 
nor  the  gaiety  in  which  it  appears  to  have 
been  wasted,  had  corrected  that  radical  defect 
in  his  constitution,  by  which  he  was  disabled 
from  making  any  pr.blic  display  of  his  acqui- 
sitions :  and  it  was  the  excess  of  this  diffi- 


dence, if  we  rightly  understand  his  biographer, 
that  was  the  immediate  cause  of  the  unfor- 
tunate derangement  that  overclouded  the  re- 
mainder of  his  life.  In  his  thirty-first  year, 
his  friends  procured  for  him  the  office  of 
reading-clerk  to  the  House  of  Lords  :  but  the 
idea  of  reading  in  public,  was  the  source  of 
such toiture  and  apprehension  to  him,  tliat  ho 
very  soon  resigned  that  place,  and  had  interest 
enough  to  exchange  it  for  that  of  clerk  of  the 
journals,  which  was  supposed  to  require  no 
personal  attendance.  An  uiducky  dispute  in 
Parliament,  however,  made  it  necessary  for 
him  to  appear  in  his  place ;  and  the  conse- 
quences of  this  requisition  are  stated  by  Mr. 
Hayley.  in  the  following,  not  very  lucid,  ac- 
count. 

"  His  terrors  on  this  occasion  arose  to  such  an 
astonishing  height,  that  they  utterly  overwhelmed 
his  reason  :  for  although  he  had  endeavoured  to 
prepare  himself  for  his  public  duty,  by  attending 
closely  at  the  office  for  several  months,  to  examine 
the  parliamentary  journals,  his  application  was  ren- 
dered useless  by  that  excess  of  diffidence,  which 
made  him  conceive,  that  whatever  knowledge  he 
might  previously  acquire,  it  would  all  forsake  him 
at  the  bar  of  the  House.  This  distressing  appre- 
hension increased  to  such  a  degree,  as  the  time  for 
his  appearance  approached,  that  when  the  day  so 
anxiously  dreaded  arrived,  he  was  unable  to  make 
the  experiment.  The  very  friends,  who  called  on 
him  for  the  purpose  of  attending  him  to  the  House 
of  Lords,  acquiesced  in  the  cruel  necessity  of  relin- 
quishing the  prospect  of  a  station  so  severely  for- 
midable to  a  frame  of  such  singular  sensibility." 

"  The  conflict  between  the  wishes  of  Just  affec- 
tionate ambition,  and  the  terrors  of  diffidence,  so 
entirely  overwhelmed  his  health  and  faculties,  that 
after  two  learned  and  benevolent  divines  (Mr.  John 
Cowper,  his  brother,  and  the  celebrated  Mr.  Mar- 
tin Madan,  his  first  cousin)  had  vainly  endeavoured 
to  establish  a  lasting  tranquillity  in  his  mind,  by 
friendly  and  rehgious  conversation,  it  was  found 
necessary  to  remove  him  to  St.  Alban's,  where  he 
resided  a  considerable  time,  under  the  care  of  that 
eminent  physician  Dr.  Cotton,  a  scholar  and  a  poet, 
who  added  to  many  accomplishments  a  peculiar 
sweetness  of  manners,  in  very  advanced  hfe,  when 
I  had  the  pleasure  of  a  personal  acquaintance  with 
him." — Vol.  i.  pp.  25,  26. 

In  this  melancholy  state  he  continued  for 
upwards  of  a  year,  when  his  mind  began 
slqwly  to  emerge  from  the  depression  under 
which  it  had  laboured,  and  to  seek  for  con- 
solation in  the  study  of  the  Scriptures,  and 
other  religious  occupations.  In  the  city  of 
Huntingdon,  to  which  he  had  been  removed 
in  his  illness,  he  now  formed  an  acquaintance 
with  the  family  of  the  Reverend  Mr.  Unwin, 
with  whose  widow  the  greater  part  of  his  after 
life  was  passed.  The  series  of  letters,  which 
Mr.  Hayley  has  introduced  in  this  place,  are 
altogether  of  a  devotional  cast,  and  bear  evi- 
dent symptoms  of  continuing  depression  and 
anxiety.  He  talks  a  great  deal  of  his  conver- 
sion, of  the  levity  and  worldliness  of  his 
former  life,  and  of  the  grace  which  had  at  last 
been  vouchsafed  to  him ;  and  seems  so  entirely 
and  constantly  absorbed  in  those  awful  medi- 
tations, as  to  consider  not  only  the  occupations 
of  his  earlier  days,  but  all  temporal  businesa 
or  amusement,  as  utterly  unworthy  of  his  at- 
tention. We  do  not  think  it  necessary  to  maka 


156 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


any  extract  from  this  part  of  the  pubhcation ; 
and  perhaps  Mr..Hayley  might  have  spared 
some  of  the  methodistical  raptures  and  dissert- 
ations that  are  contained  in  those  letters, 
without  any  injury  either  to  the  memory  of 
his  friend^  or  the  reputation  of  his  own  per- 
formance. 

After  the  death  of  Mr.  Unwin,  he  retired 
with  his  widow  to  the  village  of  Olney  in 
1768,  where  he  continued  in  the  same  pious 
and  sequestered  habits  of  life  till  the  year 
1772,  when  a  second  and  more  protracted 
visitation  of  the  same  tremendous  malady  ob- 
scured his  faculties  for  a  melancholy  period 
of  eight  years ;  during  which  he  was  attended 
by  Mrs.  Unwin  with  a  constancy  and  tender- 
ness of  affection,  which  it  was  the  great  busi- 
ness of  his  after  life  to  repay.  In  1780,  he 
began  gradually  to  recover;  and  in  a  letter 
of  that  year  to  his  cousin,  describes  himself 
in  this  manner : 

"You  see  me  sixteen  years  older,  at  the  least, 
than  when  I  saw  you  last ;  but  the  effects  of  time 
seem  to  have  taken  place  rather  on  the  outside  of 
my  head  than  within  it.  What  was  brown  is  be- 
come grey,  but  what  was  foolish  remains  foolish 
still.  Green  fruit  must  rot  before  it  ripens,  if  the 
season  is  such  as  to  afford  it  nothing  but  cold  winds 
and  dark  clouds,  that  interrupt  every  ray  of  sunshine. 
My  days  steal  away  silently,  and  march  on  (as  poor 
mad  King  Lear  would  have  made  his  soldiers 
march)  as  if  they  were  shod  with  felt !  Not  so 
silently  but  that  I  hear  them  ;  yet  were  it  not  that  I 
am  always  listening  to  their  flight,  having  rto  in- 
firmity that  I  had  not  when  I  was  much  younger,  I 
should  deceive  myself  with  an  imagination  that  I 
am  still  young." — Vol.  i.  pp.  96,  97. 

One  of  the  first  applications  of  his  returning 
powers  was  to  the  taming  and  education  of 
the  three  young  hares,  which  he  has  since 
celebrated  in  his  poetry :  and,  very  soon  after, 
the  solicitations  of  his  affectionate  companion 
first  induced  him  to  prepare  some  moral  pieces 
for  publication,  in  the  hope  of  giving  a  salu- 
tary emplo}Tiient  to  his  mind.  At  the  age  of 
fifty,  therefore,  and  at  a  distance  from  all  the 
excitements  that  emulation  and  ambition  usu- 
ally hold  out  to  a  poet,  Cowper  began  to  write 
for  the  public,  with  the  view  of  diverting  his 
own  melancholy,  and  doing  service  to  the 
cause  of  morality.  Whatever  effect  his  pub- 
lications had  on  the  world,  the  composition 
of  them  certainly  had  a  most  beneficial  one 
on  himself.     In  a  letter  to  his  cousin  he  says, 

"  Dejection  of  spirits,  which  I  suppose  may  have 
prevented  many  a  man  from  becoming  an  author, 
made  me  one.  I  find  constant  employment  neces- 
sary, and  therefore  take  care  to  be  constantly  em- 
ployed.— Manual  occupations  do  not  engage  the 
mind  sufficiently,  as  I  know  by  experience,  having 
tried  many.  But  composition,  especially  of  verse, 
absorbs  it  wholly.  I  write,  therefore,  generally 
three  hours  in  a  morning,  and  in  an  evening  I 
transcribe.  I  read  also,  but  less  than  I  write." — 
Vol.  i.  p.  147. 

There  is  another  passage  in  which  he  talks 
of  his  performance  in  so  light  and  easy  a 
manner,  and  assumes  so  much  of  the  pleasing, 
though  antiquated  language  of  Pope  and  Ad- 
dison, that  we  cannot  resist  extracting  it. 

"My  labours  are  principally  the  production  of 
last  winter;  all  indeed,  except  a  few  of  the  minor 


pieces.  When  I  can  flrd  no  other  occupation,  I 
think;  and  when  I  think,  I  am  very  apt  to  do  it  in 
rhyme.  Hence  it  comes  to  pass,  that  the  season 
of  the  year  which  generally  pinches  off  the  flowera 
of  poetry,  unfolds  mine,  such  as  they  are,  and 
crowns  me  with  a  winter  garland.  In  this  respect, 
therefore,  I  and  my  contemporary  bards  are  by  no 
means  upon  a  par.  They  write  when  the  delightful 
influence  of  fine  weather,  fine  prospects,  and  a  brisk 
motion  of  the  animal  spirits,  make  poetry  almost  the 
language  of  nature  ;  and  I,  when  icicles  depend  from 
all  the  leaves  of  the  Parnassian  laurel,  and  when  a 
reasonable  man  would  as  little  expect  to  succeed  in 
verse,  as  to  hear  a  blackbird  whistle.  This  must 
be  my  apology  to  you  for  whatever  want  of  fire  and 
animation  you  may  observe  in  what  you  will  shortly 
have  the  perusal  of.  As  to  the  public,  if  they  like 
me  not,  there  is  no  remedy." — Vol.  i.  pp.  105,  10(3. 

The  success  of  his  first  volume,  which  ap- 
peared in  the  end  of  the  year  1781,  was  by 
no  means  such  as  to  encourage  him  to  proceed 
to  a  second ;  and,  indeed,  it  seems  now  to  be 
admitted  by  every  body  but  Mr.  Hayley,  thai 
it  was  not  well  calculated  for  becoming  popu- 
lar. Too  serious  for  the  general  reader,  it 
had  too  much  satire,  wit.  and  criticism,  to  be 
a  favourite  with  the  devout  and  enthusiastic : 
the  principal  poems  were  also  too  long  and 
desultory,  and  the  versification  throughout  was 
more  harsh  and  negligent,  than  the  public  had 
yet  been  accustomed  to.  The  book  therefore 
was  very  little  read,  till  the  increasing  fame 
of  the  author  brought  all  his  works  into  notice ; 
and  then,  indeed,  it  was  discovered,  that  it 
contained  many  traits  of  strong  and  original 
genius,  and  a  richness  of  idiomatical  phrase- 
ology, that  has  been  but  seldom  equalled  in 
our  language. 

In  the  end  of  this  year,  Co\vper  formed  an 
accidental  acquaintance  with  the  widow  of  Sir 
Thomas  Austen,  which,  in  spite  of  his  insuper- 
able shyness,  ripened  gradually  into  a  mutual 
and  cordial  friendship,  and  was  the  immediate 
source  of  some  of  his  happiest  hours,  and 
most  celebrated  productions. — The  facetious 
history  of  "  John  Gilpin"  arose  from  a  sug- 
gestion of  that  lady,  in  circumstances  and  in 
a  way  that  marks  the  perilous  and  moody 
state  of  Cowper's  understanding  more  strik- 
ingly perhaps  than  any  general  description. 

"It  happened  one  afternoon,  in  those  years, 
when  his  accomplished  friend  Lady  Austen  made  a 
part  of  his  little  evening  circle,  that  she  observed 
him  sinking  into  increasing  dejection ;  it  was  her 
custom,  on  these  occasions,  to  try  all  the  resources 
of  her  sprightly  powers  for  his  immediate  relief. 
She  told  him  the  story  of  John  Gilpin  (which  had 
been  treasured  in  her  memory  from  her  childhood)  to 
dissipate  the  gloom  of  the  passing  hour.  Its  effects 
on  the  fancy  of  Cowper  had  the  air  of  enchantment. 
He  informed  her  the  next  morning,  that  co7ivulsxons 
of  laughter,  brought  on  by  his  recollection  of  her 
story,  had  kept  him  waking  during  the  greatest  part 
of  the  night !  and  that  he  had  turned  it  into  a  ballad. 
— So  arose  the  pleasant  poem  of  John  Gilpin." — 
Vol.  i.  pp.  128,  129. 

In  the  course  of  the  year  1783,  however, 
Lady  Austen  was  fortunate  enougn  to  direct 
the  poet  to  a  work  of  much  greater  importance ; 
and  to  engage  him,  from  a  very  accidental 
circumstance,  in  the  composition  of  "The 
Task,"  by  far  the  best  and  the  most  popular 
of  all  his  performances.  The  anecdote,  which 
is  such  as  the  introduction  of  that  poem  has 


HAYLEY'S  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 


15Y 


probably  suggssted  to  most  readers,  is  given 
iu  this  manner  by  Mr.  Hayley. 

•'  This  lady  happened,  as  an  admirer  of  Milton, 
to  be  partial  to  blank  verse,  and  often  solicited  her 
poetical  friend  to  try  his  powers  in  that  species  of 
composition.  After  repeated  solicitation,  he  pro- 
mised her,  if  she  would  furnish  the  subject,  to  com- 
ply with  her  request.  '  Oh  !'  she  replied,  '  you  can 
never  be  in  want  of  a  subject , — you  can  write  upon 
any — write  upon  this  sola!'  The  poet  obeyed  her 
command;  and,  from  the  lively  repartee  of  familiar 
conversation,  arose  apoem  of  many  thousand  verses, 
unexampled,  perhaps,  both  in  its  origin  and  excel- 
lence."— Vol.  i.  p.  135. 

This  extraordinary  production  was  finished 
in  less  than  a  year,  and  became  extremely 
popular  from  the  very  first  month  of  its  publica- 
tion. The  charm  of  reputation,  however,  could 
not  draw  Cowper  from  his  seclusion ;  and  his 
solitude  became  still  more  dreary  about  this 
period,  by  the  cessation  of  his  intercourse 
with  Lady  Austen,  with  whom  certain  little 
jealousies  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Unwin  (which 
the  biographer  might  as  well  have  passed 
over  in  silence)  obliged  him  to  renounce  any 
farther  connection.  Besides  the  Task  and 
John  Gilpin,  he  appears  to  have  composed 
several  smaller  poems  for  this  lady,  which  are 
published,  for  the  first  time,  in  the  work  now 
before  us.  We  w^ere  particularly  struck  with 
a  ballad  on  the  unfortunate  loss  of  the  Royal 
George,  of  which  the  following  stanzas  may 
serve  as  a  specimen. 

"  Toll  for  the  brave ! 

Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone  ; 
His  last  seafight  is  fought ; 
His  work  of  glory  done. 

"  It  was  not  in  the  battle  ; 

No  tempest  gave  the  shock  ; 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak  ; 
She  rarf  upon  no  rock. 

"  His  sword  was  in  its  sheath ; 
His  fingers  held  the  pen. 
When  Kempenfelt  went  down, 
With  twice  four  hundred  men. 

Vol.  i.  p.  127. 

The  same  year  that  saw  the  conclusion  of 
^'  The  Task,"  found  Cowper  engaged  in  the 
translation  of  Homer.  This  laborious  under- 
taking, is  said,  by  Mr.  Hayley,  to  have  been 
first  suggested  to  him  by  Lady  Austen  also; 
though  there  is  nothing  in  the  correspondence 
he  has  published,  that  seems  to  countenance 
that  idea.  The  work  M^as  pretty  far  advanced 
before  he  appears  to  have  confided  the  secret 
of  it  to  any  one.  In  a  letter  to  Mr.  Hill,  he 
explains  his  design  in  this  manner : 

'*  Knowing  it  to  have  been  universally  the  opinion 
of  the  literati,  ever  sirrce  they  have  allowed  them- 
Belves  to  consider  the  matter  coolly,  that  a  transla- 
tion, properly  so  called,  of  Homer,  is,  notwithstand- 
ing what  Pope  has  done,  a  desideratum  in  the 
English  language,  it  struck  me,  that  an  attempt  to 
supply  the  deficiency  would  be  an  honourable  one ; 
and  having  made  myself,  in  former  years,  some- 
what critically  a  master  of  the  original,  I  was,  by 
this  double  translation,  induced  to  make  the  attempt 
myself.  I  am  now  translating  into  blank  verse 
the  last  book  of  the  Iliad,  and  mean  to  publish  by 
subscription." — Vol.  i.  p.  154. 

Some  observations  that  were  made  by  Dr. 
Maty  and  others,  upon  a  specimen  of  his  I 


translation,  about  this  time,  seem  to  have 
drawn  from  him  the  following  curious  and 
unaffected  delineation  of  his  own  thoughts  and 
feelings. 

"I  am  not  ashamed  to  confess,  that  having  com- 
menced an  author,  I  am  most  abundantly  desirous 
to  succeed  as  such.  /  have  {what  perJiaps  you  little 
suspect  me  of)  in  my  nature,  an  injlnite  share  of  am- 
bition. But  with  it,  I  have  at  the  same  tirne,  as 
you  well  know,  an  equal  share  of  diffidence.  Tc 
this  combination  of  opposite  quaUties  it  has  beer 
owing,  that,  till  lately,  I  stole  through  life  without 
undertaking  any  thing,  yet  always  wishing  to  dis- 
tinguish myself  At  last'l  ventured :  ventured,  too, 
in  the  only  path  that,  at  so  late  a  period,  was  yet 
open  to  me  ;  and  I  am  determined,  if  God  hath  not 
determined  otherwise,  to  work  my  way  through 
the  obscurity  that  hath  been  so  long  my  portion, 
into  notice." — Vol.  i.  p.  190. 

As  he  advanced  in  his  work,  however,  he 
seems  to  have  become  better  pleased  with 
the  execution  of  it;  and  in  the  year  1790, 
addresses  to  his  cousin  the  following  candid 
and  interesting  observations :  though  we  can- 
not but  regret  that  we  have  not  some  speci- 
mens at  least  of  what  he  calls  the  quaint  and 
antiquated  style  of  our  earlier  poets :  and  are 
not  without  our  suspicions  that  we  should 
have  liked  it  better  than  that  which  he  ulti- 
mately adopted. 

"To  say  the  truth,  I  have  now  no  fears  about 
the  success  of  my  translation,  though  in  time  past 
I  have  had  many.  I  knew  there  was  a  style  some- 
where, could  I  but  find  it,  in  which  Homer  ought 
to  be  rendered,  and  which  alone  would  suit  him. 
Long  time  I  blundered  about  it,  ere  I  could  attain 
to  any  decided  judgment  on  the  matter.  At  first  I 
was  betrayed,  by  a  desire  of  accommodating  my 
language  to  the  simplicity  of  his,  into  much  of  the 
quaintness  that  belonged  to  our  writers  of  the  fif- 
teenth century.  In  the  course  of  many  revisals,  I 
have  delivered  myself  from  this  evil,  I  believe,  en- 
tirely :  but  I  have  done  it  slowly,  and  as  a  man 
separates  himself  from  his  mistress,  when  he  ia 
going  to  marry.  I  had  so  strong  a  predilection  in 
favour  of  this  style,  at  first,  that  I  was  crazed  to 
find  that  others  were  not  as  much  enamoured  with 
it  as  myself.  At  every  passage  of  that  sort,  which 
I  obliterated,  I  groaned  bitterly,  and  said  to  myself, 
I  am  spoiling  my  work  to  please  those  who  have 
no  taste  for  the  simple  graces  of  antiquity.  But  in 
measure,  as  I  adopted  a  more  modern  phraseology, 
I  became  a  convert  to  their  opinion  :  and  in  the  last 
revisal,  which  I  am  now  making,  am  not  sensible 
of  having  spared  a  single  expression  of  the  obsolete 
kind.  I  see  my  work  so  much  improved  by  this 
alteration,  that  I  am  filled  with  wonder  at  my  own 
backwardness  to  assent  to  the  necessity  of  it ;  and 
the  more,  when  I  consider,  that  Milton,  with 
whose  manner  I  account  myself  intimately  ac- 
quainted, is  never  quaint,  never  twangs  through  the 
nose,  but  is  every  where  grand  and  elegant,  without 
resorting  to  musty  antiquity  for  his  beauties.  On 
the  contrary,  he  took  a  long  stride  forward,  left  the 
language  of  his  o>vn  day  far  behind  him,  and  antic- 
ipated the  expressions  of  a  century  yet  to  come." 
—Vol.  i.  pp.  360,  361. 

The  translation  was  finished  in  the  year 
1791,  and  pubHshed  by  subscription  imme- 
diately after.  Several  applications  w^ere  made 
to  the  University  of  Oxford  lor  the  honour  of 
th(wr  subscription,  but  w^ithout  success.  Their 
answer  was,  "  That  they  subscribed  to  noth- 
ing."— "It  seems  not  a  little  extraordinary." 
says  the  offended  poet  on  this  occasion  "  that 


158 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


persons  so  nobly  patronised  themselves  on  the 
score  of  literature,  should  resolve  to  give  no 
encouragement  to  it  in  return.'"     We  think 

BO  too. 

The  period  that  elapsed  from  the  publica- 
tion of  his  first  volume  in  1781,  to  that  of  his 
Homer  in  1791,  seems  to  have  been  by  far 
the  happiest  and  most  brilliant  part  of  Cow- 
per's  existence.  It  was  not  only  animated  by 
the  vigorous  and  successful  exertions  m  which 
he  was  engaged,  but  enlivened,  in  a  very 
pleasing  manner,  by  the  correspondence  and 
society  of  his  cousin,  Lady  Hesketh,  who  re- 
newed, about  this  time,  an  intimacy  that 
seems  to  have  endeared  the  earlier  days  of 
their  childhood.  In  his  letters  to  this  lady, 
we  have  found  the  most  interesting  traits  of 
his  simple  and  affectionate  character,  com- 
bined with  an  innocent  playfulness,  and  viva- 
city, that  charms  the  more,  when  contrasted 
with  the  gloom  and  horror  to  which  it  suc- 
ceeded, and  by  which  it  was  unfortunately 
replaced.  Our  limits  will  not  allow  us  to 
make  many  extracts  from  this  part  of  the 
publication.  We  insert,  however,  the  follow^- 
ing  delightful  letter,  in  answer  to  one  from 
Lady  Hesketh,  promising  to  pay  him  a  visit 
during  the  summer. 

' '  I  shall  see  you  again  ! — I  shall  hear  your  voice — 
we  shall  take  walks  together :  I  will  show  you  my 
prospects,  the  hovel,  the  alcove,  the  Ouse,  and  its 
banks,  every  thing  that  I  have  described.  I  antici- 
pate the  pleasure  of  those  days  not  very  far  distant, 
and  feel  a  part  of  it  at  this  moment.  Talk  not  of 
an  inn  ;  mention  it  not  for  your  life.  We  have 
never  had  so  many  visitors,  but  we  could  easily  ac- 
commodate them  all,  though  we  have  received 
Unwin,  and  his  wife,  and  his  sister,  and  his  son, 
all  at  once.  My  dear,  I  will  not  let  you  come  till 
the  end  of  May,  or  beginning  of  June,  because  be- 
fore that  time  my  green-house  will  not  be  ready  to 
receive  us ;  and  it  is  the  only  pleasant  room  be- 
longing to  us.  When  the  plants  go  out,  we  go  in. 
I  line  it  with  mats,  and  spread  the  floor  with  mats, 
and  there  you  shall  sit  with  a  bed  of  mignonette  at 
your  side,  and  a  hedge  of  honeysuckles,  roses,  and 
jesmine;  and  I  will  make  you  a  bouquet  of  myrtle 
every  day.  Sooner  than  the  time  I  mention,  the 
country  will  not  be  in  complete  beauty.  And  I 
will  tell  you  what  you  shall  find  at  your  first  en- 
trance. Imprimis,  As  soon  as  you  have  entered 
the  vestibule,  if  you  cast  a  look  on  either  side  of 
you,  you  shall  see  on  the  right  hand  a  box  of  my 
making.  It  is  the  box  in  which  have  been  lodged 
all  my  hares,  and  in  which  lodges  puss  at  present. 
But  he,  poor  fellow,  is  worn  out  with  age,  and  pro- 
mises to  die  before  you  can  see  him.  On  the  right 
hand  stands  a  cupboard,  the  work  of  the  same 
author.  It  was  once  a  dove-cage,  but  I  transform- 
ed it.  Opposite  to  you  stands  a  table,  which  I  also 
made ;  but  a  merciless  servant  having  scrubbed  it 
until  it  became  paralytic,  it  serves  no  purpose  now 
but  of  ornament ;  and  all  my  clean  shoes  stand 
under  it.  On  the  left  hand,  at  the  farther  end  of 
this  superb  vestibule,  you  will  find  the  door  of  the 
parlour  into  which  I  shall  conduct  you,  and  where 
1  will  introduce  you  to  Mrs.  Un'win  (unless  we 
ehould  meet  her  before), — and  where  we  will  be  as 
happy  as  the  day  is  long !  Order  yourself,  my 
cousin,  to  the  Swan  at  Newport,  and  there  you 
shall  find  me  ready  to  conduct  you  to  Olney. 

'*  My  dear,  I  have  told  Homer  what  you  say 
about  casks  and  urns :  and  have  asked  him  whether 
he  is  sure  that  it  is  a  cask  in  which  Jupiter  keeps 
his  wine.  He  swears  that  it  is  a  cask,  and  that  it 
will  never  be  any  thing  better  ihan  a  cask  to  eternity. 
So  if  the  god  is  content  with  it,  we  must  even 


wonder  at  his  taste,  and  be  so  too." — Vol.  i  pp 
161—163. 

The  following  is  very  much  in  the  samo 
style. 

"  This  house,  accordingly,  since  it  has  been  oc- 
cupied by  us  and  our  Meuhles,  is  as  much  superior 
to  what  it  was  when  you  saw  it  as  you  can  imagine. 
The  parlour  is  even  elegant.  When  I  say  that  the 
parlour  is  elegant,  I  do  not  mean  to  insinuate  thai 
the  study  is  not  so.  It  is  neat,  warm,  and  silent, 
and  a  much  better  study  than  I  deserve,  if  I  do  not 
produce  in  it  an  incomparable  translation  of  Homer 
I  think  every  day  of  those  hnes  of  Mihon,  and  con. 
gratulate  myself  on  having  obtained,  before  I  am 
quite  superannuated,  what  he  seems  not  to  have 
hoped  for  sooner. 

•  And  may  at  length  my  weary  age 
Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage.' 

For  if  it  is  not  a  hermitage,  at  least  it  is  a  much 
better  thing;  and  you  must  always  understand, 
my  dear,  that  when  poets  talk  of  cottages,  hermit- 
ages, and  such  like  things,  they  mean  a  house  with 
six  sashes  in  front,  two  comfortable  parlours,  a 
smart  staircase,  and  three  bedchambers  of  conve- 
nient dimensions ;  in  short,  exactly  such  a  house 
as  this."— Vol.  i.  pp.  227,  228. 

In  another  letter,  in  a  graver  humour,  he 
says — 

"  I  am  almost  the  only  person  at  Weston,  known 
to  you,  who  have  enjoyed  tolerable  health  this 
winter.  In  your  next  letter  give  us  some  account 
of  your  own  state  of  health,  for  I  have  had  my 
anxieties  about  you.  The  winter  has  been  mild ; 
but  our  winters  are  in  general  such,  that,  when  a 
friend  leaves  us  in  the  beginning  of  that  season,  I 
always  feel  in  my  heart  a  perhcqjs,  importing  that 
we  have  possibly  met  for  the  last  time,  and  that  the 
robins  may  whistle  on  the  grave  of  one  of  us  before 
the  return  of  summer. 

"  Many  thanks  for  the  cuckow,  which  arrived 
perfectly  safe,  and  goes  well,  to  the  amusement 
and  amazement  of  all  who  hear  it.  Hannah  lies 
awake  to  hear  it ;  and  I  am  not  sure  that  we  have 
not  others  in  the  house  that  admire  his  music  as 
much  as  she." — Vol.  i.  p.  331. 

In  the  following  passage,  we  have  all  the 
calmness  of  a  sequestered  and  good-natured 
man,  and  we  doubt  whether  there  was  another 
educated  and  reflecting  individual  to  be  found 
in  the  kingdom,  who  could  think  and  speak 
so  dispassionately  of  the  events  which  were 
passing  in  1792. 

"  The  French,  who,  like  all  lively  folks,  are  ex- 
treme in  every  thing,  are  such  in  their  zeal  for 
freedom  ;  and  if  it  were  possible  to  make  so  noble 
a  cause  ridiculous,  their  manner  of  promoting  it 
could  not  fail  to  do  so.  Princes  and  peers  reduced 
to  plain  gentlemanship,  and  gentles  reduced  to  a 
level  wuh  their  own  lackeys,  are  excesses  of  which 
they  will  repent  hereafter.  Difference  of  rank  and 
subordination  are,  I  believe,  of  God's  appointment, 
and,  consequently,  essential  to  the  well-being  of 
society :  but  what  we  mean  by  fanaticism  in  reli- 
gion, is  exactly  that  which  animates  their  poHtics; 
and,  unless  time  should  sober  them,  they  will, 
after  all,  be  an  unhappy  people.  Perhaps  it  de- 
serves  not  much  to  be  wondered  at,  that  at  their 
first  escape  from  tyrannic  shackles,  they  should 
act  extravagantly,  and  treat  their  kings  as  they  have 
sometimes  treated  their  idols.  To  these,  however, 
they  are  reconciled  in  due  time  again ;  but  their 
respect  for  monarchy  is  at  an  end.  They  want 
nothing  now  but  a  little  English  sobriety,  and  that 
they  want  extremely.  I  heartily  wish  them  some 
wit  in  their  anger ;  for  it  were  great  pity  that  so 
many  millions  should  be  miserable  for  want  of  it." 
—Vol.  i.  p.  379. 


HAYLEY'S  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 


159 


Homer  was  scarcely  Jfinished,  when  a  pro- 
posal was  made  to  the  indefatigable  translator, 
to  engage  in  a  magnificent  edition  of  Milton, 
for  which  he  was  to  furnish  a  version  of  his 
Latin  and  Italian  poetry,  and  a  critical  com- 
mentary upon  his  whole  works.     Mr.  Hayley 
had,  at  this  time,  undertaken  to  write  a  life 
of  Milton :  and  some  groundless  reports,  as 
to  an  intended  rivalry  between  him  and  Cow- 
per,  led  to  a  friendly  explanation,  and  to  a 
very  cordial  and  affectionate  intimacy.     In 
the  year  1792,  Mr.  Hayley  paid  a  visit  to  his 
newly  acquired  friend  at  Weston ;  and  hap- 
pened to  be  providentially  present  with  him 
when  the  agony  which  he  experienced  from 
the  sight  of  a  paralytic  attack  upon  Mrs.  Un- 
win,  had  very  nearly  affected  his  understand- 
ing.    The  anxious  attention  of  his  friend,  and 
the  gradual  recovery  of  the  unfortunate  pa- 
tient, prevented  any  very  calamitous  effect 
from  this  unhappy  occurrence  :  But  his  spirits 
appear  never  to  have  recovered  the  shock ; 
and  the  solicitude  and  apprehension  which  he 
constantly  felt  for  his  long  tried  and  affection- 
ate companion,  suspended  his  literary  exer- 
tions, aggravated  the  depression  to  which  he 
had  always  been  occasionally  liable,  and  ren- 
dered the  remainder  of  his  life  a  very  preca- 
rious struggle  against  that  overwhelming  mal- 
ady by  which  it  was  at  last  obscured.     In  the 
end  of  summer,  he  returned  Mr.  Hayley's  visit 
at  Eartham ;  but  came  back  again  to  Weston, 
with  spirits  as  much  depressed  and  forebod- 
ings as  gloomy  as  ever.     His  constant  and 
tender  attention  to  Mrs  Unwin,  was  one  cause 
of  his  neglect  of  every  thing  else.    "  I  cannot 
sit.'^  he  says  in  one  of  his  letters,  "with  my 
pen  in  my  hand,  and  my  books  before  me,  while 
she  is,  in  effect,  in  solitude — silent,  and  look- 
ing in  the  fire."     A  still  more  powerful  cause 
was,  the  constant  and  oppressive  dejection 
of  spirits  that  now  began  again  to  overwhelm 
him.     "It  is  in  vain,"  he  says,  "that  I  have 
made  several  attempts  to  write  since  I  came 
from  Sussex.     Unless  more  comfortable  days 
arrive,  than  I  have  now  the  confidence  to  look 
for,  there  is  an  end  of  all  writing  with  me  ! 
I  have  no  spirits.     When  Rose  came,  I  was 
obliged  to  prepare  for  his  coming,  by  a  nightly 
dose  of  laudanum." 

In  the  course  of  the  year  1793,  he  seems 
to  have  done  little  but  revise  his  translation 
of  Homer,  of  which  he  meditated  an  im- 
proved edition.  Mr.  Hayley  came  to  see  him 
a  second  time  at  Weston,  in  the  month  of 
November ;  and  gives  this  affecting  and  pro- 
phetic account  of  his  situation — 

"  He  possessed  completely  at  this  period  all  the 
admirable  faculties  of  his  mind,  jind  all  the  native 
tenderness  of  his  heart ;  but  thc/e  was  something 
indescribable  in  his  appearance,  which  led  me  to 
apprehend,  that,  without  some  signal  event  in  his 
favour,  to  re-animate  his  spirits,  they  would  gradu- 
ally sink  into  hopeless  dejection.  The  state  of  his 
aged  infirm  companion,  afforded  additional  ground 
for  increasing  solicitude.  Her  cheerful  and  benefi- 
cent spirit  could  hardly  resist  her  own  accumulated 
maladies,  so  far  as  to  preserve  ability  sufficient  to 
watch  over  the  tender  health  of  him  whom  she  had 
watched  and  guarded  so  long.  Imbecility  of  body 
and  mind  must  gradually  render  this  tender  and 
heroic  woman  unfit  for  the  charge  which  she  bad 
so  laudably  sustained.     The  signs  of  such  imbe- 


cility were  beginning  to  be  painfully  visible  ;  nor 
can  nature  present  a  spectacle  more  truly  pitiable, 
than  imbecility  in  such  a  shape,  eagerly  grasping 
for  dominion,  which  it  knows  not  either  how  to 
retain,  or  how  to  relinquish." — Vol.  ii.  pp.  161, 162. 

From  a  part  of  these  evils,  however,  the 
poet  was  relieved,  by  the  generous  compas- 
sion of  Lady  Hesketh,  who  nobly  took  upon 
herself  the  task  of  superintending  this  raelan 
choly  household.  We  will  not  withhold  from 
our  readers  the  encomium  she  has  so  well 
earned  from  the  biographer. 

"  Those  only,  who  have  lived  with  the  super- 
annuated and  melancholy,  can  properly  appreciate 
the  value  of  such  magnanimous  friendship  ;  or  per- 
fectly apprehend,  what  personal  sufferings  it  nmst 
cost  the  mortal  who  exerts  it,  if  that  mortal  has 
received  from  nature  a  frame  of  compassionate 
sensibiHty.  The  lady,  to  whom  I  allude,  has  felt 
but  too  severely,  in  her  own  health,  the  heavy  tax 
that  mortality  is  forced  to  pay  for  a  resolute  perse- 
verance in  such  painful  duty." — Vol.  ii.  p.  177. 

It  was  impossible,  however,  for  any  care  or 
attention  to  arrest  the  progress  of  that  dread- 
ful depression,  by  which  the  faculties  of  this 
excellent  man  were  destined  to  be  extin- 
guished. In  the  beginning  of  the  year  1794, 
he  became  utterly  incapable  of  any  sort  of 
exertion,  and  ceased  to  receive  pleasure  from 
the  company  or  conversation  of  his  friends. 
Neither  a  visit  from  Mr.  Hayley,  nor  his 
Majesty's  order  for  a  pension  3001.  a-year, 
was  able  to  rouse  him  from  that  languid  and 
melancholy  state  into  which  he  had  gTadaally 
been  sinking;  and,  at  length,  it  was  thought 
necessary  to  remove  him  from  the  village  of 
Weston  to  Tuddenham  in  Norfolk,  where  he 
could  be  under  the  immediate  superintend- 
ence of  his  kinsman,  the  Reverend  Mr.  John- 
son. After  a  long  cessation  of  all  correspond- 
ence, he  addressed  the  following  very  moving 
lines  to  the  clergyman  of  the  favourite  vil- 
lage, to  which  he  was  no  more  to  return : 

"  I  will  forget,  for  a  moment,  that  to  whomso- 
ever I  may  address  myself,  a  letter  from  me  can  no 
other\vise  be  welcome,  than  as  a  curiosity.  To 
you,  sir,  I  address  this,  urged  by  extreme  penury 
of  employment,  and  the  desire  I  feel  to  learn  some- 
thing of  what  is  doing,  and  has  been  done,  at 
Weston  (my  beloved  Weston !)  since  I  left  it  ? 
No  situation,  at  least  when  the  weather  is  clear 
and  bright,  can  be  pleasanter  than  what  we  have 
here ;  which  you  will  easily  credit,  when  I  add, 
that  it  imparts  something  a  httle  resembling  plea- 
sure even  to  me. — Gratify  me  with  news  of  Wes- 
ton ! — If  Mr.  Gregson  and  the  Courtney's  are 
there,  mention  me  to  them  in  such  terms  as  you 
see  good.  Tell  me  if  my  poor  birds  are  living ! 
I  never  see  the  herbs  I  used  to  give  them,  without 
a  recollection  of  them,  and  sometimes  am  ready  to 
gather  them,  forgetting  that  I  am  not  at  home,— 
Pardon  this  intrusion." 

In  summer  1796,  there  were  some  faint 
glimmerings  of  returning  vigour,  and  he  again 
applied  himself,  for  some  time,  to  the  revisal 
of  his  translation  of  Homer.  In  December, 
Mrs.  Unwin  died ;  and  such  was  the  severe 
depression  under  which  her  companion  then 
laboured,  that  he  seems  to  have  suffered  but 
little  on  the  occasion.  He  never  afterwards 
mentioned  her  name !  At  intervals,  in  the 
summer,  he  continued  to  work  at  the  revisal 
of  his  Homer,  which  he  at  length  finished  in 
1799 ;    and    afterwards  translated   some  of 


J  60 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


Gay's  Fables  into  Latin  verse,  and  made 
English  translations  of  several  Greek  and 
Latin  Epigrams.  This  languid  exercise  of 
his  once-vigorous  powers  Avas  continued  till 
the  month  of  January  1800,  when  symptoms 
of  dropsy  became  visible  in  his  person,  and 
soon  assumed  a  very  formidable  appearance. 
After  a  very  rapid  but  gradual  decline,  which 
did  not  seem  to  affect  the  general  state  of  his 
spirits,  he  expired,  without  struggle  or  agita- 
tion, on  the  25th  of  April,  1800. 

Of  the  volumes  now  before  us,  we  have 
little  more  to  say.    The  biography  of  Cowper 
naturally  terminates  with  this  account  of  his 
death;  and  the  posthumous  works  that  are 
now  given  to  the  public,  require  very  fevv^ 
observations.     They  consist  chiefly  of  short 
and  occasional  poems,  that  do  not  seem  to 
have  been  very  carefully  finished,  and  will 
not  add  much  to    the    reputation  of    their 
author.     The  longest  is  a  sort  of  ode  upon 
Friendship,  in  which  the  language  seems  to 
be  studiously  plain  and  familiar,  and  to  which 
Mr.  Hayley  certainly  has  not  given  the  highest 
poetical  praise,  by  saying  that  it  ^'-  contains  the 
essence  of  every  thing  that  has  been  said  on 
the  subject,  by  the  best  writers  of  different 
countries."      Some  of  the  occasional   songs 
and   sonnets  are  good;  and  the  translations 
from  the  anthologia,  which  were  the  employ- 
ment of  his  last   melancholy  days,  have  a 
remarkable  closeness  and  facility  of  expres- 
sion.    There  are  two  or  three  little  poetical 
pieces,  written  by  him  in  the  careless  days 
of  his  youth,  while  he  resided  in  the  Temple, 
that  are,  upon  the  whole,  extremely  poor  and 
unpromising.    It  is  almost  inconceivable,  that 
the  author  of  The  Task  should  ever  have  been 
guilty  of  such  verses  as  the  following : 
,"  'Tis  not  with  either  of  these  views, 
That  I  presume  to  address  the  Muse  ; 
But  to  divert  a  fierce  banditti, 
(Sworn  foes  to  every  thing  that's  witty  !) 
That,  with  a  black  infernal  train, 
Make  cruel  inroads  in  my  brain, 
And  daily  threaten  to  drive  thence 
My  little  garrison  of  sense : 
The  fierce  banditti  which  I  mean, 
Are  gloomy  thoughts,  led  on  by  spleen. 
Then  there's  another  reason  yet, 
Which  is,  that  I  may  fairly  quit 
The  debt  which  justly  became  due 
The  moment  when  I  heard  from  you  : 
And  you  might  grumble,  crony  mine. 
If  pai^  in  any  other  coin." — Vol.  i.  p.  15. 
It  is  remarkable,  however,  that  Ijis  prose 
was  at  this  time  uncommonly  easy  and  ele- 
gant.    Mr.  Hayley  has  preserved  three  num- 
bers of  the  Connoisseur,  which  were  written 
by  him  rn  1796,  and  which  exhibit  a  great 
deal  of  that  point  and  politeness,  which  has 
been  aimed  at  by  the  best  of  our  periodical 
essayists  since  the  days  of  Addison. 

The  personal  character  of  Cowper  is  easily 
estimated,  from  the  writings  he  has  left,  and 
the  anecdotes  contained  in  this  pubhcation. 
He  seems  to  have  been  chiefly  remarkable 
for  a  certain  feminine  gentleness,  and  deli- 
cacy of  nature,  that  shrunk  back  from  all 
that  was  boisterous,  presumptuous,  or  rude. 
His  secluded  life,  and  awful  impressions  of 
religion,  concurred  in  fixing  upon  his  man- 


ners, something  of  a  saintly  purity  and  de- 
corum, and  in  cherishing  that  pensive  and 
contemplative  turn  of  mind,  by  which  he  waa 
so  much  distinguished.  His  temper  appears 
to  have  been  yielding  and  benevolent ;  and 
though  sufficiently  steady  and  confident  in 
the'  opinions  he  had  adopted,  he  M:as  very 
little  inclined,  in  general,  to  force  them  uporj 
the  conviction  of  others.  The  warmth  of  his 
religious  zeal  made  an  occasional  exception  : 
but  the  habitual  temper  of  his  mind  was 
toleration  and  indulgence ;  and  it  would  be 
difficult,  perhaps,  to  name  a  satirical  and 
popular  author  so  entirely  free  from  jealousy 
and  fastidiousness,  or  so  much  disposed  to 
make  the  most  liberal  and  impartial  estimate 
of  the  merit  of  others,  in  literature,  in  poli- 
tics, and  in  the  virtues  and  accomplishments 
of  social  life.  No  angry  or  uneasy  passions, 
indeed,  seem  at  any  time  to  have  found  a 
place  in  his  bosom;  and,  being  incapable  of 
malevolence  himself,  he  probably  passed 
through  life,  without  having  once  excited 
that  feeling  in  the  breast  of  another. 

As  the  whole  of  Cowper's  works  are  now 
before  the  public,  and  as  death  has  finally 
closed  the  account  of  his  defects  and  excel- 
lencies, the  public  voice  may  soon  be  expect- 
ed to  proclaim  the  balance  ;  and  to  pronounce 
that  impartial  and  irrevocable  sentence  which 
is  to  assign  him  his  just  rank  and  station  in  the 
poetical  commonwealth,  and  to  ascertain  the 
value  and  extent  of  his  future  reputation.  As 
the  success  of  his  works  has,  in  a  great  mea- 
sure, anticipated  this  sentence,  it  is  the  less  pre- 
sumptuous in  us  to  offer  our  opinion  of  them. 

The  great  merit  of  this  writer  appears  to 
us  to  consist  in  the  boldness  and  originality 
of  his  composition,  and  in  the  fortunate  au- 
dacity with  which  he  has  carried  the  do- 
minion of  poetry  into  regions  that  had  been 
considered  as  inaccessible  to  her  ambition. 
The  gradual  refinement  of  taste  had,  for  nearly 
a  century,  been  weakening  the  force  of  origi- 
nal genius.  Our  poets  had  become  timid  and 
fastidious,  and  circumscribed  themselves  both 
in  the  choice  and  the  management  of  their 
subjects,  by  the  observance  of  a  limited  num- 
ber of  models,  who  were  thought  to  have  ex- 
hausted all  the  legitimate  resources  of  the  art. 
Cowper  was  one  of  the  first  who  crossed  this 
enchanted  circle ;  who  reclaimed  the  natural 
liberty  of  invention,  and  walked  abroad  in  the 
open  field  of  observation  as  freely  as  those  by 
whom  it  was  originally  trodden.  He  passed 
from  the  imitation  of  poets,  to  the  imitation 
of  nature,  and  ventured  boldly  upon  the  rep- 
resentation of  objects  that  had  not  been  sanc- 
tified by  the  description  of  any  of  his  prede- 
cessors. In  the  ordinary  occupations  and 
duties  of  domestic  life,  and  the  consequences 
of  modern  manners,  in  the  common  scenery 
of  a  rustic  situation,  and  the  obvious  contem- 
plation of  our  public  institutions,  he  has  found 
a  multitude  of  subjects  for  ridicule  and  re- 
flection, for  pathetic  and  picturesque  descrip- 
tion, for  moral  declamation,  and  devotional 
rapture,  that  would  have  been  looked  upon 
with  disdain,  or  with  despair,  by  most  of  out 
poetical  adventurers.      He  took  as  wide  a 


HAYLEY'S  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 


161 


range  in  lang-uage  too,  as  in  matter;  and. 
shaking  off  the  ta^A-dl•y  incumbrance  of  that 
poetical  diction  which  had  nearly  reduced 
the  art  to  the  skilful  collocation  of  a  set  of 
conventional  phrases,  he  made  no  scruple  to 
set  down  in  verse  every  expression  that  would 
have  been  admitted  in  prose,  and  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  all  the  varieties  with  which  our 
language  could  supply  him. 

But  while,  by  the  use  of  this  double  licence, 
he  extended  the  sphere  of  poetical  composi- 
tion, and  communicated  a  singular  character 
of  freedom,  force,  and  originality  to  his  own 
performances,  it  must  not  be  dissembled,  that 
the  presumption  which  belongs  to  most  inno- 
vators, has  betrayed  him  into  many  defects. 
In  disci  lining  to  follow  the  footsteps  of  others, 
he  has  frequently  mistaken  the  way,  and  has 
been  exasperated,  by  their  blunders,  to  rush 
into  opposite  extremes.  In  his  contempt  for 
their  scrupulous  selection  of  topics,  he  has 
introduced  some  that  are  unquestionably  low 
and  uninteresting 5  and  in  his  zeal  to  strip  off 
the  tinsel  and  embroidery  of  their  language, 
he  has  sometimes  torn  it  (like  Jack's  coat  in 
the  Tale  of  a  Tub)  into  terrible  rents  and 
beggarly  tatters.  He  is  a  great  master  of 
English,  and  evidently  values  himself  upon 
his  skill  and  facility  in  the  application  of  its 
rich  and  diversified  idioms:  but  he  has  in- 
dulged himself  in  this  exercise  a  little  too 
fondly,  and  has  degraded  some  grave  and 
animated  passages  by  the  unlucky  introduc- 
tion of  expressions  unquestionably  too  collo- 
quial and  famihar.  His  impatience  of  control, 
and  his  desire  to  have  a  great  scope  and  va- 
riety in  his  compositions,  have  led  him  not 
only  to  disregard  all  order  and  method  so  en- 
tirely in  their  construction,  as  to  have  made 
each  of  his  larger  poems  professedly  a  com- 
plete miscellany,  but  also  to  introduce  into 
them"  a  number  of  subjects,  that  prove  not  to 
be  very  susceptible  of  poetical  discussion. 
There  are  specimens  of  argument,  and  dia- 
logue', and  declamation,  in  his  works,  that 
partake  very  little  of  the  poetical  character, 
and  make  rather  an  awkward  appearance  in 
a  metrical  production,  though  they  might 
have  had  a  lively  and  brilliant  effect  in  an 
essay  or  a  sermon.  The  structure  of  his  sen- 
*?nces,  in  like  manner,  has  frequently  much 
more  of  the  copiousness  and  looseness  'of 
oratory,  than  the  brilliant  compactness  of 
poetry;  and  he  heaps  up  phrases  and  circum- 
stances upon  each  other,  with  a  profusion  that 
Kj  frequently  dazzling,  but  which  reminds  us  as 
often  of  the  exuberance  of  a  practised  speaker, 
as  of  the  holy  inspiration  of  a  poet. 

Mr.  Hayley  has  pronounced  a  warm  eulo- 
gium  on  the  satirical  talents  of  his  friend : 
but  it  does  not  appear  to  us,  either  that  this 
was  the  style  in  which  he  was  qualified  to 
excel,  or  that  he  has  made  a  judicious  selec- 
tion of  subjects  on  which  to  exercise  it. — 
There  is  something  too  keen  and  vehement 
in  his  invective,  and  an  excess  of  austerity  in 
liis  doctrines,  that  is  not  atoned  for  by  the 
truth  or  the  beauty  of  his  descriptions.  Fop- 
pery and  affectation  are  not  such  hateful  and 
rigantic  vices,  as  to  deserve  all  the  anathemas 
11 


that  are  bestowed  upon  them;  nor  can  we 
believe  that  soldiership,  or  Sunday  music, 
have  produced  all  the  terrible  effects  which 
he  ascribes  to  them  :  There  is  something  very 
undignified,  too,  to  say  no  worse  of  them,  in 
the  protracted  parodies  and  mock-heroic  pas- 
sages with  which  he  seeks  to  enliven  some 
of  his  gravest  productions.  The  Sofa  (for 
instance,  in  the  Task)  is  but  a  feeble  imita- 
tion of  -'The  Splendid  Shilling;  the  Monitor 
is  a  copy  of  something  still  lower ;  and  the 
tedious  directions  for  raising  cucumbers,  which 
begin  with  calling  a  hotbed  '- a.  stercorarious 
heap,"  seem  to  have  been  intended  as  a 
counterpart  to  the  tragedy  of  Tom  Thumb. 
All  his  serious  pieces  contain  some  fine  devo- 
tional passages :  but  they  are  not  without  a 
taint  of  that  enthusiastic  intolerance  which 
religious  zeal  seems  but  too  often  to  produce. 

It  is  impossible  to  say  any  thing  of  the  de- 
fects of  Covv'per's  writings,  without  taking 
notice  of  the  occasional  harshness  and  inele- 
gance of  his  versification.  From  his  corre- 
spondence, however,  it  appears  that  this  was 
not  with  him  the  efi'ect  of  negligence  merely, 
but  that  he  really  imagined  that  a  rough  and 
incorrect  line  now  and  then  had  a  very  agree- 
able effect  in  a  composition  of  any  length. 
This  prejudice,  we  believe,  is  as  old  as  Cow- 
ley among  English  writers ;  but  we  do  not 
knov/  that  it  has  of  late  received  the  sanction 
of  any  one  poet  of  eminence.  In  truth,  it 
does  not  appear  to  us  to  be  at  all  capable  of 
defence.  The  very  essence  of  versification  j 
is  uniformity ;  and  while  any  thing  like  versi-  / 
fication  is  preserved,  it  must  be  evident  that 
uniformity  continues  to  be  aimed  at.  What 
pleasure  is  to  be  derived  from  an  occasional 
failure  in  this  aim,  we  cannot  exactly  under- 
stand. It  must  afford  the  same  gratification, 
we  should  imagine,  to  have  one  of  the  but- 
tons on  a  coat  a  little  larger  than  tlie  rest,  or 
one  or  two  of  the  pillars  in  a  colonnade  a  little 
out  of  the  perpendicular.  If  variety  is  want-  y  . 
ed,  let  it  be  variety  of  excellence,  and  not  a  •'  / 
relief  of  imperfection  :  let  the  writer  alter  the 
measure  of  his  piece,  if  he  thinks  its  uni- 
formity disagreeable ;  or  let  him  interchange 
it  every  now  and  then,  if  he  thinks  proper, 
with  passages  of  plain  and  professed  prose ; 
but  do  not  let  him  torture  an  intractable  scrap 
of  prose  into  the  appearance  of  verse,  nor  slip 
in  an  illegitimate  line  or  two  among  the 
genuine  currency  of  his  poem. 

There  is  another  view  of  the  matter,  no 
doubt,  that  has  a  little  more  reason  m  it.  A 
smooth  and  harmonious  verse  is  not  so  easib' 
written,  as  a  harsh  and  clumsy  one ;  and,  in 
order  to  make  it  smooth  and  elegant,  the 
strength  and  force  of  the  expression  must 
often  be  sacrificed.  This  seems  to  have  been 
Cowper's  view  of  the  subject,  at  least  in  one 
passage.  '-Give  me,"  says  he,  in  a  letter  to 
his  publisher,  "a  manly  rough  line,  with  a 
deal  of  meaning  in  it,  rather  than  a  whole 
poem  full  of  musical  periods,  that  have  noth- 
ing but  their  smoothness  to  recommend  them  ' " 
It  is  obvious,  however,  that  this  is  not  a  of- 
fence of  harsh  versification,  but  a  confession 
of  inability  to  write  smoothly.     Why  should 


1C2 


LITERATURE  AND  B[OGRAPHY. 


not  hariTiony  and  meaning  go  together  ?  It  is 
difficult,  to' be  sure;  and  so  it  is,  to  make 
meaning  and  verse  ot  any  kind  go  together : 
But  it  is  the  business  of  a  poet  to  overcome 
these  difficulties,  and  if  he  do  not  overcome 
them  both,  he  is  plainly  deficient  in  an  ac- 
complishment that  others  have  attained.  To 
those  who  find  it  impossible  to  pay  due  at- 
tention both  to  the  sound  and  the  sense,  we 
would  not  only  address  the  preceding  exhort- 
ation of  Cowper,  but  should  have  no  scruple 
to  exclaim,  "  Give  us  a  sentence  of  plain 
prose,  full  of  spirit  and  meaning,  rather  than 
a  poem  of  any  kind  that  has  nothing  but  its 
versification  to  recommend  it." 

Though  it  be  impossible,  therefore,  to  read 
the  productions  of  Cowper,  without  being  de- 
lighted with  his  force,  his  originality,  and  his 
variety;  and  although  the  enchantment  of 
his  moral  enthusiasm  frequently  carries  us 
insensibly  through  all  the  mazes  of  his  digres- 
sions, it  is  equally  true,  that  we  can  scarcely 
read  a  single  page  with  attention,  without 
being  offended  at  some  coarseness  or  lowness 
of  expression,  or  disappointed  by  some  "  most 
lame  and  impotent  conclusion."  The  dignity 
of  his  rhetorical  periods  is  often  violated  by 
the  intrusion  of  some  vulgar  and  colloquial 
idiom,  and  the  full  and  transparent  stream  of 
his  diction  broken  upon  some  obstreperous 
verse,  or  lost  in  the  dull  stagnation  of  a  piece 
of  absolute  prose.  The  effect  of  his  ridicule 
is  sometimes  impaired  by  the  acrimony  with 
which  _jt  is^  attended  ;^and(  the  ^exquTsit"es 
"l)eaiily~6rTiislm51^'3^¥fr^^^^  and  religious 
views,  is  injured  in  a  still  greater  degree  byi 
the  darkness  of  the  shades  which  his  enthu-i 
Isiasm  and  austerity  have^£cca^onaJJ^hro^ 
jipon  the  canvas. J  With  all  these  defects, 
however,  Cowper  will  probably  very  long  re- 
tain his  popularity  with  the  readers  of  Eng- 
lish poetry.  ^The  great  variety  and  truth  of 
his  descriptions;  the  minute  and  correct 
painting  of  tnose  home  scenes,  and  private 
feelings  with  which  every  one  is  internally  fa- 
miliar ;  the  sterling  weight  and  sense  of  most 
of  his  observations,  and,  above  all,  the  great 
appearance  of  facility  with  which  every  thing 
is  executed,  and  the  happy  use  he  has  so 
often  made  of  the  most  common  and  ordinary 
language ;  all  concur  to  stamp  upon  his  poems 
the  character  of  original,genius,  and  remind 
us  of  the  merits  tTiat  have  secured  immor- 
tality to  Shakespeare.', 

After  having  said  somuch  upon  the  original 
writings  of  Cowper,  we  cannot  take  our  leave 
of  him  without  adding  a  few  words  upon  the 
merits  of  the  translation  with  which  we  have 
found  him  engaged  for  so  considerable  a  por- 
tion of  his  life.  The  views  with  which  it  was 
undertaken  have  already  been  very  fnlly  ex- 

Elained  in  the  extracts  we  have  given  from 
is  correspondence ;  and  it  is  impossible  to 
deny,  that  his  chief  object  has  been  attained 
in  a  very  considerable  degree.  That  the 
translation  is  a  great  deal  more  close  and  lite- 
ral than  any  that  had  previously  been  at- 
tempted in  English  verse,  probably  will  not 
l)e  disputed  by  those  wno  are  the  least  dis- 
jMjsed  to  admire  it  j  that  the  style  into  which 


it  is  translated,  is  a  true  English  style,  though 
not  perhaps  a  very  elegant  or  poetical  one, 
may  also  be  assumed ;  but  we  are  not  sure 
that  a  rigid  and  candid  criticism  will  go  far- 
ther in  its  commendation.  The  language  is 
often  very  tame,  and  even  vulgar;  and  there 
is  by  far  too  great  a  profusion  of  antiquated 
and  colloquial  forms  of  expression.  In  the 
dialogue  part,  the  idiomatical  and  familiar 
turn  of  the  language  has  often  an  animated 
and  happy  effect ;  but  in  orations  of  dignity, 
this  dramatical  licence  is  frequently  abused, 
and  the  translation  approaches  to  a  parody. 
In  the  course  of  one  page,  we  observe  that 
Nestor  undertakes  ''  to  entreat  Achilles  to  a 
calmP  Agamemnon  calls  him,  "  this  wrangler 
here."  And  the  godlike  Achilles  himself 
complains  of  being  treated  "  like  a  fellow  of 
no  worth." 

"  Ye  critics  say, 
How  poor  to  this  was  Homer's  style  !" 

In  translating  a  poetical  writer,  there  are 
two  kinds  of  fidelity  to  be  aimed  at.  Fidelity 
to  the  matter^  and  fidelity  to  the  manner  oi  the 
original.  The  best  translation  would  be  that, 
certainly,  Avhich  preserved  both.  But,  as  this 
is  generally  impracticable,  some  concessions 
must  be  made  upon  both  sides;  and  the  largest 
upon  that  which  will  be  least  regretted  by 
the  common  readers  of  the  translation.  Now, 
though  antiquaries  and  moral  philosophers, 
may  take  great  delight  in  contemplating  the 
state  of  manners,  opinions,  and  civilization, 
that  prevailed  in  the  age  of  Homer,  and  be 
offended,  of  course,  at  any  disguise  or  modem 
embellishment  that  may  be  thrown  over  his 
representations,  still,  this  will  be  but  a  second- 
ary consideration  with  most  readers  of  poet- 
ry; and  if  the  smoothness  of  the  verse,  the 
perspicuity  of  the  expression,  or  the  vigour 
of  the  sentiment,  must  be  sacrificed  to  the 
observance  of  this  rigid  fidelity,  they  Avill 
generally  be  of  opinion,  that  it  ought  rather 
to  have  been  sacrificed  to  them ;  and  that  the 
poetical  beauty  of  the  original  was  better 
worth  preserving  than  the  literal  import  of 
the  expressions.  The  splendour  and  magnifi- 
cence of  the  Homeric  diction  and  versification 
is  altogether  as  essential  a  part  of  his  compo- 
sition, as  the  sense  and  the  meaning  which 
they  convey.  His  poetical  reputation  depends 
quite  as  much  on  the  one  as  on  the  other ;  and 
a  translator  must  give  but  a  very  imperfect  and 
unfaithful  copy  of  his  original,  if  he  leave  out 
half  of  those  qualities  in  which  the  excellence 
of  the  original  cqnsisted.  It  is  an  indispensa- 
ble part  of  his  duty,  therefore,  to  imitate  the 
harmony  and  elevation  of  his  author's  lan- 
guage, as  well  as  to  express  his  meaning;  and 
he  is  equally  unjust  and  unfaithful  to  his 
original,  in  passing  over  the  beauties  of  his 
diction,  as  in  omitting  or  disguising  his  sen- 
timents. In  Cowper's  elaborate  version,  there 
are  certainly  some  striking  and  vigorous  pas- 
sages, and  the  closeness  of  the  translation 
continually  recals  the  original  to  the  memory 
of  a  classical  reader;  but  he  will  look  in  vain 
for  the  melodious  and  elevated  language  of 
Homer  in  the  unpolished  verses  ajid  collo- 
([uial  phraseology  of  his  translator. 


HAYLEYS  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 


]«t 


(lull),   1804. 


The  Life  and  Posthitmous  Writings  of  William  Cowper,  Esq.  With  an  Introductory  Letter 
to  the  Right  Honourable  Earl  Coicper.  By  William  Hayley,  Esq.  Vol.  III.  4to.  pp. 
416.     JoHiison,  London :   1804. 

This  is  the  continuation  of  a  work  of  which  ' 
we  recently  submitted  a  very  ample  account 
and  a  very  full  character  to  our  readers :  On 
that  occasion,  we  took  the  liberty  of  observ- 
ing, that  two  quarto  volumes  seemed  to  be 
almost  as  much  as  the  biography  of  a  seclud- 
ed scholar  was  entitled  to  occupy  3  and,  with 
a  little  judicious  compression,  we  are  still  of 
opinion  that  the  life  and  correspondence  of 
Cowper  might  be  advantageously  included  in 
somewhat  narrower  limits.  We  are  by  no 
means  disposed,  however,  to  quarrel  with  this 
third  volume,  which  is  more  interesting,  if 
possible,  than  either  of  the  two  former,  and 
will  be  read,  we  have  no  doubt,  with  general 
admiration  and  delight. 

Though  it  still  bears  the  title  of  the  life  of 
Cowper,  this  volume  contains  no  further  par- 
ticulars of  his  history ;  but  is  entirely  made 
up  of  a  collection  of  his  letters,  introduced  by 
a  long,  rambling  dissertation  on  letter-writing 
in  general,  from  the  pen  of  his  biographer. 
This  prologue,  we  think,  possesses  no  pecu- 
liar merit.  The  writer  has  no  vigour,  and 
very  little  vivacity;  his  mind  seems  to  be 
cultivated,  but  not  at  all  fertile ;  and,  while 
he  always  keeps  at  a  safe  distance  from  ex- 
travagance or  absurdity,  he  does  not  seem  to 
be  uniformly  capable  of  distinguishing  affect- 
ation from  elegance,  or  dulness  from  good 
judgment.  This  discourse  upon  letter-writ- 
mg,  in  short,  contains  nothing  that  might  not 
have  been  omitted  with  considerable  advan- 
tage to  the  publication ;  and  we  are  rather 
inclined  to  think,  that  those  who  are  ambi- 
tious of  being  introduced  to  the  presence  of 
Cowper,  will  do  well  not  to  linger  very  long 
in  the  antichamber  with  Mr.  Hayley. 

Of  the  letters  themselves,  we  may  safely 
assert,  that  we  have  rarely  met  with  any 
similar  collection,  of  superior  interest  or 
beauty.  Though  the  incidents  to  \vhich  they 
relate  be  of  no  public  magnitude  or  moment, 
and  the  remarks  which  they  contain  are  not 
uniformly  profound  or  original,  yet  there  is 
something  in  the  sweetness  and  facility  of  the 
diction,  and  more,  perhaps,  in  the  glimpses 
they  afford  of  a  pure  and  benevolent  mind, 
that  diffuses  a  charm  over  the  whole  collec- 
tion, and  communicates  an  interest  that  is  not 
often  commanded  by  performances  of  greater 
dignity  and  pretension.  This  interest  was 
promoted  and  assisted,  no  doubt,  in  a  consid- 
erable degree,  by  that  curiosity  which  always 
seeks  to  penetrate  into  the  privacy  of  celebrat- 
ed men,  and  which  had  been  almost  entirely 
frustrated  in  the  instance  of  Cowper,  till  the 
appearance  of  this  publication.  Though  his 
Writings  had  long  been  extremely  popular, 
the  author  himself  was  scarcely  known  to  the 


public;  and  having  lived  in  a  state  of  entire 
seclusion  from  the  world,  there  were  no  anec- 
dotes' of  his  conversation,  his  habits  or  opin- 
ions, in  circulation  among  his  admirers.  The 
publication  of  his  correspondence  has  in  a 
great  measure  supplied  this  deficiency ;  and 
we  now  know  almost  as  much  of  Cowper  as 
we  do  of  those  authors  who  have  spent  their 
days  in  the  centre  and  glare  of  literary  or 
fashionable  notoriety.  These  letters,  however, 
will  continue  to  be  read,  long  after  the  curi- 
osity is  gratified  to  which  perhaps  they  owed 
their  first  celebrity:  for  the  character  with 
which  they  make  us  acquuinied,  will  alwaya 
attract  by  its  rarity,  and  engage  by  its  ele- 
gance. The  feminine  delicacy  and  purity  of 
Cowper's  manners  and  disposition,  the  ro- 
mantic and  unbroken  retirement  in  which  his 
innocent  life  was  passed,  and  the  singular 
gentleness  and  modesty  of  his  whole  charac- 
ter, disarm  him  of  those  terrors  that  so  often 
shed  an  atmosphere  of  repulsion  around  the 
persons  of  celebrated  writers,  and  make  us 
more  indulgent  to  his  weaknesses,  and  more 
delighted  with  his  excellences,  than  if  he  had 
been  the  centre  of  a  circle  of  wits,  or  the  ora- 
cle of  a  literary  confederacy.  The  intciest 
of  this  picture  is  still  further  heightened  by 
the  recollection  of  that  tremendous  malady, 
to  the  visitations  of  which  he  was  subject.^nd 
by  the  spectacle  of  that  perpetual  conflict 
which  was  maintained,  through  the  greater 
part  of  his  life,  between  the  depression  of  those 
constitutional  horrors,  and  the  gaiety  that  re- 
sulted from  a  playful  imagination,  and  a  heart 
animated  by  the  mildest  affections. 

In  the  letters  now  before  us,  Cowper  dis- 
plays a  great  deal  of  all  those  peculiarities  by 
which  his  character  was  adorned  or  distin- 
guished; he  is  frequently  the  subject  of  his 
own  observations,  and  often  delineates  the 
finer  features  of  his  understanding  with  all  the 
industry  and  impartiality  of  a  stranger.  But 
the  most  interesting  traits  are  those  which  are 
unintentionally  discovered,  and  which  the 
reader  collects  from  expressions  that  were  em- 
ployed for  very  different  purposes.  Among 
the  most  obvious,  perhaps,  as  well  as  the  most 
important  of  these,  is  that  extraordinary  com- 
bination of  shyness  and  ambition,  to  which 
we  are  probably  indebted  for  the  very  exist- 
ence of  his  poetry.  Being  disqualified,  by 
the  former,  from  vindicating  his  proper  place 
in  the  ordinary  scenes  either  of  business  or  of 
society,  he  was  excited,  by  the  latter,  to  at- 
tempt the  only  other  avenue  to  reputation  thai 
appeared  to  be  open,  and  to  assert  the  real 
dignity  of  the  talents  with  which  he  felt  that 
he  was  gifted.  If  he  could  only  have  mo? 
tered  courage  enough  to  read  the  journals  f?'' 


164 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


the  House  of  Lords,  or  been  able  to  get  over 
the  diflidence  which  fettered  his  utterance  in 
general  society,  his  genius  would  probably 
have  evaporated  in  conversation,  or  been  con- 
tented with  the  humbler  glory  of  contributing 
to  the  Rolliad  or  the  Connoisseur. 

As  the  present  collection  relates  to  no  par- 
ticular set  of  subjects  or  occurrences,  but 
exhibits  a  view  of  the  author's  miscellaneous 
correspondence  with  the  few  intimate  friends 
he  had  retained,  it  is  impossible  to  give  any 
abstract  of  its  contents,  or  to  observe  any 
order  in  the  es;:racts  that  may  be  made  from 
it.  We  shrdi  endeavour,  however,  to  intro- 
duce as  great  a  variety  as  possible. 

Though  living  altogether  in  retirement, 
Cowper  appears  to  have  retained  a  very  nice 
perception  of  the  proprieties  of  conduct  and 
manners,  and  to  have  exercised  a  great  deal 
of  acuteness  and  sagacity  upon  the  few  sub- 
jects of  practical  importance  which  he  had 
occasion  to  consider.  The  following  sketch 
is  by  a  fine  and  masterly  hand  ',  and  proves 
how  much  a  bashful  recluse  may  excel  a  gen- 
tleman from  the  grand  tour  in  delicacy  of  ob- 
servation and  just  notions  of.politeness. 

"  Since  I  wrote  last,  we  had  a  visit  from .    I 

did  not  feel  myself  vehemently  disposed  to  receive 
him  with  that  complaisance,  from  which  a  stranger 
generally  infers  that  he  is  welcome.  By  his  man- 
ner, which  was  rather  bold  than  easy,  I  judged  that 
there  was  no  occasion  for  it ;  and  that  it  was  a  trifle 
which,  if  he  did  not  meet  with,  neither  would  he 
feel  the  want  of.  He  has  the  air  of  a  travelled  man, 
but  not  of  a  travelled  gentleman  ;  is  quite  delivered 
from  that  reserve,  which  is  so  common  an  ingre- 
dient in  the  English  character,  yet  does  not  open 
himself  gently  and  gradually,  as  men  of  polite  be- 
haviour do,  but  bursts  upon  you  all  at  once.  He 
talks  very  loud ;  and  when  our  poor  little  robins 
hear  a  great  noise,  they  are  immediately  seized  with 
an  aCfnbition  to  surpass  it — the  increase  of  their  vo- 
ciferation occasioned  an  increase  of  his  ;  and  his,  in 
return,  acted  as  a  stimulus  upon  theirs — neither  side 
entertained  a  thought  of  giving  up  the  contest,  which 
became  continually  more  interesting  to  our  ears 
during  the  whole  visit.  The  birds,  however,  sur- 
vived it, — and  so  did  we.  They  perhaps  flatter 
themselvfis  they  gained  a  complete  victory,  but  I 

believe  Mr. would  have  killed  them  both  in 

another  hour." — pp.  17,  18. 

Cowper's  antipathy  to  public  schools  is  well 
known  to  all  the  readers  of  his  poetry.  There 
are  many  excellent  remarks  on  that  subject 
in  these  letters.  We  can  only  fuid  room  for 
the  following. 

"  A  public  education  is  often  recommended  as  the 
most  effectual  remedy  for  that  bashful  and  awkward 
restraint,  so  epidemical  amon^  the  youth  of  our 
country.  But  I  verily  believe,  that,  instead  of  being 
a  cure,  it  is  often  the  cause  of  it.  For  seven  or 
eight  years  of  his  life,  the  boy  has  hardly  seen  or 
conversed  with  a  man,  or  a  woman,  except  the 
maids  at  his  boarding  house.  A  gentleman  or  a 
iady,  are  consequently  such  novelties  to  him,  that 
he  is  perfectly  at  a  loss  to  know  what  sort  of  beha- 
viour he  should  preserve  before  them.  He  plays 
with  his  buttons,  or  the  strings  of  his  hat,  he  blows 
his  nose,  and  hangs  down  his  head,  is  conscious  of 
his  own  deficiency  to  a  degree  that  makes  him  quite 
unhappy,  and  trembles  lest  any  one  should  speak  to 
him,  because  that  would  quite  overwhelm  him.  Is 
not  all  this  miserable  shyness  the  effect  of  his  edu- 
cation ?  To  tne  it  appears  to  be  so.  If  he  saw  good 
company  every  day,  he  would  never  be  terrified  at 
f.he  sight  of  it,  and  a  room  full  of  ladies  and  gentle- 


men, would  alarm  him  no  more  than  the  chairs  thej 
sit  on.     Such  is  the  effect  of  custom." — p.  60. 

There  is  much  acuteness  in  the  folowing 
examination  of  Dr.  Paley's  argument  in  favoui 
of  the  English  hierarchy. 

"  He  says  first,  that  the  appointment  of  various 
orders  in  the  church,  is  attended  with  this  good 
consequence,  that  each  class  of  people  is  supplied 
with  a  clergy  of  their  own  level  and  description, 
with  whom  they  may  live  and  associate  on  terms 
of  equality.  But  in  order  to  effect  this  good  pur- 
pose, there  ought  to  be  at  least  three  parsons  in 
every  parish ;  one  for  the  gentry,  one  for  the  traders 
and  mechanics,  and  one  for  the  lowest  of  the  vul- 
gar. Neither  is  it  easy  to  find  many  parishes, 
where  the  laity  at  large  have  any  society  with  their 
minister  at  all:  this  therefore  is  fanciful,  and  a  mere 
invention.  In  the  next  place,  he  says  it  gives  a 
dignity  to  the  ministry  itself;  and  the  clergy  share 
in  the  respect  paid  to  their  superiors.  Much  good 
may  such  participation  do  them!  They  themselves 
know  how  little  it  amounts  to.  The  dignity  a  cu- 
rate derives  from  the  lawn  sleeves  and  square  cap 
of  his  diocesan,  will  never  endanger  his  humility 
Again — '  Rich  and  splendid  situations  in  the  church, 
have  been  justly  regarded  as  prizes,  held  out  to  in- 
vite persons  of  good  hopes  and  ingenious  'attain- 
ments.' Agreed.  But  the  prize  held  out  in  the 
Scripture,  is  of  a  very  different  kind ;  and  our  ec- 
clesiastical baits  are  too  often  snapped  by  the  worth 
less,  and  persons  of  no  attainments  at  all.  They 
are  indeed  incentives  to  avarice  and  ambition,  but 
not  to  those  acquirements,  by  which  only  the  min- 
isterial function  can  be  adorned,  zeal  for  the  salva- 
tion of  men,  humility,  and  self-denial.  Mr.  Paley 
and  I  therefore  cannot  agree." — pp.  172,  173. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  things  in  this 
volume,  is  the  great  profusion  of  witty  and 
humorous  passages  which  it  contains ;  though 
they  are  usually  so  short,  and  stand  so  much 
connected  wath  more  indifferent  matter,  that 
it  is  not  easy  to  give  any  tolerable  notion  of 
them  by  an  extract.  His  style  of  narrative  is 
particularly  gay  and  pleasing,  though  the  in- 
cidents are  generally  too  trifling  to  bear  a 
separation  from  the  whole  tissue  of  the  cor- 
respondence. We  venture  on  the  following 
account. of  an  election  visit. 

"  As  when  the  sea  is  uncommonly  agitated,  the 
water  finds  its  way  into  creeks  and  holes  of  rocks, 
which  in  its  calmer  state  it  never  reaches,  in  like 
manner  the  effect  of  these  turbulent  times  is  felt 
even  at  Orchard-side,  where  in  general  we  live  as 
undisturbed  by  the  political  element,  as  sfirimps  or 
cockles  that  have  been  accidently  deposited  in  some 
hollow  beyond  the  water-mark,  by  the  usual  dash- 
ing of  the  waves.  We  were  sitting  yesterday  after 
dinner,  the  two  ladies  and  myself,  very  composedly, 
and  without  the  least  apprehension  of  any  such  in- 
trusion, in  our  snug  parlour,  one  lady  knitting,  the 
other  netting,  and  the  gentleman  winding  worsted, 
when,  to  our  unspeakable  surprise,  a  mob  appeared 
before  the  window,  a  smart  rap  was  heard  at  the 
door,  the  boys  halloo'd,  and  the  maid  announced 

Mr.  G .    Fuss*  was  unfortunately  let  out  of  her 

box,  so  that  the  candidate,  with  all  his  good  friends 
at  his  heels,  was  refused  admittance  at  the  grand 
entry,  and  referred  to  the  back  door,  as, the  only 
possible  way  of  approach. 

"Candidates  are  creatures  not  very  susceptible 
of  affronts,  and  would  rather,  I  suppose,  chmb  in 
at  the  window  than  be  absolutely  excluded-  In  a 
minute,  the  yard,  the  kitchen,  and  the  parlour  were 

filled.     Mr.  G ,  advancing  toward  me,  shook 

me  by  the  hand  with  a  degree  of  cordiality  thit  was 
extremely  seducing.    As  soon  as  he,  ana  as  "nany 


*  His  tame  hare. 


HAYLEY'S  LIFE  OF  COWPEIi. 


16S 


as  could  find  chairs  were  seated,  he  began  to  open 
the  intent  of  liis  visit.  I  told  him  I  had  no  vote,  ibr 
which  he  readily  gave  me  credit.  I  assured  him  I 
had  no  influence,  which  he  was  not  equally  inclined 

to  believe,  and  the  less  no  doubt  because  Mr.  G , 

addressing  himself  to  me  at  that  moment,  informed 
me  that  I  had  a  great  deal.  Supposing  that  I  coidd 
not  be  possessed  of  such  a  treasure  without  knowing 
it,  I  ventured  to  confirm  my  first  assertion,  by  say- 
ing, that  if  I  had  any,  I  was  utterly  at  a  loss  to 
imagine  where  it  could  be,  or  wherein  it  consisted. 

Thus  ended  the  conference.     Mr.  G squeezed 

me  by  the  hand  again,  kissed  the  ladies,  and  with- 
drew. He  kissed  likewise  the  maid  in  the  kitchen  ; 
and  seemed  upon  the  whole  a  most  loving,  kissing, 
kind-hearted  gentleman.  He  is  very  young,  gen- 
teel, and  handsome.  He  has  a  pair  of  very  good 
eyes  in  his  head,  which  not  being  sufficient  as  it 
should  seem  for  the  many  nice  and  difficult  purposes 
of  a  senator,  he  had  a  third  also,  which  he  wore 
suspended  by  a  riband  from  his  button-hole.  The 
boys  halloo'd,  the  dogs  barked,  puss  scampered; 
the  hero,  with  his  long  train  of  obsequious  followers, 
withdrew.  We  made  ourselves  very  merry  with 
the  adventure,  and  in  a  short  time  settled  into  our 
former  tranquillity,  never  probably  to  be  thus  inter- 
rupted more.  I  thought  myself,  however,  happy 
in  being  able  to  affirm  truly,  that  I  had  not  that  in- 
fluence for  which  he  sued,  and  for  which,  had  I 
been  possessed  of  it,  with  my  present  views  of  the 
dispute  between  the  Crown  and  the  Commons,  I 
must  have  refused  him,  for  he  is  on  the  side  of  the 
former.  It  is  comfortable  to  be  of  no  consequence 
in  a  world  wherei  one  cannot  exercise  any  without 
disobliging  somebody." — pp.  242 — 244. 

Melancholy  and  dejected  men  often  amuse 
themselves  with  pursuits  that  seem  to  indicate 
the  greatest  levity.  Swift  wrote  all  sorts  of 
doggrel  and  absurdity  while  tormented  with 
apleen,  giddiness,  and  misanthropy.  Cowper 
composed  John  Gilpin  during  a  season  of  most 
deplorable  depression,  and  probably  indited 
the  rhyming  letter  which  appears  in  this  col- 
lection, in  a  moment  equally  gloomy.  For 
the  amusement  of  our  readers,  we  annex  the 
concluding  paragraph,  containing  a  simile,  of 
which  we  think  they  must  immediately  feel 
the  propriety. 

'■■  I  have  heard  before  of  a  room,  with  a  floor  laid 
upon  springs,  and  such  like  things,  with  so  much 
art,  in  every  part,  that  when  you  went  in,  you  was 
forced  to  begin  a  minuet  pace,  with  an  air  and  a 
grace,  swimming  about,  now  in  and  now  out,  with 
a  deal  of  state,  in  a  figure  of  eight,  without  pipe  or 
Btring,  oi^any  such  thing  ;  and  now  I  have  writ,  in 
a  rhyming  fit,  what  will  make  you  dance,  and  as 
you  advance,  will  keep  you  still,  though  again&t 
your  will,  dancing  away,  alert  and  gay,  till  you 
come  to  an  end  of  what  I  have  penn'd  ;  which  that 
you  may  do,  ere  madam  and  you,  are  quite  worn 
out,  with  jiggling  about,  I  take  my  leave  ;  and  here 
you  receive  a  bow  profound,  down  to  the  ground, 
from  your  humble  me — W.  C." — p.  89. 

As  a  contrast  to  this  ridiculous  effusion,  we 

add  the  following  brief  statement,  which,  not- 

•vithstanding  its  humble  simplicity,  appears 

o  us  to  be  an  example  of  the  true  pathetic. 

"  You  never  said  a  better  thing  in  your  life,  than 

«<hen  you  assured  Mr. of  the  expedience  of  a 

^•ift  of'bedding  to  the  poor  of  Olney.  There  is  no 
one  article  of  this  world's  comforts  with  which,  as 
FalstafF  says,  they  are  so  heinously  unprovided. 
When  a  poor  woman,  whom  we  know  well,  carried 
3iome  two  pair  of  blankets,  a  pair  for  herself  and 
husband,  and  a  pair  for  her  six  children,  as  soon  as 
the  children  saw  them,  they  jumped  out  of  their 
straw,  caught  them  in  their  arms,  kissed  them, 
blessed  them  and  danced   for  joy.     Another  old 


ii 


woman,  a  very  old  one,  the  first  night  that  she 
found  herself  so  comfortably  covered,  could  not 
sleep  a  wink,  being  kept  awake  by  the  contrary 
emotions,  of  transport  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  fear 
of  not  being  thankful  enough  on  the  other." 

pp.  347.  348. 
The  correspondence  of  a  poet  may  be  ex 
pected  to  abound  in  poetical  iiKagery  and 
sentiments.  They  do  not  form  the  most 
prominent  parts  of  this  collection,  but  they 
occur  in  sufficient  profusion;  and  we  have 
been  agreeably  surprised  to  fir.d  in  !hese  let- 
ters the  germs  of  many  of  the  finest  passages 
in  the  "Task."  There  is  all  the  ardour  of 
poetry  and  devotion  in  the  following  passages. 

"  Oh  I  I  could  spend  whole  days,  and  moon-light 
nights,  in  feeding  upon  a  lovely  prospect !  My  eyea 
drink  the  rivers  as  they  flow.  If  every  human  be- 
ing upon  earth  could  think  for  one  quarter  of  an 
hour,  as  I  have  done  for  many  years,  there  might 
perhaps  be  many  miserable  men  among. them,  but 
not  an  unawakened  one  could  be  found,  from  the 
arctic  to  the  antarctic  circle.  At  present,  the  dif- 
ference between  them  and  me  is  greatly  to  their 
advantage.  I  delight  in  baubles,  and  know  them  to 
be  so ;  for,  rested  in,  and  viewed  without  a  reler- 
ence  to  their  Author,  what  is  the  earth,  what  are 
the  planets,  what  is  the  sun  itself,  but  a  bauble? 
Better  for  a  man  never  to  have  seen  them,  or  to  see 
them  with  the  eyes  of  a  brute,  stupid  and  uncon- 
scious of  what  he  beholds,  than  not  to  be  able  to 
say,  '  The  Maker  of  all  these  wonders  is  my  friend !' 
Their  eyes  have  never  been  opened,  to  see  that 
they  are  trifles;  mine  have  been,  and  will  be,  till 
they  are  closed  for  ever.  They  think  a  fine  estate, 
a  large  conservatory,  a  hot-house  rich  as  a  West  In- 
dian garden,  things  of  consequence ;  visit  them 
with  pleasure,  and  muse  upon  them  with  ten  times 
more.  I  am  pleased  with  a  frame  of  four  lights, 
doubtful  whether  the  few  pines  it  contains  will  ever 
be  worth  a  farthing;  amuse  myself  with  a  green- 
house, which  Lord  Bute's  gardener  could  take  upon 
his  back,  and  walk  away  with  ;  and  when  I  have 
paid  it  the  accustomed  visit,  and  watered  it,  and 
given  it  air,  I  say  to  myself — This  is  not  mine,  'tis 
a  plaything  lent  me  for  the  present,  I  must  leave  it 
soon." — pp.  19,  20. 

"  We  keep  no  bees  ;  but  if  I  lived  in  a  hive,  I 
should  hardly  hear  more  of  their  music.  All  tho 
bees  in  the  neighbourhood  resort  to  a  bed  of  mig- 
nonette, opposite  to  the  window,  and  pay  me  for 
the  honey  they  get  out  of  it,  by  a  hum,  which, 
though  rather  monotonous,  is  as  agreeable  to  my 
ear,  as  the  whistling  of  my  linnets.  All  the  sounds 
that  nature  utters  are  delightful,  at  least  in  this 
country.  I  should  not  perhaps  find  the  roaring  of 
lions  in  Africa,  or  of  bears  in  Russia,  very  pleasing; 
but  I  know  no  beast  in  England  whose  voice  I  do  not 
account  musical,  save  and  except  always  the  braying 
of  an  ass.  The  notes  of  all  our  birds  and  fowls 
please  me,  without  one  exception.  I  should  not  in- 
deed think  of  keeping  a  goose  in  a  cage,  that  I  might 
hang  him  up  in  the  parlour,  for  the  sake  of  his  mel- 
ody ;  but  a  goose  upon  a  common,  or  in  a  farm 
yard,  is  no  bad  performer.  And  as  to  insects,  if  the 
black  beetle,  and  beetles  indeed  of  all  hues,  will 
keep  out  of  my  way,  I  have  no  objection  to  any  of 
the  rest;  on  the  contrary,  in  whatever  key  they 
sing,  from  the  knat's  fine  treble  to  the  bass  of  the 
humble  bee,  I  admire  them  all.  Seriously,  how- 
ever, it' strikes  me  as  a  very  observable  instance  of 
providential  kindness  to  man,  that  such  an  exact 
accord  has  been  contrived  between  his  ear  and  the 
sounds  with  which,  at  least  in  a  rural  situation,  it  is 
almost  every  moment  visited.  All  the  world  ia 
sensible  of  the  uncomfortable  effect  that  certain 
sounds  have  .upon  the  nerves,  and  consequently 
upon  the  spirits ;  and  if  a  slnfiil  world  had  been 
filled  with  such  as  would  have  curdled  the  blood 
and  hare  made  the  sense  of  hearing  a  perpetual  in 


«« 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


convenience,  I  do  not  know  that  we  should  have 
had  a  right  to  complain. — Thire  is  somewhere  in  in- 
finite space,  a  world  that  does  not  roll  within  the 
precincts  of  mercy ;  and  as  it  is  reasonable,  and  even 
scriptural,  to  suppose  that  there  is  music  in  heaven, 
in  those  dismal  regions  perhaps  the  reverse  of  it  is 
found.  Tones  so  dismal,  as  to  make  woe  itself 
more  insupportable,  and  to  acuminate  even  despair. 
But  my  paper  admonishes  me  in  good  time  to  draw 
the  reins,  and  to  check  the  descent  of  my  fancy 
into  deeps  with  which  she  is  but  too  familiar. 

pp.  287—289. 

The  following  short  sketches,  though  not 
marked  with  so  much  enthusiasm,  are  con- 
ceived with  the  same  vigour  and  distinctness. 

"  When  we  look  back  upon  our  forefathers,  we 
seem  to  look  back  upon  the  people  of  another  na- 
tion, almost  upon  creatures  of  another  species. 
Their  vast  rambUng  mansions,  spacious  halls,  and 
painted  casements,  their  Gothic  porches  smothered 
with  honeysuckles,  their  little  gardens  and  high 
walls,  their  box-edgings,  balls  of  holly,  and  yew. 
tree  statues,  are  become  so  entirely  unfashionable 
now,  that  we  can  hardly  believe  it  possible  that  a 
people -who  resembled  us  so  little  in  their  taste, 
should  resemble  us  in  any  thing  else.  But  in  every 
thing  else,  I  suppose,  they  were  our  counterparts 
exactly  ;  and  time,  that  has  sewed  up  the  slashed 
sleeve,  and  reduced  the  large  trunk-hose  to  a  neat 
pair  of  silk  stockings,  has  left  human  nature  just 
where  it  found  it.  The  inside  of  the  man,  at  least, 
has  undergone  no  change.  His  passions,  appetites, 
and  aims  are  just  what  they  ever  were.  They  wear 
perhaps  a  handsomer  disguise  than  they  did  in  days 
of  yore  ;  for  philosophy  and  literature  will  have  their 
effect  upon  the  exterior  ;  but  in  every  other  respect 
a  modern  is  only  an  ancient  in  a  different  dress." 

p.  48. 

"I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  the  voyages, 
which  I  received,  and  began  to  read  last  night.  My 
imagination  is  so  captivated  upon  these  occasions, 
that  I  seem  to  partake  with  the  navigators  in  all  the 
dangers  they  encountered.  I  lose  my  anchor  ;  my 
nnain-sail  is  rent  into  shreds  ;  1  kill  a  shark,  and  by 
signs  converse  with  a  Patagonian, — and  all  this 
without  moving  from  the  fire-side.  The  principal 
fruits  of  these  circuits  that  have  been  made  around 
the  globe,  seem  likely  to  be  the  amusement  of  those 
that  staid  at  home.  Discoveries  have  been  made, 
but  such  discoveries  as  will  hardly  satisfy  the  ex- 
pense of  such  undertakings.  We  brought  away  an 
Indian,  and,  having  debauched  him,  we  sent  him 
home  again  to  communicate  the  infection  to  his 
country — fine  sports  to  be  sure,  but  such  as  will 
not  defray  the  cost.  Nations  that  hve  upon  bread- 
fruit, and  have  no  mines  to  make  them  worthy  of 
our  acquaintance,  will  be  but  little  visited  for  the 
future.  So  much  the  better  for  them  ;  their  poverty 
is  indeed  their  mercy." — pp.  201,  202. 

Cowper's  religious  impressions  occupied  too 
great  a  portion  of  his  thoughts,  and  exercised 
too  great  an  influence  on  his  character,  not  to 
make  a  prominent  figure  in  his  correspond- 
ence. They  form  the  subject  of  many  elo- 
quent and  glowing  passages ;  and  have  some- 
times suggested  sentimonts  and  expressions 
that  cantiot  be  perused  without  compassion 
and  regret.  The  following  passage,  however, 
J8  liberal  and  important. 

■'  No  man  was  ever  scolded  out  of  his  sins.  The 
heart,  corrupt  as  it  is,  and  because  it  is  so,  grows 
angry  if  it  be  not  treated  with  some  management 
and  good  manners,  and  scolds  again.  A  surly  mas- 
tiff will  bear  perhaps  to  be  stroked,  though  he  will 
fjrowl  even  under  that  operation  ;  but  if  you  touch 
lim  roughly,  he  will  bite.  There  is  no  grace  that 
me  spirit  of  self  can  counterfeit  with  more  success 
than  a  religious  zeal.    A  man  thinks  he  is  fighting 


for  Christ,  when  he  is  fighting  for  his  own  notions^ 
He  thinks  that  he  is  skilfully  searching  the  hearts 
of  others,  while  he  is  only  gratifying  the  malignity 
of  his  own  ;  and  charitably  supposes  his  hearers 
destitute  of  all  grace,  that  he  may  shine  the  more 
in  his  own  eyes  by  comparison." — pp.  179,  180. 

The  following,  too,  is  in  a  fine  style  of 
eloquence. 

"  We  have  exchanged  a  zeal  that  was  no  better 
than  madness,  for  an  indifference  equally  pitiable 
and  absurd.  The  holy  sepulchre  has  lost  its  im- 
portance in  the  eyes  of  nations  called  Christian; 
not  because  the  light  of  true  wisdom  had  delivered 
them  from  a  superstitious  attachment  to  the  spot, 
but  because  he  that  was  buried  in  it  is  no  longer 
regarded  by  them  as  the  Saviour  of  the  world. 
The  exercise  of  reason,  enlightened  by  philosophy, 
has  cured  them  indeed  of  the  misery  of  an  abused 
understanding ;  but,  together  with  the  delusion, 
they  have  lost  the  substance,  and,  for  the  sake  of 
the  lies  that  were  grafted  upon  it,  have  quarrelled 
with  the  truth  itself.  Here,  then,  we  see  the  7ie 
plus  ultra  of  human  wisdom,  at  least  in  affairs  of 
religion.  It  enlightens  the  mind  with  respect  to 
non-essentials ;  but,  with  respect  to  that  in  which 
the  essence  of  Christianity  consists,  leaves  it  per- 
fectly in  the  dark.  It  can  discover  many  errors, 
that  in  different  ages  have  disgraced  the  faith  ;  but 
it  is  only  to  make  way  for  the  admission  of  one 
more  fatal  than  them  all,  which  represents  that 
faith  itself  as  a  delusion.  Why  those  evils  have 
been  permitted,  shall  be  known  hereafter.  One 
thing  in  the  meantime  is  certain  ;  that  the  folly  and 
frenzy  of  the  professed  disciples  of  the  gospel  have 
been  more  dangerous  to  its  interest  than  all  the 
avowed  hostilities  of  its  adversaries." — pp.  200,  201. 

There  are  many  passages  that  breathe  the 
very  spirit  of  Christian  gentleness  and  sober 
judgment.  But  when  he  talks  of  his  friend 
Mr.  Newton's  prophetic  intimations  (p.  35.), 
and  maintains  that  a  great  proportion  of  the 
ladies  and  gentlemen  who  amuse  themselves 
with  dancing  at  Brighthelmstone.  must  nec- 
essarily be  damned  (p.  100.),  we  cannot  feel 
the  same  respect  for  his  understanding,  and 
are  repelled  by  the  austerity  of  his  faith. 
The  most  remarkable  passage  of  this  kind, 
however,  is  that  in  wliich  he  supposes  the 
death  of  the  celebrated  Captain  Cook  to  have 
been  a  judgment  on  him  for  having  allowed 
himself  to  be  ivor shipped  at  Owhyhee.  Mr. 
Hayley  assures  us,  in  a  note,  that  Cowper 
proceeded  altogether  on  a  misapprehension  of 
the  fact.  The  passage,  however,  is  curious, 
and  shows  with  what  eagerness  his  powerful 
mind  followed  that  train  of  superstition  into 
which  his  devotion  was  sometimes  so  unfortu- 
nately betrayed. 

"  The  reading  of  those  volumes  afforded  me 
much  amusement,  and  I  hope  some  instruction. 
No  observation,  however,  forced  itself  upon  me 
with  more  violence  than  one,  that  I  could  not  help 
making,  on  the  .death  of  Captain  Cook.  God  is  a 
jealous  God  ;  and  at  Owhyhee  the  poor  man  was 
content  to  be  worshipped!  From  that  moment, 
the  remarkable  interposition  of  Providence  in  his 
favour,  was  converted  ii»to  an  opposition  that 
thwarted  all  his  purposes.  He  left  the  scene  of  hia 
deification,  but  was  driven  back  to  it  by  a  most 
violent  storm,  in  which  he  suffered  more  than  ni 
any  that  had  preceded  it.  When  he  departed,  he 
left  his  worshippers  still  infatuated  with  an  idea  of 
his  godship,  consequently  well  disposed  to  serve 
him.  At  his  return,  he  found  them  sullen,  dis- 
trustful, and  mysterious.  A  trifling  theft  was  corn' 
mitted,  which,  by  a  blunder  of  his  own  in  pursuing 


HLVYLE^S  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 


Ife7 


tne  tnief  after  the  property  had  been  restored,  was 
magnified  to  an  affair  of  the  last  importance.  One 
of  their  favourite  chiefs  was  killed,  too,  by  a  blun- 
der. Nothing,  in  short,  but  blunder  and  mistake 
attended  him,  till  he  fell  breathless  into  the  water 
— and  then  all  was  smooth  again !  'I'he  world  in- 
deed will  not  take  notice,  or  see  that  the  dispensa- 
tion bore  evident  marks  of  divine  displeasure  ;  but 
a  mind,  I  think,  in  any  degree  spiritual,  cannot 
overlook  them." — pp.  293,  294. 

From  these  extracts,  our  readers  will  now 
be  able  to  form  a  pretty  accurate  notion  of 
the  contents  and  composition  of  this  volume. 
Its  chief  merit  consists  in  the  singular  ease, 
elegance,  and  familiarity  with  which  every 
thing  is  expressed,  and  in  the  simplicity  and 
sincerity  in  which  every  thing  appears  to  be 
conceived.  Its  chief  fault,  perhaps,  is  the  too 
frequent  recurrence  of  those  apologies  for  dull 
letters,  and  complaints  of  the  want  of  sub- 
jects, that  seem  occasionally  to  bring  it  down 
to  the  level  of  an  ordinary  correspondence^ 
and  to  represent  Cowper  as  one  of  those  who 
make  every  letter  its  own  subject,  and  cor- 
respond with  their  friends  by  talking  about 
their  correspondence. 

Besides  the  subjects,  of  which  we  have 
exhibited  some  specimens,  it  contains  a  good 
deal  of  occasional  criticism,  of  which  we  do 
not  think  very  highly.  It  is  not  easy,  indeed, 
to  say  to  what  degree  the  judgments  of  those 
who  live  in  the  world  are  biassed  by  the 
opinions  that  prevail  in  it ;  but,  in  matters  of 
this  kind,  the  general  prevalence  of  an  opinion 
is  almost  the  only  test  we  can  have  of  its 
truth  ;  nnd  the  judgTnent  of  a  secluded  man 
is  almost  as  justly  convicted  of  error,  when  it 
runs  counter  to  that  opinion,  as  it  is  extolled 
for  sagacity,  when  it  happens  to  coincide  with 
it.  The  critical  remarks  of  Cowper  furnish 
us  with  instances  of  both  sorts;  but  perhaps 
with  most  of  the  former.  His  admiration  of 
Mrs.  iMacaulay's  History,  and  the  rapture 
with  which  he  speaks  of  the  Henry  ami 
Emma  of  Prior,  and  the  compositions  of 
Churchill,  will  not,  we  should  imagine,  at- 
tract the  sympathy  of  many  readers,  or  sus- 
pend the  sentence  which  time  appears  to  be 
passing  on  those  performances.  As  there  is 
scarcely  any  thing  of  love  in  the  poetry  of 
Cowper,  it  is  not  very  wonderful  that  there 
should  be  nothing  of  it  in  his  correspondence. 
There  is  something  very  tender  and  amiable 
in  his  afTection  for  his  cousin  Lady  Hesketh; 
but  we  do  not  remember  any  passage  where 
he  approaches  to  the  language  of  gallantry, 
or  appears  to  have  indulged  in  the  sentiments 
that  might  have  leil  to  its  employment.  It  is 
also  somewhat  remarkable,  that  during  the 
whole  course  of  his  retirement,  though  a  good 
deal  embarrassed  in  his  circumstances,  and 
freqjenlly  very  much  distressed  for  want  of 
employment,  he  never  seems  to  have  had  an 
idea  of  betaking  himself  to  a  profession.  The 
solution  of  this  difhculty  is  probably  to  be 
found  in  the  infirmity  of  his  mental  health: 
but  there  were  ten  or  twelve  years  of  his  life, 
when  he  seems  to  have  been  fit  for  any  exer- 
tion that  did  not  require  a  public  appearance, 
iiul  to  have  sufTered  very  much  from  the 
hrant  of  all  occupation. 


This  volume  closes  with  a  fragment  of  a 
poem  by  Cowper,  which  Mr.Hayley  ^^as  for* 
tunate  enough  to  discover  by  accident  among 
some  loose  papers  A\hich  had  been  found  in 
the  poet's  study.  It  consists  of  something 
less  than  two  hundred  lines,  and  is  addressed 
to  a  very  ancient  and  decayed  oak  in  tha 
vicinity  of  Weston.  We  do  not  think  quite 
so  highly  jf  this  production  as  the  editor  ap- 
pears to  do ;  at  the  same  time  that  we  con- 
fess it  ;o  be  impressed  with  all  the  marka 
of  Cowper's  most  vigorous  hand :  we  do  not 
know  any  of  his  compositions,  indeed,  that 
affords  a  more  striking  exemplification  of 
most  of  the  excellences  and  defects  of  his 
peculiar  style,  or  might  be  more  fairly  quoted 
as  a  specimen  of  his  manner.  It  is  full  of  the 
conceptions  of  a  vigorous  and  poetical  fancy 
expressed  in  nervous  and  familiar  language 
but  it  is  rendered  harsh  by  unnecessary  in 
versions,  and  debased  in  several  places  b) 
the  use  of  antiquated  and  vulgar  phrases. 
The  following  are  about  the  best  lines  whroh 
it  contahis.  \°^ 

*'  Thou  wast  a  bauble  once  ;  a  cup  and  ball. 
Which  babes  might  play  with ;  and  the  thievisli 

Seeking  her  food,  with  ease  might  have  purlbin'd 

The  auburn  nut  that  held  thee,  swallowing  dowu 

Thy  yet  close-folded  latitude  of  boughs. 

And  all  thine  embryo  vastness,  as  a  gulp!      ,-  ^  ;:'' . 

But  fate  thy  growth  decreed  ;  autumnal  rainSr-^ 

Beneath  thy  parent  tree,  mellow'd  the  soil 

Design'd  thy  cradle,  and  a  skipping  deer. 

With  pointed  hoof  dibbling  the  glebe,  prepar'd 

The  soft  receptacle,  in  which  secure 

Thy  rudiments  should  sleep  the  winter  through.** 

"  Time  made  ihee  what  thou  wast — King  of  the 
woods ! 
And  time  hath  made  thee  what  thou  art — a  cave 
For  owls  to  roost  in  !    Once  thy  spreading  boughs 
O'erhung  the  champaign,  and  the  numerous  flock 
That  graz'd  it,  stood  beneath  that  ample  cope 
Uncrowded,  yet  safe-sheltered  from  the  storm  I 
No  flock  frequents  thee  now  ;  thou  hast  outliv'd 
Thy  popularity  ;  and  art  become 
(Unless  verse  rescue  thee  awhile)  a  thing 
Forgotten,  as  the  foliage  of  thy  youth  !" 

"  One  man  alone,  the  father  of  us  all. 
Drew  not  his  lil'e  from  woman;  never  gaz'd, 
With  mute  unconsciousness  of  what  he  saw, 
On  all  around  him  ;  iearn'd  not  by  degrees, 
Nor  ow'd  articulation  to  his  ear  ; 
But  moulded  by  his  Maker  into  man 
At  once,  upstood  intelligent ;  survey'd 
All  creatures;  with  precision  understood 
Their  purport,  uses,  properties  ;  assign'd 
To  each  his  name  significant,  and,  fill' d 
With  love  and  wisdom,  rendered  back  to  heaven, 
In  praise  harmonious,  the  first  air  he  drew! 
He  was  excus'd  the  penalties  of  dull 
Minority  ;  no  tutor  charg'd  his  hand 
With  the  thought-tracing  quill,  or  task'd  his  mind 
With  problems;  History,  not  wanted  yet, 
Lean'd  on  her  elbow,  wajiching  time,  whose  cause 
Eventful,  should  supply  her  with  a  theme." 

pp.  415,  416. 

On  the  whole,  though  we  complain  a  little 
of  the  size  and  the  price  of  the  volumes  now 
before  us,  we  take  our  leave  of  them  with 
reluctance;  and  lay  down  our  pen  with  no 
little  regret;  to  think  that  we  shall  review  i[va 
more  of  this  author's  productions. 


HISTOEY 


AND 


HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


(©ctobtr,  180S.) 

ilemoirs  of  the  Life  of  Colonel  Hutchinson,  Governor  of  Nottingham  Castle  and  Tomn, 
Representative  of  the  County  of  Nottingham  in  the  Long  Parliament,  and  of  the  Town  of 
Nottingham  in  the  First  Parliament  of  Charles  II.  fyc.  :  with  Original  Anecdotes  of  many  of 
the  most  distinguished  of  his'  Contemporaries,  and  a  summary  Review  of  Public  Affairs '. 
Written  by  his  Widow,  Lucy,,  daughter  of  Sir  Allen  Apsley,  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  ^c. 
Now  first  published  from  the  Original  Manuscript,  by  the  Rev.  Julius  Hutchinson,  &c. 
&c.  To  which  is  prefixed,  the  Life  of  IMrs.  Hutchinson,  written  by  Herself,  a  Fragment, 
pp.  446.  4to.     London,  Longman  and  Co. :  1806. 


We  have  not  often  met  with  any  thing  more 
interesting  and  curious  than  this  volume.  In- 
dependent of  its  being  a  contemporary  nar- 
rative of  by  far  the  most  animating  and  im- 
portant part  of  our  history,  it  challenges  our 
attention  as  containing  an  accurate  and  lu- 
minous account  of  military  and  political  affairs 
from  the  hand  of  a  woman ;  as  exhibiting  the 
most  liberal  and  enlightened  sentiments  in 
the  person  of  a  puritan ;  and  sustaining  a  high 
tone  of  aristocratical  dignity  and  pretension, 
though  the  work  of  a  decided  republican. 
The  views  which  it  opens  into  the  character  of 
the  writer,  and  the  manners  of  the  age,  will 
be  to  many  a  still  more  powprful  attraction. 

Of  the  times  to  which  this  narrative  be- 
longs— times  to  which  England  owes  all  her 
freedom  and  all  her  glory — we  can  never  hear 
too  much,  or  too  often :  and  though  their  story 
has  been  transmitted  to  us,  both  with  more 
fulness  of  detail  and  more  vivacity  of  colour- 
ing than  any  other  portion  of  our  annals,  every 
reflecting  reader  must  be  aware  that  our  in- 
formation is  still  extremely  defective,  and 
exposes  us  to  the  hazard  of  great  misconcep- 
tion. The  work  before  us,  we  think,  is  cal- 
culated in  a  good  degree  to  supply  these  de- 
ficiencies, and  to  rectify  these  errors. 

By  f?r  the  most  important  part  of  history, 
as  we  Lave  formerly  endeavoured  to  explain, 
is  that  which  makes  us  acquainted  with  the 
character,  dispositions,  and  opinions  of  the 
great  and  efficient  population  by  whose  mo- 
tion or  consent  all  things  are  ultimately  gov- 
erned. After  a  nation  has  attained  to  any 
degree  of  intelligence,  every  other  principle 
of  action  becomes  subordinate ;  and,  with  re- 
lation to  our  own  country  in  particular,  it  may 
be  said  with  safety,  that  we  can  know  nothing 
*\  its  past  nistory,  or  of  the  applications  of 
168 


that  history  to  more  recent  transactions,  if  we 
have  not  a  tolerably  correct  notion  of  the 
character  of  the  people  of  England  in  the 
reign  of  Charles  L,  and  the  momentous  pe- 
riods which  ensued.  This  character  depended 
very  much  on  that  of  the  landed  proprietors 
and  resident  gentry ;  and  Mrs.  Hutchinson's 
memoirs  are  chiefly  valuable,  as  containing  a 
picture  of  that  class  of  the  community. 

Agriculture  was  at  this  period  still  the 
chief  occupation  of  the  people ;  and  the  truly 
governing  part  of  society  was  consequently 
the  rustic  aristocracy.  The  country  gentle- 
men— who  have  since  been  worn  down  by 
luxury  and  taxation,  superseded  by  the  ac- 
tivity of  office,  and  eclipsed  by  the  opulence 
of  trade — were  then  all  and  all  in  England ; 
and  the  nation  at  large  derived  from  them  its 
habits,  prejudices,  and  opinions.  Educated 
almost  entirely  at  home,  their  manners  were 
not  yet  accommodated  to  a  general  European 
standard,  but  retained  all  those  national  pecu- 
liarities which  united  and  endeared  them  to 
the  rest  of  their  countrymen.  Constitutionally 
serious,  and  living  much  with  their  families, 
they  had  in  general  more  solid  learning,  and 
mor^  steady  morality  than  the  gentry  of  othei 
countries.  Exercised  in  local  magistracies, 
and  frequently  assembled  for  purposes  of 
national  cooperation,  they  became  conscious 
of  their  power,  and  jealous  of  their  privileges; 
and  having  been  trained  up  in  a  dread  and 
detestation  of  that  popery  which  had  been 
the  recent  cause  of  so  many  wars  and  perse- 
cutions, their  religious  sentiments  had  con- 
tracted somewhat  of  an  austere  and  polemical 
character,  and  had  not  y^t  settled  from  the 
ferment  of  reformation  into  tranquil  and  regu- 
lated piety.  It  was  upon  this  side,  accord- 
ingly, that  they  were  most  liable  to  error: 


LIFE  OF  COLONEL  HUTCfflNSON. 


16» 


and  the  extravao^nces  into  which  a  part  of 
them  was  actually  betrayed,  has  been  the 
chief  cause  of  the  misrepresentations  to  which 
they  were  then  exposed,  and  of  the  miscon- 
ception which  still  prevails  as  to  their  char- 
acter and  principles  of  action. 

In  the  middle  of  the  reign  of  Charles  I.  al- 
most the  whole  nation  was  serious  and  devout. 
Any  licence  and  excess  which  existed  was 
mostly  encourag-ed  and  patronised  by  the 
Royalists;  who  made  it  a  point  of  duty  to 
deride  the  sanctity  and  rigid  morality  of  their 
opponents ;  and  the_^  ag-ain  exaggerated,  out 
of  party  hatred,  the  peculiarities  by  which 
they  were  most  obviously  distinguished  from 
their  antagonists.  Thus  mutually  receding 
from  each  other,  from  feelings  of  general 
hostility,  they  were  gradually  led  to  realize 
the  imputations  of  which  they  were  recipro- 
oally  the  subjljcts.  The  cavaliers  gave  way 
to  a  certain  degree  of  licentiousness ;  and  the 
adherents  of  the  parliamerrt  became,  for  the 
most  part,  really  morose  and  enthusiastic.  At 
the  Restoration,  the  cavaliers  obtained  a  com- 
plete and  final  triumph  over  their  sanctimo- 
nious opponents;  and  the  exiled  monarch 
and  his  nobles  imported  from  the  Continent  a 
taste  for  dissipation,  and  a  toleration  for  de- 
bauchery, far  exceeding  any  thing  that  had 
previously  been  known  in  England.  It  is 
from  the  wits  of  that  court,  however,  and  the 
writers  of  that  party,  that  the  succeeding  and 
the  present  age  have  derived  their  notions  of 
the  Puritans.  In  reducing  these  notions  to 
the  standard  of  truth,  it  is  not  easy  to  deter- 
mine how  large  an  allowance  ought  to  be 
made  for  the  exaggerations  of  party  hatred, 
the  perversions  of  witty  malice,  and  the  illu- 
sions of  habitual  superiority.  It  is  certain, 
however,  that  ridicule,  toleration,  and  luxury 
gradually  annihilated  the  Puritans  in  the 
higher  ranks  of  society :  and  after-times,  seeing 
their  practices  and  principles  exemplified  only 
among  the  lowest  and  most  illiterate  of  man- 
kind, readily  caught  the  tone  of  contempt 
which  had  been  assumed  by  their  triumphant 
enemies ;  and  found  no  absurdity  in  believing 
that  the  base  and  contemptible  beings  who 
were  described  under  the  name  of  Puritans 
by  the  courtiers  of  Charles  II.,  were  true 
representatives  of  that  valiant  and  conscien- 
tious party  which  once  numbered  half  the 
gentry  of  England  among  its  votaries  and 
adherents. 

That  the  popular  conceptions  of  the  auster- 
ities and  absurdities  of  the  old  Roundheads 
and  Presbyterians  are  greatly  exaggerated, 
will  probably  be  allowed  by  every  one  at  all 
conversant  with  the  subject;  but  we  know 
of  nothing  so  well  calculated  to  dissipate  the 
existing  prejudices  on  the  .subject,  as  this 
book  of  Mrs.  Hutchinson.  Instead  of  a  set 
of  gloomy  bigots  waging  war  with  all  the 
elegancies  and  gaieties  of  life,  we  find,  in  this 
calumniated  order,  ladies  of  the  first  birth 
and  fashion,  at  once  converting  their  husbands 
to  Anabaptism,  and  instructing  their  children 
in  music  and  dancing, — valiant  Presbyterian 
colonels  refuting  the  errors  of  Arminius,  col- 
l«cting  pictures,  and   practising,  with  great 


applause,  on  the  violin, — stout  esquires,  at 
the  same  time,  praying  and  quafhng  Octobei 
with  their  godly  tenants, — and  noble  lords 
disputing  wjth  their  chaplains  on  points  of 
theology  in  the  evening,  and  taking  them  out 
a-hunting  in  the  morning.  There  is  nothing, 
in  short,  more  curious  and  instructive,  than 
the  glimpses  which  we  here  catch  of  the  old 
hospitable  and  orderly  life  of  the  country 
gentlemen  of  England,  in  those  days  when 
the  national  character  was  so  high  and  eo 
peculiar, — when  civilization  had  produced  all 
its  effects,  but  that  of  corruption, — and  when 
serious  studies  and  dignified  pursuits  had  net 
yet  been  abandoned  to  a  paltry  and  effeminate 
derision.  Undoubtedly,  in  reviewing  the  an- 
nals of  those  times,  we  are  struck  with  a 
loftier  air  of  manhood  than  presents  itself  in 
any  after  era ;  and  recognize  the  same  char- 
acters of  deep  thought  and  steady  enthusiasm, 
and  the  same  principles  of  fidelity  and  self- 
command,  which  ennobled  the  better  days  of 
the  Roman  Republic,  and  have  made  every 
thing  else  appear  childish  and  frivolous  in 
the  comparison. 

One  of  the  most  striking  and  valuable 
things  in  JMrs.  Hutchinson's  performance,  is 
the  information  which  it  affords  us  as  to  the 
manners  and  condition  of  women  in  the  period 
with  which  she  is  occupied.  This  is  a  point 
in  which  all  histories  of  public  events  are 
almost  necessarily  defective ;  though  it  is  evi- 
dent that,  without  attending  to  it,  our  notions 
of  the  state  and  character  of  any  people  must 
be  extremely  imperfect  and  erroneous.  Mrs. 
Hutchinson,  however,  enters  into  no  formal 
disquisition  upon  this  subject.  What  Ave 
learn  from  her  in  relation  to  it,  is  learnt  inci- 
dentally— partly  on  occasion  of  some  anec- 
dotes which  it  falls  in  her  way  to  recite — but 
chiefly  from  \vhat  she  is  led  to  narrate  or  dis- 
close as  to  her  own  education,  conduct,  or 
opinions.  If  it  were  allowable  to  take  the 
portrait  which  she  has  thus  indirectly  given 
of  herself,  as  a  just  representation  of  her  fair 
contemporaries,  we  should  form  a  most  exalt- 
ed notion  of  the  republican  matrons  of  Eng- 
land. Making  a  slight  deduction  for  a  few 
traits  of  austerity,  borrowed  from  the  bigotry 
of  the  age,  we  do  not  know  where  to  look  for 
a  more  noble  and  eng^aging  character  than 
that  under  which  this  lady  presents  herself  to 
her  readers ;  nor  do  we  believe  that  any  age 
of  the  world  has  produced  so  worthy  a  coun- 
terpart to  the  Valerias  and  Portias  of  antiquity. 
With  a  high-minded  feeling  of  patriotism  and 
public  honour,  she  seems  to  have  been  pos- 
sessed by  the  most  dutiful  and  devoted  at- 
tachment  to  her  husband ;  and  to  have  com- 
bined a  taste  for  learning  and  the  arts  with 
the  most  active  kindness  and  munificent  hos- 
pitality to  all  who  came  within  the  sphere  of 
her  bounty.  To  a  quick  perception  of  char- 
acter, she  appears  to  have  united  a  masculine 
force  of  understanding,  and  a  singular  capacity 
for  affairs ;  and  to  have  possessed  and  exer- 
cised all  those  talents,  without  affecting  any 
superiority  over  the  rest  of  her  sex,  or  aban 
doning  for  a  single  instant  the  delicacy  \nd 
reserve  which  were  then  its  most  indivspen«a- 


170 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


ble  ornaments.  Educationj  certainly,  is  far 
more  generally  diffused  in  our  days,  and  ac- 
complishments infinitely  more  common  j  But 
the  perusal  of  this  volume  has  taught  us  to 
doubt,  whether  the  better  sort  of  women  were 
not  fashioned  of  old  by  a  better  and  more  ex- 
alted standard,  and  whether  the  most  eminent 
female  of  the  present  day  would  not  appear 
to  disadvantage  by  the  side  of  Mrs.  Hutchin- 
son. There  is,  for  the  most  part,  something 
intriguing  and  profligate  and  theatrical  in  the 
clever  women  of  this  generation  j  and  if  we 
are  dazzled  by  their  brilliancy,  and  delighted 
with  their  talent,  we  can  scarcely  ever  guard 
against  some  distrust  of  their  judgment  or 
some  suspicion  of  their  purity.  There  is 
something,  in  short,  in  the  domestic  virtue, 
and  the  calm  and  commanding  mind  of  our 
-English  matron,  that  makes  the  Corinnes  and 
Heloises  appear  small  and  insignificant. 

The  admirers  of  modern  talent  will  not  ac- 
cuse us  of  choosing  an  ignoble  competitor,  if 
we  desire  them  to  weigh  the  merits  of  Mrs. 
Hutchinson  against  those  of  Madame  Roland. 
The  English  revolutionist  did  not  indeed 
compose  weekly  pamphlets  and  addresses  to 
the  municipalities  j — because  it  was  not  the 
fashion,  in  her  days,  to  print  every  thing  that 
entered  into  the  heads  of  politicians.  But  she 
shut  herself  up  with  her  husband  in  the  gar- 
rison with  which  he  was  intrusted,  and  shared 
his  counsels  as  well  as  bis  hazards.  She  en- 
i/Ouraged  the  troops  by  her  cheerfulness  and 
heroism — ministered  to  the  sick — and  dressed 
\A  ith  her  own  hands  the  wounds  of  the  cap- 
tives, as  w^ell  as  of  their  victors.  When  her 
husband  was  imprisoned  on  groundless  sus- 
picions, she  laboured,  without  ceasing,  for  his 
deliverance — confounded  his  oppressors  by 
her  eloquence  and  arguments — tended  him 
with  unshaken  fortitude  in  sickness  and  soli- 
tude— and,  after  his  decease,  dedicated  her- 
self to  form  his  children  to  the  example  of  his 
virtues;  and  drew  up  the  memorial  which  is 
now  before  us,  of  his  worth  and  her  own 
genius  and  affection.  All  this,  too,  she  did 
without  stepping  beyond  the  province  of  a 
private  woman — without  hunting  after  com- 
pliments to  her  own  genius  or  beauty — with- 
out sneering  at  the  dulness,  or  murmuring  at 
the  coldness  of  her  husband — without  hazard- 
ing the  fate  of  her  country  on  the  dictates  of 
her  own  enthusiasm,  or  fancying  for  a  moment 
that  she  was  born  with  talents  to  enchant  and 
regenerate  the  m  orld.  With  equal  power  of 
discriminating  character,  w^ith  equal  candour 
and  eloquence  and  zeal  for  the  general  good, 
she  is  elevated  bej-ond  her  French  competitor 
by  superior  prudence  and  modesty,  and  by  a 
certain  simplicity  and  purity  of  character,  of 
which,  it  appears  to  us,  tliat  the  other  was 
unable  to  form  a  conception. 

After  detaining  the  reader  so  long  with 
these  general  observations,  we  shall  only  with- 
hold him  from  the  quotations  which  we  mean 
to  lay  before  him,  while  we  announce,  that 
Mrs.  Hutchinson  writes  in  a  sort  of  lofty, 
classical,  translated  style ;  which  is  occasion- 
ally diffuse  and  pedantic,  but  often  attains  to 
great  dignit**  "nd  vigour,  and  still  more  fre- 


quently charms  us  by  a  sort  cf  antique  sim 
plicity  and  sweetness,  admirably  in  ui.jsoc 
with  the  sentiments  and  manners  it  is  era- 
ployed  to  represent. 

The  fragment  of  her  own  history,  with 
v/hich  the  volume  opens,  is  not  the  least  in- 
teresting, and  perhaps  the  most  characteristic 
part  of  its  contents.  The  following  brief  ac- 
count of  her  nativity,  Avill  at  once  make  the 
reader  acquainted  with  the  pitch  of  this  lady's 
sentiments  and  expressions. 

'*  It  was  one  the  29th  day  of  January,  in  the  yeare 
of  our  Lord  16|f ,  that  in  the  Tower  of  London, 
the  principall  citie  of  the  English  Isle,  I  was  about 
4  of  the  clock  in  the  morning  brought  forth  to  be- 
hold the  ensuing  light.  My  father  was  Sr.  Allen 
Apsley,  leiftenant  of  the  Tower  of  London  ;  my 
mother,  his  third  wife,  was  Lucy,  the  youngest 
daughter  of  Sr,  John  St.  John,  of  Lidiard  Tregoz, 
in  Wiltshire,  by  his  second  wife.  My  father  had 
then  living  a  sonne  and  a  daughter  by  his  former 
wives,  and  by  my  mother  three  sonns,  I  being  her 
eldest  daughter.  The  land  was  then  att  peace  (it 
being  towards  the  latter  end  of  the  reigne  of  King 
James),  if  that  quiettnesse  may  be  call'd  a  peace, 
which  was  rather  like  the  calme  and  smooth  surface 
of  the  sea,  whose  darke  womb  is  allready  impreg 
nated  of  a  horrid  tempest." — pp.  2,  3. 

She  then  draws  the  character  of  both  her 
parents  in  a  very  graceful  and  engaging  man- 
ner, but  on  a  scale  somewhat  too  large  to 
admit  of  their  being  transferred  entire  into 
our  pages.  We  give  the  following  as  a  speci- 
men of  the  st}le  and  execution. 

'*  He  was  a  most  indulgent  husband,  and  no  lesse 
kind  to  his  children;  a  most  noble  master;  who 
thought  it  not  enough  to  maintaine  his  servfints 
honourably  while  they  were  with  him,  but,  for  all 
that  deserv'd  it,  provided  offices  or  settlements  as 
for  children.  Fie  was  a  father  to  all  his  prisoners, 
sweetning  with  such  compassionate  kindnesse  their 
restraint,  that  the  afliciion  of  *a  prison  was  not  felt 
in  his  dayes.  He  had  a  singular  kindnesse  for  all 
persons  that  were  eminent  either  in  learning  or 
amies  ;  and  when,  through  tlie  ingratitude  and  vice 
of  that  age,  many  of  the  wives  and  chilldren  of 
Queene  EHzabeth's  glorious  captaines  were  reduc'd 
to  poverty,  his  purse  was  their  common  treasury, 
and  they  knew  not  the  inconvenience  of  decay  d 
fortunes  till  he  was  dead :  many  of  those  valliant 
seamen  he  maintain'd  in  prison  ;  many  he  redeem'd 
out  of  prison  and  cherisht  with  an  extraordinary 
bounty.  He  was  severe  in  the  '•"•rulating  of  hia 
famely  ;  especially  would  not  enoure  the  least  im- 
modest behaviour  or  dresse  in  any  woman  under 
his  roofe.  There  was  nothing  he  hated  more  than 
an  insignificant  gallant,  that  could  only  make  his 
Jeggs  and  prune  himself,  and  court  a  lady,  but  had 
not  braines  to  employ  nimselfe  in  things  more  sute- 
able  to  man's  nobler  sex.  Fidelity  in  his  trust,  love 
and  loyalty  to  his  prince,  were  not  the  least  of  his 
vcrtues,  but  those  wherein  he  was  not  excell'd  by 
any  of  his  owne  or  succeeding  times.  He  gave  my 
mother  a  noble  allowance  of  300Z.  a  yeare  for  her 
owne  private  expence.  and  had  given  her  all  her 
owne  portion  to  dispose  of  how  she  pleas'd,  as 
soone  as  she  was  married  ;  which  she  suffer'd  tr  en- 
crease  in  her  Iriend's  hands ;  and  what  my  father 
allowed  her  she  spent  not  in  vanities,  although  she 
had  what  was  rich  and  requisite  upon  occasions,  but 
she  lay'd  most  of  it  out  in  pious  and  charitable  uses. 
Sr.  Walter  Rawjeigh  and  Mr.  Rutliin  being  prisoners 
in  the  Tower,  and  addicting  themselves  to  chimis- 
trie,  she  sufler'd  them  to  make  their  rare  experi- 
ments at  her  cost,  parily  to  comfort  and  divert  the 
poore  prisoners,  and  partly  to  gaine  the  knowledge 
of  their  experiments,  and  the  medicines  to  helpa 
such  poore  people  as  were  not  able  to  seoke  to  phi 


LIFE  OF  COLONEL  HUTCHINSON. 


i7J 


gitians.  Cy  these  means  she  acquir'd  a  greate  deale 
of  skill,  which  was  very  profitable  to  many  all  her 
life.  She  was  not  only  to  these,  but  to  all  the  oiher 
prisoners  that  came  into  the  Tower,  as  a  mother. 
All  the  time  she  dwelt  in  the  Tower,  if  any  were 
sick,  she  mnde  them  broths  and  restoratives  with  her 
owne  hands,  visited  and  took  care  of  them,  and 
provided  them  all  necessaries:  If  any  were  aflicted 
she  comforted  them,  so  that  they  felt  not  the  incon- 
venience of  a  prison  who  were  in  that  place.  She 
was  not  lesse  bountifull  to  many  poore  widdowes 
and  orphans,  whom  ofticers  of  higher  and  lower 
rank  had  left  behind  them  as  objects  of  charity. 
Her  owne  house  was  fiU'd  with  distressed  families 
of  her  relations,  whom  she  supplied  and  maintained 
in  a  noble  way." — pp.  12 — 15. 

For  herself,  being  her  mother's  first 'daugh- 
ter, unusual  pains  were  bestowed  on  her  edu- 
cation ;  so  that,  when  she  was  seven  years  of 
ag-e,  she  was  attended,  she  informs  us,  by  no 
fewer  than  eight  several  tutors.  In  conse- 
quence of  all  this,  she  became  very  grave  and 
thoughtful :  and  withal  very  pious.  But  her 
early  attainments  in  religion  seem  to  have 
been  by  no  means  answerable  to  the  notions 
of  sanctity  which  she  imbibed  in  her  maturer 
years.  There  is  something  very  innocent  and 
natural  in  the  Puritanism  of  the  following 
passage. 

"  It  pleas'd  God  that  thro'  the  good  instructions 
of  my  mother,  and  the  sermons  she  carried  me  to, 
I  was  convinc'd  that  the  knowledge  of  God  was 
the  most  excellent  study  ;  and  accordingly  applied 
myselfe  to  it,  and  to  practise  as  I  was  taught.  I 
us'd  to  exhort  my  mother's  maides  much,  and  to 
turne  their  idle  discourses  to  good  subjects  ;  but  I 
thought,  when  1  had  done  this  on  the  Lord's  day, 
and  every  day  perform'd  my  due  taskes  of  reading 
and  praying,  that  then  I  was  free  to  anie  thing  that 
was  not  sin  ;  for  I  was  not  at  that  time  convinc'd  of 
the  vanity  of  conversation  which  was  not  scandal- 
ously wicked  ;  I  thought  it  no  sin  to  learne  or  heare 
wittie  songs  and  amorous  sonnets  or  poems,  and 
twenty  things  of  that  kind  ;  wherein  I  was  so  apt 
that  I  became  the  confident  in  all  the  loves  that 
were  managed  among  my  mother's  young  women  : 
and  there  was  none  of  them  but  had  many  lovers 
and  some  particular  friends  belov'd  above  the  rest ; 
among  these  I  have ." — p.  17,  18. 

Here  the  same  spirit  of  austerity  which 
dictated  the  preceding  passage,  had  moved 
tne  fair  writer,  as  the  editor  informs  us,  to 
tear  away  many  pages  immediately  following 
the  words  with  which  it  concludes — and  thus 
to  defraud  the  reader  of  the  only  love  story 
with  which  he  had  any  chance  of  being 
regaled  in  the  course  of  this  narrative. 
Although  Mrs.  Hutchinson's  abhorrence  of 
any  thing  like  earthly  or  unsanctified  love, 
has  withheld  her  on  all  occasions  from  the 
insertion  of  any  thing  that  related  to  such 
feelings,  yet  it  is  not  difficult,  we  think,  to 
perceive  that  she  was  originally  constituted 
with  an  extraordinary  sensibility  to  all  power- 
ful emotions;  and  that  the  suppression  of 
those  deep  and  natural  impressions  has  given 
a  singular  warmth  and  animation  to  her  des- 
criptions of  romantic  and  conjugal  affection. 
In  illustration  of  this,  we  may  refer  to  the 
following  story  of  her  husband's  grandfather 
and  grandmother,  which  she  recounts  with 
much  feeling  and  credulity.  After  a  very 
ample  account  of  their  mutual  love  and  love- 
Uness,  she  proceeds — 


"But  while  the  incomparable  mother  ehin'd  in 
all  the  humane  glorie  she  wisht,  and  had  thecrowne 
of  all  outward  lelicity  to  the  full;  in  the  enjoyment 
of  the  mutualHove  of  her  most  beloved  husband, 
God  in  one  moment  tooke  it  away,  and  alienated 
her  most  excellent  understanding  in  a  difficult  child- 
birth, wherein  she  brought  iorth  two  daughters 
which  liv'd  to  be  married,  and  one  more  that  died, 
I  think  assoone  or  before  it  was  borne.  But  alter 
that,  all  the  art  of  the  best  physhians  in  England 
could  never  restore  her  understanding.  Yet  she 
was  not  ti-antick,  but  had  such  a  pretty  deliration, 
that  her  ravings  were  more  delightlul  than  other 
weomen's  most  rationall  conversations.  Upon  this 
occasion  her  husband  gave  himselfe  up  to  live  re- 
tired with  her,  as  became  her  condition.  The 
daughters  and  the  rest  of  the  children  as  soon  aa 
they  grew  up  were  married  and  disperst.  I  think 
I  have  heard  she  had  some  children  aher  that 
childbirth  which  distemper'd  her;  and  then  my 
lady  Hutchinson  must  have  bene  one  of  them.  I 
have  heard  her  servants  say,  that  even  after  her 
marriage,  she  would  steale  many  melancholy  hourea 
to  silt  and  weepe  in  remembrance  of  her.  Meane- 
while  her  parents  were  driving  on  their  age,  in  no 
lesse  constancy  of  love  to  each  other,  when  even 
that  distemper  which  had  estrang'd  her  mind  in  all 
things  elce.  had  left  her  love  and  obedience  entire 
to  her  husband,  and  he  retein'd  the  same  fond 
nesse  and  respect  for  her,  after  she  was  distemper'd. 
as  when  she  was  the  glory  of  her  age  !  He  had 
two  beds  in  one  chamber,  and  she  being  a  little  sick, 
two  weomen  watcht  by  her,  some  time  before  she 
died.  It  was  his  custome,  as  soon  as  ever  he  un- 
clos'd  his  eies,  to  aske  how  she  did  ^  but  one  night, 
he  being  as  they  thought  in  a  deepe  sleepe,  she 
quietly  departed  towards  the  morning.  He  waa 
that  day  to  have  gone  a  hunting,  his  usuall  exercise 
for  his  health  ;  and  it  was  his  custome  to  have  his 
chaplaine  pray  with  him  before  he  went  out:  the 
weomen,  fearfull  to  surprise  him  with  the  ill 
newes,  knowing  his  deare  affection  to  her,  hart 
stollen  out  and  acquainted  the  chaplaine,  desiring 
him  to  informe  him  of  it.  Sr.  John  waking,  did 
not  that  day,  as  was  his  custome,  ask  for  her  ;  bat 
call'd  the  chaplaine  to  prayers,  and  ioyning With 
him,  in  the  middst  of  the  prayer,  expir'd ! — and 
both  of  them  were  buried  together  in  the  same 
grave.  Whether  he  perceiv'd  her  death  and 
would  not  take  notice,  or  whether  some  strange 
sympathy  in  love  or  nature  tied  up  their  lives  in 
one,  or  whether  God  was  pleased  to  exercise  an 
unusuall  providence  towards  them,  preventing 
them  both  from  that  bitter  sorrow  which  such 
separations  cause,  it  can  be  but  conjectur'd,"  &c. 
—p.  26—28. 

The  same  romantic  and  suppressed  sensi- 
bility is  discernible,  we  think,  in  her  whole 
account  of  the  origin  and  progress  of  her 
husband's  attachment  to  her.  As  the  story 
is  in  many  respects  extremely  characteristic 
of  the  times  as  well  as  the  persons  to  which 
it  relates,  we  shall  make  a  pretty  large  extract 
from  it.  Mr.  Hutchinson  had  learned,  it 
seems,  to  '-'dance  and  vault"  with  great 
agility,  and  also  attained  to  "great  mastery 
on  the  violl"  at  the  University;  and,  upon 
his  return  to  Nottingham,  in  the  twentieth 
year  of  his  age,  spent  much  of  his  time  with 
a  licentious  but  most  accomplished  gentle- 
man, a  witty  but  profane  physician,  and  a 
pleasant  but  cynical  old  schoolmaster.  In 
spile  of  these  worldly  associations,  however, 
we  are  assured  that  he  was  a  most  godly 
and  incorruptible  person;  and,  in  particular, 
proof  against  all  the  allurements  of  the  fair 
sex,  whom  he  frequently  "reproved,  but  m  a 
handsome  way  of  raillery,  f  jr  their  pride  wad 


fflSTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


vanity."  In  this  hopeful  frame  of  mind,  it 
was  proposed  to  him.  to  spend  a  few  summer 
months  at  Richmond,  where  the  young  princes 
Ihen  held  their  court. 

"Mr.  Hutchinson  considering  this,  resolv'd  to 
accept  liis  offer;  and  that  day  tellinof  a  gentleman 
ot"  the  house  whither  he  was  going,  the  gentleman 
bid  him  take  heed  of  the  place,  for  it  was  so  fatall 
for  love,  that  never  any  young  disengag'd  person 
went  thither,  who  return'd  again  free.  Mr. 
Hutchinson  laught  at  him  ;  but  ho,  to  confirme 
it,  told  him  a  very  true  story  of  a  gentleman, 
who  not  long  before  had  come  tor  some  time  to 
lodge  there,  and  found  all  the  people  he  came  in 
company  with,  bewailing  the  death  of  a  gentle- 
woman that  had  lived  there.  Hearing  her  so  much 
deplor'd,  he  made  enquiry  after  her,  and  grew  so 
in  love  with  the  description,  that  no  other  discourse 
could  at  first  please  him,  nor  could  he  at  last  endure 
any  other;  he  grew  desperately  melancholly,  and 
would  goe  to  a  mount  where  the  print  of  her  foote 
was  cutt,  and  lie  there  pining  and  kissing  of  it  all 
the  day  long,  till  att  length  death  in  some  months 
space  concluded  his  languishment.  This  story  was 
very  true ;  but  Mr.  HuTchinson  was  neither  easie 
to  believe  it,  nor  frighted  at  the  example;  thinking 
himselfenot  likely  to  make  another." — p.  37,  38. 

He  goes  accordingly  to  Richmond,  and 
boards  with  his  music-master;  in  whose 
house  a  younger  sister  of  his  future  wife 
happened  then  to  be  placed, — she  herself 
having  gone  into  Wiltshire  with  her  mother, 
with  some  expectations  of  being  married  be- 
fore her  return. 

"  This  gentlewoman,  that  was  left  in  the  house 
with  Mr.  Hutchinson,  was  a  very  child,  her  elder 
sister  being  at  that  time  scarcely  past  it;  but  a 
child  of  such  pleasantnesse  and  vivacity  of  spiritt, 
and  ingenuity  in  the  quallity  she  practis'd,  that  Mr. 
Hutchinson  tooke  pleasure  in  hearing  her  practise, 
and  would  fall  in  discourse  with  her.  She  having 
the  keyes  of  her  mother's  house,  some  halfe  a  mile 
distant,  would  some  times  aske  Mr.  Hutchinson, 
when  she  went  over,  to  walk  along  with  her :  one 
day  when  he  was  there,  looking  upon  an  odde 
byshelf,  in  her  sister's  closett,  he  found  a  few 
Latine  bookes ;  asking  whose  they  were,  he  was 
told  they  were  her  elder  sister's  ;  whereupon,  en- 
quiring more  after  her,  he  began  first  to  be  sorrie 
she  was  gone,  before  he  had  scene  her,  and  gone 
upon  such  an  account,  that  he  was  not  likely  to  see 
her  ;  then  he  grew  to  love  to  heare  mention  of 
her  ;  and  the  other  gentleweomen  who  had  bene 
her  companions,  used  to  talke  much  to  him  of  her, 
telling  him  how  reserv'dand  studious  she  was,  and 
other  things  which  they  esteem'd  no  advantage  ; 
but  it  so  much  inflam'd  Mr.  Hutchinson's  desire  of 
seeing  her,  that  he  began  to  wonder  at  himselfe, 
that  his  heart,  which  had  ever  had  such  an  indiffer- 
ency  for  the  most  excellent  of  weomenkind,  should 
have  so  strong  impulses  towards  a  stranger  he 
never  saw." — "  While  he  was  exercis'd  in  this, 
many  days  past  not,  but  a  foote-boy  of  my  lady 
her  mothers  came  to  young  Mrs.  Apsley  as  they 
were  at  dinner,  bringing  newes  that  her  mother 
and  sister  would  in  iew  dayes  return  ;  and  when 
they  enquir'd  of  him,  whether  Mrs.  Apsley  was 
married,  having  before  bene  instructed  to  make 
them  believe  it,  he  smiled,  and  pull'd  out  some 
bride  laces,  which  were  given  at  a  wedding  in  the 
house  where  she  was,  and  gave  them  to  the  young 
gentlewoman  and  the  gentleman's  daughter  of  the 
no-»se,  and  told  them  Mrs.  Apsley  bade  him  tell 
no  news,  but  give  them  those  tokens,  and  carried 
the  matter  so,  that  all  the  companie  believ'd  she 
had  bene  married.  Mr.  Hutchinson  immediately 
turned  pale  as  ashes,  and  felt  a  fainting  to  seize 
iiis  spiritts,  in  that  extraordinary  manner,  that 
finding  himselfe  ready  to  sinks  att  table,  he  was 


faine  to  pretend  something  had  oflfended  his  sto- 
mach, and  to  retire  from  the  table  into  the  garden, 
where  the  gentleman  of  the  house  goin^  with  him' 
it  was  not  necessary  for  him  to  feigne  sickness,  foi 
the  distemper  of  his  mind  had  infected  his  body  with 
a  cold  sweate  and  such  a  dispersion  of  spiritt,  thai 
all  the  courage  he  could  at  present  recollect  was 
little  enough  to  keep  him  aUive.  While  she  so 
ran  in  his  thoughts,  meeting  the  boy  againe,  he 
found  out,  upon  a  little  stricter  examination  of 
hini,  that  she  was  not  married,  and  pleas'd  him 
selfe  in  the  hopes  of  her  speedy  returne,  wheA 
one  day,  having  bene  invited  by  one  of  the  ladies 
of  that  neighbourhood,  to  a  noble  treatment  at 
Sion  Garden,  which  a  courtier,  that  was  her  ser- 
vant, had  made  for  her  and  whom  she  would  bring, 
Mr.  Hutchinson,  Mrs.  Apsley,  and  Mr.  Coleman's 
daughter  were  of  the  partie,  and  having  spent  the 
day  in  severall  pleasant  divertisements,  att  evening 
they  were  att  supper,  when  a  messenger  came  to 
tell  Mrs.  Apsley  her  mother  was  come.  She 
would  immediately  have  gone;  but  Mr.  Hutchin- 
son, pretending  civility  to  conduct  her  home,  made, 
her  stay  'till  the  supper  was  ended,  of  which  he 
eate  no  more,  now  only  longing  for  that  sight, 
which  he  had  widi  such  perplexity  expected.  This 
at  length  he  obteined ;  but  his  heart  being  prepos- 
sesst  with  his  owne  fancy,  was  not  free  to  dis> 
cerne  how  little  there  was  in  her  to  answer  so 
greate  an  expectation.  She  was  not  ugly — in  a 
carelesse  riding-habitt,  she  had  a  melancholly  negli- 
gence both  of  herselfe  and  others,  as  if  she  neither 
affected  to  please  others,  nor  tooke  notice  of  anie 
thing  before  her ;  yet  spite  of  all  her  indifferency, 
she  was  surpris'd  with  some  unusual  liking  in  her 
soule,  when  she  saw  this  gentleman,  who  had  haire, 
eies,  shape,  and  countenance  enough  to  beirett  love 
in  any  one  at  the  first,  and  these  sett  off  with  a 
gracefuU  and  a  generous  mine,  which  promis'd  an 
extraordinary  person.  Although  he  had  but  an 
evening  sight  of  her  he  had  so  long  desir'd,  and 
that  at  disadvantage  enough  for  her,  yett  the  pre- 
vailing sympathie  of  his  soule,  made  him  thinke  all 
his  paynes  well  pay'd,  and  this  first  did  whett  his 
desire  to  a  second  sight,  which  he  had  by  accident 
the  next  day,  and  to  his  ioy  found  she  was  wholly 
disengaged  from  that  treaty  which  he  so  much 
fear'd  had  been  accomplisht ;  he  found  wit  hall,  that 
though  she  was  modest,  she  was  accostable,  and 
wiUing  to  entertaine  his  acquaintance.  This  soone 
past  into  a  mutuall  friendship  betweene  them,  and 
though  she  innocently  thought  nothing  of  love,  yet 
was  she  glad  to  have  acquired  such  a  friend,  who 
had  wisedome  and  vertue  enough  to  be  trusted 
\yith  her  councells.  Mr.  Hutchinson,  on  the  other 
side,  having  bene  told,  and  seeing  how  she  shunn'd 
all  other  men,  and  how  civilly  she  entertain'd  him, 
believ'd  that  a  secret  power  had  wrought  a  mutuall 
inclination  betweene  them,  and  dayly  frequented 
her  mother's  house,  and  had  the  opportunitie  of 
conversing  with  her  in  those  pleasant  walkes, 
which,  at  that  sweete  season  of  the  spring,  invited 
all  the  neighbouring  inhabitants  to  seeke  their 
ioys;  where,  though  they  were  never  alone,  yet 
they  had  every  day  opportunity  for  converse  with 
each  other,  which  the  rest  shar'd  not  in,  while 
everyone  minded  their  own  delights." — pp.  3S — 44. 

Here  the  lady  breaks  off  her  account  of  this 
romantic  courtship,  as  of  "matters  that  are 
to  be  forgotten  as  the  vanities  of  youth,  and 
not  worthy  mention  among  the  greater  trans- 
actions of  their  lives."  The  consent  of 
parents  having  been  obtained  on  both  sides 
she  was  married  at  the  age  of  eighteen. 

"  That  day  that  the  friends  on  both  sides  met  to 
conclude  the  marriage,  she  fell  sick  of  the  small- 
pox, which  was  many  ways  a  greate  triall  upon 
him  ,  first  her  life  was  allmost  in  desperate  hazard, 
and  then  the  disease,  for  the  present,  made  iier  the 
most  deformed  person  that  could  be  scene,  for  a 


LIFE  OF  COLONEL  HUTCHLNSON 


173 


ireate  v/hile  after  she  recover'd;  yett  he  was  noih- 
ms  troubled  at  it,  but  married  her  assoone  as  she 
was  able  to  quitt  the  chamber,  when  the  priest  and 
all  that  saw  her  were  affrighted  to  looke  on  her ! 
but  God  recompenc'd  his  iustice  and  constancy,  by 
restoring  her.  though  she  was  longer  than  ordinary 
before  she  recover'd,  as  well  as  before." — pp.  45, 46. 

There  is  a  good  deal  more  of  this  affection- 
ate and  lomantic  style  of  writing  throughout 
the  book;  but  the  Shade  of  Mrs.  Hutchinson 
would  not  forgive  us.  if  we  were  to  detain  the 
reader  longer  with  these  "vanities  of  her 
youth."  We  proceed,  thereforCj  to  graver 
matters. 

We  might  cull  many  striking  specimens  of 
eloquence  from  her  summary  account  of  the 
English  Constitution  and  of  the  Reformation  ; 
but  the  following  view  of  the  changes  which 
took  place  on  the  accession  of  James  and  of 
Charles,  are  more  characteristic  of  the  age 
ond  of  the  party  to  which  she  belongs. 

"The  honor,  wealth,  and  glory  of  the  nation, 
wherein  Queene  Elizabeth  left  it,  were  soone  pro- 
digally wasted  by  this  thriftlesse  heire,  the  nobihty 
of  the  land  utterly  debas'd  by  setting  honors  to  pub- 
lick  sale,  and  conferring  them  on  persons  that  had 
neither  blood  nor  ineritt  fitt  to  weare,  nor  estates  to 
beare  up  their  titles,  but  were  faine  to  invent  pro- 
iects  to  pill*  the  people,  and  pick  their  purses  for 
the  maintenance  of  vice  and  lewdnesse.  The  gene- 
rallity  of  the  gentry  of  the  land  soone  learnt  the 
court  fashion,  and  every  greate  house  in  t!;e  country 
became  a  sly  of  uncleannesse.  To  keepe  the  peo- 
ple in  their  deplorable  security,  till  vengeance  over- 
tooke  them,  they  were  entertain'd  with  masks, 
stage  playes,  and  sorts  of  ruder  sports.  Then  be- 
gan murther,  incest,  adultery,  drunkennesse,  swear- 
ing, fornication,  and  all  sorts  of  ribaldry,  to  be  no 
conceaVd  but  countenanc'd  vices;  because  they 
held  such  conformity  with  the  court  example." — 
*'  And  now  the  ready  way  to  preferment  there,  was 
to  declare  an  opposition  to  the  power  of  godlinesse, 
under  that  name  ;  so  that  their  pulpitts  might  iustly 
be  called  the  scorner's  chair,  those  sermons  only 
pleasing  that  flatter'd  them  in  their  vices,  and  told 
the  poore  king  that  he  was  Solomon  ! — that  his  sloth 
and  cowardize,  by  which  he  betrey'd  the  cause  of 
God  and  honour  of  the  nation,  was  gospell  meeke- 
nesse  and  peaceablenesse,  for  which  they  rays'd  him 
up  above  the  heavens,  while  he  lay  wallowing  like 
a  swine  in  the  mire  of  his  lusts.  He  had  a  little 
learning.— ^and  this  they  call'd  the  spiritt  of  wise- 
dome,  and  so  magnified  him,  so  falsely  flatter'd  him, 
that  he  could  not  endure  the  words  of  truth  and 
Boundnesse,  but  rewarded  these  base,  wicked,  un- 
faithful! fawners  with  rich  preferments,  attended 
with  pomps  and  titles,  which  heav'd  them  up  above 
a  humane  heighth :  With  their  pride  their  envie 
swell'd  against  the  people  of  God,  whom  they  be- 
gan to  proiect  how  they  might  roote  out  of  the  land  ; 
and  when  they  had  once  given  them  a  name,  what- 
ever was  odious  or  dreadfull  to  the  king,  that  they 
6xt  upon  the  Puritane,  which,  according  to  iheir 
character,  was  nothing  but  a  factious  hypocrite." 

pp.  59—61. 

*'  The  face  of  the  court  was  much  chang'd  in  the 
change  of  the  king;  for  King  Charles  was  temper- 
ate, chast,  and  serious;  so  that  the  fooles  and 
bawds,  mimicks  and  catamites  of  the  former  court 
grew  out  of  fashion;  and  the  nobility  and  courtiers, 
who  did  not  quite  abandon  their  debosheries,  had 
yet  that  reverence  to  the  king,  to  retire  into  corners 
to  practise  them  :  Men  of  learning  and  ingenuity  in 
all  arts  were  in  esteeme,  and  receiv'd  encourage- 
ment from  the  king ;  who  was  a  most  e.xcellent 
'ndge  and  a  greate  lover  of  paintings,   carvings. 


Pill— pillage,  plunder." 


gravmgs,  and  many  other  ingenuities,  less  off<^n:«ive 
then  the  prdphane  abusive  witt,  which  was  the  only 
exercise  of  the  other  court." — p.  65. 

The  characters  of  this  king's  counsellom 
are  drawn,  in  general,  with  great  force  and 
livelmessj  and  with  a  degree  of  candour 
scarcely  to  have  been  expected  in  the  widow 
of  a  regicide.  We  give  that  of  Lord  Strafford 
as  an  example. 

"  But  there  were  two  above  all  the  rest,  who  led 
the  van  of  the  king's  evill  councellors,  and  thesft 
were  Laud,  archbishop  of  Canterbury,  a  fellow  of 
meane  extraction  and  arrogant  pride,  and  the  earl 
of  Strafford,  who  as  much  outstript  all  the  rest  in 
favour  as  he  did  in  abilities,  being  a  man  of  deep 
policy,  Sterne  resolution,  and  ambitious  zeale  to 
keepe  up  the  glory  of  his  own  greatnesse.  In  the 
beginning  of  this  king's  reigne,  this  man  had  bene 
a  strong  assertor  of  the  liberties  of  the  people, 
among  whom  he  had  gain'd  himselfe  an  honorable 
reputation,  and  was  dreadfull  to  the  court  party, 
who  thereupon  strew'd  snares  in  his  way,  and  when 
they  found  a  breach  at  his  ambition,  his  soule  was 
that  way  enter'd  and  captivated.  He  was  ad- 
vanc'd  first  to  be  lord  president  of  the  councell  in 
the  north,  to  be  a  baron,  after  an  earle,  then  deputy 
of  Ireland  ;  the  neerest  to  a  favourite  of  any  man 
since  the  death  of  the  duke  of  Buckingham,  who 
was  rays'd  by  his  first  master,  and  kept  up  by  the 
second,  upon  no  account  of  personall  worth  or  any 
deserving  abilities  in  him,  but  only  upon  violent  and 
private  inclinations  of  the  princes  ;  but  the  earle  ol 
Straflbrd  wanted  not  any  accomplishment  that 
could  be  desir'd  in  the  most  serviceable  minister  of 
state :  besides,  he  having  made  himselfe  odious  to 
the  people,  by  his  revolt  from  their  interest  to  that 
of  the  oppressive  court,  he  was  now  oblig'd  to  keep 
up  his  owne  interest  with  his  new  party,  by  all  the 
maUitious  prar»i?es  that  pride  and  revenge  could  in- 
spire him  with." — pp.  68,  69. 

One  of  Mrs.  Hutchinson's  great  talents,  in- 
deed, is  the  delineation  of  characters;  and 
though  her  affections  are  apt  to  throw  rather 
too  glowing  or  too  dark  a  tint  over  the  canvas, 
yet  this  very  warmth  carries  with  it  an  im- 
pression of  sincerity,  which  adds  not  a  little 
to  the  interest  of  her  pictures.  We  pass  by 
her  short  sketches, — of  the  Earl  of  Newcas- 
tle, who  was  '-a  prince  in  his  own  country, 
till  a  foolish  ambition  of  glorious  slavery 
carried  him  to  court ;" — the  Earl  of  Kingston, 
"whose  covetousness  made  him  divide  his 
sons  between  the  two  parties,  till  his  fate 
drew  him  over  to  the  king's  side,  where  he 
behaved  himself  honourably,  and  died  re- 
markably;"— the  Earl  of  Clare,  "who  was 
very  often  of  both  parties,  and,  I  think,  nevei 
advantaged  either," — and  a  great  number  of 
other  persons,  who  are  despatched  with  equal 
brevity;  and  venture  to  put  her  talents  to  a 
severer  test,  by  trying  whether  they  can  inter- 
est the  reader  in  a  description  of  the  burghers 
and  private  gentlemen  of  Nottingham,  at  the 
breaking  out  of  these  great  disturbances. 

"There  were  seven  aldermen  in  the  towne,  and 
of  these  only  alderman  James,  then  mayor,  own'd 
the  parliament.  He  was  a  very  honest,  bold  man, 
but  had  no  more  but  a  burgher's  discretion;  he  was 
yett  very  well  assisted  by  his  wife,  a  weoman  of 
greate  zeal  and  courage,  and  more  understanding 
than  weomen  of  her  ranke  usually  have.  All  the 
devout  peonle  of  the  towne  were  very  vigorous  and 
ready  to  offer  their  lives  and  famelies,  but  there  was 
not  halfe  the  halfe  of  the  towne  that  consisted  of 
these.     The  ordinary  eivill  sort  of  people  coldij 


174 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


adher'd  to  the  better ;  but  all  the  debosht,  and  such 
as  had  liv'd  upon  the  bishops  persecuting  courts, 
Bnd  bene  the  lacqueys  of  protectors  and  monopo- 
lizers, and  the  like,  they  were  all  bitterly  malig- 
nant. Yett  God  awed  them,  that  they  could  not  at 
that  time  hinder  his  people,  whom  he  overrul'd 
some  of  their  greatest  enemies  to  assist,  such  as 
;vere  one  Chadwick  and  Plumptre,  two  who,  at 
the  first,  put  themselves  most  forward  into  the 
businesse. 

"  Plumptre  was  a  doctor  of  phisick,  an  inhabitant 
of  Nottingham,  who  had  learning,  naturall  parts, 
and  understanding  enough  to  discerne  betweene 
naturall  civill  righteousnesse  and  iniustice,  but  he 
was  a  horrible  atheist,  and  had  such  an  intoUerable 
pride,  that  he  brook'd  no  superiours,  and  having 
some  witt,  tooke  the  boldnesse  to  exercise  it,  in  the 
abuse  of  all  the  gentlemen  wherever  he  came." — 
"  This  man  had  sence  enough  to  approove  the  par- 
liament's cause,  in  poynt  of  civill  right,  and  pride 
enough  to  desire  to  breake  the  bonds  of  slavery, 
whereby  the  king  endeavour'd  to  chaitie  up  a  free 
people ;  and  upon  these  scores,  appearing  high  for 
the  parliament's  interest,  he  was  admitted  into  the 
consultations  of  those  who  were  then  putting  the 
country  into  a  posture  of  defence. 

"  Chadwick  was  a  fellow  of  a  most  pragmaticall 
temper,  and,  to  say  truth,  had  strangely  wrought 
himselfe  into  a  station  unfitt  for  him.  He  was  at 
first  a  boy  that  scraped  trenchers  in  the  house  of  one 
of  the  poorest  iustices  in  the  county,  but  yet  such  a 
one  as  had  a  greate  deale  of  formallity  and  under- 
standing of  the  statute  law,  from  whom  this  boy 
pick'd  such  ends  of  law,  that  he  became  first  the 
justice's,  then  a  lawyer's  clearke.  Then,  I  know 
not  how,  gott  to  be  a  parcell-iudge  in  Ireland,  and 
came  over  to  his  owne  country  swell'd  with  the 
reputation  of  it,  and  sett  on  foote  a  base,  absolute, 
arbitrary  court  there,  which  the  Conqueror  of  old 
had  given  to  one  Peverel  his  bastard,"  &c.— 
"  When  the  king  was  in  towne  a  little  before,  this 
man  so  insinuated  into  the  court  that,  comming  to 
kisse  the  king's  hand,  the  king  told  him  he  was  a 
rery  honest  man  ;  yet  by  flatteries  and  dissimula- 
tions he  kept  up  his  creditt  with  the  godly,  cutting 
his  haire,  and  taking  up  a  forme  of  godhnesse,  the 
better  to  deceive.  In  some  of  the  corrupt  times  he 
had  purchas'd  the  honor  of  a  barrister,  though  he 
had  neither  law  nor  learning,  but  he  had  a  voluble 
tongue,  and  v;as  crafty  ;  and  it  is  allmost  incredible 
that  one  of  his  meane  education  and  poverty  should 
arrive  to  such  things  as  he  reacht.  This  baseness 
he  had,  that  all  the  iust  reproaches  in  the  world 
could  not  moove  him,  but  he  would  fawne  upon  any 
man  that  told  him  of  his  villanies  to  his  face,  even 
at  the  very  time.  Never  was  a  truer  Judas,  since 
Iscariott's  time,  than  he  ;  for  he  would  kisse  the 
man  he  had  in  his  heart  to  kill ;  he  naturally  de- 
lighted in  mischiefe  and  treachery,  and  was  so  ex- 
quisite a  villaine,  that  he  destroy'd  those  designes 
he  might  have  thriven  by,  with  overlaying  them 
with  fresh  knaveries." — pp.  110 — 113. 

We  have  not  room  for  many  of  the  more 
favourable  delineations  with  which  these  are 
contrasted ;  but  we  give  the  following  short 
sketch  of  Mr.  Thornhagh,  who  seems  to  have 
been  a  great  favourite  of  Mrs.  Hutchinson's. 

"Mr.  Francis  Thornhagh,  the  eldest  sonne  of 
Sr.  Francis  Thornhagh,  was  a  man  of  a  most  up- 
right faithfull  heart  to  God  and  God's  people,  and 
to  his  countrie's  true  interest,  comprehended  in  the 
parliament's  cause ;  a  man  of  greater  vallour  or 
more  noble  daring  fought  not  for  them  ;  nor  indeed 
ever  drew  sword  in  any  cause  ;  he  was  of  a  most 
excellent  good  nature  to  all  men,  and  zealous  for 
his  friend;  he  wanted  councell  and  deliberation, 
and  was  sometimes  too  facile  to  flatterers,  but  had 
mdgment  enough  to  discerne  his  errors  when  they 
were  represented  to  him,  and  worth  enough  not  to 
persist  in  an  iniurious  mistake  because  he  had  once 
•ntertained  it.  ' — p.  114. 


This  gallant  gentleman  afterivards  fell  al 
the  battle  of  Preston.  Mrs.  Hutchinson  has 
given  the  following  animated  description  of 
his  fate. 

"  In  the  beginning  of  this  battle,  the  valliant  Coll. 
Thornhagh  was  wounded  to  death.  Being  at  the 
beginning  of  the  charge  on  a  horse  as  courageous 
as  became  such  a  master,  he  made  such  iurioua 
speed,  to  sett  upon  a  company  of  Scotch  lanciers, 
that  he  was  singly  engaged  and  mortally  wounded, 
before  it  was  possible  lor  his  regiment,  though  as 
brave  men  as  ever  drew  sword,  and  too  afectionate 
to  their  coUonell  to  be  slack  in  following  him,  to 
come  time  enough  to  breake  the  furie  of  that  body, 
which  shamed  not  to  unite  all  their  force  against 
one  man.  His  soule  was  hovering  to  take  her  flight 
out  of  his  body,  but  that  an  eager  desire  to  know 
the  successe  of  that  battle  kept  it  within,  fill  the 
end  of  the  day,  when  the  newes  being  brought  him, 
he  clear'd  his  dying  countenance,  and  say'd,  '  I 
now  reioyce  to  die,  since  God  hath  lett  me  see  the 
overthrow  of  this  perfidious  enemy  ;  I  could  not  lose 
my  life  in  a  better  cause,  and  I  have  the  favour  from 
God  to  see  my  blood  aveng'd.'  So  he  died  ;  whh 
a  large  testimony  of  love  to  his  souldiers,  but  more 
to  the  cause,  and  was  by  mercy  remoov'd,  that  the 
temptations  of  future  times  might  not  prevaile  to 
corrupt  his  pure  soule.  A  man  of  greater  courage 
and  integritie  fell  not  nor  fought  not  in  this  glorious 
causey  he  had  also  an  excellent  good  nature,  but 
easie  to  be  wrought  upon  by  flatterers,  yett  as  flexi- 
ble to  the  admonitions  of  his  friends  ;  and  this  virtue 
he  had,  that  if  sometimes  a  cunning  insinuation 
prevail' d  upon  his  easie  faith,  when  his  error  was 
made  known  to  him,  notwithstanding  all  his  greate 
courage  he  was  readier  to  acknowledge  and  repairs, 
then  to  pursue  his  mistake." — pp.  289,  290. 

The  most  conspicuous  person  by  far,  of  the 
age  to  w^hich  Mrs.  Hutchinson  belongs,  was 
Cromwell  ,•  and  there  is  no  character,  accord- 
ingly, which  she  appears  to  have  studied 
more,  or  better  comprehended.  Her  Mork 
contains  a  great  number  of  original  anecdotes 
with  regard  to  him ;  and  with  all  the  advan- 
tages which  later  times  have  derived  from  the 
collation  of  various  authorities,  and  from  con- 
sidering, at  a  dispassionate  distance,  the  vari- 
ous turns  of  his  policy,  we  doubt  whether  any 
historian  has  yet  given  a  more  just  or  satis- 
factory account  of  this  extraordinary  personage 
than  this  woman,  who  saw  him  only  in  the 
course  of  his  obliquities,  and  through  the 
varying  medium  of  her  own  hopes  and  appre- 
hensions. The  profound  duplicity  and  great 
ambition  of  his  nature,  appear  to  have  been 
very  early  detected  by  Colonel  Hutchinson, 
whose  biographer  gives  this  account  of  his 
demeanour  to  the  Levellers  and  Presbyte- 
rians, who  were  then  at  the  height  of  their 
rivalry. 

'•  These  were  they,"  says  she,  speaking  of  the 
former,  "who  first  began  to  discover  the  ambition 
of  Lieftenant-general  Cromwell  and  his  idolaters, 
and  to  suspect  and  dishke  it.  About  this  time,  he 
was  sent  downe,  after  his  victory  in  Wales,  to  en- 
counter Hamilton  in  the  north.  When  he  went 
downe,  the  chiefe  of  these  levellers  following  him 
out  of  the  towne,  to  take  their  leaves  of  him,  re- 
ceiv'd  such  professions  from  him,  of  a  spiritt  bent 
to  pursue  the  same  iust  and  honest  things  that  they 
desir'd,  as  they  went  away  with  greate  satisfaction, — 
'till  they  heard  that  a  coachfull  of  Presbyterian 
priests  comming  after  them,  went  away  no  less 
pleas'd;  by  which  it  was  apparent  he  dissembled 
with  one  or  the  other,  and  by  so  doingr  lost  hia 
creditt  with  both. 


LIFE  OF  COLONEL  HUTCHINSON. 


175 


"  When  he  came  to  Nottingham,  Coll.  Hmchin- 
Bon  went  to  see  him,  whom  he  embrac'd  with  all 
the  expressions  of  kindnesse  that  one  friend  could 
make  to  another,  and  then  retiring  with  him,  prest 
him  to  tell  him  what  thoughts  his  friends,  the 
levellers,  had  of  him.  The  collonell,  who  was  the 
freest  man  in  the  world  from  concealing  truth  from 
his  friend,  especially  when  it  was  requir'd  of  him 
in  love  and  plainnesse,  not  only  told  him  what  others 
thought  of  him,  but  what  he  himselfe  conceiv'd,  and 
how  much  it  would  darken  all  his  glories,  if  he 
should  become  a  slave  to  his  owne  ambition,  and 
be  guilty  of  what  he  gave  the  world  iust  cause  to 
buspect,  and  therefore  begg'd  of  him  to  weare  his 
heart  in  his  face,  and  to  scorne  to  delude  his  enemies, 
but  to  make  use  of  his  noble  courage,  to  maintaine 
what  he  believ'd  iust,  against  all  greate  oposers. 
Cromwell  made  mighty  professions  of  a  sincere 
heart  to  him,  but  it  is  certeine  that  for  this  and  such 
like  plaine  dealing  with  him,  he  dreaded  the  collonell, 
and  made  it  his  particular  bnsinesse  to  keepe  him 
out  of  the  armie  ;  but  the  collonell,  never  desiring 
command,  to  serve  himselfe,  but  his  country,  would 
not  use  that  art  he  detested  in  others,  to  procure 
himselfe  any  advaniage." — pp.  285 — 287. 

An  after  scene  is  still  more  remarkable,  and 
mote  characteristic  of  both  the  actors.  After 
Cromwell  had  possessed  himself  of  the  sove- 
reij^nty,  Colonel  Hutchinson  came  accidentally 
to  the  knowledge  of  a  plot  which  had  been  laid 
for  his  assassination;  and  was  moved,  by  the 
nobleness  of  his  own  nature,  and  his  regard 
for  the  Protector's  great  qualities — though  he 
had  openly  testified  against  his  usurpation, 
and  avoided  his  presence  since  the  time  of 
it — to  give  such  warning  of  it  to  Fleetwood, 
as  might  enable  him  to  escape  that  hazard, 
but  at  the  same  time  without  betraying  the 
names  of  any  of  the  conspirators. 

"  After  Collonell  Hutchinson  had  given  Fleet- 
wood that  caution,  he  was  going  mto  the  country, 
when  the  protector  sent  to  search  him  out  with  all 
the  earnestnesse  and  haste  that  could  possibly  be, 
and  the  collonell  went  to  him  ;  who  mett  him  in  one 
of  the  galleries,  and  receiv'd  him  with  open  armes 
and  the  kindest  embraces  that  could  be  given,  and 
complain'd  that  the  collonell  should  be  so  tmkind 
as  never  to  give  him  a  visitt,  professing  how  well- 
come  he  should  have  bene,  the  most  wcUcome 
person  in  the  land  ;  and  with  these  smooth  insinu- 
ations led  him  allong  to  a  private  place,  giving  him 
thankes  for  the  advertisement  he  had  receiv'd  from 
Fleetwood,  and  using  all  his  art  to  p^ett  out  of  the 
collonell  the  knowledge  of  the  persons  engag'd  in 
the  conspiracy  against  him.  But  none  of  his  cun- 
ning, nor  promises,  nor  flatteries,  could  prevaile 
with  the  collonell  to  informe  him  more  than  he 
thought  necessary  to  prevent  the  execution  of  the 
designe ;  which  when  the  protector  perceiv'd,  he 
gave  him  most  infinite  thankes  for  what  he  had 
told  him,  and  acknowledg'd  it  open'd  to  him  some 
misteries  that  had  perplext  him,  and  agreed  so  with 
other  intelligence  he  had,  that  he  must  owe  his 
preservation  to  him  :  '  But,'  says  he,  'deare  collo- 
nell, why  will  not  you  come  in  and  act  among  us  ?' 
The  collonell  told  him  plainly,  because  he  liked  not 
any  of  his  wayes  since  he  broke  the  parliament,  as 
being  those  which  led  to  certeine  and  unavoydable 
destruction,  not  only  of  themselves,  but  of  the  whole 
parliament  party  and  cause,  and  thereupon  tooke 
occasion,  with  his  usuall  freedom,  to  tell  him  into 
what  a  sad  hazard  all  things  were  put,  and  how 
apparent  a  way  was  made  for  the  restitution  of  all 
Jbriner  tyranny  and  bondage.  Cromwell  seem'd 
to  receive  this  honest  plainnesse  with  the  greatest 
affection  that  could  be,  and  acknowledg'd  his  pre- 
ripitatenesse  in  some  things,  and  with  teare.t  com- 
plained how  Lambert  had  put  him  upon  all  those 
violent  actions,  for  which  he  now  accus'd  him  and 


sought  his  ruine.  He  expresst  an  earnest  desire  tc 
restore  the  people's  liberties,  and  to  take  and  pursue 
more  safe  and  sober  councells,  and  .wound  up  all 
with  a  very  fair  courtship  of  the  collonell  to  engage 
with  him,  offering  him  any  thing  he  would  account 
worthy  of  him.  The  collonell  told  him,  he  could 
not  be  forward  to  make  his  owne  advantage,  by 
serving  to  the  enslaving  of  his  country.  The  other 
told  him,  he  intended  nothing  more  then  the  re- 
storing and  confirming  the  liberties  of  the  good 
people,  in  order  to  which  he  would  employ  such 
men  of  honor  and  interest  as  the  people  should  re- 
joyce,  and  he  should  not  refuse  to  be  one  of  them. 
And  after,  with  all  his  arts,  he  had  endeavQur'd  to 
excuse  his  publique  actions,  and  to  draw  in  the 
collonell,  he  dismist  him  with  such  expressions  as 
were  publickely  taken  notice  of  by  all  his  little 
courtiers  then  about  him  ;  when  he  went  to  the  end 
of  the  gallery  with  the  collonell,  and  there,  embrac- 
ing him,  sayd  allowdtohim,  '  Well,  collonell,  satis- 
fied or  dissatisfied,  you  shall  be  one  of  us,  for  wee 
can  no  longer  exempt  a  person  so  able  and  faithfull 
from  the  publique  service,  and  you  shall  be  satisfied 
in  all  honest  things.'  The  collonell  left  him  with 
that  respect  that  became  the  place  he  was  in  ;  when 
immediately  the  same  courtiers,  who  had  some 
of  them  past  him  by  without  knowing  him  when 
he  came  in,  although  they  had  bene  once  of  his 
familiar  acquaintance  ;  and  the  rest,  who  had  look'd 
upon  him  with  such  disdainfuU  neglect  as  those 
little  people  use  to  those  who  are  not  of  their  fac- 
tion, now  flockt  about  him,  striving  who  should 
expresse  most  respect,  and,  by  an  extraordinary 
officiousnesse,  redeeme  their  late  slightings.  Some 
of  them  desir'd  he  would  command  their  service  in 
any  businesse  he  had  with  their  lord,  and  a  thou- 
sand such  frivolous  compliments,  which  the  collonell 
smiled  att,  and,  quitting  himselfe  of  them  as  soone 
as  he  could,  made  haste  to  returne  into  the  country. 
There  he  had  not  long  bene  but  that  he  was  in- 
form'd,  notwithstanding  all  these  faire  shewes,  the 
protector,  finding  him  too  constant  to  be  wrought 
upon  to  serve  his  tirannie,  had  resolv'd  to  secure 
his  person,  least  he  should  head  the  people,  who 
now  grew  very  weary  of  his  bondage.  But  though 
it  was  certainly  confirm'd  to  the  collonell  how  much 
he  was  afraid  of  his  honesty  and  freedome,  and 
that  he  was  resolv'd  not  to  let  him  longer  be  att 
liberty,  yet,  before  his  guards  apprehended  the 
collonell,  death  imprison'd  himselfe,  and  confin'd 
all  his  vast  ambition,  and  all  his  cruell  designes  into 
the  narrow  cdrnpasse  of  a  grave." — pp.  340 — 342. 

Two  other  anecdotes,  one  very  discreditable 
to  Cromwell,  the  other  affording  a  striking 
proof  of  his  bravery  and  knowledge  of  man- 
kind, may  be  found  at  p.  308.  and  316.  But 
we  dismiss  the  subject  of  this  "great  bad 
man,"  with  the  following  eloquent  representa- 
tion of  his  government  after  he  had  attained 
the  height  of  his  ambition ; — a  representation 
in  which  the  keen  regrets  of  disappointed 
patriotism  are  finely  mingled  with  an  indig- 
nant contempt  for  those  who  submitted  to 
tjTanny,  and  a  generous  admission  of  the  tal- 
ents and  magnanimity  of  the  tyrant. 

"In  the  interim  Cromwell  and  his  armie  grew 
wanton  with  their  power,  and  invented  a  thousand 
tricks  of  government,  which,  when  nobody  oppos'd, 
they  themselves  fell  to  dislike  and  vary  every  day. 
First  he  calls  a  parliament  out  of  his  owne  pockett, 
himselfe  naming  a  sort  of  godly  men  for  every 
county,  who  meeting  and  not  agreeing,  a  part  of 
them,  in  the  name  of  the  people,  give  up  the  sove- 
reignty to  him.  Shortly  after,  he  makes  up  seve- 
raU  sorts  of  mock  parliaments,  but  not  finding  one 
of  them  absolutely  for  his  turne,  turn'd  them  off 
againe.  He  soone  quitted  himselfe  of  his  triumvirs, 
and  first  thrust  out  Harrison,  then  tooke  a%vay 
Lambert's  commission,  and  would  have  bene  king 


IT6 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


but  for  feare  of  quitting  his  generallship.  He  weed- 
ed, in  a  few  months  time,  above  a  hundred  and 
fifty  godly  officers  out  of  the  armie,  with  whom 
many  of  the  rehgious  souldiers  went  off,  and  in  their 
roome  abundance  of  the  king's  dissolute  souldiers 
were  entertain'd,  and  the  armie  was  almost  chang'd 
from  that  godly  religious  armie,  whose  vallour  God 
had  crown'd  with  triumph,  into  the  dissolute  armie 
they  had  beaten,  bearing  yett  a  better  name.  His 
wife  and  children  too,  were  setting  up  for  princi- 
pality, which  suited  no  better  with  any  of  them  than 
Scarlett  on  the  ape ;  only,  to  speak  the  truth  of  him- 
selfe,  he  had  much  naiurall  greatnesse,  arid  well 
became  the  place  he  had  usurp'd.  His  daughter 
Fleetewood  was  humbled,  and  not  exalted,  with 
these  things ;  but  the  rest  were  insolent  Iboles. 
Cleypoole,  who  married  his  daughter,  and  his  son 
Henry,  were  two  debauch'd  ungodly  cavaliers. 
Richard  was  a  peasant  in  his  nature ;  yet  gentle  and 
vertuous ;  but  became  not  greatnesse.  His  court 
was  full  of  sinne  and  vanity,  and  the  more  abomi- 
nable, because  they  had  not  yett  quite  cast  away 
the  name  of  God,  but  prophan'd  it  by  taking  it  in 
vaine  upon  them.  True  religion  was  now  almost 
lost,  even  among  the  religious  party,  and  hipocrisie 
became  an  epidemicall  disease,  to  the  sad  griefe  of 
CoUonell  Hutchinson,  and  all  true-hearted  Chris- 
tians and  Englishmen.  Almost  all  the  ministers 
every  where  iell  in  and  worshipt  this  beast,  and 
rourted  and  made  addresses  to  him.  So  did  the 
city  of  London,  and  many  of  the  degenerate  lords 
of  the  land,  with  the  poore  spirited  gentry.  The 
cavaliers,  in  poUicy,  who  saw  that  while  Cromwell 
reduc'd  all  the  exercise  of  tirannicall  power  under 
another  name,  there  was  a  doore  open'd  for  the  re- 
storing of  their  party,  fell  much  in  with  Cromwell, 
and  heighten'd  all  his  disorders.  He  at  last  ex- 
ercis'd  such  an  arbitrary  power,  that  the  whole 
land  grew  weary  of  him,  while  he  sett  up  a  com- 
pinie  of  silly  meane  fellows,  call'd  maior-generalls, 
ad  governors  in  every  county.  These  rul'd,  accord- 
ing to  their  wills,  by  no  law  but  what  seem'd  good 
in  their  owne  eies;  imprisoning  men,  obstructing 
the  course  of  iustice  betweene  man  and  man,  per- 
verting right  through  partiallity,  acquitting  some 
that  were  guilty,  and  punishing  some  that  were 
innocent  as  guilty.  Then  he  exercised  another 
proiect  to  rayse  mony,  by  decimation  of  the  estates 
of  all  the  king's  parly,  of  which  actions  'tis  said 
Lambert  was  the  instigator.  At  last  he  tooke 
upon  him  to  make  lords  and  knights;  and  wanted 
not  many  fooles,  both  of  the  armie  and  gentry,  to 
accept  of  and  struit  in  his  mock  titles.  Then  the 
Earle  of  Warwick's  grandchild  and  the  Lord  Fal- 
conbridge  married  his  two  daughters  ;  such  pittifuU 
slaves  were  the  nobles  of  those  dayes.  Att  last 
Lambert,  perceiving  himselfe  to  have  bene  all  this 
while  deluded  with  hopes  and  promises  of  succes- 
sion, and  seeing  that  Cromwell  now  intended  to 
confirme  the  government  in  his  own  famely,  fell 
off  from  him,  but  behav'd  himselfe  very  pitiifully 
and  meanely,  was  turn'd  out  of  all  his  places,  and 
return' d  againe  to  plott  new  vengeance  at  his  house 
at  Wimbledon,  where  he  fell  to  dresse  his  flowers 
in  his  garden,  and  worke  at  the  needle  with  his 
wife  and  his  maides  !  while  he  was  watching  an 
oppertunity  to  serve  againe  his  ambition,  which  had 
this  difference  from  the  protector's  ;  the  one  was 
gallant  and  greate,  the  other  had  nothing  but  an 
unworthy  pride,  most  insolent  in  prosperity,  and  as 
abiect  and  base  in  adversity." — p.  335 — 338. 


the  amusement  of  our  readerS;  we  are  afraid 
that  we  have  too  far  lost  sight  of  the  worthy- 
colonel,  for  w^hose  honour  the  whole  record 
was  designed ;  and  though  the  biography  of  a 
private  person,  however  eminent,  is  seldom 
of  much  consequence  to  the  general  reader, 
except  where  it  illustrates  the  manners  of  the 
times,  01  connects  with  the  public  history  of 


the  nation,  there  is  something  in  this  ajcounl 
of  Colonel  Hutchinson  which  appears  to  ua 
deserving  of  notice  with  reference  to  both 
these  particulars. 

Soon  after  his  marriage,  he  retired  to  his 
house  at  Owthorpe,  where  he  took  to  the  study 
of  divinity;  and  having  his  attention  roused 
to  the  state  of  public  alfairs,  by  the  dreadful 
massacres  of  Ireland,  in  1641,  set  himself 
diligently  to  read  and  consider  all  the  disputCM 
which  were  then  begun  betw^een  the  King 
and  Parliament ;  the  result  of  which  was,  a 
steady  conviction  of  the  justice  of  the  pre- 
tensions maintained  by  the  latter,  with  a 
strong  anxiety  for  the  preservation  of  peace. 
His  first  achievement  (we  are  sorry  to  sayj 
was,  to  persuade  the  parson  of  his  parish  to 
deface  the  images,  and  break  the  painted 
glass  in  the  windows  of  his  church,  in  obe- 
dience to  an  injunction  of  the  parliament ; 
his  next,  to  resist  Lord  Newark  in  an  illegal 
.attempt  to  carry  off  the  ammunition  belonging 
to  the  county,  for  the  use  of  the  King.  His 
deportment  upon  this  last  occasion,  when  he 
was  only  twenty-five  years  of  age.  affords  a 
very  singular  proof  of  temper  and  firmness,— 
perfect  good  breeding,  and  great  powers  of 
reasoning. 

When  the  King  set  up  his  standard  at  Not 
tingham,  Mr.  Hutchinson  repaired  to  the  camp 
of  Essex,  the  parliamentary  general;  but  "did 
not  then  find  a  clear  call  from  the  Lord  to  join 
with  him."  His  irresolution,  however,  was 
speedily  dissipated,  by  the  persecutions  of  the 
Royalists,  who  made  various  efibrts  to  seize 
him  as  a  disaffected  person.  He  accordingly 
began  to  consult  with  others  in  the  same  pre- 
dicament :  and  having  resolved  to  try  to  defend 
the  town  and  castle  of  Nottingham  against  the 
assaults  of  the  enemy,  he  was  first  elected 
governor  by  his  associates,  and  afterwards 
had  his  nomination  confirmed  by  Fairfax  and 
by  the  Parliament.  A  great  deal  too  much 
of  the  book  is  occupied  with  an  account  of  the 
petty  enterprises  in  which  this  little  garrison 
was  engaged ;  the  various  feuds  and  dissen- 
sions which  arose  among  the  different  officers 
and  the  committees  who  w^ere  appointed  as 
their  council;  the  occasional  desertion  and 
treachery  of  various  individuals,  and  the  many 
contrivances,  and  sacrifices,  and  exertions  by 
which  Colonel  Hutchinson  M-as  enabled  to 
maintain  his  post  till  the  final  discomfiture  of 
the  Royal  party.  This  narrative  contains,  no 
doubt,  many  splendid  examples  of  courage 
and  fidelity  on  both  sides ;  and,  for  the  variety 
of  intrigues,  cabals,  and  successful  and  un- 
successful attempts  at  corruption  which  it 
exhibits,  may  be  considered  as  a  complete 
miniature  of  a  greater  history.  But  the  insig- 
nificance of  the  events,  and  the  obscurity  of 
the  persons,  take  away  all  interest  from  the 
story;  and  our  admiration  of  Colonel  Hutch- 
inson's firmness,  and  disinterestedness  and 
valour,  is  scarcely  sufficient  to  keep  our  atten- 
tion alive  through  the  languishing  narrative 
of  the  obscure  warfare  in  which  he  was  em- 
ployed. 

It  has  often  been  remarked,  and  for  thfe 
honour  of  our  country  can  never  be  too  often  ^ 


LIFE  OF  COLONEL  HUTCHINSON. 


177 


lepeated,  that  history  affords  no  example  of  a 
civil  contest  carried  on  for  years  at  the  point 
of  the  sword,  and  yet  producing  so  little  fero- 
city in  the  body  of  the  people,  and  so  few 
instances  of  particular  violence  or  cruelty. 
No  proscriptions — no  executions — no  sacking 
of  cities,  or  laying  waste  of  provinces — no 
vengeance  wreaked,  and  indeed  scarcely  any 
severity  inflicted,  upon  those  who  were  noto- 
riously hostile,  unless  found  actually  in  arms. 
Some  passages  in  the  wars  of  Henry  IV.,  as 
narrated  by  Sully,  approach  to  this  character; 
but  the  horrible  massacres  with  which  that 
contest  was  at  other  stages  attended,  exclude 
it  from  all  parallel  with  the  generous  hostility 
of  England.  This  book  is  full  of  instances,  not 
merely  of  mutual  toleration,  but  of  the  most 
cordial  friendship  subsisting  between  indi- 
viduals actually  engaged  in  the  opposite  par- 
ties. In  particular,  Sir  Allan  Apsley,  Mrs. 
Hutchinson's  brother,  who  commanded  a  troop 
of  horse  for  the  King,  and  was  frequently 
employed  in  the  same  part  of  the  country 
where  Colonel  Hutchinson  commanded  for 
the  Parliament,  is  represented  throughout  as 
living  on  a  footing  of  the  greatest  friendship 
and  cordiality  with  this  valiant  relative.  Un- 
der the  protection  of  mutual  passes,  they  pay 
frequent  visits  to  each  other,  and  exchange 
various  civilities  and  pieces  of  service,  with- 
out any  attempt  on  either  side  to  seduce  the 
other  from  the  cause  to  which  his  conscience 

•  had  attached  him.  In  the  same  way,  the 
houses  and  families  of  various  royalists  are 
left  unmolested  in  the  district  commanded  by 
Colonel  Hutchinson's  forces;  and  officers  con- 
ducting troops  to  the  siege  of  the  castle,  are 
repeatedly  invited  to  partake  of  entertain- 
ments with  the  garrison .  It  is  no  less  curious 
and  unique  to  find  Mrs.  Hutchinson  officiating 
as  a  surgeon  to  the  wounded ;  and  the  Colonel 
administering  spiritual  consolation  to  some 
of  the  captives  who  had  been  mortally  hurt 
by  the  men  whom  he  had  led  into  action. 

After  the  termination  of  the  war,  Colonel 

Hutchinson  was  returned  to  Parliament  for 

the  town  which  he  had  so  resolutely  defended. 

He  was  appointed  a  member  of  the  High 

Court  of  Justice,  for  the  trial  of  the  King ; — 

and  after  long  hesitation,  and  frequent  prayer 

to  God  to  direct  him  aright  in  an  affair  of  so 

much  moment  he  deliberately  concurred  in 

the  sentence  which  was  pronounced  by  it : — 

Mrs.  Hutchinson  proudly  disclaiming  for  him 

i     the  apology,  afterwards  so   familiar  in  the 

I     mouths  of  his  associates,  of  having  been  over- 

I     awed  by  Cromwell.     His  opinion  of  the  Pro- 

i     tector.  and  of  his  government,  has  been  pretty 

"     fully  explained  in  the  extracts  we  have  already 

i     given.     During  that  usurpation,  he  lived  in 

!     almost  unbroken  retiremimt,   at  Owthorpe; 

•^     where  he  occupied  himself  in  superintending 

I     the  education  of  his  children,  whom  he  him- 

*  self  instructed  in  music  and  other  elegant 
■  accomplishments;  in  the  embellishment  of 
'•■■:  his  residence  by  building  and  planting;  in 
j  administering  justice  to  his  neighbours,  and 
i    in  making  a  very  choice  collection  of  painting 

and  sculpture,  for  which  he  had  purchased  a 

nnmbei-  of  articles  out  of  the  cabinet  of  the 

12 


late  King.  Such  were  the  liberal  pursuits 
and  elegant  recreations  of  one  whom  all  om 
recent  histories  would  lead  us  to  consider  as 
a  gloomy  fanatic,  and  barbarous  bigot ! 

Upon  the  death  of  the  Protector,  he  again 
took  his  seat  in  Parliament,  for  the  county  of 
Nottingham ;  and  was  an  indignant  spectato  • 
of  the  base  proceedings  of  Monk,  and  the 
headlong  and  improvident  zeal  of  the  people  • 
in  the  matter  of  the  restoration.  In  the  course 
of  the  debate  on  the  treatment  to  be  dealt  to 
the  regicides,  such  of  them  as  were  members 
of  the  House  rose  in  their  places,  and  made 
such  a  defence  of  their  conduct  as  they  re- 
spectively thought  it  admitted  of.  The  fol 
lowing  passage  is  very  curious,  and  gives  U4 
a  high  idea  of  the  readiness  and  address  of 
Colonel  Hutchinson  in  a  situation  of  extraor- 
dinary difficulty. 

"  When  it  came  to  Inglesbies  turne,  he,  with 
maiuj  teares,  profest  his  repentance  for  that  murther ; 
and  told  a  false  tale,  how  Cromwell  held  his  hand, 
and  forc'd  him  to  subscribe  the  sentence  !  and  made 
a  most  whining  recantation ;  after  which  he  retir'd, 
and  another  had  almost  ended,  when  CoUonell 
Hutchinson,  who  was  not  there  at  the  beginning, 
came  in,, and  was  told  what  they  were  about,  and 
that  it  would  be  expected  he  should  say  something. 
He  was  surpriz'd  with  a  thing  he  expected  not ;  yet 
neither  then,  nor  in  any  the  like  occasion,  did  he 
ever  faile  himselfe,  but  told  them,  '  That  for  his 
actings  in  those  dayes,  if  he  had  err'd,  it  was  the 
inexperience  of  his  age,  and  the  defect  of  his  iudge- 
ment,  and  not  the  malice  of  his  heart,  which  had 
ever  prompted  him  to  persue  the  generall  advantage 
of  his  country  more  then  his  owne  ;  and  if  the  sacri- 
fice of  him  might  conduce  to  the  publick  peace  and 
settlement,  he  should  freely  submit  his  life  and  ibr- 
tunes  to  their  dispose  ;  that  the  vain  expence  of  hia 
age,  and  the  greate  debts  his  publick  employments 
had  runne  him  into,  as  they  were  testimonies  that 
neither  avarice  nor  any  other  interest  had  carried 
him  on,  so  they  yielded  him  iust  cause  to  repent 
that  he  ever  forsooke  his  owne  blessed  quiett,  to 
embarque  in  such  a  troubled  sea,  where  he  had 
made  shipwrack  of  all  things  but  a  good  conscience ; 
a7id  as  to  that  particular  action  of  the  Tiing,  he  de- 
sir'' d  them  to  believe  he  had  that  se7ice  of  it  that  be- 
fitted an  Englishman,  a  Christian,  and  a  gentle- 
man.'' Assoone  as  the  collonell  had  spoken,  he 
retir'd  into  a  roome,  where  Inglesbie  was,  whh  hia 
eies  yet  red,  who  had  call'd  up  a  little  spirit  to  suc- 
ceed his  whinings,  and  embracing  Collonell  Hut- 
chinson, '  O  collonell,' say'd  he,  'did  I  ever  imagine 
wee  could  be  brought  to  this  ?  Could  I  have  sus- 
pected it,  when  I  brought  them  Lambert  in  the 
other  day,  this  sword  should  haVe  redeem'd  us  from 
being  dealt  with  as  criminalls,  by  that  people,  for 
whom  we  had  so  gloriously  exposed  ourselves.' 
The  collonell  told  him,  he  had  foreseene,  ever  since 
those  usurpers  thrust  out  the  lawfull  authority  of 
the  land,  to  enthrone  themselves,  it  could  eni  in 
nothing  else  ;  but  the  integrity  of  his  heart,  in  all 
he  had  done,  made  him  as  chearefully  ready  to 
suffer  as  to  triumph  in  a  good  cause.  The  result 
of  the  house  that  dny  was  to  suspend  Collonell 
Hutchinson  and  the  rest  from  sitting  in  the  house. 
Monke,  after  all  his  greate  professions,  now  sate 
still,  and  had  not  one  word  to  interpose  for  any  per- 
son, but  was  as  forward  to  sett  vengeance  on  foot 
as  any  man." — pp.  367 — 369. 

He  was  afterwards  comprehended  in  the 
act  of  amnesty,  and  with  some  difficulty  ob- 
tained his  pardon;  upon  which  he  retired  to 
the  country ;  but  was  soon  after  brought  to 
town,  in  order  to  see  if  he  could  not  be  pre-  ^ 
vailed  on  to  give  evidence  against  such  of  the 


173 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


regicide?  as  it  was  resolved  to  bring  to  trial. 
The  Ingiesby  who  is  commemorated  in  the 
preceding  extract,  ia  known  to  have  been  the 
chief  informer  on  that  occasion ;  and  Colonel 
Hutchinson  understood,  that  it  \vas  by  his  in- 
Btigation  that  he  also  had  been  called  as  a 
witness.  His  deportment,  when  privately  ex- 
amined by  the  Attorney-General,  is  extremely 
characteristic,  and  includes  a  very  fine  and 
bitter  piece  of  irony  on  his  base  associate, 
who  did  not  disdain  to  save  himself  by  false- 
hood and  treachery.  When  pressed  to  specify 
some  overt  acts  against  the  prisoners, 

— "the  collonell  answered  him,  that  in  a  busi- 
nesse  transacted  so  many  years  agoe,  wherein  life 
was  concern'd,  he  durst  not  beare  a  testimony  ; 
having  at  that  time  bene  so  httle  an  observer,  that 
he  could  not  remember  the  least  title  of  that  most 
eminent  circumstance,  of  CromwelV s  forcing  Collo- 
nell Ingleshy  to  sett  to  his  unwilling  hand,  which,  if 
his  life  had  depended  on  that  circumstance,  he  could 
not  have  affirmed!  '  And  then,  sir,'  sayd  he,  '  if  I 
have  lost  so  great  a  thing  as  that,  it  cannot  be  ex- 
pected lesse  eminent  passages  remaine  with  me.'  " 

p.  379. 

].€  was  not  thought  proper  to  examine  him 
on  the  trial ;  and  he  was  allowed,  for  about  a 
year,  to  pursue  his  innocent  occupations  in 
the  retirement  of  a  country  life.  At  last  he 
was  seized,  upon  suspicion  of  being  concern- 
ed in  some  treasonable  conspiracy;  and, 
though  no  formal  accusation  was  ever  exhib- 
ited against  him,  and  no  sort  of  evidence  spe- 
cifietf  as  the  ground  of  his  detention,  was 
conveyed  to  Londpn,  and  committed  a  close 
priswier  to  the  Tower.  In  this  situation,  he 
was  treated  with  the  most  brutal  harshness ; 
all  which  he  bore  with  great  meekness  of 
spiiit,  and  consoled  himself  in  the  constant 
study  of  the  Scriptures,  and  the  society  of 
his  magnanimous  consort,  who,  by  the  power- 
ful intercession  of  her  brother,  was  at  last  ad- 
mitted to  his  presence.  After  an  imprison- 
ment of  ten  months,  during  which  the  most 
urgent  solicitations  could  neither  obtain  his 
deliverance,  nor  the  specification  of  the  charges 
against  him,  he  was  suddenly  ordered  down 
to  Sandown  castle  in  Kent,  and  found,  upon 
his  arrival,  that  he  was  to  be  closely  confined 
in  a  damp  and  unwholesome  apartment,  in 
which  another  prisoner,  of  the  meanest  rank 
and  most  brutal  manners,  was  already  estab- 
lished. This  aggravated  oppression  and  in- 
dignity, however,  he  endured  with  a  cheerful 
magnanimity;  and  conversed  with  his  wife 
and  daughter,  as  she  expresses  it,  "  with  as 
pleasant  and  contented  a  spirit  as  ever  in  his 
whole  life.  Sir  Allen  Apsley  at  last  procured 
Ea  order  for  peiinitting  nim  to  walk  a  certain 


time  every  day  on  the  beach;  but  thih  mitiga- 
tion came  too  late.  A  sort  of  aguish  fpver^ 
brought  on  by  damp  and  confinement,  tiaa 
settled  on  his  constitution ;  and,  in  little  more 
than  a  month  after  his  removal  from  the 
Tower,  he  was  delivered  by  death  from  the 
mean  and.  cowardly  oppression  of  those  whom 
he  had  always  disdained  either  to  flatter  oj 
betray. 

England  should  be  proud,  we  think,  ol 
having  given  birth  to  Mrs.  Hutchinson  and 
her  husband ;  and  chiefly  because  their  char- 
acters are  truly  and  peculiarly  English;  ac- 
cording to  the  standard  of  those  times  in  which 
national  characters  were  most  distinguishable. 
Not  exempt,  certainly,  from  errors  and  defects, 
they  yet  seem  to  us  to  hold  out  a  lofty  example 
of  substantial  dignity  and  virtue ;  and  to  possess 
most  of  those  talents  and  principles  by  which 
public  life  is  made  honourable,  and  privacy 
delightful.  Bigotry  must  at  all  times  debalse, 
and  civil  dissension  embitter  our  existence; 
but,  in  the  ordinary  course  of  events,  we  may 
safely  venture  to  assert,  that  a  nation  which 
produces  many  such  waves  and  mothers  as 
Mrs.  Lucy  Hutchinson,  must  be  both  great 
and  happy. 

For  the  Reverend  Julius  Hutchinson,  the 
editor  of  these  Memoirs,  it  is  easy  to  see  that 
he  is  considerably  perplexed  and  distracted, 
between  a  natural  desire  to  extol  those  illus- 
trious ancestors,  and  a  fear  of  being  himself 
mistaken  for  a  repubhcan.  So  he  gives  us 
alternate  notes  in  laud  of  the  English  levellers, 
and  in  vituperation  of  the  atheists  and  jaco- 
bins of  France.  From  all  this,  our  charity 
leads  us  to  infer,  that  the  said  Reverend  Julius 
Hutchinson  has  not  yet  obtained  that  prefer- 
ment ill  the  church  which  it  would  be  conve- 
nient for  him  to  possess;  and  that,  when  he 
is  promoted  according  to  his  merits,  he  will 
speak  more  uniformly  in  a  manner  becoming 
his  descent.  In  the  mean  time,  we  are  very 
much  obliged  to  him  for  this  book,  and  for  the 
pains  he  has  taken  to  satisfy  us  of  its  authen- 
ticity, and  of  the  accuracy  of  its  publication. 
We  do  not  object  to  the  old  spelling,  which 
occasions  no  perplexity ;  but  when  the  work 
comes  to  another  edition,  we  would  recom- 
mend it  to  him  to  add  a  few  dates  on  the 
margin,  to  break  his  pages  into  more  para- 
graphs, and  to  revise  his  punctuation.  He 
w^ould  make  the  book  infinitely  more  saleable, 
too,  if,  without  making  the  slightest  variation 
in  what  is  retained,  he  would  omit  about  two 
hundred  pages  of  the  siege  of  Nottingham, 
and  other  parish  business;  especially  as  the 
whole  is  now  put  beyond  the  reach  of  loss  oi 
corruption  by  the  present  full  publication. 


MEMOIRS  OF  LADY  FANSHAWE. 


n$ 


{®ctobtx\  1S29.) 

Uemoirs  of  Laet  Fanshawe,  Wife  of  the  Right  Honourable  Sir  Richard  Fanshawe^  Baronet^ 
Ambassador  from  Charles  the  Second  to  the  Court  of  Madrid  in  1665.  Written  by  herself 
To  which  are  added,  Extracts  from  the  Correspondence  of  Sir  Richard  FansJmwe.  8vo.  pp. 
360.     London:  1829. 


There  is  not  much  in  this  book,  either  of 
individual  character,  or  public  story.  It  is, 
uideed,  but  a  small  affair — any  way ;  but  yet 
pleasing,  and  not  altogether  without  interest 
or  instruction.  Though  it  presents  us  with  no 
traits  of  historical  importance,  and  but  few  of 
personal  passion  or  adventure,  it  still  gives  us 
a  peep  at  a  scene  of  surpassing  interest  from 
anew  quarter;  and  at  all  events  adds  one 
other  item  to  the  great  and  growing  store  of 
those  contemporary  notices  which  are  every 
day  familiarizing  us  more  and  more  with  the 
living  character  of  by-gone  ages  :  and  without 
which  we  begin,  at  last,  to  be  sensible,  that  we 
can  neither  enter  into  their  spirit,  nor  even  un- 
derstand their  public  transactions.  Writings 
not  meant  for  publication,  nor  prepared  for 
purposes  of  vanity  or  contention,  are  the  only 
memorials  in  which  the  true  "form  and  pres- 
sure" of  the  ages  which  produce  them  are 
ever  completely  preserved  ;  and,  indeed,  the 
only  documents  from  which  the  great  events 
which  are  blazoned  on  their  records  can  ever 
De  satisfactorily  explained.  It  is  in  such 
writings  alone, — confidential  letters — ^private 
diaries — family  anecdotes — and  personal  re- 
monstrances, apologies,  or  explanations. — that 
the  true  springs  of  action  are  disclosed — as 
well  as  the  obstructions  and  impediments, 
whether  in  the  scruples  of  individuals  or  the 
general  temper  of  society,  by  which  their 
operation  is  so  capriciously,  and,  but  for  these 
revelations,  so  unaccountably  controlled. — 
They  are  the  true  key  to  the  cipher  in  which 
public  annals  are  almost  necessarily  written  ', 
and  their  disclosure,  after  long  intervals  of 
time,  is  almost  as  good  as  the  revocation  of 
their  writers  from  the  deacj — to  abide  our  in- 
terrogatories, and  to  act  over  again,  before  us, 
in  the  very  dress  and  accents  of  the  time,  a 
portion  of  the  scenes  which  they  once  guided 
or  adorned.  It  is  not  a  very  striking  portion, 
perhaps,  that  is  thus  recalled  by  the  publica- 
tion before  us ;  but  whatever  interest  it  pos- 
sesses is  mainly  of  this  character.  It  belongs 
to  an  era,  to  which,  of  all  others  in  our  history, 
curiosity  will  always  be  most  eagerly  directed  • 
and  it  constantly  rivets  our  attention,  by  ex- 
citing expectations  which  it  ought,  in  truth, 
to  have  fulfilled ;  and  suggesting  how  much 
more  interesting  and  instractive  it  might  so 
easily  have  been  made. 

Lady  Fanshawe  was,  as  is  generally  known, 
the  wife  of  a  distinguished  cavalier,  in  the 
Heroic  Age  of  the  civil  wars  and  the  Protec- 
torate ;  and  survived  till  long  after  the  Res- 
toration. Her  husband  was  a  person  of  no 
mean  figure  in  those  great  transactions ;  and 
J(he,  who  adhered  to  him  v/ith  the  most  de- 


voted attachment,  and  participated  not  un- 
worthily in  all  his  fortunes  and  designs,  was, 
consequently,  in  continual  contact  with  the 
movements  which  then  agitated  society^  and 
had  her  full  share  of  the  troubles  and  triiijr.phs 
which  belonged  to  such  an  existence.  dLer 
memoirs  ought,  therefore,  to  have  formed  an 
interesting  counterpart  to  those  of  Mrs.  Hutch- 
inson ]  and  to  have  recalled  to  us,  with  equal 
force  and  vivacity,  the  aspect  under  which 
those  great  events  presented  themselves  to  a 
female  spectatress  and  sufferer,  of  the  oppo- 
site faction.  But,  though  the  title  of  the  book, 
and  the  announcements  of  the  editor,  hold 
out  this  promise,  we  must  say  that  the  body  of 
it  falls  far  short  of  performance :  and,  whether 
it  be  that  her  side  of  the  question  did  not  admit 
of  the  same  force  of  delineation  or  loftiness  of 
sentiment ;  or,  that  the  individual  chronicler 
has  been  less  fortunately  selected,  it  is  certain 
that,  in  point  both  of  interest  and  instruction ; 
in  traits  of  character,  warmth  of  colouring,  or 
exaltation  of  feeling,  there  is  no  sort  of  com- 
parison between  these  gossiping,  and,  though 
affectionate,  yet  relatively  cold  and  feeble, 
memoranda,  and  the  earnest,  eloquent,  ana 
graphic  representations  of  the  puritan  heroine. 
Nor  should  it  be  forgotten,  even  in  hinting  at 
such  a  parallel,  that,  in  one  important  respect, 
the  royalist  cause  also  must  be  allowed  to 
have  been  singularly  happy  in  its  female  rep- 
resentative. Since,  if  it  may  be  said  with 
some  show  of  reason,  that  Lucy  Hutchinson 
and  her  husband  had  too  many  elegant  tastes 
and  accomplishments  to  be  taken  as  fair  speci- 
mens of  the  austere  and  godly  republicans ; 
it  certainly  may  be  retorted,  with  at  least  equal 
justice,  that  the  chaste  and  decorous  Lady 
Fanshawe,  and  her  sober  diplomatic  lord, 
shadow  out  rather  too  favourably  the  genei-al 
manners  and  morals  of  the  cavaliers. 

After  all,  peihaps,  the  true  secret  of  her 
inferiority,  in  all  at  least  that  relates  to  politi- 
cal interest,  may  be  found  in  the  fact,  that  the 
fair  writer,  though  born  and  bred  a  royalist, 
and  faithfully  adhering  to  her  husband  in  hia 
efforts  and  sufferings  in  the  cause,  was  not 
naturally,  or  of  herself,  particularly  studious 
of  such  matters  ]  or  disposed  to  occupy  her- 
self more  than  was  necessary  with  any  public 
concern.  She  seems  to  have  followed,  like  a 
good  wife  and  daughter,  where  her  parents  or 
her  husband  led  her;  and  to  have  adopted 
their  opinions  with  a  dutiful  and  implicit  con- 
fidence, but  without  being  very  deeply  moved 
by  the  principles  or  passions  which  actuated 
those  from  whom  they  were  derived ;  while 
Lucy  Hutchinson  not  only  threw  her  whole 
heart  and  soul  mto  the  cause  of  her  party 


80 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


but,  like  Lady  Macbeth  or  Madame  Rolandj 
imparted  her  own  fire  to  her  more  phleg-matic 
helpmate, —  '-chastised   him,"   when  neces 


sary. 


th  the  valour  of  her  ton"ae,"  and 


cheered  him  on,  by  the  encouragement  of  her 
high  example,  to  all  the  ventures  and  sacri- 
fices, the  triumphs  or  the  martyrdoms,  that 
lay  visibly  across  her  daring  and  lofty  course. 
The  Lady  Fanshawe,  we  take  it,  was  of  a  less 
passionate  temperament ;  and  her  book,  ac- 
cordingly, is  more  like  that  of  an  ordinary 
woman,  though  living  in  extraordinary  times. 
She  begins,  no  doubt,  with  a  good  deal  of  love 
and  domestic  devotion,  and  even  echoes,  from 
that  sanctuary,  certain  notes  of  loyalty ;  but, 
in  very  truth,  is  chiefly  occupied,  for  the  best 
part  of  her  life,  with  the  sage  and  serious 
business  of  some  nineteen  or  twenty  accouche- 
mens,  which  are  happily  accomplished  in  dif- 
ferent parts  of  Europe ;  and  seems,  at  last,  to 
be  wholly  engrossed  in  the  ceremonial  of 
diplomatic  presentations, — the  description  of 
court  dresses,  state  coaches,  liveries,  and 
jewellery, — the  solemnity  of  processions,  and 
receptions  by  sovereig-n  princes, — and  the  due 
interchange  of  presents  and  compliments  with 
persons  of  worship  and  dignity.  Fully  one- 
third  of  her  book  is  taken  up  with  such  goodly 
matter ;  and  nearly  as  much  with  the  geneal- 
ogy of  her  kindred,  and  a  faithful  record  of 
their  marriages,  deaths,  and  burials.  From 
the  remainder,  however,  some  curious  things 
may  be  gathered ;  and  we  shall  try  to  extraCt 
what  strikes  us  as  most -characteristic.  We 
may  begin  with  something  that  preceded  her 
own  recollection.  The  following  singular  le- 
gend relates  to  her  mother ;  and  is  given,  it 
will  be  observed,  on  very  venerable  author- 
ity: 

"  Dr.  Howlsworth  preached  her  funeral  sermon, 
in  which,  upon  his  own  knowledge,  he  told,  before 
many  hundreds  of  people,  this  accident  following : 
That  my  mother,  being  sick  to  death  of  a  fever  three 
months  after  I  was  born,  which  was  the  occasion 
she  gave  me  suck  no  longer,  her  friends  and  ser- 
vants thought,  to  all  outward  appearance,  that  she 
was  dead,  and  so  lay  almost  two  days  and  a  night ; 
but  Dr.  Winston,  coming  to  comfort  my  father, 
went  into  my  mother's  room,  and  looking  earnest- 
ly on  her  face,  said  she  was  so  handsome,  and  now 
looks  so  lovely,  I  cannot  think  she  is  dead ;  and 
suddenly  took  a  lancet  out  of  his  pocket,  and  with 
it  cut  the  sole  of  her  foot,  which  bled.  Upon  this, 
he  immediately  caused  her  to  be  laid  upon  the  bed 
again,  and  to  be  rubbed,  and  such  means,  as  she 
came  to  life,  and  opening  her  eyes,  saw  two  of  her 
kinswomen  stand  by  her,  my  Lady  Knollys  and 
my  Lady  Russell,  both  with  great  wide  sleeves, 
as  the  fashion  then  was,  and  said,  Did  not  you 
promise  me  fifteen  years,  and  are  you  come  again 
already?  which  they  not  understanding,  persuaded 
her  to  keep  her  spirits  quiet  in  that  great  weakness 
wherein  she  then  was ;  but,  some  hours  after,  she 
desired  my  father  and  Dr.  Howlsworth  might  be 
left  alone  with  her,  to  whom  she  said,  I  will  ac- 
quaint you,  that,  during  the  time  of  my  trance,  I 
was  in  great  quiet,  but  in  a  place  I  could  neither 
distinguish  nor  describe  ;  but  the  sense  of  leaving 
my  girl,  who  is  dearer  to  me  than  all  my  children, 
remained  a  trouble  upon  my  spirits.  Suddenly  I 
saw  two  by  me,  cloathed  in  long  whhe  garments, 
and  methought  I  fell  down  with  my  face  in  the 
dust ;  and  they  asked  me  why  I  was  troubled  in  so 
great  happiness.  I  replied,  O  let  me  have  the  same 
granj  given  to  Hezekiah,  that  I  may  live  fifteen 


years,  to  see  my  daughter  a  woman :  to  which  iho/ 
answered,  It  is  done :  and  then,  at  that  instant,  J 
awoke  out  of  my  trance ;  and  Dr.  Howlsworth 
did  there  afhrm,  that  that  day  she  died  made  jus\ 
fifteen  years  irom  that  time." — pp.  26 — 28. 

This  gift  of  dreaming  dreams,  or  seeing 
visions,  seems,  indeed,  to  have  been  hered. 
tary  in  the  family ;  for  the  following  is  given  on 
the  credit  of  the  fair  writer's  own  experience. 
When  she  and  her  husband  went  to  Ireland  ^ 
on  their  way  to  Portugal,  they  were  honour- 
ably entertained  by  all  the  distinguished  royal- 
ists who  came  in  their  way.  Among  others, 
she  has  recorded  that, 

"  We  went  to  the  Lady  Honor  O'Brien's,  a  lady 
that  went  for  a  maid,  but  few  believed  it !  She 
was  the  youngest  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Thomond. 
There  we  staid  three  nights.  The  first  of  which  I 
was  surprised  by  being  laid  in  a  chamber,  where, 
about  one  o'clock,  I  heard  a  voice  that  wakened 
me.  I  drew  the  curtain,  and,  in  the  casement  of 
the  window,  I  saw,  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  a 
woman  leaning  into  the  window,  through  the  case- 
ment, in  w^hite,  with  red  hair,  and  pale  and  ghastly 
complexion.  She  spoke  loud,  and  in  a  tone  I  had 
never  heard,  thrice,  'A  horse!'  and  then,  with  a 
sigh  more  like  the  wind  than  breath,  she  vanished, 
and,  to  m.e,  her  body  looked  more  hke  a  thick  cloud 
than  substance.  I  was  so  much  frightened,  that 
my  hair  stood  on  end,  and  my  night-clothes  fell  off". 
I  pulled  and  pinched  your  father,  who  never  woke 
during  the  disorder  I  was  in  ;  but  at  last  was  much 
surprised  to  see  me  in  this  fright,  and  more  so  when 
I  related  the  story  and  showed  him  the  window 
opened.  Neither  of  us  slept  any  more  that  night, 
but  he  entertained  me  with  teUing  me  how  much 
more  these  apparitions  were  usual  in  this  country 
than  in  England !  and  we  concluded  the  cause  to 
be  the  great  superstition  of  the  Irish,  and  the  want 
of  that  knowing  fahh,  which  should  defend  them 
from  the  power  of  the  devil,  which  he  exercises 
among  them  very  much." 

Ingenious  and  orthodox  as  this  solution  of 
the  mystery  must  be  allowed  to  be,  we  con- 
fess we  should  have  been  inclined  to  prefer 
that  of  the  fair  sleeper  having  had  a  fit  of 
nightmare  j  had  it  not  been  for  the  conclusive 
testimony  of  the  putative  virgin  of  the  house 
of  Thomond,  who  supplies  the  following  as- 
tonishing confirmation;  and  leads  us  rather 
to  suspect  that  the  whole  might  have  been  a 
trick,  to  rid  herself  the  sooner  of  their  scru- 
pulous and  decorotis  company. 

"  About  five  o'clock,"  continues  Lady  Fan- 
shawe, "the  lady  of  the  house  came  to  see  us, 
saying  she  had  not  been  in  bed  all  night,  because 
a  cousin  O'Brien  of  hers,  whose  ancestors  had 
owned  that  house,  had  desired  her  to  stay  with 
him  in  his  chamber,  and  that  he  died  at  two  o'clock, 
and  she  said,  '  I  wish  you  to  have  had  no  dis- 
turbance, for  'tis  the  custom  of  the  place,  that, 
when  any  of  the  family  are  dying,  the  shape  of  a 
woman  appears  in  the  window  every  night  till  they 
be  dead.  This  woman  was  many  ages  ago  got 
with  child  by  the  owner  of  this  place,  who  mur- 
dered her  in  his  garden,  and  flung  her  into  the  river 
under  the  window,  but  truly  1  thought  not  of  it 
when  I  lodged  you  here,  it  being  the  best  room  in 
the  house.'  We  made  little  reply  to  her  speech, 
but  disposed  ourselves  to  be  gone  suddenly." 

We  shall  close  this  chapter,  of  the  super- 
natural, with  the  following  ratner  remarkable 
ghost  story,  which  is  calculated,  we  think,  to 
make  a  strong  impression  on  the  imagination. 
Our  diligent  chronicler  picked  it  up,  it  seemSj 


MEMOIRS  OF  LADY  FANSHAWE. 


18i 


»n  her  vvaj  tnrough  Canterbury  in  the  year 
1663 ;  and  i:  is  thus  nojiourably  attested : 

"And  here  I  cannot  omit  relating  the  ensuing 
Ktory,  confirmed  by  Sir  Thomas  Batten,  Sir  Arnold 
Breames,  tlie  Dean  of  Canterbury,  with  many  more 
gentlemen  and  persons  of  this  town. 

"  There  lives  not  far  from  Canterbury  a  gentle- 
man, called  Colonel  Colepeper,  whose  mother 
was  widow  unto  the  Lord  Strangford:  this  gentle- 
man had  a  sister,  who  lived  with  him,  as  the  world 
said,  in  too  much  love.  She  married  Mr.  Porter. 
This  brother  and  sister  being  both  atheists  and 
living  a  life  according  to  their  profession,  went  in 
a  froiick  into  a  vault  of  their  ancestors,  where,  be- 
fore they  returned,  they  pulled  some  of  their  father's 
and  mother's  hairs  !  Within  a  very  few  davs  after, 
Mrs.  Porter  fell  sick  and  died.  Her  brother  kept 
her  body  in  a  coffin  set  up  in  his  buttery,  saying  it 
would  not  be  long  before  he  died,  and  then  they 
would  be  both  buried  together  ;  but  from  the  night 
after  her  death,  until  the  time  that  we  were  told  the 
story,  which  was  three  months,  they  say  that  a  head, 
as  cold  as  death,  with  curled  hair  like  his  sister's, 
did  ever  lie  by  him  wherever  he  slept,  notwith- 
standing he  removed  to  several  places  and  countries 
to  avoid  it ;  and  several  persons  told  us  they  also 
had  felt  this  apparition." 

We  may  now  go  back  a  little  to  the  affairs  of 
this  world.  Deep  and  devoted  attachments  are 
more  frequently  conceived  in  circumstances 
of  distress  and  danger  than  in  any  other: 
and,  accordingly,  the  love  and  marriage  of 
Sir  Richard  Fanshawe  and  his  lady  befel  dur- 
ing their  anxious  and  perilous  residence  with 
the  court  at  Oxford,  in  1644.  The  following 
little  sketch  of  the  life  they  passed  there  is 
curious  and  interesting : 

"  My  father  commanded  my  sister  and  myself  to 
come  to  him  to  Oxford,  where  the  Court  then  was ; 
but  we,  that  had  till  that  hour  lived  in  great  plenty 
and  great  order,  found  ourselves  like  nshes  out  of 
the  water,  and  the  scene  so  changed,  tliat  we  knew 
not  at  all  how  to  act  any  part  but  obedience ;  for, 
from  as  good  a  house  as  any  gentleman  of  England 
had,  we  came  to  a  baker's  house  in  an  obscure 
street ;  and  from  rooms  well  furnished,  to  lie  in  a 
very  bad  bed  in  a  garret,  to  one  dish  of  meat,  and 
that  not  the  best  ordered,  no  money,  for  we  were 
as  poor  as  Job,  nor  clothes  more  than  a  man  or  two 
brought  in  their  cloak  bags :  we  had  the  perpetual 
discourse  of  losing  and  gaining  towns  and  men  :  at 
the  windows  the  sad  spectacle  of  war,  sometimes 
plagues,  sometimes  sicknesses  of  other  kind,  by 
reason  of  so  many  people  being  packed  together, 
as,  I  believe,  there  never  was  before  of  that  quality  ; 
always  in  want,  yet  I  must  needs  say,  that  most 
bore  it  with  a  martyr-like  cheerfulness.  For  my 
own  part,  I  began  to  think  we  should  all,  hke 
Abraham,  live  in  tents  all  the  days  of  our  lives. 
The  king  sent  my  father  a  warrant  for  a  baronet, 
but  he  returned  it  with  thanks,  saying  he  had  too 
much  honour  of  his  knighthood,  which  his  majesty 
had  honoured  him  with  some  years  before,  for  the 
fortune  he  npw  possessed." — pp.  35 — 37. 

They  were  married  very  privately  the  year 
after;  and  certainly  entered  upon  life  with  lit- 
tle but  their  mutual  love  to  cheer  and  support 
them  j  but  it  seems  to  have  been  sufficient. 

"Both  his  fortui.e  and  my  promised  portion, 
which  was  made  10,000Z.,  were  both  at  that  time  in 
expectation  ;  and  we  might  truly  be  called  merchant 
adventurers,  for  the  stock  we  set  up  our  trading 
with  did  not  amount  to  twenty  pounds  betwixt  us  ; 
but,  however,  it  was  to  us  as  a  little  piece  of  armour 
is  against  a  bullet,  which,  if  it  be  right  placed, 
though  no  bigger  than  a  shilling,  serves  as  well  as 
*  whole  suit  of  armour;  so  our  stock  bought  pen. 


ink,  and  paper,  which  was  your  father's  trade,  and 
by  it,  I  assure  you.  we  lived  better  than  those  who 
were  born  to  2000/.  a  year,  as  long  as  he  had  his 
liberty."— pp.  37,  38. 

The  next  scene  presents  both  of  them  in  so 
amiable  and  respectable  a  light,  that  we  think 
it  but  justice  to  extract  it,  though  rather  long, 
without  any  abridgment.  It  is.  indeed,  one 
of  the  most  pleasing  and  interesting  passages 
in  the  book.  They  had  now  gone  to  Bristol, 
in  1645. 

"My  husband  had  provided  very  good  lodgings 
for  us,  and  as  soon  as  he  could  come  home  from 
the  council,  where  he  was  at  my  arrival,  he  with 
all  expressions  of  joy  received  me  in  his  arms,  and 
gave  me  a  hundred  pieces  of  gold,  saying,  '  I  know 
thou  that  keeps  my  heart  so  well,  will  keep  my 
fortune,  which  from  this  time  I  will  ever  put  into 
thy  hands  as  God  shall  bless  me  with  increase;' 
and  now  I  thought  myself  a  perfect  queen,  and 
my  husband  so  glorious  a  crown,  that  I  more  valued 
myself  to  be  called  by  his  name  than  born  a 
princess ;  for  I  knew  him  very  wise  and  very  good, 
and  his  sbul  doated  on  me, — upon  which  confidence 
I  will  tell  you  what  happened.  My  Lady  Rivers, 
a  brave  woman,  and  one  that  had  suffered  many 
thousand  pounds  loss  for  the  king,  and  whom  I  had 
a  great  reverence  for,  and  she  a  kindness  for  me  as 
a  kinswoman,  in  discourse  she  tacitly  commended 
the  knowledge  of  state  affairs ;  and  that  some 
women  were  very  happy  in  a  good  understanding 
thereof,  as  my  Lady  Aubigny,  Lady  Isabel  Thynne, 
and  divers  others,  and  yet  none  was  at  first  more 
capable  than  I;  that  in  the  night  she  knew  there 
came  a  post  from  Paris  from  the  queen,  and  that 
she  would  be  extremely  glad  to  hear  what  the 
queen  commanded  the  king  in  order  to  his  affairs ; 
saying,  if  I  would  ask  my  husband  privately,  he 
would  tell  me  what  he  found  in  the  packet,  and  I 
might  tell  her.  I,  that  was  young  and  innocent,  and 
to  that  day  had  never  in  my  mouth  '  What  news  ?' 
began  to  think  there  was  more  in  inquiring  into 
public  affairs  than  I  thought  of;  and  that  it  being  a 
fashionable  thing  would  make  me  more  beloved  of 
my  husband,  if  that  had  been  possible,  than  I  was. 
When  my  husband  returned  home  from  council, 
after  welcoming  him,  as  his  custom  ever  was,  he 
went  with  his  handful  of  papers  into  his  study  for  an 
hour  or  more ;  I  followed  him  ;  he  turned  hastily,  and 
said,  'What  wouldst  thou  have,  my  life?'  I  told 
him,  I  heard  the  prince  had  received  a  packet  from 
the  queen,  and  I  guessed  it  was  that  in  his  hand,  and 
I  desired  to  know  what  was  in  it ;  he  smilingly  re- 
plied, '  My  love,  I  will  immediately  come  to  thee  ; 
pray  thee  go,  for  I  am  very  busy  :'  when  he  came 
out  of  his  closet  I  revived  my  suit ;  he  kissed  me, 
and  talked  of  other  things.  At  supper  I  would  eat 
nothing  ;  he  as  usual  sat  by  me,  and  drank  often  to 
me,  which  was  his  custom,  and  was  full  of  discourse 
to  company  that  was  at  table.  Going  to  bed  I  asked 
again  ;  and  said  I  could  not  believe  he  loved  me  if 
he  refused  to  tell  me  all  he  knew ;  but  he  answer^ 
ed  nothing,  but  stopped  my  mouth  with  kisses.  So 
we  went  to  bed  ;  I  cried,  and  he  went  to  sleep ! 
Next  morning  early,  as  his  custom  was,  he  called 
to  rise,  but  began  to  discourse  with  me  first,  to 
which  I  made  no  reply  ;  he  rose,  came  on  the  other 
side  of  the  bed  and  kissed  me,  and  drew  the  cur- 
tains softly,  and  went  to  court.  When  he  came 
home  to  dinner,  he  presently  came  to  me  as  was 
usual,  and  when  I  had  him  by  the  hand,  I  said, 
'  Thou  dost  not  care  to  see  me  troubled  ;'  to  which 
he,  taking  me  in  his  arms,  answered,  '  My  dearest 
soul,  nothing  upon  earth  can  afflict  me  like  that: 
But  when  you  asked  me  of  my  business,  it  was 
wholly  out  of  my  power  to  satisfy  thee  ;  for  my  life 
and  fortune  shall  be  thine,  and  every  thought  of 
my  heart  in  which  the  trust  I  am  in  may  not  be 
revealed  :  But  my  honour  is  my  own ;  which  I 
cannot   preserve  if  I   communicate    the    prince's 


182 


fflSTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


affairs ;  and,  pray  thee,  with  this  answer  rest  satis- 
fied.' So  great  was  his  reason  and  goodness,  that, 
upon  consideration,  it  made  my  folly  appear  to  me 
so  vile,  that  from  that  day  until  the  day  of  his 
death,  I  never  thought  fit  to  ask  him  any  business, 
but  what  he  communicated  freely  to  me,  in  order 
to  his  estate  or  family." 

After  the  ill  success  of  the  royal  arms  had 
made  it  necessary  for  the  Prince  to  retire  be- 
yond seas,  Lady  Fanshawe  and  her  husband 
attended  him  to  the  Scilly  Islands.  We  give 
this  natural  and  simple  picture  of  their  dis- 
comforts on  that  expedition : — 

•'  The  next  day,  after  having  been  pillaged,  and 
extremely  sick  and  big  with  child,  I  was  set  on 
shore,  almost  dead,  in  the  island  of  Scilly  ;  when 
we  had  got  to  our  quarters  near  the  castle,  where 
the  prince  lay,  I  went  immediately  to  bed,  which 
was  so  vile  that  my  footman  ever  lay  in  a  better, 
and  we  had  but  three  in  the  whole  house,  which 
consisted  of  four  rooms,  or  rather  partitions,  two 
low  rooms,  and  two  little  lofts,  with  a  ladder  to  go 
up :  in  one  of  these  they  kept  dried  fish,  which  was 
his  trade,  and  in  this  my  husband's  two  clerks  lay ; 
one  there  was  for  my  sister,  and  one  for  myself, 
and  one  amongst  the  rest  of  the  servants ;  but 
when  1  waked  in  the  morning,  I  was  so  cold  I 
knew  not  what  to  do  ;  but  the  daylight  discovered 
that  my  bed  was  near  swimming  with  the  sea, 
which  the  owner  told  us  afterwards  it  never  did — 
but  at  spring  tides.^' 

We  must  not  omit  her  last  interview  with 
her  unfortunate  Sovereign,  which  took  place 
at  Hampton  Court,  when  his  star  was  hastening 
to  its  setting !  It  is  the  only  interview  with 
that  unhappy  Prince  of  which  she  has  left 
any  notice ;  and  is,  undoubtedly,  very  touch- 
ing and  amiable. 

"  During  his  stay  at  Hampton  Court,  my  hus- 
band was  with  him  ;  to  whom  he  was  pleased  to 
talk  much  of  his  concerns,  and  gave  hjm  three 
credentials  for  Spain,  with  private  instructions,  and 
letters  for  his  service :  But  God,  for  our  sins,  dis- 
posed his  Majesty's  affairs  otherwise.  I  went  three 
times  to  pay  my  duty  to  him,  both  as  1  was  the 
daughter  of  his  servant,  and  wife  of  his  servant. 
The  last  time  I  ever  saw  him,  when  I  took  my 
leave,  I  could  not  refrain  from  weeping,  When  he 
had  saluipd  me,  I  prayed  to  God  to  preserve  his 
majesty  ^^itll  long  life  and  happy  years;  he  stroked 
me  on  the  cheek,  and  said,  '  Child,  if  God  pleaseth 
it  shall  be  so  !  both  you  and  I  must  submit  to  God's 
will,  and  you  know  in  what  hands  I  am  in ;'  then 
turning  to  your  father,  he  said,  '  Be  sure,  Dick,  to 
tell  my  son  all  that  I  have  said,  and  deliver  those 
letters  to  my  wife;  pray  God  bless  her!  I  hope  I 
shall  do  well;'  and  takmg  him  in  his  arms,  said, 
'  Thou  hast  ever  been  an  honest  man,  and  I  hope 
God  will  bless  thee,  and  make  thee  a  happy  ser- 
vant to  my  son,  whom  I  have  charged  in  my  letter 
to  continue  his  love,  and  trust  to  you  ;'  adding,  '  I 
do  promise  vou,  that  if  ever  I  am  restored  to  my 
dignity,  I  will  bountifully  reward  you  for  both  your 
ejervice  and  sufferings.'  Thus  did  we  part  from 
ihat  glorious  sun,  that  within  a  few  months  after 
was  murdered,  to  the  grief  of  all  Christians  that 
were  not  forsaken  by  God." 

These  are  almost  sufficient  specimens  of 
the  work  before  us ;  for  it  would  not  be  fair  to 
extract  the  whole  substance  of  it.  However, 
we  must  add  the  following  striking  trait  of 
heroism  and  devoted  affection,  especially  as 
we  have  spoken  rather  too  disparagingly  of 
the  fair  writer's  endowment  of  those  qualities. 
In  point  of  courage  and  love  to  her  husband 
it  is  quite  on  a  level,  perhaps  with  any  of  the 


darings  of  Mrs.  Hutchinson, — though  we  can« 
not  say  that  the  occasion  called  so  clearly  fof 
their  display.  During  their  voyage  to  Portu 
gal,  and — 

"  When  we  had  just  passed  the  Straits,  we  sa\i 
coming  towards  us,  with  full  sails,  a  Turkish  galley, 
well  manned,  and  we  believed  we  should  be  all 
carried  away  slaves,  for  this  man  had  so  laden  his 
ship  with  goods  for  Spain,  that  his  guns  were  use- 
less, though  the  ship  carried  sixty  guns.  He  called 
for  brandy,  and  alter  he  had  well  drunken,  and  all 
his  men,  which  were  near  two  hundred,  he  called 
for  arms,  and  cleared  the  deck  as  well  as  he  could, 
resolving  to  fight  rather  than  lose  his  ship,  which 
was  worth  30,000Z.  This  was  sad  for  us  passengers : 
but  my  husband  bid  us  be  sure  to  keep  in  the  cabin, 
and  not  appear,  the  women,  which  would  make  the 
Turks  think  that  we  were  a  man-of-war,  but  if 
they  saw  women,  they  would  take  us  for  merchants, 
and  board  us.  He  went  upon  the  deck,  and  took  a 
gun  and  bandoliers,  and  sword,  and,  wuh  the  rest 
of  the  ship's  company,  stood  upon  deck  expecting 
the  arrival  of  the  Turkish  man-of-war.  This  beast, 
the  captain,  had  locked  me  up  in  the  cabin ;  I  knock- 
ed and  called  long  to  no  purpose,  until  at  length  the 
cabin-boy  came  and  opened  the  door.  I,  all  in 
tears,  desired  him  to  be  so  good  as  to  give  me  his 
blue  thrum  cap  he  wore,  and  his  tarred  coat,  which 
he  did,  and  I  gave  him  half-a-crown,  and  putting 
them  on,  and  flinging  away  my  night-clothes,  I 
crept  up  softly  and  stood  upon  the  deck  by  my 
husband's  side,  as  free  from  sickness  and  fear  as,  I 
confess,  from  discretion  ;  but  it  was  the  effect  of 
that  passion  which  I  could  never  master. 

"  By  this  time  the  two  vessels  were  engaged  in 
parley,  and  so  well  satisfied  with  speech  and  sight 
of  each  other's  forces,  that  the  Turks'  man-of-war 
tacked  about,  and  we  continued  our  course.  But 
when  your  father  saw  it  convenient  to  retreat,  look- 
ing upon  me,  he  blessed  himself,  and  snatched  me 
up  in  his  arms,  saying,  '  Good  God,  that  love  can 
make  this  change  !'  and  though  he  seemingly  chid 
me,  he  would  laugh  at  it  as  often  as  he  remembered 
that  voyage." 

What  follows  is  almost  as  strong  a  proof  of 
that  "love  which  casteth  out  fear;"  while  it 
is  more  unexceptionable  on  the  score  of  pru- 
dence. Sir  Richard,  being  in  arms  for  the 
King  at  the  fatal  battle  of  Worcester,  was  af- 
terwards taSen  prisoner,  and  brought  to  Lon- 
don ',  to  which  place  his  faithful  consort  im- 
mediately repaired,  where,  in  the  midst  of 
her  anxieties, 

"I  met  a  messenger  from  him  with  a  letter, 
which  advised  me  of  his  condition,  and  told  me  he 
was  very  civilly  used,  and  said  little  more,  but  that 
I  should  be  in  some  room  at  Charing  Cross,  where 
he  had  promise  from  his  keeper  that  he  should  rest 
there  in  my  company  at  dinner-time  ;  this  was 
meant  to  him  as  a  great  favour.  I  expected  him 
with  impatience,  and  on  the  day  appointed  provided 
a  dinner  and  room,  as  ordered,  in  which  I  was  with 
my  father  and  some  more  of  our  friends,  where, 
about  eleven  of  the  clock,  we  saw  hundreds  of 
poor  soldiers,  both  English  and  Scotch,  march  all 
naked  on  foot,  and  many  with  your  father,  who 
was  very  cheerful  in  appearance  ;  who,  after  he  had 
spoken  and  saluted  me  and  his  friends  there,  said, 
'  Pray  let  us  not  lose  time,  for  I  know  not  how 
little  I  have  to  spare;  this  is  the  chance  of  war; 
nothing  venture,  nothing  have;  so  let  us  sit  down 
and  be  merry  whilst  we  may  ;'  then  taking  my 
hand  in  his,  and  kissing  me,  '  Cease  weeping,  no 
other  thing  upon  earth  can  move  me;  remember 
we  are  all  at  God's  disposal.' 

"  During  the  time  of  his  imprisonment,  T  failed 
not  constandy  to  go,  when  the  clock  struck  four  in 
the  morning,  with  a  dark  lantern  m  my  hand  ai! 


MEMOIRS  OF  SAMUEL  PEPYS. 


18» 


Bfone  and  on  foot,  from  my  lodging  in  Chancery 
Lane,  at  my  cousin  Young's,  to  Whitehall,  in  at 
the  entry  that  went  out  of  King  Street  mto  the 
bowling-green.  There  I  would  20  under  his  window 
and  softly  call  him  ;  he,  after  the  first  time  except- 
ed, never  failed  to  put  out  his  head  at  the  first  call ; 
thus  we  talked  together,  and  sometimes  I  was  so 
wet  with  the  rain,  that  it  went  in  at  my  neck  and 
out  at  my  heels.  He  directed  how  I  should  make 
my  addresses,  which  I  did  ever  to  their  general, 
Cromwell,  who  had  a  great  respect  for  your  father, 
and  would  have  bought  him  off  to  his  service,  upon 
any  terms. 

"Being  one  day  to  solicit  for  my  husband's 
liberty  for  a  time,  he  bid  me  bring,  the  next  day,  a 
certificate  from  a  physician  that  he  w^as  really  ill. 
Immediately  I  went  to  Dr.  Batters,  that  was  by 
chance  both  physician  to  Cromwell  and  to  our 
family,  w^ho  gave  me  one  very  favourable  in  my 
husband's  behalf.  I  delivered  it  at  the  Council 
Chamber,  at  three  of  the  clock  that  afternoon,  as 
he  commanded  me,  and  he  himself  moved,  that 
seeing  they  could  make  no  use  of  his  imprisonment, 
whereby  to  lighten  them  in  their  business,  that  he 
might  have  his  liberty  upon  4000Z.  bail,  to  take  a 
course  of  physic,  he  being  dangerously  ill.  Many 
spake  against  it ;  but  most  Sir  Henry  Vane,  who 
said  he  would  be  as  instrumental,  for  ought  he 
knew,  to  hang  them  all  that  sat  there,  if  ever  he 
had  opportunity  ;  but  if  he  had  liberty  for  a  time, 
that  he  might  take  the  engagement  before  he  went 
out;  upon  which  Cromwell  said,  'I  never  knew 
that  the  engagement  was  a  medicine  for  the  scor- 
butic !'  They,  hearing  their  general  say  so,  thought 
it  obhged  him,  and  so  ordered  him  his  liberty  upon 
bail." 

These  are  specimens  of  what  we  think  oest 
in  the  work ;  but,  as  there  may  be  readers 
who  would  take  an  interest  in  her  description 
of  court  ceremonies,  or,  at  least,  like  to  see 
how  she  manages  them,  we  shall  conclude 
with  a  little  fragment  of  such  a  description. 

"  This  afternoon  I  went  to  pay  my  visit  to  the 
Duchess  of  Albuquerque.     When  I  came  to  take 


coach,  the  soldiers  stood  to  their  arms,  and  the 
lieutenant  that  held  the  colours  displaying  them, 
which  is  never  done  to  any  one  but  kings,  or  sucb 
as  represent  their  persons:  I  stood  still  all  the 
while,  then  at  the  lowering  of  the  coloui-s  to  the 
ground,  they  received  for  them  a  low  courtesy  from 
me,  and  for  himself  a  bow  ;  then  taking  coach,  with 
very  many  persons,  both  in  coaches  and  on  foot,  I 
went  to  the  duke's  palace,  where  I  was. again  re 
ceived  by  a  guard  of  his  excellency's,  with  the 
same  ceremony  of  the  king's  colours  as  before. 
Then  I  was  received  by  the  duke's  brother  and 
near  a  hundred  persons  of  quality.  I  laid  my  hand 
upon  the  wrist  of  his  excellency's  right  hand;  he 
putting  his  cloak  thereupon,  as  the  Spanish  fashion 
is,  went  up  the  stairs,  upon  the  top  of  which  stood 
the  duchess  and  her  daughter,  who  received  me  with 
great  civility,  putting  me  into  every  door,  and  all 
my  children,  till  we  came  to  sit  down  in  her  excel- 
lency's chamber,  where  she  placed  me  upon  her 
right  hand,  upon  cushions,  as  the  fashion  of  this 
court  is,  being  very  rich,  and  laid  upon  Persian 
carpets." 

"The  two  dukes  embraced  my  husband  with 
great  kindness,  welcoming  him  to  the  place,  and 
the  Duke  of  Medina  Ceh  led  me  to  my  coach,  an 
honour  that  he  had  never  done  any  but  once,  when 
he  waited  on  your  queen  to  help  her  on  the  hke 
occasion.  The  Duke  d'Alcala  led  my  eldest  daugh- 
ter, and  the  younger  led  my  second,  and  the  Gov- 
ernor of  Cadiz,  Don  Antonio  de  Pimentel,  led  the 
third.     Mrs.  Kestian  carried  Betty  in  her  arms." 

There  is  great  choice  of  this  sort  for  those 
who  like  it;  and  not  a  little  of  the  more 
solemn  and  still  duller  discussion  of  diplomatic 
etiquette  and  precedence.  But,  independent 
of  these,  and  of  the  genealogies  and  obitua- 
ries, which  are  not  altogether  without  interest, 
there  is  enough  both  of  heart,  and  sense,  ana 
observation,  in  these  memoirs,  at  once  to  re- 
pay gentle  and  intelligent  readers  for  the 
trouble  of  perusing  them,  and  to  stamp  a 
character  of  amiableness  and  respectability 
on  the  memory  of  their  author. 


(53'oranber  1825.) 

Memoirs  of  Samuel  Pepts,  Esq.  F.R.S.,  Secretary  to  the  Admiralty  in  the  Reign  of  Chants 
II.  and  James  II. ^  comprising  his  Diary  from  1659  to  1669,  deciphered  by  the  Rev.  John 
Smith,  A.  B.,  of  St.  Johnh  College,  Cambridge,  from  the  original  Shorthand  MS.  in  the 
Pepysian  Library,  and  a  Selaction  from  his  Private  Correspondence.  Edited  by  Richard 
Lord  Braybrooke.     2  vols.  4to.     London:  1825. 


We  have  a  great  indulgence,  we  confess, 
for  the  taste,  or  curiosity,  or  whatever  it  may 
be  called,  that  gives  its  value  to  such  publica- 
tions as  this ;  and  are  inclined  to  think  the 
desire  of  knowing,  pretty  minutely,  the  man- 
ners and  habits  of  former  times, — of  under- 
standing, in  all  their  details,  the  character  and 
ordinary  way  of  life  and  conversation  of  our 
forefathers — a  very  liberal  and  laudable  de- 
sire ;  and  by  no  means  to  be  confounded  with 
that  hankering  after  contemporary  slander, 
with  which  this  age  is  so  miserably  infested, 
and  so  justly  reproached.  It  is  not  only  curi- 
ous to  see  from  what  beginnings,  and  by  what 
Bieps.  we  have  come  to  be  what  we  are : — 
But  it  is  most  important,  for  the  future  and 
foi  ♦he  present,  to  ascertain  what  practices, 


and  tastes,  and  principles,  have  been  com- 
monly found  associated  or  disunited:  And 
as,  in  uncultivated  lands,  we  can  often  judge 
of  their  inherent  fertility  by  the  quality  of  the 
weeds  they  spontaneously  produce  —  so  we 
may  learn,  by  such  an  inspection  of  the  moral 
growths  of  a  country,  compared  with  its  sub 
sequent  history,  what  prevailing  maimers  are 
indicative  of  vice  or  of  virtue — what  existing 
follies  foretell  approaching  wisdom  —  what 
forms  of  licentiousness  give  promise  of  com 
ing  purity,  and  what  of  deeper  degradation — 
what  uncertain  lights,  in  short,  announce  the 
rising,  and  what  the  setting  sun  !  While,  in 
like  manner,  we  may  trace  in  the  same  records 
the  connection  of  public  and  private  morality, 
and  the  mutual  action  and  reaction  of  govern- 


i84 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


ment  and  manners ; — and  discover  what  indi- 
vidual corruptions  spring  from  political  dis- 
honour—  what  domestic  profligacy  leads  to 
the  sacrifice  of  freedom — and  what  national 
virtues  are  most  likely  to  resist  the  oppres- 
sions, or  yield  to  the  seductions  of  courts. 

Of  all  these  things  History  tells  us  little — 
and  yet  they  are  the  most  important  that  she 
could  have  been  employed  in  recording.  She 
has  been  contented,  however,  for  the  most 
part,  with  detailing  merely  the  broad  and  ap- 
parent results — the  great  public  events  and 
transactions,  in  which  the  true  working  prin- 
ciples of  its  destiny  have  their  end  and  con- 
summation ;  and  points  only  to  the  wrecks  or 
tlie  triumphs  that  float  down  the  tide  of  human 
affairs,  without  giving  us  any  light  as  to  those 
ground  currents  by  which  its  central  masses 
are  governed,  and  of  which  those  superficial 
appearances  are,  in  most  cases,  the  necessary 
'though  unsuspected  effects. 

Every  one  feels,  we  think,  how  necessary 
this  information  is,  if  Ave  wish  to  understand 
what  antiquity  really  was,  and  what  manner 
of  men  existed  in  former  generations.  How 
vague  and  unsatisfactory,  without  it,  are  all 
public  annals  and  records  of  dynasties  and 
battles — of  how  little  interest  to  private  indi- 
viduals— of  how  little  use  even  to  philosophers 
and  statesmen !  Before  we  can  apply  any 
example  in  history,  or  even  comprehend  its 
actual  import,  we  must  know  something  of 
the  character,  both  of  the  age  and  of  the  per- 
sons to  which  it  belongs — and  understand  a 
good  deal  of  the  temper,  tastes,  and  occupa- 
''tions,  both  of  the  actors  and  the  sufferers. — 
Good  and  evil,  in  truth,  change  natures,  with 
a  change  of  those  circumstances ;  and  we 
may  be  lamenting  as  the  most  intolerable  of 
calamities,  what  was  scarcelyjall^^san  inflic- 
tion, by  those  on  whom  it  fell.  WiThout  this 
knowledge,  therefore,  the  most  striking  and 
important  events  are  mere  wonders,  to  be 
stared  at — altogether  barren  of  instruction — 
and  probably  leading  us  astray,  even  as  occa- 
sions of  sympathy  or  moral  emotion.  Those 
minute  details,  in  short,  which  History  has  so 
often  rejected  as  below  her  dignity,  are  indis- 
pensable to  give  life,  certainty,  or  reality  to 
her  delineations ;  land  we  shouki  have  little 
hesitation  in  assCTting,  that  no  history  is  really 
worth  any  thing,  unless  it  relate  to  a  people 
and  an  age  of  which  we  have  also  those  hum- 
bler and  more  private  memorials.  It  is  not  in 
the  grand  tragedy,  or  rather  the  epic  fictions, 
of  History,  that  we  learn  the  true  condition  "of 
former  ages — the  real  character  of  past  gene- 
rations, or  even  the  actual  effects  that  were 
produced  on  society  or  individuals  at  the  time, 
by  the  great  events  that  are  there  so  solemnly 
recorded.  If  we  have  not  some  remnants  or 
some  infusion  of  the  Comedy  of  middle  life, 
we  neither  have  any  idea  of  the  state  and 
colour  of  the  general  existence,  nor  any  just 
understanding  of  the  transactions  about  which 
we  are  reading. 

For  what  we  know  of  the  ancient  Greeks 
for  exarhple — for  all  that  enables  us  to  ima- 
gine what  sort  of  thing  it  would  have  been  to 
have  lived  among  them,  or  even  what  effects 


were  produced  on  the  society  of  Athens  oi 
Sparta  by  the  battles  of  Marathon  or  Salamia 
we  are  indebted  not  so  much  to  the  histories 
of  Herodotus,  Xenophon.  or  Thucydides,  aa 
to  the  Deipnosophists  of  Athenaeus — the  anec- 
dotes of  Plutarch — the  introductory  and  inci- . 
dental  passages  of  the  Platonic  dialogues — 
the  details  of  some  of  the  private  orations. — 
and  parts  of  the  plays  of  Plautus  and  Terence, 
apparently  copied  from  the  Greek  comedies. 
For  our  personal  knowledge  of  the  Romans, 
again,  we  do  not  look  to  Livy,  or  Dionysius — 
or  even  to  Csesar,  Sallust,  or  Tacitus;  but  to 
Horace,  Petronius,  Juvenal,  and  the  other 
satirists — to  incidental  notices  in  the  Orations 
and  Dialogues  of  Cicero — and  above  all  to  his 
invaluable  letters, — followed  up  by  those  of 
Pliny, — to  intimations  in  Plutarch,  and  Seneca, 
and  Lucian — to  the  books  of  the  Civil  law — 
and  the  biographies  and  anecdotes  of  the 
Empire,  from  Suetonius  to  Procopius.  Of  the 
feudal  times — the  heroic  age  of  modern  Eu- 
rope— we  have  fortunately  more  abundant  and 
minute  information,  both  in  the  Romances  of 
chivalry,  which  embody  all  the  details  of 
upper  life;  and  in  the  memoirs  and  chronicles 
of  such  writers  as  Commines  and  Froissart, 
which  are  filled  with  so  many  individual  pic- 
tures and  redundant  particularities,  as  to  leave 
us  scarcely  any  thing  more  to  learn  or  to  wish 
for,  as  to  the  manners  and  character,  the  tem- 
per and  habits,  and  even  the  daily  life  and 
conversation  of  the  predominating  classes  of 
society,  who  then  stood  for  every  thing  in 
those  countries :  And,  even  with  regard  to 
their  serfs  and  vassals,  we  are  not  without 
most  distinct  and  intelligible  lights — both  in 
scattered  passages  of  the  works  we  have  al- 
ready referred  to,  in  various  ancient  ballads 
and  legends  relating  to  their  condition,  and  in 
such  invaluable  records  as  the  humorous  and 
more  familiar  tales  of  our  immortal  Chaucer. 
For  the  character  and  ordinary  life  of  oui 
more  immediate  ancestry,  we  may  be  said  to 
owe  our  chief  knowledge  of  it  to  Shakespeare, 
and  the  comic  dramatists  by  whom  he  was 
succeeded — reinforced  and  supported  by  the 
infinite  quantity  of  obscure  and  insignificant 
matter  which  the  industry  of  his  commenta- 
tors has  brought  back  to  light  for  his  elucida- 
tion— and  which  the  matchless  charm  of  his 
popularity  has^gain  rendered  both  interesting 
and  familiar.  [The  manners  and  habits  of  still 
later  times  are  known  to  us,  not  by  any  means 
by  our  public  histories,  but  by  the  writers  of 
farces  and  comedies,  polite  essays,  libels,  and 
satires — by  collections  of  private  letters,  like 
those  of  Gray,  Swift.  Arbuthnot,  and  Lord 
Orford — by  private  memoirs  or  journals,  such 
as  those  of  Mrs.  Lucy  Hutchinson,  Swift's 
Journal  to  Stella,  and  Doddington's  Diary —  \ 
and,  in  still  later  times,  by  the  best  of  our  g-ay 
and  satirical  novels — by  caricature  prints — by 
the  better  newspapers  and  magazines, — anc 
by  various  minute  accounts  (in  the  manner  of 
BoswelPs  Life  of  Johnson)  of  the  private  life 
and  conversation  of  distinguished  individuals, 
The  work  before  us  relates  to  a  period  of 
which  we  have  already  very  considerable 
memorials.     But  it  is,  notwithstanding,  of 


MEMOIRS  OF  SAMUEL  PEPYS. 


ISS 


>ory  great  interest  and  curiosity.  A  good 
ilea]  of  what  it  contains  derives,  no  doubt,  its 
chiei"  interest  from  having  happened  one  hun- 
dred and  eighty  years  ago :  But  there  is  httle 
of  it  that  does  not,  for  that  very  reason,  throw 
valuable  lights  on  our  intermediate  history. 
It  consists,  as  the  title  shows,  of  a  very  minute 
and  copious  Diary,  continued  from  the  year 
1659  to  1669 — and  a  correspondence,  much 
less  perfect  and  continuous,  down  nearly  to 
the  death  of  the  author  in  1703.  Fortunately 
for  the  public  part  of  the  story,  the  author 
was.  from  the  very  beginning,  in  immediate 
contact  with  persons  in  high  office  and  about 
court — and,  still  more  fortunately  for  the  pri- 
vate part,  seems  to  have  been  possessed  of 
the  most  extraordinary  activity,  and  the  most 
mdiscriminatijng.  insatiable,  and  miscellane- 
ous curiosity,  that  ever  prompted  the  re- 
searches, or  supplied  the  pen,  of  a  daily 
chronicler.  Although  excessively  busy  and 
diligent  in  his  attendance  at  his  office,  he 
finds  time  to  go  to  every  play,  to  every  exe- 
cution, to  every  procession,  fire,  concert,  riot, 
trial,  review,  city  feast,  public  dissection,  or 
picture  gallery  that  he  can  hear  of.  Nay, 
there  seems  scarcely  to  have  been  a  school 
examination,  a  wedding,  christening,  charity 
sermon,  bull-baiting,  philosophical  meeting, 
or  private  merry-making  in  his  neighbour- 
hood, at  which  he  was  not  sure  to  make  his 
appearance,  and  mindful  to  record  all  the 
particulars.  He  is  the  first  to  hear  all  the 
court  scandal,  and  all  the  public  news — to 
observe  the  changes  of  fashions,  and  the 
downfal  of  parties — to  pick  up  family  gossip, 
and  to  retail  philosophical  intelligence — to 
criticise  every  new  house  or  carriage  that  is 
built — every  new  book  or  new  beauty  that 
appears — every  measure  the  King  adopts, 
and  every  mistress  he  discards. 

For  the  rest  of  his  character,  he  appears  to 
•Hive  been  an  easy  tempered,  compassionate, 
and  kind  manj  combining  an  extraordinary 
diligence  and  regularity  in  his  official  busi- 
ness and  domestic  economy,  w-ith  a  singular 
iove  of  gossip,  amusement,  and  all  kinds  of 
miscellaneous  information — a  devoted  attach- 
ment, and  almost  ludicrous  admiration  of  his 
wife,  with  a  w^onderful  devotion  to  the  King's 
mistresses,  and  the  fair  sex  in  general,  and 
rather  a  suspicious  familiarity  with  various 
pretty  actresses  and  singers:  and,  above  all, 
a  practical  sagacity  and  cunning  in  the  man- 
agement of  affairs,  with  so  much  occasional 
credulity,  puerility,  and  folly,  as  would  often 
tempt  us  to  set  him  down  for  a  driveller. 
Though  born  with  good  blood  in  his  veins, 
and  a  kinsman,  indeed,  of  his  great  patron, 
the  first  Earl  of  Sandwich,  he  had  nothing  to 
boast  of  in  his  immediate  progenitors,  being 
born  the  son  of  a  tailor  in  London,  and  enter- 
'ng  on  life  in  a  state  of  the  utmost  poverty.  It 
was  probably  from  this  ignoble  vocation  of  his 
father,  that  he  derived  that  hereditary  taste 
for  dress  which  makes  such  a  conspicuous 
figure  in  his  Diary.  The  critical  and  affec- 
tionate notices  of  doublets,  cloaks,  beavers, 
"periwigs,  and  sword-belts,  actually  outnum- 
bering, we  think,  all  the  entries  on  any  other 


subject  whatever,  and  plainly  engrossing,  even 
in  the  most  agitating  circumstances,  no  small 
share  of  the  author's  attention.  Perhaps  it  :s 
to  the  same  blot  in  his  scutcheon,  tnat  we 
should  trace  a  certain  want  of  manliness  in 
his  whole  character  and  deportment.  Certain 
it  is  at  least,  that  there  is  room  for  such  an 
imputation.  He  appears  before  us,  from  first 
to  last,  Avith  the  true  temper,  habits,  and  man- 
ners of  an  Underling — obsequious  to  his  supe- 
riors— civil  and  smooth  to  all  men — lavish  in 
attentions  to  persons  of  influence  whom  ho 
dislikes — and  afraid  and  ashamed  of  being 
seen  with  his  best  friends  and  benefactors, 
when  they  are  supposed  to  bo  cut  of  favour 
— most  solicitous  to  keep  or.t  of  quarrels  of 
all  sorts — and  ensuring  his  own  safety,  not 
only  by  too  humble  and  pacific  a  bearing  in 
scenes  of  contention,  but  by  such  stretches  of 
simulation  and  dissimulation  as  we. cannot 
easily  reconcile  to  our  notion  of  a  brave  and 
honourable  man. 

To  such  an  extent,  indeed,  is  this  carried, 
that,  though  living  in  times  of  great  actual, 
and  greater  apprehended  changes,  it  is  with 
difficulty  that  we  can  guess,  even  from  this 
most  copious  and  unreserved  record  of  his  in- 
most thoughts,  what  were  really  his  political 
opinions,  or  whether  he  ever  had  any.  We 
learn,  indeed,  from  one  passage,  that  in  his 
early  j'outh  he  had  been  an  ardent  Round- 
head, and  had  in  that  capacity  attended  with 
exultation  the  execution  of  the  King — observ- 
ing to  one  of  his  companions  at  the  time,  that 
if  he  had  been  to  make  a  sermon  on  the  occa- 
sion, he  would  have  chosen  for  his  text  the 
words,  "The  memory  of  the  wicked  shall 
rot."  This,  to  be  sure,  was  when  he  was 
only  in  his  eighteenth  year — but  he  seems 
afterwards  to  have  accepted  of  a  small  office 
in  the  Republican  Court  of  Exchequer,  of 
which  he  is  in  possession  for  some  time  after 
the  commencement  of  his  Diary.  That  work 
begins  in  January  1659,  while  Monk  was  on 
his  march  from  Scotland ;  and  yet,  not  only 
does  he  Continue  to  frequent  the  society  of 
Harrington,  Hazlerigge,  and  other  staunch 
republicans,  but  never  once  expresses  any 
wish  of  his  own,  either  for  the  restoration  of 
the  Royalty,  or  the  continuance  of  the  Pro- 
tectorate, till  after  he  is^  actually  at  sea  w^ith 
Lord  Sandwich,  with  the  ships  that  brought 
Charles  back  from  Breda !  After  the  Restora- 
tion is  consolidated,  indeed,  and  he  has  got  a 
good  office  in  the  Admiral; y,  he  has  recorded, 
amply  enough,  his  anxiety  lor  the  pemianency 
of  the  ancient  dj-nasty — though  he  cannot 
help,  every  now^  and  then,  reprobating  the 
proffigacy,  wastefulness,  and  neglect  of  the 
new-  govemment,  and  contrasting  them  disad- 
vantageously  with  the  economy,  energy,  and 
popularity,  of  most  of  the  measures  of  the 
Usurper.  While  we  give  him  credit,  there- 
fore, for  great  candour  and  impartiality  in  the 
private  judgments  which  he  has  here  record- 
ed, we  can  scarcely  pay  him  the  compliment 
of  saying  that  he  has  any  political  princij-<les 
whatever — or  any,  at  least,  for  which  he 
would  ever  have  dreamed  of  hazarding  his 
own  worldly  prosperity. 


186 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


Another  indication  of  the  same  low  and 
ignoble  turn  of  mind  is  to  be  found,  we  think, 
in  his  penurious  anxiety  about  his  money — 
the  intense  satisfaction  with  which  he  watches 
its  increase,  and  the  sordid  and  vulgar  cares 
to  which  he  condescends,  to  check  its  ex- 
penditure. Even  after  he  is  in  possession  of 
a  great  income,  he  goes  and  sits  by  the  tailor 
till  he  sees  him  sew  all  the  buttons  on  his 
doublet — a»d  spends  four  or  five  hours,  of  a 
very  busy  day,  in  watching  the  coach-maker 
laying  on  the  coats  of  varnish  on  the  body  of 
his  coach !  When  he  gives  a  dinner,  he  knows 
exactly  what  every  dish  has  cost  him — and 
tells  a  long  story  of  his  paddling  half  the 
night  with  his  fingers  in  the  dirt,  digging  up 
some  money  he  had  buried  in  a  garden,  and 
conveying  it  with  his  own  hands,  with  many 
fears  and  contrivances,  safely  back  to  his 
house.  ^  With  all  this,  however,  he  is  charit- 
able to  the  poor,  kind  to  his  servants  and  de- 
pendents, and  very  indulgent  to  all  the  mem- 
bers of  his  family — though  we  find  him  chron- 
icling his  own  munificence  in  helping  to  fit 
out  his  wife's  brother,  when  he  goes  abroad 
to  push  his  fortune,  by  presenting  him  with 
"  ten  shillings — and  a  coat  that  I  had  by  me 
— ^a  close-bodied,  light-coloured,  cloth  coat — 
with  a  gold  edging  on  each  seam — that  was 
the  lace  of  my  wife's  best  petticoat,  when  I 
married  her!" 

As  we  conceive,  a  good  deal,  not  only  of 
the  interest,  but  of  the  authority  and  just 
construction  of  the  information  contained  in 
the  work,  depends  on  the  reader  having  a 
correct  knowledge  of  the  individual  by  whom 
it  is  furnished,  we  think  we  cannot  do  better 
than  begin  our  extracts  with  a  few  citations 
illustrative  of  the  author's  own  character, 
.iiabits,  and  condition,  as  we  have  already  at- 
tempted to  sketch  them.  The  very  first  entry 
exhibits  some  of  his  peculiarities.  He  was 
then  only  twenty-seven  years  of  age — and 
had  been  received,  though  not  with  much 
honour,  into  the  house  of  his  kinsman  Sir  Ed- 
ward Montague,  afterwards  Earl  of  Sandwich. 
This  is  his  condition  in  the  beginning  of  1659. 

''Jan.  1st  (Lord's  day).  This  morning,  (we 
living  lately  in  the  garret,)  I  rose,  put  on  my  suit 
with  great  skirts,  having  not  lately  worn  any  other 
clothes  but  them.  Went  to  Mr  Gunning's  chapel 
at  Exeter  House,  &c.  Dined  at  home  in  the  garret, 
where  my  wife  dressed  the  remains  of  a  turkey, 
and  in  the  doing  of  it  she  burned  her  hand.  I  staid 
ai  home  the  whole  afternoon,  looking  over  my  ac- 
counts ;  then  went  with  my  wife  to  my  father's,  &c. 
— 2d.  From  iho  Hull  I  called  at  home,  and  so  went 
to  Mr.  Crewe's  (my  wife  she  was  to  go  to  her 
father's),  and  Mr.  Moore  and  land  another  gentle- 
man went  out  and  drank  a  cup  of  ale  together  in  the 
new  market,  and  there  I  eat  some  bread  and  cheese 
for  my  dinner." 

His  passion  for  dress  breaks  out  in  every 
page  almost;  but  we  shall  insert  only  one  or 
two  of  the  early  entries,  to  give  the  reader  a 
action  of  the  style  of  it. 

"  10th,  This  day  I  put  on  my  new  silk  suit,  the 
Irst  that  ever  I  wore  in  my  life.— 12th.  Home,  and 
sailed  my  wife,  and  took  her  to  Clodins'  to  a  great 
wedding  of  Nan  Hartlib  to  Mynheer  Roder,  which 
was  kopt  at  Goring  House  with  very  great  state, 
cost    and   noble  company.     But   among  all  the 


beauties  there,  my  wife  was  thought  the  greatest.-- 
13ih.  Up  early,  the  first  day  that  I  put  on  my  black 
camlett  coat  with  silver  buttons.  To  Mr.  Spong, 
whom  I  found  in  his  night-gown,  &c. — 14th.  To 
the  Privy  Scale,  and  thence  to  my  Lord's,  where 
Mr.  Pini  the  tailor  and  I  agreed  upon  making  me  a 
velvet  coat. — 25t'h.  This  night  W.  Hewer  brought 
me  home  from  Mr,  Pim's  my  velvet  coat  and  cap, 
the  first  that  ever  I  had,  I'his  the  first  day  that 
ever  I  saw  my  wife  wear  black  patches  since  we 
were  married. — My  wife  seemed  very  pretty  to-day, 
it  being  the  first  time  I  had  given  her  leave  to  weare 
a  black  patch. — 22d.  This  morning,  hearing  that  the 
Queend  grows  worse  again,  I  sent  to  stop  the  mak- 
ing of  my  velvet  cloak,  till  I  see  whether  she  Uvea 
or  dies. — 30rh.  To  my  great  sorrow  find  myself 
43Z.  worse  than  I  was  the  last  month,  which  was 
then  760Z.,  and  now  it  is  but  717Z.  But  it  hath 
chiefly  arisen  from  my  layings  out  in  clothes  for 
myself  and  wife ;  viz.  for  her  about  12Z.  and  for 
myself  55Z.,  or  thereabouts  ;  having  made  myself  a 
velvet  cloak,  two  new  cloth  skirts,  black,  plain 
both  ;  a  new  shag  gown,  trimmed  with  gold  but- 
tons and  twist,  with  a  new  hat,  and  silk  tops  for  my 
legs,  and  many  other  things,  being  resolved  hence- 
forward to  go  like  myself.  And  also  two  perriwiggs, 
one  whereof  costs  me  3Z.  and  the  other  40s.  I  liave 
worn  neither  yet,  but  will  begin  next  week,  God 
willing. — 29th,  Lord's  day.  This  morning  I  put 
on  my  best  black  cloth  suit,  trimmed  with  scarlett 
ribbon,  very  neat,  with  my  cloak  lined  with  velvett, 
and  a  new  beaver,  which  altogether  is  very  noble, 
with  my  black  silk  knit  canons  I  bought  a  month 
ago, — 30th,  Up,  and  put  on  a  new  summer  black 
bombazin  suit ;  and  being  come  now  to  an  agree- 
ment with  my  barber  to  keep  my  perriwig  in  good 
order  at  20s.  a  year,  I  am  like  to  go  very  spruce, 
more  than  I  used  to  do. — 31st.  This  day  I  got  a 
little  rent  in  my  new  fine  camlett  cloak  with  the 
latch  of  Sir  G.  Carteret's  door ;  but  it  is  darned  up 
at  my  tailor's,  that  it  will  be  no  great  blemish  to  it; 
but  it  troubled  me." 

This,  we  suppose,  is  enough — though  there 
are  more  than  five  hundred  such  notices  at  the 
service  of  any  curious  reader.  It  maybe  sup- 
posed what  a  treat  a  Coronation  would  be  to 
such  a  fancier  of  fine  clothes ;  and  accordingly, 
we  have  a  most  rapturous  description  of  it,  in 
all  its  glory.  The  King  and  the  Duke  of  York 
in  their  morning  dresses  were,  it  seems,  '-but 
very  plain  men ;"  but.  when  attired  in  their 
"  most  rich  embroidered  suits  and  cloaks,  they 
looked  most  noble."  Indeed,  after  some  time^ 
he  assures  us,  that  "  the  show  was  so  glorious 
with  gold  and  silver,  that  we  are  not  able  to 
look  at  it  any  longer,  our  eyes  being  so  much 
overcome !" 

Asa  specimen  of  the  credulity  and  twaddh 
which  constitutes  another  of  the  staples  of 
this  collection,  the  reader  may  take  the  fol- 
lowing, 

"  19th.  Waked  with  a  very  high  wind,  and  said 
to  my  wife,  '  I  pray  God  I  hear  not  oithe  death  of 
any  great  person, — this  wind  is  so  high  !'  fearing 
that  the  Queene  might  be  dead.  So  up  ;  and  going 
by  coach  with  Sir  W.  Batten  and  Sir  J,  Minnes  to 
Sf,  James',  they  tell  me  that  Sir  W.  Compton,  who 
it  is  true  had  been  a  little  sickly  for  a  week  or  fort- 
night, but  was  very  well  upon  Friday  night  last,  at 
the  Tangier  Committee  with  us,  was  dead, — died 
yesterday:  at  which  I  was  most  exceedingly  sur- 
prised, — he  being,  and  so  all  the  world  saying  that 
lie  was,  one  of  the  worfhrjest  men  and  best  officers  of 
Slate  now  in  England  ! 

"23d.  To  Westminster  Abbey,  and  there  did 
see  all  the  tombs  very  finely  ;  having  one  with  us 
alone  (there  being  no  other  company  this  day  to  se* 
the  tombs,  it  being  Shrove- Tuesday):  and  here  we 


MEMOIRS  OF  SAMUEL  PEPYS. 


IS"* 


^id  see,  by  particular  favour,  the  body  of  Queen 
Kaiherine  of  Valois; — and  I  had  the  upper  part  of 
her  body  in  my  hands, — and  I  did  kiss  her  mouth  ! 
— reflecting  upon  it  that  I  did  kiss  a  queene,  and 
that  this  was  my  birth  day, — thirty-six  years  old  ! 
— that  I  did  kiss  a  queene  I  But  here  this  man,  who 
seems  to  understand  well,  tells  me  that  the  saying 
is  not  true  that  she  was  never  buried, — for  she  was 
buried. — Only  when  Henry  the  Seventh  built  his 
chapel,  she  was  taken  up  and  laid  in  this  wooden 
coffin ;  but  I  did  there  see  that  in  it  the  body  was 
buried  in  a  leaden  one,  which  remains  under  the 
body  to  this  day,  &c.  &c. — 29th.  We  sat  under  the 
boxes,  and  saw  the  fine  ladies ;  among  others,  my 
Lady  Kerneguy,  who  is  most  devilishly  painted. 
And  so  home  —it  being  mighty  pleasure  to  go  alone 
with  my  poor  wife  in  a  coach  of  our  own  to  a  play  I 
and  makes  us  appear  mighty  great,  I  think,  in  the 
world ;  at  least,  greater  than  ever  I  could,  or  my 
friends  lor  me,  have  once  expected;  or,  I  think, 
than  ever  any  of  my  family  ever  yet  lived  in  my 
memory — but  my  cosen  Pepys  in  Salisbury  Court." 

Or  the  following  memorandums  of  his 
travels. 

"  A  mighty  cold  and  windy,  but  clear  day  ;  and 
had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  Medway  running 
winding  up  and  down  mightily, — and  a  very  fine 
country  :  and  I  went  a  little  out  of  the  way  to  have 
visited  Sir  John  Bankes,  but  he  at  London  ;  but  here 
I  had  a  sight  of  his  seat  and  house,  the  outside,  which 
is  an  old  abbey  just  like  Hinchingbroke,  and  as 
good  at  least,  and  mightily  finely  placed  by  the 
river ;  and  he  keeps  the  grounds  about  it,  and 
walks  and  the  house,  very  handsome  :  I  was  might- 
ily pleased  with  the  sight  of  it.  Thence  to  Mayd- 
stone,  which  I  had  a  mighty  mind  to  see,  having 
never  been  there;  and  walked  all  up  and  down  the 
town,— and  up  to  the  top  of  the  steeple — and  had  a 
noble  view,  and  then  down  again :  and  in  the  town 
did  see  an  old  man  beating  of  flax!  and  did  step 
into  the  barn  and  give  him  money,  and  saw  that 
piece  of  husbandry,  which  I  never  saw ;  and  it  is 
very  pretty  !  In  the  street  also  I  did  buy  and  send 
to  our  inne,  the  Bell,  a  dish  of  fresh  fish.  And  so 
having  walked  all  round  the  town,  and  found  it  very 
pretty  as  most  towns  I  ever  saw,  though  not  very 
big,  and  people  of  good  fashion  in  it,  we  to  our  inne 
and  had  a  good  dinner  ;  and  a  barber  came  to  me 
and  there  trimmed  me,  that  I  might  be  clean  against 
night  to  go  to  Mrs.  Allen,  &c. 

"  So  all  over  the  plain  by  the  sight  of  the  steeple 
(the  plain  high  and  low)  to  SaUsbury  by  night ;  but 
before  I  came  to  the  town,  I  saw  a  great  "fortifica- 
tion, and  there  light,  and  to  it  and  in  it !  and  find  it 
prodigious  !  so  as  to  fright  me  to  be  in  it  all  alone, 
at  that  time  of  night — it  being  dark.  I  understand 
since  it  to  be  that  that  is  called  Old  Sarum.  Come 
to  the  George  Inne,  where  lay  in  a  silk  bed ;  and 
very  good  diet,  &c.  &c. — 22d.  So  the  three  women 
behind  W.  Hewer,  Murford,  and  our  guide,  and  I 
single  to  Stonehenge,  over  the  plain,  and  some  great 
hdls,  even  to  fright  us!  Come  thither,  and  find 
them  as  prodigious  as  any  tales  I  ever  heard  of 
them,  and  worth  going  this  journey  to  see.  God 
knows  what  their  use  was:  they  are  hard  to  tell, 
but  yet  may  be  told. — 12th.  Friday.  Up,  finding 
our  beds  good,  but  lousy;  which  made  us  merry  ! 
— 9th.  Up,  and  got  ready,  and  eat  our  breakfast ; 
and  then  took  coach :  and  the  poor,  as  they  did 
yesterday,  did  stand  at  the  coach  to  have  something 
given  them,  as  they  do  to  all  great  persons  ;  and  I 
did  give  them  something!  and  the  town  music  did 
also  come  and  play;  but.  Lord!  what  sad  music 
they  made  !  So  through  the  town,  and  observed  at 
our  College  of  Magdalene  Ihe  posts  7iew  painted  ! 
and  understand  that  the  Vice-Chancellor  is  there 
this  year." 

Though  a  great  playgoer,  we  cannot  say 
much  for  his  taste  in  plays,  or  indeed  in  litera- 
•ure  in  generaL    Of  +be  Midsummer's  Dream, 


he  saySj  "it  is  the  most  insipid,  ridiculous 
play  I  ever  saw  in  my  life."  And  he  is  al- 
most equally  dissatisfied  with  the  Merry  Wives 
of  Windsor,  and  Henry  the  IV.  To  make 
amends,  however,  for  these  misjudgments,  he 
is  often  much  moved  by  the  concord  of  sweet 
sounds;  and  has,  in  the  following  passage, 
described  the  effects  they  produced  on  him, 
in  a  way  that  must  be  admitted  to  be  original 
The  Virgin  Martyr  (of  Massinger),  he  says, 
was  "mighty  pleasant !  Not  that  the  play  is 
worth  much,  but  it  is  finely  acted  by  Beck 
Marshall.  But  that  which  did  please  me  be- 
yond any  thing  in  the  whole  world,  was  the 
wind-musique  when  the  angel  comes  down  : 
which  is  so  sweet  that  it  ravished  me,  ana 
indeed,  in  a  word,  did  wrap  up  my  soul,  so 
that  it  made  me  really  sick ! — just  as  I  have 
formerly  been  when  in  love  with  my  wifeV 

Though  "mighty  merry"  upon  all  occa- 
sions, and,  like  gentle  dulness,  ever  loving  a 
joke,  we  are  afraid  he  had  not  much  relish  for 
wit.  His  perplexity  at  the  success  of  Hudibraa 
is  exceedingly  ludicrous.  This  is  his  own 
account  of  his  first  attempt  on  him — 

"Hither  come  Mr.  Battersby  ;  and  we  falling 
into  discourse  of  a  new  book  of  drollery  in  use, 
called  Hudebras,  I  would  needs  go  find  it  out,  and 
met  with  it  at  the  Temple:  cost  me  2s.  6d.  But 
when  I  come  to  read  it,  it  is  so  silly  an  abuse  of 
the  Presbyter  Knight  going  to  the  warrs,  that  I  am 
ashamed  of  it;  and  by  and  by  meeting  at  Mr. 
Townsend's  at  dinner,  I  sold  it  to  hi7nfor  18d!'' 

The  second  is  not  much  more  successful. 

"  To  Paul's  Church  Yard,  and  there  looked 
upon  the  second  part  of  Hudibras — which  I  htynol, 
but  borrow  to  read, — to  see  if  it  be  as  good  as  the 
first,  which  the  world  cried  so  mightily  up  ;  though 
it  hath  not  a  good  liking  in  me,  though  I  had  tried 
twice  or  three  times  reading,  to  bring  myself  to 
think  it  witty^ 

The  following  is  a  ludicrous  instance  of  hia 
parsimony  and  household  meanness. 

"29th.  (King's  birth-day.)  Rose  early,  and  put 
six  spoons  and  a  porringer  of  silver  in  my  pocket,  to 
give  away  to-day.  Back  to  dinner  at  Sir  William 
Batten's;  and  then,  after  a  walk  in  the  fine  gar- 
dens, we  went  to  Mrs.  Browne's,  where  Sir  W. 
Pen  and  I  were  godfathers,  and  Mrs.  Jordan  and 
Shipman  godmothers  to  her  boy.  And  there,  be 
fore  and  after  the  christening,  we  were  with  th« 
woman  above  in  her  chamber ;  but  whether  we  car 
ried  ourselves  well  or  ill,  I  know  not ;  but  I  wa* 
directed  by  young  Mrs.  Batten.  One  passage,  of 
a  lady  that  eate  wafers  with  her  dog,  did  a  little  dis- 
please me.  I  did  give  the  midwife  10s.,  and  the  nurse 
5s.,  and  the  maid  of  the  house  2s.  But,  for  as 
much  as  I  expected  to  give  the  name  to  the  childe, 
but  did  not  (it  being  called  John),  Iforebore  then  to 
give  my  plate." 

On  another  occasion,  when  he  had,  accord- 
ing to  the  fashion  of  the  time,  sent  a  piece  of 
plate,  on  a  holiday,  to  liis  oflicial  supetior,  he 
records  with  great  joy, 

"  After  dinner  Will,  comes  to  tell  me  that  he  hac* 
presented  my  piece  of  plate  to  Mr.  Coventry,  who 
takes  it  very  kindly,  and  sends  me  a  very  kind  let- 
ter, and  the  plate  back  again, — of  which  my  heart  it 
very  glad^ 

Throughout  the  whole  work,  indeed,  he  ia 
mainly  occupied  with  reckoning  up  and  se- 
curing his  gains — turninjf    them  in:o  feood 


188 


fflSTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


gold — and  bagging  and  hiding  them  in  holes 
ana  corners.  His  prosperity,  indeed,  is  mar- 
vellous ;  and  shows  us  how  good  a  thing  it 
was  to  be  in  office,  even  in  the  year  1660. 
When  he  goes  with  Lord  Sandwich  to  bring 
over  the  King,  he  is  overjoyed  with  his  Ma- 
jesty's bounty  of  a  month's  pay  to  all  the 
ships'  officers — and  exultingly  counts  up  his 
share,  and  "  finding  himself  to  be  w^orth  very 
nearhj  lOOL,  blesses  Almighty  God  for  it — not 
having  been  worth  251.  clear  when  he  left  his 
home."  And  yet,  having  got  the  office  of 
Clerk  of  the  Acts  in  the  Admiralty,  and  a  few 
others,  he  thrives  w4th  such  prodigious  ra- 
pidity, that  before  the  end  of  1666,  this  is  his 
own  account  of  his  condition. 

"To  my  accounts,  wherein  at  last  I  find  them 
clear  and  right ;  but  to  my  great  discontent  do  find 
that  my  gettings  this  year  have  been  5737.  less  than 
my  last :  it  being  this  year  in  all  but  29861;  where- 
as, the  last,  I  got  35601. !  And  then  again  my 
spendings  this  year  have  exceeded  my  spendings 
the  last,  by  644Z. :  my  whole  spendings  last  year 
being  but  5097. ;  whereas  this  year  it  appears  I  have 
spent  11547., — which  is  a  sum  not  fit  to  be  said  that 
ever  I  should  spend  in  one  year,  before  I  am  mas- 
ter of  a  better  estate  than  t  am.  Yet,  blessed  be 
God !  and  I  pray  God  make  me  thankful  for  it,  I 
do  find  myself  worth  in  money,  all  good,  above 
62007. ;  which  is  above  18007.  more  than  I  was  the 
last  year." 

We  have  hinted,  however,  at  a  worse  mean- 
ness than  the  care  of  money,  and  sordid  house- 
hold economy.  When  his  friends  and  patrons 
seem  falling  into  disgrace,  this  is  the  way  he 
takes  to  countenance  them. 

"I  found  my  Lord  Sandwich  there,  poor  man! 
I  see  with  a  melancholy  face,  and  suffers  his  beard 
to  grow  on  his  upper  lip  more  than  usual.  I  took 
him  a  little  aside  to  know  when  I  should  wait  on 
him,  and  where :  he  told  me,  that  it  would  be  best 
to  meet  at  his  lodgings,  without  heiiig  seen  to  walk 
together.  Which  I  liked  very  well ;  and.  Lord  ! 
to  see  in  what  difficulty  I  stand,  that/^are  not  walk 
with  Sir  W.  Coventry,  for  fear  my  Lord  or  Sir  G. 
Carteret  should  see  me  ;  nor  with  either  of  them, 
for  fear  Sir  W.  Coventry  should  !  &c. 

"  To  Sir  W.  Coventry's — after  much  discourse 
with  him,  I  walked  out  with  him  into  James' 
Fark ;  where,  being  afraid  to  he  seen  with  him  (he 
having  not  yet  leave  to  hiss  the  King'' s  hand,  but 
notice  taken,  as  I  hear,  of  all  that  go  to  him),  I  did 
take  the  pretence  of  my  attending  the  Tangier  Com- 
mittee to  take  my  leave  of  him. 

It  is  but  a  small  matter,  after  this,  to  find, 
that  w^hen  the  office  is  besieged  by  poor  sail- 
ors' wives,  clamouring  for  their  arrekrs  of  pay, 
he  and  Mrs.  Pepys  are  dreadfully  ^'-  afraid  to 
siend  a  venison  pasty,  that  we  are  to  have  for 
supper  to-night,  to  the  cook  to  be  baked — for 
fear  of  their  offering  violence  to  it." 

Notwithstanding  his  great  admiration  of  his 
wife  and  her  beauty,  and  his  unremitting  at- 
tention to  business  and  money,  he  has  a  great 
deal  of  innocent  (?)  dalliance  with  various 
pretty  actresses  at  the  playhouses,  and  passes 
a  large  part  of  his  time  in  very  profligate  so- 
ciety. Here  is  a  touch  of  his  ordinary  life, 
which  meets  us  by  accident  as  we  turn  over 
ihe  leaves. 

"To  the  King's  house  ;  and  there  going  in  met 
with  Knipp.  and  she  took  us  up  into  the  tircing- 
rooms ;  and  to  the  women's  shift, — where  Nell  (that 


is,  Nell  Gwyn) — was  dressing  herselt,  a.'id  was  \A 
unready,  and  is  very  pretty,  prettier  than  I  thougl.l- 
And  into  the  scene-room,  and  there  sat  down,  and 
she  gave  us  fruit :  and  here  I  read  the  questions  i(f 
Knipp,  while  she  answered  me,  through  all  her  part 
of  '  Flora's  Figary's,'  which  was  acted  to-day. 
But,  Lord!  to  see  how  they  were  both  painted, 
would  make  a  man  mad,  and  did  make  me  loath 
them !  and  what  base  company  of  men  comes 
among  them,  and  how  lewdly  they  talk  !  And 
how  poor  the  men  are  in  clothes,  and  yet  what  a 
shew  they  make  on  the  stage  by  candle-light  is  very 
observable.  But  to  see  how  Nell  cursed, — for 
having  so  few  people  in  the  pit,  was  strange." 

Now,  whether  it  was  strange  or  not,  it  was 
certainly  very  wrong  in  Nell  to  curse  so  un- 
mercifully, even  at  a  thin  house.  But  we 
must  say,  that  it  was  neither  so  wrong  nor  so 
strange,  as  for  this  grave  man  of  office,  to 
curse  deliberately  to  himself  in  this  his  pri- 
vate Diary.  And  yet  but  a  few  pages  after, 
we  find  this  emphatic  entry, — "  in  fear  of 
nothing  but  this  damned  business  of  the  prizes. 
I  fear  my  lord  W'ill  receive  a  cursed  deal  of 
trouble  by  it." 

The  following  affords  a  still  stronger  picture 
of  the  profligacy  of  the  times. 

"  To  Fox  Hall,  and  there  fell  into  the  company 
of  Harry  Killigrew,  a  ro^ue  newly  come  back  out 
of  France,  but  still  in  disgrace  at  our  Court,  and 
young  Newport  and  others  ;  as  very  rogues  as  any 
in  the  town,  who  were  ready  to  take  hold  of  every 
woman  that  come  by  them.  And  so  to  supper  in 
an  arbour:  but.  Lord  !  their  mad  talk  did  makcmv 
heart  ake !  And  here  I  first  understood  by  their  talk 
the  meaning  of  the  company  that  lately  were  called 
Bailers  ;  Harris  teUing  how  it  was  by  a  meeting  of 
some  young  blades,  where  he  was  among  them, 
and  my  Lady  Bennet  and  her  ladies ;  and  there 
dancing  naked!  and"  all  the  roguish  things  in  the 
world.  But,  Lord  !  what  loose  company  was  this 
that  I  was  in  to-night !  though  full  of  wit ;  and 
worth  a  man's  being  in  for  once, — to  know  the  na- 
ture of  it,  and  their  manner  of  talk  and  lives." 

These  however,  we  have  no  doubt,  were 
all  very  blameless  and  accidental  associations 
on  his  part.  But  there  is  one  little  liaison  of 
which  we  discover  some  indications  in  the 
journal,  as  to  which  we  do  not  feel  so  well 
assured,  unreserved  as  his  confessions  un- 
doubtedly are,  that  he  has  intrusted  the  whole 
truth  even  to  his  short-hand  cipher.  We  al- 
lude to  a  certain  Mrs.  Mercer,  his  wife's  maid 
and  occasional  companion,  cf  whom  he  makes 
frequent  and  very  particular  mention.  The 
following  entry,  it  will  be  allowed,  is  a  little 
suspicious,  as  well  as  exceedingly  character- 
istic. 

"  Thence  home — and  to  sing  with  my  wife  and 
Mercer  in  the  garden  ;  and  coming  in,  I  find  my 
wife  plainly  dissatisfied  with  me,  that  I  can  spend 
so  much  time  with  Mercer,  teaching  her  to  sing, 
and  cdild  never  take  the  pains  with  her.  VV'hich  I 
acknowledge  ;  but  it  is  because  the  girl  do  take 
music  mighty  readily,  and  she  do  not, — and  music 
is  the  thing  of  the  world  that  I  love  most,  and  al 
the  plcasiire  almost  that  lean  now  take.  So  to  bed, 
in  some  little  discontent, — but  no_  words  from  mc/'^ 

We  trace  the  effect  of  this  jealousy  very 
curiously,  in  a  little  incident  chronicled  wnth 
great  simplicity  a  few  days  after,  where  he 
mentions  that  being  out  at  supper,  the  party 
returned  "  in  two  coaches, — Mr.  Batelier  and 


MEMOIRS  OF  SAMUEL  PEPYS. 


.W 


nis  sisler  Mary,  and  my  wife  and  I,  in  one, — 
and  Mercer  alone  in  the  other." 

/e  are  sorry  to  observe,  however,  that  he' 
'.eems  very  soon  to  have  tired  of  this  caution 
-nd  forbearance ;  as  the  following,  rather  out- 
rageous merry-making,  which  takes  pkce  on 
the  fourth  day  after,  may  testify. 

"  After  dinner  with  my  wife  atid  Mercer  to  the 
Beare-garden ;  where  I  have  not  been,  I  think,  of 
many  years,  and  saw  some  good  sport  of  the  bull's 
tossing  of  the. dogs  :  one  into  the  very  boxes.  But 
it  is  a  very  rude  and  nasty  pleasure.  We  had  a 
great  many  hectors  in  the  same  box  with  us,  (and 
one,  very  fine,  went  into  the  pit,  and  played  his  dog 
for  a  wager,  which  was  a  strange  sport  for  a  gen- 
tleman,) where  they  drank  wine,  and  drank  Mer- 
cer's health  first;  which  1  pledged  with  my  hat  off! 
We  supped  at  home,  and  very  merry.  And  then 
about  nine  o'clock  to  Mrs.  ^Iercer's  gate,  where 
the  fire  and  boys  expected  us,  and  her  son  had  pro- 
vided abundance  of  serpents  and  rockets  :  and  there 
mighty  merry,  (my  Lady  Pen  and  Pegg  going 
thither  with  us,  and  Nan  Wright,)  till  about  twelve 
at  night,  flinging  our  fireworks,  and  burning  one 
anotiier  and  the  people  over  the  way.  And  at  last 
our  businesses  being  most  spent,  we  into  Mrs.  Mer- 
cer's, and  there  mighty  merry,  smutting  one  another 
with  candle- grease  and  soot,  till  most  of  us  were 
like  devils  I  And  that  being  done,  then  we  broke 
up,  and  to  my  house  ;  and  there  I  made  them  drink, 
and  up  stairs  we  went,  and  then  fell  into  dancing, 
(W.  Batelier  dancing  well,)  and  dressing  him  and  I 
and  one  Mr.  Bannister  (who  with  my  wife  come 
over  also  with  us)  like  women  ;  and  Mercer  put  on 
a  suit  of  Tom's,  like  a  boy,  and  mighty  mirth  we 
had — and  Mercer  danced  ajigg!  and  Nan  Wright, 
and  my  wife,  and  Pegg  Pen  put  on  perrivvigs. 
Thus,  we  spent  till  three  or  four  in  the  morning — 
mighty  merry  !" — Vol.  i.  p.  438,  439. 

After  all  this,  we  confess,  we  are  not  very 
much  surpri.'ed,  though  no  dol^bt  a  little 
shocked,  to  find  the  matter  come  to  the  fol- 
. owing  natural  and  domestic,  though  not  very 
dignified  catastrophe. 

"This  day,  Mercer  being  not  at  home,  but, 
against  her  mistress'  order,  gone  to  her  mother's, 
and  my  wife,  going  thither  to  speak  with  W.  Hewer, 
beat  her  there  !  ! — and  was  angry ;  and  her  mother 
saying  that  she  was  not  a  prentice  girl,  to  ask  leave 
every^  time  she  goes  abroad,  my  wife  with  good 
reason  was  angry,  and  when  she  come  home  bid 
her  be  gone  again.  x\nd  so  she  went  away  !  which 
troubled  7«e,— but  yet  less  than  it  would,  because 
of  the  condition  we  are  in,  in  fear  of  coming  in  a 
little  time  to  be  less  able  to  keep  one  in  her  quahty.' ' 

Matters,  however,  we  are  happy  to  say, 
seem  to  have  been  wonderfully  soon  made  up 
again — for  we  find  her  attending  Mrs.  P.,  as 
usual,  in  about  six  weeks  after  •  and  there  are 
various  subsequent,  though  very  brief  and 
discreet  notices  of  her,  to  the  end  of  the  Diary. 

It  is  scarcely  fair,  we  confess,  thus  to  drag 
to  light  the  frailties  of  this  worthy  defunct 
secretary :  But  we  really  cannot  well  help  it 
— he  has  laid  the  temptation  so  direct'ly  in 
our  way.  If  a  man  will  leave  such  things  on 
record,  people  will  read  and  laugh  at  them, 
although  he  should  long  before  be  laid  snug 
hi  his  grave.  After  what  we  have  just  ex- 
tracted, the  reader  will  not  be  surprised  at 
the  following  ingenious  confession. 

"  The  truth  is,  I  do  indulge  myself  a  little  the 
more  in  pleasure,  knowing  that  this  is  the  proper 
fcge  of  my  life  to  do  it ;  and  out  of  my  observation, 
.hat  most  men  that  do  ttirive  in  the  world  do  for- 


get to  take  pleasure  during  the  time  that  thev  are 
getting  their  estate,  but  reserve  that  till  they  have 
got  one,  and  then  it  is  too  late  for  them  to  enjoy  it.'' 

One  of  the  most  characteristic,  and  at  the 
same  time  most  creditable  pieces  of  imiveti 
that  we  meet  with  in  the  book,  is  in  the  ac- 
count he  gives  of  the  infinite  success  of  a 
speech  which  he  delivered  at  the  bar  of  the 
House  of  Commons,  in  1667,  in  explanation 
and  defence  of  certain  alleged  mismanage- 
ments in  the  navy,  then  under  discussion  in 
that  assembly.  The  honourable  House  pro- 
bably knew  but  little  about  the  business ;  and 
nobody,  we  can  well  believe,  knew  so  much 
about  it  as  our  author, — and  this,  we  have  nO 
doubt,  M-as  the  great  merit  of  his  discourse, 
and  the  secret  of  his  success : — For  though 
we  are  disposed  to  give  him  every  credit  lor 
industry,  clearness,  and  practical  judgment, 
we  think  it  is  no  less  plain  from  his  manner 
of  writing,  than  from  the  fact  of  his  subse- 
quent obscurity  in  parliament,  that  he  could 
never  have  had  any  pretensions  to  the  char- 
acter of  an  orator.  Be  that  as  it  may,  how- 
ever, this  speech  seems  to  have  made  a  great 
impression  at  the  time ;  and  certainly  gave 
singular  satisfaction  to  its  worthy  maker.  It 
would  be  unjust  to  withhold  from  our  readers 
his  own  account  of  this  bright  passage  in  his 
existence.  In  the  morning,  when  he  came 
down  to  Westminster,  he  had  some  natural 
qualms. 

"  And  to  comfort  myself  did  go  to  the  Dog  and 
drink  half  a  pint  of  mulled  sack, — and  in  the  hall 
did  drink  a  dr  nn  of  brandy  at  Mrs.  Hewlett's  !  and 
with  the  warmth  of  this  did  find  myself  in  better 
order  as  to  courage,  truly." 

He  spoke  three  hours  and  a  half  '^  as  com- 
fortably as  if  I  had  been  at  my  own  table,'' 
and  ended  soon  after  three  in  the  afternoon  j 
but  it  M-as  not  thought  fit  to  put  the  vote  that 
day,  '"'many  members  having  gone  out  to 
dinner,  and  come  in  again  half  drunk."  Next 
morning  his  glory  opens  on  him. 

"  6di.  Up  betimes,  and  with  Sir  D.  Gauden  to 
Sir  W.  Coventry's  chamber  ;  where  the  first  word 
he  said  to  me  was,  '  Good-morrow,  Mr.  Pepys, 
that  must  be  Speaker  of  the  Parliarhent  House:' 
and  did  protest  I  had  got  honour  for  ever  in  Parlia- 
ment. He  said  that  his  brother,  that  sat  by  him. 
admires  me  ;  and  another  gentleman  said  that  I 
could  not  get  less  than  lOOOZ.  a  year,  if  I  would  puf 
on  a  gown  and  plead  at  the  Chancery-bar.  Hut, 
what  pleases  me  most,  he  tells  me  that  the  Solici- 
tor-generall  did  protest  that  he  thought  I  spoke  the 
best  of  any  man  i?i  England.  My  Lord  Barkeley 
did  cry  me  up  for  what  they  had  heard  of  it ;  and 
otiiers.  Parliament-men  there  about  the  King,  did 
say  that  they  7iever  heard  such  a  speech  in  their  lives, 
delivered  in  that  maimer.  From  thence  I  went  to 
Westminster  Hall ;  where  I  met  with  Mr.  G.  Mon- 
tagu, who  came  to  me  and  kissed  me,  and  told  me 
that  he  had  often  heretofore  kissed  my  hands,  but 
now  he  would  kiss  my  lips:  protesting  that  /  was 
another  Cicero!  and  said  all  the  world  said  the  same 
of  me.  Mr.  Godolphin  ;  Mr.  Sands,  who  swore  he 
would  go  twenty  miles  at  any  lime  to  hear  the  like 
again,  and  that  he  never  saw  so  many  sit  four  houra 
together  to  hear  any  man  in  his  life  as  there  did  to 
hear  me.  Mr.  Chichly,  Sir  John  Duncomb,  and 
every  body  do  say  that  the  kingdom  will  ring  of  my 
abilities,  and  that  I  have  done  myself  right  for  my 
whole  life  ;  and  so  Captain  Coke  and  others  of  my 
friends  say  that  no  man  had  ever  such  an  opoor- 


^0 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


tunity  of  making  his  abilities  known.  And  that  I 
may  cite  all  at  once,  Mr.  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower 
did  tell  me  that  Mr.  Vaughan  did  protest  to  him, 
and  that  ia  his  hearing  said  so  to  the  Duke  of  Al- 
bermarle,  and  afterwards  to  Sir  W.  Coventry,  that 
he  had  sat  twenty-six  years  in  Parliament  and  never 
heard  such  a  speech  there  before  !  for  which  the  Lord 
God  make  mo  thankful !  and  that  I  may  make  use 
of  it,  not  to  pride  and  vainglory,  but  that,  now  I 
have  this  esteem,  I  may  do  nothing  that  may 
lessen  it  1" 

There  is  a  great  deal  more  of  this — ^but  we 
have  given  rather  too  much  space  already  to 
Mr.  Pepys'  individual  concerns:  and  must 
turn  now  to  something  of  more  public  interest. 
Before  taking  leave  of  private  life,  however, 
we  may  notice  one  or  two  things,  that  we 
collect  incidentally,  as  to  the  manners  and 
habits  of  the  times.  The  playhouses,  of  which 
there  seem  to  have  been  at  least  three,  opened 
apparently  soon  after  noon — though  the  en- 
tertainments often  lasted  till  late  in  the  night 
— but  we  cannot  make  out  whether  they  were 
ever  exhibited  by  daylight.  The  pit,  in  "some 
of  them  at  least,  must  have  been  uncovered  ] 
for  our  author  speaks  repeatedly  of  being  an- 
noyed in  that  place  by  rain  and  hail.  For 
several  years  after  the  Restoration,  women's 
parts  were  done  by  boys, — though  there  seem 
always  to  have  been  female  singers.  The 
hour  of  dinner  was  almost  always  twelve  ]  and 
men  seem  generally  to  have  sat  at  table  with 
their  hats  on.  Ihe  wines  mostly  in  use  ap- 
pear to  have  been  the  Spanish  white  wines 
— both  sweet  and  dry — some  clarets — but  no 
port.  It  seems  still  to  have  been  a  custom  to 
go  down  to  drink  in  the  cellar.  The  Houses 
of  Parliament  met,  like  the  courts  of  law,  at 
nine,  and  generally  adjourned  at  noon.  The 
style  of  dress  seems  to  have  been  very  vari- 
able, and  very  costly — periwigs  appear  not  to 
have  been  introduced,  even  at  court,  till  1663 
— and  the  still  greater  abomination  of  hair 
powder  not  to  have  been  yet  dreamed  of. 
Much  of  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  and  the 
greater  part  of  Westminster,  were  not  paved 
— and  the  police  seems  to  have  been  very 
deficient,  as  the  author  frequently  speaks  of 
the  danger  of  returning  from  Whitehall  and 
that  neighbourhood  to  the  city  early  in  the 
evening  —  no  lamps  in  the  streets.  Some 
curious  notices  of  prices  might  be  collected 
out  of  these  volumes — but  we  have  noted  but 
a  few.  Coaches  seem  to  have  been  common, 
and  very  cheap — our  author  gets  a  very  hand- 
some one  for  32i.  On  the  other  hand,  he  pays 
4/.  10s.  for  a  beaver,  and  as  much  for  a  wig. 
Pictures  too  seem  to  have  brought  large  prices, 
considering  the  value  of  money'and  the  small 
proportion  of  the  people  who  could  then  have 
any  knowledge  of  the  art.  He  pays  25i.  for 
a  portrait  of  his  wife,  and  SOL  for  a  miniature, 
besides  eight  guineas  for  the  setting — and 
mentions  a  flower-piece  for  which  the  painter 
refused  70L  We  may  take  leave  of  him  and 
his  housekeeping,  by  inserting  his  account  of 
two  grand  dinners  he  seems  to  have  given — 
both  which  he  appears  to  have  regarded  as 
matters  of  very  weighty  concernment.  As  to 
the  first  he  says — 

'My  head  being  full  of  to-morrow's  dinner, 


went  to  my  Lord  Crewe's,  there  to  invite  S« 
Thomas,  &c.  Thence  home  ;  and  there  find  one 
laying  of  my  napkins  against  to-morrow  in  figures 
of  all  sorts  ;  which  is  mighty  pretty ;  and  it  seems 
it  is  his  trade,  and  he  gets  much  money  by  it.  14th. 
Up  very  betimes,  and  with  Jane  to  Levett's,  there 
to  conclude  upon  our  dinner  ;  and  thence  to  the 
pcwterer's  to  buy  a  pewter  sesterne,  which  I  have 
ever  hitherto  been  without.  Anon  comes  my  com- 
pany, viz.  myLord  Hincliingbroke  and  his  lady, 
Sir  Philip  Carteret  and  his  lady,  Godolphin  and  my 
cosen  Roger,  and  Creed  :  and  mighty  merry  ;  and 
by  and  by  to  dinner,  which  was  very  good  and 
plentiful  (and  I  should  have  said,  and  Mr.  George 
Montagu,  who  came  at  a  very  little  warning,  which 
was  exceeding  kind  of  him).  And  there,  among 
other  things,  my  lord  had  Sir  Samuel  Morland'a 
late  invention  for  casting  up  of  sums  of  £  s.  d.; 
which  is  very  pretty,  but  not  very  useful.  Most 
of  our  discourse  was  of  my  Lord  Sandwich  and  his 
family,  as  being  all  of  us  of  the  family.  And  with 
extraordinary  pleasure  all  the  afternoon,  thus  to- 
gether, eating  and  looking  over  my  closet." 

The  next  seems  to  have  been  still  more 
solemn  and  successful. 

"23d.  To  the  office  till  noon,  when  word 
brought  me  that  my  Lord  Sandwich  was  come  ;  so 
I  presently  rose,  and  there  I  found  my  Lords  Sand- 
wich, Peterborough,  and  Sir  Charles  Harbord  ;  and 
presently  after  them  comes  my  Lord  Hinching- 
broke,  Mr.  Sidney,  and  Sir  William  Godolphin. 
And  after  greeting  them  and  some  time  spent  in 
talk,  dinner  was  brought  up,  one  dish  alter  another, 
but  a  dish  at  a  time  ;  but  all  so  good  !  Blit,  above 
all  things,  the  variety  of  wines  and  excellent  of  their 
kind  I  had  for  them,  and  all  in  so  good  order,  that 
they  were  mightily  pleased,  and  myselt  full  of  con- 
tent at  it :  and  indeed  it  was,  of  a  dinner  of  about 
six  or  eight  dishes,  as  noble  as  any  man  need  to 
have,  I  think  ;  at  least,  all  was  done  in  the  noblest 
manner  that  ever  I  had  any,  and  I  have  rarely  see 
in  my  life  better  any  where  else,  even  at  the  Court. 
After  dinner  my  lords  to  cards,  and  the  rest  of  us 
sitting  about  them  and  talking,  and  looking  on  my 
books  and  pictures,  and  my  wife's  drawings,  which 
1  hey  commended  mightily:  and  mighty  merry  all 
day  long,  with  exceeding  great  content,  and  so  till 
seven  at  night :  and  so  took  their  leaves,  it  being 
dark  and  foul  weather.  Thus  was  this  entertain- 
ment over — the  best  of  its  kind  and  the  fullest  of 
honour  and  content  to  me  that  ever  I  had  in  my 
life  ;  and  I  shall  not  easily  have  so  good  again." 

On  turning  to  the  political  or  historical 
parts  of  this  record,  we  are  rather  disap- 
pointed in  finding  so  little  that  is  curious  or 
interesting  in  that  earliest  portion  of  it  which 
carries  us  through  the  whole  M-ork  of  the 
Restoration.  Though  there  are  almost  daily 
entries  from  the  1st  of  January  1659,  and 
though  the  author  was  constantly  in  commu- 
nication with  persons  in  public  situations — 
was  personally  introduced  to  the  King  at  the 
Hague,  and  came  home  in  the  same  ship 
with  him,  it  is  wonderful  how  few  particulars 
of  any  moment  he  has  been  enabled  to  put 
down ',  and  how  little  the  tone  of  his  journal 
exhibits  of  that  interest  and  anxiety  which 
we  are  apt  to  imagine  must  have  been  uni- 
versal during  the  dependence  of  so  moment- 
ous a  revolution.  Even  this  barrenness,  how- 
ever, is  not  without  instruction — and  illustratea 
by  a  new  example,  how  insensible  the  con- 
temporaries of  great  transactions  often  are  ol 
their  importance,  and  how  much  more  pos- 
terity sees  of  their  character  than  those  wlic 
were  parties  to  them.     We  have  already  ob- 


MEMOIRS  OF  SAMUEL  PEPYS. 


191 


•erved  that  the  author's  own  political  predi- 
iec:ions  are  scarcely  distinguishable  till  he 
i»  embarked  in  the  fleet  to  bring  home  the 
King — and  the  greater  part  of  those  with 
whom  he  converses  seem  to  have  been  nearly 
as  undecided.  Monk  is  spoken  of  through- 
out with  considerable  contempt  and  aversion; 
and  among  many  instances  of  his  duplicity, 
it  is  recorded  that  upon  the  21st  day  of  Feb- 
ruary 1660.  he  came  to  Whitehall,  ''and  there 
made  a  speech  to  them,  recommending  to 
them  a  Commonwealth,  and  against  Charles 
Stuart."  The  feeling  of  the  city  is  repre- 
sented, no  doubt,  as  extremely  hostile  to  the 
Parliament  (here  uniformly  called  the  Rump); 
but  their  aspirations  are  not  said  to  be  directed 
to  royalty,  but  merely  to  a  free  Parliament 
and  the  dissolution  of  the  existing  junto.  So 
late  as  the  month  of  March  our  author  ob- 
serves, "great  is  the  talk  of  a  single  person. 
Charles,  George,  or  Richard  again.  For  the 
last  of  which  my  Lord  St.  John  is  said  to 
speak  very  high.  Great  also  is  the  dispute 
in  the  House,  in  whose  name  the  writs  shall 
issue  for  the  new  Parliament."  ft  is  a  com- 
fort however  to  find,  in  a  season  of  such  uni- 
versal dereliction  of  principle,  that  signal 
perfidy,  even  to  the  cause  of  the  republic, 
is  visited  with  general  scorn.  A  person  of 
the  name  of  Morland,  who  had  been  em- 
ployed under  the  Protector  in  the  Secretary 
of  State's  office,  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
betraying  his  trust,  and  communicating  pri- 
vately with  the  exiled  monarch — and,  upon 
now  resorting  to  him,  had  been  graced  with 
the  honour  of  knighthood.  Even  our  cold- 
hearted  chronicler  speaks  thus  of  this  deserter. 

"Mr.  Morland,  now  Sir  Samuel,  was  here  on 
board ;  but  I  do  not  find  that  my  lord  or  any  body 
did  give  him  any  respect — he  being  looked  upon 
by  him  and  all  men  as  a  knave.  Among  others 
he  betrayed  Sir  Rich.  Willis  that  married  Dr.  F. 
Jones'  daughter,  who  had  paid  him  lOOOZ.  at  one 
time  by  the  Protector's  and  Secretary  Thurloe's 
order,  for  intelligence  that  he  sent  concernins  the 
King." 

And  there  is  afterwards  a  similar  expres- 
sion of  honest  indignation  against  "  that  per- 
fidious rogue  Sir  G.  Downing."  w^ho,  though 
he  had  served  in  the  Parliamentary  army 
under  Okey,  yet  now  volunteered  to  go  after 
him  and  Corbet,  with  the  King's  warrant,  to 
Holland,  and  succeeded  in  bringing  them 
back  as  prisoners,  to  their  death — and  had 
the  impudence,  when  there,  to  make  a  speech 
to  "  the  Lords  States  of  Holland,  telling  them 
to  their  faces  that  he  observed  that  he  was 
not  received  with  the  respect  and  observance 
noio,  that  he  was  when  he  came  from  the 
traitor  and  rehell  Cromwell !  by  whom,  I  am 
enre,  he  hath  got  all  he  hath  in  the  world, — 
and  they  know  it  too." 

When  our  author  is  presented  to  the  King, 
he  very  simply  puts  down,  that  "he  seems 
to  be  a  very  sober  man!"  This,  however, 
probably  referred  only  to  his  dress  and  equip- 
ment ;  w^hich,  from  the  following  extract, 
seems  to  have  been  homely  enough,  even  for 
a  republic. 

"  This  afternoon  Mr.  Edward  Pickering  told  me 
n  what  a  sad,  poor  condition  (or  clothes  and  money 


the  king  was,  and  all  his  attendants,  wnen  he  came 
to  him  first  from  my  lord ;  their  clothes  7iot  heiuff 
worth  forty  shillings — the  best  of  them.  And  how 
overjoyed  the  King  was  when  Sir  J.  Greenville 
brought  him  some  money  ;  so  joyful,  that  he  called 
the  Frinccss  Royal  and  Duke  of  York  to  look 
upon  it,  as  it  lay  in  the  portmanteau  before  it  was 
taken  out." 

On  the  voyage  home  the  names  of  the 
ships  are  changed— and  to  be  sure  the  Rich- 
ard, the  Naseby,  and  the  Dunbar,  were  not 
very  fit  to  bear  the  royal  flag — nor  even  the 
Speaker  or  the  Lambert.  There  is  a  long  ac- 
count of  the  landing,  and  a  still  longer,  of 
Lord  Sandwich's  investment  wnth  the  Order 
of  the  Garter — but  we  do  not  find  any  thing 
of  moment  recorded,  till  we  come  to  the 
condemnation  and  execution  of  the  regicides 
— a  pitiful  and  disgusting  departure  from  the 
broad  principle  of  amnesty,  upon  the  basis 
of  which  alone  any  peaceful  restoration  could 
be  contemplated,  after  so  long  and  so'  une- 
quivocally national  a  suspension  of  royalty. 
•  It  is  disgusting  to  find,  that  Monk  sate  on  the 
bench,  w^hile  his  companions  in  arms,  Harri- 
son, Hacker,  and  Axtell,  were  arraigned  for 
the  treasons  in  which  he  and  they  had  been 
associated.  Our  author  records  the  whole 
transactions  with  the  most  perfect  indiffer- 
ence, and  wath  scarcely  a  remark — for  ex- 
ample, 

"  13th.  I  went  out  to  Charing  Cross,  to  see 
Major-General  Harrison  hanged,  drawn,  and  quar- 
tered ;  which  was  done  there  ;  he  looking  as  cheer- 
fid  !  as  any  man  could  do  in  that  condition. — 18th. 
This  morning,  it  ^eing  expected  that  Colonel 
Hacker  and  Axtell  should  die,  I  went  to  Newgate, 
but  found  they  were  reprieved  till  to-morrow. — 
19th.  This  morning  my  dining-room  was  finished 
with  greene  serge  hanging  and  gilt  leather,  which 
is  very  handsome.  This  morning  Hacker  and 
Axtell  were  hanged  and  quartered,  us  the  rest 
are." 

He  is,  to  be  sure,  a  little  troubled,  as  he 
expresses  it,  at  the  disinterring  and  gibbet- 
ting  of  Cromwell's  dead  and  festering  body — 
thinking  it  unfit  that  "a  man  of  so  great 
courage  as  he  was,  should  have  that  dis- 
honour— though  otherwise  he  might  deserve 
it — enough!"  He  does  not  fail,  however,  to 
attend  the  rest  of  the  executions,  and  to  des- 
cribe them  as  spectacles  of  ordinary  occur- 
rence— thus, 

"  19th.  This  morning,  before  we  sat,  I  went  \o 
Aldgate ;  and  at  the  corner  shop,  a  draper's,  I 
stood,  and  did  see  Barkestead,  Okey,  and  Corbet, 
drawne  towards  the  gallows  at  Tiburne ;  and  there 
they  were  hanged  and  quartered.  They  all  looked 
very  cheerful !  but  I  hear  they  all  die  defending 
what  they  did  to  the  King  to  be  just ;  which  is 
very  strange !" 

"  14th.  About  eleven  o'clock,  having  a  room  got 
ready  for  us,  we  all  went  out  to  the  Tower  Hill; 
and  there,  over  against  the  scaffold,  made  on  pur- 
pose this  day,  saw  Sir  Henry  Vane  brought.  A 
very  great  press  of  people.  He  made  a  long 
speech,  many  limes  interrupted  by  the  sherifTe  and 
others  there ;  and  thev  would  have  taken  his  paper 
out  of  his  hand,  but  lie  would  not  let  it  go.  But 
they  caused  ail  the  books  of  those  that  writ  after 
him  to  be  given  to  the  sherifTe ;  and  the  trumpets 
were  brought  under  the  scaffold  that  he  might 
not  be  heard.  Then  he  prayed,  and  so  fitted  him 
self,  and  received  the  blow ;  but  the  scaffold  was 
so  crowded  that  we  could  not  see  it  done.     He 


.92 


HISIOKY  AND  HlSTOlilCAL  MEMOIRS. 


had  a  blister,  or  issue,  upon  his  neck,  which  he 
desired  them  not  to  hurl  !  He  changed  not  his 
colour  or  .speech  to  the  last,  but  died  justifying 
himself  and  the  cause  he  had  stood  for ;  and 
spoke  very  confidently  of  his  being  presently  at 
the  right  hand  of  Christ;  and  in  all  things  ap- 
peared the  most  resolved  man  that  ever  died  in 
that  manner." 

In  spite  of  those  rigorous  measures,  the 
author  very  soon  gets  disgusted  with  "the 
lewdness,  beggary,  and  wastefulness,"  of  the 
new  government — and  after  sagaciously  re- 
marking, that  "  I  doubt  our  new  Lords  of  the 
Council  do  not  mind  things  as  the  late  poivers 
did — but  their  pleasure  or  profit  more,"  he 
proceeds  to  make  the  following  striking  re- 
marks on  the  ruinous  policy,  adopted  on  this, 
and  many  other  restorations,  of  excluding  the 
only  men  really  acquainted  with  biisiness,  on 
the  score  of  their  former  opposition  to  the 
party  in  power. 

"From  that  we  discoursed  of  the  evil  of  put- 
ting out  men  of  experience  in  business,  and  of  the 
condition  of  the  King's  party  at  present,  who,  as 
the  Papists,  though  otherwise  fine  persons,  yet 
being  by  law  kept  for  these  four-score  years  out  of 
employment,  they  are  now  wholly  micapable  of 
business  ;  and  so  the  Cavaliers,  for  twenty  years, 
who  for  the  most  part  have  either  given  themselves 
over  to  look  after  country  and  I'amily  business,  and 
those  the  best  of  them,  and  the  rest  to  debau- 
chery, &c. ;  and  that  was  it  that  hath  made  him 
high  against  the  late  bill  brought  into  the  House 
for  making  a4l  men  incapable  of  employment  that 
had  served  against  the  King.  People,  says  he,  in 
the  sea-service,  it  is  impossible  to  do  any  thing 
without  them,  there  being  not  more  than  three 
men  of  the  whole  King's  side  that  are  fit  to  com- 
mand almost ;  and  there  were  Captn,  Allen,  Smith, 
and  Beech  ;  and  it  may  be  Holmes,  and  Utber;  and 
Batts  might  do  something." 

In  his  account  of  another  conversation  with 
the  same  shrewd  observer,  he  gives  the  fol- 
lowing striking  picture  of  the  different  temper 
and  moral  character  of  the  old  Republican 
soldiers,  as  contrasted  with  those  of  the  Roy- 
alists— of  the  former  he  reports— 

"Let  the  King  think  what  he  will,  it  is  them  that 
must  help  him  in  the  day  of  warr.  For  generally 
they  are  the  most  substantial!  sort  of  people,  and 
the  soberest ;  and  did  desire  me  to  observe  it  to  my 
Lord  Sandwich,  among  other  things,  that  of  all  the 
old  army  now  you  cannot  see  a  man  begging  about 
the  streets ;  but  what  ?  you  shall  have  this  captain 
turned  a  shoemaker;  this  heutenant  a  baker  ;  this  a 
brewer;  that  a  haberdasher ;  this  common  soldier 
a  porter  ;  and  every  man  in  his  apron  and  frock,  &c. 
as  if  they  never  had  done  any  thing  else :  Whereas 
the  other  go  with  their  belts  and  swords,  sweari7ig 
and  cursing,  and  stealing;  running  into  people's 
houses,  by  force  oftentimes,  to  carry  away  some- 
thing ;  and  this  is  the  diflference  between  the  temper 
of  one  and  the  other;  and  concludes  ftind  I  think 
with  some  reason),  that  the  spirits  of  the  old  Par- 
liament soldiers  are  so  quiet  and  contented  with 
God's  providence,  that  the  King  is  safer  from  any 
evil  meant  him  by  them,  one  thousand  times  more 
than  from  his  own  discontented  Cavaliers.  And 
then  to  the  publick  management  of  business;  it  is 
done,  as  he  observes,  so  loosely  and  so  carelessly, 
that  the  kingdom  can  never  be  happy  with  it,  every 
man  looking  after  himself,  and  his  own  lust  and 
uxury." 

The  following  is  also  very  remarkable. 

*'  It  is  strange  liow  every  body  now-a-days  do 
reflect  upon  Oliver,  and  commend  him;  what  l)rave 
tilings  he  did,  and  made  all  the  neighbour  princes 


fear  him  ;  while  here  a  prince,  come  in  with  all  tha 
love  and  prayers  and  good  liking  of  his  people,  who 
have  given  greater  signs  of  loyalty  and  willingness 
to  serve  him  with  their  estates  than  ever  was  done 
by  any  people,  hath  lost  all  so  soon,  that  it  is  a 
miracle  that  a  man  could  devise  to  lose  so  much  in 
30  httie  time." 

The  following  particulars  of  the  condition 
of  the  Protector's  family  are  curious,  and 
probably  authentic.  The  conversation  is  in 
the  end  of  1664. 

"  In  my  way  to  Brampton  in  this  day's  journey 
I  met  with  Mr.  White,  Cromwell's  chaplain  that 
was,  and  had  a  great  deal  of  discourse  with  him. 
Among  others,  he  tells  me  that  Richard  is,  and  hath 
long  been,  in  France,  and  is  now  going  into  Italy. 
He  owns  publickly,  that  he  do  correspond,  and  re- 
turn him  all  his  money.  That  Richard  hath  been 
in  some  straits  in  the  beginning ;  but  relieved  by 
his  friends.  That  he  goes  by  another  name,  but 
do  not  disguise  himself,  nor  deny  himself  to  any 
man  that  challenges  him.  He  tells  me,  for  certain, 
that  offers  had  been  made  to  the  old  man,  of  marriage 
between  the  hing  and  his  daughter,  to  have  obliged 
him — but  he  would  not.  He  thinks  (with  me)  that 
it  never  was  in  his  power  to  bring  in  the  King  with 
the  consent  of  any  of  his  officers  about  him  ;  and 
that  he  scof'ned  to  bring  him  in,  as  ISJonli  did,  to 
secure  himself  and  deliver  every  body  else.  When 
I  told  him  of  what  I  found  writ  in  a  French  book 
of  one  Monsieur  Sorbiere,  that  gives  an  account  of 
his  observations  here  in  England ;  among  other 
things  he  says,  that  it  is  reported  that  Cromwell 
did,  in  his  lifetime,  transpose  many  of  the  bodies 
of  the  kings  of  England  from  one  grave  to  another  ; 
and  that  by  that  means  it  is  not  known  certainly 
whether  the  head  that  is  now  set  upon  a  post  be  that 
of  Cromwell,  orof  one  of  the  kings  ;  Mr.  White  tella 
me  that  he  beheves  he  never  had  so  poor  a  low 
thought  in  him,  to  trouble  himself  about  it.  He  says 
the  hand  of  God  is  much  to  be  seen  ;  and  that  all  his 
children  are  in  good  condhion  enough  as  to  estate, 
and  that  their  relations  that  betrayed  their  family  are 
all  now  either  hanged  or  very  miserable." 

The  most  frequent  and  prolific  topic  in  the 
whole  book,  next  perhaps  to  that  of  dress,  is 
the  profligacy  of  the  court — or  what  may  fairly 
be  denominated  court  scandal.  It  would  be 
endless,  and  not  very  edifying,  to  attempt  any 
thing  like  an  abstract  of  the  shameful  immor- 
alities which  this  loyal  author  has  recorded 
of  the  two  royal  brothers,  and  the  greater  part 
of  their  favourites — at  the  same  time,  that 
they  occupy  so  great  a  part  of  the  work,  that 
we  cannot  well  give  an  account  of  it  Mathout 
some  notice  of  them.  The  reader  will  pro- 
bably be  satisfied  with  the  following  speci- 
mens, taken  almost  at  random. 

"  In  the  Privy  Garden  saw  the  finest  smocks  and 
linen  petticoats  of  my  Lady  Castlemaine's,  laced 
with  rich  lace  at  the  bottom,  that  ever  I  saw  ;  and 
did  me  good  to  look  at  them.  Sarah  told  me  how  the 
King  dined  at  my  Lady  Castlemaine's,  and  supped, 
every  day  and  night  the  last  week ;  and  that  tha 
night  that  the  bonfires  were  made  for  joy  of  the 
Qiieenc's  arrivall,  the  King  was  there.  But  there 
was  no  fire  at  her  door,  though  at  all  the  rest  of  the 
doors  almost  in  the  street ;  which  was  much  ob 
served  :  and  that  the  King  and  she  did  send  for  a 
pair  of  scales,  and  weighed  one  another;  and  she, 
being  with  child,  was  said  to  be  heaviest." 

"  Mr.  Pickering  tells  me  the  story  is  very  trua 
of  a  child  being  dropped  at  the  ball  at  Court ;  ano 
that  (he  King  had  it  in  his  closet  a  week  after,  and 
did  dissect  it ;  and  making  great  sport  of  it,  said  thai 
in  his  opinion  it  must  have  been  a  month  and  three 
houres  old  ;  and  that,  whatever  others  think,  he 
hath  the  greatest  loss  (it  being  a  boy,  as  he  says). 


MEMOIRS  OF  SAMUEL  PEPYS. 


1 9-9 


mat  hath  lost  a  subject  by  the  business." — "  IJe 
told  me  also  how  loose  the  Court  is,  nobody  look- 
ing after  business,  l)ut  every  niiin  his  lust  and 
gain;  and  how  the  King  is  now  become  so  besotted 
upon  Mrs.  Stewart,  that  he  gets  into  corners,  and 
will  bo  with  her  half  an  hour  together  kissing  her 
to  the  observation  of  all  the  world  ;  and  she  now 
stays  by  herself  and  expects  it  as  my  Lady  Castle- 
maine  did  use  to  do ;  to  whom  the  King,  he  says, 
Is  still  kind,"  &c. 

"  Coming  to  St.  James,  T  hear  that  the  Queene 
did  sleep  five  hours  pretty  well  to-night.  The  King 
they  all  say,  is  most  fondly  disconsolate  for  her, 
and  weeps  by  her,  which  makes  her  weep ;  which 
one  this  day  told  me  he  reckons  a  good  sign,  for 
that  it  carries  away  some  rheum  from  the  head  ! 
She  tells  us  that  the  Queene's  sickness  is  the  spotted 
fever  ;  that  she  was  as  full  of  the  spots  as  a  leopard  : 
which  is  very  strange  that  it  should  be  no  more 
known;  but  perhaps  it  is  not  so.  And  that  the 
King  do  seem  to  take  it  much  to  heart,  for  that  he 
hath  wept  before  her;  but  for  all  that,  he  hath  not 
missed  one  night,  since  she  was  sick,  of  supping 
with  my  Lady  Castlemaine !  which  I  believe  is 
true,  for  she  says  that  her  husband  hath  dressed  the 
suppers  every  night ;  and  I  confess  I  saw  him  my- 
self coming  through  the  street  dressing  up  a  great 
supper  to-night,  which  Sarah  says  is  also  for  the 
King  and  her ;  which  is  a  very  strange  thing." 

"  Pierce  do  tell  me,  among  other  news,  the  late 
frolick  and  debauchery  of  Sir  Charles  Sedley  and 
Buckhurst  running  up  and  down  all  the  night,  al- 
most naked,  through  the  streets  ;  and  at  last  fight- 
ing, and  being  beat  by  the  watch  and  clapped  up 
all  night ;  and  how  the  King  takes  their  parts  ;  and 
my  Lord  Chief  Justice  Keehng  hath  laid  the  con- 
stable by  the  heels  to  answer  it  next  sessions; 
which  is  a  horrid  shame.  Also  how  the  King  and 
these  gentlemen  did  make  the  fiddlers  of  Thetford, 
this  last  progress,  to  sing  them  all  the  obscene 
songs  they  could  think  of!  That  the  King  was 
drunk  at  Saxam  with  Sedley,  Buckhurst,  &c.  the 
night  that  my  Lord  Arlington  came  thither,  and 
would  not  give  him  audience,  or  could  not:  which  is 
true,  for  it  was  the  night  that  I  was  there,  and  saw 
the  King  go  up  to  his  chamber,  and  was  told  that 
the  King  had  been  drinking." — "  He  tells  me  that 
the  King  and  my  Lady  Castlemaine  are  quite  broke 
ofT,  and  she  is  gone  away,  and  is  with  child,  and 
swears  the  King  shall  own  it ;  and  she  will  have  it 
christened  in  the  chapel  at  White  Hall  so,  and 
owned  for  the  King's  as  other  kings  have  done  ;  or 
she  will  bring  it  into  White  Hall  gallery,  and  dash 
the  brains  of  it  out  before  the  King's  face!  He  tells 
me  that  the  King  and  court  were  never  in  the  world 
so  bad  as  they  are  now,  for  gaming,  swearing, 
women,  and  drinking,  and  the  most  abominable 
vices  that  ever  were  in  the  world  ;  so  that  all  must 
come  to  nought." 

"  They  came  to  Sir  G.  Carteret's  house  at  Cran- 
bourne,  and  there  were  entertained,  and  all  made 
drunh;  and,  being  all  drunk,  Armerer  did  come  to 
the  King,  and  swore  to  him  by  God,  '  Sir,'  says 
he,  '  you  are  not  so  kind  to  the  Duke  of  York  of 
late  as  you  used  to  be.' — '  Not  I !'  says  the  King. 
'  Why  so?' — 'Why,'  says  he,  'if  you  are,  let  us 
drink  his  health.' — 'Why  let  us,'  says  the  King. 
Then  he  fell  on  his  knees  and  drank  it ;  and  having 
done,  the  King  began  to  drink  it.  '  Nay,  sir,'  says 
Armerer,  '  by  God  you  must  do  it  on  your  knees !' 
So  he  did,  and  then  all  the  company  :  and  having 
done  it,  all  fell  a  crying  for  joy,  being  all  maudlin 
and  kissing  one  another!  the  King  the  Duke  of 
York,  and  the  Duke  of  York  the  King!  and  in 
such  a  maudlin  pickle  as  never  people  were :  and 
so  passed  the  day  !" 

It  affords  us  no  pleasure,  however,  to  expose 
these  degrading  traits — even  in  departed  roy- 
alty; but  it  is  of  more  consequence  to  mark 
^he  political  vices  to  which  they  so  naturally 
The  following  entry,  on  the  King-s  ad- 
13 


journing  the  Parliament  in  1667,  gives  such  a 
picture  of  the  court  policy,  as  makes  one 
vronder  how  the  Revolution  could  have  been 
80  long  deferred. 

"  Thus  they  are  dismissed  again,  to  their  general 
great  distaste,  I  believe  the  greatest  that  ever  Par- 
liament was,  to  see  themselves  so  fooled,  and  tlie 
nation  in  certain  condition  of  ruin,  while  the  King, 
they  see,  is  only  governed  by  his  lust,  and  women, 
and  rogues  about  him.  They  do  all  give  up  the 
kingdom  for  lost,  that  I  speak  to;  and  do  hearw/ia* 
the  King  says,  how  he  and  the  Duke  of  York  do 

DO  WHAT  THEY  CAN  TO  GET  UP  AN  ARMY,  THAT  THEY 
MAY    NEED    NO    MORE    PARLIAMENTS:    and    hoW   my 

Lady  Castlemaine  hath,  before  the  late  breach  be- 
tween her  and  the  King,  said  to  the  King,  that  he 
must  rule  by  an  army,  or  all  would  be  lost  !  I  am 
told  that  many  petitions  were  provided  for  the  Par- 
liament, complaining  of  the  wrongs  they  have  re- 
ceived from  the  court  and  courtiers,  in  city  and 
country,  if  the  Parliament  had  but  sat:  and  I  do 
perceive  they  all  do  resolve  to  have  a  good  account 
of  the  money  spent,  before  ever  they  give  a  farthing 
more;  and  the  whole  kingdom  is  every  where  sen- 
sible of  their  being  abused,"  &c. 

The  follow  ing  confirmation  of  these  specu- 
lations is  still  more  characteristic,  both  of  the 
parties  and  their  chronicler. 

"  And  so  she  (Lady  Castlemaine)  is  come  to-day, 
when  one  would  thmk  his  mind  should  be  full  of 
some  other  cares,  having  but  this  morning  broken 
up  such  a  Parliament  with  so  much  discontent  and 
so  many  wants  upon  him,  and  but  yesterday  heard 
such  a  sermon  against  adultery  !  But  it  seems  she 
hath  told  'the  King,  that  whoever  did  get  it,  he 
should  own  it.  And  the  bottom  of  the  quarrel  is 
this  : — She  is  fallen  in  love  with  young  Jermin,  who 
hath  of  late  been  with  her  oftener  than  the  King, 
and  is  now  going  to  marry  my  Lady  Falmouth  ; 
the  King  is  mad  at  her  entertaining  Jermin,  and 
she  is  mad  at  Jermin's  going  to  marry  from  her :  so 
they  are  all  mad  ! — and  thus  the  kingdom  is  gov- 
erned !  But  he  tells  me  for  certain  that  nothing 
is  more  sure  than  that  the  King,  and  Duke  of  York, 
and  the  Chancellor,  are  desirous  and  labouring  all 
they  can  to  get  an  army,  whatever  the  King  says  to 
the  Parliament ;  and  he  believes  that  they  are  at 
last  resolved  to  stand  and  fall  all  three  together." 

A  little  after  we  find  traces  of  another  pro- 
ject of  the  same  truly  legitimate  school. 

"  The  great  discourse  now  is,  that  the  Parlia- 
ment shall  be  dissolved  and  another  called,  which 
shall  give  the  King  the  dean  and  chapter  lands; 
and  that  will  put  him  out  of  debt.  And  it  is  said 
that  Buckingham  do  knowingly  meet  daily  with 
Wildman  and  other  Commonwealth-men  ;  and  that 
when  he  is  with  them  he  makes  the  King  believe 
that  he  is  with  his  wenches." 

The  next  notice  of  this  is  in  the  form  of  a 
confidential  conversation  with  a  person  of 
great  intelligence. 

"And  he  told  me,  upon  my  several  inquiries  to  that 
purpose,  that  he  did  believe  it  was  not  yet  resolved 
whether  the  Parliament  should  ever  meet  more  or  no, 
the  three  great  rulers  of  things  now  standing  thus : 
— The  Duke  of  Buckingham  is  absolutely  against 
their  meeting,  as  moved  thereto  by  his  people  that 
he  advises  with,  the  people  of  the  late  times,  who 
do  never  expect  to  nave  any  thing  done  by  this 
Parliament  for  their  religion,  and  who  do  propose 
that,  by  the  sale  of  the  church  lands,  they  shall  be 
able  to  put  the  King  out  of  debt,  &c.  He  tells  me 
that  he  is  really  persuaded  that  the  design  of  the 
Duke  of  Buckingham  is  to  bring  the  state  into 
such  a  condition  as,  if  the  King  do  die  without 
issue,  it  shall,  upon  his  death,  break  into  pieces, 
again;  and  $o  put  by  the  Duke  of  FfAr, — whono 


194 


fflSTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


•hey  havr  disobliged,  thpy  know,  to  that  degree  as 
to  despair  of  his  pardoi.  He  tells  nit;  that  there  is 
no  way  to  rule  the  ki  i^  but  by  brisknesse, — which 
the  Duke  of  Buckingham  hath  above  ail  men  ;  and 
that  the  Duke  of  York  having  it  not,  his  best  way 
is  what  he  practises, — ill  at  is  to  say,  a  good  temper, 
which  will  support  him  till  the  Duke  of  Bucking- 
ham and  Lord  Arlington  fall  out,  which  cannot  be 
long  first ;  the  former  knowing  that  the  latter  did, 
in  the  time  of  the  Chancellor,  endeavour  with  the 
Chancellor  to  ha7ig  him  at  that  time,  when  he  was 
proclaimed  against." 

And  again — 

"The  talk  which  these  people  about  our  King 
have,  ia  to  tell  him  how  neither  privilege  of  parlia- 
ment nor  city  is  any  thing  ;  but  that  his  will  is  all, 
and  ought  to  be  so:  and  their  discourse,  it  seems, 
when  they  are  alone,  is  so  base  and  sordid,  that  it 
makes  the  eares  of  the  very  gentlemen  of  the  back 
stairs  (I  think  he  called  them)  to  tingle  to  hear  it 
spoke  in  the  King's  hearing  ;  and  that  must  be  very 
bad  indeed.''^ 

The  following  is  not  so  material  as  to  doc- 
trine— though  we  think  it  very  curious. 

"  After  the  bills  passed,  the  King,  sitting  on  his 
throne,  with  his  speech  writ  in  a  paper  which  he 
held  in  his  lap,  and  scarce  looked  off  of  it  all  the 
time  he  made  his  speech  to  them,  giving  them 
thanks  for  their  subsidys,  of  which,  had  he  not 
need,  he  would  not  have  asked  or  received  thern ; 
and  that  need,  not  from  any  extravagancy s  of  his, 
he  was  sure,  in  any  thing  ! — but  the  disorders  of 
the  times.  His  speech  was  very  plain  ;  nothing  at 
all  of  spirit  in  it,  nor  spoke  with  any  ;  but  rather 
on  the  contrary  imperfectly,  repeating  many  time 
his  words,  though  he  read  all :  which  I  am  sorry  to 
see,  it  having  not  been  hard  for  him  to  have  got  all 
the  speech  without  booke." — And  upon  another 
occasion,  "I  crowded  in  and  heard  the  King's 
speech  to  them  ;  but  he  speaks  the  worst  that  ever  1 
heard  a  man  in  my  life:  worse  than  if  he  read  it 
all,  and  he  had  it  in  writing  in  his  hand." 

It' is  observed  soon  after — viz.  in  1664 — as 
a  singular  thing,  that  there  should  be  but  two 
seamen  in  Parliament — and  not  above  twenty 
or  thirty  merchants:  And  yet  from  various 
intimations  we  gather  that  the  deportment  of 
this  aristocratical  assembly  was  by  no  means 
very  decorous.  We  have  already  had  the 
incidental  notice  of  many  members  coming 
in  from  dinner  half  drunk,  on  the  day  of  the 
author's  great  oration — and  some  of  them 
appear  now  and  then  to  have  gone  a  little 
farther, — early  as  the  hours  of  business  then 
were. 

"  He  did  tell  me,  and  so  did  Sir  W.  Batten,  how 
Sir  Allen  Brodericke  and  Sir  Allen  Apsley  did 
come  drunk  the  other  day  into  the  House;  and  did 
both  speak  for  half  an  hour,  together,  and  could  not 
be  either  laughed,  or  pulled,  or  bid  to  sit  down  and 
hold  their  peace, — to  the  great  conternpt  of  King's 
servants  and  cause ;  which  I  am  grieved  at  wuh 
all  my  heart." 

The  mingled  extravagance  and  penury  of 
this  disorderly  court  is  strikingly  illustrated 
by  two  entries,  not  far  from  each  other,  in  the 
year  1667 — in  one  of  which  is  recorded  the 
royal  wardrobeman's  pathetic  lamentation 
over  the  King's  necessities — representing  that 
his  Majesty  has  ^'  actually  no  handkerchiefs, 
and  but  three  bands  to  his  neck" — and  that 
he  does  not  know  where  to  take  up  a  yard  of 
jjnen  ibr  his  service  ! — and  the  other  setting 
foith,  that  his  said  Majesty  had  lost  25.00oL 


in  one  night  at  play  with  Lady  Castleznaine — 
and  staked  1000/.  and  1500Z.  on  a  cast.  It 
is  a  far  worse  trait,  however,  in  his  char- 
acter, that  he  was  by  no  means  scrupulous  as 
to  the  pretexts  upon  which  he  obtained  money 
from  his  people — these  memoirs  containing 
repeated  notices  of  accounts  deliberately 
falsified  for  this  purpose — and  not  a  few  in 
particular,  in  whicn  the  expenses  of  the  navy 
are  exaggerated — we  are  afraid,  not  without 
our  author's  co-operation — to  cover  the  mis- 
application of  the  money  voted  for  that  most 
popular  branch  of  the  service,  to  very  different 
purposes.  In  another  royal  imposture,  our 
author  now  appears  to  have  been  also  impli- 
cated, though  in  a  manner  far  less  derogatory 
to  his  personal  honour, — we  mean  in  pro- 
curing for  the  Duke  of  York,  the  credit  which 
he  has  obtained  with  almost  all  our  historians, 
for  his  great  skill  in  maritime  affairs;  and  the 
extraordinary  labour  which  he  bestowed  in 
improving  the  condition  of  the  navy.  On  this 
subject  we  need  do  little  more  than  transcribe 
the  decisive  statement  of  the  noble  Editor,  to 
whose  care  we  are  indebted  for  the  publica- 
tion before  us  ]  and  who,  in  the  summary  of 
Mr.  Pepys'  life  which  he  has  prefixed  to  it, 
observes — 

"  Mr.  Stanier  Clarke,  in  particular,  actually 
dwells  upon  the  essential  and  lasting  benefit  which 
that  monarch  conferred  on  his  country,  by  build- 
ing up  and  regerierating  the  naval  power;  and  as- 
serts as  a  proof  of  the  King's  great  ability,  that 
the  regulations  still  enforced  under  the  orders  of  the 
admiralty  are  nearly  the  same  as  those  originally 
drawn  up  by  him.  It  becomes  due  therefore  to  Mr. 
Pepys  to  explain,  that  for  these  improvements,  the 
value  of  which  no  person  can  doubt,  we  are  indebt- 
ed to  him,  and  not  to  his  royal  master.  To  estab- 
lish this  fact,  it  is  only  necessary  to  refer  to  the 
MSS.  connected  with  the  subject  in  the  Bodleian 
and  Pepysian  hbraries,  by  which  the  extent  of  Mr. 
Pepys'  official  labours  can  alone  be  appreciated  ; 
and  we  even  find  in  the  Diary,  as  early  as  1668, 
that  a  long  letter  of  regulation,  produced  before  the 
commissioners  of  the  navy  by  the  Duke  of  York, 
as  Jiis  own  composition,  was  entirely  written  by  our 
clerk  of  the  acts." — (I.  xxx.) 

We  do  not  know  w^hether  the  citations  we 
have  now  made  from  these  curious  and  most 
miscellaneous  volumes,  will  enable  our  readers 
to  form  a  just  estimate  of  their  value.  But 
we  fear  that,  at  all  events,  we  cannot  now  in- 
dulge them  in  any  considerable  addition  to 
their  number.  There  is  a  long  account  of 
the  great  fire,  and  the  great  sickness  in  1666, 
and  a  still  longer  one  of  the  insulting  advance 
of  the  Dutch  fleet  to  Chatham  in  1667,  as 
well  as  of  our  absurd  settlement  at  Tangiers, 
and  of  various  naval  actions  during  the  period 
to  which  the  Diary  extends.  But,  though  all 
these  contain  much  curious  matter,  we  are 
not  tempted  to  make  any  extracts :  Both  be- 
cause the  accounts,  being  given  in  the  broken 
and  minute  way  which  belongs  to  the  form 
of  a  Diary,  do  not  afford  many  striking  or 
summary  passages,  and  because  what  is  new 
in  them,  is  not  for  the  most  part  of  any  great 
importance.  The  public  besides  has  been 
lately  pretty  much  satiated  with  details  on 
most  of  those  subjects,  in  the  contemporary 
work  of  Evelyn, — of  which  we  shall  only  say 


MEMOIRS  OF  SAMUEL  PEF^S. 


,9b 


that  though  its  author  was  indisputably  more 
of  a  gentleman,  a  scholar,  and  a  man  of  taste 
than  our  actuary,  it  is  far  inferior  both  in  in- 
terest, curiosity,  and  substantial  instruction, 
to  that  which  we  are  now  considering.  The 
two  authors,  however,  we  are  happy  to  find, 
were  great  friends ;  and  no  name  is  mentioned 
in  the  latter  part  of  the  Diary  with  more  uni- 
form respect  and  affection  than  that  of  Evelyn 
— though  it  is  very  edifying  to  see  how  the 
shrewd,  practical  sagacity  of  the  man  of  busi- 
ness, revenges  itself  on  the  assumed  supe- 
riority of  the  philosopher  and  man  of  letters. 
In  this  respect  we  think  there  is  a  fine  keep- 
ing of  character  in  the  sincerity  of  the  fol- 
lowing passage — 

"  By  water  to  Deptford,  and  there  made  a  visit 
to  Mr.  Evelyn,  who,  amonor  other  things,  showed 
me  most  excellent  painting  in  little  ;  in  distemper, 
Indian  incke,  water  colours :  graveing ;  and  above 
all,  the  whole  mezzo-tinto,  and  the  manner  of  it, 
which  is  very  pretty,  and  good  things  done  with  it. 
He  read  to  me  very  much  also  of  his  discourse,  he 
hath  been  many  years  and  now  is  about,  about 
Gardenage ;  which  is  a  most  noble  and  pleasant 
piece.  He  read  me  part  of  a  play  or  two  of  his 
own  making — vert/  good,  but  not  as  he  conceits 
them,  I  think,  to  be.  He  showed  me  his  Hortus 
HyemaHs  ;  leaves  laid  up  in  a  book  of  several  plants 
kept  dry,  which  preserve  colour,  however,  and 
look  very  finely,  better  than  an  herball.  In  fine  a 
most  excellent  person  he  is, — and  must  he  allowed 
a  little  for  a  little  conceited ?iess;  but  he  may  well 
be  so,  being  a  man  so  much  above  others.  He  read 
me,  though  with  too  much  gusto,  some  little  poems 
of  his  own  that  toere  not  transcendant ;  yet  one  or 
two  very  pretty  epigrams  ;  among  others,  of  a  lady 
lookina:  in  at  a  grate,  and  being  pecked  at  by  an 
eagle  that  was  there." 

And  a  little  after  he  chuckles  not  a  little 
over  his  learned  friend's  failure,  in  a  specula- 
tion about  making  bricks — concluding  very 
sagely,  "so  that  I  see  the  most  ingenious 
men  may  sometimes  be  mistaken  !" 

We  meet  with  the  names  of  many  distin- 
guished men  in  these  pages,  and  some  char- 
acteristic anecdotes, — ^but  few  bold  characters. 
He  has  a  remarkable  interview  with  Claren- 
don— in  which  the  cautious  and  artful  de- 
meanour of  that  veteran  politician  is  finely 
displayed,  though  on  a  very  trivial  occasion. 
The  Navy  Board  had  marked  some  trees  for 
cutting  in  Clarendon  Park  without  his  leave — 
at  which  he  had  expressed  great  indignation ; 
and  our  author  went,  in  a  prodigious  fright,  to 
pacify  him.  He  found  him  busy  hearing 
causes  in  his  chambers,  and  was  obliged  to  wait. 

"  After  all  done,  he  himself  called,  '  Come,  Mr. 
Pepys,  you  and  I  will  take  a  turn  in  the  garden.' 
So  he  was  led  down  stairs,  having  the  goute,  and 
there  walked  with  me,  I  think  above  an  hour,  talk- 
ing most  friendly,  hut  cun7iingly  ! — He  told  me  he 
would  not  direct  me  in  any  thing,  that  it  might  not 
be  said  that  the  Lord  Chancellor  did  labour  to  abuse 
the  King ;  or  (as  I  oflfered)  direct  the  suspending  the 
report  of  the  purveyors :  hut  I  see  what  he  means, 
and  will  make  it  my  work  to  do  him  service  in  it. 
B.ut  Lord!  to  see  how  we  poor  wretches  dare  not 
do  the  King  good  service,  for  fear  of  the  greatness 
ef  these  men!" 

There  is  no  literary  intelligence  of  any  value 
Jo  be  gained  from  this  work.  Play  collectors 
will  probably  find  the  names  of  many  lost 
pieces — ^but  of  our  classical  authors  there  are 


no  notices  worth  naming — a  bare  intimation 
of  the  deaths  of  ^Vallcr,  Cowley,  and  Daven- 
ant,  and  a  few  words  of  Dryden — Milton,  we 
think,  not  once  mentioned.  There  is  more 
of  the  natural  philosophers  of  Gresham  Col» 
lege,  but  not  much  that  is  valuable — some 
curious  calculations  and  speculations  about 
money  and  coinages — and  this  odd  but  au- 
thentic notice  of  Sir  W.  Potty's  intended  will. 

"Sir  William  Petty  did  tell  me  that  in  good 
earnest  he  hath  in  his  will  left  'some  parts  of  his 
estate  to  him  that  could  invent  such  and  such 
things.  As  among  others,  that  could  discover  truly 
the  way  of  milk  coining  into  the  breasts  of  a  wo- 
man !  and  he  that  could  invent  proper  characters  to 
express  to  another  the  mixture  of  relishes  and 
tastes.  And  says,  that  to  him  that  invents  gold,  he 
gives  nothing  for  the  philosopher's  stone ;  for  (says 
he)  they  that  find  out  that,  will  be  able  to  pay  them- 
selves. But,  says  he,  by  this  means  it  is  better 
than  to  go  to  a  lecture  ;  for  here  my  executors,  that 
must  part  with  this,  will  be  sure  to  be  well  con- 
vinced of  the  invention  before  they  do  part  with 
their  money." 

The  Appendix,  which  seems  very  judicious- 
ly selected,  contains  some  valuable  fraginents 
of  historical  information :  but  we  have  not  now 
left  ourselves  room  for  any  account  of  them; 
and  are  tempted  to  give  all  we  can  yet  spare 
to  a  few  extracts  from  a  very  curious  corres- 
pondence between  Mr.  Pepys  and  Lord  Reay 
and  Lord  Tarbut  in  1699,  on  the  subject  of 
the  Second  Sight  among  our  Highlanders. 
Lord  Reay  seems  to  have  been  a  firm  believe? 
in  this  gift  or  faculty — but  Lord  Tarbut  had 
been  a  decided  sceptic,  and  was  only  con- 
verted by  the  proofs  of  its  reality,  which  oc- 
curred to  himself  while  in  the  Highlands,  in 
the  year  1652- and  afterwards.  Some  of  the 
stories  he  tells  are  not. a  little  remarkable. 
For  example,  he  says,  that  one  night  when 
one  of  his  Celtic  attendants  was  entering  a 
house  where  they  had  proposed  to  sleep,  he 
suddenly  started  back  with  a  scream,  and  fell 
down  in  an  agony. 

"  I  asked  what  the  matter  was,  for  he  seemed  to 
me  to  be  very  much  frighted :  he  told  me  very  seri- 
ously that  I  should  not  lodge  in  that  house,  because 
shortly  a  dead  coffin  would  be  carried  out  of  it,  for 
many  were  carrying  it  when  he  was  heard  cry  !  I 
neglecting  his  words  and  staying  there,  he  said  to 
others  of  the  servants  he  was  very  sorry  for  it,  and 
that  what  he  saw  would  surely  come  to  pass:  and 
though  no  sick  person  was  then  there,  yet  the  land- 
lord, a  healthy  Highlander,  died  of  an  apoplectic  jit 
hefore  I  left  the  housed 

Another  occurred  in  1653,  when,  in  a  very 
rugged  part  of  the  country,  he  fell  in  with  a 
man  who  was  staring  into  the  air  with  marks 
of  great  agitation.  Upon  asking  what  it  was 
that  disturbed  him,  he  answered, 

*'  I  see  a  troop  of  Englishmen  leading  their  horses 
down  that  hill — and  some  of  them  are  already  in  the 
plain,  eating  the  barley  which  is  growing  in  the 
field  near  to  the  hill.'  This  was  on  the  4th  of  May 
(for  I  noted  the  day),  and  it  was  four  or  five  days 
hefore  any  harley  was  sown  in  the  field  he  spoke  of. 
Alexander  Monro  asked  him  how  he  knew  they 
were  Englishmen  :  he  answered,  because  they  were 
leading  horses,  and  had  on  hats  and  boots,  which 
he  knew  no  Scotchmen  would  have  on  there.  We 
took  little  notice  of  the  whole  story  as  other  than  a 
foolish  vision,  but  wished  that  an  English  party  v;ere 
there,  we  being  then  at  war  with  thera,  and  ih« 


196 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


place  almost  inaccessible  for  horsemen.  But  'he 
beginning  of  August  thereafter,  the  Earl  of  Middle- 
ton,  then  lieutenant  for  the  King  in  the  Highlands, 
having  occasion  to  march  a  party  of  his  towards  the 
South  Islands,  sent  his  foot  through  a  place  called 
Inverlacwell,  and  the  forepart,  which  was  first  down 
the  hill,  did  fall  to  eating  the  barley  which  was  on 
the  little  plain  under  it." 

Another  of  his  lordship's  experiences  was 
as  follows.  In  January  1682,  he  was  sitting 
with  two  friends  in  a  house  in  Ross-shire, 
when  a  man  from  the  islands 

"  Desired  me  to  rise  from  that  chair,  for  it  was 
an  unlucky  one.  I  asked  '  Why  ?'  He  answered, 
'  Because  there  was  a  dead  man  in  the  chair  next 
to  it.' — '  Well,'  said  I,  'if  it  be  but  in  the  next,  I 
may  safely  sit  here  :  but  what  is  the  Ukeness  of  the 
man  ?'  He  said  he  was  a  tall  man  with  a  long  grey 
coat,  booted,  and  one  of  his  legs  hanging  over  the 
chair,  and  his  head  hanging  down  to  the  other  side, 
and  his  arm  backward,  as  it  were  broken.  There 
were  then  some  English  troops  quartered  near  the 
place,  and  there  being  at  that  time  a  great  frost 
after  a  thaw,  the  country  was  wholly  covered  over 
with  ice.  Four  or  five  Englishmen  riding  by  this 
house,  not  two  hours  after  the  vision,  where  we 
were  sitting  by  the  fire,  we  heard  a  great  noise, 
which  proved  to  be  these  troopers,  with  the  help  of 
other  servants,  carrying  in  one  of  their  number  who 
had  got  a  very  mischievous  fall  and  had  his  arm 
broke ;  and  falling  frequently  into  swooning  fits, 
they  brought  him  to  the  hall,  and  set  him  in  the 
very  chair  and  in  the  very  posture  which  the  seer 
had  proposed:  hut  the  man  did  not  die,  though  he 
revived  with  great  difficulty." 

These  instances  are  chiefly  remarkable  as 
being  given  upon  the  personal  knowledge  of 
an  individual  of  great  judgment,  acuteness, 
and  firmness  of  character.  The  following  is 
from  a  still  higher  quarter ;  since  the  reporter 
was  not  even  a  Scotchman,  and  indeed  no  less 
a  person  than  Lord  Clarendon.  In  a  letter  to 
Mr,  Pepys  in  1701,  he  informs  him,  that,  in 
1661,  upon  a  Scottish  gentleman  being  in  his 
presence  introduced  to  Lady  Cornbury,  he 
was  observed  to  gaze  upon  her  with  a  singu- 
lar expression  of  melancholy;  and  upon  one 
of  the  company  asking  the  reason,  he  replied, 
^'I  see  her  in  hloodV  She  was  at  that  time 
in  perfect  health,  and  remained  so  for  near  a 
month,  when  she  fell  ill  of  small-pox :  And 

"  Upon  the  ninth  day  after  the  small-pox  ap- 
peared, in  the  morning,  she  hied  at  the  nose,  which 
quickly  stopt ;  but  in  the  afternoon  the  blood  burst 
out  again  with  great  violence  at  her  nose  and 
mouth,  and  about  eleven  of  the  clock  that  night 
she  dyed,  almost  weltering  in  her  hlood  .'" 

There  is  a  great  number  of  similar  stories, 
reported  on  the  most  imposing  testimony — 
though,  in  some  instances,  the  seer,  we  must 
say,  is  somewhat  put  to  it  to  support  his 
creait,  and  make  out  the  accomplishment  of 
his  vision.  One  chieftain,  for  instance,  had 
long  been  seen  by  the  gifted,  with  an  arrow 
sticking  in  his  thigh ;  from  which  they  all  in- 
ferred, that  he  was  either  to  die  or  to  suffer 
greatly,  from  a  wound  in  that  place.  To  their 
surprise,  however,  he  died  of  some  other  in- 
fliction, and  the  seers  were  getting  out  of  repu- 
tation; when  luckily  a  fray  arose  at  the  fune- 
ral, and  an  arrow  was  shot  fairly  through  the 
thigh  of  the  dead  man,  in  the  very  spot  where 
the  vision  had  shown  it !  On  anotner  occa- 
uion,  Lord  Reay's  grandfather  was  told  that 


he  had  been  seen  with  a  dagger  run  into  hit 
breast — and  though  nothing  ever  happened  to 
him,  one  of  his  servants,  to  whoin  he  had 
given  the  doublet  which  he  wore  at  the  time 
of  this  intimation,  was  stabbed  through  it,  in 
the  very  place  where  the  dagger  had  been 
seen.  Lord  Reay  adds  the  following  addi- 
tional  instance,  of  this  glancing,  as  it  were,  of 
the  prophecy  on  the  outer  garment. 

"John  Macky,  of  Dilril,  having  put  on  a  new 
suit  of  clothes,  was  told  by  a  seer  that  he  did  see 
the  gallows  upon  his  coat,  which  he  never  noticed ; 
but  some  time  fitter  gave  his  coat  to  his  servant, 
William  Forbess,  to  whose  honesty  there  could  be 
nothing  said  at  that  time  ;  but  he  was  shortly  after 
hanged  for  theft,  with  the  same  coat  about  him:  my 
informer  being  an  eye-witness  of  his  execution,  and 
one  who  had  heard  what  the  seer  said  before." 

His  lordship  also  mentions,  that  these 
visions  were  seen  by  blind  people,  as  well  as 
those  who  had  sight, — and  adds,  that  there 
was  a  blind  woman  in  his  time  who  had  the 
faculty  in  great  perfection ;  and  foretold  many 
things  that  afterwards  happened,  as  hundreds 
of  living  witnesses  could  attest.  We  have  no 
time  now  to  speculate  on  these  singular  le- 
gends— but,  as  curious  mementos  of  the  lubri- 
city of  human  testimony,  we  think  it  right 
they  should  be  once  more  brought  into  notice. 
And  now  we  have  done  with  Mr.  Pepys. 
There  is  trash  enough  no  doubt  in  his  journal, 
— trifling  facts,  and  silly  observations  in 
abundance.  But  we  can  scarcely  say  that 
we  wish  it  a  page  shorter ;  and  are  of  opin- 
ion, that  there  is  very  little  of  it  which  does 
not  help  us  to  understand  the  character  of  hia 
times,  and  his  contemporaries,  be-tte'r  than 
we  should  ever  have  done  without  it;  and 
make  us  feel  more  assured  that  Ave  compre- 
hend the  great  historical  events  of  the  age, 
and  the  people  who  bore  a  part  in  them. 
Independent  of  instruction  altogether  too, 
there  is  no  denying,  that  it  is  very  entertain- 
ing thus  to  be  transported  into  the  very  heart 
of  a  time  so  long  gone  by ;  and  to  be  admitted 
into  the  domestic  intimacy,  as  well  as  the 
public  councils,  of  a  man  of  great  activity  and 
circulation  in  the  reign  of  Charles  II.  Read- 
ing this  book,  in  short,  seems  to  us  to  be  quite 
as  good  as  living  with  Mr.  Samuel  Pepys  in 
his  proper  person, — and  though  the  court 
scandal  may  be  detailed  with  more  grace  and 
vivacity  in  the  Memoires  de  Grammont,  we 
have  no  doubt  but  even  this  part  of  his  multi- 
farious subject  is  treated  with  far  greater 
fidelity  and  fairness  in  the  work  before  us — 
while  it  gives  us  more  clear  and  undistorted 
glimpses  into  the  true  English  life  of  the 
times — for  the  court  was  substantially  foreign 
— than  all  the  other  memorials  of  them  put 
together,  that  have  come  down  to  our  own. 

The  book  is  rather  too  dear  and  i^iagnifi- 
cent.  But  the  editor's  task  we  think  excel- 
lently performed.  The  ample  text  is  not 
incumbered  with  ostentatious  commentaries. 
But  very  brief  and  useful  notices  are  supplied 
of  almost  all  the  individuals  who  are  men- 
tioned ;  and  an  admirable  and  very  minute 
index  is  subjoined,  which  methodises  the  im- 
mense miscellany — and  places  the  vast  chaos 
at  our  disposal. 


FOX'S  REIGN  OF  JAMES  THE  SECOND. 


197 


(JTuhj,  1808.) 

d  History  of  the  early  Part  of  the  Reign  of  James  the  Second;  vAth  an  Introductory  Chapter 
By  the  Eight  Honourable  Charles  James  Fox.  To  which  is  added  an  Appendix.  4to 
pp.  340.     Miller,  London  :   1808. 

To  those  who  know  Mr.  Fox  only  by  t'M 
great  outlines  of  his  public  historj-, — whe 
know  merely  that  he  passed  from  the  dissi- 
pations of  too  gay  a  youth  into  the  tumults 
and  cabals  of  a  political  life, — and  that  his 
days  were  spent  in  contending  about  public 
measures,  and  in  guiding  or  averting  the  tem- 
pests of  faction, — the  spirit  of  indulgent  and 
tender  feeling  which  pervades  this  book  must 
appear  ver)^  unaccountable.  Those  who  live 
much  in  the  world,  even  in  a  private  station, 
commonly  have  their  hearts  a  little  hardened, 
and  their  moral  sensibility  a  little  impaired. 
But  statesmen  and  practical  politicians  are, 
with  justice,  suspected  of  a  still  greater  forget- 
fulness  of  mild  impressions  and  honourable 
scruples.  Coming  necessarily  into  contact 
with  great  vices  and  great  sufferings,  they 
must  gradually  lose  some  of  their  horror  for 
the  first,  and  much  of  their  compassion  for 
the  last.  Constantly  engaged  in  contention, 
they  cease  pretty  generally  to  regard  any  hu- 
man beings  as  objects  of  sympathy  or  disin- 
terested attachment ;  and,  mixing  much  with 
the  most  corrupt  part  of  mankind,  naturally 
come  to  regard  the  species  itself  with  indif- 
ference, if  not  with  contempt.  All  the  softer 
feelings  are  apt  to  be  worn  off  in  the  rough 
conflicts  of  factious  hostility ;  and  all  the  finer 
moralities  to  be  effaced,  by  the  constant  con- 
templation of  expediency,  and  the  necessities 
of  occasional  compliance. 

Such  is  the  common  conception  which  we 
form  of  men  who  have  lived  the  life  of  Mr. 
Fox;  and  such,  in  spite  of  the  testimony  of 
partial  friends,  is  the  impression  which  most 
private  persons  would  have  retained  of  him, 
if  this  volume  had  not  come  to  convey  a  truer 
and  a  more  eng^aging  picture  to  the  world  at 
large,  and  to  posterity. 

By  far  the  most  remarkable  thing,  then,  in 
this  book,  is  the  tone  of  indulgence  and  un- 
feigned philanthropy  which  prevails  in  every 
part  of  it : — a  most  amiable  sensibility  to  all 
the  kind  and  domestic  affections,  and  a  sort 
of  softheartedness  towards  the  sufferings  of 
individuals,  which  seems  hitherto  to  Lave 
been  thought  incompatible  wnth  the  stern  dig- 
nity of  history.  It  cannot  but  strike  us  with 
something  still  more  pleasing  than  surprise, 
to  meet  with  traits  of  almost  feminine  tender- 
ness in  the  sentiments  of  this  veteran  slates- 
man  ;  and  a  general  character  of  charity 
towards  all  men,  not  only  remote  from  the 
rancour  of  vulgar  hostility,  but  purified  in  a 
great  degree  from  the  asperities  of  party  con- 
tention. He  expresses  indeed,  throughout,  a 
high-minded  contempt  for  what  is  base,  .\nd 
a  thorough  detestation  for  what  is  cruel ;  But 
yet  is  constantly  led,  by  a  sort  of  generoua 
prejudice  in  favour  of  human  nature,  to  admit 


If  it  be  true  that  high  expectation  is  almost 
always  followed  by  disappointment,  it  is 
scarcely  possible  that  the  readers  of  Mr.  Fox's 
history  should  not  be  di.sappointed.  So  great 
a  statesman  certainly  has  not  appeared  as  an 
author  since  the  time  of  Lord  Clarendon; 
and,  independent  of  the  great  space  which  he 
fills  in  the  recent  history  of  this  country,  and 
the  admitted  splendour  of  his  general  talents, 
— his  know^n  zeal  for  liberty,  the  fame  of  his 
eloquence,  and  his  habitual  study  of  every 
thing  relating  to  the  constitution,  concurred  to 
direct  an  extraordinary  degree  of  attention  to 
the  work  upon  which  he  was  known  to  be 
engaged,  and  to  fix  a  standard  of  unattainable 
excellence  for  the  trial  of  his  first  acknowl- 
edged production.  The  very  circumstance  of 
his  not  having  published  any  considerable 
work  during  his  life,  and  of  his  having  died 
before  bringing  this  to  a  conclusion,  served  to 
increase  the  general  curiosity;  and  to  accu- 
mulate upon  this  single  fragment  the  interest 
of  his  whole  literary  existence. 

No  human  production,  we  suppose,  could 
bear  to  be  tried  by  such  a  test :  and  those  who 
sit  do\vn  to  the  perusal  of  the  work  before  us, 
under  the  influence  of  such  impressions,  are 
very  likely  to  rise  disappointed.  With  those, 
however,  who  are  at  all  on  their  guard  against 
the  delusive  effect  of  these  natural  emotions, 
the  result,  we  venture  to  predict,  will  be  dif- 
ferent; and  for  ourselves,  we  are  happy  to 
say,  that  we  have  not  been  disappointed  at 
all ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  very  greatly  moved 
and  delighted  with  the  greater  part  of  this 
singular  volume. 

We  do  not  think  it  has  any  great  value  as  a 
history ;  nor  is  it  very  admirable  as  a  piece 
of  composition.  It  comprehends  too  short  a 
period,  and  includes  too  few  events,  to  add 
much  to  our  knowledge  of  facts ;  and  abounds 
too  little  with  splendid  passages  to  lay  much 
hold  on  the  imagination.  The  reflections 
which  it  contains,  too,  are  generally  more  re- 
markable for  their  truth  and  simplicity,  than 
for  any  great  fineness  or  apparent  profundity 
of  thinking ;  and  many  opportunities  are  ne- 
glected, or  rather  purposely  declined,  of  en- 
tering into  large  and  general  speculations. 
Notwithstanding  all  this,  the  work,  we  think, 
is  invaluable ;  not  only  as  a  memorial  of  the 
high  principles  and  gentle  dispositions  of  its 
illustrious  author,  but  as  a  lecord  of  those 
sentiments  of  true  English  constitutional  in- 
dependence, which  seem  to  have  been  nearly 
forgoi^ten  in  the  bitterness  and  hazards  of  our 
more  recent  contentions.  It  is  delightful  as 
the  picture  of  a  character;  and  most  instruct- 
ve  and  opportune  as  a  remembrancer  of  pub- 
nc  duties :  And  we  must  be  permitted  to  say 
ord  '^r  two  upon  each  of  these  subjects. 


198 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


all  possible  palliations  for  the  conduct  of  the 
individual  delinquent,  and  never  attempts  to 
shut  him  out  from  the  benefit  of  those  natural 
sympathies  of  which  the  bad  as  well  as  the 
good  are  occasionally  the  objects,  from  their 
fortune  or  situation.  He  has  given  a  new 
character,  we  think,  to  history,  by  this  soft 
and  condescending  concern  for  the  feelings 
of  individuals ;  and  not  only  left  a  splendid 
record  of  the  gentleness  and  affectionate  sim- 
plicity of  his  own  dispositions,  but  set  an  ex- 
ample by  which  we  hope  that  men  of  genius 
may  be  taught  hereafter  to  render  their  in- 
structions more  engaging  and  impressive. 
Nothing,  we  are  persuaded,  can  be  more 
gratifying  to  his  friends,  than  the  impression 
of  his  character  which  this  work  will  carry 
down  to  posterity  J  nor  is  it  a  matter  of  indif- 
ference to  the  country,  that  its  most  illustrious 
statesman  should  be  yet  more  distinguished 
for  the  amiableness  of  his  private  affections. 

This  softness  of  feeling  is  the  first  remark- 
able thing  in  the  work  before  us.  The  second 
is  perhaps  of  more  general  importance.  It  is, 
that  it  contains  the  only  appeal  to  the  old 
principles  of  English  constitutional  freedom, 
and  the  only  expression  of  those  firm  and 
temperate  sentiments  of  independence,  which 
are  the  peculiar  produce,  and  natural  protec- 
tion of  our  mixed  government,  which  we  recol- 
lect to  have  met  with  for  very  many  years. 
The  tone  of  the  work,  in  this  respect,  recalls 
us  to  feelings  which  seem  of  late  to  have 
slumbered  in  the  country  which  they  used  to 
inspire.  In  our  indolent  reliance  upon  the 
imperishable  virtue  of  our  constitution,  and 
in  our  busy  pursuit  of  wealth,  we  appeared  to 
be  forgetting  our  higher  vocation  of  free  citi- 
zens ]  and,  in  our  dread  of  revolution  or  foreign 
invasion,  to  have  lost  sight  of  those  intestine 
dangers  to  which  our  liberties  are  always 
more  immediately  exposed.  The  history  of 
the  Revolution  of  1688,  and  of  the  times  im- 
mediately preceding,  was  eminently  calculated 
to  revive  those  feelings,  and  restore  those 
impressions,  which  so  many  causes  had  in 
our  days  conspired  to  obliterate ;  and,  in  the 
hands  of  Mr.  Fox,  could  scarcely  have  failed 
to  produce  a  very  powerful  effect.  On  this 
account,  it  must  be  matter  of  the  deepest  re- 
gret that  he  was  not  permitted  to  finish,  or 
indeed  to  do  more  than  begin,  that  inspiring 
narrative.  Even  in  the  little  which  he  has 
done,  however,  we  discover  the  spirit  of  the 
master :  Even  in  the  broken  prelude  which 
he  has  here  sounded,  the  true  notes  are  struck 
with  such  force  and  distinctness,  and  are  in 
themselves  so  much  in  unison  with  the  natu- 
ral chords  of  every  British  heart,  that  we  think 
no  slight  vibration  will  be  excited  throughout 
the  country;  and  would  willingly  lend  our 
assistance  to  propagate  it  into  every  part  of 
the  empire.  In  order  to  explain  more  fully 
the  reasons  for  which  we  set  so  high  a  value 
opon  the  work  before  us  on  this  particular  ac- 
eount,  we  must  be  allowed  to  enlarge  a  little 
upon  the  evil  which  we  think  it  calculated  to 
correct. 

We  do  not  think  the  present  generation 
of  our  countrymen  substantially  degenerated 


from  their  ancestors  in  the  days  of  the  Rev\)lu 
tion.  In  the  same  circumstancesj  we  are  per. 
suaded,  they  would  have  acted  with  the  same 
spirit; — nay,  in  consequence  of  the  mora 
general  diffusion  of  education  and  intelli- 
gence, we  believe  they  would  have  been  still 
more  zealous  and  more  unanimous  in  the 
cause  of  liberty.  But  we  have  of  late  been 
exposed  to  the  operation  of  various  causes, 
which  have  tended  to  lull  our  vigilance,  and 
relax  our  exertions ;  and  which  threaten,  un- 
less powerfully  counteracted,  to  bring  on, 
gradually,  such  a  general  indifference  and 
forgetfulness  of  the  interests  of  freedom,  as  to 
prepare  the  people  for  any  tolerably  mild 
form  of  servitude  which  their  future  rulers 
may  be  tempted  to  impose  upon  them. 

The  first,  and  the  principal  of  these  causes, 
however  paradoxical  it  may  seem,  is  the  ac- 
tual excellence  of  our  laws,  and  the  supposed 
inviolability  of  the  constitution.  The  second 
is,  the  great  increase  of  luxury,  and  the  tre- 
mendous patronage  of  the  government.  Tfee 
last  is,  the  impression  made  and  maintained 
by  the  events  of  the  French  Revolution.  We 
shall  say  but  a  word  upon  each  of  these  pro- 
lific themes  of  speculation. 

Because  our  ancestors  stipulated  wisely  for 
the  public  at  the  Revolution,  it  seemed  to 
have  become  a  common  opinion,  that  nothing 
was  left  to  their  posterity  but  to  pursue  their 
private  interest.  The  machine  of  Govern- 
ment was  then  completed  and  set  agoing — 
and  it  w^ill  go  on  without  their  interference. 
Nobody  talks  now  of  the  divine  rightj  or  the 
dispensing  power  of  kings,  or  ventures  to  pro- 
pose to  govern  without  Parliaments,  or  to 
levy  taxes  without  their  authority; — there- 
fore, our  liberties  are  secure ; — and  it  is  only 
factious  or  ambitious  people  that  affect  any 
jealousy  of  the  executive.  Things  go  on  very 
smoothly  as  they  are ;  and  it  can  never  be 
the  interest  of  any  party  in  power,  to  attempt 
any  thing  very  oppressive  or  injurious  to  the 
public.  By  such  reasonings,  men  excuse  their 
abandonment  of  all  concern  for  the  commu- 
nity, and  find,  in  the  very  excellence  of  the 
constitution,  an  apology  for  exposing  it  to  cor- 
ruption. It  is  obvious,  however,  that  liberty, 
like  love,  is  as  hard  to  keep  as  to  \\m ;  ana 
that  the  exertions  by  which  it  was  originally 
gained  will  be  worse  than  fruitless,  if  they  be 
not  followed  up  by  the  assiduities  by  which 
alone  it  can  be  preserved.  Wherever  there 
is  power,  we  may  be  sure  that  there  is,  or 
will  be,  a  disposition  to  increase  it ;  and  if 
there  be  not  a  constant  spirit  of  jealousy  and 
of  resistance  on  the  part  of  the  people,  every 
monarchy  will  gradually  harden  into  a  des- 
potism. It  will  not,  indeed,  wantonly  provoke 
or  alarm,  by  seeking  again  to  occupy  those 
very  positions  from  which  it  had  once  been 
dislodged:  but  it  will  extend  itself  in  other 
quarters,  and  march  on  silently,  under  the 
colours  of  a  venal  popularity. 

This  indolent  reliance  on  the  sufficiency  of 
the  constitution  for  its  own  preservation,  af 
fords  great  facilities,  no  doubt,  to  those  who 
may  be  tempted  to  project  its  destruction; 
but  the  efficient  means  are  to  be  found  chiefly 

ii 


FOX'S  REIGN  OF  JAJVIES  THE  SECOND. 


199 


in  the  prevailing  manners  of  the  people,  and 
the  monstrous  patronage  of  the  government. 
It  can  admit  of  no  doubt,  we  suppose,  that 
trade,  which  has  made  us  rich,  has  made  us 
f»till  more  luxurious ;  and  that  the  increased 
necessity  of  expense,  has  in  general  outgone 
the  means  of  supplying  it.  Almost  every  in- 
dividual now  finds  it  more  difficult  to  live  on 
a  level  with  his  equals,  than  he  did  when  all 
were  poorer ;  almost  every  man,  therefore,  is 
needy ;  and  he  who  is  both  needy  and  luxu- 
rious, holds  his  independence  on  a  very  pre- 
carious tenure.  Government,  on  the  other 
hand,  has  the  disposal  of  nearly  twenty  mil- 
lions per  annurru,  and  the  power  of  nominating 
to  two  or  three  hundred  thousand  posts  or 
places  of  emolument ; — the  whole  population 
of  the  country  amounting  (1808)  to  less  than 
five  millions  of  grown  men.  The  consequence 
is,  that,  beyond  the  rank  of  mere  labourers, 
there  is  scarcely  one  man  out  of  three  who 
does  not  hold  or  hope  for  some  appointment 
or  promotion  from  government,  and  is  not 
consequently  disposed  to  go  all  honest  lengths 
in  recommending  himself  to  its  favour.  This, 
it  must  be  admitted,  is  a  situation  which 
justifies  some  alarm  for  the  liberties  of  the 
people ;  and,  when  taken  together  with  that 
general  indifference  to  the  public  which  has 
been  already  noticed,  accounts  sufficiently  for 
that  habit  of  presuming  in  favour  of  all  exer- 
tions of  authority,  and  against  all  popular 
discontent  or  interference,  which  is  so  re- 
markably the  characteristic  of  the  present 
generation.  From  this  passive  desertion  of 
the  people,  it  is  but  one  step  to  abet  and  de- 
fend the  actual  oppressions  of  their  rulers; 
and  men,  otherwise  conscientious,  we  are 
afraid,  too  often  impose  upon  themselves  by 
no  better  reasonings  than  the  following — 
'■'  This  measure,  to  be  sure,  is  bad,  and  some- 
what tyrannical; — but  men  are  not  angels; — 
all  human  government  is  imperfect ;  and,  on 
the  whole,  ours  is  much  too  good  to  be  quar- 
relled with.  Besides,  what  good  purpose 
could  be  answered  by  my  individual  opposi- 
tion ?  I  might  rain  my  own  fortune,  indeed, 
and  blast  the  prospects  of  my  children ;  but  it 
would  be  too  romantic  to  imagine,  that  the 
fear  of  my  displeasure  would  produce  an  im- 
maculate administration — so  I  will  hold  my 
tongue,  and  shift  for  myself  as  well  as  possi- 
ble." When  the  majority  of  those  who  have 
influence  in  the  country  reason  in  this  manner, 
it  surely  cannot  be  unnecessary  to  remind  us, 
now  and  then,  of  the  great  things  that  were 
done  when  the  people  roused  themselves 
against  their  oppressors. 

In  aid  of  these  actual  temptations  of  inter- 
est and  indolence,  come  certain  speculative 
doctrines,  as  to  the  real  value  of  liberty,  and 
the  illusions  by  which  men  are  carried  away 
who  fancy  themselves  acting  on  the  principle 
of  patriotism.  Private  happiness,  it  is  dis- 
Jiovered,  has  but  little  dependence  on  the 
nature  of  the  government.  The  oppressions 
of  monarchs  and  demagogues  are  nearly  equal^ 
in  degree,  though  a  little  different  in  form ;' 
and  the  only  thing  certain  is,  that  in  flying 
fiom  the  one  we  shall  fall  into  the  other,  and 


suffer  tremendously  in  the  period  of  transition 
If  ambition  and  great  activity  therefore  be  noi 
necessary  to  our  happiness,  we  shall  do  wisely 
to  occupy  ourselves  with  the  many  innocent 
and  pleasant  pursuits  that  are  allowed  under 
all  governments ;  instead  of  spreading  tumuli 
and  discontent,  by  endeavouring  to  realize 
some  political  conceit  of  our  own  imagination 
Mr,  Hume,  we  are  afraid,  is  chiefly  responsi- 
ble for  the  prevalence  of  this  Epicurean  an(J 
ignoble  strain  of  sentiment  in  this  country, — 
an  author  from  whose  dispositions  and  under- 
standing, a  very  different  doctrine  might  have 
been  anticipated.*  But,  under  whatever  au- 
thority it  is  maintained,  we  have  no  scrapie 
in  saying,  that  it  seems  to  us  as  obviously 
false  as  it  is  pernicious.  We  need  not  appeal 
to  Turkey  or  to  Russia  to  prove,  that  neither 
liberal  nor  even  gainful  pursuits  can  be  car- 
ried on  with  advantage,  where  there  is  no 
political  freedom:  For,  even  lajing  out  of 
view  the  utter  impossihility  of  securing  the 
persons  and  properties  of  mdividuals  in  any 
other  way,  it  is  certain  that  the  consciousness 
of  independence  is  a  great  enjoyment  in  itself, 
and  that,  without  it,  aJl  the  powers  of  the 
mind,  and  all  the  capacities  of  happiness,  are 
gradually  blunted  and  destroyed.  It  is  like 
the  privation  of  air  and  exercise,  or  the  emas- 
culation of  the  body; — which,  though  they 
may  appear  at  first  to  conduce  to  tranquillity 
and  indolent  enjoyment,  never  fail  to  enfeeble 
the  whole  frame,  and  to  produce  a  state  of 
oppressive  languor  and  debility,  in  compari- 
son with  which  even  wounds  and  fatigue 
would  be  delicious. 

To  counteract  all  these  enervating  and  de- 
pressing causes,  we  had,  no  doubt,  the  increas- 
ing opulence  of  the  lower  and  middling  orders 
of  the  people,  naturally  leading  them  to  aspire 
to  greater  independence,  and  improving  theif 
education  and  general  intelligence.  And  thus, 
public  opinion,  which  is  in  all  countries  the 
great  operating  check  upon  authority,  had 
become  more  extensive  and  more  enlightened; 
and  might  perhaps  have  been  found  a  sufii- 


*  Few  things  seem  more  unaccountable,  and  in- 
deed absurd,  than  that  Hume  should  have  taken 
part  with  high-church  and  hiffh-monarchy  men. 
The  persecutions  which  he  suffered  in  his  youth 
from  the  Presbyterians,  may  perhaps  have  influ- 
enced his  ecclesiastical  partialities.  But  that  he 
should  have  sided  with  the  Tudors  and  the  Stuarts 
against  the  people,  seems  quite  inconsistent  with 
all  the  great  traits  of  his  character.  His  unrivalled 
sagacity  must  have  looked  wiih  contempt  on  the 
preposterous  arguments  by  which  the  jus  divinum 
was  maintained.  His  natural  benevolence  jnust 
have  suggested  the  cruelty  of  subjecting  the  enjoy- 
ments of  thousands  to  the  caprice  of  one  unfeeling 
individual ;  and  his  own  practical  independence  in 
private  Hfe,  might  have  taught  him  the  value  of 
those  feelings  which  he  has  so  mischievously  de- 
rided. Mr.  Fox  seems  to  have  been  struck  with 
the  same  surprise  at  this  strange  trait  in  the  charac- 
ter of  our  philosopher.  In  a  letter  to  Mr.  J^aing, 
he  says,'"  He  was  an  excellent  man,  and  of  great 
powers  of  mind;  but  his  partiality  to  kings  and 
princes  is  intolerable :  nay,  it  is,  in  my  opinion, 
quite  ridiculous  ;  and  is  more  like  the  foolish  ad. 
miration  which  women  and  children  sometime! 
have  for  kings,  than  the  opinion  right  or  wrong 
of  a  philosophei. 


iOO 


HISTORY  AxND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


cient  corrective  of  all  our  other  corruptions, 
had  things  gone  on  around  us  in  their  usual 
and  accustomed  channels.  Unfortunately, 
however,  the  French  Revolution  came,  to  as- 
tonish and  appal  the  world ;  and,  originating 
with  the  people,  not  only  subverted  thrones 
and  establishments,  but  made  such  havoc  on 
the  lives  and  properties  and  principles  of  in- 
dividuals, as  very  naturally  to  excite  the  horror 
and  alarm  of  all  whose  condition  was  not  al- 
ready intolerable.  This  alarm,  in  so  far  as  it 
related  to  this  country,  was  always  excessive, 
and  in  a  great  degree  unreasonable  :  But  it 
was  impossible  perhaps  altogether  to  escape 
it ;  and  the  consequences  have  been  incalcu- 
lably injurious  to  the  interests  of  practical 
liberty.  During  the  raging  of  that  war  which 
Jacobinism  in  its  most  disgusting  form  carried 
on  against  rank  and  royalty,  it  was  natural  for 
those  who  apprehended  the  possibility  of  a 
similar  conflict  at  home,  to  fortify  those  orders 
with  all  that  reason  and  even  prejudice  could 
5upply  for  their  security,  and  to  lay  aside  for 
i"he  time  those  jealousies  and  hereditary 
^^rudges,  upon  which,  in  better  days,  it  was 
their  duty  to  engage  in  contention.  While  a 
aging  fever  of  liberty  was  epidemic  in  the 
neighbourhood,  the  ordinary  diet  of  the  people 
sippeared  too  inflammatory  for  their  constitu- 
tion ;  and  it  was  thought  advisable  to  abstain 
from  articles,  w^hich,  at  all  other  times,  were 
allowed  to  be  necessary  for  their  health  and 
vigour.  Thus,  a  sort  of  tacit  convention  was 
entered  into, — to  say  nothing,  for  a  while,  of 
the  follies  and  vices  of  princes,  the  tyranny 
of  courts,  or  the  rights  of  the  people.  The 
Revolution  of  1688,  it  vyas  agreed,  could  not 
be  mentioned  with  praise,  without  giving 
some  indirect  encouragement  to  the  Revolu- 
tion of  1789;  and  it  was  thought  as  M-ell  to 
say  nothing  in  favour  of  Hampden,  or  Russell, 
or  Sydney,  for  fear  it  might  give  spirits  to 
Robespierre,  Danton,  or  Marat.  To  this  strict 
regimen  the  greater  part  of  the  nation  sub- 
mitted of  their  own  accord  ;  and  it  was  forced 
upon  the  remainder  by  a  pretty  vigorous  sys- 
tem of  proceeding.  Now,  we  do  not  greatly 
blame  either  the  alarm,  or  the  precautions 
which  it  dictated  :  but  we  do  very  seriously 
lament,  that  the  use  of  those  precautions 
should  have  degenerated  into  a  sort  of  na- 
.ional  habit ;  and  should  be  continued  and 
approved  of  so  very  long  after  the  danger 
which  occasioned  them  has  ceased. 

It  is  now  at  least  ten  years  since  Jacobinism 
was  prostrated  at  Paris ;  and  it  is  still  longer 
since  it  ceased  to  be  regarded  with  any  thing 
but  horror  in  this  country.  Yet  the  favourers 
of  power  would  still  take  advantage  of  its 
name  to  shield  authority  from  question  ;  and 
to  throw  obloquy  on  the  rights  and  services 
of  the  people.  The  power  of  habit  has  come 
unfortunately  to  their  aid ;  and  it  is  still  un- 
fashionable, and,  we  are  afraid,  not  very 
popular,  to  talk  of  the  tyranny  of  the  Stuarts, 
and  the  triumph  of  the  Revolution,  in  the 
lone  which  was  universal  and  established 
within  these  last  twenty  years.  For  our  parts, 
howev*  r,  we  see  no  sort  of  reason  ^^r  this 
phange  j  and  we  hail,  with  pleasure,  this  ^rork 


of  Mr.  Fox's,  as  likely  to  put  an  end  to  a 

system  of  timidity  so  apt  to  graduate  ints 
servility;  and  to  famili-a^rize  his  countrymen 
once  more  to  speak  and  to  think  of  Charles, 
of  James,  and  of  Strafford, — and  of  William, 
and  Russell,  and  Sydney, — ^as  it  becomes 
Englishmen  to  speak  and  to  think  of  such 
characters.  To  talk  with  affected  tenderness 
of  oppressors,  may  suit  the  policy  of  those 
who  wish  to  bespeak  the  clemency  of  an 
Imperial  Conqueror ;  but  must  appear  pecu- 
liarly base  and  inconsistent  in  all  who  profess 
an  anxiety  to  rouse  the  people  to  great  exer- 
tions in  the  cause  of  their  independence. 

The  volume  itself,  which  has  given  occasion 
to  these  reflections,  and  from  which  we  have 
withheld  our  readers  too  long,  consists  of  a 
preface  or  general  introduction  from  the  pen 
of  Lord  Holland ;  an  introductory  chapter, 
comprising  a  review  of  the  leading  events, 
from  the  year  1640  to  the  death  of  Charles 
11. ;  two  chapters  of  the  history  of  the  reign 
of  James,  which  include  no  more  than  seven 
months  of  the  year  1685,  and  narrate  very 
little  but  the  unfortunate  expeditions  of  Ar- 
gyle  and  of  jNIonmouth ;  and  a  pretty  long 
Appendix,  consisting  chiefly  of  the  corre- 
spondence between  Barillon,  the  French  con- 
fidential minister  at  the  court  of  England,  and 
his  master  Louis  XIV. 

Lord  Holland's  part  of  the  volume  is  written 
with  great  judgment,  perspicuity,  and  pro- 
priety ;  and  though  it  contains  less  anecdote 
and  minute  information  with  regard  to  hia 
illustrious  kinsman  than  every  reader  must 
wish  to  possess,  it  not  only  gives  a  very  satis- 
factory account  of  the  progress  of  the  work 
to  which  it  is  prefixed,  but  affords  us  some 
glimpses  of  the  character  and  opinions  of  its 
author,  which  are  peculiarly  interesting,  both 
from  the  authenticity  of  the  source  from  which 
they  are  derived,  and  from  the  unostentatious 
simplicity  with  which  they  are  communicated. 
Lord  Holland  has  not  been  able  to  ascertain 
at  what  period  Mr.  Fox  first  formed  the  de- 
sign of  writing  a  history ;  but,  from  the  year 
1797,  when  he  ceased  to  give  a  regular  attend- 
ance in  parliament,  he  was  almost  entirely 
occupied  with  literary  schemes  and  avoca- 
tions. The  following  little  sketch  of  the  tem- 
per and  employments  of  him  who  was  pitied 
by  many  as  a  disappointed  politician,  is  ex- 
tremely amiable;  and,  w^e  are  now  convinced 
by  the  fragment  before  us,  correctly  true. 

"  During  his  retirement,  that  love  of  literature, 
and  fondness  for  poetry,  which  neither  pleasure  nor 
business  had  ever  e.xtinfruished,  revived  with  an 
ardour,  such  as  few,  in  the  eagerness  ol  youth  or 
in  pursuit  of  fame  or  advantage,  are  capable  of 
feeling.  For  some  time,  however,  his  studies  were 
not  directed  to  any  particular  object.  Such  was  the 
happy  disposition  of  his  mind,  that  his  own  reflec- 
tions, whether  supplied  by  conversation,  desultory 
reading,  or  the  common  occurrences  of  a  life  in  the 
country,  were  always  sufficient  to  call  forth  the 
vigour  and  exertion  of  his  faculties.  Intercourse 
with  the  world  had  so  little  deadened  in  him  the 
sense  of  the  simplest  enjoyments,  that  even  in  thr 
hours  of  apparent  leisure  and  inactivity,  he  retained 
that  keen  relish  of  existence,  which,  after  the  first 
impressions  of  life,  is  so  rarely  excited  but  by  grea* 
initrests  and  strong  passions.     Hence  it  was 


FOX'S  REIGN  OF  JAMES  li.i.  SECOND. 


ffi  the  interval  between  his  active  attendance  in  par- 
liament, and  the  undertaking  of  his  History,  he 
never  felt  the  tedium  of  a  vacant  day.  A  verse  in 
Uowper,  which  he  frequently  repeated, 

•How  Tarious  his  employments  whom  the  world 
Calls  idle  1' 

was  an  accurate  description  of  the  life  he  was  then 
leading;  and  I  am  persuaded,  that  if  he  had  con- 
sulted his  own  gratifications  only,  it  would  have 
continued  to  be  so.  The  circumstances  which  led 
him  once  more  to  take  an  active  part  in  public  dis- 
cussions, are  foreign  to  the  purposes  of  this  preface. 
It  is  sufficient  to  remark,  that  they  could  not  be 
foreseen,  and  that  his  notion  of  engaging  in  some 
literary  undertaking  was  adopted  during  his  retire- 
ment, and  with  the  prospect  of  long  a'nd  uninter- 
rupted leisure  before  him." — p.  iii.  iv. 

He  seems  to  have  fixed  finally  on  the  his- 
tory of  the  Revolution,  about  the  year  1799; 
but  everi  after  the  work  was  begun,  he  not 
only  dedicated  large  portions  of  his  time  to 
the  study  of  Greek  literature,  and  poetry  in 
general,  but  meditated  and  announced  to  his 
correspondents  a  great  variety  of  publications, 
upon  a  very  wide  range  of  subjects.  Among 
these  were,  an  edition  of  Dryden— a  Defence 
of  Racine  and  of  the  French  Stage — an  Essay 
on  the  Beauties  of  Euripides — a  Disquisition 
upon  Hume's  History — and  an  Essay  or  Dia- 
logue on  Poetry,  History,  and  Oratory.  In 
1802,  the  greater  part  of  the  work,  as  it  now 
stands,  was  finished ;  but  the  author  wished 
to  consult  the  papers  in  the  Scotch  College, 
and  the  Depot  des  Affaires  etrangeres  at  Paris, 
and  took  the  opportunity  of  the  peace  to  pay 
a  visit  to  that  capital  accordingly.  After  his 
return,  he  made  some  additions  to  his  chap- 
ters; but  being  soon  after  recalled  to  the 
duties  of  public  life,  he  never  afterwards 
found  leisure  to  go  on  with  the  work  to  which 
he  had  dedicated  himself  with  so  much  zeal 
and  assiduity.  What  he  did  write  was  finished, 
however,  for  the  most  part,  with  very  great 
care.  He  wrote  very  slow:  and  was  extremely 
fastidious  in  the  choice  of  his  expressions; 
holding  pedantry  and  affectation,  however,  in 
far  greater  horror  than  carelessness  or  rough- 
ness. He  commonly  wrote  detached  sentences 
on  slips  of  paper,  arid  afterwards  dictated  them 
off  to  Mrs.  Fox,  who  copied  them  into  the 
book  from  which  the  present  volume  has  been 
printed  without  the  alteration  of  a  single  syl- 
lable. "       ^ 

The  only  other  part  of  Lord  Holland's  state- 
ment, to  which  we  think  it  necessary  to  call 
the  attention  of  the  reader,  is  that  in  which 
he  thinks  it  necessary  to  explain  the  peculiar 
notions  which  Mr.  Fox  entertained  on  the 
subject  of  historical  composition,  and  the  very 
rigid  laws  to  which  he  had  subjected  himself 
in  the  execution  of  his  important  task. 


"  It  is  therefore  necessary  to  observe,  that  he  had 
formed  his  plan  so  exclusively  on  the  model  of  an- 
cient writers,  that  he  not  only  felt  some  repugnance 
to  the  modern  practice  of  notes,  but  he  thought  that 
all  which  an  historian  wished  to  say,  should  be  in- 
troduced as  part  of  a  continued  narration,  and  never 
assume  the  appearance  of  a  digression,  much  less 
of  a  dissertation  annexed  to  it.  From  the  period, 
therefore,  that  he  closed  his  Introductory  Chapter, 
he  defined  his  duty  as  an  author,  to  consist  in  re- 
counting the  facts  aa  they  arose;  or  in  his  simple 
*nd  forcible  language,  i?i  telling  the  story  of  those 


times.  A  conversation  which  passed  on  the  sub- 
ject  of  the  literature  of  the  ago  of  James  the  Se- 
cond, proves  his  rigid  adherence  to  these  ideas; 
and  perhaps  the  substance  of  it  may  serve  to  illus- 
trate and  explain  them.  In  speaking  of  the  ;vriter8 
of  that  period,  he  lamented  that  he  had  not  devised 
a  method  of  interweaving  any  account  of  them  or 
their  works,  much  less  any  criticism  on  their  style, 
into  his  history.  On  my  suggesting  the  example 
of  Hume  and  Voltaire,  who  had  discussed  such 
topics  at  some  length,  either  at  the  end  of  each 
reign,  or  in  a  separate  chapter,  he  observed,  with 
much  commendation  of  their  execution  of  it,  that 
such  a  contrivance  might  be  a  good  mode  of  writing 
critical  essays,  but  that  it  was,  in  his  opinion,  in- 
compatible with  the  nature  of  his  undertaking, 
which,  if  it  ceased  to  be  a  narrative,  ceased  to  be  a 
history." — p.  xxxvi.  xxxvii. 

Now,  we  must  be  permitted  to  say,  tnat 
this  is  a  view  of  the  nature  of  history,  M-hich, 
in  so  far  as  it  is  intelligible,  appears  to  be 
very  narrow  and  erroneous ;  and  which  seems, 
like  all  such  partial  views,  to  have  been  so 
little  adhered  to  by  the  author  himself,  as 
only  to  exclude  many  excellences,  without  at- 
taining the  praise  even  of  consistency  in  error. 
The  object  of  history,  wq  conceive,  is  to  give 
us  a  clear  narrative  of  the  transactions  of  past 
ages,  with  a  view  of  the  character  and  condi- 
tion of  those  who  were  concerned  in  them, 
and  such  reasonings  and  reflections  as  may 
be  necesskry  to  explain  their  connection,  or 
natural  on  reviewing  their  results.  That  some 
account  of  the  authors  of  a  literary  age  should 
have  a  place  in  such  a  composition,  seems  to 
follow  upon  two  cotisiderations :  first,  because 
it  is  unquestionably  one  object  of  history  to 
give  us  a  distinct  view  of  the  state  and  cond  ition 
of  the  age  and  people  with  whose  affairs  it  is 
occupied ;  and  nothing  can  serve  so  well  to 
illustrate  their  true  state  and  condition  as  a 
correct  estimate  and  description  of  the  great 
authors  they  produced  :  and,  secondly^  be- 
cause the  fact  that  such  and  such  authors  did 
flourish  in  such  a  period,  and  were  ingenious 
and  elegant,  or  rude  and  ignorant,  are  facta 
which  are  interesting  in  themselves,  and  may 
be  made  the  object  of  narrative  just  as  pro- 
perly as  that  such  and  such  princes  or  minis- 
ters did  flourish  at  the  same  time,  and  were 
ambitious  or  slothful,  tyrannical  or  friends  to 
liberty.  Political  events  are  not  the  only 
events  which  are  recorded  even  in  ancient 
history :  and,  now  when  it  is  generally  ad- 
mitted, that  even  political  events  cannot  be 
fully  understood  or  accounted  for  without 
taking  into  view  the  preceding  and  concomi- 
tant changes  in  manners,  literature,  com- 
merce, &c.  it  cannot  fail  to  appear  surprising, 
that  an  author  of  such  a  compass  of  mind  as 
belonged  to  Mr.  Fox,  should  have  thought  of 
confining  himself  to  the  mere  chronicling  of 
wars  or  factions,  and  held  himself  excluded, 
by  the  laws  of  historical  composition,  from 
touching  upon  topics  so  much  more  interest- 
ing. 

The  truth  is,  however,  that  Mr.  Fox  has  by 
no  means  adhered  to  this  plan  of  merely 
"  telling  the  story  of  the  times"  of  which  he 
treats.  On  the  contrary,  he  is  more  full  of 
argument,  and  what  is  properly  called  reflec- 
tion, than  most  modern  historians  with  whom 


202 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS 


we  are  acquainted.  His  argument,  to  be  sure, 
is  chiefly  directed  to  ascertain  the  truth  of 
reputed  facts,  or  the  motives  of  ambiguous 
actions ;  and  his  reflections,  however  just  and 
natural,  may  commonly  be  considered  as  re- 
dundant, with  a  view  to  mere  information. 
Of  another  kind  of  reasoning,  indeed,  he  is 
more  sparing  ]  though  of  a  kind  far  more  valu- 
able, and,  in  our  apprehension,  far  more  es- 
sential to  the  true  perfection  of  history.  We 
allude  now  to  those  general  views  of  the 
causes  which  influence  the  character  and  dis- 
position of  the  people  at  large ;  and  which,  as 
they  vary  from  age  to  age,  bring  a  greater  or 
a  smaller  part  of  the  nation  into  contact  with 
its  government,  and  ultimately  produce  the 
success  or  failure  of  every  scheme  of  tyranny 
or  freedom.  The  more  this  subject  is  medi- 
tated, the  more  certain,  we  are  persuaded,  it 
will  appear,  that  all  permanent  and  important 
occurrences  in  the  internal  history  of  a  coun- 
try, are  the  result  of  those  changes  in  the 
general  character  of  its  population ;  and  that 
kings  and  ministers  are  necessarily  guided  in 
their  projects  by  a  feeling  of  the  tendencies 
of  this  varying  character,  and  fail  or  succeed, 
exactly  as  they  had  judged  correctly  or  erro- 
neously of  its  condition.  To  trace  the  causes 
and  the  modes  of  its  variation,  is  therefore  to 
describe  the  true  sources  of  events ;  and, 
merely  to  narrate  the  occurrences  to  which  it 
gave  rise,  is  to  recite  a  history  of  actions  with- 
out intelligible  motives,  and  of  effects  without 
assignable  causes.  It  is  true,  no  doubt,  that 
political  events  operate  in  their  turn  on  that 
national  character  by  which  they  are  previ- 
ously moulded  and  controuled  :  But  they  are 
very  far,  indeed,  from  being  the  chief  agents 
in  its  formation ;  and  the  history  of  those  very 
events  is  necessarily  imperfect,  as  well  as 
uninstructive,  if  the  consideration  of  those 
other  agents  is  omitted.  They  consist  of 
every  thing  which  affects  the  character  of 
individuals : — manners,  education,  prevailing 
occupations,  religion,  taste, — and,  above  all, 
the  distribution  of  wealthy  and  the  state  of 
prejudice  and  opinions. 

It  is  the  more  to  be  regretted,  that  such  a 
mind  as  Mr.  Fox's  should  have  been  bound 
up  from  such  a  subject  by  the  shackles  of  an 
idle  theory ;  because  the  period  of  which  he 
treats  affords  the  finest  of  all  opportunities  for 

Srosecutin^  such  an  inquiry,  and  does  not,  in- 
eed,  admit  of  an  intelligible  or  satisfactory 
history  upon  any  other  conditions.  There  are 
three  great  events,  falling  within  that  period. 
of  which,  it  appears  to  us,  that  "  the  story" 
has  not  yet  been  intelligibly  told,  for  want  of 
tsome  such  analysis  of  the  national  feelings. 
One  is,  the  universal  joy  and  sincere  confi- 
dence with  which  Charles  II.  was  received 
back,  without  one  stipulation  for  the  liberties 
of  the  people,  or  one  precaution  against  the 
abuses  of  power.  This  was  done  by  the  very 
people  \\\\o  had  waged  war  against  a  more 
amiable  Sovereign,  and  quarrelled  with  the 
Protector  for  depriving  them  of  their  freedom. 
It  is  saying  nothing,  to  say  that  Monk  did  this 
by  means  of  the  army.  It  was  not  done 
either  by  Monk  or  the  army,  but  by  the  na- 


tion ;  and  even  if  it  were  not  bO,  the  question 
would  still  be, — by  what  change  in  the  di* 
positions  of  the  army  and  the  nation  Monk 
was  able  to  make  them  do  it.  The  second 
event,  which  must  always  appear  unaccount- 
able upon  the  mere  narrative  of  the  circum- 
stances, is  the  base  and  abject  submission  of 
the  people  to  the  avowed  tyranny  of  the  re- 
stored Charles,  when  he  was  pleased  at  last 
to  give  up  the  use  of  Parliaments,  ai>d  to  tax 
and  govern  on  his  own  single  authority.  Thia 
happened  when  most  of  those  must  have  still 
been  alive  who  had  seen  the  nation  rise  up  in 
arms  ag-ainst  his  father ;  and  within  five  years 
of  the  time  w^hen  it  rose  up  still  more  unani- 
mously against  his  successor,  and  not  only 
changed  the  succession  of  the  crown,  but  very 
strictly  defined  and  limited  its  prerogatives. 
The  third,  is  the  Revolution  itself;  an  event 
which  was  brought  about  by  the  very  indi- 
viduals who  had  submitted  so  quietly  to  the 
domination  of  Charles,  and  who,  when  assem- 
bled in  the  House  of  Commons  under  James 
himself,  had,  of  their  own  accord,  sent  one  of 
their  members  to  the  Tower  for  having  ob- 
served, upon  a  harsh  and  tyrannical  expres- 
sion of  the  King's,  that  ^'  he  hoped  they  were 
all  Englishmen,  and  not  to  be  frighted  with  a 
few  hard  words."  It  is  not  to  give  us  the 
history  of  these  events,  merely  to  set  down 
the  time  and  circumstances  of  the  occurrence, 
They  evidently  require  some  explanation,  in 
order  to  be  comprehended ;  and  the  narrative 
will  be  altogether  unsatisfactory,  as  well  as 
totally  barren  of  instruction,  unless  it  give 
some  account  of  those  changes  in  the  genera] 
temper  and  opinion  of  the  nation,  by  which 
such  contradictory  actions  became  possible. 
Mr.  Fox's  conception  of  the  limits  of  legiti- 
mate history,  restrained  him,  we  are  afraid, 
from  entering  into  such  considerations ;  and 
they  will  best  estimate  the  amount  of  his 
error,  who  are  most  aware  of  the  importance 
of  the  information  of  which  it  has  deprived 
us.  Nothing,  in  our  apprehension,  can  b© 
beyond  the  province  of  legitimate  history, 
which  tends  to  give  us  clear  conceptions  of 
the  times  and  characters  with  which  that  his- 
tory is  conversant ;  nor  can  the  story  of  any 
time  be  complete  or  valuable,  unless  it  look 
before  and  after, — to  the  causes  and  conse- 
quences of  the  events  which  it  details,  and 
mark  out  the  period  with  which  it  is  occupied, 
as  part  of  a  greater  series,  as  well  as  an  object 
of  separate  consideration. 

In  proceeding  to  the  consideration  of  Mr. 
Fox's  own  part  of  this  volume,  it  may  be 
as  well  to  complete  that  general  estimate  of 
its  excellence  and  defects  which  we  have 
been  led  incidentally  to  express  in  a  good 
degree  already.  We  shall  then  be  able  to 
pursue  our  analysis  of  the  successive  cnap- 
ters  with  less  distraction. 

The  sentiments,  we  think,  are  almost  aL 
just,  and  candid,  and  manly;  but  the  narra- 
tive is  too  minute  and  diffusive,  and  does 
not  in  general  flow  with  much  spirit  or  fa- 
cility. Inconsiderable  incidents  are  detailed 
at  far  too  great  length  ;  and  an  extreme  and 
painful  anxiety  is  shown   to  ascertain  the 


FOX'S  REIGN  OF  JAMES  THE  SECOND. 


203 


fixact  truth  of  doablful  or  contested  passages, 
B.nd  the  probable  motives  of  insignificant  and 
ambiguous  actions.  The  labour  which  is 
thus  visibly  bestowed  on  the  work,  often  ap- 
})ears,  therefore,  disproportioned  to  the  im- 
j)ortance  of  the  result.  The  history  becomes, 
m  a  certain  degree,  languid  and  heavy ;  and 
something  like  a  feeling  of  disappointment 
and  impatience  is  generated,  from  the  tardi- 
ness and  excessive  caution  wnth  which  the 
»tory  is  carried  forward.  In  those  constant 
attempts,  too.  to  verify  the  particulars  which 
are  narrated,  a  certain  tone  of  debate  is  fre- 
quently assumed,  which  savours  more  of  the 
orator  than  the  historian ;  and  though  there 
is  nothing  florid  or  rhetorical  in  the  general 
cast  of  the  diction,  yet  those  argumentative 
passages  are  evidently  more  akin  to  public 
speaking  than  to  written  composition.  Fre- 
quent interrogations — short  alternative  propo- 
sitions— and  an  occasional  mixture  of  familiar 
images  and  illustrations, — all  denote  a  certain 
habit  of  personal  altercation,  and  of  keen  and 
animated  contention.  Instead,  therefore,  of 
a  work  emulating  the  full  and  flowing  nar- 
rative of  Livy  or  Herodotus,  we  find  in  Mr. 
Fox's  book  rather  a  series  of  critical  remarks 
on  the  narratives  of  preceding  waiters,  min- 
gled up  with  occasional  details  somewhat 
more  copious  and  careful  than  the  magnitude 
of  the  subjects  seemed  to  require.  The  his- 
tory, in  short,  is  planned  upon  too  broad  a 
scale,  and  the  narrative  too  frequently  inter- 
rupted by  small  controversies  and  petty  inde- 
cisions. We  are  aware  that  these  objections 
may  be  owing  in  a  good  degree  to  the  small- 
ness  of  the  fragment  upon  which  we  are  un- 
fortunately obliged  to  hazard  them ;  and  that 
the  proportions  w^hich  appear  gigantic  in  this 
little  relic,  might  have  been  no  rrijore  than 
majestic  in  the  finished  work  ;  but  even  after 
making  allowance  for  this  consideration,  we 
cannot  help  thinking  that  the  details  are  too 
minute,  and  the  verifications  too  elaborate. 

The  introductory  chapter  is  full  of  admi- 
rable reasonings  and  just  reflections.  It  be- 
gins with  noticing,  that  there  are  certain 
periods  in  the  history  of  every  people,  which 
are  obviously  big  with  important  consequen- 
ces, and  exercise  a  visible  and  decisive  in- 
fluence on  the  times  that  come  after.  The 
reign  of  Henry  VII.  is  one  of  these,  with  re- 
lation to  England ; — another  is  that  comprised 
bctv/een  1588  and  1640; — and  the  most  re- 
marVfible  of  all,  is  that  which  extends  from 
the  last  of  these  dates,  to  the  death  of  Charles 
II. — the  era  of  constitutional  principles  and 
practical  tyranny — of  the  best  laws,  and  the 
most  corrupt  administration.  It  is  to  the  re- 
view of  mis  period,  that  the  introductory 
chapter  is  dedicated. 

Mr.  Fox  approves  of  the  first  proceedings 
of  tiie  Commons;  but  censures  without  re- 
serve the  unjustifiable  form  of  the  proceed- 
ings against  Lord  Strafford,  whom  he  qualifies 
with  the  name  of  a  great  delinquent.  With 
regard  to  the  causes  of  the  civil  war,  the  most 
difficult  question  to  determine  is,  whether  the 
Parliament  made  sufficient  efforts  to  avoid 
bringing  affairs  to  such  a  decision.    That  they 


had  justice  on  their  side,  he  says,  cam.ot  be 
reasonably  doubted, — but  seems  to  think  thaJ 
something  more  might  have  been  done,  to 
bring  matters  to  an  accommodation.  With 
regard  to  the  execution  of  the  King,  he  makes 
the  following  striking  observations,  in  thai 
tone  (Jf  fearless  integrity  and  natural  mild 
ness,  which  we  have  already  noticed  aa 
characteristic  of  this  performance. 

"  The  execution  of  the  King,  though  a  far  less 
violent  measure  than  that  of  Lord  Strafford,  is  an 
event  of  so  singular  a  nature,  that  we  cannot 
wonder  that  it  should  have  excited  more  sensation 
than  any  other  in  the  annals  of  England.  This  ex- 
emplary act  of  substantial  justice,  as  it  has  been 
called  by  some,  of  enormous  wickedness  by  others, 
must  be  considered  in  two  points  of  view.  First, 
was  it  not  in  itself  just  and  necessary  !  Secondly, 
was  the  example  ot  it  likely  to  be  salutary  or  per- 
nicious ?  In  regard  to  the  first  of  these  questions, 
Mr.  Hume,  not  perhaps  intentionally,  makes  the 
best  justification  of  it,  by  saying,  that  while  Charles 
lived,  the  projected  Republic  could  never  be  secure. 
But  to  justify  taking  away  the  life  of  an  individual, 
upon  the  principle  of  self-defence,  the  danger  must 
be,  not  problematical  and  remote,  but  evident  and 
immediate.  The  danger  in  this  instance  was  not 
of  such  a  nature  ;  and  the  imprisonment,  or  even 
banishment  of  Charles,  might  have  given  to  the 
republic  such  a  degree  of  security  as  any  govern- 
ment ought  to  be  content  with.  It  must  be  con- 
fessed, however,  on  the  other  side,  that  if  the  re- 
publican government  had  suffered  the  King  to 
escape,  it  would  have  been  an  act  of  justice  and 
generosity  wholly  unexampled  ;  and  to  have 
granted  him  even  his  life,  would  have  been  one 
among  the  more  rare  efforts  of  virtue.  The  short 
interval  between  the  deposal  and  death  of  princes 
is  become  proverbial ;  and  though  there  may  be 
some  few  examples  on  the  other  side,  as  far  aa 
life  is  concerned,  I  doubt  whether  a  single  in- 
stance can  be  found,  where  liberty  has  been 
granted  to  a  deposed  monarch.  Among  the 
modes  of  destroying  persons  in  such  a  situation, 
there  can  be  little  doubt  but  that  adopted  by 
Cromwell  and  his  adherents  is  the  least  dis- 
honourable. Edward  the  Second,  Richard  the 
Second,  Henry  the  Sixth,  Edward  the  Fifth,  had 
none  of  them  long  survived  their  deposal ;  but 
this  was  the  first  instance,  in  our  history  at  least, 
where,  of  such  an  act,  it  could  be  truly  said,  thai 
it  was  not  done  in  a  corner. 

"  As  to  the  second  question,  whether  the  advan- 
tage to  be  derived  from  the  example  was  such  aa 
to  justify  an  act  of  such  violence,  it  appears  to  me 
to  be  a  complete  solution  of  it  to  observe,  that  with 
respect  to  England  (and  I  know  not  upon  what 
ground  we  are  to  set  examples  for  other  nations, 
or,  in  other  words,  to  take  the  criminal  justice  of 
the  world  into  our  hands),  it  was  wholly  needless, 
and  therefore  unjustifiable,  to  set  one  for  kings,  at 
a  time  when  it  was  intended  the  office  of  king 
should  be  abolished,  and  consequently  that  no  per- 
son  should  be  in  the  situation  to  make  it  the  rule 
of  his  conduct.  Besides,  the  miseries  attendant 
upon  a  deposed  monarch,  seem  to  be  sufficient  to 
deter  any  prince,  who  thinks  of  consequences,  from 
running  the  risk  of  being  placed  in  such  a  situa- 
tion ;  or  if  death  be  the  only  evil  that  can  deter 
him,  the  fate  of  former  tyrants  deposed  by  their 
subjects,  would  by  no  means  encourage  him  to 
hope  he  could  avoid  even  that  catastrophe.  Aa 
far  as  we  can  judge  from  the  event,  the  example 
was  certainly  not  verv  effectual ;  since  both  the 
sons  of  Charles,  though  having  their  father's  fate 
before  their  eyes,  yet  feared  not  to  violate  the  lib- 
erties of  the  people  even  more  than  he  had  al 
tempted  to  do. 

"After  all,  however,  notwithstanding  what  th* 
more  reasonable  part  of  mankind  may  think  upon 


204 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


this  question,  it  is  much  to  be  doubted  whether 
this  singular  proceeding  has  not,  as  much  as  any 
other  circumstance,  served  to  raise  the  character 
of  the  EngHsh  nation  in  the  opinion  of  Europe  in 
general.  He  who  has  read,  and  still  more  he  who 
has  heard  in  conversation,  discussions  upon  this 
subject,  by  foreigners,  must  have  perceived,  that, 
even  in  the  minds  of  those  who  condemn  the  act, 
the  impression  made  by  it  has  been  far  more  that 
of  respect  and  admiration,  than  that  of  disgust  and 
horror.  The  truth  is,  that  the  guilt  of  the  action, 
that  is  to  say,  the  taking  away  the  life  of  the 
King,  is  what  most  men  in  the  place  of  Cromwell 
and  his  associates  would  have  incurred.  What 
there  is  of  splendour  and  of  macrnanimity  in  it,  I 
mean  the  publicity  and  solemnity  of  the  act,  is 
what  few  would  be  capable  of  displaying.  It  is  a 
degrading  fact  to  human  nature,  that  even  the 
sending  away  of  the  Duke  of  Gloucester  was  an 
instance  of  generosity  almost  unexampled  in  the 
history  of  transactions  of  this  nature." — pp.  13 — 17. 

Under  the  Protector,  of  whom  he  speaks 
with  singular  candour,  the  government  was 
absolute — and,  on  his  death,  fell  wholly  into 
the  hands  of  the  army.  He  speaks  with  con- 
tempt and  severe  censure  of  Monk  for  the 
precipitate  and  unconditional  submission  into 
which  he  hurried  the  country  at  the  Restora- 
tion ;  and  makes  the  following  candid  reflec- 
tion on  the  subsequent  punishment  of  the 
regicides. 

"  With  respect  to  the  execution  of  those  who 
were  accused  of  having  been  more  immediately  con- 
cerned in  the  King's  death,  that  of  Scrope,  who 
had  come  in  upon  the  proclamation,  and  of  the 
military  officers  who  had  attended  the  trial,  was  a 
violation  of  every  principle  of  law  and  justice.  But 
the  fate  of  the  others,  though  highly  dishonourable 
to  Monk,  whose  whole  power  had  arisen  from  his 
zeal  in  their  service,  and  the  favour  and  confidence 
with  which  they  had  rewarded  him,  and  not  per- 
haps very  creditable  to  the  nation,  of  which  many 
had  applauded,  more  had  supported,  and  almost  all 
had  acquiesced  in  the  act,  is  not  certainly  to  be  im- 
puted as  a  crime  to  the  King,  or  to  those  of  his  ad- 
visers who  were  of  the  Cavalier  party.  The  pas- 
sicA  of  revenge,  though  properly  condemned  both 
by  philosophy  and  religion,  yet  when  it  is  excited 
by  'njurious  treatment  of  persons  justly  dear  to  us, 
is  among  the  most  excusable  of  human  frailties  ;  and 
if  Charles,  in  his  general  conduct,  had  shown 
stronger  feelings  of  gratitude  for  services  performed 
to  his  father,  his  character,  in  the  eyes  of  many, 
would  be  rather  raised  than  lowered  by  this  example 
of  severity  against  the  regicides." — pp.  22,  23. 

The  mean  and  unprincipled  submission  of 
Charles  to  Louis  XIV.,  and  the  profligate  pre- 
tences upon  which  he  was  perpetually  solicit- 
ing an  increase  of  his  disgraceful  stipend,  are 
mentioned  with  becoming  reprobation.  The 
delusion  of  the  Popish  plot  is  noticed  at  some 
length ;  and  some  admirable  remarks  are  in- 
troduced with  reference  to  the  debates  on  the 
expediency  of  passing  a  bill  for  excluding  the 
Duke  of  York  from  the  Crown,  or  of  imposing 
certain  restrictions  on  him  in  the  event  of  his 
succession.  The  following  observations  are 
distingTiished  for  their  soundness,  as  well  as 
their  acuteness ;  and  are  applicable,  in  prin- 
ciple, to  every  period  of  our  history  in  which 
it  can  be  necessary  to  recur  to  the  true  prin- 
ciples of  the  constitution. 

"  It  is  not  easy  to  conceive  upon  what  principles 
even  the  Tories  could  justify  their  support  of  the 
restrictions.  Many  among  them,  no  doubt,  saw 
the  J  revisions  'n  the  same  light  in  which  the  Whigs 


represented  them,  as  an  expedient,  admirably  in. 
deed  adapted  to  the  real  object  of  upholding  thd 
present  king's  power,  by  the  defeat  of  the  exclu- 
sion, but  never  likely  to  take  effect  for  their  pre 
tended  purpose  of  conirouling  that  of  his  successor , 
and  supported  them  for  that  very  reason.  But  such 
a  principle  of  conduct  was  too  fraudulent  to  be 
avowed;  nor  ought  it  perhaps,  in  candour,  to  be 
imputed  to  the  majority  of  the  party.  To  those 
who  acted  with  good  faith,  and  meant  that  the  re- 
strictions should  really  take  place,  and  be  effectual, 
surely  it  ought  to  have  occurred  (and  to  those  who 
most  prized  the  prerogatives  of  the  crown,  it  ought 
most  forcibly  to  have  occurred),  that,  in  consenting 
to  curtail  the  powers  of  the  crown,  rather  than  to 
alter  the  succession,  they  were  adopting  the  greater, 
in  order  to  avoid  the  lesser  evil.  The  question  of, 
what  are  to  be  the  powers  of  the  crown  ?  is  surely 
of  superior  importance  to  that  of,  who  shall  wear  it  ? 
Those,  at  least,  who  consider  the  royal  prerogative 
as  vested  in  the  king,  not  for  his  own  sake,  but  for 
that  of  his  subjects,  must  consider  the  one  of  these 
questions  as  much  above  the  other  in  dignity,  as 
the  rights  of  the  public  are  more  valuable  than  those 
of  an  individual.  In  this  view,  the  prerogatives  of 
the  crown  are  in  substance  and  effect  the  rights  of 
the  people :  and  these  rights  of  the  people  were  not  to 
he  sacrificed  to  the  purpose  of  preserving  the  succes- 
sion to  the  most  favoured  prince,  much  less  to  one 
who,  on  account  of  his  religious  persuasion,  was 
justly  feared  and  suspected.  In  truth,  the  ques- 
tion between  the  exclusion  and  restrictions  seems 
peculiarly  calculated  to  ascertain  the  different  viewg 
in  which  the  different  parties  in  this  country  have 
seen,  and  perhaps  ever  will  see,  the  prerogatives 
of  the  crown.  The  Whigs,  who  consider  them  as 
a  trust  for  the  people,  a  doctrine  which  the  Tories 
themselves,  when  pushed  in  argument,  will  some- 
times admit,  naturally  think  it  their  duty  rather  to 
change  the  manager  of  the  trust,  than  to  impair  the 
subject  of  it ;  while  others,  who  consider  them  as 
the  right  or  property  of  the  king,  will  as  naturally 
act  as  they  would  do  in  the  case  of  any  other  prop- 
erty, and  consent  to  the  lessor  annihilation  of  any 
part  of  it,  for  the  purpose  of  preserving  the  remain- 
der to  him,  whom  they  style  the  rightful  owner> 
If  the  people  be  the  sovereign,  and  the  king  the 
delegate,  it  is  better  to  change  the  bailiff  than  to 
injure  the  farm  ;  but  if  the  king  be  the  proprietor, 
it  is  better  the  farm  should  be  impaired,  nay,  part 
of  it  destroyed,  than  that  the  whole  should  pass 
over  to  an  usurper.  The  royal  prerogative  ought, 
according  to  the  Whigs  (not  in  the  case  of  a  Popish 
successor  only,  but  in  all  cases),  to  be  reduced  to 
such  powers  as  are  in  their  exercise  beneficial  to 
the  people  ;  and  of  the  benefit  of  these  they  will  not 
rashly  suffer  the  people  to  be  deprived,  whether 
the  executive  power  be  in  the  hands  of  an  heredi- 
tary,  or  of  an  elected  king;  of  a  regent,  or  of  any 
other  denomination  of  magistrate  ;  while,  on  the 
other  hand,  they  who  consider  prerogative  with 
reference  only  to  royalty,  will,  with  equal  readi- 
ness, consent  either  to  the  extension  or  the  sus- 
pension of  its  exercise,  as  the  occasional  interests 
of  the  prince  may  seem  to  require." — pp.  37 — 39. 

Of  the  reality  of  any  design  to  assassinalu 
the  King,  by  those  engaged  in  what  was  called 
the  Rye-House  Plot,^Mr.  Fox  appears  to  en- 
tertain considerable  doubt,  partly  on  account 
of  the  impiobability  of  many  of  the  circum- 
stances, and  partly  on  account  of  the  uniform 
and  resolute  denial  of  Rumbold,  the  chief  oi 
that  party,  in  circumstances  when  he  had  no 
conceivable  inducement  to  disguise  the  truth 
Of  the  condemnation  of  Russell  and  Sydney, 
he  speaks  with  the  indignation  which  must 
be  felt  by  all  friends  to  liberty  at  the  recol- 
lection of  that  disgraceful  proceeding.  The 
following  passage  is  one  of  the  most  eloquent 


FOX'S  REIGN  OF  JAMES  THE  SECOND. 


208 


and  one  of  the  most  characteristic  in  the  whole 
vohime. 

"  Upon  evidence  such  as  has  been  stated,  was 
♦bis  great  and  excellent  man  (Sydney)  condemned 
to  die.  Pardon  was  not  to  be  expected.  Mr. 
Hume  says,  that  such  an  interference  on  the  part 
of  the  King,  though  it  might  have  been  an  act  of 
heroic  generosity,  could  not  be  regarded  as  an  in- 
dispensable duty.  He  might  have  said,  with  more 
propriety,  that  it  was  idle  to  exoect  that  the  govern- 
ment, after  having  incurred  so  much  guilt  in  order 
to  obtain  the  sentence,  should,  by  remitting  it,  re- 
linquish  the  object  just  when  it  is  wiihin  its  grasp. 
The  same  hisiorian  considers  the  jury  as  highly 
blameable  :  and  so  do  I ;  But  what  was  their  guilt, 
in  ccmparlson  of  that  of  the  court  who  tried,  and 
of  ths  government  who  prosecuted,  in  this  infamous 
cause  ?  Yet  the  jury,  being  the  only  party  that 
can  with  any  colour  be  stated  as  acting  independ- 
ently of  the  government,  is  the  only  one  mentioned 
by  him  as  blameable.  The  prosecutor  is  wholly 
omitted  in  his  censure,  and  so  is  the  court ;  this 
last,  not  from  any  tenderness  for  the  judge  (\vho, 
to  do  this  author  justice,  is  no  favourite  with  him), 
but  lest  the  odious  connection  between  that  branch 
of  the  judicature  and  the  government  should  strike 
the  reader  too  forcibly :  For  Jefferies,  in  this  in- 
stance, ought  to  be  regarded  as  the  mere  tool  and 
instrument  (a  fit  one,  no  doubt)  of  the  prince  who 
had  appointed  him  for  the  purpose  of  this  and  simi- 
lar services.  Lastly,  the  King  is  gravely  intro- 
duced on  the  question  of  pardon,  as  if  he  had  had 
no  prior  concern  in  the  cause,  and  were  now  to 
decide  upon  the  propriety  of  extending  mercy  to  a 
criminal  condemned  by  a  court  of  judicature  ! 
Nor  are  we  once  reminded  what  that  judicature 
was, — by  whom  appointed,  by  whom  influenced, 
by  whom  called  upon  to  receive  that  detestable 
evidence,  the  very  recollection  of  which,  even  at 
this  distance  of  time,  fires  every  honest  heart  with 
indignation.  As  well  might  we  palliate  the  mur- 
ders of  Tiberius ;  who  seldom  put  to  death  his  vic- 
tims without  a  previous  decree  of  his  senate.  The 
moral  of  all  this  seems  to  be,  that  whenever  a 
prince  can,  by  intimidation,  corruption,  illegal  evi- 
dence, or  other  such  means,  obtain  a  verdict  against 
a  subject  whom  he  dislikes,  he  may  cause  him  to 
be  executed  without  any  breach  of  indispensable 
duty  ;  nay,  that  it  isanactof  heroic  generosity,  if  he 
spares  him.  I  never  reflect  on  Mr.  Hume's  state- 
ment of  this  matter  but  with  the  deepest  regret. 
Widely  as  I  diflfer  from  him  upon  many  other  occa- 
sions, this  appears  to  me  to  be  the  most  reprehen- 
sible passage  of  his  whole  work.  A  spirit  of  adu- 
lation towards  deceased  princes,  though  in  a  good 
measure  free  from  the  imputation  of  interested 
meanness,  which  is  justly  attached  to  flattery,  when 
applied  to  living  monarchs  ;  yet,  as  it  is  less  intel- 
ligible with  respect  to  its  motives  than  the  other,  so 
is  it  in  its  consequences  still  more  pernicious  to  the 
general  interests  of  mankind.  Fear  of  censure 
from  contemporaries  will  seldom  have  much  efiect 
upon  m3n  in  situations  of  unlimited  authority. 
'I'hef/  Vr'Li  too  often  flatter  themselves,  that  the 
saiKJj  fftwer  which  enables  them  to  commit  the 
crime,  will  secure  them  frrtm  reproach.  The  dread 
of  posthumous  infamy,  therefore,  being  the  only 
restraint,  their  consciences  excepted,  upon  the  pas- 
sions of  such  persons,  it  is  lamentable  that  this  last 
defence  (feeble  enough  at  best),  should  in  any  de- 
'jrree  be  impaired  ;  and  impaired  it  must  be,  if  not 
totally  destroyed,  when  tyrants  can  hope  to  find  in 
a  man  like  Hume,  no  less  eminent  for  the  integrity 
and  benevolence  of  his  heart,  than  for  the  depth 
and  soundness  of  his  understanding,  an  apologist 
for  even  their  foulest  murders." — pp.' 48 — 50. 

The  uncontrouled  tyranny  of  Charles'  ad- 
ministration in  his  latter  days,  is  depicted  with 
much  force  and  fidelity;  and  the  clamour 
raised  by  his  other  ministers  against  the  Mar- 


quis of  Halifax,  for  having  given  an  opinion 
in  council  that  the  North  American  colonies 
should  be  made  participant  in  the  benefits  ol 
the  English  constitution,  gives  occasion  to  the 
following  natural  reflection. 

"There  is  something  curious  in  discovering, 
that,  even  at  this  early  period,  a  question  relative 
to  North  American  liberty,  and  even  to  North 
American  taxation,  was  considered  as  the  test  ot 
principles  friendly  or  adverse,  to  arbitary  power  at 
home.  But  the  truth  is,  that  among  the  several 
controversies  which  have  arisen,  there  is  no  other 
wherein  the  natural  rights  of  man  on  the  one  hand, 
and  the  authority  of  artificial  institution  on  the  other, 
as  applied  respectively,  by  the  Whigs  and  Tories, 
to  the  English  constitution,  are  so  fairly  put  in  issue, 
nor  by  which  the  line  of  separation  between  the 
two  parties  is  so  strongly  and  distinctly  marked." 
—p.  60. 

The  introductory  chapter  is  closed  by  the 
following  profound  and  important  remarks, 
which  may  indeed  serve  as  a  key  to  the  whole 
transactions  of  the  ensuing  reigii. 

"  Whoever  reviews  the  interesting  period  which 
we  have  been  discussing,  upon  the  principle  recom- 
mended in  the.  outset  of  this  chapter,  will  find,  that, 
i'rom  the  consideration  of  the  past,  to  prognosticate 
the  future,  would,  at  the  moment  of  Charles'  de- 
mise, be  no  easy  task.  Between  two  persons,  one 
of  whom  should  expect  that  the  country  would  re- 
main sunk  in  slavery,  the  other,  that  the  cause  of 
freedom  would  revive  and  triumph,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  decide,  whose  reasons  were  better  sup- 
ported, whose  speculations  the  more  probable.  I 
should  guess  that  he  who  desponded,  had  looked 
more  at  the  state  of  the  public;  while  he  who  was 
sanguine,  had  fixed  his  eyes  more  attentively  upon 
the  person  who  was  about  to  mount  the  throne. 
Upon  reviev\ing  the  two  great  parties  of  the  nation, 
one  observation  occurs  very  forcibly,  and  that  is, 
that  the  great  strength  of  the  Whigs  consisted  in 
their  being  able  to  brand  their  adversaries  as  favour- 
ers of  Popery;  that  of  the  Tories  (as  far  as  their 
strength  depended  upon  opinion,  and  not  merely 
upon  the  power  of  the  crown),  in  their  finding  col- 
our to  represent  the  Whigs  as  republicans.  From 
this  observation  we  may  draw  a  further  inference, 
that,  in  proportion  to  the  rashness  of  the  crown,  in 
avowing  and  pressing  forward  the  cause  of  Popery, 
and  to  the  moderation  and  steadiness  of  the  Whigs, 
in  adhering  to  the  form  of  monarchy,  would  be  the 
chance  of  the  people  of  England,  for  changing  an 
ignominious  despotism  for  glory,  liberty,  and  hap 
piness." — pp.  66,  67. 

James  was  Known  to  have  had  so  large  a 
share  in  the  councils  of  his  brother,  that  no 
one  expected  any  material  change  of  system 
from  his  accession.  The  Church,  indeed,  it 
was  feared,  might  be  less  safe  under  a  pro- 
fessed Catholic  J  and  the  severity  of  his  tem- 
per might  inspire  some  dread  of  an  aggravated 
oppression.  It  seems  to  be  Mr.  Fox's  great 
object,  in  this  first  chapter,  to  prove  that  the 
object  of  his  early  policy  was,  not  to  establish 
the  Catholic  religion,  but  to  make  himself 
absolute  and  independent  of  his  Parliament. 

The  fact  itself,  he  conceives,  is  completely 
established  by  the  manner  in  which  his  se- 
cret negotiations  with  France  were  carried 
on ;  in  the  whole  of  which,  he  was  zealously 
served  by  ministers,  no  one  of  whom  had  the 
slightest  leaning  towards  Popery,  or  could 
ever  be  brought  to  countenance  the  measures 
which  he  afterwards  pursued  in  its  favour 
It  is  made  still  more  evident  by  the  complexior 


206 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


of  hi?  proceedings  in  Scotland;  where  the 
test,  which  he  enforced  at  the  point  of  the 
bayonet,  was  a  Protestant  test, — so  much  so, 
indeed,  that  he  himself  could  not  take  it, — and 
the  objects  of  his  persecution,  dissenters  from 
the  Protestant  church  of  England.  We  con- 
sider this  point  therefore — and  it  is  one  of  no 
small  importance  in  the  history  of  this  period 
— as  now  sufficiently  established. 

It  does  not  seem  necessary  to  follow  the 
author  into  the  detail  of  that  sordid  and  de- 
grading connexion  which  James  was  so  anxi- 
ous to  establish,  by  becoming,  like  his 
brother,  the  pensioner  of  the  French  mon- 
arch. The  bitter  and  dignified  contempt  with 
which  it  is  treated  by  Mr.  Fox,  may  be 
guessed  at  from  the  following  account  of  the 
first  remittance. 


"  Within  a  very  few  days  from  that  in  which  the 
latter  of  them  had  passed,  he  (the  French  ambassa- 
dor) was  empowered  to  accompany  the  delivery  of 
a  letter  from  his  master,  with  the  agreeable  news 
of  having  received  from  him  bills  of  exchange  to  the 
amount  of  five  hundred  thousand  livres,  to  be  used 
in  whatever  manner  might  be  convenient  to  the 
King  of  England's  service.  The  account  which 
Barillon  gives  of  the  manner  in  which  this  sum  was 
received,  is  altogether  ridiculous  :  the  King^s  eyes 
were  full  of  tears  !  and  three  of  his  ministers,  Ro- 
chester, Sunderland,  and  Godolphin,  came  seve- 
rally to  the  French  ambassador,  to  express  the 
sense  their  master  had  of  the  obhgation,  in  terms 
the  most  lavish.  Indeed,  demonstrations  of  grati- 
tude from  the  King  directly,  as  well  as  through  his 
ministers,  for  this  supply,  were  such  as,  if  they  had 
been  used  by  some  unfortunate  individual,  who, 
with  his  whole  family,  had  been  saved,  by  the 
timely  succour  of  some  kind  and  powerful  protector, 
from  a  gaol  and  all  its  horrors,  would  be  deemed 
rather  too  strong  than  too  weak,  Barillon  himself 
seems  surprised  when  he  relates  them  ;  but  imputes 
them  to  what  was  probably  their  real  cause,  to  the 
apprehensions  that  had  been  entertained  (very  un- 
reasonable ones'.),  that  the  King  of  France  might 
no  longer  choose  to  interfere  in  the  affairs  of  Eng- 
land, and,  consequently,  that  his  support  could  not 
be  relied  on  for  the  grand  object  of  assimilating  this 
government  to  his  own." — pp.  83,  84. 

After  this.  Lord  Churchill  is  sent  to  Paris 
on  the  part  of  the  tributary  King. 

"How  little  could  Barillon  guess,  that  he  was 
negotiating  with  one  who  was  destined  to  be  at  the 
head  of  an  administration  which,  in  a  few  years, 
would  send  the  same  Lord  Churchill,  not  to  Paris 
to  implore  Lewis  for  succours  towards  enslaving 
England,  or  to  thank  him  for  pensions  to  her  mon- 
arch, but  to  combine  all  Europe  against  him  in  the 
cause  of  Uberty !  to  route  his  armies,  to  take  his 
towns,  to  humble  his  pride,  and  to  shake  to  the 
foundation  that  fabric  of  power  which  it  had  been 
the  business  of  a  long  life  to  raise,  at  the  expense 
of  every  sentiment  of  tenderness  to  his  subjects, 
and  of  justice  and  good  faith  to  foreign  nations  !  It 
IS  with  difficulty  the  reader  can  persuade  himself 
that  the  Godolphin  and  Churchill  here  mentioned, 
are  the  same  persons  who  were  afterwards,  one  in 
the  cabinet,  one  in  the  field,  the  great  conductors 
of  the  war  of  the  Succession.  How  little  do  they 
appear  in  the  one  instance  !  how  great  in  the  other  I 
And  the  investigation  of  the  cause  to  which  this  ex- 
cessive diflference  is  principally  owing,  will  produce 
a  most  useful  lesson.  Is  the  diflference  to  be  at- 
tributed to  any  superiority  of  genius  in  the  prince 
whom  they  served  in  the  latter  period  of  their  lives  ? 
Queen  Anne's  capacity  appears  to  have  been  in- 
ferior even  to  lier  father's.  Did  they  enjoy,  in  a 
Ijreater  degree,  her  favour  and  confidence?     The 


very  reverse  is  the  fact.  But,  in  one  case,  they 
were  the  tools  of  a  king  plotting  against  his  people  ; 
in  the  other,  the  ministers  of  a  free  government 
acting  upon  enlarged  principles,  and  with  energies 
which  no  state  that  is  not  in  some  degree  republican 
can  supply.  How  forcibly  must  the  contemplation 
of  these  men  in  such  opposite  situations  teach  persons 
engaged  in  political  life,  that  a  free  and  popular  gov* 
ernment  is  desirable,  not  only  for  the  public  good, 
but  for  their  own  greatness  and  consideration,  for 
every  object  of  generous  ambition." — pp.  88,  89. 

As  James,  in  the  outset  of  his  reign,  pro- 
fessed a  resolution  to  adhere  to  the  system  of 
government  established  by  his  brother,  and 
made  this  declaration  in  the  first  place,  to  his 
Scottish  Parliament,  Mr.  Fox  thinks  it  neces- 
sary to  take  a  slight  retrospective  view  of  the 
proceedings  of  Charles  towards  that  unhappy 
country;  and  details,  from  unquestionable  au- 
thorities, such  a  scene  of  intolerant  oppression 
and  atrocious  cruelty,  as  to  justify  him  in 
saying,  that  the  state  of  that  kingdom  was 
"a  state  of  more  absolute  slavery  than  at 
that  time  subsisted  in  any  part  of  Chrisit- 
endom." 

In  both  Parliaments,  the  King's  revenue 
was  granted  for  life,  in  terms  of  his  demand, 
without  discussion  or  hesitation;  and  Mr. 
Hume  is  censured  with  severity,  and  appa- 
rently with  justice,  for  having  presented  his 
readers  Avith  a  summary  of  the  arguments 
which  he  would  have  them  believe  were 
actually  used  in  the  House  of  Commons  on 
both  sides  of  this  question.  "  This  misrepre- 
sentation," Mr.  Fox  observes,  "  is  of  no  small 
importance,  inasmuch  as,  by  intimating  that 
such  a  question  could  be  debated  at  all,  and 
much  more,  that  it  was  debated  with  the  en- 
lightened views  and  bold  topics  of  argument 
with  w^hich  his  genius  has  supplied  him,  he 
gives  us  a  very  false  notion  of  the  character 
of  the  Parliament,  and  of  the  times  which  he 
is  describing.  It  is  not  improbable,  that  if 
the  arguments  had  been  used,  which  this  his- 
torian supposes,  the  utterer  of  them  would 
have  been  expelled,  or  sent  to  the  Tower;  and 
it  is  certain  that  he  would  not  have  been 
heard  with  any  degree  of  attention,  or  even 
patience." — p.  142. 

The  last  chapter  is  more  occupied  with  nar- 
rative, and  less  with  argument  and  reflection, 
than  that  which  precedes  it.  It  contains  the 
story  of  the  unfortunate  and  desperate  expe- 
ditions of  Argyle  and  Monmouth,  and  of  the 
condemnation  and  death  of  their  unhappy 
leaders.  IMr.  Fox,  though  convinced  that  the 
misgovernment  was  such  as  fully  to  justify 
resistance  by  arms,  seems  to  admit  that  both 
those  enterprises  were  rash  and  injudicious. 
With  his  usual  candour  and  openness,  he  ob- 
serves, that  "the  prudential  reasons  against 
resistance  at  that  time  were  exceedingly 
strong;  and  that  there  is  no  point,  indeed,  in 
human  concerns,  wherein  the  dictates  of 
virtue  and  of  worldly  prudence  are  so  identi- 
fied, as  in  this  great  question  of  resistance  by 
force  to  established  governments." 

The  expeditions  of  Monmouth  and  Argyll 
had  been  concerted  together,  and  were  in- 
tended to  take  effect  at  the  same  moment. 
Monmouth,  however,   who  was    reluctantly 


FOX^S  REIGN  OF  JAMES  THE  SECOND. 


2cr 


to  reed  upon  the  enterprise,  was  not  so  soon 
ready ;  and  Argyle  landed  in  the  Highlands 
with  a  very  small  force  before  the  Duke  had 
sailed  from  Holland.  The  details  of  his  ir- 
resolute councils  and  ineffectual  marches,  are 
given  at  far  too  great  length.  Though  they 
give  occasion  to  one  profound  and  important 
remark,  which  we  do  not  recollect  ever  to 
have  met  with  before ;  but,  of  the  justice  of 
which,  most  of  those  who  have  acted  with 
parties  must  have  had  melancholy  and  fatal 
experience.  It  is  introduced  when  speaking 
of  the  disunion  that  prevailed  among  Argyle's 
little  band  of  followers. 

"Add  to  all  this,"  he  says,  "that  vrhere  spirit 
was  not  wanting,  it  was  accompanied  with  a  degree 
and  species  of  perversity  wholly  inexplicable,  and 
which  can  hardly  gain  belief  from  any  one  whose 
experience  has  not  made  him  acquainted  with  the 
extreme  difficulty  of  persuading  men,  who  pride 
themselves  upon  an  extravagant  love  of  Uberty, 
rather  to  compromise  upon  some  points  with  those 
who  have,  in  the  main,  the  same  views  with  them- 
selves, than  to  give  power  (a  power  which  will  in- 
fallibly be  usea  for  their  own  destruction)  to  an 
adversary,  of  principles  diametrically  opposite  ;  in 
other  words,  rather  to  concede  something  to  a 
friend,  than  every  thing  to  an  enemy." — pp.  187,188, 

The  account  of  Argyle's  deportment  from 
the  time  of  his  capture  to  that  of  his  exe- 
cution, is  among  the  most  striking  passages  in 
the  book  •  and  the  mildness  and  magnanimity 
of  his  resignation,  is  described  with  kindred 
feelings  by  his  generous  historian.  The  merits 
of  this  nobleman  are  perhaps  somewhat  ex- 
aggerated ;  for  he  certainly  wanted  conduct 
and  decision  for  the  part  he  had  undertaken ; 
and  more  admiration  is  expressed  at  the  equa- 
nimity w^ith  which  he  Avent  to  death,  than  the 
recent  frequency  of  this  species  of  heroism 
can  allow  us  to  sympathize  with:  But  the 
8tory  is  finely  and  feelingly  told ;  and  the  im- 
pression which  it  leaves  on  the  mind  of  the 
reader  is  equally  favourable  to  the  author  and 
to  the  hero  of  it.  We  can  only  make  room 
for  the  concluding  scene  of  the  tragedy. 

"Before  he  left  the  castle  he  had  his  dinner  at 
the  usual  hour,  at  which  he  discoursed  not  only 
calmly,  but  even  cheerfully,  with  Mr.  Charteris  and 
others.  After  dinner  he  retired,  as  was  his  custom, 
to  his  bed-chamber,  where,  it  is  recorded,  that  he 
slept  quietly  for  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  While 
he  was  in  bed,  one  of  the  members  of  the  council 
came  and  intimated  to  the  attendants  a  desire  to 
speak  with  him  :  upon  being  told  that  the  earl  was 
asleep,  and  had  left  orders  not  to  be  disturbed,  the 
manager  disbelieved  the  account,  which  he  consid- 
ered as  a  device  to  avoid  further  questionings.  To 
satisfy  him,  the  door  of  the  bed-chamber  was  half 
opened,  and  he  then  beheld,  enjoying  a  sweet  and 
tranquil  slumber,  the  man  who,  by  the  doom  of 
him  and  his  fellows,  was  to  die  within  the  space  of 
two  short  hours  !  Struck  with  the  sight,  he  hurried 
out  of  the  room,  quitted  the  castle  with  the  utmost 
precipitation,  and  hid  himself  in  the  lodgings  of  an 
acquaintance  who  lived  near,  where  he  flung  him- 
self upon  the  first  bed  that  presented  itself,  and  had 
every  appearance  of  a  man  suffering  the  most  ex- 
cruciating torture.  His  friend,  who  had  been  ap- 
prized by  the  servant  of  the  state  he  was  in,  and 
who  naturally  concluded  that  he  was  ill,  offered 
Mm  some  wine.  He  refused,  saying,  '  No,  no,  that 
will  not  help  me:  I  have  been  in  at  Argyle,  and 
Eaw  him  sleeping  as  pleasantlv  as  ever  man  did, 
within  an  hour  of  eternity !  But  is  for  me  ' 


The  name  of  the  person  to  whom  this  anecdote  re- 
lates is  not  mentioned ;  and  the  truth  of  it  may 
therefore  be  fairly  considered  as  liable  to  that  degree 
of  doubt  with  which  men  of  judgment  receive 
every  species  of  traditional  history.  Woodrow, 
however,  whose  veracity  is  above  suspicion,  says 
he  had  it  from  the  most  unquestionable  authority. 
It  is  not  in  itself  unlikely  ;  and  who  is  there  that 
would  not  wish  it  true  ?  What  a  satisfactory  spec- 
tacle to  a  philosophical  mind,  to  see  the  oppressor, 
in  the  zenith  of  his  power,  envying  his  victim  ! 
What  an  acknowledgment  of  the  superiority  of  vir- 
tue !  What  an  affecting  and  forcible  testimony  to 
the  value  of  that  peace  of  mind,  which  innocence 
alone  can  confer  !  We  know  not  who  this  man  was ; 
but  when  we  reflect,  that  the  guilt  which  agonized 
him  was  probably  incurred  for  the  sake  of  some 
vain  title,  or  at  least  of  some  increase  of  wealth, 
which  he  did  not  want,  and  possibly  knew  not  how 
to  enjoy,  our  disgust  is  turned  into  something  like 
compassion  for  that  very  foolish  class  of  men,  whonr. 
the  world  calls  wise  in  their  generation." 

pp.  207—209. 
"On  the  scaffold  he  embraced  his  friends,  gave 
some  tokens  of  remembrance  to  his  son-in-law. 
Lord  Maitland,  for  his  daughter  and  grandchildren  ; 
stript  himself  of  part  of  his  apparel,  of  which  he 
likewise  made  presents  ;  and  laid  his  head  upon  the 
block.  Having  uttered  a  short  prayer,  he  gave  the 
signal  to  the  executioner ;  which  was  instantly 
obeyed,  and  his  head  severed  from  his  body.  Such 
were  the  last  hours,  and  such  the  final  close,  of  this 
great  man's  life.  May  the  like  happy  serenity  in 
such  dreadful  circumstances,  and  a  death  equally 
glorious,  be  the  lot  of  all,  whom  tyranny,  of  what- 
ever denomination  or  description,  shall  m  any  age, 
or  in  any  country,  call  to  expiate  their  virtues  on 
thescaffold!"— p.  211. 

Rumbold,  w^ho  had  accompanied  Argyle  in 
this  expedition,  speedily  shared  his  fate. 
Though  a  man  of  intrepid  courage,  and  fully 
aware  of  the  fate  that  awaited  him,  he  persist- 
ed to  his  last  hour  in  professing  his  innocence 
of  any  design  to  assassinate  King  Charles  at 
the  Ryehouse.  Mr.  Fox  gives  great  import- 
ance to  this  circumstance ;  and  seems  disposed 
to  conclude,  on  the  faith  of  it,  that  the  Rye- 
house  plot  itself  was  altogether  a  fabrication 
of  the  court  party,  to  transfer  to  their  adver- 
saries the  odium  which  had  been  thrown  upon 
them  with  as  little  justice,  by  the  prosecutions 
for  the  Popish  plot.  It  does  not  appear  to  us, 
however,  that  this  conclusion  is  made  out  in  a 
manner  altogether  satisfactory. 

The  expedition  of  Monmouth  is  detailea 
with  as  redundant  a  fulness  as  that  of  Aigyle; 
and  the  character  of  its  leader  still  more  over- 
rated. Though  Mr.  Fox  has  a  laudable  jeal- 
ousy of  kings,  indeed,  we  are  afraid  he  baa 
rather  a  partiality  for  nobles.  Monmouth  ap- 
pears to  have  been  an  idle,  handsome,  pre- 
sumptuous, incapable  youth,  with  none  of  the 
virtues  of  a  patriot,  and  none  of  the  talents 
of  an  usurper ;  and  we  really  cannot  discover 
upon  what  grounds  Mr.  Fox  would  exalt  him 
into  a  hero.  He  was  in  arms,  indeed,  against 
a  tyrant ;  and  that  tpant,  though  nearly  con- 
nected with  him  by  the  ties  of  blood,  sen- 
tenced him  with  unrelenting  cruelty  to  death. 
He  was  plunged  at  once  from  the  heights  of 
fortune,  of  youthful  pleasure,  and  of  arnbition^ 
to  the  most  miserable  condition  of  existence, 
— to  die  disgracefully  after  having  stooped  to 
ask  his  life  "by  abject  submission  !  Mr.  Fos 
dwells  a  great  deal  too  long,  we  think,  both 


208 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIIIS. 


upon  his  wavering  and  unskilful  movements 
before  his  defeat,  and  on  some  ambiguous 
words  in  the  letter  which  he  afterwards  wrote 
to  King  James ;  but  the  natural  tenderness  of 
his  disposition  enables  him  to  interest  us  in 
the  description  of  his  after  sufferings.  The 
following  extract,  we  think,  is  quite  charac- 
teristic of  the  author. 

"In  the  mean  while,  the  Queen  Dowager,  who 
seems  to  have  behaved  with  a  uniformity  of  kind- 
ness towards  her  husband's  son  that  does  her  great 
nonour,  urgently  pressed  the  King  to  admit  his 
nephew  to  an  audience.  Importuned  therefore  by 
entreaties,  and  instigated  by  the  curiosity  which 
Monmouth's  mysterious  expressions,  and  Sheldon's 
story  had  excited,  he  consented,  though  with  a 
fixed  determination  to  show  no  mercy.  James  was 
not  of«the  number  of  those,  in  whom  the  want  of 
an  extensive  understanding  is  compensated  by  a 
delicacy  of  sentiment,  or  by  those  right  feelings 
which  are  often  found  to  be  better  guides  for  the 
conduct,  than  the  most  accurate  reasoning.  His 
nature  did  not  revolt,  his  blood  did  not  run  cold,  at 
the  thoughts  of  beholding  the  son  of  a  brother  whom 
he  had  loved,  embracing  his  knees,  petitioning,  and 
petitioning  in  vain,  for  life  I — of  interchanging  words 
and  looks  with  a  nephew  on  whom  he  was  inex- 
orably determined,  within  forty-eight  hours,  to  in. 
flict  an  ignominious  death. 

"In  Macpherson's  extract  from  King  James' 
Memoirs,  it  is  confessed  that  the  King  ought  not  to 
have  seen,  if  he  was  not  disposed  to  pardon  the 
culprit;  but  whether  the  observation  is  made  by  the 
exiled  prince  himself,  or  by  him  who  gives  the  ex- 
tract, is  in  this,  as  in  many  other  passages  of  those 
Memoirs,  difficult  to  determine.  Surely,  if  the  King 
had  made  this  reflection  before  Monmouth's  exe- 
cution, it  must  have  occurred  to  that  monarch,  that 
if  he  had  inadvertently  done  that  which  he  ought 
not  to  have  done  without  an  intention  to  pardon, 
the  only  remedy  was  to  correct  that  part  of  his 
conduct  which  was  still  in  his  power ;  and  since  he 
could  not  recall  the  interview,  to  grant  the  pardon." 

pp.  258,  259. 

Being  sentenced  to  die  in  two  days,  he  made 
a  humble  application  to  the  King  for  some 
little  respite-  but  met  with  a  positive  and 
stern  refusal.  The  most  remarkable  thing  in 
the  history  of  his  last  hours,  is  the  persecution 
which  he  suffered  from  the  bishops  who  had 
been  sent  to  comfort  him.  Those  reverend 
persons,  it  appears,  spent  the  greater  part  of 
the  time  in  urging  him  to  profess  the  orthodox 
doctrines  of  passive  obedience  and  non-resist- 
ance ;  without  w^hich,  they  said,  he  could  not 
De  an  upright  member  of  the  church,  nor  at- 
tain to  a  proper  state  of  repentance !  It  must 
never  be  forgotten,  indeed,  as  Mr.  Fox  has 
remarked,  if  we  would  understand  the  history 
of  this  period,  "that  the  orthodox  members 
of  the  church  regarded  monarchy,  not  as  a 
human,  but  as  a  divine  institution ;  and  pas- 
sive obedience  and  non-resistance,  not  as  po- 
htical  measures,  but  as  articles  of  religion?^ 

The  following  account  of  the  dying  scene 
of  this  misguided  and  unhappy  youth,  is  very 
striking  and  pathetic ;  though  a  certain  tone 
of  sarcasm  towards  the  reverend  assistants 
does  not,  to  our  feelings,  hamionize  entirely 
with  the  more  lender  traits  of  the  picture. 

"  At  ten  o'clock  on  the  15(h.  Monmouth  pro- 
ceeded, in  a  carriage  of  the  Lieutenant  of  the 
Tower,  to  Tower  Hill,  the  place  destined  for  his 
execution.     Two  bishops  were  in  the  carriage  with 


him;  and  one  oi  them  took  that  opportunity  of  in 
forming  him,  that  their  controversial  aliercatioru 
were  not  yet  at  an  end  ;  and  that  upon  the  scaffold, 
he  would  again  be  pressed  for  more  explicit  and 
satisfactory  declarations  of  repentance.  When  ar- 
rived at  the  bar,  which  had  been  put  up  for  the  pur- 
pose of  keeping  out  the  multitude,  Monmouth 
descended  from  the  carriage,  and  mounted  the 
scaffold  with  a  firm  step,  attended  by  his  spiritual 
ahsistants.  The  sheriffs  and  executioners  were  al- 
ready there.  The  concourse  of  spectators  was  in- 
numerable, and,  if  we  are  to  credit  traditional 
accounts,  never  was  the  general  compassion  more 
affectingly  expressed.  The  tears,  sighs,  and  groans, 
which  the  first  sight  of  this  heart-rending  spectacle 
produced,  were  soon  succeeded  by  an  universal  and 
awful  silence  ;  a  respectful  attention,  and  affection- 
ate anxiety,  to  hear  every  syllable  that  should  pasa 
the  lips  of  the  sufferer.  The  Duke  began  by  saying 
he  should  speak  little ;  he  came  to  die  ;  and  he 
should  die  a  Protestant  of  the  Church  of  England. 
Here  he  was  interrupted  by  the  assistants,  and 
told,  that  if  he  was  of  the  Church  of  England,  he 
must  acknowledge  the  doctrine  of  Non-resistance 
to  be  true.  In  vain  did  he  reply,  that,  if  he  ac- 
knowledged the  doctrine  of  the  church  in  general, 
it  included  all :  they  insisted  he  should  own  that 
doctrine  particularly  with  respect  to  his  case,  and 
urged  much  more  concerning  their  favourite  point ; 
upon  which,  however,  they  obtained  nothing  but  a 
repetition,  in  substance,  of  former  answers. 

pp.  265,  266. 

After  making  a  public  profession  of  his  at- 
tachment to  his  beloved  Lady  Harriet  Went- 
worth,  and  his  persuasion  that  their  connection 
was  innocent  in  the  sight  of  God,  he  made 
reference  to  a  paper  he  had  signed  in  the 
morning,  confessing  the  illegitimacy  of  his 
birth,  and  declaring  that  the  title  of  King  had 
been  forced  on  him  by  his  followers,  much 
against  his  own  inclination, 

"The  bishop,  however,  said,  that  there  was 
nothing  in  that  paper  about  resistance  ;  nor,  though 
Monmouth,  quite  worn  out  with  their  importuni- 
ties, said  to  one  of  them  in  a  most  affecting  manner, 
'  I  am  to  die ! — pray  my  lord ! — I  refer  to  my 
paper,'  would  these  men  think  it  consistent  with 
their  duty  to  desist.  There  were  only  a  few  words 
they  desired  on  one  point.  The  substance  of  these 
applications  on  one  hand,  and  answers  on  the  other, 
was  repeated,  over  and  over  again,  in  a  manner 
that  could  not  be  believed,  if  the  facts  were  not  at- 
tested by  the  signature  of  the  persons  principally 
concerned.  If  the  Duke,  in  declaring  his  sorrow 
for  what  had  passed,  used  the  word  invasion,  '  give 
it  the  true  name,'  said  they,  '  and  call  it  rebellion.' 
'  What  name  you  please,'  replied  the  mild-tempered 
Monmouth !  He  was  sure  he  was  going  to  everlast- 
ing happiness,  and  considered  the  serenity  of  his 
mind,  in  his  present  circumstances,  as  a  certain 
earnest  of  the  favour  of  his  Creator.  His  repent- 
ance, he  said,  must  be  true,  for  he  had  no  fear  of 
dying  ;  he  should  die  like  a  lamb !  '  Much  may  come 
from  natural  courage,'  was  the  unfeeling  and  stiipia 
reply  of  one  of  the  assistants.  Monmouth,  with 
that  modesty  inseparable  from  true  bravery,  denied 
that  he  was  in  general  less  fearful  than  other  men, 
maintaining  that  his  present  courage  was  owing  to 
his  consciousness  that  God  had  forgiven  him  his 
past  transgressions,  of  all  which  generally  he  re- 
pented, with  all  his  soul. 

"At  last  the  reverend  assistants  consented  to 
join  with  him  in  prayer ;  but  no  sooner  were  they 
risen  from  their  kneeling  posture,  than  they  re- 
turned to  their  charge.  Not  satisfied  with  what 
had  passed,  they  exhorted  him  to  a  true  and  thorough 
repentance.  Would  he  not  pray  for  the  King  ?  and 
send  a  dutiful  message  to  his  majesty,  to  recom- 
mend the  duchess  and   his  children?     'As  you  j 


FOX'S  REIGN  OF  JAMES  THE  SECOND. 


209 


please  .'  was  the  reply,  '  I  pray  for  him  and  for  all 
men.'  He  now  spoke  to  the  executioner,  desirin^ 
that  hu  might  have  no  cap  over  his  eyes,  and  began 
imdressing.  One  would  have  thought  that  in  this 
last  sad  ceremony,  the  poor  prisoner  might  have 
been  unmolested,  and  that  the  divines  would  have 
been  satisfied,  that  prayer  was  the  only  part  of  their 
function  for  which  their  duty  now  called  upon  them. 
They  judged  differently  ;  and  one  of  them  had  the 
fortitude  to  request  the  Duke,  e\e>i\  in  this  stage  of 
the  business,  that  he  would  address  himself  to  the 
soldiers  then  present,  to  tell  them  he  stood  a  sad 
example  of  rebelhon,  and  entreat  the  people  to 
be  loyal  and  obedient  to  the  King.  '  I  have  said  I 
will  make  no  speeches,'  repeated  Monmouth,  in  a 
tone  more  peremptory  than  he  had  before  been 
provoked  to  ;  '  I  will  make  no  speeches  !  I  come 
to  die.'  'My  lord,  ten  words  will  be  enough,' 
said  the  persevering  divine;  to  which  the  Duke 
made  no  answer,  but  turning  to  the  executioner, 
expressed  a  hope  that  he  would  do  his  work  better 
now  than  in  the  case  of  Lord  Russell.  He  then 
felt  the  axe,  which  he  apprehended  was  not  sharp 
enough,  but  being  assured  that  it  was  of  proper 
sharpness  and  weight,  he  laid  down  his  head.  In 
the  mean  time,  many  fervent  ejaculations  were 
used  by  the  reverend  assistants,  who,  it  must  be 
observed,  even  in  these  moments  of  horror,  showed 
themselves  not  unmindful  of  the  points  upon  which 
they  had  been  disputing ;  praying  God  to  accept  his 
imperfect  and  ge?ieral  repentance. 

"  The  executioner  now  struck  the  blow  ;  but  so 
feebly  or  unskillfully,  that  Monmouth,  being  but 
slightly  wounded,  hfted  up  his  head,  and  looked 
him  in  the  face  as  if  to  upbraid  him ;  but  said  noth- 
ing. The  two  following  strokes  were  as  ineffectual 
as  the  first,  and  the  headsman,  in  a  fit  of  horror, 
declared  he  could  not  finish  his  work.  The  sheriffs 
threatened  him ;  he  was  forced  again  to  make  a 
further  trial ;  and  in  two  more  strokes  separated 
the  head  from  the  body."— pp.  267—269. 

With  the  character  of  Monmouth,  the 
second  chapter  of  the  history  closes;  and 
nothing  seems  to  have  been  written  for  the 
third,  but  a  few  detached  observations,  oc- 
cupying but  two  pages.  The  Appendix  is 
rather  longer  than  was  necessary.  The 
greater  part  of  the  diplomacy  which  it  con- 
tains, had  been  previously  published  by 
Macpherson  and  Dalrymple;  and  the  other 
articles  are  of  little  importance. 

VV^e  have  now  only  to  add  a  few  words  as 
to  the  style  and  taste  of  composition  which 
belongs  to  this  work.  We  cannot  say  that 
we  vehemently  admire  it.  It  is  a  diffuse, 
and  somewhat  heavy  style, — clear  and  man- 
ly, indeed,  for  the  most  part,  btit  sometimes 
deficient  in  force,  and  almost  always  in  vi- 
vacity. In  its  general  structure,  it  resembles 
the  style  of  the  age  of  which  it  treats,  more 
than  the  balanced  periods  of  the  succeeding 
century — though  the  diction  is  scrupulously 

Surifie'd  from  the  long  and  Latin  words  which 
efaced  the  compositions  of  Milton  and  Har- 
rington. In  his  antipathy  to  every  thing  that 
might  be  supposed  to  look  like  pedantry  or 
affected  loftiness,  it  appears  to  us,  indeed, 
that  the  illustrious  author  has  sometimes 
fallen  into  an  opposite  error,  and  admitted  a 

14 


variety  of  words  and  phrases  rather  more 
homely  and  familiar  than  should  find  place 
in  a  grave  composition.  Thus,  it  is  said  in 
p.  12,  that  "  the  King  made  no  point  of  adher- 
ing to  his  concessions."  In  p.  20,  we  hea^ 
of  men,  ''swearing  away  the  lives"  of  theii 
accomplices ;  and  are  afterwards  told  of  "  the 
style  of  thinking"  of  the  country — of  ''the  cry' 
ing  injustice  ^^  of  certain  proceedings — and  of 
persons  who  were  "fond  of  ill-treating  and 
insulting"  other  persons.  These,  we  think, 
are  phrases  too  colloquial  for  regular  history, 
and  which  the  author  has  probably  been  in- 
duced to  admit  into  this  composition,  from  his 
long  familiarity  with  spoken,  rather  than  with 
written  language.  What  is  merely  lively  and 
natural. in  a  speech,  however,  will  often  ap- 
pear low  and  vapid  in  writing.  The  following 
is  a  still  more  striking  illustration.  In  speak- 
ing of  the  Oxford  Decree,  which  declared  the 
doctrine  of  an  original  contract,  the  lawfulness 
of  changing  the  succession,  &c.  to  be  impious 
as  well  as  seditious,  and  leading  to  atheism  as 
well  as  rebellion,  Mr.  Fox  is  pleased  to  ob- 
serve— "If  Much  Ado  about  Nothing  had 
bjsen  published  in  those  days,  the  town-clerk's 
declaration,  that  receiving  a  thousand  ducats 
for  accusing  the  Lady  Hero  wrongfully,  was 
''flat  burglary ■i^''  might  be  supposed  to  be  a 
satire  upon  this  decree ;  yet  Shakespeare, 
well  as  he  knew  human  nature,  not  only  as 
to  its  general  course,  but  in  all  its  eccentric 
deviations,  could  never  dream  that,  in  the 
person  of  Dogberry,  Verges,  and  their  follow- 
ers, he  was  representing  the  vice-chancellors 
and  doctors  of  our  learned  University."  It 
would  require  all  the  credit  of  a  well-estab- 
lished speaker,  to  have  passed  this  compari- 
son, with  any  success,  upon  the  House  of 
Commons;  but  even  the  high  name  of  Mr. 
Fox,  we  believe,  will  be  insufficient  to  con- 
ceal its  impropriety  in  a  serious  passage  of 
a  history,  written  in  imitation  of  Livy  and 
Thucydides. 

Occupied,  indeed,  as  we  conceive  all  the 
readers  of  Mr.  Fox  ought  to  be  with  the  sen- 
timents ^nd  the  facts  which  he  lays  before 
them,  we  should  scarcely  have  thought  of 
noticing  those  verbal  blemishes  at  all,  had 
we  not  read  so  much  in  the  preface,  of  the 
fastidious  diligence  with  which  the  diction 
of  this  work  was  purified,  and  its  style  elabo- 
rated by  the  author.  To  this  praise  we  can- 
not say  we  think  it  entitled ;  but,  to  praise  of 
a  far  higher  description,  its  claim,  we  think, 
is  indisputable.  Independent  of  its  singular 
value  as  a  memorial  of  the  virtues  and  talentF 
of  the  great  statesman  whose  name  it  bears 
we  have  no  hesitation  in  saying,  that  it  is 
written  more  truly  in  the  spirit  of  constitu- 
tional freedom,  and  of  temperate  and  practical 
patriotism,  than  any  history  of  which  th<» 
public  is  yet  in  possession. 


no 


fflSTORY  AND  fflSTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


(3lprU,    1805.) 

Memoires  dhm  Temoin  de  Ic  Kevolution  ;  ou  Journal  des  fails  qui  se  sont  passe  sous  ses  yeuXj  &t 

Sii  ont  prepare  et  fixe  la  Constitution  Frangaise.     Ouvrage  Posthume  de  Jean  Sylvain 
AiLLY,  Premier  President  de  I'Assemblee  Nationale  Constituant,  Premier  Maire  de  Paris, 
et  Membre  des  Trois  Academies.     8vo.  3  tomes.     Paris:  1804.=* 


Among  the  many  evils  which  the  French 
Revolution  has  inflicted  on  mankind,  the  most 
deplorable,  perhaps,  both  in  point  of  extent 
and  of  probable  duration,  consists  in  the  in- 
jury wliich  it  has  done  to  the  cause  of  rational 
freedom,  and  the  discredit  in  which  it  has  in- 
volved the  principles  of  political  philosophy. 
The  warnings  which  may  be  derived  from 
the  misfortunes  of  that  country,  and  the  les- 
sons which  may  still  be  read  in  the  tragical 
consequences  of  her  temerity,  are  memorable, 
no  doubt,  and  important :  But  they  are  such 
as  are  presented  to  us  by  the  history  of  every 
period  of  the  world;  and  the  emotions  by 
which  they  have  been  impressed,  are  in  this 
case  too  violent  to  let  their  import  and  appli- 
cation be  properly  distinguished.  From  the 
miscarriage  of  a  scheme  of  frantic  innovation, 
we  have  conceived  an  unreasonable  and  un- 
discriminating  dread  of  all  alteration  or  re- 
form. The  bad  success  of  an  attempt  to  make 
government  perfect,  has  reconciled  us  to  im- 
perfections that  might  easily  be  removed ;  and 
the  miserable  consequences  of  treating  every 
thing  as  prejudice  and  injustice,  which  could 
not  be  reconciled  to  a  system  of  fantastic 
equality,  has  given  strength  to  prejudices, 
and  sanction  to  abuses,  which  were  gradually 
wearing  away  before  the  progress  of  reason 
and  philosophy.  The  French  Revolution,  in 
short,  has  thrown  us  back  half  a  century  in 
the  course  of  political  improvement ;  and 
driven  many  among  us  to  cling  once  more, 
with  superstitious  terror,  to  those  idols  from 
which  we  had  been  nearly  reclaimed  by  the 
lessons  of  a  milder  philosophy.  When  we 
look  round  on  the  vt^reck  and  ruin  which  the 
whirlwind  has  scattered  over  the  prospect 
before  us,  we  tremble  at  the  rising  gale,  and 
shrink  even  from  the  wholesome  air  that  stirs 
the  fig-leaf  on  our  porch.  Terrified  and  dis- 
gusted with  the  brawls  and  midnight  murders 
which  proceed  from  intoxication,  we  are  al- 
most inclined  to  deny  ourselves  the  pleasures 
of  a  generous  hospitality;  and  scarcely  venture 
to  diffuse  the  comforts  of  light  or  of  warmth 
m  our  dwellings,  when  we  turn  our  eyes  on 
the  devastation  which  the  flames  have  com- 
mitted around  us. 

The  same  circumstances  which  have  thus 
led  us  to  confound  what  is  salutary  with 
what  is  pernicious  in  ojir  establishments, 
tiave  also  perverted  our  judgments  as  to  the 

*I  have  been  tempted  to  let  this  be  reprinted 
fthough  sensible  enough  of  vices  in  the  style)  to 
show  at  how  early  a  period  those  views  of  the 
character  of  the  French  Revolution,  and  its  first 
effects  on  other  countries,  were  adopted — which 
have  not  since  received  much  modification. 


characters  of  those  who  were  connected  with 
those  memorable  occurrences.  The  tide  of 
popular  favour,  which  ran  at  one  time  with  a 
dangerous  and  headlong  violence  to  the  sid« 
of  innovation  and  political  experiment,  has 
now  set,  perhaps  too  strongly,  in  an  opposite 
direction ;  and  the  same  misguiding  passions 
that  placed  factious  and  selfish  men  on  a 
level  with  patriots  and  heroes,  has  now 
ranked  the  blameless  and  the  enlightened  in 
the  herd  of  murderers  and  madmen. 

There  are  two  classes  of  men,  in  particular, 
to  whom  it  appears  to  us  that  the  Revolution 
has  thus  done  injustice  ;  and  who  have  been 
made  to  share  in  some  measure  the  infamy 
of  its  most  detestable  agents,  in  consequence 
of  venial  errors,  and  in  spite  of  extraordinary 
merits.     There  are  none  indeed  who  made  a 
figTire  in  its  more  advanced  stages,  that  may 
not  be  left,  without  any  great  breach  of  charity, 
to  the  vengeance  of  public  opinion :  and  both 
the  descriptions  of  persons  to  whom  w^e  have 
alluded  only  existed,  accordingly,  at  the  period 
of  its  commencement.     These  were  the  phi- 
losophers or  speculative  men  who  inculcated 
a  love  of  liberty  and  a  desire  of  reform  by 
their  writings  and  conversation ;  and  the  vir- 
tuous and  moderate,  who  attempted  to  act 
upon  these   principles  at  the  outset  of   the 
Revolution,  and   countenanced  or  suggested 
those  measures  by  which  the  ancient  frame 
of  the  government  was  eventually  dissolved. 
To  confound  either  of  these  classes  of  men 
with  the  monsters  by  whom  they  were  suc- 
ceeded, it  would  be  necessary  to  forget  that 
they  were  in  reality  their  most  strenuous  op- 
ponents— and  their  earliest  victims  !    If  they 
were  instrumental  in  conjuring  up  the  tem- 
pest, we  may  at  least  presume  that  their  co- 
operation was  granted   in   ignorance,    since 
they  were  the  first  to  fall  before  it ;  and  can 
scarcely  be  supposed  to  have  either  foreseen 
or  intended    those   consequences   in  which 
their  own  ruin  was  so  inevitably  involved. 
That  they  are  chargeable  with  imprudence 
and  with  presumption,  may  be  affirmed,  per 
haps,  without  fear  of  contradiction ;  though, 
with  regard  to  many  of  them,  it  would  be  no 
easy  task,  perhaps,  to  point  out  by  what  con- 
duct they  could  have  avoided  such  an  impu- 
tation ;  and  this  charge,  it  is  manifest,  ought 
at  any  rate  to  be  kept  carefully  separate  from 
that  of  guilt  or  atrocity.     Benevolent  inten 
tions,  though   alloyed   by  vanity,  and   mis- 
guided by  ignorance,  can  never  become  the 
objects  of  the  highest  moral  reprobation ;  and 
enthusiasm  itself,  though  it  does  the  work  of 
the  demons,  ought  still  to  be  distinguished  from 
treachery  or  malice.      The  knightly  adve^Hi 


BAILLY'S  MEMOIRS. 


211 


rarer,  vho  broke  the  chains  of  the  galley- 
Blaves,  purely  that  they  might  enjoy  their  de- 
liverance from  bondage,  will  always  be  re- 
garded with  other  feelings  than  the  robber 
who  freed  them  to  recruit  the  ranks  of  his 
banditti. 

We  have  examined  in  a  former  article  the 
extent  of  the  participation  which  can  be  fairly 
imputed  to  the  philosophers^  in  the  crimes  and 
miseries  of  the  Revolution,  and  endeavoured 
to  ascertain  in  how  far  they  may  be  said  to 
have  made  themselves  responsible  for  its 
consequences,  or  to  have  deserved  censure  for 
their  exertions:  And,  acquitting  the  greater 
part  of  any  mischievous  intention,  we  found 
reason,  upon  that  occasion,  to  conclude,  that 
there  was  nothing  in  the  conduct  of  the  ma- 
jority which  should  expose  them  to  blame,  or 
deprive  them  of  the  credit  which  they  would 
have  certainly  enjoyed,  but  for  consequences 
which  they  could  not  foresee.  For  those  who, 
with  intentions  equally  blameless,  attempted 
to  carry  into  execution  the  projects  which  had 
been  suggested  by  the  others,  and  actually 
engaged  in  measures  which  could  not  fail  to 
terminate  in  important  changes,  it  will  not  be 
easy,  we  are  afraid,  to  make  so  satisfactory 
an  apology.  What  is  written  may  be  cor- 
rected ,*  but  what  is  done  cannot  be  recalled  ,' 
a  rash  and  injudicious  publication  naturally 
calls  forth  an  host  of  answers ;  and  where  the 
subject  of  discussion  is  such  as  excites  a  very 
powerful  interest,  the  cause  of  truth  is  not 
always  least  effectually  served  by  her  oppo- 
nents. But  the  errors  of  cabinets  and  of  legis- 
latures have  other  consequences  and  other 
confutations.  They  are  answered  by  insur- 
rections, and  confuted  by  conspiracies.  A 
paradox  which  might  have  been  maintained 
by  an  author,  without  any  other  loss  than  that 
of  a  little  leisure,  and  ink  and  paper,  can 
only  be  supported  by  a  minister  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  lives  and  the  liberties  of  a  na- 
tion. It  is  evident,  therefore,  that  the  pre- 
cipitation of  a  legislator  can  never  admit  of 
the  same  excuse  with  that  of  a  speculative 
inquirer ;  that  the  same  confidence  in  his 
opinions,  which  justifies  the  former  in  main- 
taining them  to  the  world,  will  never  justify 
the  other  in  suspending  the  happiness  of  his 
country  on  the  issue  of  their  truth ;  and  that 
he,  in  particular,  subjects  himself  to  a  tre- 
mendous responsibility,  who  voluntarily  takes 
upon  himself  the  new-modelling  of  an  ancient 
constitution. 

We  are  very  much  inclined  to  do  justice 
to  the  virtuous  and  enlightened  men  who 
abounded  in  the  Constituent  Assembly  of 
France.  We  believe  that  the  motives  of 
many  of  them  were  pure,  and  their  patriot- 
ism unaffected :  their  talents  are  still  more 
indisputable  :  But  we  cannot  acquit  them  of 
blameable  presumption  and  inexcusable  im- 
prudence. There  are  three  points,  it  appears 
to  us,  in  particular,  in  which  they  were  bound 
to  have  foreseen  the  consequences  of  their 
proceedings. 

In  the  first  place,  the  spirit  of  exasperation, 
defiance,  and  intimidation,  with  which  from 
the  beginning  they  carried  on  their  opposi- 


tion to  the  schemes  of  the  wurt,  the  clergy 
and  the  nobility,  appears  to  us  to  have  been 
as  impolitic  with  a  view  to  their  ultimate 
success,  as  it  was  suspicious  perhaps  as  to 
their  immedi?te  motives.  The  parade  which 
they  made  of  their  popularity;  the  support 
which  they  submitted  to  receive  from  the 
menaces  and  acclamations  of  the  mob  3  the 
joy  which  they  testified  at  the  desertion  of 
the  royal  armies;  and  the  anomalous  mili- 
tary force,  of  which  they  patronized  the  for- 
mation in  the  city  of  Paris,  were  so  many 
preparations  for  actual  hostility,  and  led  al- 
most inevitably  to  that  appeal  to  force,  by 
which  all  prospect  of  establishing  an  equita- 
ble government  was  finally  cut  off.  San- 
guine as  the  patriots  of  that  assembly  un- 
doubtedly were,  they  might  still  have  re- 
membered the  most  obvious  and  important 
lesson  in  the  whole  volume  of  history.  That 
the  nation  which  has  recourse  to  arms  for 
the  settlement  of  its  internal  affairs,  neces- 
sarily falls  under  the  iron  yoke  of  a  military 
government  in  the  end ',  and  that  nothing 
but  the  most  evident  necessity  can  justify 
the  lovers  of  freedom  in  forcing  it  from  the 
hands  of  their  governors.  In  France,  there 
certainly  was  no  such  necessity.  The  whole 
weight  and  strength  of  the  nation  was  bent 
upon  political  improvement  and  reform. — 
There  was  no  possibility  of  their  being  ulti- 
mately resisted;  and  the  only  danger  that 
was  to  be  apprehended  was,  that  tj&eir  pro- 
gress would  be  too  rapid.  After  the  States- 
General  were  once  fairly  granted,  indeed,  it 
appears  to  us  that  the  victory  of  the  friends 
to  liberty  was  certain.  They  could  not  have 
gone  too  slow  afterwards;  they  could  not 
have  been  satisfied  with  too  little.  The 
great  object,  then,  should  have  been  to  ex- 
clude the  agency  of  force,  and  to  leave  no 
pretext  for  an  appeal  to  violence.  Nothing 
could  have  stood  against  the  force  of  reason, 
w^hich  ought  to  have  given  way;  and  from 
a  monarch  of  the  character  of  Louis  XIV. 
there  was  no  reason  to  apprehend  any  at- 
tempt to  regain,  by  violence,  what  he  had 
yielded  from  principles  of  philanthropy  and 
conviction.  The  Third  Estate  would  have 
grown  into  power,  instead  of  usurping  it ; 
and  would  have  gradually  compressed  the 
other  orders  into  their  proper  dimensions, 
instead  of  displacing  them  by  a  violence 
that  could  never  be  forgiven.  Even  if  the 
Orders  had  deliberated  separately,  (as  it  ap- 
pears to  us  they  ought  clearly  to  have  done,) 
the  commons  were  sure  of  an  ultimate  pre- 
ponderance, and  the  government  of  a  per- 
manent and  incalculable  amelioration.  Con- 
vened in  a  legislative  assembly,  and  engross- 
ing almost  entirely  the  respect  and  affecliona 
of  the  nation,  they  would  have  enjoyed  the 
unlimited  liberty  of  political  discussion,  and 
gradually  impressed  on  the  government  the 
character  of  their  peculiar  principles.  By 
the  restoration  of  the  legislative  function  to 
the  commons  of  the  kingdom,  the  system 
was  rendered  complete,  and  required  only  to 
be  put  into  action  in  order  to  assume  all  those 
improvements  which  necessarily  resul'ed  from 


.12 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


the  increased  wealth  and  intelligence  of  its 
representatives. 

Of  this  fair  chance  of  amelioration,  the 
nation  was  disappointed,  chiefly,  we  are  in- 
clined to  think,  by  the  needless  asperity  and 
injudicious  menaces  of  the  popular  party. 
They  relied  openly  upon  the  strength  of  their 
adherents  among  the  populace.  If  they  did 
not  actually  encourage  them  to  threats  and  to 
acts  of  violence,  they  availed  themselves  at 
least  of  those  which  were  committed,  to  in- 
timidate and  depress  'their  opponents ;  for  it 
is  indisputably  certain,  that  the  unconditional 
compliance  of  the  court  with  all  the  demands 
of  the  Constituent  Assembly,  was  the  result 
either  of  actual  force,  or  the  dread  of  its  im- 
mediate application.  This  was  the  inaus- 
picious commencement  of  the  sins  and  the 
sufferings  of  the  Revolution.  Their  progress 
and  termination  were  natural  and  necessary. 
The  multitude,  once  allowed  to  overawe  the 
old  government  with  threats,  soon  subjected 
the  new  government  to  the  same  degradation ; 
and,  once  permitted  to  act  in  arms,  came 
speedily  <to  dictate  to  those  who  were  assem- 
bled to  deliberate.  As  soon  as  an  appeal  was 
made  to  force,  the  decision  came  to  be  with 
those  by  whom  force  could  at  all  times  be 
commanded.  Reason  and  philosophy  were 
discarded ;  and  mere  terror  and  brute  vio- 
lence, in  the  various  fonns  of  proscriptions, 
insurrections,  massacres,  and  military  execu- 
tions, harassed  and  distracted  the  misguided 
nation,  till,  by  a  natural  consummation,  they 
fell  under,  the  despotic  sceptre  of  a  military 
usurper.  These  consequences,  we  conceive, 
were  obvious,  and  might  have  been  easily  for- 
s^en.  Nearly  half  a  century  had  elapsed 
since  they  were  pointed  out  in  those  memo- 
rable v/ords  of  the  most  profound  and  philo- 
sophical of  historians.  "By  recent,  as  well 
as  by  ancient  example,  it  was  become  evi- 
dent, that  illegal  violence,  with  M^hatever 
pretences  it  may  be  covered,  and  whatever 
object  it  may  pursue,  must  inevitably  end  at 
last  in  the  arbitrary  and  despotic  government 
of  a  single  person."* 

The  second  inexcusable  blunder,  of  which 
the  Constituent  Assembly  was  guilty,  was 
one  equally  obvious,  and  has  been  more  fre- 
quently noticed.  It  was  the  extreme  rest- 
lessness and  precipitation  with  which  they 
proceeded  to  accomplish,  in  a  few  weeks,  the 
legislative  labours  of  a  century.  Their  con- 
stitution was  struck  out  at  a  heat ;  and  their 
measures  of  reform  proposed  and  adopted  like 
toasts  at  an  election  dinner.  Within  less 
than  six  months  from  the  period  of  their  first 
convocation,  they  declared  the  illegality  of  all 
the  subsisting  taxes ;  they  abolished  the  old 
constitution  of  the  States-General;  they  set- 
tled the  limits  of  the  Royal  prerogative,  their 
own  inviolability,  arid  the  responsibility  of 
ministers.  Before  they  put  any  one  of  their 
projects  to  the  test  of  experiment,  they  had 
ado])ted  such  an  enormous  multitude,  as  en- 
tirely to  innovate  the  condition  of  the  country. 


*  Hume's  History,  chapter  Ix.  at  the  end.  The 
whole  passage  is  deserving  of  the  most  profound 
riu'titatton. 


and  to  expose  even  those  which  wiare  salutarj 
to  misapprehension  and  miscarriage.  From 
a  scheme  of  reformation  so  impetuous,  ana 
an  impatience  so  puerile,  nothing  permanent 
or  judicious  could  be  reasonably  expected. 
In  legislating  for  their  country,  they  seem  to 
have  forgotten  that  they  were  operating  on  a 
living  and  sentient  substance,  and  not  on  an 
inert  and  passive  mass,  which  they  might 
model  and  compound  according  to  their  pleas- 
ure or  their  fancy.  Human  society,  however, 
is  not  like  a  piece  of  mechanism  which  may 
be  safely  taken  to  pieces,  and  put  together  by 
the  hands  of  an  ordinary  artist.  It  is  the 
work  of  Nature,  and  not  of  man ;  and  hag 
received,  from  the  hands  of  its  Author,  an 
organization  that  cannot  be  destroyed  with- 
out danger  to  its  existence,  and  certain  prop- 
erties and  powers  that  cannot  be  altered  or 
suspended  by  those  who  may  have  been  en- 
trusted with  its  management.  By  studying 
those  properties,  and  directing  those  powers, 
it  may  be  modified  and  altered  to  a  very  con- 
siderable extent.  But  they  must  be  allowed 
to  develope  themselves  by  their  internal  en- 
ergy, and  to  familiarize  themselves  with  their 
new  channel  of  exertion.  A  child  cannot  be 
stretched  out  by  engines  to  the  stature  of  a 
man ;  or  a  man  compelled,  in  a  morning,  to 
excel  in  all  the  exercises  of  an  athlete.  Those 
into  whose  hands  the  destinies  of  a  great 
nation  are  committed,  should  bestow  on  its 
reformation  at  least  as  much  patient  observ- 
ance and  as  much  tender  precaution  as  are 
displayed  by  a  skilful  gardener  in  his  treat- 
ment of  a  sickly  plant.  He  props  up  the 
branches  that  are  weak  or  overloaded,  and 
gradually  prunes  and  reduces  those  that  are 
too  luxuriant :  he  cuts  away  what  is  absolutely 
rotten  and  distempered  :  he  stirs  the  eartii 
about  the  root,  and  sprinkles  it  with  water, 
and  waits  for  the  coming  spring  !  He  trains 
the  young  branches  to  the  right  hand  or  to  the 
left ',  and  leads  it,  by  a  gradual  and  sponta- 
neous  progress,  to  expand  or  exalt  itself,  sea- 
son after  season,  in  the  direction  which  he 
had  previously  determined  :  and  thus,  in  the 
course  of  a  few  summers,  he  brings  it,  with- 
out injury  or  compulsion,  into  that  form  and 
proportion  which  could  not  with  safety  have 
been  imposed  upon  it  in  a  shorter  time.  The 
reformers  of  France  applied  no  such  gentle 
solicitations,  and  would  not  wait  for  the  effects 
of  any  such  preparatory  measures,  or  volun- 
tary developments.  They  forcibly  broke  its 
lofty  boughs  asunder,  and  endeavoured  tc 
straighten  its  crooked  joints  by  violence  :  they 
tortured  it  into  symmetry  in  vain,  and  shed 
its  life-blood  on  the  earth,  in  the  middle  of  its 
scattered  branches. 

The  third  great  danger,  against  which  we 
think  it  was  the  duty  of  the  intelligent  and 
virtuous  part  of  the  Deputies  to  have  provided, 
was  that  w^hich  arose  from  the  sudden  trans- 
ference of  power  to  the  hands  of  men  who 
had  previously  no  natural  or  individual  influ- 
ence in  the  community.  This  was  an  evil 
indeed,  which  arose  necessarily,  in  some  de- 
gree, from  the  defects  of  the  old  government, 
and  from  the  novelty  of  the  situation  in  which 


BAILLY'S  MEMOIRS. 


213 


tiie  country  was  placed  by  the  convocation 
of  the  States-General;  but  it  was  materially 
aggravated  by  the  presumption  and  improvi- 
dence of  those  enthusiastic  legislators,  and 
tended  powerfully  to  produce  those  disasters 
by  which  they  were  ultimately  overwhelmed. 

No  representative  legislature,  it  appears  to 
us,  can  ever  be  respectable  or  secure,  unless 
It  contain  within  itself  a  great  proportion  of 
those  who  form  the  natural  aristocracy  of  the 
country,  and  are  able,  as  individuals,  to  influ- 
ence the  conduct  and  opinions  of  the  greater 
part  of  its  inhabitants.  Unless  the  power  and 
weight  and  authority  of  the  assembly,  in 
short,  be  really  made  up  of  the  power  and 
weight  and  anthority  of  the  individuals  who 
compose  it,  the  factitious  dignity  they  may 
derive  from  their  situation  can  never  be  of 
long  endurance;  and  the  dangerous  power 
with  which  they  may  be  invested,  will  be- 
come the  subject  of  scrambling  and  conten- 
tion among  the  factions  of  the  metropolis,  and 
be  employed  for  any  purpose  but  the  general 
good  of  the  community. 

In  England,  the  House  of  Commons  is  made 
up  of  the  individuals  who,  by  birth,  by  for- 
tune,, or  by  talents,  possess  singly  the  greates-t 
influence  over  the  rest  of  the  people.  The 
most  certain  and  the  most  permanent  influ- 
ence, is  that  of  rank  and  of  riches ;  and  these 
are  the  qualifications,  accordingly,  which  re- 
turn the  greatest  number  of  members.  Men 
submit  to  be  governed  by  the  united  will  of 
those,  to  whose  will,  as  individuals,  the  greater 
part  of  them  have  been  previously  accustomed 
to  submit  themselves;  and  an  act  of  parlia- 
ment is  reverenced  and  obeyed,  not  because 
the  people  are  impressed  with  a  constitutional 
veneration  for  an  institution  called  a  parlia- 
ment, but  because  it  has  been  passed  by  the 
authority  of  those  who  are  recognised  as  their 
natural  superiors,  and  by  M^hose  influence,  as 
individuals,  the  same  measures  might  have 
been  enforced  over  the  greater  part  of  the 
kingdom.  Scarcely  any  new  power  is  ac- 
quired, therefore,  by  the  combination  of  those 
persons  into  a  legislature  :  They  carry  each 
their  share  of  influence  and  authority  into  the 
senate  along  with  them  ;  and  it  is  by  adding 
the  items  of  it  together,  that  the  influence 
and  authority  of  the  senate  itself  is  made  up. 
From  such  a  senate,  therefore,  it  is  obvious 
that  their  power  can  never  be  wrested,  and 
that  it  would  not  even  attach  to  those  who 
might  succeed  in  supplanting  them  in  the 
legislature,  by  violence  or  intrigue ;  or  by  any 
other  means  than  those  by  which  they  them- 
selves had  originally  secured  their  nomination. 
In  such  a  state  of  representation,  in  short,  the 
influence  of  the  representatives  is  not  borrow- 
ed from  their  office,  but  the  influence  of  the 
office  is  supported  by  that  which  is  personal 
to  its  members;  and  parliament  is  chiefly 
regarded  as  the  great  depository  of  all  the 
authority  which  formerly  existed,  in  a  scat- 
tered state,  among  its  members.  This  author- 
ity, therefore,  belonging  to  the  men,  and  not 
to  their  places,  can  neither  be  lost  by  them, 
if  they  are  forced  from  their  places,  nor  found 
by  those  who  may  supplant  them.   The  Long 


i 


Parliament,  after  it  was  purged  by  the  Inde- 
pendents, and  the  assemblies  that  met  undei 
that  name,  during  the  Protectorate  of  Crom- 
well, held  the  place,  and  enjoyed  all  the  form 
of  power  that  had  belonged  to  their  predeces- 
sors: But  as  they  no  longer  contained  those 
individuals  who  were  able  to  sway  and  influ- 
ence the  opinion  of  the  body  of  the  people. 
4hey  were  without  respect  or  authority,  ana 
speedily  came  to  be  the  objects  of  public  deri- 
sion ancl  contempt. 

As  the  power  and  authority  of  a  legislature 
thus  constituted,  is  perfectly  secure  and  in- 
alienable, on  the  one  hand,  so,  on  the  other,  the 
moderation  of  its  proceedings  is  guaranteed 
by  a  consciousness  of  the  basis  upon  which 
this  authority  is  founded.  Every  individual 
being  aware  of  the  extent  to  which  his  own 
influence  is  likely  to  reach  among  his  constit- 
uents and  dependants,  is  anxious  that  the 
mandates  of  the  body  shall  never  pass  beyond 
that  limit,  within  which  obedience  may  be 
easily  secured.  He  will  not  hazard  the  loss 
of  his  own  power,  therefore,  by  any  attempt 
to  enlarge  that  of  the  legislature  ;  and  feel- 
ing, at  every  step,  the  weight  and  resistance 
of  the  people,  the  whole  assembly  proceeds 
with  a  due  regard  to  their  opinions  and  pre- 
judices, and  can  never  do  any  thing  very  in- 
jurious or  very  distasteful  to  the  majority. — 
From  the  very  nature  of  the  authority  witl: 
which  they  are  invested,  they  are  in  fact  con- 
substantiated  with  the  people  for  whom  they 
are  to  legislate.  They  do  not  sit  loose  upon 
"them,  like  riders  on  inferior  animals;  no: 
speculate  nor  project  experiments  upon  theii 
welfare,  like  operators  upon  a  foreign  sub- 
stance. They  are  the  natural  organs,  in  fact, 
of  a  great  living  body;  and  are  not  only 
warned,  by  their  own  feelings,  of  any  injury 
which  they  may  be  tempted  to  inflict  on  it, 
but  would  become  incapable  of  perfoiming 
their  functions,  if  they  were  to  proceed  far  in 
"debilitating  the  general  system. 

Such,  it  appears  to  us,  though  delivered 
perhaps  in  too  abstract  and  elementary  a  form, 
is  the  just  conception  of  a  free  representative 
legislature.  Neither  the  English  House  of 
Commons,  indeed,  nor  any  assembly  of  any 
other  nation,  ever  realized  it  in  all  its  perfec- 
tion :  But  it  is  in  their  approximation  to  such 
a  standard,  we  conceive,  that  their  excellence 
and  utility  will  be  found  to  consist ;  and  where 
the  conditions  upon  which  we  have  irxsisted 
are  absolutely  wanting,  the  sudden  institution 
of  a  representative  legislature  will  only  be  a 
step  to  the  most  frightful  disorders.  Wl^ere 
it  has  grown  up  in  a  country  in  which  per- 
sonal liberty  and  property  are  tolerably  secure^ 
it  naturally  assumes  that  form  which  is  most 
favourable  to  its  beneficial  influence,  and  has 
a  tendency  to  perpetual  improvement,  and  to 
the  constant  amelioration  of  the  condition  of 
the  whole  society.  The  difference  between 
a  free  government  and  a  tyrannical  one,  con- 
sists entirely  in  the  different  proportions  of 
the  people  that  are  influenced  by  their  opin- 
ions, or  subjug-ated  by  intimidation  or  force. 
In  a  large  society,  opinions  can  only  be  re- 
united by  means  of  representations  :  and  \h& 


xu 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


natural  representative  is  the  individual  whose 
example  and  authority  can  influence  the  opin- 
ions of  the  greater  part  of  those  in  whose 
behalf  he  is  delegated.  This  is  the  natural 
aristocracy  of  a  civilized  nation ;  and  its  legis- 
lature is  then  upon  the  best  possible  footing, 
when  it  is  in  the  hands  of  those  who  answer 
to  that  description.  The  whole  people  are 
then  governed  by  the  laws,  exactly  as  each 
clan  or  district  of  them  would  have  been  by 
the  patriarchal  authority  of  an  elective  and 
unarmed  chieftain ;  and  the  lawgivers  are  not 
only  secure  of  their  places  while  they  can 
maintain  their  individual  influence  over  the 
people,  but  are  withheld  from  any  rash  or 
injurious  measure  by  the  consciousness  and 
feeling  of  their  dependence  on  this  voluntary 
deference  and  submission. 

If  this  be  at  all  a  just  representation  of  the 
conditions  upon  which  the  respectability  and 
security  of  a  representative  legislature  must 
always  depend,  it  will  not  be  difRcult  to  ex- 
plain how  the  experiment  miscarried  so  com- 
pletely, in  the  case  of  the  French  Constituent 
Assembly.  That  assembly,  which  the  enthu- 
siasm of  the  public,  and  the  misconduct  of 
the  privileged  orders,  soon  enabled  to  engross 
the  whole  power  of  the  country,  consisted 
almost  entirely  of  persons  without  name  or 
individual  influence  ;  who  owed  the  whole  of 
their  consequence  to  the  situation  to  which 
they  had  been  elevated,  and  were  not  able, 
as  individuals,  to  have  influenced  the  opinions 
of  one-fiftieth  part  of  their  countrymen. — 
There  was  in  France,  indeed,  at  this  time,  no 
legitimate,  wholesome,  or  real  aristocracy. — 
The  noblesse,  who  were  persecuted  for  bear- 
ing that  name,  were  quite  disconnected  from 
the  people.  Their  habits  of  perpetual  resi- 
dence in  the  capital,  and  their  total  independ- 
ence of  the  good  opinion  of  their  vassals, 
had  deprived  them  of  any  real  influence  over 
the  minds  of  the  lower  orders ;  and  the  or- 
ganization of  society  had  not  yet  enabled  the 
rich  manufacturers  or  proprietors  to  assume 
such  an  influence.  The  persons  sent  as  de- 
puties to  the  States-General,  therefore,  were 
those  chiefly  who,  by  intrigue  and  boldness, 
and  by  professions  of  uncommon  zeal  for  what 
were  then  the  great  objects  of  popular  pursuit, 
had  been  enabled  to  carry  the  votes  of  the 
electors.  A  notion  of  talent,  and  an  opinion 
that  they  would  be  loud  and  vehement  in 
supporting  those  requests  upon  which  the 
people  had  already  come  to  a  decision,  were 
their  passports  into  that  assembly.  They 
were  sent  there  to  express  the  particular 
demands  of  the  people,  and  not  to  give  a 
general  pledge  of  their  acquiescence  in  Avhat 
might  there  ce  enacted.  They  were  not  the 
hereditary  patrons  of  the  people,  but  their 
hired  advocates  for  a  particular  pleading. — 
They  had  no  general  trust  or  authority  over 
them,  but  were  chosen  as  their  special  mes- 
sengers, out  of  a  multitude  whose  influence 
and  pretensions  were  equally  powerful. 

When  these  men  found  themselves,  as  it 
were  by  accident,  in  possession  of  the  whole 
power  of  the  slate,  and  invested  with  the 
absolute  government  of  the  greatest  nation 


that  has  existed  in  modern  times,  it  is  not  tc 
be  wondered  at  if  they  forgot  the  slender  ties 
by  which  they  were  bound  to  their  constitu- 
ents. The  powers  to  which  they  had  suc- 
ceeded were  so  infinitely  beyond  any  thing 
that  they  had  enjoyed  in  their  individual 
capacity,  that  it  is  not  surprising  if  they  never 
thought  of  exerting  them  with  the  same  con- 
sideration and  caution.  Instead  of  the  great 
bases  of  rank  and  property,  which  cannot  be 
transferred  by  the  clamours  of  the  factious, 
or  the  caprice  of  the  inconstant,  and  which 
serve  to  ballast  and  steady  the  vessel  of  the 
state  in  all  its  wanderings  and  perils,  the 
assembly  possessed  only  the  basis  of  talent 
or  reputation ;  qualities  which  depend  upon 
opinion  and  opportunity,  and  which  may  be 
attributed  in  the  same  proportion  to  an  incon- 
venient multitude  at  once.  The  whole  legis- 
lature may  be  considered,  therefore,  as  com- 
posed of  adventurers,  who  had  already  attained 
a  situation  incalculably  above  their  original 
pretensions,  and  w^ere  now  tempted  to  push 
their  fortune  by  every  means  that  held  out 
the  promise  of  immediate  success.  They 
had  nothing,  comparatively  speaking,  to  lose, 
but  their  places  in  that  assembly,  or  the  influ- 
ence which  they  possessed  within  its  walls ; 
and  as  the  authority  of  the  assembly  itself 
depended  altogether  upon  the  popularity  of 
its  measures,  and  not  upon  the  intrinsic  au- 
thority of  its  members,  so  it  was  only  to  be 
maintained  by  a  succession  of  brilliant  and 
imposing  resolutions,  and  by  satisfying  or  out- 
doing theextravagant  wishes  and  expectations 
of  the  most  extravagant  and  sanguine  populace 
that  ever  existed.  For  a  man  to  get  a  lead  in 
such  an  assembly,  it  was  by  no  means  neces- 
sary that  he  should  have  previously  possessed 
any  influence  or  authority  in  the  community ; 
that  he  should  be  connected  w^ith  powerful 
families,  or  supported  by  great  and  extensive 
associations.  If  he  could  dazzle  and  overaw^e 
in  debate  ;  if  he  could  obtain  the  acclamations 
of  the  mob  of  Versaflles,  and  make  himself 
familiar  to  the  eyes  and  the  ears  of  the  as- 
sembly and  its  galleries,  he  was  in  a  fair  train 
for  having  a  great  share  in  the  direction  of  an 
assembly  exercising  absolute  sovereignty  over 
thirty  miflions  of  men'.  The  prize  was  too 
tempting  not  to  attract  a  multitude  of  com- 
petitors ;  and  the  assembly  for  many  months 
was  governed  by  those  who  outvied  their 
associates  in  the  impracticable  extravagance 
of  their  patriotism,  and  sacrificed  most  pro- 
fusely the  real  interests  of  the  people  at  the 
shrine  of  a  precarious  popularity. 

In  this  way,  the  assembly,  from  the  inherent 
vices  of  its  constitution,  ceased  to  be  respect- 
able or  useful.  The  same  causes  speedily 
put  an  end  to  its  security,  and  converted  it 
mto  an  instrument  of  destruction. 

Mere  popularity  was  at  first  the  instrument 
by  which  this  unsteady  legislature  was  gov- 
erned :  But  when  it  became  apparent,  that 
whoever  could  obtain  the  direction  or  com- 
mand of  it,  must  possess  the  whole  authority 
of  the  state,  parties  became  less  scrupulous 
about  the  means  they  employed  for  that  pur- 
pose, and  soon  found  out  that  violence  and 


BAILLY'S  MEMOIRS. 


2ia 


lerroi  were  infinitely  more  effectual  and  ex- 
peditious than  persuasion  and  eloquence.  The 
people  at  large,  who  had  no  attachment  to 
any  families  or  individuals  among  their  dele- 
gates, and  who  contented  themselves  with 
idolizing  the  assembly  in  general,  so  long  as 
it  passed  decrees  to  their  liking,  were  passive 
and  indifferent  spectators  of  the  transference 
of  power  which  was  effected  by  the  pikes  of 
the  Parisian  multitude ;  and  looked  with  equal 
affection  upon  every  successive  junto  which 
assumed  the  management  of  its  deliberations. 
Having  no  natural  representatives,  they  felt 
themselves  equally  connected  with  all  who 
exercised  the  legislative  function  ]  and,  being 
destitute  of  a  real  aristocracy,  were  without 
the  means  of  giving  effectual  support  even  to 
those  who  might  appear  to  deserve  it.  En- 
couraged by  this  situation  of  affairs,  the  most 
daring,  unprincipled,  and  profligute,  proceeded 
to  seize  upon  the  defenceless  legislature,  and, 
driving  all  their  antagonists  before  them  by 
violence  or  intimidation,  entered  without  op- 
position upon  the  supreme  functions  of  gov- 
ernment. They  soon  found,  however,  that 
the  arms  by  which  they  had  been  victorious, 
were  capable  of  being  turned  against  them- 
selves; and  those  who  were  envious  of  their 
success,  or  ambitious  of  their  distinction,  easily 
found  means  to  excite  discontent  among  the 
multitude,  now  inured  to  insurrection,  and  to 
employ  them  in  pulling  down  those  very  in- 
dividuals whom  they  had  so  recently  exalted. 
The  disposal  of  the  legislature  thus  became  a 
prize  to  be  fought  for  in  the  clubs  and  con- 
■  spiracles  and  insurrections  of  a  corrupted 
metropolis;  and  the  institution  of  a  national 
representative  had  no  other  effect,  than  thq,t 
of  laying  the  government  open  to  lawless 
force  and  flagitious  audacity. 

It  is  in  this  manner,  it  appears  to  us,  that 
from  the  want  of  a  natural  and  efficient  aris- 
tocracy to  exercise  the  functions  of  represent- 
ative legislators,  the  National  Assembly  of 
France  was  betrayed  into  extravagance,  and 
fell  a  prey  to  faction;  that  the  institution 
itself  became  a  source  of  public  misery  and 
disorder,  and  converted  a  civilized  monarchy, 
first  into  a  sanguinary  democracy,  and  then 
into  a  military  despotism. 

It  would  be  the  excess  of  injustice,  we 
have  already  said,  to  impute  those  disastrous 
consequences  to  the  moderate  and  virtuous 
individuals  who  sat  in  the  Constituent  As- 
sembly :  But  if  it  be  admitted  that  they  might 
Have  been  easily  foreseen,  it  will  not  be  easy 
to  exculpate  them  from  the  charge  of  very 
blameable  imprudence.  It  would  be  difficult, 
indeed,  to  point  out  any  course  of  conduct  by 
which  those  dangers  might  have  been  entirely 
avoided  :  But  they  would  undoubtedly  have 
been  less  formidable,  if  the  enlightened  mem- 
bers of  the  Third  Estate  had  endeavoured  to 
form  a  party  with  the  more  liberal  and  popu- 
lar among  the  nobility;  if  they  had  associated 
to  themselves  a  greater  number  of  those  to 
tvhose  persons  a  certain  degree  of  influence 


was  attached,  from  their  fortune,  their  age,  »x 
their  official  siaiion ;  if,  in  short,  instead  of 
grasping  presumptuously  at  the  exclusive  di- 
rection of  the  national  councils,  and  arrogating 
every  thing  on  the  credit  of  their  zealous 
patriotism  and  inexperienced  abilities,  they 
had  sought  to  strengthen  themselves  by  an 
alliance  with  what  was  respectable  in  the 
existing  establishments,  and  attached  them- 
selves at  first  as  disciples  to  those  whom  they 
might  fairly  expect  speedily  to  outgrow  and 
eclipse. 

Upon  a  review  of  the  whole  matter,  it 
seems  impossible  to  acquit  those  of  the  revo- 
lutionary patriots,  whose  intentions  are  ad- 
mitted to  be  pure,  of  great  precipitation,  pre- 
sumption, and  imprudence.  Apologies  may 
be  found  for  them,  perhaps,  in  the  inexpe- 
rience which  was  incident  to  their  situation ; 
in  their  constant  apprehension  of  being  sepa- 
rated before  their  task  was  accomplished ;  in 
the  exasperation  which  was  excited  by  the 
insidious  proceedings  of  the  cabinet ;  and  in 
the  intoxication  which  naturally  resulted  from 
the  magnitude  of  their  early  triumph,  and 'the 
noise  and  resounding  of  their  popularity.  But 
the  errors  into  M'hich  they  fell  were  inex- 
cusable, we  think,  in  politicians  of  the  eight- 
eenth century ;  and  while  we  pity  their  suf- 
ferings, and  admire  their  genius,  we  cannot 
feel  much  respect  for  their  wisdom,  or  any 
surprise  at  their  miscarriage. 

The  preceding  train  of  reflection  was  irre- 
sistibly suggested  to  us  by  the  title  and  the  con- 
tents of  the  volumes  now  before  us.  Among 
the  virtuous  members  of  the  first  Assembly, 
there  was  no  one  \vho  stood  higher  than  Bailly. 
As  a  scholar  and  a  man  of  science,  he  had 
long  stood  in  the  very  first  rank  of  celebrity  : 
His  private  morals  were  not  only  irreproach- 
able, but  exemplary ;  and  his  character  and 
dispositions  had  always  been  remarkable  for 
gentleness,  moderation,  and  philanthropy. 
Drawn  unconsciously,  if  we  may  believe  Kia 
own  account,  into  public  life,  rather  than  im- 
pelled into  it  by  any  movement  of  ambition, 
he  participated  in  the  enthusiasm,  and  in  the 
imprudence,  from  which  no  one  seemed  at 
that  time  to  be  exempted  ;  and  in  spite  of  an 
early  retreat,  speedily  suffered  thai  fate  by 
which  all  the  well  meaning  were  then  des- 
tined to  expiate  their  errors.  His  popularity 
was  at  one  time  equal  to  that  of  any  of  the 
idols  of  the  day;  and  if  it  was  gained  by 
some  decree  of  blameable  indulgence  and 
unjustifiable  zeal,  it  was  forfeited  at  last  (and 
along  with  his  life)  by  a  resolute  opposition 
to  disoraer,  and  a  meritorious  perseverance 
in  the  discharge  of  his  duty. 

The  sequel  of  this  article,  containing  a  full 
abstract  of  the  learned  author's  recollections 
of  the  first  six  months  only  of  his  mayoralty, 
is  now  omitted;  both  as  too  minute  to  retain 
■any  interest  at  this  day,  and  as  superseded 
by  the  more  comprehensive  details  whicl." 
will  be  found  in  the  succeeding  article. 


216 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


(Septi^mber,  ISIS.) 


Considerations  i>ur  les  Principaux  Evenemens  de  la  Revolution  Frangoise.  Ouvrage  Posthunu 
de  Madame  la  Baronne  de  Stael.  Publie  par  M.  le  Due  de  Broglie  et  M.  le  Baron  A. 
DE  Stael.     En  trois  tomes.     8vo.  pp.  1285.     Londres:   1818. 


No  book  can  possibly  possess  a  higher 
interest  than  this  which  is  now  before  us. 
It  is  the  lastj  dying  bequest  of  the  most  bril- 
liant writer  that  has  appeared  in  our  days; — 
and  it  treats  of  a  period  of  history  which  we 
already  know  to  be  the  most  important  that 
has  occurred  for  centuries  ]  and  which  those 
who  look  back  on  it,  after  other  centuries 
have  elapsed,  will  probably  consider  as  still 
more  important. 

We  cannot  slop  now  to  say  all  that  we  think 
of  Madame  de  Stael : — and  yet  we  must  say, 
that  we  think  her  the  most  powerful  writer 
that* her  country  has  produced  since  the  time 
of  Voltaire  and  Rousseau — and  the  greatest 
writer,  of  a  woman,  that  any  time  or  any 
country  has  produced.  Her  taste,  perhaps, 
is  not  quite  pure ;  and  her  style  is  too  irregu- 
lar and  ambitious.  These  faults  may  even 
go  deeper.  Her  passion  for  effect^  and  the 
tone  of  exaggeration  which  it  naturally  pro- 
duces, have  probably  interfered  occasionally 
with  the  soundness  of  her  judgment,  and 
given  a  suspicious  colouring  to  some  of  her 
representations  of  fact.  At  all  events,  they 
have  rendered  her  impatient  of  the  humbler 
task  of  completing  her  explanatory  details, 
or  stating  in  their  order  all  the  premises  of 
her  reasonings.  She  gives  her  history  in 
abstracts,  and  her  theories  in  aphorisms: — 
and  the  greater  part  of  her  works,  instead  of 
presenting  that  systematic  unity  from  which 
the  highest  degrees  of  strength  and  beauty 
and  clearness  must  ever  be  derived,  may  be 
fairly  described  as  a  collection  of  striking 
fragments — in  which  a  great  deal  of  repe- 
tition does  by  no  means  diminish  the  effect 
of  a  good  deal  of  inconsistency.  In  those 
same  works,  however,  whether  we  consider 
them  as  fragments  or  as  systems,  we  do  not 
hesitate  to  say  that  there  are  more  original 
and  profound  observations — more  new  images 
— greater  sagacity  combined  with  higher  im- 
agination— and  more  of  the  true  philosophy 
of  the  passions,  the  politics,  and  the  literature 
of  her  contemporaries — than  in  any  other 
author  we  can  now  remember.  She  has  great 
eloquence  on  all  subjects;  and  a  singular 
pathos  in  representing  those  bitterest  agonies 
of  the  spirit,  in  which  wretchedness  is  aggra- 
vated by  remorse,  or  by  regrets  that  partake 
of  its  character.  Though  it  is  difficult  to  re- 
sist her  when  she  is  in  earnest,  we  cannot  say 
/hat  we  agree  in  all  her  opinions,  or  approve 
of  all  her  sentiments.  She  overrates  the  im- 
portance of  literature,  either  in  determining 
the  character  or  affecting  the  happiness  of 
mankind ;  and  she  theorises  too  confidently 
an  its  past  and  its  future  history.    On  subjects 


like  this,  we  have  not  yet  facts  enough  for  so 
much  philosophy;  and  must  be  contented, 
we  fear,  for  a  long  time  to  come,  to  call  many 
things  accidental,  which  it  would  be  more 
satisfactory  to  refer  to  determinate  causes. 
h\  her  estimate  of  the  happiness,  and  her 
notions  of  the  wisdom  of  private  life,  we 
think  her  both  unfortunate  and  erroneous. 
She  makes  passions  and  high  sensibilities  a 
great  deal  too  indispensable ;  and  varnishes 
over  all  her  pictures  too  uniformly  with  the 
glare  of  an  extravagant  or  affected  enthu- 
siasm. She  represents  men,  in  short,  as  a 
great  deal  more  unhappy,  more  depraved, 
and  more  energetic,  than  they  are — and 
seems  to  respect  them  the  more  for  it.  In 
her  politics  she  is  far  more  unexceptionable. 
She  is  everywhere  the  warm  friend  and  ani- 
mated advocate  of  liberty — and  of  liberal, 
practical,  and  philanthropic  principles.  On 
those  subjects  we  cannot  blame  her  enthu- 
siasm, which  has  nothing  in  it  vindictive  or 
provoking;  and  are  far  more  inclined  to  envy 
than  to  reprove  that  sanguine  and  buoyant 
temper  of  mind  which,  after  all  she  has  seen 
and  suffered,  still  leads  her  to  overrate,  in  our 
apprehension,  both  the  merit  of  past  attempts 
at  political  amelioration,  and  the  chances  of 
their  success  hereafter.  It  is  in  that  futurity, 
vre  fear,  and  in  the  hopes  that  make  it  pre- 
sent, that  the  lovers  of  mankind  must  yet, 
for  a  while,  console  themselves  for  the  disap- 
pointments which  still  seem  to  beset  them. 
If  Madame  de  Stael,  however,  predicts  with 
too  much  confidence,  it  must  be  admitted 
that  her  labours  have  a  powerful  tendency  to 
realize  her  predictions.  Her  writings  are  all 
full  of  the  most  animating  views  of  the  im- 
provement of  our  social  condition,  and  the 
means  by  which  it  may  be  effected — the  most 
striking  refutations  of  prevailing  errors  on 
these  great  subjects — and  the  most  persuasive 
expostulations  with  those  who  may  think  their 
interest  or  their  honour  concerned  in  main- 
taining them.  Even  they  who  are  the  least 
inclined  to  agree  with  her,  must  admit  that 
there  is  much  to  be  learned  from  her  writings; 
and  we  can  give  them  no  higher  praise  than 
to  say,  that  their  tendency  is  not  only  to  pro- 
mote the  interests  of  philanthropy  and  inde- 
pendence, but  to  soften,  rather  than  exasperate, 
the  prejudices  to  which  they  are  opposed. 

Of  tire  work  before  us,  we  do  not  know 
very  well  what  to  say.  It  contains  a  multi- 
tude of  admirable  remarks — and  a  still  greater 
number  of  curious  details ;  for  IVIadame  de 
Stael  was  not  only  a  contemporary,  but  an  eye- 
witness of  much  that  she  describes,  and  had 
the  very  best  access  to  learn  what  did  not  fall 


DE  STAEL'S  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 


217 


under  her  immediate  observation.     Few  per- 
sons certainly  could  be  better  qualified  to  ap- 
preciate the  relative  importance  of  the  sub- 
jects that  fell  under  her  review;  and  no  one, 
we  really  think,  so  little  likely  to  colour  and 
distort  them,  from  any  personal  or  party  feel- 
ings.   With  all  those  rare  qualifications,  how- 
ever, and  inestimable  advantages  for  perform- 
ing the  task  of  an  historian,  we  cannot  say 
that  she  has  made  a  good  history.     It  is  too 
much  broken  into  fragments.     The  narrative 
is  too  much  interrupted  by  reflections :  and 
the  reflections  too  much  subdivided,  to  suit 
the  subdivisions  of  the  narrative.     There  are 
too  many  events  omitted,  or  but   cursorily 
noticed,  to  give  the  work"  the  interest  of  a  full 
and  flowing  history;   and  a  great  deal  too 
many  detailed  and  analyzed,  to  let  it  pass  for 
an  essay  on  the  philosophy,  or  greater  results 
of  these   memorable   transactions.     We  are 
the  most  struck  with  this  last  fault — which 
perhaps  is  inseparable  from  the  condition  of 
a  contemporary  writer ; — for,  though  the  ob- 
servation may  sound  at  first  like  a  paradox, 
we  are  rather  inclined  to  think  that  the  best 
historical   compositions — not   only  the   most 
pleasing  to  read,  but  the  most  just  and  in- 
structive in  themselves — must  be  written  at 
a  very  considerable  distance  from  the  times 
to  which  they  relate.    When  we  read  an  elo- 
quent and  judicious  account  of  great  events 
transacted,  in  other  ages,  our  first  sentiment 
IS  that  of  regret  at  not  being  able  to  learn 
more  of  them.    We  wish  anxiously  for  a  fuller 
detail  of  particulars — we  envy  those  who  had 
the  good  fortune  to  live  in  the  time  of  such 
interesting  occurrences,  and  blame  them  for 
having  left  us  so  brief  and  imperfect  a  me- 
morial of  them.     But  the  truth  is,  if  we  may 
judge   from   our  own   experience,  that   the 
greater  part  of  those  who  were   present  to 
those  mighty  operations,  were  but  very  im- 
perfectly aware  of  their  importance,  and  con- 
jectured but  little  of  the  influence  they  were 
to  exert  on  future  generations.     Their  atten- 
tion was  successively  engaged  by  each  sepa- 
rate act  of  the  great  drama  that  was  passing 
before  them ;  but  did  not  extend  to  the  con- 
nected efl'ect  of  the  whole,  in  which  alone 
posterity  was  to  find  the  grandeur  and  inter- 
est of  the  scene.     The  connection  indeed  of 
those   different  acts  is  very  often  not  then 
discernible.     The  series  often  stretches  on, 
beyond   the  reach  of  the   generation  which 
witnessed  its  beginning,  and  makes  it  impos- 
sible for  them  to  integrate  what  had  not  yet 
attained  its  completion ;  while,  from  similar 
causes,  many  of  the  terms  that  at  first  ap- 
peared most  important  are  unavoidably  dis- 
carded, to  bring  the  problem  within  a  manage- 
able compass.     Time,  in  short,  performs  the 
same  services  to  events,  which  distance  does 
to  visible  objects.     It  obscures  and  gradually 
annihilates  the  small,  but  renders  those  that 
are  very  great  much  more  distinct  and  con- 
ceivable.    If  we  would  know  the  true  form 
and  bearings  of  an  Alpine  ridge,  we  must  not 
grovel  among  the  irregularities  of  its  surface, 
but  observe,  from  the  distance  of  leagues,  the 
•iirection  of  its  ranges  and  peaks,  and  the 


I  giant  outline  which  it  traces  on  the  sky.  A 
I  traveller  who  wanders  through  a  rugged  and 
picturesque  district,  though  struck  with  the 
beauty  of  every  new  valley,  or  the  grandeur 
of  every  clifl"  that  he  passes,  has  no  notion  at 
all  of  the  general  configuration  of  the  country, 
or  even  of  the  relative  situation  of  the  objects 
he  has  been  admiring ;  and  will  understand 
all  those  things,  and  his  own  route  among 
them,  a  thousand  times  better,  from  a  small 
map  on  a  scale  of  half  an  inch  to  a  mile, 
which  represents  neither  thickets  or  hamlets, 
than  from  the  most  painful  eflx)rts  to  combine 
the  indications  of  the  strongest  memory.  The 
case  is  the  same  with  those  who  live  through 
periods  of  great  historical  interest.  They  are 
too  near  the  scene — too  much  interested  hi 
each  successive  event — and  too  much  agi- 
tated with  their  rapid  succession,  to  form  any 
just  estimate  of  the  character  or  result  of  the 
whole.  They  are  like  private  soldiers  in  the 
middle  of  a  great  battle,  or  rather  of  a  busy 
and  complicated  campaign — hardly  knowing 
whether  they  have  lost  or  won,  and  having 
but  the  most  obscure  and  imperfect  concep- 
tion of  the  general  movements  in  which  their 
own  fate  has  been  involved.  The  foreigner 
who  reads  of  them  in  the  Gazette,  or  the 
peasant  who  sees  them  from  the  top  of  a  dis- 
tant hill  or  a  steeple,  has  in  fact  a  far  better 
idea  of  them. 

Of  the  thousand  or  fifteen  hundred  names 
that  have  been  connected  in  contemporary 
fame  with  the  great  events  of  the  last  twenty- 
five  years,  how  many  will  go  down  to  pos- 
terity? In  all  probability  not  more  than 
twenty :  And  who  shall  yet  venture  to  say 
which  twenty  it  will  be  ?  But  it  is  the  same 
with  the  events  as  with  the  actors.  How 
often,  during  that  period,  have  we  mourned 
or  exulted,  with  exaggerated  emotions,  over 
occurrences  that  we  already  discover  to  have 
been  of  no  peraianent  importance  ! — how  cer- 
tain is  it,  that  the  far  greater  proportion  of 
those  to  which  we  still  attach  an  interest,  M'ill 
be  viewed  with  the  same  indifference  by  the 
very  next  generation ! — and  how  probable, 
that  the  whole  train  and  tissue  of  the  history 
will  appear,  to  a  remoter  posterity,  under  a 
totally  different  character  and  colour  from  any 
that  the  most  penetrating  observer  of  the  pre- 
sent day  has  thought  of  ascribing  to  it !  Was 
there  any  contemporary,  do  we  think,  of  Ma- 
homet, of  Gregory  VII.,  of  Faust,  or  Colum- 
bus, who  formed  the  same  estimate  of  their 
achievements  that  we  do  at  this  day  ?  Were 
the  great  and  wise  men  who  brought  about 
the  Reformation,  as  much  aware  of  its  im- 
portance as  the  whole  world  is  at  present?  or 
does  any  one  imagine,  that,  even  in  the  later 
and  more  domestic  events  of  the  establish- 
ment of  the  English  Commonwealth  in  1648, 
or  the  English  Revolution  in  1688,  the  large 
and  energetic  spirits  by  whom  those  greai 
eveats  were  condu-cted  were  fully  sensible  of 
their  true  character  and  bearings,  or  at  all 
foresaw  the  mighty  consequences  of  M-hich 
they  have  since  been  prolific  1 

But  though  it  may  thus  require  the  1  ipso 
of  ages  to  develope  the  true  character  of  a 


218 


fflSTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


great  transaction,  and  though  its  history  may 
therefore  be  written  with  most  advantage 
very  long  after  its  occurrence,  it  does  not  fol- 
low that  such  a  history  wall  not  be  deficient 
in  many  qualities  which  it  would  be  desira- 
ble for  it  to  possess.  All  we  say  is,  that  they 
are  qualities  which  will  generally  be  found 
incompatible  with  those  larger  and  sounder 
views,  which  can  hardly  be  matured  while 
the  subjects  of  them  are  recent.  That  this  is 
an  imperfection  in  our  histories  and  histori- 
ans, is  sufficiently  obvious ;  but  it  is  an  im- 
perfection to  which  we  must  patiently  resign 
ourselves,  if  it  appear  to  be  an  unavoidable 
consequence  of  the  limitation  of  our  faculties. 
We  cannot  both  enjoy  the  sublime  effect  of  a 
vast  and  various  landscape,  and  at  the  same 
time  discern  the  form  of  every  leaf  in  the  for- 
est, or  the  movements  of  every  living  crea- 
ture that  breathes  w^ithin  its  expanse.  Beings 
of  a  higher  order  may  be  capable  of  this; — 
and  it  would  be  very  desirable  to  be  so  : 
But,  constituted  as  we  are,  it  is  impossible  ] 
and,  in  our  delineation  of  such  a  scene,  all 
that  is  minute  and  detached,  however  inter- 
esting or  important  to  those  who  are  at  hand, 
must  therefore  be  omitted — while  the  general 
effect  is  entrusted  to  masses  in  which  nothing 
but  the  great  outlines  of  great  objects  are  pre- 
served, and  the  details  left  to  be  inferred  from 
the  character  of  their  results,  or  the  larger 
features  of  their  usual  accompaniments. 

It  is  needless  to  apply  this  to  the  case  of 
history;  in  which,  when  it  records  events  of 
permanent  interest,  it  is  equally  impossible  to 
retain  those  particular  details  which  engrossed 
the  attention  of  contemporaries — both  because 
the  memory  of  them  is  necessarily  lost  in  the 
course  of  that  period  wdiich  must  elapse  be- 
fore the  just  value  of  the  wdiole  can  be 
known — and  because,  even  if  it  were  other- 
wise, no  human  memory  could  retain,  or 
human  judgment  discriminate,  the  infinite 
number  of  particulars  which  must  have  been 
presented  in  such  an  interval.  We  shall  only 
observe,  further,  that  though  that  which  is 
preserved  is  generally  the  most  material  and 
truly  important  part  of  the  story,  it  not  un- 
frequently  happens,  that  too  little  is  pre- 
served to  afford  materials  for  a  satisfactory 
narrative,  or  to  justify  any  general  conclu- 
sion; and  that,  in  such  cases,  the  historian 
often  yields  to  the  temptation  of  connecting 
tlie  scanty  materials  that  have  reached  him 
by  a  sort  of  general  and  theoretical  reasoning, 
which  natuially  takes  its  colour  from  the  pre- 
vailing views  and  opinions  of  the  individual 
writer,  or  of  the  age  to  which  he  belongs.  If 
an  author  of  consummate  judgment,  and  with 
a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  unchangeable 
principles  of  human  nature,  undertake  this 
task,  it  is  wonderful  indeed  to  see  how  much 
he  may  make  of  a  subject  that  appears  so  un- 
promising— and  it  is  almost  certain  that  the 
view  he  will  give  to  his  readers,  of  such  an 
obscure  period,  will,  at  all  events,  be  at  least 
as  instructive  and  interesting  as  if  he  had  had 
its  entire  annals  before  him.  In  other  hands, 
however,  the  result  is  very  different ;  and,  in- 
stead of  a  masterly  picture  of  rude  or  remote 


ages,  true  at  least  to  the  general  features  of 
such  periods,  we  have  nothing  but  a  tran- 
script of  the  author's  own  most  recent  fanta- 
sies  and  follies,  ill  disg-uised  under  th<i 
masquerade  character  of  a  few  traditional 
names. — It  is  only  necessary  to  call  to  mhin 
such  books  as  Zouche's  Life  of  Sir  Philip 
Sydney,  or  Godwin's  Life  of  Chaucer,  to  feel 
this  much  more  strongly  than  we  can  now 
express  it.  These,  no  doubt,  are  extreme 
cases ; — but  we  suspect  that  our  impressions 
of  almost  all  remote  characters  and  events, 
and  the  general  notions  we  have  of  the  times 
or  societies  which  produced  them,  are  much 
more  dependent  on  the  peculiar  temper  and 
habits  of  the  popular  writers  in  whom  the 
memory  of  them  is  chiefly  preserved,  than  it 
is  very  pleasant  to  ihink  of.  If  Me  ever  take 
the  trouble  of  looking  for  ourselves  into  the 
documents  and  materials  out  of  which  those 
histories  are  made,  we  feel  at  once  how  much 
room  there  is  for  a  very  different  representa- 
tion of  all  those  things  from  that  which  is 
current  in  the  world :  And  accordingly  we 
occasionally  have  very  opposite  representa- 
tions. Compare  Bossuet's  Universal  History 
with  Voltaire's — Rollin  with  Mitford — Hume 
or  Clarendon  with  Ralph  or  Mrs.  M^Aulay; 
and  it  will  be  difficult  to  believe  that  these 
different  writers  are  speaking  of  the  samft 
persons  and  things. 

The  work  before  us,  we  have  already  said, 
is  singularly  free  from  faults  of  this  descrip- 
tion. It  is  written,  we  do  think,  in  the  true 
spirit  and  temper  of  historical  impartiality. 
But  it  has  faults  of  a  different  character;  and, 
with  many  of  the  merits,  combines  some  of 
the  appropriate  defects,  both  of  a  contempo- 
rary and  philosophical  nistory.  Its  details  are 
too  few  and  too  succinct  for  the  former — they 
are  too  numerous  and  too  rashly  selected  for 
the  latter ; — while  the  reasonings  and  specu- 
lations in  which  perhaps  its  chief  value  con- 
sists, seem  already  to  be  too  often  thrown 
away  upon  matters  that  cannot  long  be  had 
in  remembrance.  We  must  take  care  not  to 
get  entangled  too  far  among  the  anecdotes — 
but  the  general  reasonmg  cannot  detain  ua 
very  long. 

It  is  the  scope  of  the  book  to  show  that 
France  must  have  a  free  government — a 
limited  monarchy — in  express  words,  a  con- 
stitution like  that  of  England.  This,  Madame 
de  Stael  says,  was  all  that  the  body  of  the 
nation  aimed  at  in  1789 — and  this  she  says 
the  great  majority  of  the  nation  are  resolved 
to  have  still — undeterred  by  the  fatal  miscar- 
riage of  the  last  experiment,  and  undisgusted 
by  the  revival  of  ancient  pretensions  which 
has  signalised  its  close.  Stilly  though  she 
maintains  this  to  be  the  prevaihng  sentimeni 
of  the  French  people,  she  thinks  it  not  alto 
gether  unnecessary  to  combat  this  discour 
agement  and  this  disgust; — and  the  great 
object  of  all  that  is  argumentative  in  her 
book,  is  to  show  that  there  is  nothing  in  the 
character  or  condition,  or  late  or  early  liistory 
of  her  countrymen,  to  render  this  regulated 
freedom  unattainable  by  them,  or  to  dis- 
qualify tkem  flora  the  enjo}Tnent  of  a  repre  , 


DE  STAEL'S  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 


219 


neiitative  governmentj  or  the  functions  of  free 
citizens. 

For  this  purpose  she  takes  a  rapid  and  mas- 
terly view  of  the  progress  of  the  different 
European  kingdoms;  from  their  primitive  con- 
dition of  feudal  aristocracies,  to  their  present 
Slate  of  monarchies  limited  by  law,  or  miti- 
gated by  the  force  of  public  opinion ;  and  en- 
deavours to  show,  that  the  course  has  been 
the  same  in  all  •  and  that  its  unavoidable  terr 
mination  is  in  a  balanced  constitution  like  that 
of  England.  The  first  change  M^as  the  reduc- 
tion of  the  Nobles, — chiefly  by  the  aid  which 
the  Commons,  then  first  pretending  to  wealth 
or  intelligence,  afforded  to  the  Crown — and, 
on  tliis  basis,  some  small  states,  in  Italy  and 
Germany  especially,  erected  a  permanent 
system  of  freedom.  But  the  necessities  of 
war,  and  the  substitution  of  hired  forces  for 
the  feudal  militia,  led  much  more  generally 
to  the  establishment  of  an  arbitrary  or  des- 
potical  authority ;  w^hich  was  accomplished  in 
France,  Spain,  and  England,  under  Louis  XL, 
Philip  II.,  and  Henry  VIII.  Then  came  the 
age  of  commerce,  luxury,  and  taxes, — which 
necessarily  ripened  into  the  age  of  general 
intelligence,  individual  wealth,  and  a  sense 
both  of  right  and  of  power  in  the  people ; — 
and  those  led  irresistibly  to  a  limitation  on 
the  powers  of  the  Crown,  by  a  representative 
assembly. 

England  having  less  occasion  for  a  land 
army — and  having  been  the  first  in  the  career 
of  commercial  prosperity,  led  the  way  in  this 
great  amelioration.  But  the  same  general 
principles  have  been  operating  in  all  the  Con- 
tinental kingdoms,  and  must  ultimately  pro- 
duce the  same  effects.  The  peculiar  advan- 
tages which  she  enjoyed  did  not  prevent 
England  from  being  enslaved  by  the  tyranny 
of  Henry  VIII. ,  and  Mary ; — and  she  also  ex- 
perienced the  hazards,  and  paid  the  penalties 
which  are  perhaps  inseparable  from  the  as- 
sertion of  popular  rights. — She  also  overthrew 
the  monarchy,  and  sacrificed  the  monarch  in 
her  first  attempt  to  set  limits  to  his  power. 
The  English  Commonwealth  of  1648,  origi- 
nated in  as  wild  speculations  as  the  French 
of  1792 — and  ended,  like  it,  in  the  establish- 
ment of  a  military  tyranny,  and  a  restoration 
wliich  seemed  to  confound  all  the  asserters 
of  liberty  in  the  general  guilt  of  rebellion : — 
Yet  all  the  world  is  now  agreed  that  this  was 
but  the  first  explosion  of  a  flame  that  could 
neither  be  extinguished  nor  permanently  re- 
pressed ;  and  that  what  took  place  in  1688, 
was  but  the  sequel  and  necessary  consumma- 
tion of  what  had  been  begun  forty  years  be- 
fore— and  which  might  and  would  have  been 
accomplished  without  even  the  slightest  shock 
and  disturbance  that  M^as  then  experienced, 
if  the  Court  had  profited  as  much  as  the 
leaders  of  the  people  by  the  lessons  of  that  first 
experience.  Such  too,  Madame  de  Stael  as- 
sures us,  is  the  unalterable  destiny  of  France ; 
— and  it  is  the  great  purpose  of  her  book  to 
show,  that  but  for  circumstances  which  cannot 
rec.ir — mistakes  that  cannot  be  repeated,  and 
accidents  which  never  happened  twice,  even 
the  last  attempt  Avould  have  lea  to  that  blessed 


consummation — and  that  every  thing  is  now 
in  the  fairest  train  to  secure  it,  without  any 
great  effort  or  hazard  of  disturbance. 

That  these  views  are  supported  with  infinite 
talent,  spirit,  and  eloquence,  no  one  who  has 
read  the  book  will  probably  dispute ;  and  we 
should  be  sorry  indeed  to  think  that  they  were 
not  substantially  just.  Yet  we  are  not,  we 
confess,  quite  so  sanguine  as  the  distinguished 
writer  before  us;  and  though  we  do  not  doubl 
either  that  her  principles  are  true,  or  that  hej 
predictions  will  be  ultimately  accomplished,  we 
fear  that  the  period  of  their  triumph  is  not  yet 
at  hand ;  and  that  it  is  far  more  doubtful  than 
she  will  allow  it  to  be,  whether  that  triumph 
will  be  easy,  peaceful,  and  secure.  The  ex- 
ample of  England  is  her  great,  indeed  her  only 
authority ;  but  we  are  afraid  that  she  has  run 
the  parallel  with  more  boldness  than  circum- 
spection, and  overlooked  a  variety  of  particulars 
in  our  case,  to  which  she  could  not  easily  find 
any  thing  equivalent  in  that  of  her  country.  It 
might  be  invidious  to  dwell  much  on  the  oppo- 
site character  and  temper  of  the  two  nations; 
though  it  is  no  answer  to  say,  that  this  character 
is  the  work  of  the  government.  But  can  Ma- 
dame de  Stael  have  forgotten,  that  England  had 
a  parliament  and  a  representative  legislature 
for  five  hundred  years  before  1648 ;  and  that  it 
was  by  that  organ,  and  the  widely  spread  and 
deeply  founded  machinery  of  the  elections  on 
which  it  rested,  that  the  struggle  was  made,  and 
the  victory  won,  which  ultimately  secured  to  us 
the  blessings  of  political  freedom?  The  least 
reflection  upon  the  nature  of  government,  and 
the  true  foundations  of  all-liberty,  will  show 
what  an  immense  advantage  this  was  in  the 
contest ;  and  with  what  formidable  obstacles 
those  must  have  to  struggle,  who  are  obliged 
to  engage  in  a  similar  conflict  without  it. 

All  political  power,  even  the  most  despotic, 
rests  at  last,  as  was  profoundly  observed  by 
Hume,  upon  Opinion.  A  government  is  Just, 
or  otherwise,  according  as  it  promotes,  more 
or  less,  the  true  interests  of  the  people  who 
live  under  it.  But  it  is  Stable  and  secure,  ex- 
actly as  it  is  directed  by  the  opinion  of  those 
who  really  possess,  and  know  that  they  pos- 
sess, the  power  of  enforcing  it,  and  upon  whose 
opinion,  therefore,  it  constantly  depends-; — 
that  is,  in  a  military  despotism,  on  the  opinion 
of  the  soldiery; — in  all  rude  and  ignorant 
communities,  on  the  opinion  of  those  who 
monopolise  the  intelligence,  the  wealth,  or  the 
discipline  which  constitute  power — the  priest- 
hood— the  landed  proprietors — the  armed  and 
inured  to  war ; — and,  in  civihsed  societies,  on 
the  opinion  of  that  larger  proportion  of  the 
people  who  can  bring  their  joint  talents, 
wealth,  and  strength,  to  act  in  concert  when 
occasion  requires.  A  government  may  indeed 
subsist  for  a  time,  although  opposed  to  the 
opinion  of  those  classes  of  persons;  but  its 
existence  must  always  be  precarious,  and  it 
probably  will  not  subsist  long.  The  natural 
and  appropriate  Constitution,  therefore,  is,  in 
every  case,  that  which  enables  those  who  ac 
tually  administer  the  government,  to  ascertair; 
and  conform  themselves  in  time  to  the  opinion 
of  those  who  have  the  power  to  oveitum  it 


320 


fflSTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


and  no  government  whatever  can  possibly  be 
secure  where  there  are  no  arrangements  for 
this  purpose.  Thus  it  is  plainly  for  want  of  a 
propel'  Despotic  Constitution — for  want  of  a 
regular  and  safe  way  of  getting  at  the  opinions 
of  their  armies,  that  the  Sultans  and  other 
Asiatic  sovereigns  are  so  frequently  beheaded 
by  their  janissaries  or  insurgent  soldiery:  and, 
in  like  manner,  it  w^as  for  want  of  a  proper 
Feudal  Constitution,  that,  in  the  decline  of  that 
system,  the  King  was  so  often  dethroned  by 
his  rebellious  barons,  or  excommunicated  by 
an  usurping  priesthood.  In  more  advanced 
times,  there  is  the  same  necessity  of  conform- 
ing to  the  prevailing  opinion  of  those  more 
extended  and  diversified  descriptions  of  per- 
sons in  whom  the  powder  of  enforcing  and  re- 
sisting has  come  to  reside ;  and  the  natural 
and  only  safe  constitution  for  such  societies, 
must  therefore  embrace  a  representative  as- 
sembly. A  government  may  no  doubt  go  on, 
in  opposition  to  the  opinion  of  this  virtual  aris- 
tocracy, for  a  long  time  after  it  has  come  into 
existence.  For  it  is  not  enough  that  there  is 
wealth,  and  intelligence,  and  individual  influ- 
ence enough  in  a  community  to  overbear  all 
pretensions  opposed  to  them.  It  is  necessary 
that  the  possessors  of  this  virtual  powder  should 
be  aware  of  their  own  numbers,  and  of  the 
conformity  of  their  sentiments  or  views :  and 
it  is  very  late  in  the  progress  of  society  before 
the  means  of  communication  are  so  multiplied 
and  improved,  as  to  render  this  practicable  in 
any  tolerable  degree.  Trade  and  the  press, 
however,  have  now  greatly  facilitated  those 
communications;  and  in  all  the  central  coun- 
tries of  Europe,  they  probably  exist  in  a  de- 
gree quite  sufficient  to  give  one  of  the  parties, 
at  least,  very  decided  impressions  both  as  to 
its  interests  and  its  powers. 

In  such  a  situation  of  things,  we  cannot 
hesitate  to  say  that  a  representative  govern- 
ment is  the  natural,  and  will  be  the  ultimate 
remedy ;  but  if  we  find,  that  even  where  such 
an  institution  existed  from  antiquity,  it  was 
possible  so  fatally  to  miscalculate  and  mis- 
judge the  opinions  of  the  nation,  as  proved  to 
be  the  case  in  the  reign  of  our  King  Charles, 
is  it  not  manifest  that  there  must  be  tenfold 
risk  of  such  miscalculation  in  a  country  w^here 
no  such  constitution  has  been  previously 
known,  and  where,  from  a  thousand  causes, 
the  true  state  of  the  public  mind  is  so  apt  to  be 
oppositely  misconceived  by  the  opposite  par- 
ties, as  it  is  up  to  the  present  hour  in  France  1 

The  great  and  cardinal  use  of  a  representa- 
tive body  in  the  legislature  is  to  afford  a  di- 
rect, safe,  and  legitimate  channel,  by  which 
the  public  opinion  may  be  brought  to  act  on 
the  government :  But,  to  enable  it  to  perform 
this  function  with  success,  it  is  by  no  means 
enough,  that  a  certain  number  of  deputies  are 
sent  into  the  legislature  by  a  certain  number 
of  electors.  Without  a  good  deal  of  previous 
training,  the  public  opinion  itself  can  neither 
be  farmed,  collected^  nor  expressed  in  any  au- 
thentic or  efl^ectual  manner;  and  the  first 
establishment  of  the  representative  system 
must  be  expected  to  occasion  very  nearly  as 
inn(  h  disturbance  as  it  may  ultim.ately  pre- 


vent. In  countries  where  tnere  never  have 
been  any  political  elections,  and  few  local 
magistracies,  or  occasions  of  provincial  and 
parochial  assemblages  for  public  purposes,  the 
real  state  of  opinion  must  be  substantially 
unknown  even  to  the  most  observant  resident 
in  each  particular  district ; — and  its  general 
bearing  all  over  the  country  can  never  possi- 
bly be  learned  by  the  most  diligent  inquiries, 
or  even  guessed  at  with  any  reasonable  de- 
gree of  probability.  The  first  deputies,  there- 
fore, are  necessarily  returned,  without  any 
firm  or  assured  knowledge  of  the  sentiments 
of  their  constituents — and  they  again  can 
have  nothing  but  the  most  vague  notions  of 
the  temper  in  which  these  sentiments  are  to 
be  enforced — vrhile  the  whole  deputies  come 
together  without  any  notion  of  the  disposi- 
tions, or  talents,  or  designs  of  each  other,  and 
are  left  to  scramble  for  distinction  and  influ- 
ence, according  to  the  measure  of  their  indi- 
vidual zeal,  knowledge,  or  assurance.  In 
England,  there  were  no  such  novelties  to  be 
hazarded,  either  in  1640  or  in  1688.  The 
people  of  this  country  have  had  an  elective 
parliament  from,  the  earliest  period  of  their 
history — and,  long  before  either  of  the  periods 
in  question,  had  been  trained  in  every  hamlet 
to  the  exercises  ofvarious  political  franchises, 
and  taught  to  consider  themselves  as  connect- 
ed, by  known  and  honourable  ties,  with  all 
the  persons  of  influence  and  consideration  in 
their  neighbourhood,  and,  through  them,  by 
an  easy  gradation  with  the  political  leaders 
of  the  State ; — while,  in  Parliament  itself,  the 
place  and  pretensions  of  every  man  were 
pretty  accurately  known,  and  the  strength  of 
each  party  reasonably  well  ascertained  by 
long  and  repeated  experiments,  made  under 
all  variety  of  circumstances.  The  organiza- 
tion and  machinery,  in  short,  for  collecting 
the  public  opinion,  and  bringing  it  into  con- 
tact with  the  administration,  was  perfect,  and 
in  daily  operation  among  us,  from  very  an- 
cient times.  The  various  conduits  and  chan^ 
nels  by  which  it  was  to  be  conveyed  from  its 
first  faint  springs  in  the  villages  and  burghs, 
and  conducted  in  gradually  increasing  streams 
to  the  central  wheels  of  the  government,  were 
all  deep  w^orn  in  the  soil,  and  familiarly 
knoAvn,  wnth  all  their  levels  and  connections, 
to  every  one  who  could  be  affected  by  their 
condition.  In  France,  when  the  new  sluices 
were  opened,  not  only  were  the  waters  uni- 
versally foul  and  turbid,  but  the  quantity  and 
the  currents  were  all  irregular  and  unknown ; 
and  some  stagnated  or  trickled  feebly  along, 
while  others  rushed  and  roared  with  the  vio- 
lence and  the  mischief  of  a  torrent.  But  it  is 
time  to  leave  these  perplexing  generalities, 
and  come  a  little  closer  to  the  work  before  us. 
It  was  the  Cardinal  de  Richelieu,  according 
to  Madame  de  Stael,  who  completed  the  de- 
gradation of  the  French  nobility,  beg-un  by 
Louis  XL ; — and  the  arrogance  and  Spanish 
gravity  of  Louis  XIV.,  assumed,  as  she  says, 
"  pour  eloigner  de  lui  la  familiarite  des  juge- 
mens,"  fixed  them  in  the  capacity  of  cour 
tiers;  and  put  an  end  to  that  g-ay  and  easy 
tone  of  communication,  wh'ch,  in  the  days  of 


DE  STAEL'S  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 


221 


Henri  IV.,  liad  made  the  task  of  a  courtier 
both  less  wearisome  and  less  degrading.  She 
has  no  partiality,  indeed,  for  the  memory  of 
that  buckram  hero — and  is  very  mdignaiit  at 
his  being  reg-arded  as  the  patron  of  literature. 
"  XI  persecuta  Port-Royal,  dont  Pascal  etoit  le 
chef;  il  fit  mourir  de  chagrin  Racine ;  il  exila 
Fenelon;  il  s'opposa  constamment  aux  hon- 
neurs  qu'on  vouloit  rendre  a  La  Fontaine,  et 
ne  professa  de  I'admiration  que  pour  Boileau. 
La  litterature,  en  Pexaltant  avec  exces.  abien 
plus  fait  pour  lui  qu'il  n'a  fait  pour  elle." — 
(Vol.  i.  p.  36.)  In  his  own  person,  indeed,  he 
outlived  his  popularity,  if  not  his  fame.  The 
brilliancy  of  his  early  successes  was  lost  in 
his  later  reverses.  The  debts  he  had  con- 
tracted lay  like  a  load  on  the  nation ;  and  the 
rigour  and  gloominess  of  his  devotion  was  one 
cause  of  the  alacrity  with  which  the  nation 
plunged  into  all  the  excesses  and  profligacy  of 
the  regency  and  the  suceeding  reign. 

That  reign — the  weakness  of  Louis  XV. — 
the  avowed  and  disg-usting  influence  of  his 
mistresses  and  all  their  relations,  and  the  na- 
tional disasters  which  they  occasioned — to- 
gether with  the  general  spread  of  intelligence 
among  the  body  of  the  people,  and  the  bold 
and  vigorous  spirit  displayed  in  the  writings 
of  Montesquieu,  Voltaire,  and  Rousseau,  cre- 
ated a  general  feeling  of  discontent  and  con- 
tempt for  the  government,  and  prepared  the 
way  for  those  more  intrepid  reformers  who 
were  so  soon  destined  to  succeed. 

Louis  XVI.,  says  Madame  de  Stael,  would 
have  been  the  mildest  and  most  equitable  of 
despots,  and  the  most  constitutional  of  consti- 
tutional kings — had  he  been  born  to  adminis- 
ter either  an  established  despotism,  or  a 
constitutional  monarchy.  But  he  was  not 
fitted  to  fill  the  throne  during  the  difficult  and 
trying  crisis  of  a  transition  from  the  one  state 
to  the  other.  He  was  sincerely  anxious  for 
the  happiness  and  even  the  rights  of  his  peo- 
ple J  but  he  had  a  hankering  after  the  absolute 
power  which  seemed  to  be  his  lawful  inherit- 
ance ;  and  was  too  easily  persuaded  by  those 
about  him  to  cling  to  it  too  long,  for  his  own 
safety,  or  that  of  the  country.  The  Queen, 
with  the  same  amiable  dispositions,  had  still 
more  of  those  natural  prejudices.  M.  de  Mau- 
repas,  a  minister  of  the  old  school,  was  com- 
pelled, by  the  growing  disorders  of  the 
finances,  to  cal^  to  his  aid  the  talents  of  Tur- 

fot  and  Necker  about  the  year  1780.  We 
ear  enough,  of  course,  in  this  book,  of  the 
latter :  But  though  we  can  pardon  the  filial 
piety  which  has  led  the  author  to  discuss,  at 
80  great  length,  the  merit  of  his  plans  of 
finance  and  government,  and  to  dwell  on  the 
prophetic  spirit  in  which  he  foresaw  and  fore- 
told all  the  consequences  that  have  flowed 
from  rejecting  them,  we  have  too  much  re- 
gard for  our  readers  to  oppress  them,  at  this 
time  of  day,  with  an  analysis  of  the  Compte 
Rendu,  or  the  scheme  for  provincial  assem- 
blies. As  an  historical  personage,  he  must 
have  his  due  share  of  notice ;  and  no  fame 
can  be  purer  than  that  to  which  he  is  entitled. 
His  daughter,  we  think,  has  tmly  described 
the  scope  of  his  endeavviurs,  in  his  first  minis- 


try, to  have  been,  "  to  persuade  the  King  to 
do  of  himself  that  justice  to  the  people,  to 
obtain  which  they  afterwards  insisted  for  rep- 
resentatives." Such  a  counsellor,  of  course, 
had  no  chance  in  1780;  and,  the  year  after, 
M.  Necker  was  accordingly  dismissed.  The 
great  objection  to  him  was,  that  he  proposed 
innovations — "  et  de  toutes  les  innovations, 
celle  que  les  courtisans  et  les  financiers  de* 
testent  le  plus,  t'ee-t  PEconomie."  Before 
going  out,  however,  he  did  a  great  deal  of 
good ;  and  found  means,  while  M.  de  Mau- 
repas  had  a  bad  fit  of  gout,  to  get  M.  de  Sar- 
tine  removed  from  the  ministry  of  marine — a 
personage  so  extremely  diligent  in  the  studies 
belonging  to  his  department,  that  when  M. 
Necker  went  to  see  him  soon  after  his  appoint- 
ment, he  found  him  in  a  chamber  all  hung 
rouncl  with  maps;  and  boasting  with  much 
coijfiplacency,  that  '-'he  could  already  put  his 
hand  upon  the  largest  of  them,  and  point,  with 
his  eyes  shut,  to  the  four  quarters  of  the 
world!" 

Calonne  succeeded — a  frivolous,  presump- 
tuous person, — and  a  financier,  in  so  far  as  we 
can  judge,  after  the  fashion  of  our  poet-lau- 
reate :  For  he  too,  it  seems,  was  used  to  call 
prodigality  "  a  large  economy ;"  and  to  assure 
the  King,  that  the  more  lavish  he  and  his 
court  were  in  their  expenses,  so  much  the 
better  would  it  fare  with  the  country.  The 
consequence  was,  that  the  disorder  soon  be- 
came irremediable;  and  this  sprightly  minis- 
ter was  forced  at  last  to  adopt  Turgot's  pro- 
posal of  subjecting  the  privileged  orders  to 
their  share  of  the  burdens — and  finally  to  ad 
vise  the  convocation  of  the  Notables,  in  1787. 

The  Notables,  however,  being  all  privileged 
persons,  refused  to  give  up  any  of  their  im 
munities — and  they  and  M.  de  Calonne  were 
dismissed  accordingly.  Then  came  the  M'aver- 
ing  and  undecided  administration  of  M.  de 
Brienne,  which  ended  with  the  resolution  to 
assemble  the  States-General ; — and  this  was 
the  Revolution ! 

Hitherto,  says  Madame  de  Stael,  the  nation 
at  large,  and  especially  the  lower  orders,  had 
taken  no  share  in  those  discussions.  The 
resistance  to  the  Court — the  complaints — the 
call  for  reformation,  originated  and  was  con- 
fined to  the  privileged  orders — to  the  Parlia- 
ments— the  Nobles  and  the  Clergy.  No  rev- 
olution indeed  can  succeed  in  a  civilised 
country,  which  does  not  begin  at  least  with 
the  higlier  orders.  It  was  in  the  parliament 
of  Paris,  in  which  the  peers  of  France  had 
seats,  and  which  had  always  been  most  tena- 
cious of  the  privileges  of  its  meinbers,  that 
the  suggestion  was  first  made  which  set  fire 
to  the  four  quarters  of  the  kingdom.  In  that 
kingdom,  indeed,  it  could  hardly  fail,  as  it 
was  made  in  the  form  of  a  pun  or  bon  mot. 
They  were  clamouring  against  the  minister 
for  not  exhibiting  his  account  of  the  public 
expenses,  when  the  Abbe  Sabatier  said — 
"  Vous  demandez,  messieurs,  les  etats  de  recette 
et  de  depense — et  ce  sont  les  Etats-Generaux 
qu'il  nous  faut !" — This  was  eagerly  repeated 
in  every  order  of  society ;  addresses  to  thai 
effect  were  poured  in,  in  daily  heaps :  and  a( 
t2 


222 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


last  M.  'le  Brienne  was  obliged  to  promise,  in 
the  King's  name,  that  the  States-General 
should  assemble  at  the  end  of  five  years. 
This  delay  only  inflamed  the  general  impa- 
tience :  and  the  clergy  having  solemnly  de- 
claimed against  it,  the  King  was  at  last  obliged 
to  announce  that  they  should  meet  early  in 
the  following  year.  M.  Necker  at  the  same 
time  was  recalled  to  the  ministry. 

The  States-General  were  demanded  by  the 
privileged  orders :  and,  if  they  really  expect- 
ed to  find  them  as  they  were  in  1614,  which 
was  their  last  meeting,  (though  it  is  not  very 
conceivable  that  they  should  have  overlooked 
the  difference  of  the  times.)  we  can  under- 
stand that  they  might  have  urged  this  demand 
without  any  design  of  being  very  liberal  to 
the  other  orders  of  the  community.  This  is 
the  edifying  abstract  which  Madame  de  Stael 
has  given  of  the  proceedings  of  that  venerable 
assembly. 

"  Le  Clerge  demanda  qu'il  lui  fut  permis  de  lever 
des  dimes  sur  toute  espece  de  fruits  et  de  grains,  et 
qu'on  defendit  de  lui  faire  payer  des  droits  a  I'en- 
tree  des  villes,  ou  de  lui  iinposer  sa  part  des  contri- 
butions pour  les  chemins  ;  il  reclama  de  nouvelles 
entraves  a  la  liberie  de  la  presse.  La  Noblesse  de- 
manda que  les  principaux  emplois  fussent  tous 
donnes  exclusivement  aux  gentilshommes,  qu'on 
interdit  aux  roturiersles  arquebuses,  les  pistolets,  et 
I'usage  des  chiens,  a  moins  qu'ils  n'eussent  les 
jarrets  coupes.  Elle  demanda  de  plus  que  les  ro- 
turiers  payassent  de  nouveaux  droits  seigneuriaux 
aux  gentilshommes  possesseurs  de  fiefs  ;  que  Ton 
supprimat  toutes  les  pensions  accordees  aux  mem- 
bres  du  tiers  etat ;  mais  que  les  gentilshommes 
fussent  exempts  de  la  contrainte  par  corps,  et  de 
tout  subside  sur  les  denrees  de  leurs  terres;  qu'ils 
pussent  prendre  du  sel  dans  les  greniers  du  roi  au 
meme  prix  que  les  marchands ;  enfin  que  le  tiers 
etat  fut  obhge  de  porter  un  habit  different  de  celui 
des  gentilshommes." — Vol.  i.  p.  162. 

The  States-General,  however,  were  decreed ; 
— and,  that  the  whole  blame  of  innovation 
might  still  lie  upon  the  higher  orders,  M.  de 
Brienne,  in  the  name  of  the  King,  invited  all 
and  sundry  to  make  public  their  notions  upon 
the  manner  in  which  that  great  body  should 
be  arranged.  By  the  old  form,  the  Nobles,  the 
Clergy,  and  the  Commons,  each  deliberated 
apart — and  each  had  but  one  voice  in  the  enact- 
ment of  laws; — so  that  the  privileged  orders 
were  always  two  to  one  against  the  other — 
and  the  course  of  legislation  had  always  been 
to  extend  the  privileges  of  the  one,  and  in- 
crease the  burdens  of  the  other.  Accordingly, 
the  tiers  etat  had  long  been  defined,  "  la  gent 
corveahle  et  taillahlej  a  merci  et  a  misericorde ;" 
— and  Madame  de  Stael,  in  one  of  those  pas- 
sages that  already  begin  to  be  valuable  to  the 
forgetful  world,  bears  this  striking  testimony 
as  to  the  effect  on  their  actual  condition. 

"Les  jeunes  gens  et  les  etrangers  qui  n'ont  pas 
connu  la  France  avant  la  revolution,  et  qui  voient 
aujourd'hui  le  peuple  enrichi  par  la  division  des 
proprietes  et  la  suppression  des  dimes  et  du  regime 
feodal,  ne  peuvent  avoir  I'idce  de  la  situation  de  ce 
pays,  lorsque  la  nation  portoit  le  poids  de  tous  les 
privileges.  Les  partisans  de  resclavage,  dans  les 
colonies,  ont  souvent  dit  qu'un  paysan  de  France 
eloit  plus  malheureux  qu'un  negre.  C'etoit  un 
argument  pour  soulager  les  blancs,  mais  non  pour 
ij'endurcir    contre    les  noirs.     La  misere  accroit 


I'ignorance,  I'ignorance  accroit  la  misere ;  et, 
quand  on  se  demande  pourquoi  le  peuple  fran^ois  a 
ete  si  cruel  dans  la  revolution,  on  ne  pent  en  trouver 
la  cause  que  dans  I'absence  de  bonheur,  qui  conduit 
a'i'absence  de  morahte." — Vol.  i.  p.  79. 

But  w^hat  made  the  injustice  of  "this  strange 
system  of  laying  the  heaviest  pecuniary  bur- 
dens on  the  poorest  a  thousand  times  more 
oppressive,  and  ten  thousand  times  more  pro- 
voking, was,  that  the  invidious  right  of  ex- 
emption came  at  last  to  be  claimed,  not  by 
the  true  ancient  noblesse  of  France,  which, 
Madame  de  Stael  says,  did  not  extend  to  tw^o 
hundred  families,  but  by  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  persons  of  all  descriptions,  who  had  bought 
patents  of  nobility  for  the  very  purpose  of  ob- 
taining this  exemption.  There  was  nothing 
in  the  structure  of  French  society  that  was 
more  revolting,  or  called  more  loudly  for  re; 
formation,  than  the  multitude  and  the  pre- 
tensions of  this  anomalous  race.  They  were 
most  jealously  distinguished  from  the  true 
original  Noblesse;  which  guarded  its  purity 
indeed  with  such  extreme  rigour,  that  no  per- 
son was  allowed  to  enter  any  of  the  royal 
carriages  whose  patent  of  nobility  was  not 
certified  by  the  Court  heralds  to  bear  date 
prior  to  the  year  1400 ',  and  yet  they  not  only 
assumed  the  name  and  title  of  nobles,  but 
w^ere  admitted,  as  against  the  people,  into  a 
full  participation  of  all  their  most  offensive 
privileges.  It  is  with  justice,  therefore,  that 
Madame  de  Stael  reckons  as  one  great  cause 
of  the  Revolution, — 

"  Cette  foule  de  gentilshommes  du  second  ordre, 
anoblis  de  la  veille,  soit  par  les  lettres  de  noblesse 
que  les  rois  donnoient  comme  faisant  suite  a  I'af- 
franchissement  des  Gaulois,  soit  par  les  charges 
venales  de  secretaire  du  roi,  etc.,  qui  associoient  de 
nouveaux  individus  aux  droits  et  aux  privileges  dea 
anciens  gentilshommes.  La  nation  se  seroit  soumise 
volonfiers  a  la  preeminence  des  families  historiques ; 
et  je  n'exagere  pas  en  affirmant  qu'il  n'y  en  a  pas 
plus  de  deux  cents  en  France.  Mais  les  cent  mille 
nobles  et  les  cent  mille  pretres  qui  vouloient  avoir 
des  privileges,  a  I'egal  de  ceux  de  MM.  de  Mont- 
morenci,  de  Grammont,  de  Crillon,  etc.,  revol- 
toient  generalement ;  car  des  negocians,  des  hommes 
de  lettres,  des  proprietaires,  des  capitalistes,  ne 
pouvoient  comprendre  la  superiorite  qu'on  vouloit 
accorder  a  cette  noblesse  acquise  a  prix  de  reve- 
rences ou  d'argent,  et  a  laquelle  vingt-cinq  ans  de 
date  suffisoient  pour  siegre  dans  la  chambre  des 
nobles,  et  pour  jouir  des  privileges  dont  les  plus 
honorables  membres  du  tiers  etat  se  voyoient  prives. 

"La  chambre  des  pairs  en  Angleterre  est  une 
magistrature  patricienne,  fondee  sans  doute  sur  les 
anciens  souvenirs  de  la  chevalerie,  mais  tout-a-fait 
associee  a  des  institutions  d'une  nature  tres-diffe- 
rente.  Un  merite  distingu6  dans  le  commerce,  et 
surtout  dans  la  jurisprudence,  en  ouvre  journelle- 
ment  I'entree ;  et  les  droits  representatils  que  les 
pairs  exercent  dans  I'etat,  attestent  a  la  nation  que 
c'est  pour  le  bien  public  que  leurs  rangs  sont  insti- 
tues.  Mais  quel  avantage  les  Frangois  pouvoient- 
ils  trouver  dans  ces  vicomtes  de  la  Garonne,  ou 
dans  ces  marquis  de  la  Loire,  qui  ne  payoient  pas 
seulement  leur  part  des  impots  de  I'etat,  et  que  le 
roi  lul-meme  ne  recevoit  pas  a  sa  cour ;  puisqu'il 
falloit  faire  des  preuves  de  plus  de  quatre  siecles 
pour  y  etre  admis,  et  qu'ils  etoient  a  peine  anoblis 
depuis  cinquante  ans  ?  La  vanite  des  gens  de  cette 
classe  ne  pouvoit  s'exercer  que  sur  leurs  inferieurs, 
et  ces  inferieurs,  e'etoient  vingt-quatre  millions 
d'hommes."— Vol.  i.  p.  166—168. 

Strange  as  it  may  appear,  there  was  no  la"W 


DE  STAEL'S  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 


223 


or  usage  fixing  the  number  of  the  deputies  who 
might  be  returned ;  and  though,  by  the  usage 
of  1614,  and  some  former  assemblies,  the 
three  orders  were  allowed  each  but  one  voice 
m  the  legislature,  there  were  earlier  examples 
of  the  whole  meeting  and  voting  as  individu- 
als in  the  same  assembly.  M.  de  Brienne,  as 
we  have  seen,  took  the  sapient  course  of  call- 
ing all  the  pamphleteers  of  the  kingdom  into 
council  upon  this  emergency.  It  was  fixed 
at  last,  though  not  without  difficulty,  that  the 
deputies  of  the  people  should  be  equal  in 
number  to  those  of  the  other  two  classes  to- 
gether; and  it  is  a  trait  worth  mentioning, 
that  the  only  committee  of  Nobles  who  voted 
for  this  concession,  was  that  over  which  the 
present  King  of  France  (in  1818)  presided. 
If  it  meant  any  thing,  however,  this  conces- 
sion implied  that  the  whole  body  was  to  de- 
liberate in  common,  and  to  vole  individually; 
and  yet,  incredible  as  it  now  appears,  the  fact 
is  that  the  King  and  his  ministers  allowed  the 
deputies  to  be  elected,  and  actually  to  assem- 
ble without  having  settled  that  great  question, 
or  even  made  any  approach  to  its  settlement ! 
Of  all  the  particular  blunders  that  ensured  or 
accelerated  what  was  probably  inevitable, 
this  has  always  appeared  to  us  to  be  one  of 
the  most  inconceivable.  The  point,  how- 
ever, though  not  taken  up  by  any  authority, 
was  plentifully  discussed  among  the  talkers 
of  Paris;  and  Madame  de  Stael  assures  us, 
that  the  side  of  the  tiers  etat  was  at  that  time 
the  most  fashionable  in  good  company,  as 
well  as  the  most  popular  with  the  bulk  of  the 
nation.  ''Tons  ceux  et  toutes  celles  qui,  dans 
la  haute  corapagnie  de  France,  infiuoient  sur 
I'opinion,  parloient  vivement  en  faveur  de  la 
cause  de  la  nation.  La  mode  etoit  dans  ce 
sens.  C'etoit  le  resultat  de  tout  le  dix-huit- 
ieme  siecle ;  et  les  vieux  prejuges,  qui  com- 
battoient  encore  pour  les  anciennes  institu- 
tions, avoient  beaucoup  moins  de  force  alors, 
qu'ils  ii'en  ont  eu  a  aucune  epoque  pendant 
les  vingt-cinq  annees  suivantes.  Enfin  I'a- 
scendant  de  I'esprit  piiblic  etoit  tel,  qu'il 
entraina  le  parlement  lui-meme." — (Vol.  i. 
pp.  172,  173.)  The  clamour  that  was  made 
ag-ainst  them  was  not  at  that  time  by  the  ad- 
vocates of  the  royal  prerogative,  but  by  in- 
terested individuals  of  the  privileged  classes. 
On  the  contrary,  Madame  de  Stael  asserts 
positively,  that  the  popular  party  Mas  then 
disposed,  as  of  old,  to  unite  with  the  sovereign 
against  the  pretensions  of  those  bodies,  and 
that  the  sovereign  was  understood  to  partici- 
pate in  their  sentiments.  The  statement  cer- 
tainly seems  to  derive  no  slight  confirmation 
from  the  memorable  words  which  were  ut- 
tered at  the  time,  in  a  public  address  by  the 
reigning  King  of  France,  then  the  first  of  the 
Princes  of  the  blood. — ''Une  grande  revolution 
etoit  pret,  dit  Monsieur  (aujourd'hui  Louis 
XVIII.)  a  la  municipalite  de  Paris,  en  1789; 
le  roi,  par  ses  intentions,  ses  vertus,  et  son 
rang  supreme,  devoit  en  etre  le  chcfV^  We 
perfectly  agree  with  Madame  de  Stael — "que 
toute  la  sagesse  de  la  circonstance  etoit  dans 
'r^s  paroles." 
I     jS'othing,  says  Madame  de  Stael,  can  be 


imagined  more  striking  than  the  first  sight  of 
the  twelve  hundred  deputies  of  France,  ap 
they  passed  in  solemn  procession  to  heai 
mass  at  Notre  Dame,  the  day  before  the 
meeting  of  the  States-General. 

"  La  Noblesse  se  trouvant  dechue  de  sa  splen- 
deur,  par  I'esprit  de  courtisan,  par  Talliage  del 
anoblis,  et  par  une  longue  paix  ;  le  Clerge  ne  poa 
sedant  plus  I'ascendant  des  lumieres  qu'il  avoit  ei 
dans  les  temps  barbares  ;  rimportance  des  deputes 
du  Tiers  etat  en  etoit  augmentee.  Leurs  habits  et 
leurs  manteaux  noirs,  leurs  regards  assures,  leur 
nonibre  imposant,  attiroient  I'attention  sur  eux: 
Dea  hommes  de  lettres,  des  negocians,  un  grand 
nombre  d'avocats  composoient  ce  troisieme  ordre. 
Quelques  nobles  s'etoient  fait  nommer  deputes  du 
tiers,  et  parmi  ces  nobles  on  remarquoit  surtout  le 
Comte  de  Miraheatt:  I'opinion  qu'on  avoit  de  son 
esprit  etoit  singulierement  augmentee  par  la  peur 
que  faisoit  son  immoralite;  et  cependant  c'est  cette 
immoralite  meme  qui  a  diminue  I'influcnce  que  sea 
etonnantes  facultes  devoient  lui  valoir.  II  etoit 
difficile  de  ne  pas  le  regarder  long-temps,  quand  on 
i'avoit  une  fois  aper9u:  Son  immense  chevelure 
le  distinguoit  entre  tous :  on  eut  dit  que  sa  force  en 
dependoit  comme  celle  de  Samson;  son  visage 
empruntoit  de  1' expression  de  sa  laideur  meme  ;  et 
toute  sa  personne  donnoit  I'idee  d'une  puissance 
irreguliere,  mais  enfin  d'une  puissance  telle  qu'on 
se  la  representeroit  dans  un  tribun  de  peuple. 

"Aucun  nom  propre,  excepte  le  sien,  n'etoit 
encore  celebre  dans  les  six  cents  deputes  du  tiers  ; 
mais  il  y  avoit  beaucoup  d'hommes  honorables,  et 
beaucoup  d'hommes  a  craindre." — Vol.  i.  pp.  185, 
186. 

The  first  day  of  their  meeting,  the  deputiea 
of  course  insisted  that  the  whole  three  orders 
should  sit  and  vote  together;  and  the  majority 
of  the  nobles  and  clergy  of  course  resisted : — 
And  this  went  on  for  nearly  two  months,  in 
the  face  of  the  mob  of  Paris  and  the  people 
of  France — before  the  King  and  his  Council 
could  make  up  their  own  minds  on  the  mat- 
ter! The  inner  cabinet,  in  which  the  Queen 
and  the  Princes  had  the  chief  sway,  had  now 
taken  the  alarm,  and  was  for  resisting  the 
pretensions  of  the  Third  Estate ;  while  M 
Necker,  and  the  ostensible  ministers,  were  for 
compromising  with  them,  while  their  power 
was  not  yet  proved  by  experience,  nor  their 
pretensions  raised  by  victory.  The  Ultras  re 
lied  on  the  army,  and  were  for  dismissing  thf 
Legislature  as  soon  as  they  had  granted  a  ievi 
taxes.  M.  Necker  plainly  told  the  King,  that 
he  did  not  think  that  the  anny  could  be  relied 
on ;  and  that  he  ought  to  make  up  his  mind 
to  reign  hereafter  under  a  constitution  like 
that  of  England.  There  were  fierce  disputes, 
and  endless  consultations;  and  at  length, 
within  three  weeks  after  the  States  weje 
opened,  and  before  the  Commons  had  gained 
any  decided  advantage,  M.  Necker  obtained 
the  full  assent  both  of  the  King  and  Queen  to 
a  declaration,  in  which  it  was  to  be  announced 
to  the  States,  that  they  should  sit  and  vote  as 
one  body  in  all  questions  of  taxation,  and  m 
tvjo  chambers  only  in  all  other  questions. 
This  arrangement,  Madame  de  Stael  assures 
us,  would  have  satisfied  the  Commons  at  the 
tirne,  and  invested  the  throne  with  the  great 
strength  of  popularity.  But,  after  a  full  and 
deliberate  consent  had  been  given  by  both 
their  Majesties,  the  party  about  the  Queetr 


22^ 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


found  means  to  put  off  from  day  to  day  the 
jjublicatioii  of  the  important  instrument ;  and 
a  whole  month  was  unpardonably  wasted  in 
idle  discussions;  during  which,  nearly  one 
half  of  the  nobles  and  clergy  had  joined  the 
deputies  of  the  CommonSj  and  taken  the  name 
of  the  National  Assembly.  Their  popularity 
and  confidence  had  been  dangerously  in- 
creased, in  the  mean  time,  by  their  orators 
and  pamphleteers;  and  the  Court  had  become 
the  object  of  suspicion  and  discontent,  both  by 
the  rumour  of  the  approach  of  its  armies  to 
the  capital,  and  by  what  Madame  de  Stael 
calls  the  accidental  exclusion  of  the  deputies 
from  their  ordinary  place  of  meeting — which 
gave  occasion  to  the  celebrated  and  theatrical 
oath  of  the  Tennis-court.  After  all,  Madame 
de  Stael  says,  much  might  have  been  regained 
or  saved,  by  issuing  M.  Necker's  declaration. 
But  the  very  night  before  it  was  to  be  deliv- 
ered, the  council  w^as  adjourned,  in  conse- 
quence of  a  billet  from  the  Queen  : — two  new 
councillors  and  two  princes  of  the  blood  were 
called  to  take  part  in  the  deliberations ;  and 
it  was  suddenly  determined,  that  the  King 
should  announce  it  as  his  pleasure,  that  the 
Three  Estates  should  meet  and  vote  in  their 
three  separate  chambers,  as  they  had  done 
in  1614! 

M.  Necker,  full  of  fear  and  sorrow,  refused 
to  go  to  the  meeting  at  which  the  King  was 
to  make  this  important  communication.  It 
was  made,  however — and  received  with  mur- 
murs of  deep  displeasure ;  and,  when  the 
Chancellor  ordered  the  deputies  to  withdraw 
to  their  separate  chamber,  they  answered, 
that  they  were  the  National  Assembly,  and 
v/ould  stay  where  they  were !  The  whole 
visible  population  seconded  this  resolution, 
with  indications  of  a  terrible  and  irresistible 
violence :  Perseverance,  it  was  immediately 
seen,  would  have  led  to  the  most  dreadful 
consequences;  and  the  same  night  the  Queen 
entreated  M.  Necker  to  take  the  management 
of  the  State  upon  himself,  and  solemnly  en- 
gaged to  follow  no  councils  but  his.  The 
minister  comphed;  —  and  immediately  the 
obnoxious  order  was  recalled,  and  a  royal 
mandate  was  issued  to  the  Nobles  and  the 
Clergy,  to  join  the  deliberations  of  the  Tiers 
etat. 

If  these  reconciling  measures  had  been  sin- 
cerely followed  out,  the  country  and  the  mon- 
archy might  yet  perhaps  have  been  saved. 
But  the  party  of  the  Ultras — '•'■  qui  parloit  avec 
beaucoup  de  dedain  de  I'autorite  du  roi  cPAn- 
gleterre,  et  vouloit  faire  considerer  comme  un 
attentat,  la  pensee  de  reduire  un  roi  de  France 
an  miserable  sort  du  monarque  Britannique" 
— this  misg-uided  party — had  still  too  much 
weight  in  the  royal  councils ;  and,  while  they 
took  advantage  of  the  calm  produced  by  M. 
Necker's  measures  and  popularity,  did  not 
cease  secretly  to  hasten  the  march  of  M.  de 
Broglie  with  his  German  regiments  upon  Paris 
— with  the  design,  scarcely  dissembled,  of 
employing  them  to  overawe,  and,  if  neces- 
sary, to  disperse  the  assembly.  Considering 
from  whom  her  information  is  derived,  we 
oan  scarcely  refuse  our  implicit  belief  to  the 


following    important    statement,   which   hat 
never  yet  been  made  on  equal  authority. 

"M.  Necker  n'ignoroit  pas  le  veritable  objet 
pour  lequel  on  faisoit  avancer  les  troupes,  bien 
qu'on  vou  nt  le  lui  cacher.  L'intention  de  la  cour 
eioit  de  re  ,,nir  a  Compiegne  tous  les  membres  des 
frois  ordres  qui  n'avoient  point  favorise  le  systeme 
des  innovations,  et  la  de  leur  faire  consentir  a  la  hate 
les  impots  et  les  emprunts  dont  elle  avoit  besoin, 
afin  de  les  renvoyer  ensuite  !  Comme  un  tel  projet 
ne  pouvoit  etre  seconde  par  M.  Necker,  on  se  pro- 
posoit  de  ie  renvoyer  des  que  la  force  militaire  seroit 
rassemblce.  Cinquante  avis  par  jour  I'informoient 
de  sa  situation,  et  il  ne  lui  etoit  pas  possible  d'en  dou- 
ter ;  mais  il  savoit  aussi  que,  dans  les  circonstances 
ou  Ton  se  trouvoit  alors,  il  ne  pouvoit  quitter  sa 
place  sans  confirmer  les  bruits  qui  se  repandoient 
sur  les  mesures  violentes  que  Ton  preparoit  a  la 
cour.  Le  roi  s'etant  resolu  a  ces  mesures,  M. 
Necker  ne  voulut  pas  y  prendre  part,  mais  il  ne 
vouloit  pas  non  plus  donner  le  signal  de  s'y  opposer  ; 
et  il  restoit  la  comme  une  sentinelle  qu'on  laissoit 
encore  a  son  poste,  pour  tromper  les  attaquans  sur 
la  manoeuvre." — Vol.  i.  pp.  231 — 233. 

He  continued,  accordingly,  to  go  every  day 
to  the  palace,  where  he  was  received  with 
cold  civility;  and  at  last,  when  the  troops 
were  all  assembled,  he  received  an  order  in 
the  middle  of  the  night,  commanding  him  in- 
stantly to  quit  France,  and  to  let  no  one  know 
of  his  departure.  This  was  on  the  night  of  the 
11th  of  July; — and  as  soon  as  his  dismissal 
was  known,  all  Paris  rose  in  insurrection — an 
army  of  100,000  men  was  arrayed  in  a  night 
— and,  on  the  14th,  the  Bastile  was  demol- 
ished, and  the  King  brought  as  a  prisoner  to 
the  Hotel  de  Ville,  to  express  his  approbation 
of  all  that  had  been  done  !  M.  Necker,  who 
had  got  as  far  as  Brussels,  was  instantly  re- 
called. Upwards  of  two  millions  of  men  took 
up  arms  throughout  the  country — and  it  was 
manifest  that  a  great  revolution  was  already 
consummated  ! 

There  is  next  a  series  of  lively  and  mas- 
terly sketches  of  the  different  parties  in  the 
Constituent  Assembly,  and  their  various  lead- 
ers. Of  these,  the  most  remarkable,  by  far. 
was  Mirabeau ;  who  appeared  in  oppositiori 
to  Necker,  like  the  evil  spirit  of  the  Revo- 
lution contending  with  its  better  angel. 
Madame  de  Stael  says  of  him,  that  he  was 
"Tribun  par  calciil,  et  Aristocrat  par  goiit." 
There  never,  perhaps,  was  an  instance  of  so 
much  talent  being  accompanied  and  neutral- 
ized by  so  much  profligacy.  Of  all  the 
daring  spirits  that  appeared  on  that  troubled 
scene,  no  one,  during  his  life,  ever  dared  to 
encounter  him  ;  and  yet,  such  was  his  want 
of  principle,  that  no  one  party,  and  no  one 
individual;  trusted  him  with  their  secrets. 
His  fearlessness,  promptitude,  and  energy, 
overbore  all  compe-tition ;  and  his  ambition 
seemed  to  be,  to  shov/  how  the  making  or  the 
marring  of  all  things  depended  upon  his  good 
pleasure.  Madame  de  Stael  confirms  what 
has  often  been  said  of  his  occasional  diffi- 
culty in  extempore  speaking,  and  of  his  ha- 
bitually employing  his  friends  to  write  his 
speeches  and  letters;  but,  after  his  death, 
she  says  none  of  them  could  ever  produce 
for  themselves  any  thing  equal  to  what  they 
used  to  catch  from  his  inspiration.    In  de- 


DE  STAEL'S  FRENCH  REVOLUTION 


225 


bate,  he  was  artful  when  worsted,  and  mer- 
ciless when  successful.  What  he  said  of 
Abbe  Maury,  was  true  of  all  his  opponents — 
"  Quand  il  a  raison,  nous  disputons  ]  quand  11 
a  tort,  je  Vecrase  /" 

Opposed  to  this,  and  finely  contrasted  with 
it,  is  the  character  of  M.  de  la  Fayette — the 
purest,  the  most  temperate,  and  therefore  the 
most  inflexible  friend  of  rational  liberty  in 
France.  Considering  the  times  in  whicH  he 
has  lived,  and  the  treatment  he  has  met 
with,  it  is  a  proud  thing  for  a  nation  to  be 
able  to  name  one  of  its  public  characters,  to 
whom  this  high  testimony  can  be  borne, 
without  risk  of  contradiction.  "Depuis  le 
depart  de  M.  de  la  Fayette  pour  PAmerique, 
il  y  a  quarante  ans,  on  ne  pent  citer  ni  une 
action,  ni  une  parole  de  lui  qui  n'ait  ete  dans 
la  meme  ligne,  sans  qu'aucun  interet  per- 
eonnel  se  soit  jamais  mele  a  sa  conduite." 
The  Abbe  Sieyes  seems  to  us  a  little  like  our 
Bentham.  At  all  events,  this  little  sketch  of 
him  is  worth  preserving. 

'*I1  avoit  mene  jusqu'a  quarante  ans  une  vie 
oolitaire,  reflechissant  sur  les  questions  politiques, 
etportant  une  grande  force  d'abstraction  dans  cette 
etude  ;  mais  il  etoit  pen  fait  pour  communiqueravec 
les  autres  hommes,  tant  11  s'irritoit  aiseraent  de  leurs 
travers,  et  tant  il  les  blessoit  par  les  siens.  Toute- 
fois,  comme  il  avoit  un  esprit  superieuretdes  fagons 
de  s'exprimer  laconiques  et  tranchantes,  c'etoit  la 
mode  dans  I'assemblee  de  lui  montrer  un  respect 
presque  superstitieux.  Mirabeau  ne  demandoit  pas 
mieux  que  d'accorder  au  silence  de  I'Abbe  Sieyes 
le  pas  sur  sa  propre  eloquence ;  car  ce  genre  de 
rivalite  n'est  pas  redoutable.  On  croyoit  a  Sieyes, 
a  cet  homme  mysterieux,  des  secrets  sur  les  con- 
stitutions, dont  on  esperoit  toujours  des  effets  eton- 
nans  quand  il  les  reveleroit.  Quelques  jeunes 
gens,  et  meme  des  esprits  d'une  grande  force,  pro- 
fessoient  la  plus  haute  admiration  pour  lui ;  et  Ton 
s'accordoit  a  le  louer  aux  depens  de  tout  autre, 
parce  qu'il  ne  sefaisoit  jamais  juger  en  entier,  dans 
aucune  circonstance.  Ce  qu'on  savoit  avec  certi- 
tude, c'est  qu'il  detestoit  les  distinctions  nobiliaires ; 
et  cependant  il  avoit  conserve  de  son  etat  de  pretre 
un  attaehement  au  clerge,  qui  se  manifesta  le  plus 
clairement  du  monde  lors  de  la  suppression  des 
dimes.  //.-?  venle.7it  etre  litres,  et  ne  savent  pas  etre 
justes !  disoit-il  a  cette  occasion  ;  et  toutes  les 
fautes  de  I'assemblee  etoient  renfermees  dans  ces 
paroles."— Vol.  i.  pp.305,  306. 

The  most  remarkable  party,  perhaps,  in  the 
Assembly  was  that  of  the  Aristocrats,  con- 
sisting chiefly  of  the  Nobles  and  Clergy,  and 
about  thirty  of  the  Commons.  In  the  situa- 
tion in  which  they  were  placed,  one  would 
have  expected  a  good  deal  of  anxiety,  bit- 
terness, or  enthusiasm,  from.  them.  But, 
in  France,  things  affect  people  differently. 
Nothing  can  be  more  characteristic  than  the 
following  powerful  sketch.  '^Ce  parti,  qui 
avoit  proteste  centre  toutes  les  resolutions  de 
I'assemblee,  n'y  assistoit  que  par  prudence. 
Tout  ce  qu'on  y  faisoit  lui  paroissoit  insolent, 
mais  tres-peu  serieux !  tant  il  trouvoit  ridicule 
cette  decouverte  du  dix-huitieme  siecle,  une 
nation ! — tandis  qu'on  n'avoit  eu  jusqu'alors 
que  des  nobles,  des  pretres,  et  du  peuple  !" — 
(Vol.  i.  p.  298.)  They  had  their  counterpart, 
however,  on  the  opposite  side.  The  specu- 
lative, refining,  and  philanthropic  reformers, 
IjEere  precisely  a  match  for  them.     There  is 


infinite  talent,  truth,  and  pathos,  in  the  fol- 
lowing hasty  observations. 

"  lis  gagnerent  de  I'ascendant  dans  I'assemblee, 
en  se  moquant  des  moderes,  comme  si  la  modera- 
tion etoit  de  la  foiblesse,  et  qu'eiix  seuls  fussent  des 
caracteres  forts.  On  les  voyoit,  dans  les  salles  et 
sur  les  bancs  des  deputes,  tourner  en  ridicule  qui- 
conque  s'avisoit  de  leur  representer  qu'avant  eux 
les  hommes  avoient  existe  en  societe ;  que  les 
ecrivains  avoient  pense,  et  que  I'Angleterre  etoit 
en  possession  de  quelque  liberte.  On  eut  dit  qu'on 
leur  repetoit  les  contes  de  leur  nourrice,  tant  ils 
ecoutoient  avec  impatience,  tant  ils  pronon9oient 
avec  dedain  de  certaines  phrases  bien  exagerees  et 
b^en  decisives,  sur  I'impossibilite  d'admettre  un 
senat  her6dilaire,  un  senat  meme  a  vie,  un  veto  aU 
solu,  une  condition  de  propriete,  enfin  tout  ce  qui, 
disoient-ils,  attentoit  a  la  souverainete  du  pcupie  ! 
Ils  portoient  lafatuile  des  cours  dans  la  cause  demo- 
cratique;  et  plusieurs  deputes  du  tiers  etoient,  tout 
a  la  ibis,  eblouis  par  leurs  belles  manieres  de  gen- 
tiishommes,  et  captives  par  leurs  doctrines  demo- 
craiiques. 

"  Ces  chefs  elegans  du  parti  populaire  vouloient 
entrer  dans  le  ministere.  Ils  souhaitoient  de  con- 
duire  les  affaires  jusqu'au  point  ou  Ton  auroit  besoin 
d'eux;  mais,  dans  cette  rapide  descente,  le  char  ne 
s'arreta  point  a  leurs  relais  ;  ils  n'etoient  point  con- 
spirateurs,  mais  ils  se  confioient  trop  en  leur  pouvoir 
sur  I'assemblee,  et  se  flattoient  de  relever  de  trone 
des  qu'ils  i'auroient  fait  arriver  jusqu'a  leur  portee. 
Mais,  quand  ils  voulurent  de  bonne  foi  reparer  le 
mal  deja  fait,  il  n'etoit  plus  temps.  On  ne  sauroit 
compter  combien  de  desastres  auroient  pu  etre 
epargnes  a  la  France,  si  ce  parti  de  jeunes  gens  se 
fut  reuni  avec  les  moderes :  car,  avant  les  evene- 
mens  du  6  Octobre,  lorsque  le  roi  n'avoit  point  ete 
enlcve  de  Versailles,  et  que  I'armee  Frangoise, 
repandue  dans  les  provinces,  conservoit  encore 
quelque  respect  pour  le  trone,  les  circonstances 
etoient  telles  qu'on  pouvoit  etablir  une  monarchic 
raisonnable  en  France." — Vol.  i.  pp.  303 — 305. 

It  is  a  curious  proof  of  the  vivaciousness  of 
vulgar  prejudices,  that  Madame  de  Stael 
should  have  thought  it  necessary,  in  1816,  to 
refute,  in  a  separate  chapter,  the  popular 
opinion  that  the  disorders  in  France  in  1790 
and  1791  were  fomented  by  the  hired  agents 
of  England. 

There  is  a  long  and  very  interesting  ac- 
count of  the  outrages  and  horrors  of  the  5th 
of  October  1789,  and  of  the  tumultuous  con- 
veyance of  the  captive  monarch  from  Ver- 
sailles to  Paris,  by  a  murderous  and  infuriated 
mob.  Madame  de  Stael  was  herself  a  spec- 
tatress of  the  whole  scene  in  the  interior  of 
the  palace  ;  and  though  there  is  not  much  that 
is  new  in  her  account,  we  cannot  resist  mak- 
ing one  little  extract.  After  the  mob  had 
filled  the  courts  of  the  palace, — 

"  La  reine  parut  alors  dans  le  salon  ;  ses  cheveux 
etoient  en  desordre,  sa  figure  etoit  pale,  mais  digne, 
et  tout,  dans  sa  personne,  frappoit  ['imagination :  Ic 
peuple  demanda  qu'clle  pariit  sur  le  balcon  ;  et, 
comme  touie  la  conr.  appelee  la  cour  de  marbre, 
etoit  remplie  d'hommes  qui  tenoient  en  main  des 
armes  a  feu,  on  put  apercevoir  dans  la  physionomie 
de  la  reine  ce  qu'elle  redoutoit.  Neanmoins  eZZe 
s^ava?iga,  sa7is  hesiter,  avec  ses  deux  enfans  qui  Im 
servoient  de  sauvegarde. 

"  La  multitude  parut  attendrie,  en  voyant  la  reine 
comme  mere,  et  les  fureuft  politiques  s'apaiseren; 
a  cet  aspect;  ceux  qui,  lanuit  meme,  avoient,  peut- 
etre  voulu  I'agsassiner,  porterent  son  nom  jusqu'au> 
nues. 

"  La  reine,  en  sortant  du  balcon,  s'approcha  de 
ma  mere,  et  lui  dit,  avec  des  sanglots  etouffes :  Tit 
vont  nous  forcer,  le  roi  et  moi,  a  nous  rendre  a  Fan 


226 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS 


— avec  J;!t  tetes  de  no$  fT'irdes  du  corps  portces  de- 
vant  nous  au  bout  de  h  .irs  piques/  Sa  piediclion 
faillit  s'accomplir.  y'.in.-'l  la  reine  ei  le  roi  furenl 
amenes  dans  leur  capitale  !  Nous  reviiimes  a  Paris 
par  une  autre  route,  qui  nous  eloignoit  de  cet  afFreux 
spectacle  :  c'etoit  a  travers  le  bois  de  Boulogne  que 
nous  passames,  et  le  temps  etoit  d'une  rare  beaute ; 
I'air  agitoit  a  peine  les  arbres,  et  le  soleil  avoit  assez 
d'eclat  pour  ne  laisser  rien  de  sombre  dans  la  cam- 
pagne:  aucun  objet  ext^rieur  ne  repondoit  a  notre 
iristesse.  Combien  de  fois  ce  contraste,  entre  la 
beaute  de  la  nature  et  les  souffrances  imposees  par 
les  hommes,  ne  se  renouvelle-t-il  pas  dans  le  cours 
de  la  vie  ! 

"  Quel  spectacle  en  effet  que  cet  ancien  palais  des 
Tuileries,  abandonne  depuis  plus  d'un  siecle,  par  ses 
augustes  botes !  La  vetuste  des  objets  exterieiirs 
agissoit  sur  I'imagination,  et  la  faisoit  errer  dans  les 
temps  passes.  Comme  on  etoit  loin  de  prevoir  I'ar- 
rivee  de  la  famille  royale,  tres-peu  d'appartemens 
etoient  habitables,  et  la  reine  avoit  ete  obligee  de 
faire  dresser  des  lits  de  camp  pour  ses  enfans,  dans 
la  chambre  meme  oii  elle  recevoit ;  elle  nous  en  fit 
des  excuses,  en  ajoutant :  Vous  savez  que  je  ne 
m^ altendois  pns  a  venir  ici.  Sa  phj'sionomie  etoit 
belle  et  irritee  ;  on  ne  pent  I'oublier  quand  on  I'a 
viie.— Vol.  i.  pp.  347—349. 

It  has  always  struck  us  as  a  singular  defect 
in  all  the  writers  who  have  spoken  of  those 
scenes  of  decisive  violence  in  the  early  history 
of  the  French  Revolution,  such  as  the  14th  of, 
July  and  this  of  the  6th  of  October,  that  they 
do  not  so  much  as  attempt  to  explain  by  what 
mstigation  they  were  brought  about — or  by 
whom  the  plan  of  operations  was  formed,  and 
the  means  for  carrying  it  into  execution  pro- 
vided. That  there  was  concert  and  prepara- 
tion in  the  business,  is  sufficiently  apparent 
from  the  magnitude  and  suddenness  of  the 
assemblage,  and  the  skill  and  systematic  per- 
severance with  which  they  set  about  accom- 
plishing their  purposes.  Yet  we  know  as  little, 
at  this  hour,  of  the  plotters  and  authors  of  the 
mischief,  as  we  do  of  the  Porteous  mob. 
Madame  de  Stael  contents  herself  with  saying, 
that  these  dreadful  scenes  signalized  -'Pave- 
nement  des  Jacobins;"  but  seems  to  excul- 
pate all  the  known  leaders  of  that  party  from 
any  actual  concern  in  the  transaction ; — and 
yet  it  was  that  transaction  that  subverted  the 
monarchy ! 

Then  came  the  abolition  of  titles  of  no- 
bility— the  institution  of  a  constitutional  cler- 
gy— and  the  federation  of  14th  July  1790. 
In  spite  of  the  storms  and  showers  of  blood 
which  we  have  already  noticed,  the  political 
horizon,  it  seems,  still  looked  bright  in  the 
eyes  of  France.  The  following  picture  is 
lively — and  is  among  the  traits  which  history 
does  not  usually  preserve — and  Avhich,  what 
she  does  preserve,  certainly  would  not  enable 
future  ages  to  conjecture. 

"  Les  etrangers  ne  sauroient  concevoir  le  charme 
et  I'eclat  tant  vante  de  la  societe  de  Paris,  s'ils 
n'ont  vu  la  France  que  depuis  vingt  ans  :  Mais  on 
lj«ut  dire  avec  verite,  que  jamais  cette  societe  n'a 
ete  aussi  brillante  et  aussi  serieuse  tout  ensemble, 
que  pendant  les  trois  ou  quatre  premieres  aniu'es  de 
la  revolution,  a  compter  de  1788  jusqu'a  la  fin  de 
1791.  Comme  les  aflaires  politiques  etoient  encore 
entre  les  mains  de  la  premiere  classe,  toutc  la  vigueur 
de  la  liberte  et  toute  la  grace  de  la  politesse  ancienne 
Be  reunissoient  dans  les  memcs  personnes.  Les 
hommes  du  tiers  etat,  distingues  par  leurs  lumiercs 
et  leurs  talens,  se  joignoient  a  ccs  gentilshommes 


plus  fiers  de  leur  propre  merite  que  des  privilege* 
de  leur  corps ;  et  les  plus  hautes  questions  que 
I'ordre  social  ait  jamais  fait  naitre  etcieni  traiteea 
par  les  esprits  les  plus  capables  de  les  entendre  et 
de  les  discuter. 

"  Ce  qui  nuit  aux  agremens  de  la  societe  en  An- 
gleterre,  ce  sont  les  occupations  et  les  interetsd'un 
etat  depuis  long-temps  representatif.  Ce  qui  ren- 
doit  au  contraire  la  societe  fran^oise  un  peu  super- 
ficielle,  c'etoient  les  loisirs  de  la  monarchic.  Mais 
tout  a  coup  la  force  de  la  liberte  vint  se  m^ler  a 
I'elegance  de  I'aristocratie ;  dans  aucun  pays  ni 
dans  aucun  temps,  I'art  de  parler  sous  toutes  ses 
formes  n'a  ete  aussi  remarquable  que  dans  les  pre- 
mieres annees  de  la  revolution. 

"  L'assemblee  constituante,  comme  je  I'ai  dejd 
dit,  ne  suspendit  pas  un  seul  jour  la  liberte  de  la 
presse.  Ainsi  ceux  qui  soufliroient  de  se  trouver 
constamment  en  minorite  dans  l'assemblee,  avoient 
au  moins  la  satisfaction  de  se  moquer  de  tout  le 
parti  contraire.  Leurs  journaux  faisoieni  de  spirit - 
uels  calembours  sur  les  circonstances  les  plus  im- 
portantes;  c'etoit  I'histoire  du  monde  changee  en 
commerage  !  Tel  est  partout  le  caractere  de  I'aris- 
tocratie des  cours.  C'est  la  derniere  fois,  helas  ! 
que  I'esprit  frangoise  se  soit  montre  dans  tout  son 
eclat;  c'est  la  derniere  fois,  et  a  quelques  egards 
aussi  la  premiere,  que  la  societe  de  Paris  ait  pu 
donncr  I'idee  de  cette  communication  des  esprits 
superieurs  entre  eux,  la  plus  noble  jouissance  dont 
la  nature  humaine  soit  capable.  Ceux  qui  ont  vecu 
dans  ce  temps  ne  sauroient  s'empecher  d'avouer 
qu'on  n'a  jamais  vu  ni  tant  de  vie  ni  tant  d'esprit 
nulle  part ;  Ton  pent  juger,  par  la  foule  d 'hommes 
de  talens  que  les  circonstances  developperent  alors, 
ce  que  seroient  les  Francois  s'ils  etoient  appeles  a 
se  meler  des  affaires  publiques  dans  la  rout  tracee 
par  une  constitution  sage  et^incere." — Vol.  i.  pp. 
383—386. 

Very  soon  after  the  federation,  the  King  en- 
tered into  secret  communications  with  Mira- 
beau,  and  expected  by  his  means,  and  those 
of  M.  Bouille  and  his  army,  to  emancipate 
himself  from  the  bondage  in  which  he  was 
held.  The  plan  was,  to  retire  to  Compiegne; 
and  there,  by  the  help  of  the  army,  to  purge 
the  Assembly,  and  restore  the  royal  authority. 
Madame  de  Stael  says,  that  JVIirabeau  insisted 
for  a  constitution  like  that  of  England ;  but, 
as  an  armed  force  was  avowedly  the  organ  by 
which  he  was  to  act,  one  may  be  permitted 
to  doubt,  whether  he  could  seriously  expect 
this  to  be  granted.  In  the  mean  time,  the 
policy  of  the  King  was  to  appear  to  agree  to 
every  thing;  and,  aa  this  appeared  to  M. 
Necker,  who  was  not  in  the  secret,  to  be  an 
unjustifiable  abandonment  of  himself  and  the 
country,  he  tendered  his  resignation,  and  was 
allowed  to  retire — and  then  followed  the  death 
of  Mirabeau,  and  shortly  after  the  flight  and 
apprehension  of  the  King — the  revision  of 
the  constitution — and  the  dissolution  of  the 
Constituent  Assembly,  with  a  self-denying  or- 
dinance, declaring  that  none  of  its  members 
should  be  capable  of  being  elected  into  the 
next  legislature. 

There  is  an  admirable  chapter  on  the  emi- 
gration of  1791 — that  emigration,  in  the  spirit; 
of  party  and  of  hon  ton.  which  at  once  exasper- 
ated and  strengthened  the  party  who  ought  to 
have  been  opposed,  and  irretrievably  injured  a 
cause  which  was  worse  than  deserted,  when 
foreigners  were  called  in  to  support  it,  Ma- 
dame de  Stael  is  decidedly  of  opinion,  that 
the  Nobles  should  have  staid,  and  resist^^- 


DE  STAEL'S  FRENCH  REVOLUTIOI 


227 


>vhat  was  wrong — or  submitted  to  it.  ^'Mais 
lis  ont  trouve  plus  simple  d'invoquer  la  gen- 
darmerie Europeenne,  afin  de  mettre  Paris  a 
raison."  The  fate  of  their  country,  which 
ought  to  have  been  theu  only  concern,  was 
always  a  secondary  object,  in  their  eyes,  to 
the  triumph  of  their  own  opinions — "  ils  I'ont 
vonlu  comme  un  jaloux  sa  maitresse — fidelle 
au  morte," — and  seem  rather  to  have  con- 
sidered themselves  as  allied  to  all  the  other 
nobles  of  Europe,  than  as  a  part  of  the  French 
nation. 

The  Constituent  Assembly  made  more  laws 
in  two  years  than  the  English  parliament  had 
done  in  two  hundred.  The  succeeding  as- 
sembly made  as  many — with  this  difference, 
that  while  the  former  aimed,  for  the  most 
part,  at  general  reformation,  the  last  were  all 
personal  and  vindictive.  The  speculative  re- 
publicans were  for  some  time  the  leaders  of 
this  industrious  body ; — and  Madame  de  Stael, 
in  describing  their  tone  and  temper  while  in 
power,  has  given  a  picture  of  the  political 
tractability  of  her  countrymen,  which  could 
scarcely  have  been  endured  from  a  stranger. 

"  Aucun  argument,  aucune  inquietude  n'etoient 
6coutes  par  ses  chefs.  Ils  repondoient  aux  obser- 
vations de  la  sagesse,  et  de  la  sagesse  desinteressee, 
par  un  sourire  moqueur,  synnptome  de  Taridite  qui 
resulte  de  l' amour-propre :  On  s'epuisoit  a  leur 
rappeler  les  circonstances,  et  a  leur  en  deduire  les 
causes ;  on  passoit  tour  a  tour  de  la  theorie  a  I'ex- 
perience,  et  de  I'experience  a  la  theorie,  pour  leur 
en  montrer  I'identite;  et,  s'ils  consentoient  a  re- 
pondre,  ils  nioient  les  faits  les  plus  authentiques, 
et  combattoient  les  observations  les  plus  evidentes, 
en  y  opposant  quelques  maximes  communes,  bien 
qu'exprimees  avec  eloquence.  lis  se  regai-doient 
entre  eux,  comme  s'ils  avoient  ete  seuls  dignes 
de  s'entendre,  et  s'encourageoient  par  I'idee  que 
tout  etoit  pusillanimite  dans  la  resistance  a  leur 
maniere  de  voir.  Tels  sout  les  signes  de  I'esprit 
de  parti  chez  les  Frangois !  Le  dedain  pour  leurs 
adversaires  en  est  la  base,  et  le  dedain  s' oppose 
toujours  a  la  connoissance  de  la  verite." — "'Mais 
dans  les  debats  politiques,"  she  adds,  "  ou  la  masse 
d'une  nation  prend  part,  il  n'y  a  que  la  voix  des 
evenemens  qui  soit  entendue;  les  argumens  n'in- 
Bpirent  que  le  desir  de  leur  repondre." 

The  King,  who  seemed  for  a  time  to  have 
resig-ned  himself  to  his  fate,  was  roused  at 
last  to  refuse  his  assent  to  certain  brutal  de- 
crees against  the  recusant  priests — and  his 
palace  and  his  person  were  immediately  in- 
vaded by  a  ferocious  mob — and  he  was  soon 
after  compelled  with  all  his  family  to  assist  at 
the  anniversary  of  the  14th  July,  where,  ex- 
cept the  plaudits  of  a  few  children,  every 
thing  was  dark  and  menacing.  The  following 
few  lines  appear  to  us  excessively  touching. 

"  11  falloit  le  caractere  de  Louis  XVI.,  ce  carac- 
tere  de  martyr  qu'iln'a  jamais  dementi,  pour  sup- 
porter ainsi  une  pareille  situation.  Sa  maniere  de 
marcher,  sa  contenance  avoient  quelque  chose  de 

{►articulier.  Dans  d'autres  occasions,  on  auroit  pu 
ui  souhaiterplus  de  grandeur  ;  mais  il  suffisoitdans 
ce  moment  de  rester  en  tout  le  meme,  pour  paroitre 
Bublime.  Je  suivis  de  loin  sa  tete  poudree  au  mi- 
lieu de  ces  tetes  a  cheveux  noirs  ;  son  habit,  encore 
brode  comme  jadis,  ressortoit  a  cote  du  costume 
des  gens  du  peuple  qui  se  pressoient  autour  de  lui. 
Quand  il  monta  les  degres  de  I'autel,  on  crut  voir 
la  Victime  sainte,  s'offrant  voiontairement  en  sacri- 
II   redescendit :   et,  traversant  de  nouveau 


» 


les  rangs  en  desordre,  il  revlnt  s'asseoir-flupres  de 
la  reine  et  de  ses  ei  tans,  Depuisce  jour,  le  peupla 
ne  I'a  plus  revu — que  sur  Techataud  !" 

Vol.  ii.  ppa54,  55. 

Soon  after,  the  allies  entered  France ;  the 
King  refused  to  take  shelter  in  the  army  ol 
M.  de  la  Fayette  at  Compiegne.  His  palace 
was  stormed,  and  his  guards  butchered,  on 
the  10th  of  Aug-ust.  He  was  committed  to 
the  Temple,  arraigned,  and  executed !  and 
the  reign  of  terror,  with  all  its  unspeakable 
atrocities,  ensued. 

We  must  pass  over  much  of  what  is  most 
interesting  in  the  book  before  usj  for  we  find, 
that  the  most  rapid  sketch  we  can  trace,  would 
draw  us  into  great  length.  Madame  de  Stael 
thinks  that  the  war  was  nearly  unavoidable 
on  the  part  of  England;  and,  after  a  brief 
character  of  our  Fox  and  Pitt,  she  says, 

"  II  pouvoit  etre  avantageux  toutefois  a  I'Angle- 
terre  que  M.  Pitt  fut  le  chef  de  I'etat  dans  la  crise  la 
plus  dangereuse  oii  ce  pays  se  soit  trouve  ;  mais  il 
ne  I'etoit  pas  moins,  qu'un  esprit  aussi  etendu  que 
celui  de  M.  Fox  souiint  les  principes  malgre  les 
circonstances;  et  sut  preserver  les  dieux  penatea 
des  amis  de  la  liberte,  au  milieu  de  I'incendie.  Ce 
n'est  point  pour  conienter  les  deux  pariis  que  je  lea 
loue  ainsi  tous  les  deux,  quoiqu'ils  aient  soutenu 
des  opinions  tres-opposees.  Le  Kontraire  en  France 
devroit  peut-etre  avoir  lieu  ;  les  factions  diverses  y 
sont  presque  toujours  egalement  blamables  :  Maia 
dans  un  pays  libre,  les  partisans  du  ministere  et 
les  niembres  de  I'opposition  peuvent  avoir  tous  rai- 
son a  leur  maniere  ;  et  ils  font  souvent  chacun  du 
bien  selon  I'epoque.  Ce  qui  importe  seulement, 
c'est  de  ne  pas  prolonger  le  pouvoir  acquis  par 
la  lutte,  apres  que  le  danger  est  passe." 

Vol.  ii.  p.  113. 

There  is  an  excellent  chapter  on  the  ex- 
cesses of  the  parties  and  the  people  of  France 
at  this  period ;  m- hich  she  refers  to  the  sudden 
exasperation  of  those  principles  of  natural 
hostility  by  which  the  high  and  the  low  are 
always  in  some  degree  actuated,  and  which 
are  only  kept  from  breaking  out  by  the  mu- 
tual concessions  v/hich  the  law,  in  ordinary 
times,  exacts  from  both  parties.  The  law  was 
now  annihilated  in  that  country,  and  the  natu 
ral  antipathies  were  called  into  uncontrolled 
activity  •  the  intolerance  of  one  party  having 
no  longer  any  check  but  the  intolerance  of 
the  other, 

"  Les  querelles  des  patriciens  et  des  plebeiens, 
la  guerre  des  esclaves,  celle  des  paysans,  celle  qui 
dure  encore  entre  les  nobles  et  les  bourgeois,  toute« 
ont  eu  egalement  pour  origine  la  difficulte  de  main* 
tenir  la  societe  humaine,  sans  desordre  et  sans  in- 
justice. Les  honimes  ne  pourroient  exister  aujour- 
d'hui,  nisepares,  ni  reunis,  si  le  respect  de  la  loi  n« 
s'etablissoit  pas  dans  les  tetes:  tous  les  crimes  nai- 
troient  de  la  societe  meme  qui  doit  les  prevenir. 
Le  pouvoir  abstrait  des  gouvernemens  representa- 
tifs  n'irrite  en  rien  I'orgueil  des  hommes ;  et 
c'est  par  cette  institution  que  doivent  s'eteindre 
les  flambeaux  des  furies.  lis  se  sont  allumea 
dans  un  pays  oii  tout  etoit  amour-propre;  et 
Tamour-propre  irrite,  chez  le  peuple,  ne  ressemble 
poit  a  nos  nuances  fugitives;  c'est  le  besoin  de 
donner  la  mort ! 

"Des  massacres,  non  moins  affreux  que  ceux  de 
la  terreur,  ont  ete  commis  au  noni  de  la  religion  ; 
la  race  humaine  s'est  epuisee  pendant  plusieura 
siecles  en  efforts  inutiles  pour  contraindre  tous  lea 
hommes  a  la  meme  croyance.  Un  tel  but  ne  pou- 
voit etre  atteint ;  et  I'idee  la  plus  simple,  la  tole- 


228 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


ranee,  telle  que  Guillaume  Penn  I'a  professfie,  a 
banni  pour  toujours,  du  nord  de  TAmeriqufi,  le 
fanatisme  doiit  le  midi  a  ete  I'affreux  theatre.  II  en 
est  de  iTieine  du  fanatisme  politique  ;  la  liberie  seule 
peut  le  calmer.  Apres  un  certain  temps,  quelques 
Yerites  ne  seront  plus  contestees  ;  et  Ton  parlera 
des  vieilles  institutions  comme  des  anciens  systemes 
de  physique,  entierement  effaces  par  1' evidence  des 
fairs."— Vol.  ii.  p.  115—118. 

We  can  afford  to  say  nothing  of  the  Direc- 
toiy,  or  of  the  successes  of  the  national  army; 
but  it  is  impossible  to  pass  quite  over  the  18th 
Fructidor  (4th  September)  1797,  when  the 
majority  of  the  Directory  sent  General  Auge- 
reau  with  an  armed  force  to  disperse  the  legis- 
lative bodies,  and  arrest  certain  of  their  mem- 
bers. This  step  Madame  de  Stael  considers 
as  the  beginning  of  that  system  of  military 
despotism  which  was  afterwards  carried  so 
far ;  and  seems  seriously  to  believe,  that,  if 
it  had  not  been  then  adopted,  the  reign  of  law 
might  yet  have  been  restored,  and  the  usurpa- 
tion of  Bonaparte  prevented.  To  us  it  seems 
infinitely  more  probable,  that  the  Bourbons 
would  then  have  been  brought  back  without 
any  conditions — or  rather,  perhaps,  that  a 
civil  war,  and  a  scene  of  far  more  sanguinary 
violence  would  have  ensued.  She  does  not 
dispute  that  the  royalist  party  was  very  strong 
in  both  the  councils ;  but  seems  to  think,  that 
an  address  or  declaration  by  the  army  would 
have  discomfited  them  more  becomingly  than 
an  actual  .attack.  We  confess  we  are  not  so 
delicate.  Law  and  order  had  been  sufficiently 
trodden  on  already,  by  the  Jacobin  clubs  and 
revolutionary  tribunals ;  and  the  battalions  of 
General  Augereau  were  just  as  well  entitled 
to  domineer  as  the  armed  sections  and  butch- 
ering mobs  of  Paris.  There  was  no  longer, 
in  short,  any  sanctity  or  principle  of  civil  right 
acknowledged ;  and  it  was  time  that  the  force 
and  tei^or  which  had  substantially  reigned  for 
three  years,  should  appear  in  their  native 
colours.  They  certainly  became  somewhat 
less  atrocious  when  thus  openly  avowed. 

We  come  at  last  to  Bonaparte — a  name  that 
will  go  down  to  posterity,  and  of  whom  it  is 
not  yet  clear,  perhaps,  how  posterity  will 
judge.  The  greatest  of  conquerors,  in  an  age 
when  great  conquests  appeared  no  longer 
possible — the  most  splendid  of  usurpers, 
where  usurpation  had  not  been  heard  of  for 
centuries — who  entered  in  triumph  almost  all 
the  capitals  of  Continental  Europe ;  and  led, 
at  last,  to  his  bed,  the  daughter  of  her  proud- 
est sovereign — who  set  up  kings  and  put  them 
down  at  his  pleasure,  and,  for  sixteen  years, 
defied  alike  the  sword  of  his  foreign  enemies 
and  the  daggers  of  his  domestic  factions ! 
This  is  a  man  on  whom  future  generations 
must  yet  sit  in  judgment.  But  the  evidence 
by  which  they  are  to  judge  must  be  trans- 
mitted to  them  by  his  contemporaries.  Ma- 
dame de  Stael  has  collected  a  great  deal  of 
this  evidence;  and  has  reported  it,  we  think, 
on  the  whole,  in  a  tone  of  great  impartiality : 
thorgh  not  without  some  indications  of  per- 
sonal dislike.  Her  whole  talents  seem  to  be 
roused  and  concentrated  when  she  begins  to 
speak  of  this  extraordinary  man ;  and  much 
and  ably  as  his  character  has  been  lately  dis- 


cussed, we  do  think  it  has  never  been  half  s« 
well  described  as  in  the  volumes  before  us. 
We  shall  venture  on  a  pretty  long  extract,  be« 
ginning  with  the  account  of  their  first  inter* 
view  ;  for  on  this,  as  on  most  other  subjects, 
Madame  de  Stael  has  the  unspeakable  ad- 
vantage of  writing  from  her  own  observation. 
After  mentioning  the  great  popularity  he  had 
acquired  by  his  victories  in  Italy,  and  the 
peace  by  which  he  had  secured  them  at 
Campo  Formio,  she  says — 

"  C'est  avec  ce  sentiment,  du  moins,  que  je  le  via 
pour  la  premiere  fois  a  Paris.  Je  ne  trouvai  pas  de 
paroles  pour  lui  repondre,  quand  il  vint  a  moi  me 
dire  qu'il  avoit  cherche  mon  pere  a  Coppet,  et  qu'il 
regreltoit  d'avoir  passe  en  Suisse  sans  le  voir.  Mais, 
lor.sque  je  fus  un  peu  remise  du  trouble  de  I'admi- 
ration,  un  sentiment  de  crainte  tres-prononce  lui 
succeda !  Bonaparte  alors  n'avoit  aucune  puis- 
sance ;  on  le  croyoit  meme  assez  menace  par  les 
soupgons  ombrageux  du  directoire  ;  ainsi,  la  crainte 
qu'il  inspiroit  n'etoit  causee  que  par  le  singulier 
effet  de  sa  personne  sur  presque  tous  ceu^  qui  I'ap- 
prochent !  J'avois  vu  des  hommes  tres-dignes  de 
respect ;  j'avois  vu  aussi  des  hommes  feroces  :  il  n'y 
avoit  rien  dans  I'impression  que  Bonaparte  produisit 
sur  moi,  qui  put  me  rappeler  ni  les  uns  ni  les  autres. 
J'apergus  assez  vite,  dans  les  difllerentes  occasions 
que  j'eus  de  le  rencontrer  pendant  son  sejour  a  Paris, 
que  son  caractere  ne  pouvoit  etre  defini  par  les  mots 
dont  nous  avons  coutume  de  nous  servir  ;  ii  n'etoit 
ni  bon,  ni  violent,  ni  doux,  ni  cruel,  a  la  fagon 
des  individus  a  nous  connus.  Un  tel  etre  n'ayant 
point  de  pareil,  ne  pouvoit  ni  ressentir,  ni  faire 
eprouver  aucune  sympathie.  C'etoit  plus  ou  moina 
qu'un  homme  !  Sa  tournure,  son  esprit,  son  Ian- 
gage  Ront  empreints  d'une  nature  elrangere — avan- 
tage  de  plus  pour  subjuguer  les  Francois,  ainsi  quo 
nous  I'avons  dit  ailleurs. 

"  Loin  de  me  rassurer  en  voyant  Bonaparte  plus 
souvent,  il  m'intimidoit  toujours  davantage  !  Je 
sentois  confusement  qu'aucune  emotion  de  ccBur  ne 
pouvoit  agir  sur  lui.  II  regarde  une  creature  hu- 
maine  comme  un  fait  ou  comme  une  chose,  raaia 
non  comme  un  semblable.  II  ne  hait  pas  plus  qu'il 
n'aime.  II  n'y  a  que  lui  pour  lui ;  tout  le  reste 
des  creatures  sont  des  chiffres.  La  force  de  sa  vo- 
lonte  consiste  dans  I'imperturbable  calcul  de  son 
egoisme  ;  c'est  un  habile  joueur  d'echecs,  dont  le 
genre  humain  est  la  partie  adverse  qu'il  se  propose 
de  faire  echec  et  mat.  Ses  succes  tiennent  autant 
aux  Cfualites  que  lui  manquent,  qu'aux  talens  qu'ii 
possede.  Ni  la  pitie,  ni  I'attrait,  ni  la  religion,  ni 
I'attachement  a  une  idee  quelconque  ne  sauroient 
le  detourner  de  sa  direction  principale.  II  est  pour 
son  interet,  ce  que  le  juste  doit  etre  pour  la  vertu  : 
si  le  but  etoit  bon,  sa  perseverance  seroit  belle. 

"  Chaque  fois  que  je  I'entendois  parler,  j'etois 
frappee  de  sa  superiorite.  Elle  n'avoit  pourtant 
aucun  rapport  avec  celle  des  hommes  instruits  et 
cultives  par  I'etude  ou  la  societe,  tels  que  I'Angle- 
terre  et  la  France  peuvent  en  offrir  des  exeriiples. 
Mais  ses  discours  indiquoient  le  tact  des  circon- 
stances,  comme  le  chasseur  a  celui  de  sa  proie. 
Quelquefois  il  racontoit  les  faits  politiques  et  mili- 
taires  de  sa  vie  d'une  fa^on  tres-interessante  ;  il 
avoit  meme,  dans  les  rccits  qui  permettoient  de  la 
gaiete,  un  peu  de  I'imagination  italienne.  Cepen- 
dant  rien  ne  pouvoit  tnompher  de  mon  invincible 
eloignement  pour  ce  que  j'apercevois  en  lui.  Je 
sentois  dans  son  ame  une  epee  froide  et  tranchante 
qui  glagoit  pn  blessant !  Je  sentois  dans  son  esprit 
une  ironie  profonde  a  laquelle  rien  de  grand  ni  de 
beau,  pas  meme  sapropre  gloire,  ne  pouvoit  echap- 
per  :  Car  il  meprisoit  la  nation  dont  il  vouloit  lea 
suffrages,  et  nulle  etincelle  d'enthousiasme  ne  se 
meloit  a  son  besoin  d'etonner  I'espece  humaine. 

"  Ce  futdans  I'intervalle  entre  leretour  de  Bona- 
parte et  son  depart  pour  I'Egypte,  c'est-a-dire,  vera 
la  fin  de  1797,  que  je  le  vis  plusieurs  foie  a  Paris; 


DE  STAi^L'S  FRENCH  REVOLUTIOxN. 


22S 


Bt  jamais  la  difficulte  de  respirer  que  j'eprouvoisen 
ea  presence  iie  put  se  dissiper.  J'eiois  uii  jour  a 
table  entre  lui  et  I'abbe  Sieyes :  singuliere  situaiion, 
51  j'avois  pu  prevoir  I'avenir  !  J'examinois  avee 
atteniion  la  figure  de  Bonaparte  ;  niais  chaque  ibis 
qu'il  decouvroit  en  moi  des  regards  observateurs, 
il  avoit  I'art  d'oter  a  ses  yeux  toute  expression, 
comma  s'ils  lussent  devenus  de  marbre.  Son  visajje 
etoit  alors  immobile  ;  excepte  un  sourire  vague  qu'il 
pla9oit  sur  ses  levres  a  tout  hasard,  pour  derouter 
quiconque  voudroit  observer  les  signes  exterieurs 
de  sa  pensee. 

"  Sa  figure,  alors  maigre  et  pale,  etoit  assez 
agreabic ;  depuis,  il  est  engraisse,  ce  qui  lui  va 
tres-m.al :  car  on  a  besoin  de  croire  un  tel  homme 
tourmente  par  son  caractcre,  pour  tolerer  un  peu 
que  ce  caractere  fasse  tellement  souffVir  les  autres. 
Comme  sa  stature  est  petite,  et  cependant  sa  taille 
fort  longue,  il  etoit  beaucoup  mieux  a  cheval  qu'a 
pied  ;  en  tout,  c'est  la  guerre,  et  seulement  la  guerre 
qui  lui  sied.  Sa  maniere  d'etre  dans  la  societe  est 
genee  sans  limidite.  II  a  quelque  chose  de  dedaig- 
neux  quand  il  se  contient,  et  de  vulgaire,  quand  il 
se  met  a  I'aise.  Le  dedain  lui  va  mieux — aussi  ne 
s'en  fait-il  pas  faute. 

"  Par  une  vocation  nalurelle  pour  I'etatde  prince, 
il  adressoit  deja  des  questions  insignifiantes  a  tous 
ceux  qu'on  lui  presentoit.  Etes-vous  marie  ?  de- 
mandoit-il  a  I'un  des  convives.  Combien  avez- 
vous  d'enfans?  disoit-il  a  I'autre.  Depuis  quand 
etes-vous  arrive  ?  Quand  partez-vous  ?  Et  autres 
interrogations  de  ce  genre,  qui  etablissent  la  supe- 
riorite  de  celui  qui  les  fait  sur  celui  qui  veut  bien  se 
laisser  questionnerainsi. 

"  Je  I'ai  vu  un  jour  s'approcher  d'une  Fran^oise 
tres-connue  par  sa  beaute,  son  esprit  et  la  vivacite 
de  ses  opinions ;  il  se  pla^a  tout  droit  devant  elle 
comme  le  plus  roide  des  generaux  allemands,  et 
lui  dit :  '  Madame,  je  naime  pas  que  les  femmes  se 
melent  de  politique.^ — '  Vous  avez  raison,  general,^ 
lui  repondit-elle  :  '  mais  da7is  un  pays  ou  on  leur 
coupe  la  tete,  il  est  naturel  qu^elles  aient  envie  de 
savoir  pourquoi.^  Bonaparte  alors  ne  repliqua 
rien.  C'est  un  homme  que  la  resistance  veritable 
apaise  ;  ceux  qui  ont  souflert  son  despotisme,  doi- 
vent  en  etre  autant  accuses  que  lui-meme." 

Vol.  ii.  pp.  198—204. 

The  following  little  anecdote  is  every  way- 
characteristic. 

"  Un  soir  il  parloit  avec  Barras  de  son  ascendant 
sur  les  peuples  italiens,  qui  avoient  voulu  le  faire 
due  de  Milan  er  roi  d'ltalie.  ^  Mais  je  ne  pense,^ 
dit-il,  *  a  rien  de  semblahle  dans  aucun  pays.' — 
'  l^ous  faites  bien  de  ii'y  pas  songer  en  France,' 
repondit  Barras  ;  '  car,  si  le  directoire  vous  envoyoit 
demain  au  Temple,  il  n'y  auroit  pas  quatre  person- 
nes  qui  s'y  opposassent.  Bonaparte  etoit  assis  sur 
un  canape  a  cote  de  Barras  :  a  ces  paroles  il  s'e- 
lan5a  vers  la  cheminee,  n'etant  pas  maitre  de  son 
irritation  ;  puis,  reprenant  cette  espece  de  calme 
apparent  dont  les  hommes  les  plus  passiones  parmi 
les  habitans  du  Midi  sontcapables,  il  declara  qu'il 
vouloit  etre  charge  d'une  expedition  militaire.  Le 
directoire  lui  proposa  la  descente  en  Angleterre  ;  il 
alia  visiter  les  cotes ;  et  reconnoissant  bieniot  que 
cette  expedition  etoit  insensee,  il  revint  decide  a 
tenter  la  conquete  de  I'Egvpte." 

Vol.  ii.  pp.  207,  208. 

We  must  add  a  few  miscellaneous  passages, 
to  develope  a  little  farther  this  extraordirmry 
character.  Madame  de  Stael  had  a  long  con- 
versation with  him  on  the  slate  of  Switzer- 
land, in  which  he  seemed  quite  insensible  to 
fcny  feelings  of  generosity. 

"  Cetie  conversation,"  however,  she  adds,  "  me 
fit  cependant  concevoir  I'agrement  qu'on  peut  lui 
Irouver  quand  il  prend  I'air  bonhomme,  et  parle 
comme  d'une  chose  simple  de  lui-meme  et  de  ses 
orojeis.      Get  art,   le  plus    redoutable  de  tous,  a 


captive  beaucoup  de  gens.  A  cette  meme  epoque, 
je  revis  encore  quelquefois  Bonaparte  en  societe,  et 
il  me  parut  toujours  protondement  occupe  des  rap- 
ports qu'il  vouloit  etablir  entre  lui  et  les  autres 
hommes,  les  tenant  a  distance  ou  les  rapprochan* 
de  lui,  suivant  qu'il  croyoit  se  les  attacher  plus 
surement.  Quand  il  se  trouvoit  avec  les  directeurg 
surtout,  il  craignoit  d'avoir  I'air  d'un  general  sous 
les  ordres  de  son  gouvernement,  et  il  essayoit  tour 
a  tour  dans  ses  manieres,  avec  cette  sorte  de  supe- 
rieurs,  la  dignite  ou  la  familiaritc  ;  mais  il  manquoit 
le  ton  vrai  de  I'une  et  de  I'autre.  C'esf  lui  homme 
qui  ne  sauroit  etre  naturel  que  dans  le  commaT.de' 
we/iN"— Vol.  ii.  pp.  211,  212. 

The  following  remark  relates  rather  to  the 
French  nation  than  their  i-uler.  We  quote  it 
for  its  exquisite  truth  rather  than  its  severity. 

"  Sa  conversation  avec  le  Mufii  dans  la  pyramide 
de  Cheops  devoit  enchanter  les  Parisiens  ;  parce 
qu'elle  reunissoit  les  deux  chosesqui  les  captivent : 
un  certain  genre  de  grandeur,  et  de  la  moquerie 
tout  ensemble.  Les  Francois  sont  bien  aises  d'etre 
emus,  et  de  rire  de  ce  qu'ils  so?it  emus  !  Le  char- 
latanisme  leur  plait,  et  ils  aident  volontiers  a  so 
tromper  eux-memes  ;  pourvu  qu'il  leursoit  permis, 
tout  en  se  conduisant  comme  des  dupes,  de  nion- 
trer  par  quelques  bon  mots  que  pourtant  ils  ne  le 
sont  pas." — Vol.  ii.  p.  228. 

On  his  return  from  Egypt  it  was  understood 
by  every  body  that  he  M'as  to  subvert  the  ex- 
isting constitution.  But  he  passed  five  weeks 
at  Paris  in  a  quiet  and  apparently  undecided 
way — and,  with  all  this  preparatory  study, 
acted  his  part  but  badly  after  all.  Nothing 
can  be  more  curious  than  the  following  pas- 
sage. V/hen  he  had  at  last  determined  to 
put  down  the  Directory, — 

"  Le  19  brumaire,  il  arriva  dans  le  conseil  des 
cinq  cents,  les  bras  croises,  avec  un  air  tres-sombre^ 
et  suivi  de  deux  grands  grenadiers  qui  protegeoient 
sa  petite  stature.  Les  deputes  appeles  jacobins 
pousserent  des  hurlemens  en  le  voyant  entrer  dans 
la  salle  ;  son  frere  Lucien,  bien  heureusement  pour 
lui,  etoit  alors  president ;  il  asitoit  en  vain  la  son 
nette  paur  retablir  I'ordre  ;  les  cris  de  traitre  et 
d'usurpateur  se  faisoient  entendre  de  toutes  parts; 
et  I'un  des  deputes,  compatriote  de  Bonaparte,  le 
corse  Arena,  s'approcha  de  ce  general  et  le  secoua 
fortement  par  le  collet  de  son  habit.  On  a  suppose, 
mais  sans  fondement,  qu'il  avoit  un  poignard  pour 
le  tuer.  Son  action  cependant  effraya  Bonaparte; 
et  il  dit  aux  grenadiers  qui  etoient  a  cote  de  lui,  en 
laissant  tomher  sa  tete  sur  Vepaule  de  Vtui  d'eux  : 
'  Tirez-moi  d'ici  f  Les  grenadiers  I'enlev^rent  du 
milieu  des  deputes  qui  I'entouroient ;  ils  le  parte- 
rent  Jiors  de  la  salle  en  plein  air ;  et,  des  quMl  y  fut, 
sa  presence  d'esprit  lui  revint.  II  monta  a  cheval 
a  I'instant  meme  ;  et,  parcourant^  les  rangs  de  sea 
grenadiers,  il  les  determina  bientot  a  ce  qu'il  vou- 
loit d'eux.  Dans  cette  circonstance,  comme  dans 
beaucoup  d'autres,  on  a  remarque  que  Bonaparte 
pouvoit  se  troubler  quand  un  autre  danger  que  celui 
de  la  guerre  etoit  en  face  de  lui;  et  quclquea 
personnes  en  ont  conclu  bien  ridiculement  qu'il 
manquoit  de  courage.  Certes  on  ne  peut  nier  son 
audace  ;  mais,  comme  il  n'est  rien,  pas  meme 
brave,  d'une  fagon  genereuse,  il  s'ensuit  qu'il  ne 
s'expose  jamais  que  quand  cela  peut  etre  utile.  II 
seroit  tres-fache  d'etre  tue,  parce  ^que  c'est  un  re- 
vers,  et  qu'il  veut  en  tout  du  succes.  II  en  seroit 
aussi  lache,  parce  que  la  mort  deplait  a  son  im- 
agination :  M.iis  il  n'hesite  pas  a  hasarder  sa  vie, 
lorsque,  suivant  sa  maniere  de  voir,  la  partie  vaui 
le  risque  de  I'enjeu.  s^il  est  permis  de  s'exprimei 
ainsi."— Vol.  ii.  pp.  240-242. 

Although  he  failed  thus  strangely  in  the 
theatrical  pait  of  the  business,  the  substantiaJ 


230 


HISTOlvV^  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


part  was  3ffectually  done.  He  sent  in  a 
column  of  grenadiers  with  fixed  bayonets  at 
one  end  of  the  hall  of  the  great  council,  and 
made  them  advance  steadily  to  the  other ; 
driving  the  unhappy  senators,  in  their  fine 
classical  draperies,  before  them,  and  forcing 
them  to  leap  out  of  the  windows,  and  scam- 
.  per  through  the  gardens  in  these  strange 
habiliments !  Colonel  Pride's  purge  itself  was 
not  half  so  rough  in  its  operation. 

There  was  now  an  end,  not  only  of  liberty, 
but  of  republican  tyranny ;  and  the  empire  of 
the  sword  in  the  hand  of  one  man,  M-as  sub- 
stantially established.  It  is  melancholy  to 
think,  but  history  shows  it  to  be  true,  that  the 
most  abject  sei-vitude  is  usually  established 
at  the  close  of  a  long,  and  even  generous 
struggle  for  freedom;  partly,  no  doubt,  be- 
cause despotism  offers  an  image  of  repose  to 
those  w^ho  are  worn  out  with  contention,  but 
chiefly  because  that  military  force  to  which 
all  parties  had  in  their  extremity  appealed, 
naturally  lends  itself  to  the  bad  ambition  of  a 
fortunate  commander.  This  it  was  which 
made  the  fortune  of  Bonaparte.  His  answer 
to  all  remonstrances  was — "Voulez-vous  que 
je  vous  livre  aux  Jacobins  ?"  But  his  true 
answer  was,  that  the  army  was  at  his  de- 
votion, and  that  he  defied  the  opmion  of  the 
nation. 

He  began  by  setting  up  the  Consulate  :  But 
from  the  very  first,  says  Madame  de  Stael, 
assumed  the  airs  and  the  tone  of  royalty. 

"II  prit  les  Tuileries  pour  sa  demeure;  er  ce  fut 
un  coup  de  partie  que  le  choix  de  cette  habitation. 
On  avoit  vu  la  le  roi  de  France  ;  les  habitudes  mon- 
archiques  y  etoient  encore  presentes  a  tons  les  yeux, 
et  il  suffisoit,  pour  ainsi  dire,  de  laisser  faire  les 
murs  pour  tout  retablir.  Vers  les  derniers  jours  du 
dernier  siecle,  je  vis  enlrer  le  premier  consul  dans 
ce  palais  bati  par  les  rois  ;  et  quoique  Bonaparte  fut 
bien  loin  encore  de  la  magnificence  qu'il  a  develop- 
pee  depuis,  Ton  voyoit  deja  dans  tout  ce  qui  I'en- 
touroit  un  empressement  de  se  faire  courtisan  a 
I'orientale,  qui  dut  lui  persuader  que  gouverner  la 
terre  etoit  chose  bien  facile.  Quand  sa  voiture  fut 
arrivee  dans  la  cour  des  Tuileries,  ses  valets  ouvri- 
rent  la  portiere  et  precipiterent  le  marchepied  avec 
une  violence  qui  sembloit  dire  que  les  choses  phy- 
siques elles-memes  etoient  insolentes  quand  elles 
retardoient  un  instant  la  marche  de  leur  maitre  !  Lui 
ne  regardoit  ni  ne  remercioit  personne;  comme  s'il 
avoit  craint  qu'on  put  le  croire  sensible  aux  hom- 
mages  meme  qu'il  exigeoit.  En  montant  I'escalier 
au  milieu  de  la  foule  qui  se  pressoit  pour  le  suivre, 
ses  yeux  ne  se  portoient  ni  sur  aucun  objet,  ni  sur 
aucune  personne  en  particulier.  II  y  avoit  quelque 
chose  de  vague  et  d'insouciant  dans  sa  physionomie, 
et  ses  regards  n'exprimoient  que  ce  qu'il  lui  con- 
vient  toujours  de  montrer, — I'indifTerence  pour  le 
sort,  et  le  dedain  pour  les  hommes." 

Vol.  ii.  pp.  258,  259. 

He  had  some  reason,  indeed,  to  despise 
men,  from  the  specimens  he  had  mostly  about 
nim :  For  his  adherents  were  chiefly  desert- 
.•^rs  from  the  royalist  or  the  republican  party ', 
-  -the  first  willing  to  transfer  their  servility  to 
a  -aew  dynasty, — the  latter  to  take  the  names 
and  emoluments  of  republican  offices  from 
the  hand  of  a  plebeian  usurper.  For  a  while 
he  thought  it  prudent  to  dPssemble  with  each ; 
and^  with  that  niter  contempt  of  truth  which 
belonged  to  his  scorn  of  mankind,  held,  in  the 
same  day,  the  most  edifying  discourses  of 


citizenship  and  equality  to  one  set  of  hearer^ 
and  of  the  sacred  rights  of  sovereigns  to  an« 
other.  He  extended  the  same  unprincipled 
dissimulation  to  the  subject  of  religion.  To 
the  prelates  with  whom  he  arranged  his  cele- 
brated Concordat^  he  spoke  in  the  most  seri- 
ous manner  of  the  truth  and  the  awfulness  of 
the  Gospel ;  and  to  Cabanis  and  the  philoso- 
phers, he  said,  the  same  evening, — "  Savez- 
vous  ce  que  c'est  la  Concordat  ?  C'est  la 
Vaccine  de  la  Religion — dans  cinquante  ans  il 
n'y  aura  plus  en  .  France !"  He  resolved, 
however,  to  profit  by  it  while  it  lasted ;  and 
had  the  blasphemous  audacity  to  put  this, 
among  other  things,  into  the  national  cate- 
chism, approved  of  by  the  whole  Gallican 
church: — '-Qit.  Que  doit-on  penser  de  ceux 
qui  manqueroient  a  leur  devoir  envers  I'Em- 
pereur  Napoleon  1  Reponse.  Qu'ils  resiste- 
roient  a  I'ordre  etabli  de  Dieu  lui-meme — et 
se  rendroient  dignes  de  Ig,  damnation  eternelleV^ 
With  the  actual  tyranny  of  the  sword  began 
the  more  pitiful  persecution  of  the  slavish 
journals — the  wanton  and  merciless  infliction 
of  exile  on  women  and  men  of  letters — and 
the  perpetual,  restless,  insatiable  interference 
in  the  v/hole  life  and  conversation  of  every 
one  of  the  slightest  note  or  importance.  The 
following  passages  are  written,  perhaps,  with 
more  bitterness  than  any  other  in  the  book  j 
but  they  appear  to  us  to  be  substantially  just. 

"Bonaparte,  lorsqu'il  disposoit  d'un  million 
d' hommes  armes,  n'en  attachoit  pas  moins  d'im- 
portance  a  I'art  de  guider  I'esprit  public  par  les 
gajcettes;  il  dictoit  souvent  lui-meme  des  articles  de 
journaux  qu'on  pouvoit  reconnoitre  aux  saccadea 
violentes  du  style.  On  voyoit  qu'il  auroit  voulu 
mettre  dans  ce  qu'il  ecrivoit,  des  coups  au  lieu  de 
mots !  II  a  dans  tout  son  etre  un  fond  de  vulgaritei 
que  le  gigantesque  de  son  ambition  meme  ne  Sauroit 
toujours  cacher.  Ce  n'est  pas  qu'il  ne  sache  tres- 
bien,  un  jour  donne,  se  montrer  avec  beaucoup  de 
convenance  ;  raais  il  n'est  a  son  aise  que  dans  le 
mepris  pour  les  autres,  et,  des-qu'il  peiit  y  rentrer, 
il  s'y  complait.  Toutefois  ce  n'etoit  pas  unique- 
ment  par  gout  qu'il  se  livroit  a  faire  servir,  dans  ses 
notes  du  Moniteur,  le  cynisme  de  la  revolution  au 
maintien  de  sa  puissance.  II  ne  permettoit  qu'a  lui 
d'etre  jacobin  en  France. — Vol.  ii.  p.  264. 

"  Je  fus  la  premiere  femme  que  Bonaparte  exila ; 
Mais  bientot  apres  il  en  bannit  un  grand  nombre, 
d'opinions  opposees.  D'ou  venoit  ce  luxe  en  fait  de 
mechancete,  si  ce  n'est  d'une  sorte  de  haine  contra 
tous  les  ^tres  independans  ?  Et  comme  les  femmes, 
d'une  part,  ne  pouvoient  servir  en  rien  ses  desseina 
poiitiques,  et  que,  de  I'auire,  elles  etoient  moins  ac- 
cessibles  que  les  hommes  aux  craintcs  et  aux  espe- 
rances  dont  le  pouvoir  est  dispensateur,  elles  lui 
donnoient  de  I'humeur  comme  desrebelles,  et  ilse 
plaisoit  a  leur  dire  des  choses  blessantes  et  vul- 
gaires.  II  haissoit  autant  I'esprit  de  chevalerie  qu'il 
recherchoit  I'dtiquette :  e'etoit  faire  un  mauvaia 
choix  parmi  les  anciennes  moeurs.  II  lui  restoit 
aussi  de  ses  premieres  habitudes  pendant  la  revolu- 
tion, une  certaine  antipathic  jacobine  contre  la  so- 
ciete  brillante  de  Paris ;  sur  laquelle  les  femmea 
exergoient  beaucoup  d'ascendaiit.  II  redoutoit  en 
elles  I'art  de  la  plaisanterie,  qui.  Ton  doit  en  con- 
venir,  appartient  particulierenient  aux  Francoises. 
Si  Bonaparte  avoit  voulu  s'en  tenir  au  superbe  role 
de  grand  general  et  de  premier  magistrat  de  la  r6- 
publique,  il  auroit  plane  de  toute  la  hauteur  du 
genie  au-dessus  des  petits  traits  aceres  de  I'esprit 
de  salon.  Mais  quand  il  avoit  le  dessein  de  se  faire 
un  roi  parvenu,  un  bourgeois  geniilliomme  sur  le 
trone,  il  s'exposoit  precisement  a  la  moquerie  du 


DE  STAEL'S  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 


S31 


M 


von  ion,  et  il  ne  pouvoit  la  cornprimer,  comme  il 
'a  fait,  que  par  I'espionage  et  la  terreur." 

Vol.  ii.  pp.  30(3,  307. 

The  thin  mask  of  the  Consulate  was  soon 
thrown  off — and  the  Emperor  appeared  in  his 
proper  habits.  The  following  remarks,  though 
not  all  applicable  to  the  same  period,  appear 
to  us  to  be  admirable. 

"  Bonaparte  avoit  In  I'histoire  d'une  maniere 
confuse.  Pen  accoutume  a  I'etude,  il  se  rendoit 
beaucoup  moins  compte  de  ce  qu'il  avoit  appris 
dans  les  livres,  que  de  ce  qu'il  avoit  recueilli  par 
robeervation  des  hommes.  II  n'en  etoit  pas  moins 
restc  dans  sa  tete  un  certain  respect  pour  Attila  et 
pour  Charlemagne,  pour  les  lois  feodales  et  pour  le 
despotisme  de  1' Orient,  qu'il  appliquoit  a  tort  et  a 
travers,  ne  se  trompant  jamais,  toutefois,  sur  ce 
qui  servoit  instantanement  a  son  pouvoir ;  mais  du 
reste,  citant,  blamant,  louant  et  raisonnant  comme 
le  hasard  le  conduisoit.  II  parloit  ainsi  des  heures 
entieres  avec  d'autant  plus  d'avantage,  que  per- 
sonne  ne  I'interrompoit,  si  ce  n'est  par  les  applau- 
dissemens  involontaires  qui  echappent  toujours 
dans  des  occasions  semblables.  Une  chose  singu- 
liere,  c'est  que,  dans  la  conversation,  plusieurs 
officiers  Bonapartistes  ont  emprunte  de  leur  chef 
cet  heroique  galimatias,  qui  veritablement  ne  sig- 
nifie  rien  qu'  a  la  tete  de  huit  cent  mille  hommes." 
Vol.  ii.  pp.  332,  333. 

"  II  fit  occuper  la  plupart  des  charges  de  sa  mai- 
son  par  des  Nobles  de  I'ancien  regime  ;  il  aimoit 
les  flatteries  des  courtisans  d' autrefois,  parce  qu'ils 
s'entendoient  mieux  a  cet  art  que  les  hommes  nou- 
veaux,  nieme  les  plus  empresses.  Chaque  fois 
qu'un  gentilhomme  de  I'ancienne  cour  rappeloit 
I'etiqueite  du  temps  jadis,  proposoit  une  reverence 
de  plus,  une  certaine  fagon  de  frapper  a  la  porte 
de  quelque  anti-chambre,  une  maniera  plus  cere- 
monieuse  de  presenter  une  depeche,  de  plier  une 
lettre,  de  la  terminer  par  telle  ou  telle  formule,  il 
etoit  accueilli  comme  s'il  avoit  fait  faire  des  progres 
au  bonheur  de  I'espece  humaine  !  Le  code  de  I'eli- 
quette  imperiale  est  le  document  le  plus  remarqu- 
able  de  la  bassesse  a  laquelle  on  pent  reduire 
I'espece  humaine." — Vol.  ii.  pp.  334,  335. 

"  Quand  il  y  avoit  quatre  cents  personnes  dans 
Bon  salon,  un  aveugle  auroit  pu  s'y  croire  seul,  tant 
le  silence  qu'on  observoit  etoit  prolbnd !  Les 
marechaux  de  France,  au  milieu  des  fatigues  de  la 
guerre,  au  moment  de  la  crise  d'une  bataille,  en- 
troient  dans  la  tente  de  I'emperc^ur  pour  lui  de- 
mander  ses  ordres, — et  il  ne  leur  etoit  pas  permis 
de  s'y  asseoir  !  Sa  famille  ne  souffroit  pas  moins 
que  les  etrangers  de  son  despotisme  et  de  sa  hau- 
teur. Lucien  a  mieux  aime  vivre  prisonnier  en 
Angleterre  que  regner  sous  les  ordres  de  son  frere. 
Louis  Bonaparte,  dont  le  caractere  est  generale- 
ment  estime,  se  vit  constraint  par  sa  probite  meme, 
a  renoncer  a  la  couronne  de  Hollande  ;^  et,  le  croi- 
roit-on?  quand  il  causoit  avec  son  frere  pendant 
deux  heures  tete-a-tete,  force  par  sa  mauvaise  sante 
de  s'appuyer  peniblement  centre  la  muraille.  Na- 
poleon ne  lui  offVoit  pas  une  chaise  !  il  demeuroit 
lui-meme  debout,  de  crainte  que  quelqu'un  n'eut 
I'idee  de  se  familiariser  assez  avec  lui,  pour  s'asseoir 
en  sa  presence. 

"Le  peur  qu'il  causoit  dans  les  derniers  temps 
^toit  telle,  que  personne  ne  lui  adressoit  le  premier 
la  parole  sur  rien..  Quelquefois  il  s'entretenoit 
avec  la  plus  grande  simplicite  au  milieu  de  sa  cour, 
et  dans  son  conseil  d'etat.^  II  souffroit  la  contra- 
diction, il  y  encourageoit  meme,  quand  il  s'agissoit 
de  questions  administratives  ou  judiciaires  sans  re- 
lation avec  son  pouvoir.  II  falloii  voir  alors  I'atien- 
drissement  de  ceux  auxquels  il  avoit  rendu  pour  un 
moment  la  respiration  libre  ;  mais,  quand  le  maiire 
reparoissoit,  on  demandoit  en  vain  aux  ministresde 
presenter  un  rapport  a  I'empereur  corftre  une  me- 
re injusto. — V  aimoit  moins  les  louanges  vraies 


que  les  flatteries  serviles  :  parce  que,  dans  les  unes, 
on  n'auroit  vu  que  son  merite,  tandis  que  les  autre* 
attestoient  son  autorite.  En  general,  il  a  prefere 
la  puissance  a  la  gloire  ;  car  Taction  de  la  force  lui 
plaisoit  trop  pour  qu'il  s'occupa  de  la  posierite, 
sur  laquelle  on  ne  pent  I'exercer." 

Vol.  ii.  pp.  399—401. 

There  are  some  fine  remarks  on  the  base- 
ness of  those  w^ho  solicited  employment  and 
favours  under  Bonaparte,  and  have  since  join- 
ed the  party  of  the  Ultras,  and  treated  the 
whole  Revolution  as  an  atrocious  rebellion — 
and  a  very  clear  and  masterly  view  of  the 
policy  by  which  that  great  commander  sub- 
dued the  greater  part  of  Continental  Europe, 
But  we  can  afford  no  room  now  for  any  further 
account  of  them.  As  a  general,  she  says,  he 
was  prodigal  of  the  hves  of  his  soldiers — 
haughty  and  domineering  to  his  officers — and 
utterly  regardless  of  the  miseries  he  inflicted 
on  the  countries  which  were  the  scenes  of 
his  operations.  The  following  anecdote  is 
curious — and  to  us  original. 

"  On  I'a  vu  dans  la  guerre  d'Autriche,  en  1809, 
quitter  I'lle  de  Lobau,  quand  il  jugeoit  la  bataille 
perdue.  II  traversa  le  Danube,  seul  avec  M.  de 
Czernitchef,  I'un  des  intrepides  aides  de  camp  de 
I'empereur  de  Russie,  et  le  marechal  Berthier. 
L'ernpereur  leur  dit  assez  tranquillement  qvi'apres 
avoir  gagnc  quaranle  hatailles ,  il  7i'  etoit  pas  extra- 
ordinaire d''en  perdre  une;  et  lorsqu'il  fut  arrive 
de  I'autre  cote  du  fleuve,  il  se  coucha  et  dorrnU 
jusqu^au  lendemain  matin  !  sans  s'informer  du  sort 
de  I'armee  frangoise,  que  ses  generaux  sauverent 
pendant  son  sommeil." — Vol.  ii.  p.  358. 

Madame  de  Stael  mentions  several  other 
instances  of  this  faculty  of  sleeping  in  mo- 
ments of  great  apparent  anxiety.  The  most 
remarkable  is,  that  he  fell  fast  asleep  before 
taking  the  field  in  1814,  while  endeavouring 
to  persuade  one  of  his  ministers  that  he  had 
no  chance  of  success  in  the  approaching  cam- 
paign, but  must  inevitably  be  ruined  ! 

She  has  extracted  from  the  Moniteur  of 
July  1810,  a  very  singular  proof  of  the  au- 
dacity with  which  he  very  early  proclaimed 
his  own  selfish  and  ambitious  views.  It  is 
a  public  letter  addressed  by  him  to  hia 
nephew,  the  young  Duke  of  Berg,  in  which 
he  says,  in  so  many  words,  "  N'oubliez  ja- 
mais, que  vos  premiers  devoirs  sent  envers 
Moi — vos  seconds  envers  la  France — ceux 
envers  les  peuples  que  je  pourrois  vous  con- 
fier,  ne  viennent  qu'apres."  This  was  at 
least  candid — and  in  his  disdain  for  mankind, 
a  sort  of  audacious  candour  was  sometimes 
alternated  with  his  duplicity. 

"  Un  principe  general,  quel  qu'il  fut,  deplaisoii 
a  Bonaparte  ;  comme  une  niaiserie,  ou  comme  un 
ennemi.  II  n'etoit  point  sanguinaire,  mais  indiffe- 
rent a  la  vie  des  hommes.  II  ne  laconsideroit  que 
comme  un  moyen  d'arriver  a  son  but,  ou  comme 
un  obstacle  a  ecarter  de  sa  route.  II  n'etoit  pas 
meme  aussi  colere  qu'il  a  souvent  paru  I'etre:  il 
vouloit  effrayer  avec  ses  paroles,  afin  de  s'epargner 
le  fait  par  la  menace.  Tout  etoit  chez  lui  moyen 
oubut;  I'involontaire  ne  se  trouvoit  nulle  part,  ni 
dans  le  bien,  ni  dans  le  mal.  On  pretend  qu'il  a 
dit :  Tai  tant  de  conscrits  a  depenser  par  an.  Co 
propos  est  vraisemblable  ;  car  Bonaparte  a  souvenl 
assez  meprise  ses  auditeurs  pour  se  complaire  dana 
un  genre  de  sinccrite  qui  n'est  que  de  rimpudence. 
— Jamais  il  n'a  cru  aux  sentimensexaltes,  soil  dam 


232 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


les  individus,  soit  dans  les  nations  ;  il  a  pris  I'ex- 
piession  de  ces  sentiniens  pour  de  I'hypocrisie." — 
Vol.  ii.  pp.  391,392 

Bonapartej  Madame  de  Stael  think S;  had 
no  ahernative  but  to  give  the  French  nation 
a  free  constitution;  or  to  occupy  them  in 
war,  and  to  dazzle  them  with  military  glory. 
He  had  not  magnanimity  to  do  the  one,  and 
he  finally  overdid  the  latter.  His  first  great 
error  was  the  war  with  Spain ;  his  last,  the 
campaign  in  Russia.  All  that  followed  was 
put  upon  him,  and  could  not  be  avoided. 
She  rather  admires  his  rejection  of  the  terms 
offered  at  Chatillon ',  and  is  moved  with  his 
farewell  to  his  legions  and  their  eagles  at 
Fontainebleau.  She  feels  like  a  French- 
woman on  the  occupation  of  Paris  by  foreign 
conquerors ;  but  gives  the  Emperor  Alexan- 
der full  credit,  both  for  the  mag-nanimity  of 
his  conduct  as  a  conqueror,  and  the  gene- 
rosity of  his  sentiments  on  the  subject  of 
French  liberty  and  independence.  She  is 
quite  satisfied  with  the  declaration  made  by 
the  King  at  St.  Ouen,  and  even  with  the 
charter  that  followed — though  she  allows 
that  many  further  provisions  were  necessary 
to  consolidate  the  constitution.  All  this  part 
of  the  book  is  written  with  great  temperance 
and  reconciling  wisdom.  She  laughs  at  the 
doctrine  of  legitimacy,  as  it  is  now  main- 
tained ;  but  gives  excellent  reasons  for  pre- 
ferring an  ancient  line  of  princes,  and  a 
fixed  order  of  succession.  Of  the  Ifltras.  or 
unconstitutional  royalists,  as  she  calls  them, 
she  speaks  with  a  sort  of  mixed  anger  and 
pity;  although  an  unrepressed  scorn  takes 
the  place  of  both,  when  she  has  occasion  to 
mention  those  members  of  the  party  who 
were  the  abject  flatterers  of  Bonaparte  du- 
ring the  period  of  his  power,  and  have  but 
transferred,  to  the  new  occupant  of  the  throne. 
the  servility  to  which  they  had  been  trained 
under  its  late  possessor. 

"Mais  ceux  dont  on  avoit  le  plus  de  peine  a 
contenir  I'indignation  vertueuse  contre  le  parti  de 
Tusurpateur,  c'etoient  les  nobles  ou  leurs  adherens, 
qui  avoient  demande  des  places  a  ce  meme  usur- 
pateur  pendant  sa  puissance,  et  qui  s'en  etoient 
separes  bien  nettement  le  jour  de  sa  chute.  L'en- 
thousiasme  pour  la  legitimite  de  tel  chambellan  de 
Madame  mere,  ou  de  telle  dame  d'atour  de 
Madame  soeur,  ne  connoissoit  point  de  bornes  ;  et 
certes,  nous  autres  que  Bonaparte  avoit  proscrits 
pendant  tout  le  cours  de  son  regne,  nous  nous 
examinions  pour  savoir  si  nous  n'avions  pas  ete 
ses  favoris,  quand  une  certaine  delioatesse  d'ame 
nous  obligeoit  a  le  d^fendre  confre  les  invectives 
de  ceux  qu'il  avoit  combles  do  bienfaits." — Vol. 
iii.  p.  107. 

Our  Charles  II.  was  recalled  to  the  throne 
of  his  ancestors  by  the  voice  of  his  people ; 
and  yet  that  throne  was  shaken,  and,  within 
twenty-five  years,  overturned  by  the  arbitrary 
conduct  of  the  restored  sovereigns.  Louis 
XVIII.  was  not  recalled  by  his  people,  but 
brought  in  and  set  up  by  foreign  conquerors. 
It  must  therefore  be  still  more  necessary  for 
him  to  guard  against  arbitrary  measures^  and 
lo  take  all  possible  steps  to  secure  the  attach- 
ment of  that  people  whose  hostility  had  so 
latt  ly  proved  fatal.     If  he  like  domestic  ex- 


amples better,  he  has  that  of  his  own  Henri 
IV.  before  him.  That  great  and  populai 
prince  at  last  found  it  necessary  to  adopt  the 
religious  creed  of  the  great  majority  of  his 
people.  In  the  present  day,  it  is  at  least  a.s 
necessary  for  a  less  popular  monarch  to  study 
and  adopt  their  political  one.  Some  of  those 
about  him,  we  have  heard,  rather  recommena 
the  example  of  Ferdinand  VII. !  But  even  the 
Ultras,  we  think,  cannot  really  forget  that 
Ferdinand,  instead  of  having  been  restored 
by  a  foreign  force,  was  dethroned  by  one; 
that  there  had  been  no  popular  insurrection, 
and  no  struggle  for  liberty  in  Spain  ;  and  that, 
besides  the  army,  he  had  the  priesthood  on 
his  side,  which,  in  that  country,  is  as  omnip- 
otent, as  in  France  it  is  insignificant  and 
powerless,  for  any  political  purposes.  We 
cannot  now  follow  Madame  de  Stael  into  the 
profound  and  instructive  criticism  she  makes 
on  the  management  of  affairs  during  Bona- 
parte's stay  at  Elba; — though  much  of  it  is 
applicable  to  a  later  period — and  though  we 
do  not  lemember  to  have  met  anywhere  with 
so  much  truth  told  in  so  gentle  a  manner. 

Madam.e  de  Stael  confirms  what  we  believe 
all  well-informed  persons  now  admit,  that  for 
months  before  the  return  of  Bonaparte,  the 
attempt  was  expected,  and  in  some  measure 
prepared  for — by  all  but  the  court,  and  the 
royalists  by  whom  it  was  surrounded.  When 
the  news  of  his  landing  was  received,  they 
were  still  too  foolish  to  be  alarmed ;  and,  when 
the  friends  of  liberty  said  to  each  other,  with 
bitter  regret,  ^-  There  is  an  end  of  oiir  liberty 
if  he  should  succeed — and  of  our  national  in- 
dependence if  he  should  fail," — the  worthy 
Ultras  went  about,  saying,  it  was  the  luckiest 
thing  in  the  world,  for  they  should  now  get 
properly  rid  of  him ;  and  the  King  would  no 
longer  be  vexed  with  the  fear  of  a  pretender ! 
Madame  de  Stael  treats  with  derision  the  idea 
of  Bonaparte  being  sincere  in  his  professions 
of  regard  to  liberty,  or  his  resolution  to  adhere 
to  the  constitution  proposed  to  him  after  his 
return.  She  even  maintains,  that  it  was  ab- 
siird  to  propose  a  free  constitution  at  such  a 
crisis.  If  the  nation  and  the  army  abandoned 
the  Bourbons,  nothing  remained  for  the  nation 
bAt  to  invest  the  master  of  that  army  with  the 
dictatorship;  and  to  rise  €7%  masse,  till  their 
borders  were  freed  from  the  invaders.  That 
they  did  not  do  so,  only  proves  that  they  had 
become  indifferent  about  the  country,  or  that 
they  were  in  their  hearts  hostile  to  Bonaparte. 
Nothing,  she  assures  us,  but  the  consciousnesa 
of  this,  could  have  made  him  submit  to  con- 
cessions so  alien  to  his  whole  character  and 
habits — and  the  world,  says  Madame  de  Stael, 
so  understood  him .  "  Quand  il  a  prononce  les 
mots  de  Loi  et  Liberie,  PEurope  s'est  rassuree: 
Elle  a  senti  que  ce  n'etoit  plus  son  ancien  et 
terrible  adversaire." 

She  passes  a  magnificent  encomium  on  the 
military  genius  and  exalted  character  of  our 
Wellington ;  but  says  he  could  not  have  con- 
quered as  he  did,  if  the  French  had  been  led 
by  one  who  could  rally  round  him  the  afl^ec- 
tions  of  tho. people  as  well  as  he  could  direct 
their  soldiers.     She  maintains,  that  after  the 


DE  STAEL'S  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 


233 


Datlle,  when  Bonaparte  returned  to  Paris,  he 
had  not  the  least  idea  of  being  called  upon 
again  to  abdicate  :  but  expected  to  obtain  from 
the  two  chambers  the  means  of  renewing  or 
continuing  the  contest.  When  he  found  that 
this  was  impossible,  he  sunk  at  once  into  de- 
spair, and  resigned  himself  without  a  struggle. 
The  selfishness  which  had  guided  his  whole 
careefj  disclosed  itself  in  naked  deformity  in 
the  last  acts  of  his  public  life.  He  abandoned 
his  army  the  moment  he  found  that  he  could  not 
lead  it  immediately  against  the  enemy — and 
no  sooner  saw  his  own  fate  determined,  than 
he  gave  up  all  concern  for  that  of  the  unhappy 
country  which  his  ambition  had  involved  in 
such  disasters.  He  quietly  passed  by  the 
camp  of  his  warriors  on  his  Avay  to  the  port 
by  which  he  was  to  make  his  own  escape — 
and,  by  throwing  himself  into  the  hands  of 
the  English,  endeavoured  to  obtain  for  him- 
self the  benefit  of  those  liberal  principles 
which  it  had  been  the  business  of  liis  life  to 
extirpate  and  discredit  all  over  the  world. 

At  this  point  Madame  de  Stael  terminates 
somewhat  abruptly  her  historical  review  of 
the  events  of  the  Revolution  j  and  here,  our 
readers  will  be  happy  to  learn,  we  must  stop 
too.  There  is  half  a  volume  more  of  her  work, 
indeed, — and  one  that  cannot  be  supposed  the 
least  interesting  to  us,  as  it  treats  chiefly  of 
the  history,  constitution,  and  society  of  Eng- 
land. But  it  is  for  this  very  reason  that  we 
cannot  trust  ourselves  with  the  examination  of 
it.  We4iave  every  reason  certainly  to  be  satis- 
fied with  the  account  she  gives  of  us ;  nor  can 
any  thing  be  more  eloquent  and  animating  than 
the  view  she  has  presented  of  the  admirable 
mechanism  and  steady  working  of  our  consti- 
tution, and  of  its  ennobling  effects  on  the  char- 
acter of  all  who  live  under  it.  We  are  willing 
to  believe  all  this  too  to  be  just ;  though  we 
are  certainly  painted  en  beau.  In  some  parts, 
however,  we  are  more  shocked  at  the  notions 
she  gives  us  of  the  French  character,  than 
flattered  at  the  contrast  exhibited  by  our  own. 
In  mentioning  the  good  reception  that  gentle- 
men in  opposition  to  government  sometimes 
meet  with  in  society,  among  us,  and  the  up- 
right posture  they  contrive  to  maintain,  she 
says,  that  nobody  here  would  think  of  con- 
doting  with  a  man  for  being  out  of  power,  or 
of  receiving  him  with  less  cordiality.  She 
notices  also,  with  a  very  alarming  sort  of  ad- 
miration, that  she  understood,  when  in  Eng- 
land, that  a  gentleman  of  the  law  had  actually 
refused  a  situation  worth  6000L  or  7000L  a 
year,  merely  because  he  did  not  approve  of  ^ 
the  ministry  by  whom  it  was  off'ered;  and 
ftddsj  that  ill  France  any  man  who  would  re- 


fuse a  respectable  office,  with  a  salary  of 
8000  louis,  would  certainly  be  considered  as 
fit  for  Bedlam :  And  in  another  place  she  ob- 
serves, that  it  seems  to  be  a  fundamental 
maxim  in  that  country,  that  every  man  must 
have  a  place.  We  confess  that  we  have  some 
difficulty  in  reconciling  these  incidental  inti- 
mations with  her  leading  position,  that  the  great 
majority  of  the  French  nation  is  desirous  of  a 
free  constitution,  and  perfectly  fit  for  and  de- 
serving of  it.  If  these  be  the  principles,  not 
only  upon  which  they  act,  but  which  they  and 
their  advocates  avow,  we  know  no  constitution 
under  which  they  can  be  free ;  and  have  no 
faith  in  the  power  of  any  new  institutions  to 
counteract  that  spirit  of  corruption  by  which, 
even  where  they  have  existed  the  longest, 
their  whole  virtue  is  consumed. 

With  our  manners  in  society  she  is  not  quite 
so  w^ell  pleased  ; — though  she  is  kind  enough 
to  ascribe  our  deficiencies  to  the  most  honour- 
able causes.  In  commiserating  the  compara- 
tive dulness  of  our  social  talk,  however,  has 
not  this  philosophic  observer  a  little  overlooked 
the  effects  of  national  tastes  and  habits — and 
is  it  not  conceivable,  at  least,  that  we  who  are 
used  to  it  may  really  have  as  much  satisfac- 
tion in  our  own  hum-drum  way  of  seeing  each 
other,  as  our  more  sprightly  neighbours  in 
their  exquisite  assemblies  ?  In  all  this  part 
of  the  work,  too,  w-e  think  we  can  perceive 
the  traces  rather  of  ingenious  theory,  than  of 
correct  observation;  and  suspect  that  a  good 
part  of  the  tableau  of  English  society  is  rather 
a  sort  of  conjectural  sketch,  than  a  copy  from 
real  life ;  or  at  least  that  it  is  a  generalization 
from  a  very  few,  and  not  very  common  ex- 
amples. May  we  be  pardoned  too  for  hinting, 
that  a  person  of  Madame  de  StaePs  great 
talents  and  celebrity,  is  by  no  means  w^ell 
qualified  for  discovering  the  true  tone  and 
character  of  English  society  from  her  own  ob- 
servation ;  both  because  she  Avas  not  likely  to 
see  it  in  those  smaller  and  more  familiar  as- 
semblages in  which  it  is  seen  to  the  most  a  ^- 
vantage,  and  because  her  presence  must  have 
had  the  unlucky  effect  of  imposing  silence  on 
the  modest,  and  tempting  the  vain  and  ambi- 
tious to  unnatural  display  and  ostentation. 

With  all  its  faults,  however,  the  portion  of 
her  book  which  we  have  been  obliged  to  pass 
over  in  silence,  is  well  worthy  of  as  ample  a 
notice  as  w'e  have  bestowed  on  the  other 
parts  of  it,  and  would  of  itself  be  sufficient  to 
justify  us  in  ascribing  to  its  lamented  author 
that  perfection  of  masculine  uncerstanding, 
and  female  grace  and  acuteness.  which  are 
so  rarely  to  be  met  with  apart,  aD  I  never,  we 
believe,  were  before  united. 


834 


fflSTORV  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


(lebruarp,  1S16.) 


Memoins  de  Madame  la  Marquise  de  Larochejaquelein ;  avec  deux  Cartes  du  Theatre  de  Ic 
Guerre  de  La  Vendee.     2  tomes,  8vo.  pp.  500.     Paris:  1815. 


This  is  a  book  to  be  placed  by  the  side  of 
Mrs.  Hutctinson's  delightful  Memoirs  of  her 
heroic  husband  and  his  chivalrous  Independ- 
ents. Both  are  pictures,  by  a  female  hand, 
of  tumultuary  and  almost  private  wars,  car- 
ried on  by  conscientious  individuals  against 
the  actual  government  of  their  country : — and 
both  bring  to  light,  not  only  innumerable  traits 
of  the  most  romantic  daring  and  devoted 
fidelity  in  particular  persons,  but  a  general 
character  of  domestic  virtue  and  social  gen- 
tleness among  those  who  would  otherwise 
have  figured  to  our  imaginations  as  adventur- 
ous desperadoes  or  ferocious  bigots.  There 
is  less  talent,  perhaps,  and  less  loftiness, 
either  of  style  or  of  character,  in  the  French 
than  the  English  heroine.  Yet  she  also  has 
done  and  suffered  enough  to  entitle  her  to 
that  appellation;  and,  while  her  narrative 
acquires  an  additional  interest  and  a  truer 
tone  of  nature,  from  the  occasional  recurrence 
of  female  fears  and  anxieties,  it  is  conversant 
with  still  more  extraordinary  incidents  and 
characters,  and  reveals  still  more  of  \vhat  had 
been  previously  malignantly  misrepresented, 
or  entirely  unknown. 

Our  readers  will  understand,  from  the  title- 
page  which  we  have  transcribed,  that  the 
work  relates  to  the  unhappy  and  sanguinary 
wars  which  were  waged  against  the  insur- 
gents in  La  Vendee  during  the  first  and  mad- 
dest years  of  the  French  Republic  :  But  it  is 
proper  for  us  to  add,  that  it  is  confined  almost 
entirely  to  the  transactions  of  two  years ',  and 
that  the  detailed  narrative  ends  with  the  dis- 
solution of  the  first  Vendean  army,  before  the 
proper  formation  of  the  Cliouan  force  in  Brit- 
tany, or  the  second  insurrection  of  Poitou; 
though  there  are  some  brief  and  imperfect 
notices  of  these,  and  subsequent  occurrences. 
The  details  also  extend  only  to  the  proceed- 
♦ings  of  the  Royalist  or  Insurgent  party,  to 
which  the  author  belonged ;  and  do  not  affect 
to  embrace  any  general  history  of  the  war. 

This  hard-fated  woman  was  very  young, 
and  newly  married,  when  she  was  thrown, 
by  the  adverse  circumstances  of  the  time, 
into  the  very  heart  of  those  deplorable  con- 
tests J — and,  without  pretending  to  any  other 
mformation  than  she  could  draw  from  her 
own  experience,  and  scarcely  presuming  to 
pass  any  judgment  upon  the  merits  or  de- 
merits of  the  cause,  she  has  made  up  her 
book  of  a  clear  and  dramatic  description  of 
acts  in  which  she  was  a  sharer,  or  scenes  of 
which  she  was  an  eyewitness, — and  of  the 
characters  and  histories  of  the  many  distin- 
guished individuals  who  partook  with  her  of 
their  glories  or  sufferings.  The  irregular  and 
un(!isciplined  wars  which  it  is  her  business 
ta  describe,  are  naturally  far  more  prolific  of 


extraordinary  incidents,  unexpected  turns  of 
fortune,  and  striking  displays  of  individual 
talent,  and  vice  and  virtue,  than  the  more  so- 
lemn movements  of  national  hostility ;  where 
every  thing  is  in  a  great  measure  provided 
and  foreseen,  and  where  the  inflexible  sub- 
ordination of  rank,  and  the  severe  exactions 
of  a  limited  duty,  not  only  take  away  the  in- 
ducement, but  the  opportunity,  for  those  ex- 
altations of  personal  feeling  and  adventure 
which  produce  the  most  lively  interest,  and 
lead  to  the  most  animating  results.  In  the 
unconcerted  proceedings  of  an  insurgent  popu- 
lation, all  is  experiment,  and  all  is  passion. 
The  heroic  daring  of  a  simple  peasant  lifts 
him  at  once  to  the  rank  of  a  leader ;  and  kin- 
dles a  general  enthusiasm  to  which  all  things 
become  possible.  Generous  and  gentle  feel- 
ings are  speedily  generated  by  this  raised 
state  of  mind  and  of  destination ;  and  the  per- 
petual intermixture  of  domestic  cares  and 
rustic  occupations,  with  the  exploits  of  troops 
serving  without  pay,  and  utterly  unprovided 
with  magazines,  produces  a  contrast  which 
enhances  the  effects  of  both  parts  of  the  de- 
scription, and  gives  an  air  of  moral  pictur- 
esqueness  to  the  scene,  which  is  both  pathetic 
and  delightful.  It  becomes  much  more  attract- 
ive also,  in  this  representation,  by  the  singu- 
lar candour  and  moderation — not  the  most 
usual  virtue  of  belligerent  females — with 
which  Madame  de  L.  has  told  the  story  of 
her  friends  and  her  enemies — the  liberality 
with  w^hich  she  has  praised  the  instances  of 
heroism  or  compassion  which  occur  in  the 
conduct  of  the  republicans,  and  the  simplicity 
with  which  she  confesses  the  jealousies  and 
excesses  which  sometimes  disgraced  the  in- 
surgents. There  is  not  only  no  royalist  or 
antirevolutionary  rant  in  these  volumes,  but 
scarcely  any  of  the  bitterness  or  exaggeration 
of  a  party  to  civil  dissensions;  and  it  is  rather 
wonderful  that  an  actor  and  a  sufferer  in  the 
most  cruel  and  outrageous  warfare  by  which 
modern  times  have  been  disgraced,  should 
have  set  an  example  of  temperance  and  im- 
partiality which  its  remote  spectators  have 
found  it  so  difficult  to  follow.  The  tmth  is, 
we  believe,  that  those  who  have  had  most 
occasion  to  see  the  mutual  madness  of  con- 
tending factions,  and  to  be  aware  of  the  traita 
of  individual  generosity  by  which  the  worst 
cause  is  occasionallv  redeemed,  and  of  brutal 
outrage  by  which  the  best  is  sometimes  de- 
based, are  both  more  indulgent  to  human 
nature,  and  more  distrustful  of  its  immaculate 
purity,  than  the  fine  declaimers  who  aggra- 
vate all  that  is  bad  on  the  side  to  which  they 
are  opposed,  and  refuse  to  admit  its  existence 
in  that  to  which  they  belong.  The  general 
of  an  adverse  army  has  always  more  tolera 


MEMOIRS  OF  MADAME  DE  LAROCHEJAQUELEIN. 


239 


lion  for  the  seventies  and  even  the  miscon- 
duct of  his  opponents,  and  the  hev^  of  ignorant 
speculators  at  home; — in  the  same  way  as  the 
leaders  of  pohtical  parties  have  uniformly  far 
less  rancour  and  animosity  towards  their  an- 
tagonists, than  the  vulgar  followers  in  their 
train.  It  is  no  small  proof,  however,  of  an 
elevated  and  generous  character,  to  be  able 
to  make  those  allowances;  and  Madame  de 
L.  would  have  had  every  apology  for  falling 
into  the  opposite  error, — both  on  account  of 
her  sex,  the  natural  prejudices  of  her  rank 
and  education,  the  extraordinary  sufterings  to 
which  she  was  subjected,  and  the  singularly 
mild  and  unoffending  character  of  the  be- 
loved associates  of  whom  she  was  so  cruelly 
deprived. 

She  had  some  right,  in  truth,  to  be  delicate 
and  royalist,  beyond  the  ordinary  standard. 
Her  father,  the  Marquis  de  Donnison,  had  an 
employment  about  the  person  of  the  King ;  in 
virtue  of  which,  he  had  apartments  in  the 
Palace  of  Versailles ;  in  which  splendid  abode 
the  writer  was  born,  and  continued  constantly 
to  reside,  in  the  very  focus  of  royal  influence 
and  glory,  till  the  whole  of  its  unfortunate  in- 
habitants were  compelled  to  leave  it,  by  the 
fury  of  that  mob  which  escorted  them  to 
Paris  in  1789.  She  had,  like  most  French 
ladies  of  distinction,  been  destined  from  her 
infancy  to  be  the  wife  of  M.  de  Lescure,  a 
near  relation  of  her  mother,  and  the  repre- 
sentative of  the  ancient  and  noble  family  of 
Salgues  in  Poitou.  The  character  of  this 
eminent  person,  both  as  it  is  here  drawn  by 
his  widow,  and  indirectly  exhibited  in  various 
parts  of  her  narrative,  is  as  remote  as  possible 
from  that  which  we  should  have  been  in- 
clined, a  priori,  to  ascribe  to  a  young  French 
nobleman  of  the  old  regime,  just  come  to 
court,  in  the  first  flush  of  youth,  from  a  great 
military  school.  He  was  extremely  serious, 
bashful,  pious,  and  self-denying, — with  great 
firmness  of  character  and  sweetness  of  tem- 
per,— fearless,  and  even  ardent  in  war,  but 
humble  in  his  pretensions  to  dictate,  and  most 
considerate  of  the  wishes  and  sufferings  of  his 
followers.  To  this  person  she  was  married  in 
the  nineteenth  year  of  her  age,  in  October 
1790, — at  a  time  w^hen  most  of  the  noblesse 
had  already  emigrated,  and  when  the  rage  for 
thni.:  mfortunate  measure  had  penetrated  even 
to- ,■>?  province  dff  Poitou,  where  M.  de  Les- 
cure aad  previously  formed  a  prudent  asso- 
ciation of  the  whole  gentry  of  the  country,  to 
whoir  the  peasantry  were  most  zealously  at- 
tached. It  was  the  fashion,  however,  to  emi- 
grate ;  and  so  many  of  the  Poitevin  nobility 
were  pleased  to  follow  it,  that  M.  de  Lescure 
at  last  thought  it  concerned  his  honour,  not  to 
remain  longer  behind ;  and  came  to  Paris  in 
February  1791,  to  make  preparations  for  his 
journey  to  Coblentz.  Here,  however,  he  was 
requested  by  the  Queen  herself  not  to  go 
farther ;  and  thought  it  his  duty  to  obey.  The 
summer  was  passed  in  the  greatest  anxieties 
and  agitations ;  and  at  last  came  the  famous 
Tenth'of  August.  Madame  de  L.  assures  us, 
that  the  attack  on  the  palace  was  altogether 
unexpected  on  that  occasion,  and  that  M. 


Montmorin,  who  came  to  her  from  the  King 
late  in  the  preceding  evening,  informed  her, 
that  they  were  perfectly  aware  of  an  intention 
to  assault  the  royal  residence  on  the  night  of 
the  12th;  but  that,  to  a  certainty,  nothing 
would  be  attempted  till  then.  At  midnight, 
however,  there  were  signs  of  agitation  in  the 
neighbourhood ;  and  before  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  the  massacre  had  begun.  M.  de 
Lescure  rushed  out  on  the  first  symptom  of 
alarm  to  join  the  defenders  of  the  palace,  but 
could  not  obtain  access  within  the  gates,  and 
was  obliged  to  return  and  disguise  himself  in 
the  g-arb  of  a  Sansculotte^  that  he  might  min- 
gle with  some  chance  of  escape  in  the  crowd 
of  assailants.  M.  de  Montmorin,  whose  dis- 
guise was  less  perfect,  escaped  as  if  by  a 
miracle.  After  being  insulted  by  the  meb, 
he  had  taken  refuge  in  the  shop  of  a  small 
grocer,  by  whom  he  was  immediately  recog- 
nised, and  where  he  was  speedily  surrounded 
by  crowds  of  the  National  Guards,  reeking 
from  the  slaughter  of  the  Swiss.  The  good 
natured  shopkeeper  saw  his  danger,  and 
stepping  quickly  up  to  him,  said  with  a  fa- 
miliar air,  '^Well,  cousin,  you  scarcely  ex- 
pected, on  your  arrival  from  ihh  country,  to 
witness  the  downfal  of  the  tyrant — Here, 
drink  to  the  health  of  those  brave  asserters 
of  our  liberties."  He  submitted  to  SM^allow 
the  toast,  and  got  off  without  injury. 

The  street  in  which-  M.  Lescure  resided, 
being  much  frequented  by  persons  of  the 
Swiss  nation,  was  evidently  a  very  dangerous 
place  of  retreat  for  royalists ;  and,  soon  after 
it  was  dark,  the  whole  family,  disguised  in 
the  dress  of  the  lower  orders,  slipped  out, 
with  the  design  of  taking  refuge  in  the  house 
of  an  old  femme-de-chambre,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  river.  M.  de  Donnison  and  his  wife 
went  in  one  party;  and  Madame  Lescure, 
then  in  the  seventh  month  of  her  pregnancy, 
with  her  husband,  in  another.  Intending  to 
cross  by  the  lowest  of  the  bridges,  they  first 
turned  into  the  Champs-Elysees.  More  than 
a  thousand  men  had  been  killed  there  that 
day ;  but  the  alleys  were  now  silent  and 
lonely ;  though  the  roar  of  the  multitude,  and 
occasional  discharges  of  isannon  and  musketry, 
were  heard  from  the  front  of  the  Tuilleries, 
where  the  conflagration  of  the  barracks  was 
still  visible  in  the  sky.  While  they  were 
wandering  in  these  horrid  shades,  a  woman 
came  flying  up  to  them,  followed  by  a  drunken 
patriot,  with  his  musket  presented  at  her 
head.  All  he  had  to  say  was,  that  she  was 
an  aristocrat,  and-that  he  must  finish  his  day's 
work  by  killing  her.  M.  Lescure  appeased 
him  with  admirable  presence  of  mind,  by 
professing  to  enter  entirely  into  his  sentiments, 
and  proposing  that  they  should  go  back  to- 
gether to  the  attack  of  the  palace — adding 
only.  "  But  you  see  what  state  my  wife  is  in 
— she  is  a  poor  timid  creature — and  I  must 
first  take  her  to  her  sister's,  and  then  I  shall 
return  here  to  you."  The  savage  at  last 
agreed  to  this,  though  before  he  went  off,  he 
presented  his  piece  several  times  at  them, 
swearing  that  he  believed  they  were  aristo- 
crats after  all,  and  that  he  had  a  mind  to  liavo 


236 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


a  shot  at  th(3m.  This  rencontre  drove  them 
from  the  lonely  way ;  and  they  returned  to 
the  public  streets,  all  blazing  with  illumina- 
tions, and  crowded  with  drunken  and  infuri- 
ated wretches,  armed  with  pikes,  and  in  many 
instances  staineci  with  blood.  The  tumult 
and  terror  of  the  scene  inspired  Madame  de 
L.  with  a  kind  of  sympathetic  frenzy;  and, 
without  knowing  what  she  did,  she  screamed 
out,  Vive  les  Sansculottes !  a  has  les  tyrans !  as 
outrageously  as  any  of  them.  They  glided 
unhurt,  however,  through  this  horrible  assem- 
blage ;  and  crossing  the  river  by  the  Pont 
Neuf,  found  the  opposite  shore  dark,  silent, 
and  deserted,  and  speedily  gained  the  humble 
refuge  in  search  of  which  they  had  ventured. 

The  domestic  relations  between  the  great 
and  their  dependants  were  certainly  more 
cordial  in  old  France,  than  in  any  other  coun- 
try— and  a  revolution,  which  aimed  profess- 
edly at  levelling  all  distinction  of  ranks,  and 
avenging  the  crimes  of  the  wealthy,  armed 
the  hands  of  but  few  servants  against  the  lives 
or  liberties  of  their  masters.  M.  de  Lescure 
and  his  family  were  saved  in  this  extremity 
by  the  prudent  and  heroic  fidelity  of  some  old 
waiting-wonflen  and  laundresses — and  ulti- 
mately effected  their  retreat  to  the  country  by 
the  zealous  and  devoted  services  of  a  former 
tutor  iu  the  family,  who  had  taken  a  very 
conspicuous  part  on  the  side  of  the  Revolution. 
This  M.  Thomasin,  who  had  superintended 
the  education  of  M.  Lescure,  and  retained  the 
warmest  affection  for  him  and  the  whole 
family,  was  an  active,  bold,  and  good-humour- 
ed man — a  great  fencer,  and  a  considerable 
orator  at  the  meetings  of  his  section.  He  was 
eager,  of  course,  for  a  revolution  that  was  to 
give  every  thing  to  talents  and  courage  :  and 
had  been  made  a  captain  in  one  of  the  mu- 
nicipal regiments  of  Paris.  This  kind-hearted 
patriot  took  the  proscribed  family  of  M.  de 
Lescure  under  his  immediate  protection,  and 
by  a  thousand  little  stratagems  and  contriv- 
ances, not  only  procured  passports  and  con- 
veyances to  take  them  out  of  Paris,  but 
actually  escorted  them  himself,  in  his  national 
uniform,  till  they  were  safely  settled  in  a  roy- 
alist district  in  the  suburbs  of  Tours.  When 
any  tumult  or  obstruction  arose  on  the  journey, 
M.  Thomasin  leaped  from  the  carriage,  and 
assuming  the  tone  of  zeal  and  authority  that 
belonged  to  a  Parisian  officer,  he  harangued, 
reprimanded,  and  enchanted  the  provincial 
patriots,  till  the  whole  party  went  off  again  in 
the  midst  of  their  acclamations.  From  Tours, 
after  a  cautious  and  encouraging  exploration 
of  the  neighbouring  country,  they  at  length 
proceeded  to  M.  Lescure's  chateau  of  CHsson, 
ill  the  heart  of  the  district  afterwards  but  too 
well  known  by  the  name  of  La  Vendee,  of 
which  the  author  has  here  introduced  a  very 
clear  and  interesting  description. 

A  tract  of  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles 
square,  at  the  mouth  and  on  the  southern 
bank  of  the  Loire,  comprehends  the  scene  of 
those  deplorable  hostilities.  The  most  inland 
part  of  the  district,  and  that  in  which  the  in- 
surrection first  broke  out,  is  called  Le  Bocage; 
and  seems  to  have  been  almost  as  singular  in 


its  physical  conformatiori,  as  in  the  state  and 
condition  of  its  population.  A  series  of  de- 
tached eminences,  of  no  great  elevation,  rose 
over  the  whole  face  of  the  country,  with  little 
rills  trickling  in  the  hollows  and  occasional 
cliffs  by  their  sides.  The  w^hole  space  was 
divided  into  small  enclosures,  each  surround- 
ed with  tall  wild  hedges,  and  rows  of  pollard 
trees ;  so  that,  though  there  were  few  large 
woods,  the  whole  region  had  a  sylvan  and 
impenetrable  appearance.  The  ground  was 
mostly  in  pasturage ;  and  the  landscape  had, 
for  the  most  part,  an  aspect  of  wild  verdure, 
except  that  in  the  autumn  some  patches  of 
yellow  corn  appeared  here  and  there  athwart 
the  green  enclosures.  Only  two  great  roads 
traversed  this  sequestered  region,  running 
nearly  parallel,  at  a  distance  of  more  than 
seventy  miles  from  each  other.  In  the  inter* 
mediate  space,  there  was  nothing  but  a  laby- 
rinth of  wild  and  devious  paths,  crossing  each 
other  at  the  extremity  of  almost  every  field 
— often  serving,  at  the  same  time,  as  channels 
for  the  winter  torrents,  and  winding  so  ca- 
priciously among  the  innumerable  hillocks, 
and  beneath  the  meeting  hedgerows,  that  the 
natives  themselves  were  always  in  danger  of 
losing  their  way  when  they  went  a  league  or 
two  from  their  own  habitations.  The  coun- 
try, though  rather  thickly  peopled,  contained, 
as  may  be  supposed,  few  large  towns ;  and 
the  inhabitants,  devoted  almost  entirely  to 
rural  occupations,  enjoyed  a  great  deal  of 
leisure.  The  noblesse  or  gentry  of  the  coun- 
try were  very  generally  resident  on  their 
estates ;  where  they  lived  in  a  style  of  sim- 
plicity and  homeliness  which  had  long  disap- 
peared from  every  other  part  of  the  kingdom. 
No  grand  parks,  fine  gardens,  or  ornamented 
villas ;  but  spacious  clumsy  chateau s,  sur- 
rounded with  farm  offices  and  cottages  for  the 
labourers.  Their  manners  and  way  of  life, 
too,  partook  of  the  same  primitive  rusticity. 
There  was  great  cordiality,  and  even  much 
familiarity,  in  the  intercourse  of  the  seigneurs 
with  their  dependants.  They  were  followed 
by  large  trains  of  them  in  their  hunting  expe- 
ditions, which  occupied  a  great  part  of  their 
time.  Every  man  had  his  fowlingpiece,  and 
was  a  marksman  of  fame  or  pretensions. 
They  v/ere  posted  in  various  quarters,  to  in- 
tercept or  drive  back  the  game ;  and  were 
thus  trained,  by  anticipation,  to  that  sort  of 
discipline  and  concert  in  which  their  whole 
art  of  war  was  afterwards  found  to  consist. 
Nor  was  fheir  intimacy  confined  to  their 
sports.  The  peasants  resorted  familiarly  to 
their  landlords  for  advice,  both  legal  and 
medical ;  and  thev  repaid  the  visits  in  their 
daily  rambles,  and  entered  with  interest  into 
all  the  details  of  their  agricultural  opera- 
tions. They  came  to  the  weddings  of  their 
children,  drank  with  their  guests,  and  made 
little  presents  to  the  young  people.  On  Sun- 
days and  holidays,  all  the  retai;iers  of  the 
family  assembled  at  the  chateau,  and  danced 
in  the  barn  or  the  court-yard,  according  to  the 
season.  The  ladies  of  the  house  joined  in  the 
festivity,  and  that  without  any  airs  of  conde- 
scension or  of  mockery ;  for,  in  their  own  liie, 


MEMOIRS  OF  MADAME  DE  LAROCHEJAQUELEIN. 


237 


A.ere  was  little  splendour  or  luxurious  refine- 
ment. They  travelled  on  horseback,  or  in 
heavy  carriages  drawn  by  oxen;  and  had  lit- 
tle other  amusement  than  in  the  care  of  their 
dependants,  and  the  familiar  intercourse  of 
neighbours  among  whom  there  was  no  rivalry 
or  principle  of  ostentation. 

From  all  this  there  resulted,  as  Madame  de 
L.  assures  us,  a  certain  innocence  and  kindli- 
neps  of  character,  joined  with  great  hardihood 
and  gaiety, — which  reminds  us  of  Henry  IV. 
and  his  Bearnois, — and  carries  with  it,  per- 
haps, on  account  of  that  association,  an  idea 
of  something  more  cliivalrous  and  romantic — 
more  honest  and  unsophisticated,  than  any 
thing  we  now  expect  to  meet  with  in  this 
modern  world  of  artifice  and  derision.  There 
was  great  purity  of  morals  accordingly,  Ma- 
dame de  L.  informs  us.  and  general  cheerful- 
ness and  content  throughout  the  whole  dis- 
trict ; — crimes  were  never  heard  of,  and  law- 
suits almost  unknown.  Though  not  very  well 
educated,  the  population  was  exceedingly 
devout; — though  theirs  was  a  kind  of  super- 
stitious and  traditional  devotion,  it  must  be 
owned,  rather  than  an-  enlightened  or  rational 
faith.  They  had  the  greatest  veneration  for 
crucifixes  and  images  of  their  saints,  and  had 
no  idea  of  any  duty  more  imperious  than  that 
flf  attending  on  all  the  offices  of  religion. 
They  were  singularly  attached  also  to  their 
cures ;  who  were  almost  all  born  and  bred  in 
the  country,  spoke  their  patois,  and  shared  in 
all  their  pastimes  and  occupations.  When  a 
hunting-match  was  to  take  place,  the  clergy- 
man announced  it  from  the  pulpit  after  prayers, 
— and  then  took  his  fowlingpiece,  and  accom- 
panied his  congregation  to  the  thicket.  It 
was  on  behalf  of  these  cures,  in  fact,  that  the 
first  disturbances  were  excited. 

The  decree  of  the  Convention,  displacing 
all  priests  who  did  not  take  the  oaths  imposed 
by  that  assembly,  occasioned  the  removal  of 
several  of  those  beloved  and  conscientious 
pastors ;  and  various  tumults  were  excited  by 
attempts  to  establish  their  successors  by  au- 
thority. Some  lives  were  lost  in  these  tu- 
mults ;  but  their  most  important  effect  was 
in  diffusing  an  opinion  of  the  severity  of  the 
new  government,  and  familiarizing  the  peo- 
ple with  the  idea  of  resisting  it  by  force. 
The  order  of  the  Convention  for  a  forced  levy 
of  three  hundred  thousand  men,  and  the  pre- 
parations to  carry  it  into  effect,  gave  rise  to 
the  first  serious  insurrection  ; — and  while  the 
dread  of  punishment  for  the  acts  of  violence 
already  committed  deterred  the  insurgents 
from  submitting,  the  standard  was  no  sooner 
raised  between  the  republican  government  on 
the  one  hand  and  the  discontented  peasantry 
on  the  other,  than  the  mass  of  that  united  and 
alarmed  population  declared  itself  for  their 
associates ;  and  a  great  tract  of  country  was 
thus  arrayed  in  open  rebellion,  without  con- 
cert, leader,  or  preparation.  We  have  the 
testimony  of  Madame  de  L.  therefore,  in  ad- 
dition to  all  other  good  testimony,  that  this 
great  civil  war  originated  almost  accidentally, 
and  certainly  not  from  any  plot  or  conspiracy 
of  the  leaduig  royalists  in  the  country.     The 


resident  gentry,  no  doubt,  for  the  most  part, 
favoured  that  cause ;  and  the  peasantry  fell 
almost  universally  with  their  masters ; — but 
neither  had  the  least  idea,  in  the  beginning, 
of  opposing  the  political,  pretensions  of  the 
new  government,  nor,  evtu  to  the  last,  much 
serious  hope  of  effecting  any  revolution  in  the 
general  state  of  the  country.  The  first  move- 
ments, indeed,  partook  far  more  of  bigotry 
than  of  royalism ;  and  were  merely  the  rash 
and  undirected  expressions  of  plebeian  resent- 
ment for  the  loss  of  their  accustomed  pastors. 
The  more  extensive  commotions  which  follow- 
ed on  the  compulsory  levy,  were  equally  with- 
out object  or  plan,  and  were  confined  at  first  tc 
the  peasantry.  The  gentry  did  not  join  until 
they  had  no  alternative,  but  that  of  taking  up 
arms  either  against  their  own  dependants,  or 
along  with  them ;  and  they  went  into  the 
field,  generally,  with  little  other  view  than 
that  of  acquitting  their  own  faith  and  honour, 
and  scarcely  any  expectation  beyond  that  of 
obtaining  better  terms  for  the  rebels  they 
were  joining,  or  of  being  able  to  make  a  stand 
till  some  new  revolution  should  take  place  at 
Paris,  and  bring  in  rulers  less  harsh  and  san- 
guinary. 

It  was  at  the  ballot  for  the  levy  of  St.  Flor- 
ent,  that  the  rebellion  may  be  said  to  have 
begun.  The  young  men  first  murmured,  and 
then  threatened  the  commissioners,  who  some- 
what rashly  directed  a  fieldpiece  to  be  point- 
ed against  them,  and  afterwards  to  be  fired 
over  their  heads: — Nobody  was  hurt  by  the 
discharge  ;  and  the  crowd  immediately  rush- 
ed forward  and  seized  upon  the  gun.  Some 
of  the  commissioners  were  knocked  down — 
their  papers  were  seized  and  burnt — and  the 
rioters  went  about  singing  and  rejoicing  for 
the  rest  of  the  evening.  An  account,  proba- 
bly somewhat  exaggerated,  of  this  tumult, 
was  brought  next  day  to  a  venerable  peasant 
of  the  name  of  Cathelineau,  a  sort  of  itinerant 
dealer  in  wool,  who  was  immediately  struck 
with  the  decisive  consequences  of  this  open 
attack  on  the  constituted  authorities.  The 
tidings  were  brought  to  him  as  he  was  knead- 
ing the  weekly  allowance  of  bread  for  his 
family.  He  instantly  wiped  his  arms,  put  on 
his  coat,  and  repaired  to  the  village  market- 
place, where  he  harang-ued  the  inhabitants, 
and  prevailed  on  twenty  or  thirty  of  the  bold- 
est youths  to  take  their  aiTns  in  their  hands 
and  follow  him.  He  was  universally  respect- 
ed for  his  piety,  good  sense,  and  mildness  of 
character ;  and,  proceeding  with  his  troop  of 
recruits  to  a  neighbouring  village,  repeated  his 
eloquent  exhortations,  and  instantly  found 
himself  at  the  head  of  more  than  a  hundred 
enthusiasts.  Without  stopping  a  moment,  he 
led  this  new  army  to  the  attack  of  a  military 
post  g-uarded  by  four  score  soldiers  and  a 
piece  of  cannon.  The  post  was  surprised,-  - ' 
the  soldiers  dispersed  or  made  prisoners,- 
and  the  gun  brought  off  in  triumph.  From 
this  he  advances,  the  same  afternoon,  to 
another  post  of  two  hundred  soldiers  and  three 
pieces  of  cannon  ;  and  succeeds,  by  the  same 
surprise  and  intrepidity.  The  morning  after, 
while  preparing  for  other  enterprises,  he  i* 


238 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


Toined  by  another  band  of  insurgents,  who  had 
associated  to  protect  one  of  their  friends,  for 
whose  arrest  a  military  order  had  been  issued. 
The  unitea  force,  now  amounting  to  a  thou- 
sand men,  tnen  directed  its  attack  on  Chollet, 
a  considerable  town,  occupied  by  at  least  five 
hundred  of  the  republican  army ;  and  again 
bears  down  all  resistance  by  the  suddenness 
and  impetuosity  of  its  onset.  The  rioters  find 
here  a  considerable  supply  of  arms,  money, 
and  ammunition ; — and  thus  a  country  is  lost 
and  won,  in  which,  but  two  days  before,  no- 
body thought  or  spoke  of  insurrection ! 

If  there  was  something  astonishing  in  the 
sudden  breaking  out  of  this  rebellion,  its  first 
apparent  suppression  was  not  less  extraordi- 
nary. These  events  took  place  just  before 
Lent;  and,  upon  the  approach  of  that  holy 
season,  the  religious  rebels  all  dispersed  to 
their  homes,  and  betook  themselves  to  their 
prayers  and  their  rustic  occupations,  just  as  if 
they  had  never  quitted  them.  A  column  of 
the  republican  army,  which  advanced  from 
Angers  to  bear  dov/n  the  insurrection,  found 
no  insurrection  to  quell.  They  marched  from. 
one  end  of  the  country  to  the  other,  and 
met  everywhere  with  the  most  satisfactory 
appearances  of  submission  and  tranquillity. 
These  appearances,  however,  it  will  readily 
be  understood,  were  altogether  deceitful ;  and 
as  soon  as  Easter  Sunday  was  over,  the  peas- 
ants began  again  to  assemble  in  arms, — and 
now,  for  the  first  time,  to  apply  to  the  gentry 
to  head  them. 

All  this  time  Madame  Lescure  and  her 
family  remained  quietly  at  Clisson ;  and,  in 
that  profound  retreat,  were  ignorant  of  the 
singular  events  to  which  w^e  have  alluded,  for 
long  after  they  occurred.  The  first  intelli- 
gence they  obtained  was  from  the  indefatiga- 
ble M.  Thomasin,  who  passed  his  time  partly 
at  their  chateau,  and  partly  in  scampering 
about  the  country,  and  haranguing  the  con- 
stituted authorities — always  in  his  national 
uniform,  and  with  the  authority  of  a  Parisian 
patriot.  One  day  this  intrepid  person  came 
home,  with  a  strange  story  of  the  neighbouring 
town  of  Herbiers  having  been  taken  either  by 
a  party  of  insurgents,  or  by  an  English  army 
suddenly  landed  on  the  coast;  and,  at  seven 
o'clock  the  next  morning,  the  chateau  was  in- 
vested by  two  hundred  soldiers, — and  a  party 
of  dragoons  rode  into  the  court  yard.  Their 
business  was  to  demand  all  the  horses,  arms, 
and  ammunition,  and  also  the  person  of  an  old 
cowardly  chevalier,  some  of  whose  foolish 
letters  had  been  carried  to  the  municipality. 
M.  de  L.  received  this  deputation  with  his 
characteristic  composure — made  the  apology 
of  the  poor  chevalier,  and  a  few  jokes  at  his 
expense — gave  up  some  bad  horses — and  sent 
away  the  party  in  great  good  humour.  For  a 
few  days  they  were  agitated  with  contradic- 
tory rumours:  But  at  last  it  appeared  that 
the  government  had  delerminecl  on  vigorous 
measures ;  and  it  was  announced,  that  all  the 
gentry  would  be  required  to  arm  themselves 
and  their  retainers  against  the  insurgents. 
This  brought  things  to  a  crisis; — a  council 
was  held  in  tne  chateau,  when  it  was  speedily 


determined,  that  no  consideration  of  prudence 
or  of  safety  could  induce  men  of  honour  to 
desert  their  dependants,  or  the  party  to  which, 
in  their  hearts,  they  wished  well ; — and  that, 
when  the  alternative  came,  they  would  rathei 
fight  with  the  hisurgents  than  against  them. 
Henri  de  Larochejaquelein — of  whom  the  fair 
writer  gives  so  engaging  a  picture,  and  upon 
whose  acts  of  heroism  she  dwells  throughout 
with  so  visible  a  dehght,  that  it  is  quite  a  dis- 
appointment to  find  that  it  is  not  his  name  she 
bears  when  she  comes  to  change  her  own 
— had  been  particularly  inquired  alter  and 
threatened;  and  upon  an  order  being  sent 
to  his  peasantry  to  attend  and  ballot  for  the 
militia,  he  takes  horse  in  the  middle  of  the 
night,  and  sets  out  to  place  himself  at  their 
head  for  resistance.  The  rest  of  the  party 
remained  a  few  days  longer  in  considerable 
perplexity. — M.  Thomasin  having  become 
suspected,  on  account  of  his  frequent  resort  to 
them,  had  been  put  in  prison ;  and  they  were 
almost  entirely  without  intelligence  as  to  what 
was  going  on ;  when  one  morning,  M'hen  they 
were  at  breakfast,  a  party  of  horse  gallops  up 
to  the  gate,  and  presents  an  order  for  the  im- 
mediate arrest  of  the  whole  company.  M.  de 
L.  takes  this  with  perfect  calmness — a  team 
of  oxen  is  yoked  to  the  old  coach ;  and  the 
prisoners  are  jolted  along,  under  escort  of  the 
National  dragoons,  to  the  town  of  Bressuire. 
By  the  time  they  had  reached  this  place,  theii 
mild  and  steady  deportment  had  made  so 
favourable  an  impression  on  their  conductors, 
that  they  were  very  near  taking  them  back 
to  their  homes ; — and  the  municipal  officers, 
before  whom  M.  de  L.  was  brought,  had  little 
else  to  urge  for  the  arrest,  but  that  it  did  not 
seem  advisable  to  leave  him  at  large,  when  it 
had  been  found  necessary  to  secure  all  the 
other  gentry  of  the  district.  They  were  not 
sent,  however,  to  the  common  prison,  but 
lodged  in  the  house  of  a  worthy  republican, 
who  had  foi-merly  supplied  the  family  with 
groceries,  and  now  treated  them  with  the 
greatest  kindness  and  civility.  Here  they  re- 
mained for  several  days,  closely  shut  up  in 
two  little  rooms ;  and  were  not  a  little  startled, 
when  they  saw  from  their  windows  two  or 
three  thousand  of  the  National  guard  march 
fiercely  out  to  repulse  a  party  of  the  insur- 
gents, who  were  advancing,  it  was  reported, 
under  the  command  of  Henri  de  Larocheja- 
quelein. Next  day,  however,  these  valiant 
warriors  came  flying  back  in  great  confusion. 
They  had  met  and  been  defeated  by  the  in- 
surgents ;  and  the  town  was  filled  with  ter- 
rors— and  with  the  cruelties  to  which  terror 
always  gives  birth.  Some  hundreds  of  Mar- 
seillois  arrived  at  this  crisis  to  reinforce  the 
republican  army;  and  proposed,  as  a  measure 
of  intimidation  and  security,  that  they  should 
immediately  massacre  all  the  prisoners. — The 
native  leaders  all  expressed  the  greatest  hor- 
ror at  this  proposal — but  it  was  nevertheless 
carried  into  effect !  The  author  saw  hundreds 
of  those  unfortunate  creatures  marched  out  of 
the  town,  under  a  guaid  of  their  butchers. 
They  were  then  drawn  up  in  a  neighbouring 
field,  and  were  cut  down  with  the  sa/)re— 


MEMOIRS  OF  MADAME  DE  LAROCHEJi-.QUELEIN. 


239 


most  of  them  quietly  kneeling  and  exclaim- 
ing, Vive  le  Roi !  It  was  natural  for  Madame 
de  L.  and  her  party  to  think  that  th6ir  turn 
was  to  come  next :  and  the  alarms  of  their 
compassionate  jailor  did  not  help  to  allay 
their  apprehensions.  Their  fate  hung  indeed 
upon  the  slightest  accident.  One  day  they 
received  a  letter  from  an  emigrant,  congratu- 
lating them  on  the  progress  of  the  counter- 
revolution, and  exhorting  them  not  to  remit 
their  efforts  in  the  cause.  The  very  day  after, 
their  letters  were  all  opened  at  the  munici- 
pality, and  sent  to  them  unsealed !  The 
patriots,  however,  it  turned  out,  were  too 
much  occupied  with  apprehensions  of  their 
own,  to  attend  to  any  thing  else.  The  Na- 
tional guards  of  the  place  were  not  much 
accustomed  to  war.  and  trembled  at  the  re- 
Laliation  which  the  excesses  of  their  Mar- 
seillois  auxiliaries  might  so  well  justify.  A 
sort  of  panic  took  possession  even  of  their 
best  corps ;  nor  could  the  general  prevail  on 
his  cavalry  to  reconnoitre  beyond  the  walls 
of  the  town.  A  few  horsemen,  indeed,  once 
ventured  half  a  mile  farther;  but  speedily 
came  galloping  back  in  alarm,  with  a  report 
ihat  a  great  troop  of  the  enemy  were  at  their 
heels.  It  turned  out  to  be  only  a  single 
country-man  at  work  in  his  field,  with  a  team 
of  six  oxen ! 

There  was  no  waiting  an  assault  with  such 
forces;  and,  in  the  beginning  of  May  1793, 
it  was  resolved  to  evacuate  the  place,  and  fall 
back  on  Thouars.  The  aristocratic  captives 
were  fortunately  forgotten  in  the  hurry  of 
this  inglorious  movement ',  and  though  they 
listened  through  their  closed  shutters,  with 
no  great  tranquillity,  to  the  parting  clamours 
and  imprecations  of  the  Marseillois,  they  soon 
received  assurance  of  their  deliverance,  in  the 
supplications  of  their  keeper,  and  many  others 
of  the  municipality,  to  be  allowed  to  retire 
with  them  to  Clisson,  and  to  seek  shelter 
there  from  the  vengeance  of  the  advancing 
royalists.  M.  de  Lescure,  with  his  usual 
good  nature,  granted  all  these  requests ;  and 
they  soon  set  off,  with  a  grateful  escort,  for 
their  deserted  chateau. 

The  dangers  he  had  already  incurred  by 
his  inaction — the  successes  of  his  less  prudent 
friends,  and  the  apparent  weakness  and  ir- 
resolution of  their  opponents,  now  decided  M. 
de  Lescure  to  dissemble  no  longer  with  those 
who  seemed  entitled  to  his  protection;  and 
he  resolved  instantly  to  cast  in  his  lot  with 
the  insurgents,  and  support  the  efforts  of  his 
adventurous  cousin.  He  accordingly  sent 
round  without  the  delay  of  an  instant,  to  inti- 
mate his  purpose  to  all  the  parishes  where  he 
had  influence;  and  busied  himself  and  his 
household  in  preparing  horses  and  arms, 
ivhile  his  wife  and  her  women  were  engaged 
ji  manufacturing  white  cockades.  In  the 
midst  of  these  preparations,  Henri  de  Laroche- 
jaquelein  arrived,  flushed  with  victory  and 
nope,  and  announced  his  seizure  of  Bressuire, 
and  all  the  story  of  his  brief  and  busy  campaign. 

Upon  his  first  arrival  in  the  revolted  district 
of  his  own  domains,  he  found  the  peasants 
^1the^  disheartened  for  want  of  a  leader — 


some  setting  off  for  the  army  of  Aixjou,  and 
others  meditating  a  return  to  tlieir  own  homes. 
His  appearance,  however,  and  the  heartiness 
of  his  adherence  to  their  cause,  at  once  re- 
vived the  sinking  flame  of  their  enthusiasm, 
and  spread  it  through  all  the  adjoining  region. 
Before  next  evening,  he  found  himself  at  the 
head  of  near  ten  thousand  devoted  followers 
— without  arms  or  discipline  indeed,  but  with 
hearts  in  the  trim — and  ready  to  follow  wher- 
ever he  would  venture  to  lead.  There  were 
only  about  two  hundred  firelocks  in  the  whole 
array,  and  these  were  shabby  fowlingpieces- 
witliout  bayonets :  The  rest  were  equippea 
with  scythes,  or  blades  of  knives  stuck  upon 
poles — with  spits,  or  with  good  heavy  cudgels 
of  knotty  wood.  In  presenting  himself  to  this 
romantic  army,  their  youthful  leader  made 
the  following  truly  eloquent  and  characteristic 
speech — "My  good  friends,  if  my  father  were 
here  to  lead  you,  we  should  all  proceed  \vith 
greater  confidence.  For  my  part,  I  know  I 
am  but  a  child — but  I  hope  I  have  courage 
enough  not  to  be  quite  unworthy  of  supplying 
his  place  to  you — Follow  me  when  I  advance 
against  the  enemy — kill  me  Avhen  I  turn  my 
back  upon  them — and  revenge  me,  if  they 
bring  me  dow^n  1"  That  very  day  he  led 
them  into  action.  A  strong  post  of  the  repub- 
licans were  stationed  at  Aubiers: — Henri, 
with  a  dozen  or  two  of  his  best  marksmen, 
glided  silently  behind  the  hedge  which  sur- 
rounded the  field  in  which  they  were,  and 
immediately  began  to  fire — some  of  the  un- 
armed peasants  handing  forward  loaded  mus- 
kets to  them  in  quick  succession.  He  himself 
fired  near  two  hundred  shots  that  day;  and  a 
gamekeeper,  who  stood  beside  him,  almost  as 
many.  The  soldiers,  though  at  first  astonished 
at  this  assault  from  an  invisible  enemy,  soon 
collected  themselves,  and  made  a  movement 
to  gain  a  small  height  that  was  near.  Henri 
chose  this  moment  to  make  a  general  assault ; 
and  calling  out  to  his  men,  that  they  were 
running,  burst  through  the  hedge  at  their 
head,  and  threw  them  instantly  into  flight  and 
irretrievable  confusion ;  got  possession  of  their 
guns  and  stores,  and  pursued  them  to  within 
a  few  miles  of  the  walls  of  Bressuire.  Sucli, 
almost  universally,  was  the  tactic  of  those 
formidable  insurgents.  Their  whole  art  of 
war  consisted  in  creeping  round  the  hedges 
which  separated  them  from  their  enemies, 
and  firing  there  till  they  began  to  waver  or 
move — and  then  rushing  forward  with  shouts 
and  impetuosity,  but  without  any  regard  to 
order;  possessing  themselves  first  of  the  artil- 
lery, and  rushing  into  the  heart  of  their  op- 
ponents with  prodigious  fierceness  and  activity. 
In  these  assaults  they  seldom  lost  so  m.uch  as 
one  man  for  every  five  that  fell  of  the  regu- 
lars. They  w^ere  scarcely  ever  discovered 
soon  enough  to  suffer  from  the  musketry — 
and  seldom  gave  the  artillery  an  opportunity 
of  firing  more  than  once.  When  they  saw 
the  flash  of  the  pieces,  they  instantly  threw 
themselves  flat  on  the  ground  till  the  shol 
flew  over,  then  started  up,  and  rushed  on  the 
gunners  tefore  they  could  reload.  If  they 
were  finally  repulsed,  they  retreated  and  dis- 


t40 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


persed  wilh  the  same  magical  rapidity,  dart- 
mg  through  the  hedges,  and  scattering  among 
the  defiles  in  a  way  that  eluded  all  pursuit, 
and  exposed  those  who  attempted  it  to  mur- 
derous ambuscades  at  every  turning. 

As  soon  as  it  was  known  that  M.  de  Les- 
cure  had  declared  for  the  white  cockade, 
forty  parishes  assumed  that  badge  of  hos- 
tility ;  and  he  and  his  cousin  found  themseJ  ves 
at  the  head  of  near  twenty  thousand  men ! 
The  day  after,  they  brought  eighty  horsemen 
to  the  chateau.  These  gallant  knights,  how- 
ever, were  not  very  gorgeously  caparisoned. 
Their  steeds  were  of  all  sizes  and  colours — 
many  of  them  with  packs  instead  of  saddles, 
and  loops  of  rope  for  stirrups — pistols  and 
sabres  of  all  shapes  tied  on  with  cords — 
white  or  black  cockades  in  their  hats — and 
tricoloured  ones — with  bits  of  epaulettes  taken 
from  the  vanquished  republicans,  dangling  in 
ridicule  at  the  tails  of  their  horses  !  Such  as 
they  were,  however,  they  filled  the  chateau 
with  tumult  and  exultation,  and  frightened 
the  hearts  out  of  some  unhappy  republicans 
who  came  to  look  after  their  wives  who  had 
taken  refuge  in  that  asylum.  They  did  them 
no  other  harm,  however,  than  compelling 
them  to  spit  on  their  tricoloured  cockades, 
and   to   call  Vive  le  Roil — w^hich  the   poor 

Eeople,  being '-des  gens  honnetes  et  paisi- 
les,''"  very  readily  performed. 
In  the  afternoon,  Madame  de  L.,  with  a 
troop  of  her  triumphant  attendants,  paid  a 
visit  to  her  late  prison  at  Bressuire.  The 
place  was  now  occupied  by  near  twenty  thou- 
sand insurgents — all  as  remarkable,  she  as- 
sures us,  for  their  simple  piety,  and  the 
innocence  and  purity  of  their  morals,  as  for 
the  valour  and  enthusiasm  which  had  banded 
them  together.  Even  in  a  town  so  obnoxious 
as  this  had  become,  from  the  massacre  of  the 
prisoners,  there  were  no  executions,  and  no 
pillage.  Some  of  the  men  were  expressing  a 
great  desire  for  some  tobacco  ]  and  upon  being 
asked  whether  there  was  none  in  the  place, 
answered,  quite  simply,  that  there  was  plenty, 
but  they  had  no  money  to  buy  it ! 

In  giving  a  short  view  of  the  whole  insur- 
gent force,  which  she  estimates'  at  about 
eighty  thousand  men,  Madame  de  L.  here 
introduces  a  short  account  of  its  principal 
leaders,  whose  characters  are  drawn  with  a 
delicate,  though  probably  too  favourable  hand. 
M.  d'Elbee,  M.  de  Bonchamp,  and  M.  de 
Marigny,  were  almost  the  only  ones  who  had 
formerly  exercised  the  profession  of  arms,  and 
were  therefore  invested  with  the  formal  com- 
mand. Stofflet,  a  native  of  Alsace,  had  form- 
erly served  in  a  Swiss  regiment,  but  had  long 
been  a  gamekeeper  in  Poitou.  Of  Cathelineau 
we  have  spoken  already.  Henri  de  Laroche- 
jaquelein,  and  M.  de  Lescure,  were  undoubt- 
edly the  most  popular  and  important  members 
of  the  association,  and  are  painted  with  the 
greatest  liveliness  and  discrimination.  The 
former,  tall,  fair,  and  graceful — with  a  shy, 
affectionate,  and  indolent  manner  in  private 
life,  had.  in  the  field,  all  the  gaiety,  anima- 
tion, and  Idve  of  adventure,  that  he  used  to 
display  in  the  chase.     Utterly  indifferent  to 


danger,  and  ignorant  of  the  very  name  of  f  3aK 
h:s  great  faults  as  a  leader  were  rashness  iii 
attack,  and  undue  exposure  of  his  person. 
He  knew  little,  and  cared  less,  for  the  scien- 
tific details  of  war;  and  could  not  always 
maintain  the  gravity  that  was  required  in  the 
councils  of  the  leaders.  Sometimes  after 
bluntly  giving  his  opinion,  he  would  quietly 
lay  himself  to  sleep  till  the  end  of  the  delibe- 
rations; and,  when  reproached  with  this 
neglect  of  his  higher  duties,  Avould  answer, 
^'  What  business  had  they  to  make  me  a  Gen- 
eral?— I  would  much  rather  have  been  a 
private  light-horseman,  and  taken  the  sport 
as  it  came."  With  all  this  light-heartedness, 
however,  he  was  full  not  only  of  kindness  to 
his  soldiers,  but  of  compassion  for  his  prison- 
ers. He  would  sometimes  offer,  indeed,  to 
fight  them  fairly  hand  to  hand,  before  accept- 
ing their  surrender:  but  never  refused  to  give 
quarter,  nor  ever  treated  them  with  insult  or 
severitv. 

M.  de  Lescure  was  in  many  respects  of  an 
opposite  character.  His  courage,  though  of 
the  most  heroic  temper,  M^as  invariably  united 
with  perfect  coolness  and  deliberation.  He 
had  a  great  theoretical  knowledge  of  war, 
having  diligently  studied  all  that  was  written 
on  the  subject;  and  was  the  only  man  in  the 
party  who  knew  any  thing  of  fortification. 
His  temper  was  unalterably  sweet  and  placid ; 
and  his  never-failing  humanity,  in  the  tre 
mendous  scenes  he  had  to  pass  through,  had 
something  in  it  of  an  angelical  character 
Though  constantly  engaged  at  the  head  of  his 
troops,  and  often  leading  them  on  to  the  as- 
sault, he  never  could  persuade  himself  to  take 
the  life  of  a  fellow-creature  with  his  own 
hand,  or  to  show  the  smallest  severity  to  hi» 
captives.  One  day  a  soldier,  who  he  thought 
had  surrendered,  fired  at  him,  almost  at  the 
muzzle  of  his  piece.  He  put  aside  the  mus- 
ket with  his  sword,  and  said,  with  perfect 
composure,  "Take  that  prisoner  to  the  rear." 
His  attendants,  enraged  at  the  perfidy  of  the 
assault,  cut  him  down  behind  his  back.  Ho 
turned  round  at  the  noise,  and  flew  into  the 
most  violent  passion  in  which  he  had  ever 
been  seen.  This  was  the  only  time  in  his 
life  in  which  he  was  known  to  utter  an  oath. 
There  was  no  spirit  of  vengeance  in  short  in 
his  nature;  and  he  frequently  saved  more 
lives  after  a  battle,  than  had  been  lost  in  the 
course  of  it. 

The  discipline  of  the  army,  thus  command- 
ed, has  been  already  spoken  of.  It  was  never 
even  divided  into  regiments  or  companies. — 
When  the  chiefs  had  agreed  on  a  plan  of 
operations,  they  announced  to  their  followers; 
— M.  Lescure  goes  to  take  such  a  bridge, — 
who  will  follow  him  ?  M.  Marigny  keeps  the 
passes  in  such  a  valley — who  will  go  with 
him  ? — and  so  on.  They  were  never  told  to 
march  to  the  right  or  the  left,  but  to  that  tree 
or  to  that  steeple.  They  "U-ere  generally  very 
ill  supplied  with  ammunition,  and  were  often 
obliged  to  attack  a  post  of  artillery  with  cud- 
gels. On  one  occasion,  while  rushing  on  for 
this  purpose,  they  suddenly  discovered  a  huge 
•cr  icvfix  in  a  recess  of  the  woods  on  their  flank, 


MEMOIRS  OF  MADAME  DE  LAROCHEJAQUELEIN. 


241 


Bnd  immediately  every  man  of  them  stopped 
short,  and  knelt  quietly  down,  under  the  fire 
of  the  enemy.  They  then  got  up,  ran  right 
forward,  and  took  the  cannon.  They  had 
tolerable  medical  assistance ;  and  found  ad- 
mirable nurses  ^or  the  wounded,  in  the  nun- 
neries and  other  relTgious  establishments  that 
existed  in  all  the  considerable  towns. 

Their  first  enterprise,  after  the  capture  of 
Bressuire,  was  against  Thoaars.  To  get  at 
this  place,  a  considerable  river  was  to  be  cross- 
ed.— M.  de  Lescure  headed  a  party  that  was 
to  force  the  passage  of  a  bridge ;  but  when  he 
c^me  within  the  heavy  fire  of  its  defenders, 
all  kis  peasants  fell  back,  and  left  him  for 
some  iranutes  alone  : — His  clothes  were  torn 
by  the  bullets,  but  not  a  shot  took  effect  on 
his  person  : — He  returned  to  the  charge  again 
with  Henri  de  Larochejaquelein  : — Their  fol- 
lowers, all  but  two,  again  left  them  at  the 
moment  of  charging :  But  the  enemy,  scared 
at  their  audacity,  had  already  taken  flight; 
the  bridge  was  carried  by  those  four  men ; 
and  the  town  was  given  up  after  a  short  strug- 
gle, though  not  before  Henri  had  climbed 
alone  to  the  top  of  the  wall  by  the  help  of  a 
friend's  shoulders,  and  thrown  several  stones 
at  the  flying  inhabitants  within.  The  repub- 
lican general  Quetineau,  who  had  defended 
himself  with  great  valour,  obtained  honour- 
able terms  in  this  capitulation,  and  was  treated 
with  the  greatest  kindness  by  the  insurgent 
chiefs.  He  had  commanded  at  iBressuire  when 
it  was  finally  abandoned,  and  told  M.  Lescure, 
when  he  was  brought  before  him,  that  he  saw 
the  closed  window-shutters  of  his  family  well 
enough  as  he  marched  out ;  and  that  it  was 
not  out  of  forgetfulness  that  he  had  left  them 
unmolested.  M.  Lescure  expressed  his  grati- 
tude for  his  generosity,  and  pressed  him  to 
remain  with  them. — '-You  do  not  agree  in  our 
opinions,  I  know ; — and  I  do  not  ask  you  to 
take  any  share  in  our  proceedings.  You  shall 
bo  a  prisoner  at  large  among  us :  But  if  you 
go  back  to  the  republicans,  they  will  say  you. 
gave  up  the  place  out  of  treachery,  and  you 
will  be  /ewarded  by  the  executioner  for  the 
gallant  defence  you  have  made." — The  cap- 
tive answered  in  terms  equally  firai  and  spir- 
ited.— '•  I  must  do  my  duty  at  all  hazards. — 
I  should  be  dishonoured,  if  I  remained  vol- 
untarily among  enemies ;  and  I  am  ready  to 
answer  for  all  I  have  hitherto  done." — It  will 
surprise  some  violent  royalists  am.ong  our- 
selves, we  believe,  to  find  that  this  frankness 
and  fidelity  to  his  party  secured  for  him  the 
friendship  and  esteem  of  all  the  Vendean 
leaders.  The  peasants,  indeed,  felt  a  little 
;  more  like  the  liberal  persons  just  alluded  to. 
They  were  not  a  little  scandalized  to  find  a 
republican  treated  with  respect  and  courtesy; 
•  — and.  above  all,  were  in  horror  when  they 
saw  him  admitted  into  the  private  society  of 
i  their  chiefs,  and  discovered  that  M.  de  Bon- 
I  cham.p  actually  trusted  himself  in  the  same 
I  chamber  with  him  at  night !  For  the  first 
'  two  or  three  nights,  indeed,  several  of  them 
kept  M-atch  at  the  outside  of  the  door,  to  de- 
fend him  against  the  assassination  they  ap- 
rehended ;  and  once  or  twice  he  found  in 
16 


i 


the  morning,  that  one  morn  distrustful  than 
the  rest  had  glided  into  the  room,  and  laid 
himself  down  across  the  feet  of  his  com- 
mander. 

From  Thenars  they  proceeded  toFontenay, 
where  they  had  a  still  more  formidable  resist- 
ance to  encounter.  M.  de  Lescure  was  again 
exposed  alone  to  the  fire  of  six  pieces  of  can- 
non charged  Avith  grape;  and  had  his  hat 
pierced,  a  spur  shot  off,  and  a  boot  torn  by 
the  discharge ; — but  he  only  turned  round  to 
his  men,  who  were  hanging  back,  and  said. 
"  You  see  these  fellows  can  take  no  aim  ;— 
come  on  !"  They  did  come  on,  and  sooi 
carried  all  before  them. 

The  republicans  had  retaken,  in  the  course 
of  these  encounters,  the  first  piece  of  cannon 
which  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  insur- 
gents, and  to  which  the  peasants  had  fondly 
given  the  name  of  Marie  Jeanne.  After  their 
success  at  Fontenay,  a  party  was  formed  to 
recover  it.  One  man,  in  his  impatience,  got 
so  far  ahead  of  his  comrades,  that  he  was  in 
the  heart  of  the  enemy  before  he  was  aware. 
Fortunately,  he  had  the  horse  and  accoutre- 
ments of  a  dragoon  he  had  killed  the  day 
before,  and  was  taken  by  the  party  for  one  of 
their  own  company.  They  welcomed  him 
accordingly ;  and  told  him'that  he  was  just 
come  in  time  to  repulse  the  brigands,  who 
were  advancing  to  retake  their  Marie  Jeanne. 
"Are  they "?"  said  he  ; — "  follow  me,  and  we 
shall  soon  give  a  good  account  of  them  :" — 
and  then,  heading  the  troop,  he  rode  on  till 
he  came  wnthin  reach  of  his  own  party,  when 
he  suddenly  cut  down  the  two  men  on  each 
side  of  him,  and  welcomed  his  friends  to  the 
victory.  At  another  time,  four  young  officers, 
in  the  wantonness  of  their  valour,  rode  alone 
to  a  large  village  in  the  heart  of  the  country 
occupied  by  the  republicans,  ordered  all  the 
inhabitants  to  throw  down  their  tricoloured 
cockades,  and  to  prepare  quarters  for  the  roy 
alist  army,  which  was  to  march  in,  in  the 
evening,  one  hundred  thousand  strong.  The 
good  people  began  their  preparations  accord 
ingly,  and  hewed  doAvii  their  tree  of  liberty— 
when  the  young  men  laughed  in  their  faces, 
and  galloped  unmolested  away  from  upwards 
of  a  thousand  enemies  ! — The  whole  book  is 
full  of  such  feats  and  adventures.  Their  re- 
cent successes  had  encumbered  them  with 
near  four  thousand  prisoners,  of  whom,  as 
they  had  no  strong  places  or  regular  garrisons, 
they  were  much  at  a  loss  how  to  dispose. — 
To  dismiss  such  a  mob  of  privates,  on  their 
parole  not  to  serve  any  more  against  them, 
they  knew  would  be  of  no  avail ;  and  after 
much  deliberation,  ihey  fell  upon  the  ingeni- 
ous expedient  of  shaving  their  heads,  at  the 
same  time  that  their  parole  was  exacted  ;  so 
that  if  they  again  took  the  field  ag-^inst  them 
within  any  moderate  time,  they  might  be 
easily  recognised,  and  dealt  with  accordingly. 
Madame  Lescure's  father  had  the  merit  of 
this  happy  invention. 

The  day  after  the  capture  of  Fontenay,  the 
greater  part  of  the  army  thought  it  was  time 
to  go  home  for  a  while  to  look  after  their  cat- 
tle, and  tell  their  exDloits  to  their  wives  and 


9.2 


fflSTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


caildreri.  In  about  a  week,  however,  a  con- 
siderable number  of  ilieni  came  back  again, 
and  proceeded  to  altiick  Saumui .  Here  M. 
de  Lescure  received  his  first  wound  in  the 
arm;  and  Heiin^  throwing  his  hat  over  the 
entrenchments  of  the  place,  called  to  his  men, 
"  Let  us  see  now,  who  will  bring  it  back  to 
me!" — and  rushed  at  their  head  across  the 
glacis.  A  vast  multitude  of  the  republicans 
fell  in  this  battle )  and  near  twelve  thousand 
prisoners  were  made, — who  were  all  shaved 
and  let  go.  The  insurgents  did  not  lose  four 
hundred  in  all.  In  the  castle  they  found 
Quetineau,  the  gallant  but  unsuccessful  de- 
fender of  Thenars,  who,  according  to  M.  de 
Lescure's  prediction,  had  been  arrested  and 
ordered  for  trial  in  consequence  of  that  dis- 
aster. He  was  again  pressed  to  remain  with 
them  as  a  prisoner  on  parole;  but  continued 
firm  in  his  resolution  to  do  his  duty,  and  leave 
the  rest  to  fortune.  He  was  sent,  accordingly, 
to  Paris  a  short  time  after — where  he  was 
tried,  condemned,  and  executed  ! 

The  insurrection  had  now  attained  a  mag- 
nitude which  seemed  to  make  it  necessary  to 
have  some  one  formally  appointed  to  the  chief 
command ;  and  with  a  view  of  at  once  flat- 
tering and  animating  the  peasants,  in  whose 
spontaneous  zeal  it  had  originated,  all  voices 
were  united  in  favour  of  Cathelineau,  the 
humble  and  venerable  leader  under  whom  its 
first  successes  had  been  obtained.  It  is  very 
remarkable,  indeed,  that  in  a  party  thus  asso- 
ciated avowedly  in  opposition  to  democratical 
innovations,  the  distinctions  of  rank  were 
utterly  disregarded  and  forgotten.  Not  only 
was  an  humble  peasant  raised  to  the  dignity 
of  commander-in-chief,  but  Madame  de  L. 
assures  us,  that  she  hejself  never  knew  or 
enquired  whether  one  half  of  the  officers 
were  of  noble  or  plebeian  descent ;  and  men- 
tions one,  the  son  of  a  village  shoemaker,  who 
was  long  at  the  head  of  all  that  was  gallant 
and  distinguished  in  the  body.  We  are  afraid 
that  this  is  a  trait  of  their  royalism,  which  it 
is  no  longer  thought  prudent  to  bring  forward 
in  the  courts  of  royalty. 

Those  brilliant  successes  speedily  suggested 
enterprises  of  still  greater  ambition  and  ex- 
tent. A  communication  was  now  opened 
with  M.  de  Charrette.  who  had  long  headed 
the  kindred  insurrection  in  Anjou ;  and  a 
joint  attack  on  the  city  of  Nantes  was  pro- 
jected and  executed  by  the  two  armies.  That 
of  Poitou  was  now  tolerably  provided  with 
arms  and  ammunition,  and  decently  clothed, 
though  without  any  attention  to  uniformity. 
The  dress  of  the  officers  was  abundantly  fierce 
and  fantastic.  With  pantaloons  and  jackets 
of  gray  cloth,  they  w^ore  a  variety  of  great 
red  handkerchiefs  all  about  their  persons — 
one  tied  round  their  head,  and  two  or  three 
about  their  waist,  and  across  their  shoulders, 
for  holding  their  pistols  and  ammunition. 
Henri  de  Larochejaquelein  introduced  this 
fashion ;  and  it  speedily  became  universal 
among  his  companions,  giving  them  not  a 
little  the  air  of  brigaads,  or  banditti,  the  name 
early  bestowed  on  them  by  the  republicans, 
and  at  last  generally  adopted  and  recognised 


among  themselves.  The  expedition  to  Nantea 
was  disastrous.  The  soldiers  did  not  like  to 
go  so  far  from  home ;  nnd  the  army,  as  it  ad 
vanced,  melted  away  by  daily  desertions. 
There  was  also  some  want  of  concert  in  the 
movements  of  the  diffi3rpnt  corps ; — and.  after 
a  sanguinary  conflict,  the  attack  was  abandon- 
ed, and  the  forces  dispersed  all  over  the 
country.  The  good  Cathelineau  was  mortally 
wounded  in  this  aflair,  at  M^hich  neither  M. 
de  Lescure  nor  Henri  w^ere  present ;  the  latter 
being  in  garrison  at  Saumur,  and  the  other 
disabled  by  his  wound.  The  news  of  this 
wound  came  rather  suddenly  upon  his  wife, 
who,  though  she  had  always  before  been  in 
agonies  of  fear  on  horseback,  instantly  mount 
ed  a  ragged  colt,  and  galloped  off'  to  rejoin 
him.  She  never  afterwards  had  the  least 
alarm  about  riding.  The  army  having  spon- 
taneously disbanded  after  the  check  at  Nantes, 
it  was  found  impossible  to  maintain  the  places 
it  had  occupied.  General  Westermann  arrived 
from  Paris,  at  the  head  of  a  large  force  ;  and, 
after  retaking  Saumur  and  Parthenay,  began 
the  relentless  and  exterminating  system  of 
burning  and  laying  waste  the  districts  from 
which  he  had  succeeded  in  dislodging  the  in- 
surgents. One  of  the  first  examples  he  made 
was  at  M.  de  Lescure's  chateau  of  Clisson. 
It  was  burnt  to  the  ground,  with  all  its  offices, 
stores,  and  peasants'  houses,  as  w- ell  as  all  the 
pictures  and  furniture  of  its  master.  Having 
long  foreseen  the  probability  of  such  a  con- 
summation, he  had  at  one  time  given  orders 
to  remove  some  of  the  valuable  articles  it 
contained ;  but  apprehensive  that  such  a  pro- 
ceeding might  discourage  or  disgust  his  fol- 
low^ers,  he  afterwards  abandoned  the  design, 
and  submitted  to  the  loss  of  all  his  family 
moveables.  The  event,  Madame  de  L.  as- 
sures us,  produced  no  degree  either  of  irrita- 
tion or  discouragement.  The  chiefs,  how^ever, 
now  exerted  all  their  influence  to  collect  their 
scattered  forces  before  Chatillon ;  and  Madame 
de  L.  accompanied  her  husband  in  all  the 
rapid  and  adventurous  marches  he  made  for 
that  purpose,  through  this  agitated  aiid  dis- 
tracted country.  In  one  of  these  fatiguing 
movements  with  some  broken  corps  of  the 
army,  they  stopped  to  repose  for  the  night  in 
the  chateau  of  Madame  de  Concise,  who  was 
still  so  much  an  alien  to  the  Vendean  man- 
ners, that  they  found  her  putting  on  rouge^ 
and  talking  of  the  agitation  of  her  nerves  ! 

The  attack  on  Westermann's  position  at 
Chatillon  was  completely  successful ;  but  the 
victory  was  stained  by  the  vindictive  massa- 
cres W'hich  followed  it.  The  burnings  and 
butcheries  of  the  republican  forces  were 
bloodily  avenged — in  spite  of  the  efforts  of 
M.  de  Lescure,  who  repeatedly  exposed  his 
own  life  to  save  those  of  the  vanquished.  In 
the  midst  of  the  battle,  one  of  his  attendants 
seeing  a  rifleman  about  to  fire  at  him,  stepped 
bravely  before  him,  and  received  the  shot  in 
his  eye.  The  carriage  of  Westermann  was 
taken ;  and  some  young  officers,  to  whom  it 
was  entrusted,  having  foolishly  broken  open 
the  strong  box,  which  was  believed  to  be  full 
of  money,  there  was  a  talk  of  bringing  them 


MEMOIRS  OF  MADAME  DE  LAROCHEJAQUELEIN. 


243 


\o  trial  for  the  supposed  embezzlement.  M. 
de  L.J  however,  having  declared  that  one  of 
them  had  given  him  his  word  of  honour  that 
the  box  was  empty  when  they  opened  it,  the 
whole  council  declared  themselves  satisfied, 
and  acquitted  the  young  men  by  acclamation. 

In  the  course  of  the  summer  of  1793,  various 
sanguinary  actions  were  fought  with  various 
success  ;  but  the  most  remarkable  event  was 
the  arrival  of  M.  Tinteniac,  wnth  despatches 
from  the  English  government,  about  the  mid- 
dle of  July.  This  intrepid  messenger  had 
come  alone  through  all  Brittany  and  Anjou, 
carrying  his  despatches  in  his  pistols  as  wad- 
ding, and  incessantly  in  danger  from  the  re- 
publican armies  and  magistrates.  The  des- 
patches, Madame  de  L.  informs  us,  showed 
an  incredible  ignorance  on  the  part  of  the 
English  government  of  the  actual  posture  of 
affairs.  They  were  answered,  however,  with 
gratitude  and  clearness.  A  debarkation  was 
strongly  recommended  near  Sables  or  Paim- 
boBuf.  but  by  no  means  at  L'Orient,  Rochefort, 
or  Rochelle ;  and  it  was  particularly  entreated, 
that  the  troops  should  consist  chiefly  of  emi- 
grant Frenchmen,  and  that  a  Prince  of  the 
House  of  Bourbon  should,  if  possible,  place 
himself  at  their  head.  Madame  de  L.,  who 
wrote  a  small  and  very  neat  hand,  w^as  em- 
ployed to  write  out  these  despatches,  which 
were  placed  in  the  pistols  of  M.  Tinteniac, 
who  immediately  proceeded  on  his  adven- 
turous mission.  He  reached  England,  it  seems, 
and  was  frequently  employed  thereafter  in 
undertakings  of  the  same  nature.  Hie  headed 
a  considerable  party  of  Bretons,  in  endeavour- 
ing to  support  the  unfortunate  descent  at 
Quiberon;  and,  disdaining  to  submit,  even 
after  the  failure  of  that  ill-concerted  expedi- 
tion, fell  bravely  with  arms  in  his  hands. 
After  his  departure,  the  insurgents  were  re- 
pulsed at  Lucon,  and  obtained  some  advan- 
tages at  Chantonnay.  But  finding  the  repub- 
lican armies  daily  increasing  in  numbers,  skill, 
and  discipline,  they  found  it  necessary  to  act 
chiefly  on  the  defensive ;  and,  for  this  pur- 
pose, divided  the  country  into  several  districts, 
in  each  of  which  they  stationed  that  part  of 
the  army  w^hich  had  been  recruited  within  it, 
and  the  general  who  was  mos^  beloved  and 
confided  in  by  the  inhabitants.  In  this  way, 
M.  Lescure  came  to  be  stationed  in  the  heart 
of  his  own  estates :  and  was  not  a  little  touched 
to  find  aLntiost  all  his  peasants,  who  had  bled 
and  sufi'ere-i  by  his  side  for  so  long  a  time 
without  pay,  come  to  make  offer  of  the  rents 
that  were  due  for  the  possessions  to  which 
they  were  but  just  returned.  He  told  them, 
it  was  not  for  his  rents  that  he  had  taken  up 
irms ; — and  that  while  they  were  exposed  to 
the  calamities  of  war,  they  were  well  entitled 
to  be  freed  of  that  burden.  Various  lads  of 
thirteen,  and  several  hale  grandsires  of  sev- 
enty, came  at  this  period,  and  insisted  upon 
being  allowed  to  share  the  dangers  and  glories 
of  theii  kinsmen. 

From  this  time,  downwards,  the  picture  of 
the  war  is  shaded  with  deeper  horrors ;  and 
ihe  operations  of  the  insurgents  acquire  a 
'•haracter  of  jjreater  desperation.     The  Con- 


tention issued  the  barbarous  decree,  that  the 
whole  country,  which  still  continued  its  re- 
sistance, should  be  desolated ;  that  the  whole 
inhabitants  should  be  exterminated,  without 
distinction  of  age  or  sex ;  the  habitations  con- 
sumed w^th  fire,  and  the  trees  cut  down  with 
the  axe.  Six  armies,  amounting  in  all  to  near 
two  hundred  thousand  men,  were  charged 
with  the  execution  of  these  atrocious  orders; 
and  began,  in  September  1793,  to  obey  them 
with  a  detestable  fidelity.  A  multitude  of 
sanguinary  conflicts  ensued;  and  the  insur- 
gents succeeded  in  repulsing  this  desolating 
invasion  at  almost  all  the  points  of  attack. 
Among  the  slain  in  one  of  these  engagements, 
the  republicans  found  the  body  of  a  young 
woman,  which  Madame  de  L.  informs  us  gave 
occasion  to  a  number  of  idle  reports ;  many 
giving  out  that  it  was  she  herself,  or  a  sister 
of  M.  de  L.  (who  had  no  sister),  or  a  new 
Joan  of  Arc,  who  had  kept  up  the  spirit  of 
the  peasantry  bjj  her  enthusiastic  predictions. 
The  truth  was,  that  it  was  the  body  of  an  in- 
nocent peasant  girl,  who  had  always  lived  a 
remarkably  quiet  and  pious  life,  till  recently 
before  this  action,  when  she  had  been  seized 
with  an  irresistible  desire  to  take  a  part  in 
the  conflict.  She  had  discovered  herself  some 
time  before  to  Madame  deL.;  and  begged 
from  her  a  shift  of  a  peculiar  fabric.  The 
night  before  the  battle,  she  also  revealed  her 
secret  to  M.  de  L. ; — asked  him  to  give  her  a 
pair  of  shoes — and  promised  to  behave  her- 
self in  such  a  manner  in  the  morrow's  fight, 
that  he  should  never  think  of  parting  with 
her.  Accordingly,  she  kept  near  his  person 
through  the  whole  of  the  battle,  and  conduct- 
ed herself  w^th  the  most  heroic  bravery.  Two 
or  three  times,  in  the  very  heat  of  the  fight, 
she  said  to  him,  "No,  mon.  General,  you  shall 
not  get  before  me — I  shall  always  he  closer 
up  to  the  enemy  even  than  you."  Early  in 
the  day,  she  was  hurt  pretty  seriously  in  the 
hand,  but  held  it  up  laughing  to  her  general, 
and  said.  "It  is  nothing  at  all."  In  the  end 
of  the  battle  she  w^as  surrounded  in  a  charge, 
and  fell  fighting  like  a  desperado.  There 
were  about  ten  other  women,  who  took  up 
arms,  Madame  de  L.  says,  in  this  causes- 
two  sisters,  under  fifteen — and  a  tall  beauty, 
who  wore  the  dress  of  an  officer.  The  priests 
attended  the  soldiers  in  the  field,  and  rallied 
and  exhorted  them ;  but  took  no  part  in  the 
combat,  nor  ever  excited  them  to  any  acts  of 
inhumanity.  There  were  many  boys  of  the 
most  tender  age  among  the  combatants, — 
some  scarcely  more  than  nine  or  ten  years  of 
age. 

M.  Piron  gained  a  decided  victory  over  the 
most  numerous  army  of  the  republic;  bu» 
their  ranks  being  recruited  by  the  whole  gar- 
rison of  Mentz,  which  had  been  liberated  on 
parole,  presented  again  a  most  formidable 
front  to  the  insurgents.  A  great  battle  was 
fought  in  the  middle  of  September  at  Chollet, 
where  the  government  army  w^as  completely 
broken,  and  would  have  been  finally  routed, 
but  for  the  skill  and  fimmess  of  the  cele- 
brated Kleber  who  commanded  it,  and  suc- 
cessfully maintained  a  pos'tion  which  covered 


44 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


its  retreat.  In  the  middle  of  the  battle  one 
of  the  peasants  took  a  flageolet  from  his 
pocket,  and,  in  derision,  began  to  play  ga  ira^ 
as  he  advanced  against  the  enemy.  A  can- 
non-ball struck  off  his  horse's  head,  and 
brought  him  to  the  ground ;  but  he  drew  his 
leg  from  the  dead  animal,  and  marched  for- 
ward on  foot,  without  discontinuing  his  music. 
One  other  picture  of  detail  will  give  an  idea 
of  the  extraordinary  sort  of  warfare  in  which 
the  country  was  then  engaged.  Westermann 
was  beat  out  of  Chatillon,  and  pursued  to 
some  distance  }  but  finding  that  the  insurgent 
forces  were  withdrawn,  he  bethought  himself 
of  recovering  the  place  by  a  coup  de  main. 
He  mounted  an  hundred  grenadiers  behind 
an  hundred  picked  hussars,  and  sent  them  at 
midnight  into  the  city.  The  peasants,  as 
usual,  had  no  outposts,  and  were  scattered 
about  the  streets,  overcome  with  fatigue  and 
brandy.  However,  they  made  a  stout  and 
bloody  resistance.  One  active  fellow  received 
twelve  sabre  wounds  on  the  same  spot ;  an- 
other, after  killing  a  hussar,  took  up  his 
wounded  brother  in  his  arms,  placed  him  on 
the  horse,  and  sent  him  out  of  the  city ; — 
then  returned  to  the  combat ;  killed  another 
hussar,  and  mounted  himself  on  the  prize. 
The  republicans,  irritated  at  the  resistance 
they  experienced,  butchered   all  that  came 


across  them  in  that  night  of  confusi 


All 


order  or  discipline  was  lost  in  the  darkness ; 
and  they  hacked  and  fired  at  each  other,  or 
wrestled  and  fell,  man  to  man,  as  they  chanced 
to  meet,  and  often  without  being  able  to  dis- 
tinguish friend  from  foe. — An  eminent  leader 
of  the  insurrection  was  trampled  under  foot 
by  a  party  of  the  republicans,  who  rushed  past 
him  to  massacre  the  whole  family  where  he 
lodged,  who  were  all  zealous  republicans. — 
The  town  was  set  on  fire  in  fifty  places, — and 
was  at  last  evacuated  by  both  parties,  in  mu- 
tual fear  and  ignorance  of  the  force  to  which 
they  were  opposed.  When  the  day  dawned, 
however,  it  was  finally  reoccupied  by  the  in- 
surgents. 

After  some  more  successes,  the  insurgent 
chiefs  found  their  armies  sorely  reduced,  and 
their  enemies  perpetually  increasing  in  force 
and  numbers.  M.  de  la  Charette,  upon  some 
misunderstanding,  withdrew  his  corps ;  and 
all  who  looked  beyond  the  present  moment, 
could  not  fail  to  perceive,  that  disasters  of  the 
most  fatal  nature  were  almost  inevitably  ap- 
proaching. A  dreadful  disaster,  at  all  events, 
now  fell  on  their  fair  historian.  M.  de  L.  in 
rallying  a  party  of  his  men  near  Tremblaye, 
was  struck  with  a  musket  ball  on  the  eye- 
brow, and  instantly  fell  senseless  to  the  ground. 
He  was  not  dead,  however ;  and  was  with  diffi- 
culty borne  through  the  rout  which  was  the 
immediate  consequence  of  his  fall.  His  wife, 
entirely  ignorant  of  what  had  happened,  was 
forced  to  move  along  with  the  retreating  army; 
and  in  a  miserable  little  village  was  called,  at 
midnight,  from  her  bed  of  straw,  to  hear  mass 
performed  to  the  soldiers  by  whom  she  was 
surrounded.  The  solemn  ceremony  was  in- 
rerrupted  by  the  approaching  thunder  of  ar- 
tiUory,  and  the  perpetual  arrival  of  fugitive 


and  tumultuary  parties,  with  tidings  of  eril 
omen.  Nobody  had  the  courage  to  tell  thia 
unfortunate  woman  the  calamity  that  had  be- 
fallen her,  though  the  priest  awakened  a  vague 
alarm  by  solemn  encomiums  on  the  piety  of 
M.  de  L.,  and  the  necessity  of  resignation  to 
the  will  of  Heaven.  Next  night  she  found 
him  at  Cherdron,  scarcely  able  to  move  or  to 
articulate, — but  sufl^'ering  more  from  the  idea 
of  her  having  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the 
enemy,  than  from  his  own  disasters. 

The  last  great  battle  was  fought  near  Choi- 
let,  \vhen  the  insurgents,  after  a  furious  and 
sang-uinary  resistance,  were  at  last  borne  down 
by  the  multitude  of  their  opponents,  and 
driven  down  into  the  low  country  on  the  banks 
of  the  Loire.  M.  de  Bonchamp,  who  had 
always  held  out  the  policy  of  crossing  this 
river,  and  the  advantages  to  be  derived  from 
uniting  themselves  to  the  royalists  of  Brittany, 
was  mortally  wounded  in  this  battle  y  but  his 
counsels  still  influenced  their  proceedings  m 
this  emergency ;  and  not  only  the  whole  de- 
bris and  wreck  of  the  army,  but  a  great  pro- 
portion of  the  men  and  women  and  children 
of  the  country,  flying  in  consternation  from 
the  burnings  and  butchfery  of  the  government 
forces,  flocked  down  in  agony  and  despair  to 
the  banks  of  this  great  river.  On  gaining  the 
heights  of  St.  Florent,  one  of  the  most  moum- 
ful,  and  at  the  same  time  most  magnificent 
spectacles,  burst  upon  the  eye.  Those  heights 
form  a  vast  semicircle  ',  at  the  bottom  of  which 
a  broad  bare  plain  extends  to  the  edge  of  the 
water.  Near  an  hundred  thousand  unhappy 
souls  now  blackened  over  that  dreary  expanse, 
— old  men,  infants,  and  women  mingled  witii 
the  half-armed  soldiery,  caravans,  crowded 
baggage  waggons  and  teams  of  oxen,  all  full 
of  despair,  impatience,  anxiety,  and  terror. — 
Behind,  were  the  smokes  of  their  burning 
villages,  and  the  thunder  of  the  hostile  artil- 
lery ; — ^before,  the  broad  stream  of  the  Loire, 
divided  by  a  long  low  island,  also  covered 
with  the  fugitives — twenty  frail  barks  plying 
in  the  stream — and,  on  the  far  banks,  the 
disorderly  movements  of  those  who  had  ef- 
fected the  passage,  and  were  waiting  there  to 
be  rejoined  by  their  companions.  Sueh,  Ma- 
dame de  L.  assures  us,  was  the  tumult  and 
terrror  of  the  scene,  and  so  awful  the  recol- 
lections it  inspired,  that  it  can  never  be  effaced 
from  the  memory  of  any  of  those  who  beheld 
it ;  and  that  many  of  its  awe-struck  specta- 
tors have  concurred  in  stating  that  it  brought 
forcibly  to  their  imaginations  the  unspeakable 
terrors  of  the  great  day  of  Judgment !  Through 
this  dismayed  and  bewildered  multitude,  the 
disconsolate  family  of  their  gallant  general 
made  their  way  silently  to  the  shore; — M.  de 
L.  stretched,  almost  insensible,  on  a  wretched 
litter, — his  wife,  three  months  gone  with  child, 
walking  by  his  side, — and,  behind  her,  her 
faithful  nurse,  with  her  helpless  and  astonish- 
ed infant  in  her  arms.  When  they  arrived 
on  the  beach,  they  with  difficulty  got  a  crazy 
boat  to  carry  them  to  the  island ;  but  the  aged 
monk  who  steered  it  would  not  venture  to 
cross  the  larger  branch  of  the  stream, — and 
the  poor  wounded  man  was  obliged  to  submit 


MEMOIRS  OF  MADAME  DE  LAROCHEJAQUELEIJS. 


245 


K:  the  agony  of  another  removal.  At  length, 
they  were  landed  on  the  opposite  bank ;  where 
wretchedness  and  desolation  appeared  still 
more  conspicuous.  Thousands  of  helpless 
wretches  were  lying  on.  the  grassy  shore,  or 
roaming  about  in  search  of  the  friends  from 
whom,  they  had  been  divided.  There  M'^as  a 
General  complaint  of  cold  and  hunger  •  and  iio- 
Dody  in  a  condition  to  give  any  directions,  or 
administer  any  relief.  M.  de  L.  suffered  excru- 
ciating pain  from  the  piercing  air  which  blew 
upon  his  feverish  frame; — the  poor  infant 
screamed  for  food,  and  the  helpless  mother 
was  left  to  minister  to  both ; — while  her  at- 
tendant went  among  the  burnt  and  ruined 
villages,  to  seek  a  drop  of  milk  for  the  baby. 
At  length  they  got  again  in  motion  for  the 
adjoining  village  of  Varades, — M.  de  L.,  borne 
in  a  sort  of  chair  upon  the  pikes  of  his  soldiers, 
with  his  wife  and  the  maid-servant  walking 
before  him,  and  supporting  his  legs,  wrapped 
up  in  their  cloaks.  With  great  difficulty  they 
procured  a  little  room,  in  a  cottage  swarming 
with  soldiers, — most  of  them  famishing  for 
want  of  food,  and  yet  still  so  mindful  of  the 
rights  of  their  neighbours,  that  they  would 
not  take  a  few  potatoes  from  the  garden  of 
the  cottage,  till  Madame  de  L.  had  obtained 
leave  of  the  proprietor. 

M.  de  Bonchamp  died  as  they  were  taking 
him  out  of  the  boat  ]  and  it  became  necessary 
to  elect  another  commander.  M.  de  L.  roused 
himself  to  recommend  Henri  de  Larocheja- 
quelein ;  and  he  was  immediately  appointed. 
When  the  election  was  announced  to  him,  M. 
de  L.  desired  to  see  and  congratulate  his 
valiant  cousili.  He  was  already  weeping- 
over  him  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  room ;  and 
now  came  to  express  his  hopes  that  he  should 
soon  be  superseded  by  his  recovery.  "No," 
said  M.  de  L.,  "that  I  believe  is  out  of  the 
question:  But  even  if  I  were  to  recover, 
I  should  never  take  the  place  you  have 
now  obtained,  and  should  be  proud  to  serve 
as  your  aid-de-camp."  —  The  day  after, 
they  advanced  towards  Rennes.  M.  de  L. 
could  find  no  other  conveyance  than  a  bag- 
gage-waggon; at  every  jolt  of  which  he 
suffered  such  anguish,  as  to  draw  forth  the 
most  piercing  shrieks  even  from  his  manly 
bosom.  After  some  time,  an  old  chaise  was 
discovered :  a  piece  of  artillery  was  thrown 
away  to  supply  it  with  horses,  and  the 
wounded  general  was  laid  in  it, — his  head 
being  supported  in  the  lap  of  Agatha,  his 
mother's  faithful  waiting-woman,  and  now 
the  only  attendant  of  his  wife  and  infant. 
In  three  painful  days  they  reached  Laval ; — 
Madame  de  L.  frequently  suffering  from 
absolute  want,  and  sometimes  getting  noth- 
ing to  eat  the  whole  day,  but  one  or  two  sour 
apples.  M.  de  L.  was  nearly  insensible  du- 
ring the  whole  journey.  He  was  roused  but 
once,  when  there  was  a  report  that  a  party 
of  the  enemy  were  in  sight.  He  then  called 
for  his  musket,  and  attempted  to  get  out  of 
the  carriage ; — addressed  exhortations  and  re- 
proaches to  the  troops  that  were  flying  around 
him,  and  would  not  rest  till  an  officer  in  whom 
he  had  confidence  came  up  and  restored  some 


order  to  the  detachment. — The  alarm  turned 
out  to  be  a  false  one. 

At  Laval  they  halted  for  seveml  days ;  and 
he  Mas  so  much  recruited  by  the  repose,  that 
he  was  able  to  get  for  half  an  hour  on  horse- 
back, and  seemed  to  be  fairly  in  the  way 
of  recovery;  when  his  excessive  zeal,  and 
anxiety  for  the  good  behaviour  of  the  troops, 
tempted  him  to  premature  exertions,  from  the 
consequences  of  which  he  never  afterwards 
recovered.  The  troops  being  all  collected 
and  refreshed  at  Laval,  it  was  resolved  to 
turn  upon  their  pursuers,  and  give  battle  to 
the  advancing  army  of  the  republic.  The 
conflict  was  sanguinary;  but  ended  most 
decidedly  in  favour  of  the  Vendeans.  The 
first  encounter  was  in  the  night, — and  was 
characterized  with  more  than  the  usual  con- 
fusion of  night  attacks.  The  two  armies 
crossed  each  other  in  so  extraordinary  a 
manner,  that  the  artillery  of  each  was  sup- 
plied, for  a  part  of  the  battle,  from  the  cais- 
sons of  the  enemy;  and  one  of  the  Vendean 
leaders,  after  exposing  himself  to  great  hazard 
in  helping  a  brother  officer,  as  he  took  him  to 
be,  out  of  a  ditch,  discovered,  by  the  next  flash 
of  the  cannon,  that  he  was  an  enemy — and 
immediately  cut  him  down.  After  daybreak, 
the  battle  became  more  orderly,  and  ended  m 
a  complete  victory.  This  was  the  last  grand 
crisis  of  the  insurrection.  The  way  to  La 
Vendee  was  once  more  open ;  and  the  fugi- 
tives had  it  in  their  power  to  return  triumphant 
to  their  fastnesses  and  their  homes,  after  rous- 
ing Brittany  by  the  example  of  their  valour 
and  success.  M.  de  L.  and  Henri  both  inclined 
to  this  course;  bat  other  counsels  prevailed, 
Some  were  for  marching  on  to  Nantes — others 
for  proceeding  to  Rennes — and  some,  more 
sanguine  than  the  rest,  for  pushing  directly 
for  Paris.  Time  was  irretrievably  lost  in  these 
deliberations ;  and  the  republicans  had  leisure 
to  rally,  and  bring  up  their  reinforcements, 
before  any  thing  was  definitively  settled. 

In  the  meantime,  M.  de  L.  became  visibly 
worse  ;  and  one  morning,  when  his  wife  alone 
was  in  the  room,  he  called  her  to  him,  and 
told  her  that  he  felt  his  death  was  at  hand  , 
— that  his  only  regret  was  for  leaving  her 
in  the  midst  of  such  a  war,  with  a  helpless 
child,  and  in  a  state  of  pregnancy.  For  him- 
self, he  added,  he  died  happy,  and  with 
humble  reliance  on  the  Divine  mercy; — but 
her  sorrow  he  could  not  bear  to  think  of ; — 
and  he  entreated  her  pardon  for  any  neglect 
or  unkindness  he  might  ever  have  shown  her. 
He  added  many  other  expressions  of  tender- 
ness and  consolation ;  and  seeing  her  over- 
whelmed  with  anguish  at  the  despairing  tone 
in  which  he  spoke,  concluded  by  saying,  that 
he  might  perhaps  be  mistaken  in  his  prog- 
nosis;— and  hoped  still  to  live  for  her.  Next 
day  they  were  under  the  necessity  of  moving 
forward;  and,  on  the  journey,  he  learned 
accidentally  from  one  of  the  officers,  ihe 
dreadful  details  of  the  Queen's  execution, 
which  his  wife  had  been  at  great  pains  to 
keep  from  his  knowledge.  This  intelligence 
seemed  to  bring  back  his  fever — though  he 
still  spoke  of  livinp-  to  avenge  her — "If  1  dc 


246 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


live,"  he  said,  •'  it  shall  now  be  for  vengeance 
enly — no  more  mercy  from  me  !" — That 
evening,  Madame  de  L.,  entirely  overcome 
with  anxiety  and  fatigue,  had  fallen  into  a 
deep  sleep  on  a  mat  before  his  bed : — And 
soon  after,  his  condition  became  altogether 
desperate.  He  was  now  speechless,  and 
nearly  insensible ; — the  sacraments  w^ere  ad- 
ministered, and  various  applications  made 
without  awaking  the  unhappy  sleeper  by  his 
side.  Soon  after  midnight,  however,  she 
started  up,  and  instantly  became  aware  of 
the  full  extent  of  her  misery.  To  fill  up 
its  measure,  it  was  announced  in  the  course 
of  the  morning,  that  they  must  immediately 
resume  their  march  with  the  last  division  of 
the  army.  The  thing  appeared  altogether 
impossible;  Madame  de  L.  declared  she 
would  rather  die  by  the  hands  of  the  re- 
publicans, than  permit  her  husband  to  be 
moved  in  the  condition  in  which  he  then 
was.  When  she  recollected,  however,  that 
these  barbarous  enemies  had  of  late  not  only 
butchered  the  wounded  that  fell  into  their 
power,  but  mutilated  and  insulted  their  re- 
mains, she  submitted  to  the  alternative,  and 
prepared  for  this  miserable  journey  with  a 
heart  bursting  with  anguish.  The  dying  man 
was  roused  only  to  heavy  moanings  by  the 
pain  of  lifting  him  into  the  carriage, — where 
his  faithful  Agatha  again  supported  his  head, 
and  a  surgjeon  watched  all  the  changes  in 
his  condition.  Madame  de  L.  was  placed 
on  horseback  ]  and,  surrounded  by  her  father 
and  mother,  and  a  number  of  officers,  went 
forward,  scarcely  conscious  of  any  thing  that 
was  passing — only  that  sometimes,  in  the 
bitterness  of  her  heart,  when  she  saw  the 
dead  bodies  of  the  rep:cblican  soldiers  on 
the  road,  she  made  her  horse  trample  upon 
them,  as  if  in  vengeance  for  the  slaughter  of 
her  husband.  In  the  course  of  little  more 
than  an  hour,  she  thought  she  heard  some 
little  stir  in  the  carriage,  and  insisted  on  stop- 
ping to  inquire  into  the  cause.  The  officers, 
however,  crowded  around  her ;  and  then  her 
father  came  up  and  said  that  M.  de  L.  was 
in  the  same  state  as  before,  but  that  he  suf- 
fered dreadfully  from  the  cold,  and  would 
be  very  much  distressed  if  the  door  was  again 
to  be  opened.  Obliged  to  be  satisfied  with  this 
answer,  she  went  on  in  sullen  and  gloomy 
silence  for  some  hours  longer  in  a  dark  and 
rainy  day  of  November.  It  was  night  when 
they  reached  the  town  of  Fougeres;  and, 
when  lifted  from  her  horse  at  the  gate,  she 
was  unable  either  to  stand  or  walk : — she 
was  carried  into  a  wretched  house,  crowded 
with  troops  of  all  descriptions,  where  she 
waited  two  hours  in  agony  till  she  heard  that 
the  carriage  with  M.  de  L.  was  come  up. 
She  was  left  alone  for  a  dreadful  moment 
with  her  mother ;  and  then  M.  de  Beauvol- 
liers  came  in,  bathed  in  tears, — and  taking 
both  her  hands,  told  her  she  must  now  think 
only  of  saving  the  child  she  carried  within 
her !  Her  husband  had  expired  when  she 
keard  the  noise  in  the  carriage,  soon  after 
their  setting  out — and  the  surgeon  had  ac- 
cordingly left  it  as  soon  as  the  order  of  the 


march  had  carried  her  ahead ;  but  the  faith- 
ful Agatha,  fearful  lest  her  appearance  migh* 
alarm  her  mistress  in  the  midst  of  the  jour 
ney,  had  remained  alone  with  the  dead  body 
for  all  the  rest  of  the  day  !  Fatigue,  grief, 
and  anguish  of  mind,  now  threatened  Madame 
de  L.  with  consequences  which  it  seems  al- 
together miraculous  that  she  should  have 
escaped.  She  was  seized  with  violent  pains, 
and  was  threatened  with  a  miscarriage  in  a 
room  which  served  as  a  common  passage  to 
the  crowded  and  miserable  lodging  she  had 
procured.  It  was  thought  necessary  to  bleed 
her — and,  after  some  difficulty,  a  surgeon 
was  procured.  She  can  never  forget,  she 
says,  the  formidable  apparition  of  this  warlike 
phlebotomist.  A  figure  six  feet  high,  with 
ferocious  whiskers,  a  great  sabre  at  his  side, 
and  four  huge  pistols  in  his  belt,  stalked  up 
with  a  fierce  and  careless  air  to  her  bed-side ; 
and  when  she  said  she  was  timid  about  the 
operation,  answered  harshly,  "  So  am  not  I — 
I  have  killed  three  hundred  men  and  upwards 
in  the  field  in  my  time — one  of  them  only  this 
morning — I  think  then  I  may  venture  to 
bleed  a  woman— Come,  come,  let  us  see  your 
arm."  She  was  bled  accordingly — and,  con- 
trary to  all  expectation,  was  pretty  well  again 
in  the  morning.  She  insisted  for  a  long  time 
in  carrying  the  body  of  her  husband,  in  the 
carriage  along  with  her ; — but  her  father, 
after  indulging  her  for  a  few  days,  contrived 
to  fall  behind  with  this  precious  deposit,  and 
informed  her  w^hen  he  came  up  again,  that  it 
had  been  found  necessary  to  bury  it  privately 
in  a  spot  which  he  would  not  specify. 

This  abstract  has  grown  to  such  a  bulk  that 
we  find  we  cannot  afford  to  continue  it  on  the 
same  scale.  Nor  is  this  very  necessary;  for 
though  there  is  more  than  a  third  part  of  the 
book,  of  which  we  have  given  no  account — 
and  that,  to  those  who  have  a  taste  for  tales 
of  sorrow,  the  most  interesting  portion  of  it — 
we  believe  that  most  readers  will  think  they 
have  had  enough  of  La  Vendee  ;  and  that  all 
will  now  be  in  a  condition  to  judge  of  the 
degree  of  interest  or  amusement  which  the 
work  is  likely  to  afford  them.  We  shall  add, 
however,  a  brief  sketch  of  the  rest  of  its  con- 
tents.— After  a  series  of  murderous  battles,  to 
which  the  mutual  refusal  of  quarter  gave  an 
exasperation  unknown  in  any  other  history, 
and  which  left  the  field  so  cumbered  with 
dead  bodies  that  Madame  de  L.  assures  us 
that  it  was  dreadful  to  feel  the  lifting  of  the 
wheels,  and  the  cracking  of  the  bones,  as  her 
heavy  carriage  passed  over  them, — the  wreck 
of  the  Vendeans  succeeded  in  reaching  An- 
gers upon  the  Loire,  and  trusted  to  a  furious 
assault  upon  that  place  for  the  means  of  re- 
passing the  river,  and  regaining  their  beloved 
country.  The  garrison,  however,  proved 
stronger  and  more  resolute  than  they  had 
expected.  Their  own  gay  and  enthusiastic 
courage  had  sunk  under  a  long  course  of 
suffering  and  disaster;  and,  after  losing  a 
great  number  of  men  before  the  walls,  they 
were  obliged  to  turn  back  in  confusion,  they 
did  not  well  know  whither,  but  farther  and 
farther  from  the  land  to  which  all  their  hojjes 


MEMOIRS  OF  MADAME  DE  LAROCHEJAQUELEIN. 


24 


n/id  wishes  were  directed.  In  the  tumult  of 
tlus  retreat,  Madame  de  L.  lost  sight  of  her 
venera])le  aunt,  who  had  hitherto  been  the 
mild  and  patient  companion  of  their  wander- 
ings: and  learned  afterwards  that  she  had 
fallen  nito  the  hands  of  the  enemy,  and,  at 
the  age  of  eighty,  been  publicly  executed  at 
Rennes,  for  the  crime  of  rebellion  !  At  Fou- 
geres,  at  Laval,  at  Dol,  and  Savenay,  the 
dwindled  force  of  the  insurgents  had  to  £us- 
ta'n  new  attacks  from  their  indefatigable  pur- 
suers, in  which  the  officers  and  most  of  the 
soldiery  g-ave  still  more  extraordinary  proofs, 
than  any  we  have  yet  recorded,  of  undaunted 
valour,  and  constancy  worthy  of  better  for- 
tune. The  weather  was  now,  in  the  latter 
end  of  November,  extremely  cold  and  rainy  • 
the  roads  almost  impassable  ',  and  provisions 
very  scarce.  Often,  after  a  march  of  ten 
hours,  Madame  de  L.  has  been  obliged  to 
fish  for  a  few  cold  potatoes  in  the  bottom  of 
a  dirty  cauldron,  filled  with  greasy  water,  and 
polluted  by  the  hands  of  half  the  army.  Her 
child  sickened  from  its  teething,  and  insuffi- 
cient nourishment;  and  every  day  she  wit- 
nessed the  death  of  some  of  those  gallant 
leaders  whom  the  spring  had  seen  assembled 
in  her  halls  in  all  the  flush  of  youthful  confi- 
dence and  glory.  After  many  a  weary  march, 
and  desperate  struggle,  about  ten  thousand 
sad  survivors  got  ag-ain  to  the  banks  of  that 
fatal  Loire,  which  now  seemed  to  divide  them 
from  hope  and  protection.  Henri,  M^ho  had 
arranged  the  whole  operation  with  consum- 
mate judgment,  found  the  shores  on  both  sides 
free  of  the  enemy: — But  all  the  boats  had 
l)een  removed ;  and,  after  leaving  orders  to 
t.onstruct  rafts  with  all  possible  despatch,  he 
himself,  with  a  few  attendants,  ventured  over 
in  a  little  wherry,  which  he  had  brought  with 
him  on  a  cart,  to  make  arrangements  for 
covering  their  landing.  But  they  never  saw 
the  daring  Henri  again  !  The  vigilant  enemy 
came  down  upon  them  at  this  critical  moment 
-  -intercepted  his  return — and,  stationing  seve- 
ral armed  vessels  in  the  stream,  rendered  the 
passage  of  the  army  altogether  impossible. 
They  fell  back  in  despair  upon  Savenay ;  and 
there  the  brave  and  indefatigable  Marigny 
told  Madame  de  L.  that  all  was  now  over — 
that  it  was  altogether  impossible  to  resist  the 
attack  that  w^ould  be  made  next  day — and 
advised  her  to  seek  her  safety  in  flight  and 
disguise,  without  the  loss  of  an  instant.  She 
set  out  accordingly,  with  her  mother,  in  a 
gloomy  day  of  December,  under  the  conduct 
of  a  drunken  peasant ;  and,  after  being  out 
most  of  the  night,  at  length  obtained  shelter 
in  a  dirty  farm  house. — from  which,  in  the 
course  of  the  day,  she  had  the  misery  of  see- 
ing her  unfortunate  countrymen  scattered  over 
the  whole  open  country,  chased  and  butchered 
without  mercy  by  the  repubhcans,  who  now 
took  a  final  vengeance  for  all  the  losses  they 
had  sustained.  She  had  long  been  clothed 
in  shreds  and  patches,  and  needed  no  disguise 
to  conceal  her  quality.  She  was  sometimes 
hidden  in  the  mill,  when  the  troopers  came 
to  search  for  fugitives  in  her  lonely  retreat ; 
—and  oftener  sent,  in  the  midst  of  winter,  to 


herd  the  sheep  or  cattle  of  her  failhfnl  anti 
compassionate  host,  along  with  his  lawboned 
daughter. 

In  this  situation  they  remained  till  late  in 
the  following  spring ; — and  it  would  be  end- 
less to  enumerate  the  hairbreadth  'scapes  and 
unparalleled  sufferings  to  which  they  weie 
every  day  exposed — reduced  frequently  to 
live  upon  alms,  and  forced  every  two  or  three 
days  to  shift  their  quarters,  in  the  middle  of 
the  night,  from  one  royalist  cabin  to  another. 
Such  was  the  long-continued  and  vindictive 
rigour  of  the  republican  party,  that  the  most 
eager  and  unrelaxing  search  was  made  for 
fugitives  of  all  descriptions  •  and  every  ad- 
herent of  the  insurgent  faction  who  fell  into 
their  hands  was  barbarously  murdered,  with- 
out the  least  regard  to  age,  sex,  or  individual 
mnocence  !  While  skulking  about  in  this 
state  of  peril  and  desolation,  they  had  glimpses 
and  occasional  rencounters  with  some  of  their 
former  companions,  whom  similar  misfortunes 
had  driven  upon  similar  schemes  of  conceal- 
ment. In  particular,  they  twice  saw  the 
daring  and  unsubduable  M.  de  Marigny,  who 
had  wandered  over  the  whole  country  from 
Angers  to  Nantes;  and  notwithstanding  his 
gigantic  form  and  remarkable  features,  had 
contrived  so  to  disg-uise  himself  as  to  elude 
all  detection  or  pursuit.  He  could  counterfeit 
all  ages  and  dialects,  and  speak  in  perfection 
the  patois  of  every  village.  He  now  appeared 
before  them  in  the  character  of  an  itinerant 
dealer  in  poultry ;  and  retired  unsuspected  by 
all  but  themselves.  In  this  wretched  condi- 
tion, the  term  of  Madame  de  L.'s  confinement 
drew  on:  and,  after  a  thousand  frights  and 
disasters,  she  was  delivered  of  two  daughters, 
without  any  other  assistance  than  that  of  hei 
mother.  One  of  the  infants  had  its  wrist  dis- 
located ;  and  so  subdued  was  the  poor  mother's 
mind  to  the  level  of  her  fallen  fortunes,  that 
she  had  now  no  other  anxiety,  than  that  she 
might  recover  strength  enough  to  carry  it 
herself  to  the  waters  of  Bareges,  which  she 
fancied  might  be  of  service  to  it ; — but  the 
poor  baby  died  within  a  fortnight  after  it  was 
born. 

Towards  the  end  of  1794,  their  lot  was 
somewhat  softened  by  the  compassionate 
kindness  of  a  Madame  Dumoutiers,  who  ofi'er- 
ed  them  an  asylum  in  her  house ;  in  which, 
though  still  liable  to  the  searches  of  the  blood- 
hounds of  the  municipality,  they  had  more 
assistance  in  eluding  them,  and  less  misery 
to  endure  in  the  intervals.  The  whole  liis- 
tory  of  their  escapes  would  make  the  adven- 
tures of  Caleb  Williams  appear  a  cold  and 
barren  chronicle ;  but  we  have  room  only  tc 
mention,  that  after  the  death  of  Robespierre, 
there  was  a  great  abatement  in  the  rigour  of 
pursuit ;  and  that  a  general  amnesty  was 
speedily  proclaimed,  for  all  who  had  been 
concerned  in  the  insurrection.  After  several 
inward  struggles  with  pride  and  principle, 
Madame  de  L,  was  prevailed  on  to  repair  to 
Nantes,  to  avail  herself  of  this  amnesty ; — but, 
first  of  all,  she  rode  in  to  reconnoitre,  and  con- 
sult M'ith  some  friends  of  her  hostess;  and 
proceeded  boldly  through  the  hostile  city,  in 


249 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


the  dress  of  a  peasant,  with  a  sack  at  her  back, 
and  a  pair  of  fowls  in  her  hands.  She  found 
that  the  tone  was  now  to  flatter  and  conciKate 
the  insurgents  by  all  sorts  of  civilities  and 
compliments;  and  after  some  time,  she  and 
ner  mother  applied  for,  and  obtained,  a  full 
pardon  for  all  their  ofl'ences  against  the  Re- 
publican government. 

This  amnesty  drew  back  to  light  many 
of  her  former  friends,  who  had  been  univer- 
sally supposed  to  be  dead;  and  proved,  by 
the  prodigious  numbers  whom  it  brought  from 
their  hiding-places  in  the  neighbourhood,  how 
generally  the  lower  orders  were  attached  to 
their  cause,  or  how  universal  the  virtues  of 
compassion  and  fidelity  to  confiding  misery 
are  in  the  national  character.  It  also  brought 
to  the  writer's  knowledge  many  shocking 
particulars  of  the  cruel  executions  which  so 
long  polluted  that  devoted  city.  We  m.ay  give 
a  few  of  the  instances  in  her  own  words,  as  a 
specimen  of  her  manner  of  writing ;  to  which, 
in  our  anxiety  to  condense  the  information  she 
affords  us,  we  have  paid  perhaps  too  little 
attention. 

"  Madame  de  Jourdain  fut  menee  sur  la  Loire, 
pour  etre  noyee  avec  ses  trois  filies.  Un  soldat 
voulut  sauver  la  plus  jeune,  qui  etait  fort  belle. 
EUe  se  jeta  a  I'eau  pour  partager  le  sort  de  sa  mere. 
La  malheureuse  enfant  tomba  sur  des  cadavres,  et 
n'enfonga  point.  EUe  criait :  Poussez-moi,  je  n'ai 
pas  assez  d'eau  !  et  elle  perit. 

"Mademoiselle  de  Cuissard,  agee  de  seize  ans, 
qui  etait  plus  belle  encore,  s'attira  aussi  le  meme 
interet  d'unofficierqui  passa  trois  heures  a  ses  pieds, 
la  suppliant  de  se  laisser  sauver.  Elle  etait  avec 
une  vielle  parente  que  cet  homme  ne  voulait  pas  se 
risquer  a  derober  au  supplice.  Mademoiselle  de 
Cuissard  se  precipita  dans  la  Loire  avec  elle. 

"  Une  mort  affreuse  fut  celle  de  Mademoiselle  de 
la  Roche  St.  Andre.  EUe  etait  grosse  :  on  rcpargna. 
On  lui  laissa  nourrir  son  enfant ;  mais  il  mourut, 
et  on  la  fit  perir  le  lendemain  !  Au  reste,  il  ne  faut 
pas  croire  que  toutes  les  femmes  enceintes  fussent 
respectees.  Cela  etait  meme  fort  rare  ;  plus  com- 
munement  les  soldats  massacraient  femmes  et  en- 
fants.  II  n'y  avait  que  devant  les  tribunaux,  ou  Ton 
observait  ces  exceptions  ;  et  on  y  laissait  aux  femmes 
le  temps  de  nourrir  leurs  enfants,  comme  etant  une 
obligation  rtpuhlicaine.  C'est  en  quoi  consistart 
I'humaniie  des  gens  d'alors. 

"Ma  pauvre  Agathe  avait  couru  de  bien  grands 
dangers.  Elle  m'avait  quitte  a  Nort,  pour  profiter 
de  cette  amnistie  pretendue,  dont  on  avait  parle  dans 
ce  moment.  Elle  vint  a  Nantes,  et  fut  conduite 
devant  le  general  Lamberty,  le  plus  feroce  des  amis 
de  Carrier.  La  figure  d'Agatlie  lui  plait :  '  As-tu 
peur,  brigande  ?'  lui  dit-il.  '  Non,  general,'  rcpondit- 
elle.  '  He  bien!  quand  tu  auras  peur,  souviens-toi 
de  Lamberty,'  ajouta-t-il.  Elle  fut  conduite  a 
I'entrepot.  C'est  la  trop  fameuse^  prison  ou  Ton 
entassoit  les  victimes  destinees  a  ctre  noyees. 
Chaque  null  on  venait  en  prendre  par  centaines, 
pour  les  mettre  sur  les  bateaux.  La,  on  liait  les 
malheureux  deux  a  deux,  et  on  les  poussait  dans 
I'eau,  a  coups  de  ba'ionnette.  On  saisissait  indis- 
tinctenient  tout  ce  qui  se  trouvait  a  I'entrepot ; 
tellement  qu'on  noya  un  jour  I'etat  major  d'une 
corvette  Anglaise,  qui  etait  prisonnier  de  euerre. 
Uhq  autre  fois,  Carrier,  voulant  donner  un  exemplc 
de  I'austeritedes  mcRursrepublicaines,  fit  enfermor 
trois  cents  filies  publiques  de  la  ville,  et  les  tnal- 
heureuses  creatures  furent  noyees!  Enfin,  Ton 
estime  qu'il  a  peri  a  I'entrepot  quinze  mille  per- 
Bonnes  en  un  mois.  II  est  vrai  qu'outre  les  supplices, 
la  misere  et  la  maladie  ravageaient  les  prisontiiors, 
qui  etaient  presses  sur  ia  paille,  el  qui  ne  recevaient 


aucun  soin.  A  peine  les  conn'aissait-on.  Le» 
cadavres  restaient  quelquefois  plus  d'un  jour  sana 
qu'on  vint  les  emporter. 

"  Agathe  ne  doutant  plus  d'une  mort  prochaine, 
envoya  chercher  Lamberty.  II  la  conduisit  dans  un 
petit  bailment  a  soupape,  dans  lequel  on  avait  noye 
les  pretres,  et  que  Carrier  lui  avait  donne.  II  etait 
seui  avec  elle,  et  voulut  en  profiter:  elle  resista. 
Lamberty  la  mena9a  de  la  noyer :  elle  courut  pour 
se  Jeter  elle-meme  a  I'eau.  Alors  cet  homme  lui 
dit :  AUons  I  tu  es  une  brave  fiUe,  je  te  sauverai. 
II  la  laissa  huit  jours  seule  dans  le  batiment,  ou  elle 
entendait  les  noyades  qui  se  faisaient  la  nuit ;  ensuite 
il  la  cacha  chez  un  nommf'  S  *  *  *,  qui  etait,  com- 
me lui,  un  fidele  exccuteur  des  ordres  de  Carrier. 

"  Quelque  temps  apres,  la  discorde  divisa  les  re* 
publicains  de  Nantes.  On  prit  le  pretexte  d'accuser 
Lamberty  d'avvoir  derobe  des  femmes  aux  noyades, 
et  d'en  avoir  noye  qui  ne  devaient  pas  I'etre.^  Un 
jeune  homme,  nomme  Robin,  qui  eiait  fort  devoue 
a  Lamberty,  vint  saisir  Agathe  chez  Madame  S***, 
la  traina  dans  le  bateau,  et  voulut  la  poignarder, 
pour  faire  disparaitre  une  preuve  du  crime  qu'on 
reprochait  a  son  patron.  Agathe  se  jeta  a  ses  pieds ; 
parvint  a  I'attendrir,  et  il  la  cacha  chez  un  de  ses 
amis,  nomme  Lavaux,  qui  etait  honneie  homme,  et 
qui  avait  deja  recueilli  Madame  de  I'Epinay:  mais 
on  sut  des  le  lendemain  I'asile  d' Agathe,  et  on  vint 
I'arreter. 

"  Ccpendant  le  parti  ennemi  de  Lamberty  con- 
tinuait  a  vouloir  le  detruire.  II  resulta  de  cette 
circonstance,  qu'on  jeta  de  I'interet  sur  Agathe. 
On  loua  S***  et  Lavaux  de  leur  humanite,  et  Ton 
parvint  a  faire  perir  Lamberty  !  Peu  apres  arriva  la 
mortde  Robespierre.  Agathe  resta  encore  quelquea 
mois  en  prison,  puis  obtint  sa  liberte." — Vol.  ii.  pp. 
171—175. 

When  the  means  of  hearing  of  her  friends 
w^ere  thus  suddenly  restored,  there  was  little 
to  hear  but  what  was  mournful.  Her  father 
had  taken  refuge  in  a  wood  with  a  small  party 
of  horsemen,  after  the  rout  of  Savenay,  and 
afterwards  collected  a  little  force,  with  which 
they  seized  on  the  town  of  Ancenis,  and  had 
nearly  forced  the  passage  of  the  Loire ;  but 
they  were  surrounded,  and  made  prisoners, 
and  all  shot  in  the  market-place  !  The  brave 
Henri  de  Larochejaquelein  had  gained  the 
north  bank  with  about  twenty  followers,  and 
wandered  many  days  over  the  burnt  and 
bloody  solitudes  of  the  once  happy  La  Vendee. 
Overcome  with  fatigue  and  hunger,  they  at 
last  reached  an  inhabited  farm-house,  and  fell 
fast  asleep  in  the  barn.  They  were  soon 
roused,  however,  by  the  news  that  a  party  of 
the  republicans  were  approaching  the  same 
house ;  but  were  so  worn  out,  that  they  Mould 
not  rise,  even  to  provide  against  that  extreme 
hazard.  The  party  accordingly  entered;  and 
being  almost  as  much  exhausted  as  the  others, 
threw  themselves  down,  without  asking  any 
questions,  at  the  other  end  of  the  barn,  and 
slept  quietly  beside  them.  Henri  ai'terwards 
found  out  M.  de  la  Charrette,  by  Mhom  he 
was  coldly,  and  even  rudely  received  ;  but  ho 
soon  raised  a  little  army  of  his  own,  and  be 
came  again  formidable  in  the  scenes  of  his 
first  successes : — till  one  day,  riding  a  little  in 
front  of  his  party,  he  fell  in  with  two  repub- 
lican soldiers,  upon  whom  his  followers  were 
about  to  fire,  when  he  said,  "  No,  no,  they 
shall  have  quarter;"  and  pushing  up  to  them, 
called  upon  them  to  surrender.  Without  say- 
ing a  word,  one  of  them  raised  his  piece,  and 
shot  him  right  through  the  forehead.    He  fell 


MEMOIRS  OF  MARGRAVINE  OF  BAREITK. 


24f 


ftt  (ince  dead  before  them,  and  was  buried  ' 
where  he  fell.  j 

"  Ainsi  perit,  a  vingt  et  un  ans,  Henri  de  la 
Rochejaquelein.  Encore  a  present,  quand  les  pay- 
eans  se  rappellent  I'ardeur  et  I'eelat  de  son  courage, 
sa  modestie,  sa  facilite,  et  ce  caractore  de  gucrrier, 
et  de  bon  enfant,  iis  parlent  de  lui  avee  fierte  et  avec 
amour.  II  n'est  pas  un  Vendeen  dont  on  ne  voie 
le  regard  s'aiiimer,  quand  il  raconte  comment  il  a 
servi  sous  M.  Henri." — V^ol.  ii.  pp.  187,  188. 

The  fate  of  the  gallant  Marigny  was  still 
more  deplorable.  He  joined  Charrette  and 
Stofliet ;  but  some  misunderstanding  having 
arisen  among  them  upon  a  point  of  discipline, 
they  look  the  rash  and  violent  step  of  bring- 
ing him  to  a  court-martial,  and  sentencing  him 
to  death  for  disobedience.  To  the  horror  of 
all  the  Vendeans,  and  the  great  joy  of  the  re-, 
publicans,  this  unjust  and  imprudent  sentence 
was  carried  into  execution;  and  the  cause  de- 
prived of  the  ablest  of  its  surviving  champions. 

When  they  had  gratified  their  curiosity  with 
these  melancholy  details,  Madame  de  L.  and 
her  mother  set  out  for  Bourdeaux,  and  from 
thence  to  Spain,  where  they  remained  for 
nearly  two  years — but  were  at  last  permitted 
to  return; — and,  upon  Bonaparte's  accession 
to  the  sovereignty,  were  even  restored  to  a 
great  part  of  their  possessions.  On  the  earnest 
entreaty  of  her  mother,  she  was  induced  at 
last  to  give  her  hand  to  Louis  de  Larochejaque- 
lein,  brother  to  the  g-allant  Henri — and  the  in- 
heritor of  his  principles  and  character.  This 
match  took  place  in  1802,  and  they  lived  in 
peaceful  retirement  till  the  late  movements 
for  the  restoration  of  the  house  of  Bourbon. 
The  notice  of  this  new  alliance  terminates  the 
original  Memoirs ;  but  there  is  a  supplement, 
containing  rather  a  curious  account  of  the  in- 
trigues and  communications  of  the  royalist 
party  in  Bourdeaux  and  the  South,  through 
the  whole  course  of  the  Revolution, — and  of 
the  proceedings  by  which  they  conceive  that 
they  accelerated  the  restoration  of  the  King  in 
1814.  It  may  not  be  uninteresting  to  add, 
that  since  the  book  was  pubhshed,  the  second 
husband  of  the  unfortunate  writer  fell  in  bat- 


tle in  the  same  cause  w.tich  proved  fatal  t«/ 
the  first,  during  the  short  period  of  Bonaparte'fi 
last  reign,  and  but  a  few-  days  before?  the  de- 
cisive battle  of  ^Vaterloo. 

We  have  not  left  room  now  for  any  general 
observations — and  there  is  no  need  of  them. 
The  book  is,  beyond  all  question,  extremely 
curious  and  interesting — and  we  really  have 
no  idea  that  any  reflections  of  ours  could  aj)- 
pear  half  so  much  so  as  the  abstract  we  have 
now  given  in  their  stead.  One  remark,  how- 
ever, we  shall  venture  to  make,  now  that  our 
abstract  is  done.  If  all  France  were  like  La 
Vendee  iu  1793,  we  shou.M  anticipate  nothing 
but  happiness  from  the  restoration  of  the 
Bourbons  and  of  the  old  government.  But  the 
very  fact  that  the  Vendeans  were  crushed  by 
the  rest  of  the  country,  proves  that  this  is  not 
the  case :  And  indeed  it  requires  but  a  mo- 
ment's reflection  to  perceive,  that  the  rest  of 
France  could  not  well  resemble  La  Vendee  in 
its  royalism,  unless  it  had  resembled  it  in 
the  other  peculiarities  upon  which  that  royal- 
ism was  founded — unless  it  had  all  it^  no- 
blesse  resident  on  their  estates;  and  living  in 
their  old  feudal  relations  with  a  simple  and 
agricultural  vassalage.  The  book  indeed 
show's  two  things  very  plainly, — and  both  ol 
them  well  worth  remembering.  In  the  first 
place,  that  there  may  be  a  great  deal  of  kind- 
ness and  good  aflTection  among  a  people  of 
insurgents  against  an  established  government ; 
— and,  secondly,  that  where  there  is  such  an 
aversion  to  a  government,  as  to  break  out  in 
spontaneous  insurrection,  it  is  impossible  en- 
tirely to  subdue  that  aversion,  either  by 
severity  or  forbearance — although  the  diff'er- 
ence  of  the  two  courses  of  policy  is,  that 
severity,  even  when  carried  to  the  savage  ex- 
tremity of  devastation  and  indiscriminate 
slaughter,  leads  only  to  the  adoption  of  sirnilar 
atrocities  in  return — while  forbearance  is  at 
least  rewarded  by  the  acquiescence  of  those 
who  are  conscious  of  weakness,  and  gives 
time  and  opportunity  for  those  mutual  conces- 
sions by  which  alone  contending  factions  or 
principles  can  ever  be  permanently  reconfiW 


(STorembcr,  1812.) 


lilsmoires  de  Frederique  Sophie  Wilhelmine  de  Prusse,  Margrave  de  Bareith,  Sccur  de  Fre- 
deric le  Grand.    Ecrits  de  sa  Main.    8vo.  2  tomes.    Brunswick,  Paris,  et  Londres:   1812. 


Philosophers  have  long  considered  it  as 
probable,  that  the  private  manners  of  absolute 
sovereigns  are  vulgar,  their  pleasures  low,  and 
their  dispositions  selfish; — that  the  two  ex- 
tremes of  life,  in  short,  approach  pretty  closely 
to  each  other;  and  that  the  Masters  of  man- 
kind, when  stripped  of  the  artificial  pomp  and 
magnificence  which  invests  them  in  public, 
resemble  nothing  so  nearly  as  the  meanest  of 
the  multitude.  The  ground  of  this  opinion 
is,  that  the  very  highest  and  the  very  lowest 
01  mankind  are  equally  beyond  the  influence 
«1  that  wholesome  control,  to  which  all  the 


intermediate  classes  are  subjected,  by  theii 
mutual  dependence,  and  the  need  they  have 
for  the  good  will  and  esteem  of  their  fellows. 
Those  who  are  at  the  very  bottom  of  the  scale 
are  below  the  sphere  of  this  influence ;  and 
those  at  the  very  top  are  above  it.  The  one 
have  no  chance  of  distinction  by  any  eflbrt 
they  are  capable  of  making;  and  the  other 
are  secure  of  the  highest  degree  of  it,  without 
any.  Both  therefore  are  indifl^'erent,  or  very 
nearly  so,  to  the  opinion  of  mankind  :  the  for* 
mer,  because  the  naked  subsistence  which 
they  earn  by  their  labour  will  not  be  affected 


250 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  ME 'rfLOlRS. 


by  that  opinion  ;  and  the  latter,  because  their 
legal  power  and  preeminence  are  equally  in- 
dependent of  it.  Tho.se  who  have  nothing  to 
lose,  in  short,  are  not  very  far  from  the  condi- 
tion of  those  who  have  nothing  more  to  gain ; 
and  the  maxim  of  reckoning  one'ss-self  last, 
which  is  the  basis  of  all  politeness,  and  leads, 
insensibly,  from  the  mere  practice  of  dissimu- 
lation, to  habits  of  kindness  and  sentiments  of 
generous  independence,  is  equally  inapplica- 
ble to  the  case  of  those  who  are  obviously  and 
in  reality  the  last  of  their  kind,  and  those  who 
are  quite  indisputably  the  first.  Both  there- 
fore are  deprived  of  the  checks  and  of  the 
training,  which  restrain  the  selfishness,  and 
call  out  the  sensibilities  of  other  men :  And, 
remote  and  contrasted  as  their  actual  situa- 
tion must  be  allowed  to  be,  are  alike  liable 
to  exhibit  that  disregard  for  the  feelings  of 
others,  and  that  undisguised  preference  for 
their  own  gratification,  which  it  is  the  boast  of 
modern  refinement  to  have  subdued,  or  at  least 
effectually  concealed,  among  the  happier  or- 
ders of  society.  In  a  free  country,  indeed,  the 
monarch,  if  he  share  at  all  in  the  spirit  of 
liberty,  may  escape  this  degradation  •  because 
he  will  then  feel  for  how  much  he  is  depend- 
ent on  the  good  opinion  of  his  countrymen: 
and,  in  general,  where  there  is  a  great  ambi- 
tion for  popularity,  this  pernicious  effect  of 
high  fortune  will  be  in  a  great  degree  avoided. 
But  the  ordinary  class  of  arbitrary  rulers,  who 
found  their  whole  claim  to  distinction  upon 
the  accident  of  their  birth  and  station,  may  be 
expected  to  realize  all  that  we  have  intimated 
as  to  the  peculiar  manners  and  dispositions  of 
the  'Crtsife ;  to  sink,  like  their  brethren  of  the 
theatre,  when  their  hour  of  representation  is 
over,  into  gross  sensuality,  paltry  intrig-ues, 
and  dishonourable  squabbles;  and,  in  short, 
to  be  fully  more  likely  to  beat  their  wives  and 
cheat  their  benefactors,  than  any  other  set  of 
persons — out  of  the  condition  of  tinkers. 

But  though  these  opinions  have  long  seem- 
ed pretty  reasonable  to  those  who  presumed 
to  reason  at  all  on  such  subjects,  and  even 
appeared  to  be  tolerably  well  confii-med  by 
the  few  indications  that  could  be  obtained  as 
to  the  state  of  the  fact,  there  was  but  little 
prospect  of  the  world  at  large  getting  at  the 
exact  truth,  either  by  actual  observation  or  by 
credible  report.  The  tone  of  adulation  and 
outrageous  compliment  is  so  firmly  establish- 
ed, and  as  it  were  positively  prescribed,  for 
all  authorized  communications  from  the  inte- 
rior of  a  palace,  that  it  would  be  ridiculous 
even  to  form  a  guess,  as  to  its  actual  condi- 
tion, from  such  materials :  And,  with  regard 
to  the  casual  observers  who  might  furnish 
less  suspected  information,  a  great  part  are 
too  vain,  and  too  grateful  for  the  opportunities 
they  have  enjoyed,  to  do  any  thing  which 
might  prevent  their  recurrence ;  while  others 
are  kept  silent  by  a  virtuous  shame  ;  and  the 
remainder  are  discredited,  and  perhaps  not 
always  without  i-eason,  as  the  instruments  of 
faction  or  envy.  '  There  seemed  great  reason 
to  fear,  therefore,  that  this  curious  branch  of 
Natural  History  would  be  left  to  mere  theory 
and  conjecture,  and  never  be  elucidated  by 


the  testimony  of  iiny  competent  observer 
when  the  volumes  before  us  m.ade  their  ap 
pearance,  to  set  theory  and  conjecture  at  rest, 
and  make  the  private  character  of  such  sove- 
reigns a  matter  of  historical  record. 

They  bear  to  be  Memoirs  of  a  Princess  of 
Prussia,  written  by  herself;  and  are  in  fact 
memoirs  of  the  private  life  of  most  of  the 
princes  of  Germany,  written  by  one  of  their 
own  number — with  great  freedom  indeed — 
but  with  an  evident  partiality  to  the  fraterni- 
ty ;  and  unmasking  more  of  the  domestic 
manners  and  individual  habits  of  persons  in 
that  lofty  station,  than  any  other  work  with 
which  we  are  acquainted.  It  is  ushered  into 
the  world  without  any  voucher  for  its  authen- 
ticity, or  even  any  satisfactory  account  of  the 
manner  in  which  the  manuscript  was  obtain- 
ed :  But  its  genuineness,  we  understand,  is 
admitted  even  by  those  whose  inclinations 
would  lead  them  to  deny  it  and  appears  to  us 
indeed  to  be  irresistibly  established  by  inter- 
nal evidence.*  It  is  written  in  the  vulgar 
gossiping  style  of  a  chambermaid ;  but  at  the 
same  time  with  very  considerable  cleverness 
and  sagacity,  as  to  the  conception  and  delinea- 
tion of  character.  It  is  full  of  events  and  por- 
traits— and  also  of  egotism,  detraction,  and 
inconsistency :  but  all  delivered  with  an  air  of 
good  faith  that  leaves  us  little  room  to  doubt 
of  the  facts  that  are  reported  on  the  writer's 
own  authority,  or,  in  any  case,  of  her  own  be- 
lief in  the  justness  of  her  opinions.  Indeed, 
half  the  edification  of  the  book  consists  m  the 
lights  it  affords  as  to  the  character  of  the 
writer,  and  consequently  as  to  the  effects  pf 
the  circumstances  in  which  she  was  placed : 
nor  is  there  any  thing,  in  the  very  curious 
picture  it  presents,  more  striking  than  the  part 
she  unintentionally  contributes,  in  the  pecu- 
liarity of  her  own  taste  in  the  colouring  and 
delineation.  The  heartfelt  ennui,  and  the 
affected  contempt  of  greatness,  so  strangely 
combined  with  her  tenacity  of  all  its  privi- 
leges, and  her  perpetual  intrigues  and  quarrels 
about  precedence — the  splendid  encomiums 
on  her  own  inflexible  integrity,  intermixed 
with  the  complacent  narrative  of  perpetual 
trick  and  duplicity — her  bitter  complaints  of 
the  want  of  zeal  and  devotedness  in  her 
friends,  and  the  desolating  display  of  her  o\yn 
utter  heartlessness  in  every  page  of  the  his- 
tory— and, — finally,  her  outrageous  abuse  of 
almost  every  one  with  whom  she  is  connect- 
ed, alternating  with  professions  of  the  greatest 
regard,  and  occasional  apologies  for  the  most 
atrocious  among  them,  when  they  happen  to 
conduct  themselves  in  conformity  to  her  own 
little  views  at  the  moment— are  ail,  we  think, 
not  only  irrefragable  proofs  of  the  authen- 
ticity of  the  singular  work  before   us,  but, 

*  I  have  not  recently  Vnade  any  enquiries  on  this 
subject:  and  it  is  possible  that  the  authenticity  of 
this  strange  book  may  have  been  discredited,  since 
the  now  remote  period  when  I  last  heard  it  discuss- 
ed.  It  is  obvious  at  first  sight  that  it  is  full  of  ex- 
aeserations :  But  that  is  too  common  a  characteristic 
of  genuine  memoiia  written  in  the  tranrliant  sJyl« 
to  which  it  belongs,  to  detract  much  from  the  credit 
to  which  the  minuteness  and  confidence  of  its  de 
tails  may  otherwise  be  thought  to  entitle  it. 


MEMOniS  OF  MARGRAVINE  OF  BAREITH. 


25 


togetfier  with  the  lowness  of  its  style  and  dic- 
tion, are  features — and  pretty  prominent  ones 
— in  tnai  portraiture  of  royal  manners  and  dis- 
positions which  we  conceive  it  to  be  its  chief 
office  and  chief  merit  to  display.  In  this 
point  of  view,  we  conceive  the  publication  to 
be  equally  curious  and  instructive ;  and  there 
is  a  vivacity  in  the  style,  and  a  rapidity  in  the 
narratiyo,  which  renders  it  at  all  events  very 
enter:Eining,  though  little  adapted  for  abstract 
or  abridgment. — \Ve  must  endeavour,  how- 
evei",  to  give  our  readers  some  notion  of  its 
contents. 

What  is  now  before  us  is  but  a  fragment, 
extending  from  the  birth  of  the  author  in 
1707  to  the  year  1742,  and  is  chiefly  occupied 
with  the  court  of  Berlin,  down  till  her  mar- 
riage with  the  Prince  of  Bareith  in  1731.  She 
sets  oft'  with  a  portrait  of  her  father  Frederic 
William,  M-hose  peculiarities  are  already  pret- 
ty well  known  by  the  dutiful  commentaries 
of  his  son,  and  Voltaire.  His  daughter  begins 
with  him  a  little  more  handsomely ;  and  as- 
sures us,  that  he  had  '•  talents  of  the  first  or- 
der"— -an  excellent  heart" — and,  in  short, 
'^■all  the  qualities  which  go  to  the  constitution 
of  great  men."  Such  is  the  flattering  outline : 
But  candour  required  some  shading  •  and  we 
must  confess  that  it  is  laid  on  freely,  and  with 
good  eft"ect.  His  temper,  she  admits,  was  un- 
governable, and  often  hurried  him  into  ex- 
cesses altogether  unworthy  of  his  rank  and 
situation.  Then  it  must  also  be  allowed  that 
he  was  somewhat  hard-hearted ;  and  through- 
ont  his  whole  life  gave  a  decided  preference 
to  the  cardinal  virtue  of  Justice  over  the 
weaker  attribute  of  Mercy.  Moreover,  '■'•  his 
excessive  love  of  money  exposed  him"  (her 
Royal  Highness  seems  to  think  very  unjustly) 
^•'to  the  imputation  of  avarice."  And,  finally, 
she  informs  us,  without  any  circumlocution, 
that  he  was  a  crazy  bigot  in  religion — suspi- 
cious, jealous,-  and  deceitfnl — and  entertained 
a  profound  contempt  for  the  whole  sex  to 
which  his  dutiful  biographer  belongs. 

This  '-great  and  amiable"  prince  was  mar- 
lied,  as  every  body  knows,  to  a  princess  of 
Hanover,  a  daughter  of  our  George  the  First ; 
of  whom  he  was  outrageously  jealous,  and 
whor.i  he  treated  with  a  degree  of  brutality 
that  "fould  almost  have  justified  any  form  of 
reve.ige.  The  princess,  however,  seems  to 
ha\'e  been  irreproachably  chaste :  But  had, 
notwithstanding,  some  of  the  usual  vices  of 
slaves;  and  tormented  her  tyrant  to  very  good 
purpose  by  an  interminable  system  of  the 
most  crooked  and  provoking  intrigues,  chiefly 
about  the  marriages  of  her  family,  but  occa- 
sionally upon  other  subjects,  carried  on  by 
the  basest  tools  and  instruments,  and  for  a 
long  time  in  confederacy  with  the  daughter 
who  has  here  recorded  their  history.  But 
though  she  had  thus  the  satisfaction  of  fre- 
quently enraging  her  husband,  we  cannot  help 
thinking  that  she  had  herself  by  far  the  worst 
of  the  game ;  and  indeed  it  is  impossible  to 
read,  without  a  mixed  feeling  of  pity  and  con- 
tempt, the  catalogue  of  miserable  shifts  which 
this  poor  creature  was  perpetually  forced  to 
employ  to  avoid  detection,  and  escape  the 


beatings  with  which  it  was  frequently  accom- 
panied ! — feigned  sicknesses — midnight  con- 
sultations— hidings  behind  screens  and  undei 
beds — spies  at  her  husband's  drunken  orgies 
— burning  of  letters,  pocketing  of  inkstands, 
and  all  the  paltry  apparatus  of  .boarding-school 
imposture ; — together  with  the  more  revolting 
criminality  of  lies  told  in  the  midst  of  caresses, 
and  lessons  of  falsehood  anxiously  inculcated 
on  the  minds  of  her  children. — It  is  edifying 
to  know,  that,  with  all  this  low  cunning,  and 
practice  in  deceiving,  this  poor  lady  was  her- 
self the  dupe  of  a  preposterous  and  un worth}' 
confidence.  She  told  every  thing  to  a  favour 
ite  chambermaid — who  told  it  over  again  td 
one  of  the  ministers — who  told  it  to  the  King: 
And  though  the  treachery  of  her  confidante 
was  perfectly  notorious,  and  she  herself  was 
reduced  privately  to  borrow  money  from  the 
King  of  England  in  order  to  bribe  her  to  se- 
crecy, she  never  could  keep  from  her  any  one 
thing  that  it  was  of  importance  to  conceal. 

The  ingenious  Princess  before  us  had  for 
many  years  no  other  brother  than  the  Great 
Frederic,  who  afterwards  succeeded  to  the 
throne,  but  whose  extreme  ill  health  in  his 
childhood  seemed  to  render  her  accession  a 
matter  of  considerable  probability.  Her  al- 
liance consequently  became  an  early  object 
of  ambition  to  most  of  the  Protestant  princes 
of  her  time ;  and  before  she  was  fully  eight 
years  old,  her  father  and  mother  had  had  fifty 
quarrels  about  her  marriage.  About  the  same 
time,  she  assures  us  that  a  Swedish  officer, 
who  was  a  great  conjurer,  informed  her,  after 
inspecting  her  hand,  '•  that  she  would  be 
sought  in  marriage  by  the  Kings  of  Sweden, 
England,  Russia,  and  Poland,  but  would  not 
be  united  to  any  of  them  :" — a  prediction,  the 
good  Princess  declares,  that  was  afterwards 
verified  in  a  very  remarkable  manner.  The 
Swedish  proposition  indeed  follows  hard  upon 
the  prophecy ;  for  the  very  next  year  engage- 
ments are  taken  for  that  match,  which  are 
afterwards  abandoned  on  account  of  the  ten- 
der age  of  the  parties. — The  Princess  here 
regales  us  with  an  account  of  her  own  vivac- 
ity and  angelic  memory  at  this  period,  and 
with  a  copious  interlude  of  all  the  court  scan- 
dal during  the  first  days  of  her  existence. 
But  as  we  scarcely  imagine  that  the  scandal- 
ous chronicle  of  Berlin  for  the  year  1712, 
would  excite  much  interest  in  this  country  in 
the  year  1812,  we  shall  take  the  liberty  to 
pass  over  the  gallantries  of  Madame  de  Bias- 
pil  and  the  treasons  of  M.  Clement;  merely 
noticing,  that  after  the  execution  of  the  latter, 
the  King  ordered  every  letter  that  came  to 
his  capital  to  be  opened,  and  never  slept  with- 
out drawn  swords  and  cocked  pistols  at  his 
side.  But  while  he  M-as  thus  trembling  at 
imaginary  dangers,  he  was,  if  we  can  believe 
his  infant  daughter,  upon  the  very  brink  of 
others  sufficiently  serious.  His  chief  favour- 
ites were  the  Prince  of  Anhalt,  who  is  briefly 
characterized  in  these  Memoirs  as  brutal, 
cruel  and  deceitful,  and  the  minister  Grum- 
kow,  who  is  represented,  on  the  same  author- 
ity, as  a  mere  concentration  of  all  the  vices. 
These  worthv  persons  had  set  their  hearts 


252 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIlS. 


upon  our  author's  marriage  with  the  nephew 
of  the  former,  an  1  her  ultimate  elevation  to 
the  throne  by  the  death  of  her  sickly  brother. 
But  when  that  brother  begins  to  improve  in 
health,  and  the  old  King  not  ordy  makes  his 
will  without  consulting  them,  but  threatens 
to  live  to  an  unreasonable  age,  they  naturally 
become  impatient  for  the  accomplishment  of 
their  wishes,  and  resolve  to  cut  off  both  father 
and  son,  the  first  time  they  can  catch  them 
together  at  an  exhibition  of  ropedancing, — 
with  which  elegant  entertainment  it  seems 
the  worthy  monarch  was  in  the  habit  of  re- 
creating himself  almost  every  evening.  The 
whole  of  this  dreadful  plot,  we  are  assured, 
was  revealed  to  the  King,  with  all  its  particu- 
larites,  by  a  lady  in  the  confidence  of  the  con- 
spirators:  but  they  contrive,  somehow  or  other, 
to  play  their  parts  so  adroitly,  that,  after  a  long- 
investigation,  they  are  reinstated  in  favour, 
and  their  fair  accuser  sent  to  pine,  on  bread 
and  water,  in  a  damp  dungeon  at  Spandau. 

In  the  year  1717,  Peter  the  Great  came 
with  his  Empress  and  court  to  pay  a  visit  at 
Berlin ; — and  as  the  whole  scene  is  described 
with  great  vivacity  in  the  work  before  us,  and 
serves  to  illustrate  its  great  theme  of  the  pri- 
vate manners  of  sovereigns,  we  shall  make 
rather  a  fuller  abstract  of  it  than  we  can  afibrd 
for  most  parts  of  the  narrative.  The  degrees 
of  grossness  and  pretension  are  infinite — and 
the  court  of  Prussia,  v/here  the  Sovereign  got 
drunk  and  kicked  his  counsellors,  and  beat 
the  ladies  of  his  family,  thought  itself  en- 
titled to  treat  Peter  and  his  train  as  a  set  of 
Barbarians! — On  his  first  presentation,  the 
Czar  took  Frederic  firmly  by  the  hand,  and 
said,  he  was  glad  to  see  him :  he  then  offered 
to  kiss  the  Queen — but  she  declined  the  hon- 
our. He  next  presented  his  son  and  daughter, 
and  four  hundred  ladies  in  waiting — the 
greater  part  of  whom,  our  Princess  assures 
us,  were  washerwomen  and  scullions  pro- 
moted to  that  nominal  dignity.  Almost  every 
one  of  them,  however,  she  adds,  had  a  baby 
richly  dressed  in  her  arms — and  when  any 
one  asked  whose  it  was,  answered  with  great 
coolness  and  complacency,  that  "  the  Czar  had 
done  her  the  honour  to  make  her  the  mother 
of  it." — The  Czarine  was  very  short,  tawny, 
and  ungraceful — dressed  like  a  provincial 
German  player,  in  an  old  fashioned  robe, 
covered  with  dirt  and  silver,  and  with  some 
dozens  of  medals  and  pictures  of  saints  strung 
down  the  front,  which  clattered  every  time 
she  moved,  like  the  bells  of  a  packhorse. 
SLe  spoke  little  German,  and  no  French;  and 
finding  that  she  got  on  but  ill  with  the  Queen 
and  her  party,  she  called  her  fool  into  a  corner 
to  come  and  entertain  her  in  Russian — which 
she  did  with  such  effect,  that  she  kept  her  in 
a.  continual  roar  of  laughter  before  all  the 
court.  The  Czar  himself  is  described  as  tall 
and  rather  handsome,  though  with  something 
ir^olerably  harsh  in  his  physiognomy.  On 
first  seeing  our  royal  author  he  took  her  up  in 
his  arms,  and  rubbed  the  skin  off  her  face  in 
kissing  her  with  his  rough  beard ;  laughing 
very  Heartily  at  the  airs  with  which  she  re- 
sented   this  familiarity.     He   was   liable   at 


times  to  convulsive  starts  and  spasms,  aivd 
being  seized  with  one  of  them  when  at  table, 
with  his  knife  in  his  hand,  put  his  hosts  into 
no  little  bodily  terror.  He  told  the  Queen,, 
however,  that  he  would  do  her  no  harm,  and 
took  her  hand  in  token  of  his  good  humour  ; 
but  squeezed  it  so  unmercifully  that  she  was 
forced  to  cry  out — at  which  he  laughed  again 
with  great  violence,  and  said,  '-her  bones 
were  not  so  well  knit  as  his  Catherine's." 
There  was  to  be  a  grand  ball  in  the  evening; 
but  as  soon  as  he  had  done  eating,  he  got  up. 
and  trudged  home  by  himself  to  his  lodgings 
in  the  suburbs.  Next  day  they  went  to  see 
the  curiosities  of  the  place. — What  pleased 
him  most  was  a  piece  of  antique  sculpture, 
most  grossly  indecent.  Nothing,  however, 
would  serve  him  but  that  his  wife  should  kiss 
this  figure;  and  when  she  hesitated,  he  told 
her  he  would  cut  off  her  head  if  she  refused. 
He  then  asked  this  piece  and  several  other 
things  of  value  from  the  King,  and  packed 
them  ofT  for  Petersburgh,  without  ceremony. 
In  a  few  days  after  he  took  his  departure ; 
leaving  the  palace  in  which  he  had  been 
lodged  in  such  a  state  of  filth  and  dilapidation 
as  to  remind  one,  says  the  princess,  of  the 
desolation  of  Jerusalem. 

We  now  come  to  a  long  chapter  of  the  au- 
thor's personal  sufferings,  from  a  sort  of  half 
governess,  half  chambennaid,  of  the  name  of 
Letti,  who  employed  herself  all  day  in  beat- 
ing and  scratching  her,  for  refusing  to  repeal 
all  that  the  King  and  the  Queen  said  in  her 
hearing,  and  kept  her  awake  all  night  by 
snoring  like  fifty  troopers.  This  accomplished 
person  also  invented  ingenious  nicknames, 
which  seem  to  have  had  much  currenc}',  for 
all  the  leading  persons  about  the  court.  The 
Queen  she  always  called  La  grande  dnesse, 
and  her  two  favourites  respectively  Xa  grosse 
vache,  and  La  sotie  bete.  Sometimes  she  only 
kicked  the  Princess'  shins — at  other  times 
she  pummelled  her  on  the  nose  till  '*'  she  bled 
like  a  calf;"  and  occasionally  excoriated  her 
face  by  rubbing  it  with  acrid  substances. 
Such,  however,  was  the  magnanimity  of  her 
royal  pupil,  that  she  never  made  the  least 
complaint  of  this  dreadful  usage  ;  but  an  old 
lady  found  it  out,  and  told  the  Queen,  that 
"her  daughter  was  beaten  every  day  like 
plaster,"  and  that  she  would  be  brought  to 
her  one  morning  with  her  bones  broken,  if  she 
did  not  get  another  attendant.  So  La  Letti  ia 
dismissed,  though  with  infinite  difficulty,  and 
after  a  world  of  intrigue;  because  she  had 
been  recommended  by  my  Lady  Arlington, 
who  had  a  great  deal  to  say  with  the  court  of 
England,  with  which  it  was,  at  that  time,  a 
main  object  to  keep  well !  But  she  is  got  rid 
of  at  last,  and  decamps  with  all  the  Princess' 
wardrobe,  who  is  left  without  a  rag  to  covei 
her  nakedness.  Soon  after  this,  the  King  i& 
taken  with  a  colic  one  very  hot  June,  and  is 
judiciously  shut  up  in  a  close  room  with  a 
large  comfortable  fire ;  by  the  side  of  which 
he  commands  his  daughter  to  sit,  and  watch 
like  a  vestal,  till  her  eyes  are  ready  to  start 
from  her  head ;  and  she  falls  into  a  dysentery, 
of  which  she  gives  a  long  history. 


MEMOIRS  OF  MARGRAVINE  01  BAREITH. 


2M 


Bfiinir  now  at  the  ripe  age  of  twelve,  her 
mother  taxes  her  into  ner  confidence,  and  be- 
gins with  telHng  her,  that  there  are  certain 
people  who  are  her  enemies,  to  whom  she 
commands  her  never  to  show  any  kindness  or 
civility.  She  then' proceeds  to  name  "three 
fourths  of  all  Berlin.-'  But  her  great  object 
is  to  train  her  daughter  to  be  a  spy  on  her 
father,  and  at  the  same  time  to  keep  every 
thing  secret  from  him  and  his  counsellors; 
and  to  arrange  measures  for  a  match  between 
her  anl  aer  nephew  the  Duke  of  Gloucester 
— afte  ".••' irds  Prince  of  Wales,  on  the  acces- 
sion cl'  -:is  father  George  II.  In  1723,  George 
I.  comes  to  visit  his  daughter  at  Berlin,  and  is 
characterised,  we  cannot  say  very  favourably, 
by  his  grandchild.  He  was  very  stupid,  she 
says,  with  great  airs  of  wisdom — had  no  gen- 
erosity but  for  his  favourites,  and  the  mis- 
tresses by  whom  he  let  himself  be  governed 
-spoke  little,  and  took  no  pleasure  in  hearing 
any  thing  but  niaiseries: — since  his  accession 
to  the  English  tkrone  he  had  also  become  in- 
supportably  haughty  and  imperious.  When 
the  fair  author  was  presented  to  him,  he  took 
up  a  candle,  held  it  close  to  her  face,  and  ex- 
amined her  all  over  without  saying  a  word : 
at  table  he  preserved  the  same  magnificent 
silence;  judging  wisely,  the  Princess  observes, 
that  it  was  better  to  say  nothing  than  to  ex- 
pose himself  by  talking.  Before  the  end  of 
the  repast  he  was  taken  ill ;  and  tumbled  down 
on  the  floor,  his  hat  falling  off  on  one  side, 
and  his  wig  on  the  other.  It  was  a  full  hour 
before  he  came  to  himself;  and  it  was  whis- 
pered that  it  was  a  sort  of  apoplexy :  How- 
ever, he  was  well  enough  next  day;  and 
arranged  every  thing  for  the  marriage  of  the 
author  with  his  grandson,  and  of  her  brother 
with  the  Princess  Amelia.  Obstacles  arose, 
however,  to  the  consummation  of  this  double 
alliance  :  and  although  the  two  Sovereigns  had 
another  meeting  on  the  subject  the  year  after, 
still  the  necessity  of  obtaining  the  consent  of 
parliament  occasioned  an  obstruction ;  and  in 
the  mean  time  Frederic  having  thought  fit  to 
seize  several  tall  Hanoverians,  and  enrol  them 
by  force  in  his  regiment  of  giants,  the  English 
monarch  resented  this  outrage,  and  died  of 
another  attack  of  apoplexy  before  matters 
could  be  restored  to  a  right  footing. 

Soon  after  this  catastrophe,  Frederic  takes 
to  drinking  with  the  Imperial  ambassador; 
and,  when  his  stomach  gets  into  disorder, 
becomes  outrageously  pious;  orders  his  valet 
to  sing  psalms  before  him,  and  preaches  him- 
self to  his  family  every  afternoon.  The 
Princess  and  her  brother  are  ready  to  suffo- 
cate with  laughter  at  these  discourses;  but 
the  h>T)Ochondria  gains  ground ;  and  at  last 
the  King  talks  seriously  of  resigning  his 
crown,  and  retiring  with  his  family  to  a  small 
house  in  the  country;  where  his  daughter 
should  take  care  of  the  linen,  his  son  of  the 
provisions,  and  his  wife  of  the  kitchen.  To 
divert  these  melancholy  thoughts,  he  is  per- 
suaded to  pay  a  visit  to  the  Elector  of  Saxony, 
Augustus  K.ng  of  Poland ;  and  there,  large 
potations  of  Hungarian  wine  speedily  dissipate 
all  his  dreams  of  devotion.    Nothing  "in  modern 


history,  we  suppose,  comes  nears  the  profli- 
g-acy  of  the  Court  of  Dresden  at  that  period. 
Augustus,  who  never  closed  a  day  in  sobriety, 
openly  kept  a  large  seraglio  in  his  palacej 
and  had  about  three  hundred  and  fifty  chil 
dren  by  its  inhabitants.  One  of  those  who 
had  all  along  been  recognized  as  his  daugh- 
ter, was  at  this  time  his  favourite  mistress ; 
while  she,  disdaining  to  be  faithful  to  this  in- 
cestuous connection,  lavished  all  her  favour 
on  a  brother,  who  was  her  avowed  lover,  and 
the  rival  of  their  common  parent ! — Frederic, 
however,  was  so  much  pleased  with  these 
doings,  that  he  entered  into  a  treaty  for  mar- 
rying his  daughter  to  this  virtuous  elector, 
who  was  then  fifty  years  of  age ;  and  the  year 
after,  Augustus  came  to  Bei-lin,  to  follow  out 
his  suit,  where  he  was  received  in  great  state, 
and  the  daughter-mistress  caressed  by  the 
chaste  queen  and  her  daughter.  There  is  a 
good  description  of  a  grand  court  dinner  given 
on  this  occasion;  in  which,  after  a  long  ac- 
count of  the  marshalling  of  princes  and  prin- 
cesses, the  business  of  the  day  is  summed  up 
in  the  following  emphatic  words — On  but 
force  santes — on  parla  pen — ct  on  s^ennuya 
beaucoup!  The  two  kings,  however,  had  \ii- 
nous  tete-d-tcte  parties  that  were  more  jolly; 
and  in  which  they  continued  at  table  from 
one  o'clock,  which  was  their  hour  of  dinner, 
till  near  midnight.  In  spite  of  all  this  cor- 
diality, however,  the  treaty  of  marriage  was 
broken  off:  the  heir-apparent  of  Augustus 
having  obstinately  refused  to  ratify  those  arti- 
cles in  it  Mhich  required  his  concurrence. 

The  King  now  resolved  to  match  his  daugh- 
ter with  a  poor  German  prince,  called  the 
Duke  of  Weissenfield ;  at  which  his  wife,  who 
had  been  all  this  time  intrig-uing  busily  to 
bring  about  the  union  originally  projected 
with  the  Prince  of  Wales,  is  in  despair,  and 
persuades  him  to  let  her  make  one  effort  more 
to  bring  her  brother  of  England  to  a  determi- 
nation. And  here  we  have  a  very  curious 
piece  of  secret  history,  which,  though  it  touches 
the  policy  of  the  Court  of  England,  has  hitherto 
been  unknown,  we  believe,  in  this  country. 
A  confidential  agent  arrives  from  Hanover, 
who  informs  the  Queen,  that  the  Prince  of 
Wales  has  made  up  his  mind  to  come  imme- 
diately to  Berlin,  and  to  marry  her  daughter, 
without  waiting  for  the  formal  consent  of  his 
father,  or  the  English  Parliament,  who,  how- 
ever, he  has  no  doubt,  will  neither  of  them 
hesitate  to  ratify  the  act  when  it  is  once 
over.  The  Queen  is  transported  with  this 
news;  and  is  so  much  intoxicated  with  joy 
on  the  occasion,  that  she  bethinks  herself  of 
confiding  the  whole  story  in  the  evening  to 
the  English  ambassador — who  instantly  writes 
home  to  his  Court ;  and,  his  letter  being  ad- 
dressed to  the  Secretary  of  State,  produces  an 
immediate  mandate  to  the  Prince,  to  set  out 
for  England  without  the  delay  of  a  moment. 
This  mandate  arrives  just  as  his  Royal  High- 
ness is  taking  post  with  bridal  impatience  for 
Berlin  :  and,  as  it  is  addressed  to  him  through 
the  public  offices,  requires  his  implicit  obe- 
dience. The  truth  of  the  matter  is,  the  Prin- 
cess assures  us,  that  George  II.  was  himself 
W 


254 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


desirous  ih.at  the  match  should  be  concluded 
without  Avaiting  for  the  uncertain  sanction  of 
his  Parliament,  and  had  suggested  this  device 
of  a  seeming  etourderie  on  the  part  of  his  son  : 
but  the  indiscretion  of  her  mciher,  in  blabbing 
the  matter  to  the  ambassador,  and  his  com- 
munication to  the  ministry,  left  the  monarch 
no  choice,  but  to  dissemble  his  mortification, 
and  lend  his  authority  to  prevent  the  execu- 
tion of  a  project  which  had  originated  with 
himself. 

But,  whatever  may  be  the  true  theory  of 
this  disaster,  it  seems  to  be  certain,  that  the 
disappointment  put  the  King  of  Prussia  into 
exceeding  bad  humour,  and,  concurring  with 
an  untimely  fit  of  the  gout,  made  the  lives  of 
his  family  still  more  uncomfortable  than  he 
took  care  at  all  times  to  render  them.  The 
account  indeed  which  is  here  given  of  the 
domestic  habits  of  this  worthy  sovereign^ 
though  humiliating  in  some  degree  to  human 
nature,  has  yet  something  in  it  so  extrava- 
gant, as  to  be  actually  ludicrous  and  farcical. 
He  ordered  his  children  to  come  to  his  apart- 
ment at  nine  o'clock  every  morning,  and  kept 
them  close  prisoners  there  the  whole  day, 
not  letting  them  once  out  of  his  sight,  '^pour 
quelque  raison  que  ce  futP  His  employment 
was  to  curse  and  abuse  them  with  every 
coarse  term  of  reproach, — his  daughter  getting 
no  other  name  than  la  Canaille  Anglaise^  and 
his  son,  le  Coquin  de  Fritz.  He  had  always 
been  in  the  practice  of  famishing  them ;  partly 
out  of  avarice,  and  partly  from  the  love  of 
tormenting ;  but  now  even  the  soup  made  of 
bare  bones  and  salt  was  retrenched.  He  often 
refused  to  let  them  have  any  thing  w^hatso- 
ever  ',  and  spit  into  the  dishes  out  of  which  he 
had  helped  himself,  in  order  to  prevent  tneir 
touching  them !  At  other  times  he  would 
insist  upon  their  eating  all  sorts  of  unwhole- 
pome  and  disgusting  compositions — "  ce  qui 
nous  obligeait  quelquefois  de  rendre,  en  sa 
presence,  tout  ce  que  nous  avions  dans  le 
corps !"  Even  this,  however,  was  not  the 
worst  of  it.     He  very  frequently  threw  the 

Elates  at  their  heads ;  and  scarcely  ever  let 
is  daughter  go  out  of  the  room,  without  aim- 
ing a  sly  blow  at  her  with  the  end  of  his 
crutch.  The  unhappy  Frederic  he  employed 
himself  almost  every  morning  in  caning  and 
kicking  for  a  long  time  together;  and  was 
actually,  upon  one  occasion,  in  the  act  of 
•irangling  him  with  the  cord  of  a  window 
curtain,  when  he  was  interrupted  by  one  of 
his  domestics.  To  make  amends,  however, 
he  once  hung  up  himself;  when  the  Queen, 
by  a  rare  act  of  folly,  was  induced  to  cut  him 
down.  When  free  from  gout,  he  was  still 
more  dangerous ;  for  then  he  could  pursue  his 
daughters  with  considerable  agility  when  they 
ran  away  from  his  blows ;  and  once  caught 
the  author,  after  a  chase  of  this  kind,  when 
lie  clutched  her  by  the  hair,  and  pushed  her 
into  the  fireplace,  till  her  clothes  began  to 
])urn.  During  the  heats  of  summer,  he  fre- 
([uently  carried  his  family  to  a  country-house, 
i5alled  Vousterhausen,  which  w^as  an  old  ruin- 
ous mansion,  surrounded  with  a  putrid  ditch ; 
tnd  there  thej  dined   every  day,  in  a  tent 


pitched  on  a  terrace,  with  scarcely  any  thing 
to  eat,  and  their  feet  up  to  the  ancles  in  mud, 
if  the  weather  happened  to  be  rainy.  Afte» 
dinner,  which  was  served  exactly  at  noon, 
the  good  king  set  himself  down  to  sleep  for 
two  hours,  in  a  great  chair  placed  in  the  full 
glare  of  the  sun.  and  compelled  all  his  family 
to  lie  on  the  ground  around  him,  exposed  to 
the  same  intolerable  scorching. 

After  some  little  time,  England  sends  an- 
other ambassador,  who  renews  in  due  form  the 
proposal  of  the  double  marriage,  and  offers 
such  baits  to  the  avarice  or  the  King  that  mat 
ters  appear  once  more  to  be  finally  adjusted, 
and  the  princess  is  saluted  by  her  household 
with  the  title  of  Princess  of  Wales.  This, 
however,  was  not  her  destiny.  Grumkow 
intrigues  with  the  Imperial  ambassador  to 
break  off  the  match — and  between  them  they 
contrive  to  persuade  the  King  that  he  is  made 
a  tool  of  by  the  Queen  and  her  brother  of 
England  :  and  inflame  him  to  such  a  rage  by 
producing  specimens  of  theiu  secret  corre- 
spondence, that  when  the  English  ambassador 
appears  next  day  with  decisive  proofs  of 
Grumkow's  treachery  and  insolence,  the  King 
throws  the  papers  in  his  face,  and  actually 
Uftshis  foot,  as  if  to  give  him  the  family  salute 
of  a  kick.  The  blood  of  the  Enghshman 
rouses  at  this  insult ;  and  he  puts  himself  in  a 
posture  to  return  the  compliment  with  inter- 
est, when  the  King  makes  a  rapid  retreat — 
and  the  ambassador,  in  spite  of  the  entreaties 
of  the  Queen  and  her  children,  and  various 
overtures  of  apology  from  the  King  himself, 
shakes  the  dust  of  Berlin  from  his  feet,  and 
sets  off  in  high  dudgeon  for  London.  The 
King  then  swears  that  his  daughter  shall  have 
no  husband  at  all,  but  that  he  will  make  her 
abbess  in  the  monastery  of  Herford; — and 
her  brother  Frederic,  to  her  great  mortifica- 
tion, tells  her  it  is  the  best  thing  she  can  do, 
and  that  he  sees  no  other  M-ay  to  restore  peace 
in  the  family. 

We  now  proceed  to  the  adventures  of  this 
brother,  which,  as  their  outline  is  already 
generally  known,  need  not  be  fully  narrated 
in  this  place.  Tired  of  being  beaten  and 
kicked  and  reviled  all  day  long,  he  resolves 
to  withdraw  from  his  country,  and  makes 
some  movements  to  that  effect  in  confederacy 
with  an  officer  of  the  name  of  Katt,  who  was 
to  have  been  the  companion  of  his  flight. 
Both,  however,  are  arrested  by  the  King's 
order,  who  makes  several  attempts  upon  the 
life  of  his  son,  when  he  is  brought  as  a  prisoner 
before  him — and  comes  home  foaming  and 
black  with  passion,  crying  out  to  the  Queen 
that  her  accursed  son  was  dead  at  last ;  and 
felling  his  daughter  to  the  earth  with  his  fist, 
as  he  tells  her  to  go  and  bear  her  brother  com- 
pany. He  then  gets  hold  of  a  box  of  his  son's 
papers,  which  had  been  surprised  at  Katt'a 
lodgings,  and  goes  out  with  it  in  great  spirits, 
exclaiming  that  he  was  sure  he  should  find 
in  it  enough  to'  justify  him  in  cutting  off  the 
heads  both  of  le  Coquin  de  Fritz,  and  la  Car 
naille  de  Wilhdmine.  Wilhelmine,  however, 
and  her  politic  mother  had  been  beforehand 
with  him — for  they  had  got  hold  of  this  same 


MEMOIRS  OF  MARGRAVINE  OF  BAREITH. 


255 


Dox  the  day  preceding,  and  by  false  keys  and 
Reals  had  taken  all  the  papers  out  of  it,  and 
replaced  them  by  harailess  and  insignificant 
letterSj  which  they  had  fabricated  in  the 
course  of  one  day,  to  the  amount  of  near 
seven  hundred.  The  King,  therefore,  found 
nothing  to  justify  immediate  execution;  but 
kept  the  Prince  a  close  prisoner  at  Custrin, 
and  shut  the  Princess  up  in  her  own  chamber. 
His  son  and  Katt  were  afterwards  tried  for 
desertion,  before  a  court-martial  composed  of 
twelve  officers:  Two  were  for  sparing  the 
life  of  the  Prince,  but  all  the  rest  were  base 
enough  to  gratify  the  sanguinary  insanity  of 
their  master  by  condemning  them  both  to 
death.  "All  Germany,  however,  exclaimed 
loudly  against  this  sentence  ;  and  made  such 
representations  to  the  King,  that  he  was  at 
last  constrained  to  spare  his  son.  But  the 
unhappy  Katt  was  sacrificed.  His  scaffold 
was  erected  immediately  before  the  window 
of  his  unhappy  master,  who  was  dressed  by 
force  in  the  saine  funeral  garment  with  his 
friend,  and  was  held  up  at  the  window  by 
two  soldiers,  while  the  executioner  struck  off 
the  head  of  his  companion.  There  is  no 
record  of  such  brutal  barbarity  in  the  history 
of  Nero  or  Domitian. 

After  this,  the  family  feuds  about  his  daugh- 
ter's marriage  revive  with  double  fury.  The 
Queen,  whose  whole  heart  is  set  on  the  Eng- 
lish aUiance,  continues  her  petty  intrigues  to 
effect  that  object ;  while  the  King,  rendered 
furious  by  the  haughty  language  adopted  by 
the  English  ministry  on  the  subject  of  the  in- 
sult offered  to  their  ambassador,  determines 
to  have  her  married  without  a  moment's 
delay ;  and  after  threatening  the  Queen  with 
his  cane,  sends  to  offer  her  the  hand  of  the 
Prince  of  Bareith ;  which  she  dutifully  ac- 
cepts, in  spite  of  the  bitter  lamentations  and 
outrageous  fury  of  the  Queen.  That  in- 
triguing princess,  however,  does  not  cease  to 
intrigue,  though  deserted  by  her  daughter — 
but  sends  again  in  greater  urgency  than  ever 
to  England  ] — and  that  court,  if  we  are  to  be- 
lieve the  statement  before  us,  at  last  seriously 
afraid  of  losing  a  match  every  way  desir- 
able, sends  off  despatches,  containing  an  en- 
tire and  unqualified  acquiescence  in  all 
Frederic's  stipulations  as  to  the  marriage — 
which  arrive  at  Berlin  the  very  morning  of 
the  day  on  which  the  Princess  was  to  be  so- 
lemnly betrothed  to  M.  de  Bareith,  but  are 
wickedly  kept  back  by  Grumkow  and  the 
Imperial  Envoy,  till  after  the  ceremony  had 
been  publicly  and  irrevocably  completed. 
Their  disclosure  then  throws  all  parties  into 
rage  and  despair ;  and  the  intrigners  are  made 
the  ridiculous  victims  of  their  own  baseness 
and  duplicity.  The  indefatigable  Queen,  how- 
ever, does  not  despair  even  yet ;  but  sends  off 
another  courier  to  England,  and  sets  all  her 
emissaries  to  prepare  the  King  to  break  off 
the  match  in  the  event  of  the  answer  being 
favourable; — nay,  the  very  night  before  the 
marriage,  she  takes  her  daughter  apart,  and 
begs  her  to  live  with  her  husband  as  a  sister 
with  her  brother,  for  a  few  days,  till  the  result 
the  embassage  is  known.     But  her  usual 


destiny  pursues  her.  The  fatal  evening  ai- 
rives ;  and  the  PrinceBs,  with  a  train  forty-fiv«3 
feet  in  length,  and  the  spousal  crown  placed 
on  twenty-four  twisted  locks  of  false  haij, 
each  thicker  than  her  arm,  enters  the  graml 
saloon,  and  takes  the  irrevocable  vow  ! — and 
her  mother  has  just  put  her  to  bed,  when  she 
hears  that  her  courier  has  arrived,  and  leaves 
her  in  rage  and  anguish. 

The  humours  of  the  rest  of  the  family  ap- 
pear to  no  great  advantage  during  the  bridal 
festivities.  In  the  first  place,  the  Princees' 
sister,  Charlotte,  falls  m  love  with  the  bride- 
groom, and  does  her  possible  to  seduce  him. 
Then  old  Frederic  cheats  the  bride  in  her 
settlements,  which  amount  to  a  gross  sum  of 
near  500L  a  year ; — and,  finally,  her  brother- 
in-law,  the  Margrave  of  Anspach,  rallies  her 
husband  so  rudely  upon  his  mother's  gallan- 
tries, that  the  latter  gives  him  a  brave  defi- 
ance in  the  face  of  the  whole  court :  at  which 
the  ppor  Margrave  is  so  dreadfully  frightened, 
that  he  bursts  out  into  screams  and  tears,  and 
runs  for  refuge  into  the  Queen's  apartment, 
where  he  hides  himself  behind  the  arras,  from 
M-hich  he  is  taken  in  a  filthy  condition,  and 
carried  to  his  apartments,  "  oil  il  exhala  sa 
colere  par  des  vomissemens  et  un  diarrhea 
qui  pensa  I'envoyer  a  I'autre  monde." — Yet 
the  good  Princess  assures  us,  that  this  reptile 
had  "  a  good  heart  and  a  good  understanding," 
— with  no  fault  but  being  a  little  passionate  : 
and  then,  in  the  very  next  page,  she  records  a 
malignant  and  detected  falsehood  which  he 
had  vented  against  her  husband,  and  which 
rendered  him  odious  in  the  eyes  of  the  whole 
court.  Being  dissatisfied  with  her  settle- 
ments, she  puts  the  King  in  a  good  humour  by 
giving  a  grand  dinner  to  him  and  his  officers, 
at  which  they  are  all  "ivres  morts;"  but 
having  mentioned  her  distresses  through  the 
Queen,  he  is  so  much  moved  with  them,  that 
he  calls  for  the  settlements,  and  strikes  off 
about  one  fourth  of  her  allowance. 

All  this  happened  in  autumn  1731 ;  and  in 
January  1732,  the  Princess  being  far  advanced 
ill  pregnancy,  and  the  roads  almost  impassa- 
ble, it  was  thought  advisable  for  her  to  set  out 
for  her  husband's  court  at  Bareith.  She  i& 
overturned  of  com'se  several  times,  and  obliged 
to  walk  half  the  way  : — But  we  pass  over  the 
disasters  of  the  journey,  to  commemorate  her 
arrival  in  this  ancient  principality.  The  first 
village  she  reached  was  Hoff,  which  is  on  the 
frontier — and  has  also  the  convenience  of 
being  within  three  miles  of  the  centre  of  the  ■ 
territory :  and  here  the  grand  marshal,  and  all 
the  nobility  of  the  province,  are  mustered  to 
receive  her  at  the  bottom  of  the  staircase,  or, 
in  other  words,  of  the  wooden  ladder  Mhich 
led  to  her  apartments.  However,  various 
guns  were  fired  off  very  successfully,  and  the 
chief  nobility  Avere  invited  to  dinner.  The 
Princess'  description  of  these  personages  is 
really  very  edifying.  They  had  all  faces,  she 
sayS;  which  a  child  could  not  look  on  without 
screaming; — huge  masses  of  hair  on  iheir 
heads,  filled  with  a  race  of  vermin  as  ancient 
as  their  pedigrees  ;^— clothed  in  old  laced  suits 
that  had  descended  through  man  v  generationu 


256 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIUS. 


the  most  part  in  rags,  and  no  way  fitting  their 
present  wearers; — the  greater  part  of  them 
covered  with  itch; — and  their  conversation,  of 
oxen.  Immediately  after  dinner  they  beg:m 
with  the  Princess'  health  in  a  huge  bumper, 
and  proceeded  regularly  in  the  same  gallant 
manner  through  ihe  whole  of  her  genealogy; 
— so  that  in  less  than  half  an  hour  she  found 
herself  in  the  middle  of  thirty-four  monsters, 
so  drunk  that  none  of  them  could  articulate, 
'•  et  rendant  les  boyaux  a.  tous  ces  desastreux 
visages."  Next  day  being  Sunday,  there  was 
a  sermon  in  honour  of  the  occasion,  in  which 
the  preacher  gave  an  exact  account  of  all  the 
marriages  that  had  happened  in  the  world, 
trom  the  days  of  Adam  down  to  the  last  of 
the  patriarchs — illustrated  with  so  many  cir- 
cumstantial details  as  to  the  antecedents  and 
consequents  in  each,  that  the  male  part  of  the 
audience  laughed  outright,  and  the  female 
pretended  to  blush  throughout  the  M'hole  dis- 
course. The  dinner  scene  was  the  same  as 
on  the  day  preceding ;  with  the  addition  of 
the  female  nobility  who  came  in  the  evening, 
with  their  heads  enveloped  in  greasy  wigs 
like  swallows'  nests,  and  ancient  embroidered 
dresses,  stuck  all  over  M'ith  knots  of  faded 
ribands. 

The  day  following,  the  Margrave,  her  father- 
in-law,  came  himself  to  meet  her.  This 
worthy  prince  was  nearly  as  amiable,  and  not 
quite  so  wise,  as  the  royal  parent  she  had  left. 
He  had  read  but  two  books  in  the  world, 
Telemaque,  and  Amelot's  Roman  history,  and 
discoursed  out  of  them  so  very  tediously,  that 
the  poor  Princess  fainted  from  mere  ennui  at 
the  very  first  interview; — Then  he  drank  night 
and  day — and  occasionally  took  his  cane  to 
the  prince  his  son,  and  his  other  favourites. 
Though  living  in  poverty  and  absolute  dis- 
comfort, he  gave  'himself  airs  of  the  utmost 
magnificence  —  went  to  dinner  wdth  three 
flourishes  of  cracked  trumpets — received  his 
court,  leaning  with  one  hand  on  a  table,  in 
imitation  of  the  Emperor — and  conferred  his 
little  dignities  in  harangues  so  pompous,  and 
so  awkwardly  delivered,  that  his  daughter-in- 
law  at  once  laughed  and  was  ashamed  of 
him.  He  was  awkward,  too,  and  embarrassed 
in  the  society  of  strangers  of  good  breeding — 
but  made  amends  by  chattering  without  end, 
about  himself  and  his  two  books,  to  those 
who  were  bound  to  bear  with  him.  Under 
the  escort  of  this  great  potentate  the  Princess 
made  her  triumphal  entry  into  the  city  of  Ba- 
reith  the  next  morning :  the  whole  procession 
consisting  of  one  coach,  containing  the  con- 
stituted authorities  who  had  come  out  to  meet 
her,  her  own  carriage  drawn  by  six  carrion 
post-horses,  that  containing  her  attendants, 
and  six  or  seven  wagons  loaded  with  furni- 
ture. The  Margrave  then  conducted  her  from 
the  palace  gate  in  great  state  to  her  apart- 
ments, through  a  long  passage,  hung  with 
cobwebs,  and  so  abominably  filthy  as  to  turn 
her  stomach  in  hurrying  through  it.  This 
npened  into  an  antechamber,  adorned  with 
old  tapestry,  so  torn  and  faded  that  the  figures 
or.  it  looked  like  so  many  ghosts;  andt)xough 
that  into  a  oabmet    furnished  with    green 


damask  all  in  tatters.  Her  bedchamber  wad 
also  furnished  with  the  same  stuff — but  m 
such  a  condition,  that  the  curtains  fell  in 
pieces  whenever  they  were  touched.  Half 
of  the  windows  were  broken,  and  there  was 
no  fire ;  though  it  was  midwinter.  The  din- 
ners were  not  eatable ;  and  lasted  three  hours, 
with,  thirty  flourishes  of  the  old  trumpets  for 
the  bumper  toasts  with  which  they  were  en- 
livened :  Add  to  all  this,  that  the  poor  Prin- 
cess was  very  much  indisposed — that  the 
Margrave  came  and  talked  to  her  out  of  Tele- 
maque and  Amelot,  five  or  six  hours  every  day 
— and  that  she  could  not  muster  cash  enough 
to  buy  herself  a  gown :  and  it  will  not  appear 
wonderful,  that  in  the  very  midst  of  the  wed- 
ding revelries,  she  spent  half  her  time  in  bed, 
weeping  over  the  vanity  of  human  grandeur. 
By  and  by,  however,  she  found  occupa- 
tion in  quarrelling  with  her  sisters-in-law,  and 
in  making  and  appeasing  disputes  between 
her  husband  and  his  father.  She  agrees 
so  ill,  indeed,  with  all  the  family,  that  her 
proposal  of  returning  to  lie-in  at  Berlin  is  re- 
ceived with  great  joy : — but  while  they  are 
deliberating  about  raising  money  for  this 
jouruiey  of  two  hundred  miles,  she  becomes 
too  ill  to  move.  Her  sister  of  Anspach,  and 
her  husband,  come,  and  quarrel  with  her 
upon  points  of  etiquette  ;  the  Margrave  falls 
in  love  with  one  of  her  attendants;  and  in 
the  midst  of  all  manner  of  perplexities  she 
is  delivered  of  a  daughter.  The  Margrave, 
who  was  in  the  country,  not  happening  to 
hear  the  cannon  which  proclaimed  this  great 
event,  conceives  that  he  is  treated  with  great 
disrespect,  and  gives  orders  for  having  his 
son  imprisoned  in  one  of  his  fortresses.  He 
relents,  how^ever,  at  the  christening;  and  is 
put  in  good  humour  by  a  \^sit  from  another 
son  and  a  brother — the  first  of  whom  is  des- 
cribed as  a  kind  of  dwarf  and  natural  fool, 
who  could  never  take  seriously  to  any  em- 
ployment but  catching  flies ;  and  the  other  as 
a  furious  madman,  in  whose  company  no  one 
was  sure  of  his  life.  This  amiable  family 
party  is  broken  up,  by  an  order  on  the  Prin- 
cess' husband  to  join  his  regiment  at  Berlin, 
and  another  order  from  her  father  for  her  to  _« 
pay  a  visit  to  her  sister  at  Anspach.  On  her  S 
way  she  visits  an  ancient  beauty,  with  a  nose  "!S 
like  a  beetroot,  and  two  maids  of  honour  so 
excessively  fat  that  they  could  not  sit  down ; 
and,  in  stooping  to  kiss  the  Princess'  hand, 
fell  over,  and  rolled  like  balls  of  flesh  on  the 
carpet.  At  Anspach,  she  finds  the  IVIargrave 
deep  in  an  intrigue  with  fhe  housemaid ;  and 
consoles  her  sister  under  this  affliction.  She 
then  makes  a  great  efTort,  and  raises  money 
enough  to  carry  her  to  Berlin ;  where  she  is 
received  with  coldness  and  ridicule  by  the 
Queen,  and  neglect  and  insult  by  all  her 
sisters.  Her  brother's  marriage  with  the 
Princess  of  Brunswick  was  just  about  to 
take  place,  and  we  choose  to  give  in  her  own 
words  her  account  of  the  manner  in  Avhich 
she  was  talked  over  in  this  royal  circle. 

"  La  reine,  a  table,  fit  tomber  la  conversation 
stir  la  princespe  royale  liuure.  '  Vofre  frere,'  me 
dit  elle  en  le  regardant,  '  est  au  desespoir  de  I'epou- 


MEMOIRS  OF  MARGRAVINE  OF  BAREITH. 


2&I 


eer,  et  n'a  pas  tort :  c'est  unevraibete;  elle  repond 
a  tout  ce  qu'on  lui  dit  par  un  oui  et  un  noii,  ac- 
corr.pagne  d'un  rire  niais  qui  fait  nial  au  ccBur.' 
'  Oh  !'  dit  ma  sccur  Charlotte,  '  votre  Majeste  ne 
connoit  pas  encore  tout  son  merite.  J'ai  ete  un 
matin  a  sa  toilette  ;  j'ai  cru  y  suffoquer  ;  elle  exha- 
loit  une  odeur  insupportable  !  Je  crois  qu'elle  a 
pour  le  moins  dix  ou  douze  fistules — car  cela  n'est 
pas  naturel.  J'ai  remarque  aussi  qu'elle  est  con- 
trefaite ;  son  corps  de  jupe  est  rembourr©  d'un 
cote,  et  elle  a  une  hanche  plus  haute  que  I'au- 
tre.'  Je  fus  fort  etonnee  de  ces  propos,  qui  se  te- 
noient  en  presence  des  domestiques — et  suriout  de 
mon  frere  !  Je  m'aper5us  qu'ils  lui  faisoient  de 
la  peine  et  qu'il  changeoit  de  couleur.  II  se 
retira  aussitot  apres  souper.  J'en  fis  autant.  II 
vint  me  voir  un  moment  apres.  Je  lui  demandai 
s'il  etoit  sati.sfait  du  roi  ?  II  me  repondit  que  sa 
situation  changeoit  a  tout  moment ;  que  tantot  il 
eloit  en  faveur  et  tantot  en  disgrace  ;  que  son  plus 
grand  bonheur  consistoit  dans  I'absence  ;  qu'il  me- 
noit  une  vie  douce  et  tranquille  a  son  regiment ; 
que  I'etude  et  la  musique  y  faisoient  ses  principales 
occupations  ;  qu'il  avoit  fait  batir  une  maison  et  fait 
faire  un  jardin  charmant  oii  il  pouvoit  lire  et  se 
promener.  Je  le  pria  de  me  dire  si  le  portrait  que 
la  reine  et  ma  soeur  m'avoient  fait  de  la  Princesse 
de  Brunswick  etoit  veritable  ?  '  Nous  sommes 
seuls,'  repartit-il,  '  et  je  n'ai  rien  de  cache  pour 
vous.  Je  vous  parlerai  avec  sincerite.  La  reine, 
par  ses  miserables  intrigues,  est  la  seule  source 
de  nos  malheurs.  A  peine  avez-vous  ete  partie 
qu'elle  a  renoue  avec  I'Angleterre  ;  elle  a  voulu 
vous  substituer  ma  soeur  Charlotte,  et  lui  faire  epou- 
ser  le  Prince  de  Galles.  Vous  jugez  bien  qu'elle 
a  employe  tous  ses  efforts  pour  faire  reussir  son  plan 
et  pour  me  marier  avec  la  Princesse  Am.elie.'  " 

The  poor  Prince,  however,  confesses  that 
ae  cannot  say  much  for  the  intellect  of  his 
intended  bride  ; — and  really  does  not  use  a 
much  nobler  language  than  the  rest  of  the 
family,  even  when  speaking  in  her  presence  ; 
for  on  her  first  presentation  to  his  sister,  find- 
ing that  she  made  no  answer  to  the  compli- 
ments that  wiere  addressed  to  her,  the  enam- 
oured youth  encourages  her  bridal  timidity 
by  this  polite  exclamation,  "Peste  soit  de  la 
bete! — remercie  done  ma  samr!"  The  ac- 
count of  the  festivities  which  accompanied 
this  marriage  really  excites  our  compassion  ', 
and  is  well  calculated  to  disabuse  any  inex- 
perienced person  of  the  mistake  of  suppo- 
sing, that  there  can  be  either  comfort  or  en- 
joyment in  the  cumbrous  splendours  of  a 
court.  Scanty  and  crowded  dinners  at  mid- 
day— and  formal  balls  and  minuets  imme- 
diately after,  in  June,  followed  up  with  dull 
gaming  in  the  evening; — the  necessity  of 
being  up  in  full  dress  by  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning  to  see  a  review — and  the  pleasure 
of  being  stifled  in  a  crowded  tent  without 
seeing  any  thing,  or  getting  any  refreshment 
for  seven  or  eight  hours,  and  then  to  return 
famishing  to  a  dinner  of  eighty  covers; — 
at  other  times  to  travel  ten  miles  at  a  foot- 
pact  in  an  open  carriage  during  a  heavy  rain, 
and  afterwards  to  stand  shivering  on  the  wet 
grass  to  see  fireworks — to  pay  twenty  visits 
of  ceremony  every  morning,  and  to  present 
and  be  presented  in  stately  silence  to  persons 
whom  you  hate  and  despise.  Such  were  the 
general  delights  of  the  whole  court ; — arid 
our  Princess  had  the  additional  gratification 
of  being  forced  from  a  sick-bed  to  enjoy 
I  hem,  and  of  undergoing  the  sneers  of  her 
17 


mother,  and  the  slights  of  her  whole  genera- 
tion. Thoir  domestic  life,  when  these  galas 
were  over,  was  nearly  as  fatiguing,  and  still 
more  lugubrious.  The  good  old  custom  of 
famishing  was  kept  up  at  table ;  and  imme- 
diately after  dinner  the  King  had  iiis  great 
chair  placed  right  before  the  fire,  and  snored 
in  it  for  three  hours,  during  all  which  they 
were  obliged  to  keep  silence,  for  fear  of  dis- 
turbing him.  V^hen  he  awoke,  he  set  to 
smoking  tobacco ; — and  then  sate  four  hours 
at  supper,  listening  to  long  stories  of  his 
ancestors,  in  the  taste  of  those  sermons 
which  are  prescribed  to  persons  afflicted 
with  insomnolency.  Then  the  troops  began 
their  exercise  under  the  windows  before  four 
o'clock  every  morning, — and  not  only  kept 
the  whole  household  awake  from  that  hour 
by  their  firing,  but  sometimes  sent  a  ram- 
rod through  the  glass  to  assist  at  the  Prin- 
cess' toilette.  One  afternoon  the  King  was 
seized  wath  a  sort  of  apoplexy  in  his  sleep, 
which,  as  he  always  snored  extremely  loud, 
might  have  carried  him  off  without  much 
observation,  had  not  his  daughter  observed 
him  grow  black  in  the  face,  and  restored  him 
by  timely  applications.  She  is  equally  un- 
fortunate about  the  same  time  in  her  father- 
in-law  the  Margrave,  who  is  mischievous 
enough  to  recover,  after  breaking  a  blood- 
vessel by  falling  down  stairs  in  a  fit  of 
drunkenness.  At  last  she  gets  away  with 
great  difficulty,  and  takes  her  second  leave 
of  the  parental  roof,  with  even  less  regard 
for  its  inhabitants  than  she  had  felt  on  first 
quitting  its  shelter. 

On  her  return  to  Bareith,  she  finds  the  old 
Margrave  quite  broken  in  health,  but  extrava- 
gantly and  honourably  in  love  with  a  lame, 
dwarfish,  middle-aged  lady,  the  sister  of  her 
ancient  governess,  whom  he  proposes  to 
marry,  to  the  great  discomfiture  of  the  Prin- 
cess and  his  son.  They  remonstrate  with  the 
lady,  however,  on  the  absurdity  of  such  an 
union ;  and  she  promises  to  be  cruel,  and  live 
single.  In  the  mean  time,  one  of  the  Mar- 
grave's daughters  is  taken  with  a  kind  of 
madness  of  a  very  indecorous  character; 
which  indicates  itself  by  frequent  impro- 
prieties of  speech,  and  a  habit  of  giving  invi- 
tations, of  no  equivocal  sort,  to  every  man 
that  comes  near  her.  The  worthy  Margrave, 
at  first  undertakes  to  cure  this  very  trouble- 
some complaint  by  a  brisk  course  of  beating; 
but  this  not  being  found  to  answer,  it  is 
thought  expedient  to  try  the  effect  of  mar- 
riage ;  and,  that  there  may  he  no  harm  done 
to  any  body,  they  look  out  a  certain  Duke  of 
Weimar,  who  is  as  mad  as  the  lady— though 
somewhat  in  a  difierent  way.  This  prince's 
malady  consisted  chiefly  in  great  unsteadi- 
ness of  purpose,  and  a  trick  of  outrageous 
and  inventive  boasting.  Both  the  Princess 
and  her  husband,  however,  take  great  pains 
to  bring  about  this  well-assorted  match ;  and. 
by  dint  of  flattery  and  intimidation,  it  i» 
actually  carried  through — though  the  bride- 
groom sends  a  piteous  message  on  the  morn- 
ing of  his  wedding  day,  begging  to  be  let  ofl. 
and  keeps  them  froi»  twelve  tiU  four  o'clock 


158 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS 


in  the  mornjng  before  he  can  be  persuaded 
10  go  to  bed.  In  the  mean  time,  the  Princess 
j^ives  great  offence  to  the  populace  and  the 
preachers  of  Bareith,  by  giving  a  sort  of 
masked  ball,  and  riding  occasionally  on 
horseback.  Her  husband  goes  to  the  wars ; 
and  returns  very  much  out  of  humour  with 
her  brother  Frederic,  who  talks  contemptu- 
ously of  little  courts  and  little  princes.  The 
old  Margrave  falls  into  a  confirmed  hectic, 
and  writes  billets-doux  to  his  little  lady,  so 
tender  as  to  turn  one's  stomach ;  but  at  last 
dies  in  an  edifying  manner,  to  the  great  satis- 
faction of  all  his  friends  and  acquaintances. 
Old  Frederic  promises  fair,  at  the  same  time, 
to  follow  his  example ;  for  he  is  seized  with 
a  confirmed  dropsy.  His  legs  swell,  and 
burst;  and  give  out  so  much  water,  that  he 
is  obliged  for  several  days  to  sit  with  them 
in  buckets.  By  a  kind  of  miracle,  however, 
he  recovers,  and  goes  a  campaigning  for 
several  years  after. 

The  Memoirs  are  rather  dull  for  four  or 
five  years  after  the  author's  accession  to  the 
throne  of  Bareith.  She  makes  various  jour- 
neys, and  suffers  from  various  distempers — 
has  innumerable  quarrels  with  all  the  neigh- 
bouring potentates  about  her  own  precedence 
and  that  of  her  attendants;  fits  iip  several 
villas,  gives  balls ;  and  sometimes  quarrels 
with  her  husband,  and  sometimes  nurses  him 
in  his  illness.  In  1740,  the  King,  her  father, 
dies  in  good  earnest ;  and  makes,  it  must  be 
acknowledged,  a  truly  heroic,  though  some- 
what whimsical,  ending.  Finding  himself 
fast  going,  he  had  himself  placed  early  in  the 
morning  in  his  wheel-chair,  and  goes  himself 
to  tell  the  Queen  that  she  must  rise  and  see 
him  die.  He  then  takes  farewell  of  his  chil- 
dren ;  and  gives  some  sensible  advice  to  his 
son.  and  the  ministers  and  generals  whom  he 
had  assembled,  Afterw^ards  he  has  his  best 
horse  brought,  and  presents  it  with  a  good 
grace  to  the  oldest  of  his  generals.  He  next 
ordered  all  the  servants  to  put  on  their  best 
liveries ;  and,  when  this  was  done,  he  looked 
on  them  with  an  air  of  derision,  and  said, 
^'  Vanity  of  -vanities !"  He  then  commanded 
his  physician  to  tell  him  exactly  how  long  he 
had  to  live ;  and  when  he  was  answered, 
^^about  half  an  hour,"  he  asked  for  a  looking- 
glass,  and  said  with  a  smile,  that  he  certainly 
did  look  ill  enough,  and  saw  ^'•qu'il  fcrait 
une  vilaine  grimace  en  mourant  V  When  the 
clergymen  proposed  to  come  and  pray  with 
him,  he  said,  "he  knew  already  all  they  had 
to  say,  and  that  they  might  go  about  their 
business."  In  a  short  time  after  he  expired, 
in  great  tranquillity. 

Though  the  new  King  came  to  visit  his  sister 
soon  after  his  accession,  and  she  went  to  re- 
turn the  compliment  at  Berlin,  she  says  there 
was  no  longer  any  cordiality  between  them ; 
and  that  she  heard  nothing  but  complaints  of 
his  avarice,  his  ill  temper,  his  ingratitude,  and 
his  arrogance.  She  gives  him  great  credit 
for  talents;  but  entreats  her  readers  to  sus- 
pend their  judgment  as  to  the  real  character 
of  this  celebrated  monarch,  till  they  have 
perused  the  whole  of  her  Memoirs.    What 


seems  tc  hive  given  her  the  worst  opinion  of 
him,  was  his  impolite  habit  of  making  jokes 
about  the  small  domains  and  scanty  revenue! 
of  her  husband.  For  the  two  following  years 
she  travels  all  over  Germany,  abusing  ail  the 
principautes  she  meets  with.  In  1742,  she 
goes  to  see  the  coronation  of  the  new  Emperoi 
at  Francfort,  and  has  a  long  negotiation  about 
the  ceremony  of  her  introduction  to  the  Em- 
press. After  various  projets  had  been  offered 
and  rejected,  she  made  these  three  conditions : 
— 1st,  That  the  whole  cortege  of  the  Empress 
should  receive  her  at  the  bottom  of  the  stair- 
case. 2dly,  That  the  Empress  herself  should 
come  to  meet  her  at  the  outside  of  the  door 
of  her  bed-chamber.  And,  3dly,  That  she 
should  be  allowed  an  arm-chair  during  the 
interview.  Whole  days  were  spent  in  the 
discussion  of  this  proposition;  and  at  last  the 
two  first  articles  were  agreed  to :  but  all 
that  she  could  make  of  the  last  was,  that  she 
should  have  a  very  large  chair,  without  arms : 
and  the  Empress  a  very  small  one,  with  them ! 
— Her  account  of  the  interview  we  add  in  her 
own  words. 

"  Je  vis  cette  Princesse  le  jour  suivant,  J'avoue 
qu'a  sa  place  j'aurois  imagine  toutes  les  etiquettes 
et  les  ceremonies  du  monde  pour  m'empecher  de 
paroitre.  L'Imperatrice  est  d'une  taille  au-dessoua 
de  la  petite,  et  si  puissante  qu'elle  senible  une 
boule  ;  elle  est  laide  au  possible,  sans  air  et  sans 
grace.  Son  esprit  repond  a  sa  figure  ;  elle  est 
bigotie  a  I'exces,  et  passe  les  nuitset  les  jours  dans 
son  oratoire  :  les  vieilles  et  les  laides  sont  ordinaire- 
ment  le  partage  du  bon  Dieu!  Elle  me  regut  en 
tremblant  et  d'un  air  si  decontenance  qu'elle  ns 
put  me  dire  un  mot.  Nous  nous  assimes.  Aprea 
avoir  garde  quelque  temps  le  silence,  je  commenfji 
la  conversation  en  frangais.  Elle  me  repondit,  dant 
son  jargon  autrichien,  qu'elle  n'entendoit  pas  bien 
cette  langue,  et  qu'elle  me  prioit  de  lui  parler  en 
allemand.  Get  entretien  ne  fut  pas  long.  Le  dia 
lecte  autrichien  et  le  bas-saxon  sont  si  differens, 
qu'a  moins  d'y  etre  accoutume  on  ne  se  comprend 
point.  C'est  aussi  ce  qui  nous  arriva.  Nous  aurions 
prepare  a  rire  a  un  tiers  par  les  coq-a-l'ane  que 
nous  faisions,  n'entendant  que  par-ci  par-la  un  mot, 
qui  nous  faisoit  deviner  le  reste.  Cette  princesse 
etoit  si  fort  esclave  de  son  etiquette  qu'elle  auroit 
cru  faire  un  crime  de  lese-grandeur  en  m'entrete- 
nant  dans  une  langue  etrangere  ;  car  elle  savoit  le 
frangais  !  L'Empereur  devoit  se  trouver  a  cette 
visite ;  mais  il  etoit  tombe  si  malade  qu'on  craignoit 
meme  pour  ses  jours."— pp.  345,  346. 

After  this  she  comes  home  in  a  very  bad 
humour:  and  the  Memoirs  break  off  abruptly 
withher'detection  of  an  intrigue  between  her 
husband  and  her  favourite  attendant,  and  her 
dissatisfaction  with  the  dull  formality  of  the 
court  of  Stutgard.  We  hope  the  sequel  will 
soon  find  its  way  to  the  public. 

Some  readers  may  think  we  have  dwelt  too 
long  on  such  a  tissue  of  impertinencies ;  and 
others  may  think  an  apology  requisite  for  the 
tone  of  levity  in  which  we  have  spoken  of  so 
many  atrocities.  The  truth  is,  that  we  think 
this  book  of  no  trifling  importance ;  and  that 
we  could  not  be  serious  upon  the  subject  of  il 
without  being  both  sad  and  angry.  Before 
concluding,  however,  we  shall  add  one  Avord 
in  seriousness — to  avoid  the  misconstructions 
to  which  we  might  otherwise  be  liable. 

We  are  decidedly  of  opinion,  that  Monarchy, 
and  Hereditary  Monarchy,  is  by  far  the  bes* 


IPvVING'S  COLUMBUS. 


259 


Term  of  government  that  human  wisdom  has 
yet  devised  for  the  admmistration  of  consider- 
able nations  ]  and  that  it  will  always  continue 
to  be  the  most  perfect  which  human  virtue 
w\\\.  admit  of.  We  are  not  readily  to  be  sus- 
pected, therefore,  of  any  wish  to  produce  a 
distaste  or  contempt  for  this  form  of  govern- 
ment ;  and  beg  leave  to  say,  that  though  the 
facts  we  nave  now  collected  are  certainly 
sucn.  as  to  give  no  favourable  impression  of 
the  private  manners  or  personal  dispositions 
M  absolute  sovereigns,  we  conceive  that  good, 
rather  than  evil,  is  likely  to  result  from  their 
dissemination.  This  we  hold,  in  the  first 
place,  on  the  strength  of  the  general  maxim, 
ihat  all  truth  must  be  ultimately  salutary,  and 
all  deception  pernicious.  But  we  think  we 
can  see  a  little  how  this  maxim  applies  to  the 
particular  case  before  us. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  we  think  it  of  ser- 
vice to  the  cause  of  royalty,  in  an  age  of  vio- 
lent passions  and  rash  experiments,  to  show 
that  most  of  the  vices  and  defects  which  such 
times  are  apt  to  bring  to  light  in  particular 
sovereigns,  are  owing,  not  so  much  to  any  par- 
ticular unworthiness  or  unfitness  in  the  indi- 
vidual, as  to  the  natural  operation  of  the  cir- 
cumstances in  which  he  is  placed ;  and  are 
such,  in  short,  as  those  circumstances  have 
always  generated  in  a  certain  degree  in  those 
who  have  been  exposed  to  them.  Such  con- 
siderations, it  appears  to  us^  when  taken  along 
with  the  strong  and  irresistible  arguments  for 
monarchical  government  in  general,  are  well 
calculated  to  allay  that  great  impatience  and 
dangerous  resentment  with  which  nations 
in  turbulent  times  are  apt  to  consider  the 
faults  of  their  sovereigns ;  and  to  unite  with 
a  steady  attachment  and  entire  respect  for 
the  ofRce,  a  very  great  degree  of  indulgence 
for  the  personal  defects  of  the  individual  who 
may  happen  to  fill  it.  Monarchs,  upon  this 
view  of  things,  are  to  be  considered  as  per- 
sons who  are  placed,  for  the  public  good,  in 
situations  where,  not  only  their  comfort,  but 
their  moral  qualities,  are  liable  to  be  greatly 
impaired  \  and  who  are  poorly  paid  in  empty 
splendour,  and  anxious  power,  for  the  sacri- 
fice of  their  affections,  and  of  the  many  en- 
g"aging  qualities  w^hich  might  have  blossomed 
in  a  lower  region.  If  we  look  with  indulgence 
upon  the  roughness  of  sailors,  the  pedantry  of 
schoolmasters,  and  the  frivolousness  of  beau- 
ties, we  should  learn  to  regard,  with  some- 
thing of  the  same  feelings,  the  selfishness  and 
the  cunning  of  kings. 


I  In  the  second  place,  we  presume  to  think 
j  that  the  general  .•doption  of  these  opinions  as 
I  to  the  personal  defects  that  are  likely  to  result 
from  the  possession  of  sovereign  power,  may 
be  of  use  to  the  sovereigns  themselves,  from 
whom  the  knowledge  of  their  prevalence  can- 
not be  very  long  concealed .  Such  knowledge, 
it  is  evident,  will  naturally  stimulate  tlje  bettei 
sort  of  them  to  counteract  the  causes  which 
tend  to  their  personal  degradation;  and  enable 
them  more  generally  to  surmount  their  per- 
nicious operation,  by  such  efforts  and  reflec- 
tions, as  have  every  now  and  then  rescued 
some  powerful  spirits  from  their  dominion, 
under  all  the  disadvantages  of  the  delusions 
with  which  they  werp  surrounded. 

Finally,  if  the  general  prevalence  of  these 
sentiments  as  to  the  private  manners  and  dis- 
positions of  sovereigns  should  have  the  effect 
of  rendering  the  bulk  of  their  subjects  less 
prone  to  blind  admiration,  and  what  may  be 
called  personal  attachment  to  them,  we  do 
not  imagine  that  any  great  harm  will  be  done. 
The  less  the  public  knows  or  cares  about  the 
private  wishes  of  their  monarch,  and  the  more 
his  individual  will  is  actually  consubstantiated 
with  the  deliberate  sanctions  of  his  responsible 
counsellors,  the  more  perfectly  will  the  prac- 
tice of  governmerit  correspond  M'ith  its  ad- 
mitted theory ;  the  more  wisely  will  affairs  be 
administered  for  the  public,  and  the  more 
harmoniously  and  securely  both  for  the  sove- 
reign and  the  people.  An  adventurous  war- 
rior may  indeed  derive  signal  advantages  from 
the  personal  devotedness  and  enthusiastic  at- 
tachment of  his  followers;  but  in  the  civil 
office  of  monarchy,  as  it  exists  in  modem 
times,  the  only  safe  attachment  is  to  the  office, 
and  to  the  measures  which  it  sanctions.  The 
personal  popularity  of  princes,  in  so  far  as  we 
know,  has  never  done  any  thing  but  harm: 
and  indeed  it  seems  abundantly  evident,  that 
whatever  is  done  merely  for  the  personal 
gratification  of  the  reigning  monarch,  that 
would  not  have  been  done  at  any  rate  on 
grounds  of  public  expediency,  must  be  an 
injury  to  the  community,  and  a  sacrifice  of 
duty  to  an  unreturned  affection ;  and  whatever 
is  forborne  out  of  regard  to  his  pleasure,  which 
the  interest  of  the  country  would  otherwise 
have  required,  is  in  like  manner  an  act  of  base 
and  unworthy  adulation.  We  do  not  speak, 
it  will  be  understood,  of  trifles  or  things  of  little 
moment ;  but  of  such  public  acts  of  the  goT* 
ernment  as  involve  the  honour  or  the  intireet 
of  the  nation. 


(S^ptcmbn-,  1S2S.) 

History  of  the  Life  and  Voyages  of  Christopher  Columbus.     By  Washington  Irving. 

4vols.  8vo.     London:   1828. 


This,  on  the  whole,  is  an  excellent  book ; 
and  we  venture  to  anticipate  that  it  will  be  an 
enduring  one.  Neither  do  we  hazard  this 
Drcdiction  lightly,  or  without  a  full  conscious- 


ness of  all  that  it  implies.  We  are  perfectly 
aware  that  there  are  but  few  modern  works 
that  are  likely  to  verify  it ;  and  that  it  probably 
could  not  be  extended  vrith  safety  to  so  many 


260 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


as  one  in  a  hundred  even  of  those  which  we 
praise.  For  we  mean,  not  merely  that  tne 
book  will  be  familiarly  known  and  referred 
to  some  twenty  or  thirty  years  hence,  and 
will  pass  in  solid  binding  into  every  consider- 
able collection ;  but  that  it  will  supersede  all 
former  works  on  the  same  subject,  and  never 
be  itself  superseded.  The  first  stage  of 
triumph,  indeed,  over  past  or  existing  com- 
petitors, may  often  be  predicted  securely  of 
works  of  no  very  extraordinary  merit ;  which, 
treating  of  a  progressive  science,  merely  em- 
body, with  some  small  additions,  a  judicious 
digest  of  all  that  was  formerly  known ',  and 
are  for  the  time  the  best  works  on  the  subject, 
merely  because  they  are.  the  last.  But  the 
second  stage  of  literary  beatitude,  in  which 
an  author  not  only  eclipses  all  existing  rivals, 
but  obtains  an  immunity  from  the  effects  of 
all  future  competition,  certainly  is  not  to  be 
so  cheaply  won ;  and  can  seldom,  indeed,  be 
secured  to  any  one,  unless  the  intrinsic  merit 
of  his  production  is  assisted  by  the  concur- 
rence of  some  such  circumstances  as  we  think 
now  hold  out  the  promise  of  this  felicity  to 
the  biographer  of  Columbus. 

Though  the  event  to  which  his  work  relates 
is  one  which  can  never  sink  into  insignificance 
or  oblivion,  but,  on  the  contrary,  will  probably 
excite  more  interest  with  every  succeeding 
generation,  till  the  very  end  of  the  world,  yet 
its  importance  has  been  already  long  enough 
apparent  to  have  attracted  the  most  eager  at- 
tention to  every  thing  connected  with  its  de- 
tails ;  and  we  think  we  may  safely  say,  that 
all  the  documents  which  relate  to  it  have  now 
been  carefully  examined,  and  all  the  channels 
explored  through  which  any  authentic  infor- 
mation was  likely  to  be  derived .  In  addition  to 
the  very  copious,  but  rambling  and  somewhat 
garrulous  and  extravagant  accounts,  which 
were  published  soon  after  the  discovery,  and 
and  have  since  been  methodised  and  arranged, 
Don  F.  M.  Navarette,  a  Spanish  gentleman 
of  great  learning,  and  industry,  and  secretary 
to  the  Royal  Academy  of  History  at  Madrid, 
has  lately  given  to  the  world  a  very  extensive 
collection  of  papers,  relating  to  the  history 
and  voyages  of  Columbus ;  a  very  considerable 
portion  of  which  appears  not  to  have  been 
known  to  any  of  those  who  had  formerly 
written  on  the  subject.  Mr.  Irving's  first 
design  was  merely  to  publish  a  translation 
of  this  collection,  with  occasional  remarks; 
but  having,  during  his  residence  at  Madrid, 
had  access,  by  the  kindness  of  the  Duke  of 
Veraguas,  the  descendant  of  the  great  Ad- 
miral, to  the  archives  of  his  family,  and  to 
various  other  documents,  still  remaining  in 
manuscript,  which  had  escaped  the  research 
even  of  Navarette,  he  fortunately  turned  his 
thoughts  to  the  compilation  of  the  more  com- 
prehensive and  original  work  now  before  us — 
in  which,  by  those  great  Helps,  he  has  been 
enabled,  not  only  to  supply  many  defects, 
but  to  correct  many  errors,  and  reconcile 
some  apparent  contradictions  in  the  earlier 
accounts. 

It  was  evidently  very  desirable  that  such  a 
work  should  at  length  be  completed ;  and  we 


think  it  peculiarly  fortunate  that  the  means 
of  completing  it  should  have  fallen  into  such 
hands  as  Mr.  Irving's.  The  materials,  it  was 
obvious,  were  only  to  be  found  in  Spain,  and 
were  not  perhaps  very  likely  to  De  intrusted 
without  reserve  to  a  stranger;  while  there 
was  reason  to  fear  that  a  Spaniard  might  not 
have  courage  to  speak  of  the  errors  and  crimes 
of  his  countrjTuen  in  the  tone  which  the  truth 
of  history  might  require  ;  or  might  not  think 
it  safe,  even  yet,  to  expose  the  impolicy,  or 
canvass  the  pretensions,  of  the  government. 
By  a  happy  concurrence  of  circumstances,  an 
elegant  writer,  altogether  unconnected  either 
with  Spain  or  her  rivals  and  enemies,  and 
known  all  over  the  civilized  world  as  a  man 
of  intelligence  and  principle,  of  sound  judg- 
ment, and  a  calm  and  indulgent  temper,  re- 
paired to  Madrid  at  a  time  when  the  publica- 
tion of  Navarette  had  turned  the  public  atten- 
tion, in  an  extraordinary  degree,  to  the 
memorable  era  of  Columbus;  and,  by  the 
force  of  his  literary  and  personal  character, 
obtained  the  fullest  disclosure  of  every  thing 
that  bore  upon  his  history  that  was  ever  made, 
to  native  or  foreigner, — at  the  same  time  that 
he  had  the  means  of  discussing  personally, 
with  the  best  informed  individuals  of  the  na- 
tion, all  the  points  on  which  the  written  docu- 
ments might  seem  to  leave  room  for  doubt  or 
explanation. 

Of  these  rare  advantages  Mr.  Irving  has 
availed  himself,  we  think,  with  singular  judg- 
ment and  ability.  He  has  written  the  history 
of  the  greatest  event  in  the  annals  of  mankind, 
with  the  fulness  and  the  feeling  it  deserved ; 
and  has  presented  us  with  a  flowing  and  con- 
tinuous narrative  of  the  events  he  had  to 
record,  far  more  luminous  and  comprehensive 
than  any  which  previously  existed,  and  yet 
much  less  diffuse  and  discursive  than  the 
earlier  accounts,  from  which  it  is  mainly  de- 
rived :  While,  without  sacrificing  in  any 
degree  the  intense  interest  of  personal  adven- 
ture and  individual  sympathy,  he  has  brought 
the  lights  of  a  more  cultivated  age  to  bear  on 
the  obscure  places  of  the  story ;  and  touched 
skilfully  on  the  errors  and  prejudices  of  the 
times — at  once  to  enliven  his  picture  by  their 
singularity,  and  to  instruct  us  by  their  explana- 
tion or  apology.  Above  all,  he  has  composed 
the  whole  work  in  a  temper  that  is  beyond 
all  praise.  It  breathes  throughout  a  genuine 
spirit  of  humanity;  and,  embelhshed  as  it  is 
with  beautiful  descriptions  and  wondeiful 
tales,  its  principal  attraction  in  our  eyes  con- 
sists  in  its  soft-hearted  sympathy  with  suffer- 
ing, its  fearless  reprobation  of  injustice  and 
oppression,  and  the  magnanimous  candour  of 
its  judgments,  even  on  the  delinquent. 

But  though  we  think  all  this  of  Mr.  Irving's 
work,  we  suspect  it  may  not  be  altogether 
unnecessary  to  caution  our  more  sensitive  and 
sanguine  readers  against  giving  way  to  certain 
feelings  of  disappointment,  which  it  is  not 
impossible  they  may  encounter  at  the  outset 
of  their  task ;  and  to  which  two  or  three  very 
innocent  causes  are  likely  enough  to  expose 
them.  In  the  first  place,  many  great  admirers 
of  Mr.  Irving's  former  works  will  probably 


II 


mVING'S  COLUMBUS. 


26] 


miss  .he  brilliant,  highly  finished,  and  ryth- 1 
mica]  style,  which  attracted  them  so  much  ir. 
those  performances;  and  may  find  the  less 
artificial  and  elaborate  diction  of  this  history 
comparatively  weak  and  careless.  In  this 
judgment,  however,  we  can  by  no  means 
agree.  Mr.  Irving's  former  style,  though  un- 
questionably very  elegant  and  harmonious, 
always  struck  us  as  somewhat  too  laboured 
and  exquisite — and,  at  all  events,  but  ill  fitted 
for  an  extensive  work,  where  the  interest 
turned  too  much  on  the  weight  of  the  matter 
to  be  safely  divided  with  the  mere  pohsh  of 
the  diction,  or  the  balance  of  the  periods. — 
He  has  done  well,  therefore,  we  think,  to  dis- 
card it  on  this  occasion,  for  the  more  varied, 
careless,  and  natural  style,  which  distinguishes 
the  volumes  before  us — a  style  not  only  without 
sententious  pretension,  or  antithetical  pretti- 
ness,  but  even  in  some  degree  loose  and  un- 
equal— flowhig  easily  on,  with  something  of 
the  fulness  and  clearness  of  Herodotus  or 
Boccaccio — sometimes  lang-uid,  indeed,  and 
often  inexact,  but  furnishing,  in  its  very  fresh- 
ness and  variety,  the  very  best  mirror,  perhaps, 
in  which  the  romantic  adventures,  the  sweet 
descriptions,  or  the  soft  humanities,  with  which 
the  author  had  to  deal,  could  have  been  dis- 
played. 

Another,  and  perhaps  a  more  general  source 
of  disappointment  to  impatient  readers,  is 
likely  to  be  found  in  the  extent  and  minute- 
ness of  the  prefatory  details,  with  which  Mr. 
Irving  has  crowded  the  foreground  of  his  pic- 
ture, and  detained  us,  apparently  without 
necessity,  from  its  principal  features.  The 
genealogy  and  education  of  Columbus — his 
early  love  of  adventure — his  long  and  vain 
solicitations  at  the  different  European  courts 
— the  intrigues  and  jealousies  by  which  he 
was  baffled — the  prejudices  against  which  he 
had  to  contend,  and  the  lofty  spirit  and  doubt- 
ful logic  by  which  they  were  opposed, — are 
all  given  with  a  fulness,  for  which,  however 
instructive  it  may  be,  the  reader,  who  knows 
already  what  it  is  to  end  in,  will  be  apt  to  feel 
any  thing  but  grateful.  His  mind,  from  the 
very  title-page,  is  among  the  billows  of  the 
Atlantic  and  the  islands  of  the  Caribs ;  and 
he  does  not  submit  without  impatience  to  be 
informed  of  all  the  energy  that  was  to  be 
exerted,  and  all  the  obstacles  to  be  overcome, 
before  he  can  get  there.  It  is  only  after  we 
have  perused  the  whole  work  that  we  perceive 
the  fitness  of  these  introductory  chapters ;  and 
then,  when  the  whole  grand  series  of  suffer- 
ings and  exploits  has  been  unfolded,  and  the 
greatness  of  the  event,  and  of  the  character 
with  which  it  is  inseparably  blended,  have 
been  impressed  on  our  minds,  we  feel  how^ 
necessary  it  was  to  tell,  and  how  grateful  it  is 
to  know,  all  that  can  now  be  known  of  the 
causes  by  which  both  were  prepared;  and 
instead  of  murmuring  at  the  length  of  these 
precious  details,  feel  nothing  but  regret  that 
time  should  have  so  grievously  abridged  them. 

The  last  disappointment,  for  which  the 
reader  should  be  prepared,  will  probably  fall 
upon  those  who  expect  much  new  information 
IS  to  the  first  great  voyage  of  discovery;  or 


suppose  that  the  chief  interest  ofi  the  work 
must  be  exhausted  by  its  completion.  That 
portion  of  the  story  of  Columbus  has  alwavB, 
from  obvious  causes,  been  given  with  more 
amplitude  and  fidelity  than  any  other;  and 
Mr.  Irving,  accordingly,  has  been  able  to  add 
but  few  additional  traits  of  any  considerable 
importance.  But  it  is  not  there,  we  think, 
that  the  great  interest  or  the  true  character 
of  the  work  is  to  be  found.  The  iiieie  geo- 
graphical discovery,  sublime  as  it  undoubtedly 
is,  is  far  less  impressive,  to  our  minds,  than 
the  moraL  emotions  to  which  it  opens  the 
scene.  The  whole  history  of  the  settlement 
of  Hispaniola,  and  the  sufferings  of  its  gentle 
people — the  daring  progress  of  the  great  dis- 
coverer, through  unheard-of  forms  of  peril, 
and  the  overwhelming  disasters  that  seem  at 
last  to  weigh  him  down,  constitute  the  real 
business  of  the  piece,  and  are  what  truly  bring 
out,  not  only  the  character  of  the  man,  but 
that  of  the  events  with  which  his  memory  is 
identified.  It  is  here,  too,  that  both  the  power 
and  the  beauty  of  the  authgr's  style  chiefiy 
display  themselves — in  his  account  of  the 
innocence  and  gentleness  of  the  simple  races 
that  were  then  first  introduced  to  their  elder 
brethren  of  Europe,  and  his  glowing  pictures 
of  the  lovely  land,  which  mhiistered  to  their 
primitive  luxury — or  in  his  many  sketches  of 
the  great  commander  himself,  now  towering 
in  paternal  majesty  in  the  midst  of  his  newly- 
found  children — now  invested  with  the  dark 
gorgeousness  of  deep  and  superstitious  devo- 
tion, and  burning  thirst  of  fame — or,  still  more 
subhme.  in  his  silent  struggles  with  malevo- 
lence and  misfortune,  and  his  steadfast  reli- 
ance on  the  justice  of  posterity. 

The  work  before  us  embodies  all  these,  and 
many  other  touching  representations  ;  and  in 
the  vivacity  of  its  colouring,  and  the  noveltr 
of  its  scene,  possesses  all  the  interests  of  "% 
novel  of  invention,  with  the  startling  and 
thrilling  assurance  of  its  actual  truth  and 
exactness — a  sentiment  which  enhances  and 
every  moment  presses  home  to  our  hearts  the 
deep  pity  and  resentment  inspired  by  the  suf- 
ferings of  the  confiding  beings  it  intioduces 
to  our  knowledge — mingled  with  a  feeling  of 
something  like  envy  and  delighted  wonder,  at 
the  story  of  their  child-like  innocence,  and 
humble  apparatus  of  enjoyment.  No  savages 
certainly  ever  were  so  engaging  and  loveable 
as  those  savages.  Affectionate,  sociable,  and 
without  cunning,  sullenness,  inconstancy,  or 
any  of  the  savage  vices,  but  an  aversion  liom 
toil,  which  their  happy  climate  at  once  ir.- 
spired  and  rendered  innoxious,  they  seem  to 
have  passed  their  days  in  blissful  ignorance 
of  all  that  human  intellect  has  contrived  for 
human  misery ;  and  almost  to  have  enjoyed 
an  exemption  from  the  doom  that  followed 
man's  first  unhallowed  appetite  for  knowledge 
of  good  and  evil.  It  is  appalling  to  think  with 
what  tremendous  rapidity  the  whole  of  these 
happy  races  were  swept  away !  How  soon, 
after  the  feet  of  civilized  Christiant?  had  touch- 
ed their  shores,  those  shores  were  desolate, 
or  filled  only  with  mourning !  How  soom,  how 
frightfully  soon,  the  swarming  myriads  nt  ull« 


362 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


and  light  hearted  creatures,  who  came  troop- 
ing from  their  fragrant  woods  to  receive  them 
with  smiles  of  welcome  and  gestures  of  wor- 
ship, and  whose  soDgs  and  shoutiags  first 
hailed  them  so  sweetly  over  their  fresh  and 
sunny  bays,  were  plunged,  by  the  hands  of 
those  fatal  visitants,  into  all  the  agonies  of 
despair ! — how  soon  released  from  them  by  a 
bloody  extermination  !  It  Jiumbles  and  al- 
most crushes  the  heart,  even  at  this  distance 
of  time,  to  think  of  such  a  catastrophe,  brought 
about  by  such  instruments.  The  learned,  the 
educated,  the  refined,  the  champions  of  chiv- 
alry, the  messengers  of  the  gospel  of  peace, 
come  to  the  land  of  the  ignorant,  the  savage, 
the  heathen.  They  find  them  docile  in  their 
ignorance,  submissive  in  their  rudeness,  and 
grateful  and  affectionate  in  their  darkness  : — 
And  the  result  of  the  mission  is  mutual  cor- 
ruption, misery,  desolation  !  The  experience 
or  remorse  of  four  centuries  has  not  yet  been 
able  to  expiate  the  crime,  or  to  reverse  the 
spell.  Those  once  smiling  and  swarming 
shores  are  still  silent  and  mournful ;  or  re- 
sound only  to  the  groans  of  the  slave  and  the 
lash  of  the  slave-driver — or  to  the  strange 
industry  of  another  race,  dragged  by  a  yet 
deeper  guilt  from  a  distant  land,  and  now 
calmly  establishing  themselves  on  the  graves 
of  their  oppressors. 

We  do  not  propose  to  give  any  thing  like 
an  abstract  of  a  story,  the  abstract  of  which 
is  already  familiar  to  every  one ;  while  the 
details,  like  most  other  details,  would  lose 
half  their  interest,  and  all  their  character,  by 
being  disjoined  from  the  narrative  on  which 
they  depend.  We  shall  content  ourselves, 
therefore,  by  running  over  some  of  the  par- 
ticulars that  are  less  generally  known,  and 
exhibiting  a  few  specimens  of  the  author's 
manner  of  writing  and  thinking. 

Mr.  Irving  has  settled,  we  think  satisfacto- 
rily, that  Columbus  was  born  in  Genoa,  about 
the  year  1435.  It  was  fitting  that  the  hemi- 
sphere of  republics  should  have  been  dis- 
covered by  a  republican.  His  proper  name 
was  Colombo,  though  he  is  chiefly  known 
among  his  contemporaries  by  the  Spanish 
synonyme  of  Colon.  He  was  well  educated, 
but  passed  his  youth  chiefly  at  sea,  and  had 
his  full  share  of  the  hardships  and  hazards 
incident  to  that  vocation.  From  the  travels 
of  Marco  Polo  he  seems  first  to  have  imbibed 
his  taste  for  geographical  discovery,  and  to 
have  derived  his  grand  idea  of  reaching  the 
eastern  shores  of  India  by  sailing  straight  to 
the  west.  The  spirit  of  maritime  enterprise 
was  chiefly  fostered  in  that  age  by  the  mag- 
nanimous patronage  of  Prince  Henry  of  Portu- 
gal, and  it  was  to  that  court,  accordingly,  that 
Columbus  first  offered  his  services  in  the  year 
1470.  We  will  not  withhold  from  our  readers 
the  following  brief  but  graphic  sketch  of  his 
character  and  appearance  at  that  period  : 

"  He  was  at  tha*  time  in  the  full  vigour  of 
manhood,  and  of  an  engaging  presence.  Minute 
descriptions  are  given  of  his  person  bv  his  son 
Fernando,  by  Las  Casas,  and  others  of  his  con- 
tennporaries.  According  to  these  accounts,  he  was 
tall,  well-formed,  muscular,  and  of  an  elevated  and 
dignified  demeanour.     His  visage  was  long,-  and 


tieither  full  nor  meagre ;  his  complexion  fair 
Ireckled,  and  inclined  to  ruddy  ;  his  no.se  aquiline 
his  cheek-bones  were  rather  high  ;  his  eyes  ligh 
grey,  and  apt  to  enkindle;  his  whole  countenance 
had  an  air  of  authority.  His  hair,  in  his  youthful 
days,  was  of  a  light  colour;  but  care  and  trouble, 
according  to  Las  Casas,  soon  turned  it  grey,  and  at 
thirty  years  of  age  it  was  quite  white.  He  was 
moderate  and  simple  in  diet  and  apparel,  eloquent 
in  discourse,  engaging  and  affable  with  strangers, 
and  of  an  amiableness  and  suavity  in  domestic  life, 
that  strongly  attached  his  household  to  his  person. 
His  temper  was  naturally  irritable  ;  but  he  subdued  il 
by  the  magnanimity  of  his  spirit ;  comporting  him- 
self with  a  courteous  and  gentle  gravity,  and  never  in- 
dulging in  any  intemperance  of  language.  Through- 
out his  life  he  was  noted  for  a  strict  attention  to  the 
offices  of  religion,  observing  rigorously  the  fasts 
and  ceremonies  of  the  church ;  nor  did  his  piety 
consist  in  mere  forms,  but  partook  of  that  lofty  and 
solemn  enthusiasm  with  which  his  whole  character 
was  strongly  tinctured." 

For  eighteen  long  years  did  the  proud  and 
ardent  spirit  of  Columbus  urge  his  heroic  suit 
at  the  courts  of  most  of  the  European  mon- 
archs;  and  it  was  not  till  after  encountering 
in  every  form  the  discouragements  of  wither- 
ing poverty,  insulting  neglect,  and  taunting 
ridicule,  that,  in  his  fifty-sixth  year,  he  at  last 
prevailed  with  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  to  sup- 
ply him  with  three  little  ships,  to  achieve  for 
them  the  dominion  of  a  world  1  Mr.  Irving 
very  strikingly  remarks, 

"After  the  great  difficulties  made  by  various 
courts  in  furnishing  this  expedition,  it  is  surprising 
how  inconsiderable  an  armament  was  required.  It 
is  evident  that  Columbus  had  reduced  his  requi- 
sitions to  the  narrowest  limits,  lest  any  great  ex 
pense  should  cause  impediment.  Three  small  ves. 
sels  were  apparently  all  that  he  had  requested.  Two 
of  them  were  light  barques,  called  caravals,  not 
superior  to  river  and  coasting  craft  of  mors  modern 
days.  Representations  of  this  class  of  vessels  exist 
in  old  prints  and  paintings.  They  are  delineated  as 
open,  and  without  deck  in  the  centre,  but  built  up 
high  at  the  prow  and  stern,  with  forecastles  and 
cabins  for  the  accommodation  of  the  crew.  Peter 
Martyr,  the  learned  contemporary  of  Columbus, 
says  that  only  one  of  the  three  vessels  was  decked. 
The  smallness  of  the  vessels  was  considered  an 
advantage  by  Columbus,  in  a  voyage  of  discovery, 
enabling  him  to  run  close  to  the  shores,  and  to  enter 
shallow  rivers  and  harbours.  In  his  third  voyage, 
when  coasting  the  gulf  of  Paria,  he  complained  of 
the  size  of  his  ship,  being  nearly  a  hundred  tons 
burden.  But  that  such  long  and  perilous  expedi- 
tions into  unknown  seas,  should  be  undertaken  in 
vessels  without  decks,  and  that  they  should  live 
through  the  violent  tempests  by  which  they  were 
frequently  assailed,  remain  among  the  singular 
circumstances  of  these  daring  voyages." 

It  was  on  Friday,  the  3d  of  August,  1492, 
that  the  bold  adventurer  sailed  forth,  with  the 
earliest  dawn,  from  the  little  port  of  Palos, 
on  his  magnificent  expedition;  and  immedi- 
ately began  a  regular  journal,  addressed  to 
the  sovereig-ns,  from  the  exordium  of  which, 
as  lately  printed  by  Navarett<>,  we  receive  a 
strong  impression  both  of  the  gravity  and 
dignity  of  his  character,  and  of  the  import- 
ance he  attached  to  his  undertaking.  We 
subjoin  a  short  specimen. 

"  Therefore  your  highnesses,  as  Catholic  Chris- 
tians and  princes,  lovers  and  promoters  of  the  holy 
Christian  fiiiih,  and  enemies  of  the  sect  of  Ma- 
homet, and  of  all  idolatries  and  heresies,  deifr- 
mined  to  send  me,  Christopher  Columbus,  to  tha 


IRVING'S  COLUMBUS. 


263 


Bi^id  purts  of  India,  to  see  the  said  princes,  and  the 
peoi-le,  ind  lands,  and  discover  the  nature  and 
disposition  of  them  all,  and  the  means  to  be  taken 
for  the  conversion  of  them  to  our  holy  faith  ;  and 
ordered  that  I  should  not  go  by  land  to  the  East, 
by  which  it  is  the  custom  go,  but  by  a  voyage  to 
the  West,  by  which  course,  unto  the  present  time, 
we  do  not  know  for  certain  that  any  one  hath 
passed ;  and  for  this  purpose  bestowed  great  favours 
upon  me,  ennobling  me,  that  thenceforward  I  might 
style  myself  Don,  appointing  me  high  admiral  of 
the  Ocean  Sea,  and  perpetual  viceroy  and  governor 
of  all  the  islands  and  continents  I  should  discover 
and  gain,  and  which  henceforward  may  be  dis- 
covered and  gained,  in  the  Ocean  Sea  ;  and  that 
my  eldest  son  should  succeed  me,  and  so  on,  from 
generation  to  generation,  for  ever.  I  departed, 
therefore,  from  the  city  of  Granada  on  Saturday 
the  r2ih  of  May,  of  the  same  year,  1492,  to  Palos, 
a  sea-port,  where  I  armed  three  ships  well  calcu- 
lated for  such  service,  and  sailed  from  that  port 
well  furnished  with  provisions,  and  with  many 
seamen,  on  Friday  the  3d  of  August  of  the  same 
year,  half  an  hour  before  sunrise,  and  took  the 
route  for  the  Canary  Islands  of  your  highnesses,  to 
steer  my  course  thence,  and  navigate  until  I  should 
arrive  at  the  Indies,  and  deliver  the  embassy  of 
your  highnesses  to  those  princes,  and  accomplish 
that  which  you  had  commanded.  For  this  purpose, 
I  intend  to  write  during  this  voyage  very  punctu- 
ally, from  day  to  day,  all  that  I  may  do,  and  see, 
ani  experience,  as  will  hereafter  be  seen.  Also, 
mv  sovereign  princes,  besides  describing  each  night 
al'  Irit  has  occurred  in  the  day,  and  in  the  day  the 
ni.«,  gation  of  the  night,  I  propose  to  make  a  chart, 
in  which  I  will  set  down  the  waters  and  lands  of  the 
Ocean  Sea,  in  their  proper  situations,  under  their 
bearings  ;  and,  further  to  compose  a  book,  and  il- 
lustrate the  whole  in  picture  by  latitude  from  the 
equinoctial,  and  longitude  from  the  West ;  and  upon 
the  whole  it  will  be  essential  that  I  should  forget 
sleep,  and  attend  closely  to  the  navigation,  to  accom- 
plish these  things,  which  will  be  a  great  labour." 

As  a  guide  by  which  to  sail,  Mr.  Irving  also 
informs  us,  he  had  prepared  "a  map,  or  chart, 
iirxproved  upon  that  sent  him  by  Paolo  Tos- 
canelli.  Neither  of  these  now  exist ;  but  the 
globe,  or  planisphere,  finished  by  Martin 
Behem  in  this  year  of  the  admiral's  first 
voyage,  is  still  extant,  and  furnishes  an  idea 
of  what  the  chart  of  Columbus  must  have 
been.  It  exhibits  the  coasts  of  Europe  and 
Africa,  from  the  south  of  Ireland  to  the  end 
of  Guinea ;  and  opposite  to  them,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Atlantic,  the  extremity  of  Asia, 
or,  as  it  was  termed,  India.  Between  them  is 
placed  the  island  of  Cipango,  (or  Japan,) 
which,  according  to  Marco  Polo,  lay  fifteen 
hundred  miles  distant  from  the  Asiatic  coast. 
In  his  computations  Columbus  advanced  this 
island  about  a  thousand  leagues  too  much  to 
the  east ;  supposing  it  to  lie  in  the  situation 
of  Florida,  and  at  this  island  he  hoped  first  to 
arrive." 

We  pass  over  the  known  incidents  of  this 
celebrated  voyage,  which  are  here  repeated 
with  new  interest  and  additional  detail;  but 
we  cannot  refrain  from  extracting  Mr.  Irving's 
account  of  its  fortunate  conclusion.  The  grow- 
ing panic  and  discontent  of  his  mutinous  crew, 
and  their  resolution  to  turn  back  if  land  was 
not  discovered  in  three  days,  are  well  known. 

"  And  when  on  the  evening  of  the  third  day  they 
beheld  the  sun  go  down  upon  a  shoreless  horizon, 
they  broke  forth  into  clamorous  turbulence.  For- 
^unatelv,  however,  the  manifest?*'.ons  of  neighbour- 


ing  land  were  such  on  the  following  day  as  nc 
longer  to  admit  a  doubt.  Besides  a  quantity  of 
fresh  weeds,  such  as  grow  in  rivers,  they  saw  a 
green  fish  of  a  kind  which  keeps  about  rocks  ;  then 
a  branch  of  thorn,  with  berries  on  it,  and  recently 
separated  from  the  tree,  floated  by  them  ;  then  they 
picked  up  a  reed,  a  small  board,  and,  above  all,  a 
staff  artificially  carved.  All  gloom  and  mutiny  now 
gave  way  to  sanguine  expectation  ;  and  throughout 
the  day  each  one  was  eagerly  on  the  watch,  in 
hopes  of  being  the  first  to  discover  the  long-sought- 
for  land. 

"In  the  evening,  when,  according  to  invariable 
custom  on  board  of  the  admiral's  ship,  the  mariners 
had  sung  the  salve  regina,  or  vesper  hymn  to  th£ 
Virgin,  ne  made  an  impressive  address  to  his.crew. 
He  pointed  out  the  goodness  of  God  in  thus  con- 
ducting them  by  such  soft  and  favouring  breezes 
across  a  tranquil  ocean,  cheering  their  hopes  con- 
tinually with  fresh  signs,  increasing  as  their  feara 
augmented,  and  thus  leading  and  guiding  them  to  a 
promised  land. 

"  The  breeze  had  been  fresh  all  day,  wuh  more 
sea  than  usual,  and  they  had  made  great  progress. 
At  sunset  they  had  stood  again  to  the  west,  and 
were  ploughing  the  waves  at  a  rapid  rale,  the  Pinta 
keeping  the  lead,  from  her  superior  sailing.  The 
greatest  animation  prevailed  throughout  the  ships ; 
not  an  eye  was  closed  that  night.  As  the  evening 
darkened,  Columbus  took  his  station  on  the  top  of 
the  castle  or  cabin  on  the  high  poop  of  his  vessel. 
However  he  might  carry  a  cheerful  and  confident 
countenance  during  the  day,  it  was  to  him  a  time  of 
the  most  painful  anxiety;  and  now  when  he  waa 
wrapped  from  observation  by  the  shades  of  night, 
he  maintained  an  intense  and  unremitting  watch, 
ranging  his  eye  along  the  dusky  horizon,  in  search 
of  the  most  vague  indications  of  land.  Suddenly, 
about  ten  o'clock,  he  thought  he  beheld  a  light 
glimmering  at  a  distance  !  Fearing  that  his  eager 
hopes  might  deceive  him,  he  called  to  Pedro  Gu- 
tierrez, gentleman  of  the  king's  bed-chamber,  and 
inquired  whether  he  saw  a  light  in  that  direction  ; 
the  latter  replied  in  the  affirmative.  Columbus,  yet 
doubtful  whether  it  might  not  be  some  delusion  of 
the  fancy,  called  Rodrigo  Sanchez  of  Segovia,  and 
made  the  same  inquiry.  By  the  time  the  latter  had 
ascended  the  round-house,  the  light  had  disap- 
peared. They  saw  it  once  or  twice  afterwards  in 
sudden  and  passing  gleams ;  as  it  were  a  torch  in 
the  bark  of  a  fisherman,  rising  and  sinking  with  the 
waves :  or  hi  the  hand  of  some  person  on  shore, 
borne  up  and  down  as  he  walked  from  house  to 
house.  So  transient  and  uncertain  were  these 
gleams,  that  few  attached  any  importance  to  them ; 
Columbus,  however,  considered  them  as  certain 
signs  of  land,  and  moreover,  that  the  land  was  in- 
habited. 

"They  continued  their  course  until  two  in  the 
morning,  when  a  gun  from  the  Pinta  gave  the  joy- 
ful signal  of  land.  It  was  first  discovered  by  a 
mariner  named  Rodrigo  de  Triana ;  but  the  reward 
was  afterwards  adjudged  to  the  admiral,  for  having 
previously  perceived  the  light.  The  land  was  now 
clearly  seen  about  two  leagues  distant ;  whereupon 
they  took  in  sail  and  lay-to,  waiting  impatiently  for 
the  dawn. 

"  The  thoughts  and  feelings  of  Columbus  in  this 
little  space  of  time  must  have  been  tumultuous  and 
intense.  At  length,  in  spite  of  every  difficulty  and 
danger,  he  had  accomplished  his  object.  The  great 
mystery  of  the  ocean  was  revealed ;  his  theory, 
which  had  been  the  scoff  of  sages,  was  triumphant- 
ly established  ;  he  had  secured  to  himself  a  glory 
which  must  be  as  durable  as  the  world  itself. 

"  It  is  difficult  even  for  the  imagination  to  con- 
ceive the  feelings  of  such  a  man  at  the  moment  of 
so  sublime  a  discovery.  What  a  bewildering  crowd 
of  conjectures  must  have  thronged  upon  his  mind, 
as  to  the  land  which  lay  before  him,  covered  with 
darkness.  That  it  was  fruitful  was  evident  from 
the  vegetables  which  floated  from  its  shores.  H« 
thought,  too,  that  he  oerceived  in  the  balmy  air  th« 


264 


HISTORY  AND  fflSTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


fragrance  of  aromatic  groves.  The  moving  light 
which  he  had  beheld,  had  proved  that  it  was  the 
residence  of  man.  But  what  were  its  inhabitants  ? 
Were  ihey  hke  those  of  the  other  parts  of  the  globe ; 
or  were  they  some  strange  and  monstrous  raice, 
such  as  the  imagination  in  those  times  was  prone  to 
give  to  all  remote  and  unknown  regions  ?  Had  he 
comi;  upon  some  wild  island  far  in  the  Indian  Sea; 
or  was  this  the  famed  Cipango  itself,  the  object  of 
his  golden  fancies  ?  A  thousand  speculations  of  the 
kind  i^ust  have  swarmed  upon  him,  as,  with  his 
anxioiis  crews,  he  waited  for  the  night  to  pass 
away  :  wondering  whether  tlas  piorning  light  would 
reveal  a  savage  wiitierness,  or  dawn  upon  spicy 
groves,  and  ghttering  fanes,  and  g-iided  citiesj  mJ 
all  the  splendour  of  oriental  civilization. 

The  land  to  which  he  was  thus  triumph- 
antly borne  was  the  island  of  San  Salvador, 
since  called  Cat  Island,  by  the  English:  and 
at  early  dawn  he  landed  with  a  great  com- 
pany, splendidly  armed  and  attired,  and  bear- 
ing in  his  hand  the  royal  standard  of  Castile. 

'*  As  they  approached  the  shores,  they  were  re- 
freshed by  the  sight  of  the  ample  forests,  which  in 
those  climes  have  extraordinary  beauty  and  vegeta- 
tion. They  beheld  fruits  of  tempting  hue,  but  un- 
kriown  kind,  growing  among  the  trees  which 
overhung  the  shores.  The  purity  and  suavity  of 
the  atmosphere,  the  crystal  transparency  of  the  seas 
which  bathe  these  islands,  give  them  a  wonderful 
beauty,  and  must  have  had  their  effect  upon  the 
susceptible  feelings  of  Columbus.  No  sooner  did 
he  land,  than  he  threw  himself  upon  his  knees, 
kissed  the  earth,  and  returned  thanks  to  God  with 
tears  of  joy.  His  example  was  followed  by  the 
rest,  whose  hearts  indeed  overflowed  with  the  same 
feelings  of  gratitude." 

"  The  natives  of  the  island,  when,  at  the  dawn 
of  day,  they  had  beheld  the  ships,  with  their  sails 
set,  hovering  on  their  coast,  had  supposed  them 
Bome  monsters  which  had  issued  trom  the  deep  dur- 
ing the  night.  They  had  crowded  to  the  beach, 
and  watched  their  movements  with  awful  anxiety. 
Their  veering  about,  apparently  without  effort ;  the 
shifting  and  furhng  of  their  sails,  resembling  huge 
wings,  filled  them  with  astonishment.  When  they 
beheld  their  boats  approach  the  shore,  and  a  num- 
ber of  strange  beings,  clad  in  glittering  steel,  or 
raiment  of  various  colours,  landing  upon  the  beach, 
they  fled  in  affright  to  their  woods.  Finding,  how- 
ever, that  there  was  no  attempt  to  pursue  nor 
molest  them,  they  gradually  recovered  from  their 
terror,  and  approached  the  Spaniards  with  great 
awe;  frequently  prostrating  themselves  on  the 
earth,  and  making  signs  of  adoration.  During  the 
ceremonies  of  taking  possession,  they  remained 
gazing  in  timid  admiration  at  the  complexion,  the 
beards,  the  shining  armour,  and  splendid  dress  of 
the  Spaniards.  The  admiral  particularly  attracted 
their  attention,  from  his  commanding  height,  his 
air  of  authority,  his  dress  of  scarlet,  and  the  defer- 
ence which  was  paid  him  by  his  companions ;  all 
which  pointed  him  out  to  be  the  commander.  When 
they  had  still  further  recovered  from  their  fears, 
thev  approached  the  Spaniards,  touched  (heir  beards, 
and  examined  their  hands  and  faces,  admiring  their 
whiteness.  Columbus,  pleased  with  their  sim- 
plicity, their  gentleness,  and  the  confidence  they 
reposed  in  beings  who  must  have  appeared  to  them 
so  strange  and  formidable,  suffered  their  scrutiny 
with  pertect  acquiescence.  The  wondering  savages 
were  won  by  this  benignity  ;  they  now  supposed 
that  the  ships  had  sailed  out  of  the  crystal  firma- 
ment which  l)Ounded  their  horizon,  or  that  ihcy  had 
descended  from  above  on  their  ample  wings,  and 
that  these  marvellous  beings  were  inhabitants  of  the 
.ikies." 

Nothing  is  more  remarkable  in  the  journal 
nf  the  great  discoverer,  than  his  extraordinary 


sensibility  to  the  beauty  of  the  scenery,  juid 
the  charms  of  the  climate,  of  this  new  vvorla ; 
and  on  his  arrival  at  Cuba,  these  raptures  are, 
if  possible,  redoubled. 

"  As  he  approached  this  noble  island,  he  was 
struck  with  its  magnitude,  and  the  grandeur  of  its 
features  ;  its  high  and  airy  mountains,  which  re- 
minded him  of  those  of  Sicily  ;  its  fertile  valleys,  and 
long  sweeping  plains,  watered  by  noble  rivers  ;  its 
stately  forests ;  its  bold  promontories,  and  stretch- 
ing headlands,  which  melted  away  into  the  remotest 
difeiance.  He  .«nchored  in  a  beautiful  river,  free 
froiT.  rock?  or  shoals,  of  transparent  water,  its  banks 
overb-Jirig  Van  trees.  Here,  landing,  and  taking 
possesgK/n  of  the  island,  he  gave  it  the  name  of 
Juana,  in  honour  of  Prince  Juan,  and  to  the  river 
the  name  of  San  Salvador. 

"  Returning  to  his  boat,  he  proceeded  for  some 
distance  up  ihe  river,  more  and  more  enchanted 
with  the  beauty  of  the  country.  The  forests  which 
covered  each  bank  were  of  high  and  wide-spreading 
trees;  some  bearing  fruits,  others  flowers,  while  in 
some  both  fruits  and  flowers  were  mingled,  be- 
speaking a  perpetual  round  of  fertility :  among  them 
were  many  palms,  but  differing  from  those  of  Spain 
and  Africa;  with  the  great  leaves  of  these  the  na- 
tives thatched  their  cabins. 

"  The  continual  eulogies  made  by  Columbus  on 
the  beauty  of  the  scenery  were  warranted  by  the 
kind  of  scenery  he  was  beholding.  There  is  a 
wonderful  splendour,  variety,  and  luxuriance  in  the 
vegetation  of  those  quick  and  ardent  climates.  The 
verdure  of  the  groves,  and  the  colours  of  the  flowers 
and  blosaoms,  derive  a  vividness  to  the  eye  from  the 
transparent  purity  of  the  air,  and  the  deep  serenity 
of  the  azurs  heavens.  The  forests,  too,  are  full  of 
life,  swarming  with  birds  of  brilliant  plumage. 
Painted  varieties  of  parrots,  and  wood-peckers, 
create  a  glitter  amidst  the  verdure  of  the  grove  ;  and 
humming-birds  rove  from  flower  to  flower,  resem- 
bling, as  has  well  been  said,  animated  particles  of  a 
rainbow.  T.'he  scarlet  flamingos,  too,  seen  some- 
times through  an  opening  of  a  forest  in  a  distant 
savannah,  have  the  appearance  of  soldiers  drawn  up 
in  battalion,  with  an  advanced  scout  on  the  alert,  to 
give  notice  of  approaching  danger.  Nor  is  the  least 
beautiful  part  of  animated  nature  the  various  tribes 
of  insects  that  people  every  plant,  displaying  bril- 
liant coats  of  mail,  which  sparkle  to  the  eye  like 
precious  gems. 

"  From  his  continual  remarks  on  the  beauty  of  _j 
the  scenery,  and  from  the  pleasure  which  he  evi-  jfl 
dently  derived  from  rural  sounds  and  object*,  he  Hm 
appears  to' have  been  extremely  open  to  those  deli- 
cious influences,  exercised  over  some  spirits  by  the 
graces  and  wonders  of  nature.  He  gives  utterance 
to  these  feelings  with  characteristic  enthusiasm,  and 
at  the  same  time  with  the  artlessness  and  simpliciiy 
of  diction  of  a  child.  When  speaking  of  some  lovely 
scene  among  the  groves,  or  along  the  flowery  shore, 
of  this  favoured  island,  he  says,  '  one  could  live 
there  for  ever,' — Cuba  broke  upon  him  like  an  ely- 
sium.  'It  is  the  most  beautiful  island,'  he  says, 
'  that  eyes  ever  beheld,  full  of  excellent  ports  and 
profound  rivers.'  The  climate  was  more  temperate 
here  than  in  the  other  islands,  the  nights  being 
neither  hot  nor  cold,  while  the  birds  and  grasshop- 
pers sang  all  night  long.  Indeed  there  is  a  beauty 
in  a  tropical  night,  in  the  depth  of  the  dark-blue 
sky,  the  lanibient  purity  of  the  stars,  and  the  re- 
splendent clearness  of  the  moon,  that  spreads  over 
the  rich  landscape  and  the  balmy  groves  a  charm 
more  touching  than  the  splendour  of  the  day. 

"  In  the  sweet  smell  of  the  woods,  and  the  odour 
of  the  flowers,  which  loaded  every  breeze,  Colum- 
bus fancied  he  perceived  the  fragrance  of  oriental 
spices;  and  along  the  shores  he  found  shells  of  the 
kind  of  oyster  which  produces  pearls.  From  the 
grass  growing  to  the  very  edge  of  the  water,  he  in- 
ferred the  peacefulness  of  the  ocean  which  bathes 
,  these  islands,  never  lashins:  the  shore  with  angry 


IRVING'5  COLUMBUS 


26^ 


mirges.  Ever  since  his  arrival  among  these  An- 
tilles, he  had  experienced  nothing  but  soft  and 
gentle  weather,  and  he  concluded  that  a  perpetual 
serenity  reigned  over  these  happy  seas.  He  was 
little  suspicious  of  the  occasional  bursts  of  fury  to 
which  they  are  liable." 

Hispaniola  was  still  more  enchanting. 

"  In  the  transparent  atmosphere  of  the  tropics, 
objects  are  descried  at  a  great  distance,  and  t 
purity  of  the  air  and  serenity  of  the  deep  blue  sf^y 
gave  a  magical  eflect  to  the  scenery.  Under  Uiese 
advantages,  the  beautiful  island  of  Hayti  rewaled 
itself  to  the  eye  as  they  approached.  Its  maintains 
were  higher  and  more  rocky  than  those  of  vne  other 
islands ;  but  the  rocks  reared  themselves  from 
among  rich  forests.  I'he  mountains  swept  down 
into  luxuriant  plains  and  green  savannahs  ;  while 
the  appearance  of  cultivated  fields,  with  the  numer- 
ous fires  at  night,  and  the  columns  of  smoke  which 
rose  in  various  parts  by  day,  all  showed  it  to  be 
populous.  It  rose  before  them  in  all  the  splendour 
of  tropical  vegetation,  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
islands  in  the  world,  and  doomed  to  be  one  of  the 
most  unfortunate." 

The  first  interview  with  the  friendly  cacique 
Guacanagarij  as  well  as  his  generous  atten- 
tions on  the  wreck  of  one  of  their  vessels,  are 
described  with  great  beauty.  But  we  can 
only  find  room  for  the  concluding  part  of  it. 

"  The  extreme  kindness  of  the  cacique,  the  gen- 
tleness of  his  people,  the  quantities  of  gold  which 
were  daily  brought  to  be  exchanged  for  the  veriest 
trifles,  and  the  information  continually  received  of 
sources  of  wealth  in  the  bosom  of  this  beautiful 
island,  all  contributed  to  console  the  admiral  for  the 
misfortune  he  had  suffered. 

"The  shipwrecked  crew  also,  living  on  shore, 
and  mingling  freely  with  the  natives,  became  fas- 
cinated with  their  easy  and  idle  mode  of  life.  Ex- 
empted by  their  simplicity  from  the  painful  cares 
and  toils  which  civilized  man  inflicts  upon  himself 
by  his  many  artificial  wants,  the  existence  of  these 
islanders  seemed  to  the  Spaniards  like  a  pleasant 
dream.  They  disquieted  themselves  about  nothing. 
A  few  fields,  cultivated  almost  without  labour,  fur- 
nished the  roots  and  vegetables  which  formed  a 
great  part  of  their  diet.  Their  rivers  and  coasts 
abounded  with  fish;  their  trees  were  laden  with 
fruits  of  golden  or  blushing  hue,  and  heightened 
by  a  tropical  sun  to  delicious  flavour  and  fragrance. 
Softened  by  the  indulgence  of  nature,  a  great  part 
of  their  day  was  passed  in  indolent  repose — in  that 
luxury  of  sensation  inspired  by  a  serene  sky  and  a 
voluptuous  climate  ;  and  in  the  evenings  they  danced 
in  their  fragrant  groves,  to  their  national  songs,  or 
the  rude  sounds  of  their  sylvan  drums. 

"  Such  was  the  indolent  and  holiday  life  of  these 
simple  people  ;  which,  if  it  had  not  the  greaf.  scope 
of  enjoyment,  nor  the  high-seasoned  poignancy  of 
pleasure,  which  attend  civilization,  was  certainly 
destitute  of  most  of  its  artificial  miseries." 

It  was  from  this  scene  of  enchantment  and 
promise,  unclouded  as  yet  by  any  shadow  of 
animosity  or  distrjvst,  that  Columbus,  without 
one  drop  of  blood  on  his  hands,  or  one  stain  of 
cruelty  or  oppression  on  his  conscience,  set 
sail  on  his  return  to  Europe,  with  the  proud 
tidings  of  his  discovery.  In  the  early  part  of 
his  voyage  he  fell  in  with  the  Carribee  Islands, 
and  had  some  striking  encounters  with  the 
brave  but  ferocious  tribes  who  possessed 
them.  The  distresses  which  beset  him  on  his 
home  passage  are  well  known ;  but  we  wil- 
lingly pass  these  over,  to  treat  our  readers  with 
Mr.  Ining's  splendid  description  of  his  mag- 
nificent reception  by  the  court  at  Barcelona. 


"  It  wa^pPbout  the  middle  of  April  that  Columbus 
arrived^WBarcelona,  where  every  preparation  had 
been  MHe  to  give  him  a  solemn  and  magnificent 
recejMBii.  The  beauty  and  serenity  of  the  weather 
in  tJn  genial  season  and  favoured  cHmate,  contrib- 
utor to  give  splendour  to  this  memorable  cere- 
ny.  As  he  drew  near  the  place,  many  of  the 
ore  youthful  courtiers,  and  hidalgos  of  gallant 
bearing,  together  with  a  vast  concourse  of  the  popu- 
lace, came  forth  to  meet  and  vVelcome  him.  Hig 
entrance  into  this  noble  city  has  been  compared  to 
one  of  those  triumphs  which  the  Romans  were  ac- 
customed to  decree  to  conquerors.  First,  were 
paraded  the  Indians,  painted  according  to  their  sav- 
age fashion,  and  decorated  with  their  national  orna- 
ments of  gold.  After  these  were  borne  various 
kinds  of  live  parrots,  together  with  stuffed  birds  and 
animals  of  unknown  species,  and  rare  plants,  sup- 
posed to  be  of  precious  qualities;  while  gieat  care 
was  taken  to  make  a  conspicuous  display  c<f  Indian 
coronets,  bracelets,  and  other  decorations  of  gold, 
which  might  give  an  idea  of  t  he  wealth  of  t  he  newly- 
discovered  regions.  After  this,  followed  Columbus 
on  horseback,  surrounded  by  a  brilliant  cavalcade 
of  Spanish  chivalry.  The  streets  were  almost  im- 
passable from  the  countless  multitude  ;  the  win- 
dows and  balconies  were  crowded  with  the  fair ;  the 
very  roofs  were  covered  with  spectators.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  public  eye  could  not  be  sated  with  gazing 
on  these  trophies  of  an  unknown  world  ;  or  on  the 
remarkable  man  by  whom  it  had  been  discovered. 
There  was  a  sublimity  in  this  event  that  mingled  a 
solemn  feeling  with  the  public  joy.  It  was  looked 
upon  as  a  vast  and  signal  dispensation  of  Provi- 
dence, in  reward  for  the  piety  of  the  monarchs  ;  and 
the  majestic  and  venerable  appearance  of  the  dis 
coverer,  so  different  from  the  youth  and  buoyancy 
that  are  generally  expected  from  roving  enterprise, 
seerned  in  harmojiy  with  the  grandeur  and  dignity 
of  his  achievement. 

"To  receive  him  with  suitable  pomp  and  dis- 
tinction, the  sovereigns  had  ordered  their  throne  to 
be  placed  in  public,  under  a  rich  canopy  of  brocade 
of  gold,  in  a  vast  and  splendid  saloon.  Here  the 
king  and  queen  awaited  his  arrival,  seated  in  state, 
with  the  prince  Juan  beside  them,  and  attended  by 
the  dignitaries  of  their  court,  and  the  principal  no- 
bility of  Castile,  Valentia,  Catalonia,  and  Arragon,. 
all  impatient  to  behold  the  man  who  had  conferred 
so  incalculable  a  benefit  upon  the  nation.  At  length 
Columbus  entered  the  hall,  surrounded  by  a  bril- 
liant crowd  of  cavaliers,  among  whom,  says  Las 
Casas,  he  was  conspicuous  for  his  stately  and  com- 
manding person,  which,  with  his  countenance, 
rendered  venerable  by  his  grey  hairs,  gave  him  the 
august  appearance  of  a  senator  of  Rome  ;  a  modest 
smile  lighted  up  his  features,  showing  that  he  en- 
joyed the  state  and  glory  in  which  he  came  ;  and 
certainly  nothing  could  be  more  deeply  moving  to 
a  mind  inflamed  by  noble  ambition,  and  conscious 
of  having  greatly  deserved,  than  these  testimonials 
of  the  admiration  and  gratitude  of  a  nation,  or  rather 
of  a  world.  As  Columbus  approached,  the  sover- 
eigns rose,  as  if  receiving  a  person  of  the  highest 
rank.  Bending  his  knees,  he  requested  to  kiss 
their  hands  ;  but  there  was  some  hesitation  on  the 
part  of  their  majesties  to  permit  this  act  of  vassal- 
age. Raising  him  in  the  most  gracious  manner, 
they  ordered  him  to  seat  himself  in  their  presence  ; 
a  rare  honour  in  this  proud  and  punctilious  court." 

In  his  second  voyage  he  falls  in  again  with 
the  Caribs,  of  whose  courage  and  cannibal 
propensities  he  had  now  sufhcicnt  assurance. 
Mr.  Irving's  remarks  upon  this  energetic  but 
untameable  race  are  striking,  and  we  think 
original. 

"  The  warlike  and  unyielding  charaf  ter  of  thesv 
people,  so  different  from  that  of  the  pasillanimous 
nations  around  them,  and  the  wide  scope  of  their 
enterprises    and   wanderings,    like    those    of   (he 


26«» 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


Nonmde  tribes  of  the  Old  World,  entitle  them  to  dis- 
tinguished attention.  Tney  were  trained  to  war 
from  their  infancy.  As  soon  as  they  could  walk, 
their  intrepid  mothers  put  in  their  hands  t'he  bow 
and  arrow,  and  prepared  them  to  take  an  early  part 
in  the  hardy  enterprises  of  their  fathers.  Their 
distant  roamings  by  sea  made  them  observant  and 
intelligent.  The  natives  of  the  other  islands  only 
knew  how  to  divide  time  by  day  and  night,  by  the 
sun  and  moon  ;  whereas  these  bad  acquired  some 
knowledge  of  the  stars,  by  which  to  calculate  the 
times  and  seasons. 

'*  The  traditional  accounts  of  their  origin,  though 
of  course  extremely  vague,  are  yet  capable  of  being 
verified  to  a  great  degree  by  geographical  facts,  and 
open  one  of  the  rich  veins  of  curious  inquiry  and 
speculation  which  abound  in  the  New  World.  They 
are  said  to  have  migrated  from  the  remote  valleys 
embosomed  in  the  Apalachian  mountains.  The 
earliest  accounts  we  have  of  them  represent  them 
with  their  weapons  in  their  hands,  continually  en- 
gaged in  wars,  winning  their  way  and  shifting  their 
abode,  until,  in  the  course  of  time,  they  found  them- 
selves at  the  extremity  of  Florida.  Here,  abandon- 
ing the  northern  continent,  they  passed  over  to  the 
Lucayos,  and  from  thence  gradually,  in  the  pro- 
cess of  years,  from  island  to  island  of  that  vast  and 
verdant  chain,  which  links,  as  it  were,  the  end  of 
Florida  to  the  coast  of  Paria,  on  the  southern  con- 
tinent. The  Archipelago,  extending  from  Porto 
Rico  to  Tobago,  was  their  strong  hold,  and  the 
island  of  Guadaloupe  in  a  manner  their  citadel. 
Hence  they  made  their  expeditions,  and  spread  the 
terror  of  their  name  through  all  the  surrounding 
countries.  Swarms  of  them  landed  upon  the  south- 
ern continent,  and  overran  some  parts  of  Terra 
Firma.  Traces  of  them  have  been  discovered  far 
in  the  interior  of  the  country  through  which  flows 
the  Oroonoko.  The  Dutch  found  colonies  of  them 
on  the  banks  of  the  Ikouteka,  which  empties  into 
the  Surinam,  along  the  Esquibi,  the  Maroni,  and 
other  rivers  of  Guayana,  and  in  the  country  watered 
by  the  windings  of  the  Cayenne  ;  and  it  would  ap- 
pear that  they  have  extended  their  wanderings  to 
the  shores  of  the  southern  ocean,  where,  among  the 
aboriginals  of  Brazil,  were  some  who  called  them- 
selves Caribs,  distinguished  from  the  surrounding 
Indians  by  their  superior  hardihood,,  subtlety,  and 
enterprise. 

"  To  trace  the  footsteps  of  this  roving  tribe 
throughout  its  wide  migrations  from  the  Apalachian 
mountains  of  the  northern  continent,  along  the 
clusters  of  islands  which  stud  the  Gulf  of  iMexico 
and  the  Caribbean  sea  to  the  shores  of  Paria,  and 
60  across  t  he  vast  regions  of  Guayana  and  Amazonia 
to  the  remote  coast  of  Brazil,  would  be  one  of  the 
most  curious  researches  in  aboriginal  history,  and 
might  throw  much  light  upon  the  mysterious  ques- 
tion of  the  population  of  the  New  VVorld." 

We  pass  over  the  melancholy  story  of  the 
ruined  fort,  and  murdered  garrison,  to  which 
our  adventurer  returned  on  his  second  voyage ; 
and  of  the  first  dissensions  that  broke  out  in 
liis  now  incrensiiig  colony  j  but  must  pause 
for  a  moment  to  accompany  him  on  his  first 
march,  at  the  head  of  four  hundred  armed 
followers,  into  the  interior  of  the  country,  and , 
to  the  mountain  region  of  expected  gold.  For 
two  days  the  party  proceeded  up  the  banks 
of  a  stream,  which  seemed  at  last  to  lose  itself 
in  a  narrow  and  rocky  recess. 

"On  the  following  day,  the  army  toiled  up  this 
steep  defile,  and  arrived  where  the  gorge  of  the 
mountain  opened  into  the  interior.  Here  a  land  of 
promise  suddenly  burst  upon  their  view.  It  was 
the  same  glorious  prospect  which  had  delighted  Oje- 
da  and  his  companions.  Below  lay  a  vast  and  de- 
licious plain,  painted  and  enamelled,  as  it  were, 
with  all  the  rich  variety  of  tropical  vegetation.    The 


magnificent  forests  presented  that  mingled  beauty 
and  majesty  of  vegetable  forms  known  only  to  thes» 
generous  climates.  Palms  of  prodigioj^s  height, 
and  spreading  mahogany  trees,  towered  from  amid 
a  wilderness  of  variegated  foliage.  Universal  fresh- 
ness and  verdure  were  maintained  by  numerous 
streams,  which  meandered  gleaming  through  the 
deep  bosom  of  the  woodland  ;  while  various  villages 
and  hamlets,  peeping  from  among  the  trees,  and 
the  smoke  of  others  rising  out  of  the  midst  of  the 
forests,  gave  signs  of  a  numerous  population.  The 
luxuriant  landscape  extended  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach,  until  it  appeared  to  melt  away  and  mingle 
with  the  horizon.  The  Spaniards  gazed  with  rap- 
ture upon  this  soft  voluptuous  country,  which 
seemed  to  realise  their  ideas  of  a  terresiial  paradise ; 
and  Columbus,  struck  with  its  vast  extent,  gave  it 
the  name  of  the  Vega  Real,  or  Royal  Plain. 

"  Having  descended  the  rugged  pass,  the  army 
issued  upon  the  plain,  in  military  array,  with  great 
clangour  of  warlike  instruments.  When  the  In- 
dians beheld  this  shining  band  of  warriors,  ghtter- 
ing  in  steel,- emerging  from  the  mountains  with 
prancing  steeds  and  flaunting  banners,  and  heard, 
for  the  first  time,  their  rocks  and  forests  echoing  to 
the  din  of  drum  and  trumpet,  they  might  well  have 
taken  such  a  wonderful  pageant  for  a  supernatural 
vision. 

"  On  the  next  morning  they  resumed  their  march 
up  a  narrow  and  steep  glen,  winding  among  craggy 
rocks,  where  they  were  obliged  to  lead  the  horses. 
Arrived  at  the  summit,  they  once  more  enjoyed  a 
prospect  of  the  delicious  Vega,  which  here  presented 
a  still  grander  appearance,  stretching  far  and  wide 
on  either  hand,  like  a  vast  verdant  lake.  This 
noble  plain,  according  to  Las  Casas,  is  eighty 
leagues  in  length,  and  from  twenty  to  thirty  in 
breadth,  and  of  incomparable  beauty." 

"  The  natives  appeared  to  them  a  singularly  idle 
and  improvident  race,  indifferent  to  most  of  the  ob- 
jects of  human  anxiety  and  toil.  They  were  im- 
patient of  all  kinds  of  labour,  scarcely  giving 
themselves  the  trouble  to  cultivate  the  yuca  root, 
the  maize,  and  the  potatoe,  which  formed  the  main 
articles  of  subsistence.  For  the  rest,  their  streams 
abounded  with  fish  ;  they  caught  the  utia  or  coney, 
the  guana,  and  various  birds  ;  and  they  had  a  per- 
petual banquet  from  the  fruits  spontaneously  pro- 
duced by  their  groves.  Though  the  air  was  some- 
times cold  among  the  mountains,  yet  they  preferred 
submitting  to  a  little  temporary  suffering,  rather 
than  take  the  trouble  to  weave  garments  from  the 
gossampine  cotton  which  abounded  in  their  forests. 
Thus  they  loitered  away  existence  in  vacant  inac- 
tivity, under  the  shade  of  their  trees,  or  amusing 
themselves  occasionally  with  various  games  and 
dances." 

"  Having  accomplished  the  purposes  of  his  resi- 
dence in  the  Vega,  Columbus,  at  the  end  of  a  few 
days,  took  leave  of  its  hospitable  inhabitants,  and 
resumed  his  march  for  the  harbour,  returning  with 
his  little  army  through  the  lofty  and  rugged  gorge 
of  the  mountains  called  the  Pass  of  the  Hidalgos. 
As  we  accompany  him  in  imagination  over  the 
rocky  height,  from  whence  the  Vega  first  broke 
upon  the  eye  of  the  Europeans,  we  cannot  help 
pausing  to  cast  back  a  look  of  mingled  pity  and  ad- 
miration over  this  beautiful  but  devoted  region 
The  dream  of  natural  liberty,  of  ignorant  content, 
and  loitering  idleness,  was  as  yet  unbroken,  but  tin 
fiat  had  gone  forth  ;  the  white  man  had  penetrated 
into  the  land  ;  avarice,  and  pride,  and  ambitioa,  and 
pining  care,  and  sordid  labour,  were  soon  to  follow, 
and  the  indolent  paradise  of  the  Indian  to  disappear 
forever!" 

There  is  something  to  us  inexpressibly 
pleasing  in  these  passages ;  but  we  are  aware 
that  there  are  readers  to  whom  they  may 
seem  tedious — and  believe,  at  all  events,  that 
we  have  now  given  a  large  enough  specimen 
of  the  kind  of  beauty  they  present.     For  per— 


mVING'S  COLUMBUS. 


sei 


Rons  of  a  different  taste  we  ought  to  have  ex- 
tracted some  account  of  the  incredible  darings, 
and  romantic  adventures,  of  Alonzo  de  Ojeda; 
or  of  the  ruder  prowess  and  wild  magnanimity 
of  the  cacique  Caonabo,  who  alone  of  the 
island  chieftains  dared  to  offer  any  resistance 
to  the  invaders.  When  made  prisoner,  and 
carried  off  from  the  centre  of  his  dominions, 
by  one  of  the  unimaginable  feats  of  Ojeda, 
Mr.  TrA'iig  has  reported  that 

**  He  always  maintained  a  haughty  deportment 
towards  Columbus,  while  he  never  evinced  the 
least  animosity  against  Ojeda  for  the  artifice  to  which 
he  had  fallen  a  victim.  It  rather  increased  his  ad- 
miration of  him,  as  a  consummate  warrior,  looking 
upon  it  as  the  exploit  of  a  master-spirit  to  have 
pounced  upon  him,  and  borne  him  off,  in  this  hawk- 
like  manner,  from  the  very  midst  of  his  fighting- 
men.  There  is  nothing  that  an  Indian  more  admires 
in  warfare,  than  a  deep,  well-executed  stratagem. 

"  Columbus  was  accustomed  to  bear  himself 
with  an  air  of  dignity  and  authority  as  admiral  and 
viceroy,  and  exacted  great  personal  respect.  When 
he  entered  the  apartment  therefore  where  Caonabo 
was  confined,  all  present  rose,  according  to  custom, 
and  paid  him  reverence.  The  cacique  alone  neither 
moved,  nor  took  any  notice  of  him.  On  the  con- 
trary, when  Ojeda  entered,  though  small  in  person 
and  without  external  state,  Caonabo  immediately 
rose  and  saluted  him  with  profound  respect.  On 
being  asked  the  reason  of  this,  Columbus  being 
Guamiquina,  or  great  chief  over  all,  and  Ojeda  but 
fine  of  his  subjects,  the  proud  Carib  replied,  that 
the  admiral  had  never  dared  to  come  personally  to 
his  house  and  seize  him,  it  was  only  through  the 
valour  of  Ojeda  he  was  his  prisoner;  to  Ojeda, 
therefore,  he  owed  reverence,  not  the  admiral." 

The  insolent  licence  of  the  Spaniards,  and 
tne  laborious  searches  for  gold  which  they 
imposed  on  the  natives,  had  at  last  overcome 
their  original  feelings  of  veneration ;  and, 
trusting  to  their  vast  superiority  in  numbers, 
they  ventured  to  make  war  on  their  heaven- 
descended  visitants.  The  result  was  unre- 
sisted carnage  and  hopeless  submission  !  A 
tax  of  a  certain  quantity  of  gold  dust  was  im- 
posed on  all  the  districts  that  afforded  that 
substance,  and  of  certain  quantities  of  cotton 
and  of  grain  on  all  the  others — and  various 
fortresses  were  erected,  and  garrisons  station- 
ed to  assist  the  collection  of  the  tribute. 

'  In  this  way,"  says  Mr.  Irving,  "  was  the  yoke 
ol  iervituds  iixed  upon  the  island,  and  its  thraldom 
effectually  ensured.  Deep  despair  now  fell  upon 
the  natives,  when  they  found  a  perpetual  task  in- 
flicted upon  them,  enforced  at  stated  and  frequently 
recurring  periods.  Weak  and  indolent  by  nature, 
unused  to  labour  of  any  kind,  and  brought  up  in  the 
untasked  idleness  of  their  soft  climate  and  their 
fruitful  groves,  death  hself  seemed  preferable  to  a 
life  of  toil  and  anxiety.  They  saw  no  end  to  this 
harassing  evil,  which  had  so  suddenly  fallen  upon 
them  ;  no  escape  from  its  all-pervading  influence  ; 
no  prospect  of  return  to  that  roving  independence 
and  ample  leisure,  so  dear  to  the  wild  inhabitants 
of  the  forests.  The  pleasant  life  of  the  island  was 
at  an  end ;  the  dream  in  the  shade  by  day  ;  the 
slumber  during  the  sultry  noon-tide  heat  by  the 
fountain  or  the  stream,  or  under  the  spreading 
palm-tree  ;  and  the  song,  the  dance,  and  the  game 
in  the  mellow  evening,  when  summoned  to  their 
simple  amusements  by  the  rude  Indian  drum.  They 
were  now  obliged  to  grope  day  by  day,  with  bend- 
ing body  and  anxious  eye,  along  the  borders  of 
their  rivers,  sifting  the  sands  for  tne  grains  of  gold 
which  every  day  grew  more  scanty ;  or  to  labour 


in  their  fields  beneath  the  fervour  of  a  tiopical  rin, 
to  raise  food  for  their  task-masters,  or  to  produca 
the  vegetable  tribute  imposed  upon  them.  They 
sunk  to  sleep  weary  and  exhausted  at  night,  with 
the  certainty  that  the  next  day  was  but"  to  be  a 
repetition  of  the  same  toil  and  suffering.  Or  if  they 
occasionally  indulged  in  their  national  dances,  the 
ballads  to  which  they  kept  time  were  of  a  melan- 
choly and  plaintive  character.  They  spoke  of  the 
times  that  were  past  before  the  white  men  had  in- 
troduced sorrow  and  slavery,  and  weary  labour 
among  them  ;  and  they  rehearsed  pretended;  prophe- 
cies, handed  down  from  their  ancestors,  foretelling 
the  invasion  of  the  Spaniards  ;  that  strangers  should 
come  into  their  island,  clothed  in  apparel,  with 
swords  capable  of  cleaving  a  man  asunder  at  a 
blow,  under  whose  yoke  their  posterity  should  be 
subdued.  These  ballads,  or  areytos,  they  sang 
with  mournful  tunes  and  doleful  voices,  bewailing 
the  loss  of  their  liberty  and  their  painful  servitude." 

There  is  an  interest  of  another  kind  in  fol 
lowing  the  daring  route  of  Columbus  along 
the  shores  of  Cuba  and  Jamaica,  and  through 
the  turbulent  seas  that  boil  among  the  keys  in 
the  gulf  of  Paria.  The  shores  still  afforded  the 
same  beauty  of  aspect — the  people  the  same 
marks  of  submission  and  delighted  wonder. 

"It  is  impossible  to  resist  noticing  the  striking 
contrasts  which  are  sometimes  forced  upon  the 
mind.  The  coast  here  described  as  so  populous  and 
animated,  rejoicing  in  the  visit  of  the  discoverers,  is 
the  same  that  extends  westward  of  the  city  of 
Trinidad,  along  the  gulf  of  Xagua.  All  is  now 
silent  and  deserted.  Civilization,  which  has  covered 
some  parts  of  Cuba  with  glittering  cities,  has  ren- 
dered this  a  solitude.  The  whole  race  of  Indians 
has  long  since  passed  away,  pining  and  perishing 
beneath  the  domination  of  the  strangers  whom  they 
welcomed  so  joyfully  to  their  shores.  Before  me 
lies  the  account  of  a  night  recently  passed  on  this 
very  coast,  by  a  celebrated  traveller,  (Humboldt,) 
but  with  what  different  feelings  from  those  of  Co- 
lumbus !  '  I  passed,'  says  he,  '  a  great  part  of  the 
night  upon  the  deck.  What  deserted  coasts  !  not  a 
light  to  announce  the  cabin  of  a  fisherman.  From 
Batabano  to  Trinidad,  a  distance  of  fifty  leagues, 
there  does  iiot  exist  a  village.  Yet  in  the  time  of 
Columbus  this  land  was  inhabited  even  along  the 
margin  of  the  sea.  When  pits  are  digged  in  the 
soil,  or  the  torrents  plough  open  the  surface  of  the 
earth,  there  are  often  found  hatchets  of  stone  and 
vessels  of  copper,  rehcs  of  the  ancient  inhabitants 
of  the  island.'  " 

We  cannot  resist  the  temptation  of  adding 
the  following  full-length  picture ',  which  has 
all  the  splendour  of  a  romance,  with  tlie  ad- 
ditional charm  of  being  true. 

*'  One  morning,  as  the  ships  were  standing  along 
the  coast,  with  a  light  wind  and  easy  sail,  they  be- 
held three  canoes  issuing  from  among  the  islands 
of  the  bay.  They  approached  in  regular  order ; 
one,  which  was  very  large  and  handsomely  carved 
and  painted,  was  in  the  centre,  a  little  in  advance 
of  the  two  others,  which  appeared  to  attend  and 
guard  it.  In  this  were  seated  the  cacique  and  his 
family,  consisting  of  his  wife,  two  daughters,  two 
sons,  and  five  brothers.  One  of  the  daughters  was 
eighteen  years  of  age,  beautiful  in  form  and  counte- 
nance ;  her  sister  was  somewhat  younger  ;  both 
were  naked,  according  to  the  custom  of  these 
islands,  but  were  of  modest  demeanour.  In  the 
prow  of  the  canoe  stood  the  standard-bearer  of  the 
cacique,  clad  in  a  kind  of  mantle  of  variegated 
feathers,  with  a  tuft  of  gay  plumes  on  his  head,  and 
bearing  in  his  hand  a  fluttering  white  banner.  Two 
Indians,  with  caps  or  helmetsof  feathers  of  uniform 
shape  and  colour,  and  their  faces  painted  in  a  simi 
lar  manner,  beat  upon   tabors ;  two  others,  v  itb 


2«8 


fflSTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


hats  curiously  wrought  of  green  feathers,  held 
trumpets  of  a  fine  black  wood,  ingeniously  carved  ; 
and  tliere  were  six  others,  in  large  hats  and  white 
feathers,  who  appeared  to  be  guests  to  the  cacique. 
This  gallant  little  arrhada  having  arrived  alongside 
of  the  admiral's  ship,  the  cacique  entered  on  board 
with  all  his  train.  He  appeared  in  his  full  regalia. 
Around  his  head  was  a  band  of  small  stones  of 
various  colours,  but  principally  green,  symmetri- 
cally arranged,  with  large  white  stones  at  intervals, 
and  connected  in  front  by  a  large  jewel  of  gold. 
Two  plates  of  gold  were  suspended  to  his  ears  by 
rings  of  small  green  stones.  To  a  necklace  of  white 
beads,  of  a  kind  deemed  precious  by  them,  was 
suspended  a  large  plate,  in  the  form  of  a  fleur-de- 
lys,  of  gifknin,  an  inferior  species  of  gold;  and  a 
girdle  of  variegated  stones,  similar  to  those  round 
nis  head,  completed  his  regal  decorations.  His 
wife  was  adorned  in  a  similar  manner,  having  also 
a  very  small  apron  of  cotton,  and  bands  of  the  same 
round  her  arms  and  legs.  The  daughters  were 
without  ornaments,  excepting  the  eldest  and  hand- 
somest, who  had  a  girdle  of  small  stones,  from 
which  was  suspended  a  tablet,  the  size  of  an  ivy 
leaf,  composed  of  various-coloured  stones,  em- 
broided  on  net-work  of  cotton. 

"  When  the  cacique  entered  on  board  the  ship, 
he  distributed  presents  of  the  productions  of  his 
island  among  the  officers  and  men.  The  admiral 
was  at  this  time  in  his  cabin,  engaged  in  his  morn- 
ing devotions.  When  he  appeared  on  deck,  the 
chieftain  hastened  to  meet  him  with  an  animated 
countenance.  '  My  friend,'  said  he,  '  I  have  de- 
termined to  leave  my  country,  and  to  accompany 
thee.  I  have  heard  from  these  Indians  who  are  with 
thee,  of  the  irresistible  power  of  thy  sovereigns, 
and  of  the  many  nations  thou  hast  subdued  in  their 
name.  Whoever  refuses  obedience  to  thee  is  sure 
to  suffer.  Thou  hast  destroyed  the  canoes  and 
dwellings  of  the  Caribs,  slaying  their  warriors,  and 
carrying  into  captivity  their  wives  and  children. 
All  the  islands  are  in  dread  of  thee;  for  who  can 
withstand  thee  now,  that  thou  knowest  the  secrets 
of  the  land,  and  the  weakness  of  the  people  ? 
Rather,  therefore,  than  thou  shouldst  take  away 
my  dominions,  I  will  embark  with  all  my  house- 
hold in  thy  ships,  and  will  go  to  do  homage  to  thy 
king  and  queen,  and  to  behold  their  marvellous 
country,  of  which  the  Indians  relate  such  wonders.' 
When  this  speech  was  explained  to  Columbus,  and 
he  beheld  the  wife,  the  sons  and  daughters  of  the 
cacique,  and  thought  upon  the  snares  to  which 
their  ignorance  and  simplicity  would  be  exposed, 
he  was  touched  with  compassion,  and  determined 
not  to  take  them  from  their  native  land.  He  replied 
to  the  cacique,  therefore,  that  he  received  him 
under  his  protection  as  a  vassal  of  his  sovereigns  ; 
but  having  many  lands  yet  to  visit  before  he  re- 
turned to  his  country,  he  would  at  some  future 
time  fulfil  his  desire.  Then,  taking  leave  with 
many  expressions  of  amity,  the  cacique,  with  his 
wife  and  daughters,  and  all  his  retinue,  re-embarked 
in  the  canoes,  returning  reluctantly  to  their  island, 
and  the  ships  continued  on  their  course." 

But  we  must  turn  from  these  bright  le- 
gends ;  and  hurry  onward  to  the  end  of  our 
extracts.  It  is  impossible  to  give  any  abstract 
of  the  rapid  succession  of  plots,  tumults,  and 
desertions,  which  blighted  the  infancy  of  this 
great  settlement  j  or  of  the  disgraceful  calum- 
nies, jealousies,  and  intrigues,  which  gradu- 
ally undermined  the  credit  of  Columbus  with 
his  sovereign,  and  ended  at  last  in  the  mission 
of  Bobadilla,  with  power  to  supersede  him  in 
command — and  in  the  incredible  catastrophe 
of  his  being  sent  home  in  chains  by  this  arro- 
gant and  precipitate  adventurer!  When  he 
nrrived  on  board  the  caravel  which  was  to 
Barry  him  to  Spain,  the  master  treated  him 


with  the  most  profound  respect,  and  offered 
instantly  to  release  him  from  his  fetters. 

"  But  to  this  he  would  not  consent.  '  No,'  said 
he  proudly,  'their  majesties  commanded  me  by 
letter  to  submit  to  whatever  Bodadilla  should  order 
in  their  name  ;  by  their  authority  he  has  put  upon 
me  these  chains — I  will  wear  them  until  they  shall 
order  them  to  be  taken  off",  and  I  will  preserve  them 
afterwards  as  relics  and  memorials  of  the  reward 
of  my  services.'  " 

"  '  He  did  so,'  adds  his  son  Fernando;  '  I  saw 
them  always  hanging  in  his  cabinet,  and  he  re- 
quested that  when  he  died  they  might  be  buried 
with  him  !'  " 

If  there  is  something  in  this  memorable 
brutality  which  stirs  the  blood  with  intense 
indignation,  there  is  something  soothing  and 
still  more  touching  in  the  instant  retribution. 

*'  The  arrival,"  says  Mr.  Irving,  "  of  Columbus 
at  Cadiz,  a  prisoner  and  in  chains,  produced  almost 
as  great  a  sensation  as  his  triumphant  return  from 
his  first  voyage.  It  was  one  of  those  striking  and 
obvious  facts,  which  speak  to  the  feelings  of  the 
multitude,  and  preclude  the  necessity  of  reflection. 
No  one  stopped  to  inquire  into  the  case.  It  was 
sufficient  to  be  told  that  Columbus  was  brought 
home  in  irons  from  the  world  he  had  discovered  ! 
A  general  burst  of  indignation  arose  in  Cadiz,  and 
in  the  powerful  and  opulent  Seville,  which  was  im- 
mediately echoed  throughout  all  Spain." 

"Ferdinand  joined  with  his  generous  queen  in 
her  reprobation  of  the  treatment  of  the  admiral,  and 
both  sovereigns  hastened  to  give  evidence  to  the 
world  that  his  imprisonment  had  been  without  their 
authority,  and  contrary  to  their  wishes.  Without 
waiting  to  receive  any  documents  that  might  arrive 
from  Bobadilla,  they  sent  orders  to  Cadiz  that  the 
prisoners  should  be  instantly  set  at  liberty,  and 
treated  with  all  distinction.  They  wrote  a  letter  to 
Columbus  couched  in  terms  of  gratitude  and  affec- 
tion, expressing  their  grief  at  all  he  had  suffered, 
and  inviting  him  to  court.  They  ordered,  at  the 
same  time,  that  two  thousand  ducats  should  be  ad- 
vanced to  defray  his  expenses. 

"  The  loyal  heart  of  Columbus  was  again  cheered 
by  this  declaration  of  his  sovereigns.  He  felt  con- 
scious of  his  integrity,  and  anticipated  an  immediate 
restitution  of  all  his  rights  and  dignities.  He  ap- 
peared at  court  in  Granada  on  the  17th  of  Decem- 
ber, not  as  a  man  ruined  and  disgraced,  but  richly 
dressed,  and  attended  by  an  honourable  retinue. 
He  was  received  by  their  majesties  with  unqualified 
favour  and  distinction.  When  the  queen  beheld 
this  venerable  man  approach,  and  thought  on  all  he 
had  deserved  and  all  that  he  had  suffered,  she  was 
moved  to  tears.  Columbus  had  borne  up  firmly 
against  the  stern  conflicts  of  the  world, — he  had 
endured  with  lofty  scorn  the  injuries  and  insults  of 
ignoble  men,  but  he  possessed  strong  and  quick 
sensibility.  When  he  found  himself  thus  kindly 
received  by  his  sovereigns,  and  beheld  tears  in  the 
benign  eyes  of  Isabella,  his  long-suppressed  feel- 
ings burst  forth ;  he  threw  himself  upon  his  knees, 
and  for  some  time  could  not  utter  a  word  for  the 
violence  of  his  tears  and  sobbings!" 

In  the  year  1502,  and  in  the  sixty-sixth 
year  of  his  age,  the  indefatigable  discoverer 
set  out  on  liis  fourth  and  last  voyage.  In  this 
he  reached  the  coast  of  Honduras ;  and  fell 
in  with  a  race  somewhat  more  advanced  in 
civilization  than  any  he  had  yet  encountered 
in  these  remote  regions.  They  had  mantles 
of  woven  cotton  and  some  small  utensils  of 
native  copper.  He  then  ran  down  the  shore 
of  Veragua,  and  came  through  tremendous 
tempests  to  Portobello,  in  search,  it  appears, 
of  a  strait  or  inlet,  by  which  he  had  per 


IRVING'S  COLUMBUS. 


2t* 


maded  himself  he  should  find  a  ready  way 
to  the  shores  of  the  Ganges :  The  extreme 
severity  of  the  season,  and  the  miserable  con- 
dition of  his  ships,  compelled  him,  however, 
to  abandon  this  great  enterprise  ;  th^  account 
of  which  Mr.  Irving  winds  up  with  the  fol- 
lowing quaint  and  not  very  felicitous  observa- 
tion :  '-  If  he  was  disappointed  in  his  expec- 
tation of  finding  a  strait  through  the  Isthmus 
of  Darien,  it  was  because  nature  herself  had 
been  disappointed — for  she  appears  to  have 
attempted  to  make  one,  but  to  have  attempted 
it  in  vain." 

After  this  he  returned  to  the  coast  of  Vera- 
gua,  wLere  iie  landed,  and  formed  a  tempo- 
rary settlement,  with  a  view  of  searching  for 
certain  gold  mines  which  he  had  been  told 
were  in  the  neighbourhood.  This,  however, 
was  but  the  source  of  new  disasters.  The 
natives,  who  were  of  a  fierce  and  warlike 
character,  attacked  and  betrayed  him — and 
his  vessels  were  prevented  from  getting  to 
sea,  by  the  formation  of  a  formidable  bar  at 
the  mouth  of  the  river. 

At  last,  by  prodigious  exertions,  and  the 
heroic  spirit  of  some  of  his  officers,  he  was 
enabled  to  get  away.  But  his  altered  fortune 
still  p'irsued  him.  He  was  harassed  by  per- 
petual storms,  and  after  having  beat  up  nearly 
to  Hispaniola,  was  assailed  by 

"  A  sudden  tempest,  of  such  violence,  that,  ac- 
cording to  the  strong  expression  of  Columbus,  it 
seemed  as  if  the  world  would  dissolve.  "^Fhey  lost 
three  of  their  anchors  almost  immediately,  and  the 
caravel  Bermuda  was  driven  with  such  violence 
upon  the  ship  of  the  admiral,  that  the  bow  of  the 
one,  and  the  stern  of  the  other,  were  greatly  shat- 
tered. The  sea  running  high,  and  the  wind  being 
boisterous,  the  vessels  chafed  and  injured  each  other 
dreadfully,  and  it  was  with  great  difficulty  that  they 
were  separated.  One  anchor  only  remained  to  the 
admiral's  ship,  and  this  saved  him  from  being  driven 
upon  the  rocks  ;  but  at  daylight  the  cable  was  found 
nearly  worn  asunder.  Had  the  darkness  continued 
an  hour  longer,  he  could  scarcely  have  escaped 
shipwreck. 

"At  the  end  of  six  days,  the  weather  having 
moderated,  he  resumed  his  course,  standing  east- 
ward for  Hispaniola:  '  his  people,'  as  he  says,  '  dis- 
mayed and  down-hearted,  almost  all  his  anchors 
lost,  and  his  vessels  bored  as  full  of  holes  as  a 
honeycomb." 

His  proud  career  seemed  now  to  be  hasten- 
ing to  a  miserable  end.  Incapable  of  strug- 
gling longer  with  the  elements,  he  was  obliged 
10  run  b  sfore  the  wind  to  Jamaica,  where  he 
was  r.c;  even  in  a  condition  to  attempt  to 
mak3  ar.y  harbour. 

'  His  ships,  reduced  to  mere  wrecks,  could  no 
longer  keep  the  sea,  and  were  ready  to  sink  even 
in  port.  He  ordered  them,  therefore,  to  be  run 
aground,  within  a  bow-shot  of  the  shore,  and  fast- 
ened together,  side  by  side.  They  soon  filled  with 
water  to  the  decks.  Thatched  cabins  were  then 
erected  at  the  prow  and  stern  for  the  accommoda- 
tion of  the  crews,  and  the  wreck  was  placed  in  the 
best  possible  state  of  defence.  Thus  castled  in  the 
sea,  Columbus  trusted  to  be  able  to  repel  any  sud- 
den attack  of  the  natives,  and  at  the  same  time  to 
keep  his  men  from  roving  about  the  neighbourhood 
and  indulging  in  their  usual  excesses.  No  one  was 
allowed  to  go  on  shore  without  especial  licence,  and 
the  utmost  precaution  was  taken  to  prevent  any 
offence  from  being  given  to  the  Indians.     Any  ex- 


asperation of  them  might  be  fatal  to  tie  Spaniards 
in  their  present  Ibrlorn  situation.  A  hrebrand 
thrown  into  their  wooden  fortress  might  wrap  it  in 
flames,  and  leave  them  defenceless  amidst  hostile 
thousands." 

"  The  envy,"  says  Mr.  Irving,  "  which  had  once 
sickened  at  the  glory  and  prosperity  of  Columbus, 
co-uld  scarcely  have  devised  for  him  a  more  forlorn 
heritage  in  the  world  he  had  discovered  ;  the  tenant 
of  a  wreck  on  a  savage  coast,  in  an  untraversed 
ocean,  at  the  mercy  of  barbarous  hordes,  who,  in  a 
moment,  from  precarious  friends,  might  be  trans 
formed  into  ferocious  enemies;  afflicted,  too,  by 
excruciating  maladies  which  confined  him  to  his 
bed,  and  by  the  pains  and  infirmities  which  hard- 
ship and  anxiety  had  heaped  upon  his  advancing 
age.  But  Columbus  had  not  yet  exhausted  his  cup 
of  bitterness.  He  had  yet  to  experience  an  evil 
worse  than  storm,  or  shipwreck,  or  bodily  anguish, 
or  the  violence  of  savage  hordes,  in  the  perfidy  of 
those  in  whom  he  confided." 

The  account  of  his  sufferings  during  the 
twelve  long  months  he  was  allowed  to  remain 
in  this  miserable  condition,  is  full  of  the  deep- 
est interest,  and  the  strangest  variety  of  ad- 
venture. But  we  can  now  only  refer  to  it. — 
Two  of  his  brave  and  devoted  adherents  un- 
dertook to  cross  to  Hispaniola  in  a  slender 
Indian  canoe,  and  after  mcredible  miseries,  at 
length  accomplished  this  desperate  under- 
taking— but  from  the  cold-hearted  indecision, 
or  paltry  jealousy,  of  the  new  Governor 
Ovando,  it  was  not  till  the  late  period  we  have 
mentioned,  that  a  vessel  was  at  length  des- 
patched to  the  relief  of  the  illustrious  sufierer. 

But  he  was  not  the  only,  or  even  the  most 
memorable  sufferer.  From  the  time  he  was 
superseded  in  command,  the  misery  and  op- 
pression of  the  natives  of  Hispaniola  had  in- 
creased beyond  all  proportion  or  belief.  By 
the  miserable  policy  of  the  new  governor, 
their  services  w^ere  allotted  to  the  Spanish 
settlers,  who  compelled  them  to  work  by  the 
cruel  infliction  of  the  scourge ;  and,  with- 
holding from  them  the  nourishment  necessary 
for  health,  exacted  a  degree  of  labour  v;hich 
could  not  have  been  sustained  by  the  most 
vigorous  men. 

"  If  they  fled  from  this  incessant  toil  and  barba- 
rous coercion,  and  took  refuge  in  the  mountains, 
they  were  hunted  out  like  wild  beasts,  scourged  in 
the  most  inhuman  manner,  and  laden  with  chains 
to  prevent  a  second  escape.  Many  perished  long 
before  their  term  of  labour  had  expired.  Those 
who  survived  their  term  of  six  or  eight  months, 
were  permitted  to  return  to  their  homes,  until  the 
next  term  commenced.  But  their  homes  were 
often  forty,  sixty,  and  eighty  leagues  distant.  They 
had  nothing  to  sustain  them  through  the  journey 
but  a  few  roots  or  agi  peppers,  or  a  little  cassava- 
bread.  Worn  down  by  long  toil  and  cruel  hard- 
ships, which  their  feeble  constitutions  were  incapa- 
ble of  sustaining,  many  had  not  strength  to  perform 
the  journey,  but  sunk  down  and  died  by  the  way ; 
some  by  the  side  of  a  brook,  others  under  the  shade 
of  a  tree,  where  they  had  crawled  for  shelter  from 
the  sun.  '  I  have  found  many  dead  in  the  road,' 
says  Las  Casas,  '  others  gasping  under  the  trees, 
and  others  in  the  pangs  of  death,  faintly  crying, 
Hunger;  hunger!'  Those  who  reached  their 
homes  most  commonly  found  them  desolate.  Du- 
ring the  eight  months  that  they  had  been  absent 
their  wives  and  children  had  either  perished  or 
wandered  away  ;  the  fields  on  which  they  depended 
for  food  were  overrun  with  weeds,  and  nothing  waa 
left  them  but  to  lie  down,  exhausted  and  despairing, 
and  die  at  the  threshold  of  their  habitations. 


tio 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


It  is  impossible  to  pursue  any  farther  the  picture 
drawn  by  the  venerable  Las  Casas,  not  of  what  he 
had  heard,  but  of  what  he  had  seen — nature  and 
humanity  revolt  at  the  details.  Suffice  it  to  say 
that,  so  intolerable  were  the  toils  and  sufferings  in- 
flicted upon  this  weak  and  unoffending  race,  that 
they  sunk  under  them,  dissolving  as  it  were  from 
•he  face  of  the  earth.  Many  killed  themselves  in 
.iespair,  and  even  mothers  overcame  the  powerful 
instinct  of  nature,  and  destroyed  the  infants  at  their 
breasts,  to  spare  them  a  life  of  wretchedness. 
Twelve  years  had  not  elapsed  since  the  discovery 
of  the  island,  and  several  hundred  thousands  of  its 
native  inhabitants  had  perished,  miserable  victims 
to  the  grasping  avarice  of  the  white  men." 

These  pictures  are  sufficiently  shocking  j 
but  they  do  not  exhaust  the  horrors  that  cover 
the  brief  history  of  this  ill-fated  people.  The 
province  or  district  of  Xaragua,  which  was 
ruled  over  by  a  princess,  called  Anacaona, 
celebrated  in  all  the  contemporary  accounts 
for  the  grace  and  dignity  of  her  manners^  and 
her  confiding  attachment  to  the  strangers,  had 
hitherto  enjoyed  a  happy  exemption  from  the 
troubles  which  distracted  the  other  parts  of 
the  island,  and  when  visited  about  ten  years 
before  by  the  brother  of  Columbus,  had  im- 
pressed all  the  Spaniards  with  the  idea  of  an 
earthly  paradise  :  both  from  the  fertility  and 
sweetness  of  the  country,  the  gentleness  of 
its  people,  and  the  beauty  and  grace  of  the 
women.  Upon  some  rumours  that  the  neigh- 
i:K)uring  caciques  were  assembling  for  hostile 
purposes,  Ovando  now  marched  into  this  de- 
voted region  with  a  well-appointed  force  of 
near  four  hundred  men.  He  was  hospitably 
and  joyfully  received  by  the  princess :  and 
affected  to  encourage  and  join  in  the  festivity 
which  his  presence  had  excited.  He  was  even 
himself  engaged  in  a  sportful  game  with  his 
officers,  when  the  signal  for  massacre  was 
given — and  the  place  was  instantly  covered 
with  blood !  Eighty  of  the  caciques  were 
burnt  over  slow  fires !  and  thousands  of  the 
unarmed  and  unresisting  people  butchered, 
without  regard  to  sex  or  age.  "  Humanity," 
Mr.  Irving  very  justly  observes,  "  turns  with 
horror  from  such  atrocities,  and  would  fain 
discredit  them :  But  they  are  circumstantially 
and  still  more  minutely  recorded  by  the 
venerable  Las  Casas — who  was  resident  in  the 
island  at  the  time,  and  conversant  with  the 
principal  actors  in  the  tragedy." 

Still  worse  enormities  signalised  the  final 
subjugation  of  the  province  of  Higuey — the 
last  scene  of  any  attempt  to  resist  the  tyran- 
nical power  of  the  invaders.  It  would  be 
idle  to  detail  here  the  progress  of  that  savage 
and  most  unequal  warfare :  but  it  is  right  that 
the  butcheries  perpetrated  by  the  victors 
should  not  be  forgotten — that  men  may  see 
to  what  incredible  excesses  civilised  beings 
may  be  tempted  by  the  possession  of  absolute 
and  unquestioned  power — and  may  learn, 
from  indisputable  memorials,  how  far  the 
abuse  of  delegated  and  provincial  authority 
may  be  actually  carried.  If  it  be  true,  as 
Homer  has  alleged,  that  the  day  which  makes 
a  man  a  slave,  takes  away  half  his  worth — it 
teems  to  be  still  more  infallibly  and  fatally 
true,  that  the  master  generally  suffers  a  yet 
farger  privation. 


"Sometimes,"  says  Mr.  Irving,  tney  would 
hunt  down  a  straggling  Indian,  and  compel  him,  by 
torments,  to  betray  the  hiding-place  of  his  com- 
panions, binding  him  and  driving  him  before  them 
as  a  guide.  Wherever  they  discovered  one  of 
these  places  of  refuge,  fdled  with  the  aged  and  the 
infirm,  with  feeble  women  and  helpless  children, 
they  massacred  them  without  mercy !  They 
wished  to  inspire  terror  throughout  the  land,  and  to 
frighten  the  whole  tribe  into  submission.  They  cut 
off  the  hands  of  those  whom  they  took  roving  at 
large,  and  sent  them,  as  they  said,  to  deliver  them 
as  letters  to  their  friends,  demanding  their  surrender. 
Numberless  were  those,  says  Las  Casas,  whose 
hands  were  amputated  in  this  manner,  and  manv 
of  them  sunk  down  and  died  by  the  way,  through 
anguish  and  loss  of  blood. 

"  The  conquerors  delighted  in  exercising  strange 
and  ingenious  cruelties.  They  mingled  horrible 
levity  with  their  bloodthirstiness.  They  erected 
gibbets  long  and  low,  so  that  the  feet  of  the  suf- 
ferers might  reach  the  ground,  and  their  death  be 
lingering.  They  hanged  thirteen  together,  in  reve- 
rence, says  the  indignant  Las  Casas,  of  our  blessed 
Saviour  and  the  twelve  apostles !  While  their 
victims  were  suspended,  and  still  living,  they  hack- 
ed them  with  their  swords,  to  prove  the  strength 
of  their  arm  and  the  edge  of  their  weapons.  They 
wrapped  them  in  dry  straw,  and  setting  fire  to  it, 
terminated  their  existence  by  the  fiercest  agony. 

"  These  are  horrible  details;  yet  a  veil  is  drawn 
over  others  still  more  detestable.  They  are  related 
by  the  venerable  Las  Casas,  who  was  an  eye-witness 
of  the  scenes  he  describes.  He  was  young  at  the 
time,  but  records  them  in  his  advanced  years.  '  All 
these  things,'  says  he,  '  and  others  revolting  t» 
human  nature,  my  own  eyes  beheld !  and  now  I 
almost  fear  to  repeat  them,  scarce  believing  myself, 
or  whether  1  have  not  dreamt  them.' 

"  The  system  of  Columbus  may  have  borne  hard 
upon  the  Indians,  born  and  brought  up  in  untasked 
freedom ;  but  it  was  never  cruel  nor  sanguinary. 
He  inflicted  no  wanton  massacres  nor  vindictive 
punishments ;  his  desire  was  to  cherish  and  civilise 
the  Indians,  and  to  render  them  useful  subjects,  not 
to  oppress,  and  persecute,  and  destroy  them.  When 
he  beheld  the  desolation  that  had  swept  them  from 
the  land  during  his  suspension  froni  authority,  he 
could  not  restrain  the  strong  expression  of  his  feel- 
ings. In  a  letter  written  to  the  king  after  his  return 
to  Spain,  he  thus  expresses  himself  on  the  subject: 
'  The  Indians  of  Hispaniola  were  and  are  the  riches 
of  the  island  ;  for  it  is  they  who  cultivate  and  make 
the  bread  and  the  provisions  for  the  Christians,  who 
dig  the  gold  from  the  mines,  and  perform  all  the 
offices  and  labours  both  of  men  and  beasts.  I  am 
informed  that,  since  I  left  this  island,  (that  is,  in  less 
than  three  years,)  six  parts  out  of  seven  of  the  natives 
are  dead,  all  through  ill  treatment  and  inhumanity ! 
some  by  the  sword,  others  by  blows  and  cruel 
usage,  and  others  through  hunger.  The  greater 
part  have  perished  in  the  mountains  and  glens, 
whither  they  had  fled,  from  not  being  able  to  sup- 
port the  labour  imposed  upon  them.'  " 

The  story  now  draws  to  a  close.  Columbus 
returned  to  Spain,  broken  down  with  age 
and  aflliction— and  after  two  years  spent  in 
unavailing  solicitations  at  the  court  of  the 
cold-blooded  and  ungrateful  Ferdinand  (his 
generous  patroness,  Isabella,  having  died  im- 
mediately on  his  return),  terminated  with 
characteristic  magnanimity  a  life  of  singula! 
energy,  splendour,  and  endurance.  Indepen 
dent  of  his  actual  achievements,  he  was  un 
doubt'edly  a  great  and  remarkable  man ;  and 
Mr.  Irving  has  summed  up  his  general  char- 
acter in  a  very  eloquent  and  judicious  way. 

"His  ambition,"  he  observes,  "was  lofty  ana 
noble.     He  was  full  of  high  thoughts,  and  anxioua 


IHVING'S  COLUMBUS. 


271 


u>  distinguish  himself  by  great  achievements.  It 
has  been  said  that  a  mercenary  feehng  mingled 
with  his  views,  and  that  his  stipulations  with  the 
Spanish  Court  were  selfish  and  avaricious.  The 
charge  is  inconsiderate  and  unjust.  He  aimed  at 
dignity  and  wealth  in  the  same  lofty  spirit  in  which 
he  sought  renown;  and  the  gains  tliat  promised  to 
arise  from  his  discoveries,  he  intended  to  appropriate 
in  the  same  princely  and  pious  spirit  in  which  they 
were  demanded.  He  contemplated  works  and 
achievements  of  benevolence  and  religion :  vast  con- 
tributions for  the  relief  of  the  poor  of  his  native 
city  ;  the  foundation  of  churches,  where  masses 
should  be  said  for  the  souls  of  the  departed ;  and 
armies  for  the  recovery  of  the  holy  sepulchre  in 
Palestine. 

"  In  his  testament,  he  enjoined  on  his  son  Diego, 
and  whoever  after  him  should  inherit  his  estetes, 
whatever  dignities  and  titles  might  afterwards  be 
granted  by  the  king,  always  to  sign  himself  simply 
'  the  Admiral,'  by  way  of  perpetuating  in  the  family 
its  real  source  of  greatness." 

"  He  was  devoutly  pious ;  religion  mingled  with 
the  whole  course  of  his  thoughts  and  actions,  and 
shines  forth  in  all  his  most  private  and  unstudied 
writings.  Whenever  he  made  any  great  discovery, 
he  celebrated  it  by  solemn  thanks  to  God.  The 
voice  of  prayer  and  melody  of  praise  rose  from  his 
ships  when  he  first  beheld  the  New  World,  and 
his  first  action  on  landing  was  to  prostrate  himself 
upon  the  earth  and  return  thanksgivings.  Every 
evening,  the  Salve  Eegina,  and  other  vesper  hymns, 
were  chanted  by  his  crew,  and  masses  were  per- 
formed in  the  beautiful  groves  that  bordered  the 
wild  shores  of  this  heathen  land.  The  religion 
thus  deeply  seated  in  the  soul,  diffused  a  sober  dig- 
nity and  benign  composure  over  his  whole  demean- 
our. His  language  was  pure  and  guarded,  free 
from  all  imprecations,  oaths,  and  other  irreverent 
expressions.  But  his  piety  was  darkened  by  the 
bigotry  of  the  age.  He  evidently  concurred  in  the 
opinion  that  all  the  nations  who  did  not  acknowledge 
the  Christian  faith  were  destitute  of  natural  rights ; 
that  the  sternest  measures  might  be  used  for  their 
conversion,  and  the  severest  punishments  inflicted 
upon  their  obstinacy  in  unbelief.  In  this  spirit 
of  bigotry  he  considered  himself  justified  in  making 
captives  of  the  Indians,  and  transporting  them  to 
Spain  to  have  them  taught  the  doctrines  of  Chris- 
tianity, and  in  selling  them  for  slaves  if  they 
pretended  to  resist  his  invasions.  He  was  counte- 
nanced in  these  views,  no  doubt,  by  the  general 
opinion  of  the  age.  But  it  is  not  the  intention  of 
the  author  to  justify  Columbus  on  a  point  where  it 
is  inexcusable  to  err.  I^et  it  remain  a  blot  on  his 
illustrious  name, — and  let  others  derive  a  lesson 
from  it." 

He  was  a  man,  too,  undoubtedly,  as  all 
truly  great  men  have  been,  of  an  iirjaginative 
and  sensitive  temperament — something,  as 
Mr.  Irving  has  well  remarked,  even  of  a  vis- 
ionary— but  a  visionary  of  a  high  and  lofty 
order,  controlling  his  ardent  imagination  by  a 
powerful  judgment  and  great  practical   sa- 

facity,  and  deriving  not  only  a  noble  delight 
ut  signal  accessions  of  knowledge  from  this 
vigour  and  activity  of  his  fancy. 

•'  Yet,  with  all  this  fervour  of  imagination,"  as 
Mr.  Irving  has  strikingly  observed,  "its  fondest 
dreams  fell  short  of  the  reality.  He  died  in  igno- 
rance of  the  real  grandeur  of  his  discovery.  Until 
his  last  breath  he  entertained  the  idea  that  he  had 
merely  opened  a  new  way  to  the  old  resorts  of  opu- 
.ent  commerce,  and  had  discovered  some  of  the 
wild  regions  of  the  east.  He  supposed  Hispaniola 
to  be  the  ancient  Ophir  which  had  been  visited  by 
rhe  ships  of  Solomon,  and  that  Cuba  and  Terra 
Firm  a  were  but  remote  parts  of  Asia.   What  visions 


of  glory  would  have  broke  upon  1  is  mind  could  he 
have  known  that  he  had  indeed  discovered  anew 
continent,  equal  to  the  whole  of  the  old  world  in  mag- 
nhude,  and  separated  by  two  vast  oceans  from  all  the 
earth  hitherto  known  by  civihsed  man  !  And  how 
would  his  magnanimous  spirit  have  been  consoled, 
amidst  the  afflictions  of  age  and  the  cares  of  penury, 
the  neglect  of  a  fickle  public,  and  the  injustice  otan 
ungrateful  king,  could  he  have  anticipated  the 
splendid  empires  which  were  to  spread  over  the 
beautiful  world  he  had  discovered  ;  and  the  nations, 
and  tongues,  and  languages  which  were  to  fill  its 
lands  with  his  renown,  and  to  revere  and  bless  his 
name  to  the  latest  poste-ity  !" 

The  appendix  to  Mr.  Irving's  work,  which 
occupies  the  greater  part  of  the  last  volrjne, 
contains  most  of  the  original  matter  which 
his  learning  and  research  have  enabled  him 
to  bring  to  bear  on  the  principal  subject,  and 
constitutes  indeed  ci  miscellany  of  a  singTilarly 
curious  and  interesting  description.  It  con- 
sists, besides  very  copious  and  elaborate  ac- 
counts of  the  family  and  descendants  of  Co- 
lumbus, principally  of  extracts  and  critiques 
of  the  discoveries  of  earlier  or  contemporary 
navigators — the  voyages  of  the  Carthaginians 
and  the  Scandinavians, — of  Behem.  the  Pin- 
zons,  Amerigo  Yespucci,  and  others — with 
some  very  curious  remarks  on  llie  travels  of 
Marco  Polo,  and  Mandeville — a  dissertation 
on  the  ships  used  by  Columbus  and  his  con- 
temporaries— on  the  Atalantis  of  Plato — the 
imaginary  island  of  St.  Brandan,  and  of  the 
Seven  Cities — together  with  remarks  on  the 
writings  of  Peter  Martyr,  Oviedo,  Herrera, 
Las  Casas,  and  the  other  contemporary  chreni- 
clers  of  those  great  discoveries.  The  whole 
drawn  up.  we  think,  with  singular  judgment, 
diligence,  and  candour;  and  presenting  the 
reader,  in  the  most  manageable  form,  with 
almost  all  the  collateral  information  which 
could  be  brought  to  elucidate  the  transactions 
to  which  they  relate. 

Such  is  the  general  character  of  Mr.  Irving's 
book — and  such  are  parts  of  its  contents.  We 
do  not  pretend  to  give  any  view  whatever  of 
the  substance  of  four  large  historical  volumes ; 
and  fear  that  the  specimens  we  have  ventured 
to  exhibit  of  the  author's  way  of  writing  are 
not  very  well  calculated  to  do  justice  either 
to  the  occasional  force,  or  the  constant  variety, 
of  his  style.  But  for  judicious  readers  they 
will  probably  suffice — and,  we  trust,  will  be 
found  not  only  to  warrant  the  praise  we  have 
felt  ourselves  called  on  to  bestow,  but  to  in- 
duce many  to  gratify  themselves  by  the  r  era- 
sal  of  the  work  at  large. 

Mr.  Irving,  we  believe,  was  not  in  Ecgland 
when  his  work  was  printed :  and  we  must  say 
he  has  been  very  insufficiently  represented 
by  the  corrector  of  the  press.  We  do  not 
recollect  ever  to  have  seen  so  handsome  a 
book  with  so  many  gross  typographical  errors.. 
In  many  places  they  obscure  the  sense — and 
are  very  frequently  painful  and  ofTensive. 
It  will  be  absolutely  necessary  that  this  be 
looked  to  in  a  new  impression ;  anc  the  au- 
thor would  do  well  to  avail  himselff  of  the 
same  opportunity,  to  correct  some  verbal  in- 
accuracies, and  to  polish  and  improve  some 
passages  of  slovenly  writing. 


272 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


(Itine,  1S27.) 

Memoirs  of  Zehir-ed-din  Muhammed  Baber,  Emperor  of  Hindustan,  written  by  himself  in 
the  Jaghatai  Turki,  and  translated,  partly  by  the  late  John  Leyden,  Esq.  M.D.,  partly  by 
William  Erskine,  Esq.  With  Notes  and  a  Geographical  and  Historical  Introduction :  to- 
gether ivith  a  Map  of  the  Countries  between  the  Oxus  and  Jaxartes,  and  a  Memoir  regarding 
its  Construction,  by  Charles  Waddington,  Esq.,  of  the  East  India  Companyh  Engineers. 
London:   1826. 


This  is  a  very  curious,  and  admirably  edited 
work.  But  the  strongest  impression  which 
the  pe^isal  of  it  has  left  on  our  minds  is  the 
boundlessness  of  authentic  history;  and,  if 
we  n^-ht  venture  to  say  it,  the  uselessness 
of  all^story  which  does  not  relate  to  our  own 
Fity  of  nations,  or  even  bear,  in  some 
other,  on  our  own  present  or  future 

Weifiiave  here  a  distinct  and  faithful  account 
of  sorM  hundreds  of  battles,  sieges,  and  great 
milita^^  expeditions,  and  a  character  of  a  pro- 
digiou^^ijmber  of  eminent  individuals, — men 
famous^tJ^n  their  day,  over  wide  regions,  for 
genius  ^  fortune — ^poets,  conquerors,  martyrs 
— founders  of  cities  and  dynasties — authors 
of  immortal  works — ravagers  of  vast  districts 
abounding  in  wealth  and  population.  Of  all 
these  great  personages  and  events,  nobody  in 
Europe,  if  we  except  a  score  or  two  of  studi- 
ous .Orientalists,  has  ever  heard  before ;  and 
it  would  not,  we  imagine,  be  very  easy  to 
show  that  we  are  any  better  for  hearing  of 
them  now.  A  few  curious  traits,  that  hap- 
pen to  be  strikingly  in  contrast  with  our  own 
manners  and  habits,  may  remain  on  the 
memory  of  a  reflecting  reader — with  a  gene- 
ral confused  recollection  of  the  dark  and  gor- 
geous phantasmagoria.  But  no  one,  we  may 
fairly  say,  will  think  it  worth  while  to  digest 
or  develope  the  details  of  the  history  ]  or  be 
at  the  pains  to  become  acquainted  with  the 
leading  individuals,  and  fix  in  his  memory  the 
series  and  connection  of  events.  Yet  the,ef- 
fusion  of  human  blood  w^as  as  copious — the 
display  of  talent  and  courage  as  imposing — 
the  perversion  of  high  moral  qualities,  and  the 
waste  of  the  means  of  enjoyment  as  unspar- 
ing, as  in  other  long-past  battles  and  intrigues 
and  revolutions,  over  the  details  of  which  we 
still  pore  with  the  most  unwearied  atten- 
tion :  and  to  verify  the  dates  or  minute  cir- 
cumstances of  which,  is  still  regarded  as  a 
great  exploit  in  historical  research,  and  among 
the  noblest  employments  of  human  learning 
and  sagacity. 

It  is  not  perhaps  very  easy  to  account  for 
the  eagernegis  with  which  we  still  follow  the 
fortunes  of  Miltiades,  Alexander,  or  Caesar — 
of  the  Bruce  and  the  Black  Prince,  and  the 
interest  which  yet  belongs  to  the  fields  of 
Marathon  and  Pharsalia,  of  Crecy  and  Ban- 
nockburn,  compared  with  the  indifference,  or 
rather  reluctance,  with  which  we  listen  to  the 
details  of  Asiatic  warfare — the  conquests  that 
transferred  to  the  Moguls  the  vast  sovereign- 
ties of  India,  or  raised  a  dynasty  of  Manchew 


Tartars  to  the  Celestial  Empire  of  China.  It 
will  not  do  to  say,  that  we  want  something 
nobler  in  character,  and  more  exalted  in  in- 
tellect, than  is  to  be  met  Math  among  those 
murderous  Orientals — that  there  is  nothing  to 
interest  in  the  contentions  of  mere  force  and 
violence ;  and  that  it  requires  no  very  fine- 
drawn reasoning  to  explain  why  we  should 
turn  with  disgust  from  the  story,  if  it  had 
been  preserved,  of  the  savage  affrays  which 
have  drenched  the  sands  of  Africa  or  the  rocks 
of  New  Zealand — through  long  generations  of 
murder — with  the  blood  of  their  brutish  popu- 
lation. This  may  be  true  enough  of  Mada- 
gascar or  Dahomy ;  but  it  does  not  apply  to 
the  case  before  us.  The  nations  of  Asia  gene- 
rally— at  least  those  composing  its  great  states 
— were  undoubtedly  more  polished  than  those 
of  Europe,  during  all  the  period  that  preceded 
their  recent  connection.  Their  warriors  w^ere 
as  brave  in  the  field,  their  statesmen  more 
subtle  and  politic  in  the  cabinet :  In  the  arts 
of  luxury,  and  all  the  elegancies  of  civil  life, 
they  were  immeasurably  superior;  in  inge- 
nuity of  speculation — in  literature — in  social 
politeness — the  comparison  is  still  in  their 
favour. 

It  has  often  occurred  to  us,  indeed,  to  con- 
sider what  the  effect  would  have  been  on  the 
fate  and  fortunes  of  the  world,  if,  in  the  four- 
teenth, or  fifteenth  century,  when  the  germs 
of  their  present  civilisation  were  first  disclosed, 
the  nations  of  Europe  had  been  introduced  to 
an  intimate  and  friendly  acquaintance  with 
the  great  polished  communities  of  the  East, 
and  had  been  thas  led  to  take  them  for  their 
masters  in  intellectual  cultivation,  and  their 
models  in  all  the  higher  pursuits  of  genius, 
polity,  and  art.  The  difference  in  our  social 
and  moral  condition,  it  would  not  perhaps  be 
easy  to  estimate :  But  one  result,  we  conceive, 
would  unquestionably  have  been,  to  make  us 
take  the  same  deep  interest  in  their  ancient 
story,  which  we  now  feel,  for  similar  reasons, 
in  that  of  the  sterner  barbarians  of  early  Rome,  jy 
or  the  more  imaginative  clans  and  colonies  '||| 
of  immortal  Greece.  The  experiment,  how- 
ever, though  there  seemed  oftener  than  once 
to  be  some  openings  for  it,  was  not  mxade. 
Our  crusading  ancestors  were  too  rude  them- 
selves to  estimate  or  to  feel  the  value  of  the 
oriental  refinement  which  presented  itself  to 
their  passing  gaze,  and  too  entirely  occupied 
with  war  and  bigotry,  to  reflect  on  its  causes 
or  effects ;  and  the  first  naval  adventurers  who 
opened  up  India  to  our  commerce,  were  both 
too  few  and  too  far  off  to  communicate  ta 


MEMOIRS  OF  BABER. 


278 


(beir  brethren  a>  a:iDe.  any  taste  for  the  splen- 
dours which  might  have  excited  their  own 
admiration.  By  the  time  that  our  intercourse 
with  those  regions  was  enlarged,  our  own 
career  of  improvement  had  been  prosperously 
begun;  and  our  superiority  in  the  art,  or  at 
least  the  discipline  of  war,  having  given  us  a 
signal  advantage  in  the  conflicts  to  which 
that  extending  intercourse  immediately  led, 
naturally  increased  the  aversion  and  disdain 
with  which  almost  all  races  of  men  are  apt  to 
regard  strangers  to  their  blood  and  dissenters 
from  their  creed.  Since  that  time  the  genius 
of  Europe  has  been  steadily  progressive,  whilst 
that  of  Asia  has  been  at  least  stationary,  and 
most  probably  retrograde ;  and  the  descendants 
of  the  feudal  and  predatory  warriors  of  the 
West  have  at  last  attained  a  decided  pre- 
dominancy over  those  of  their  elder  brothers 
in  the  East;  to  whom,  at  that  period,  they 
were  unquestionably  inferior  in  elegance  and 
ingenuity,  and  whose  hostilities  were  then 
conducted  on  the  same  system  with  our  own. 
They,  in  short,  have  remained  nearly  where 
they  were ;  while  loe^  beginning  v/ith  the  im- 
provement of  our  governments  and  military 
discipline,  have  gradually  outstripped  them 
in  all  the  lesser  and  more  ornamental  attain- 
ments in  which  they  originally  excelled. 

This  extraordinary  fact  of  the  stationary  or 
degenerate  condition  of  the  two  oldest  and 
greatest  families  of  mankind — those  of  Asia 
and  Africa,  has  always  appeared  to  us  a  sad 
obstacle  in  the  way  of  those  who  believe  in 
the  general  progress  of  the  race,  and  its  con- 
stant advancement  towards  a  state  of  perfec- 
tion. Two  or  three  thousand  years  ago,  those 
vast  communities  were  certainly  in  a  happier 
and  more  prosperous  state  than  they  are  now; 
and  in  many  of  them  we  know  that  their  most 
powerful  and  flourishing  societies  have  been 
corrupted  and  dissolved,  not  by  any  accidental 
or  extrinsic  disaster,  like  foreign  conquest, 
pestilence,  or  elemental  devastation,  but  by 
what  appeared  to  be  the  natural  consequences 
of  that  very  greatness  and  refinement  which 
had  marked  and  rewarded  their  earlier  exer- 
tions. In  Europe,  hitherto,  the  case  has  cer- 
tainly been  different :  For  though  darkness 
did  fall  upon  its  nations  also,  after  the  lights 
of  Roman  civilisation  were  extingTiished,  it  is 
to  be  remembered  that  they  did  not  burn  out 
of  themselves,  but  were  trampled  down  by 
hosts  of  invading  barbarians,  and  that  they 
blazed  out  anew,  with  increased  splendour 
and  power,  when  the  dulness  of  that  superin- 
cumbent mass  was  at  length  vivified  by  their 
contact;  and  animated  by  the  fermentation 
of  that  leaven  which  had  all  along  been  se- 
cret ly  working  in  its  recesses.  In  Europe 
certainly  there  has  been  a  progress:  And  the 
more  polished  of  its  present  inhabitants  have 
not  only  regained  the  place  which  was  held 
of  old  by  their  illustrious  masters  of  Greece 
and  Rome,  but  have  plainly  outgone  them  in 
the  most  substantial  and  exalted  of  their  im- 
provements. Far  more  humane  and  refined 
than  the  Romans — far  less  giddy  and  turbulent 
and  treacherous  than  the  Greeks,  they  have 
given  a  security  to  life  and  property  that  was 
18 


unknown  to  the  earlier  ages  of  the  world — 
exalted  the  arts  of  peace  to  a  dignity  with 
which  they  were  never  before  invested ;  anci, 
by  the  abolition  of  domestic  servitude,  for  the 
first  time  extended  to  the  bulk  of  the  popula- 
tion those  higher  capacities  and  enjoyments 
which  were  formerly  engrossed  by  a  few.  By 
the  invention  of  printing,  they  have  made  all 
knowledge,  not  only  accessible,  but  imperish- 
able ;  and  by  their  improvements  in  the  art 
of  war,  have  eff'ectually  secured  themselves 
against  the  overwhelming  calamity  of  bar- 
barous invasion — the  risk  of  subjugation  by 
mere  numerical  or  animal  force  :  Whilst  the 
alternations  of  conquest  and  defeat  amongst 
civilised  communities,  who  alone  can  now  be 
formidable  to  each  other,  though  productive 
of  great  local  and  temporary  evils,  may  be 
regarded  on  the  whole  as  one  of  the  means 
of  promoting  and  equalising  the  general  civili- 
sation. Rome  polished  and  enlightened  all 
the  barbarous  nations  she  subdued — and  was 
herself  polished  and  enlightened  by  her  con- 
quest of  elegant  Greece.  If  the  European 
parts  of  Russia  had  been  subjected  to  the  do- 
minion of  France,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that 
the  loss  of  national  independence  would  have 
been  compensated  by  rapid  advances  both  in 
liberality  and  refinement ;  and  if,  by  a  still 
more  disastrous,  though  less  improbable  con- 
tingency, the  Moscovite  hordes  were  ever  to 
overrun  the  fair  countries  to  the  south-west 
of  them,  it  is  equally  certain  that  the  invaderg 
would  speedily  be  softened  and  inform.ed  by 
the  union;  and  be  infected  more  certainly 
than  by  any  other  sort  of  contact,  with  the 
arts  and  the  knowledge  of  the  vanquished. 

All  these  great  advantages,  however — this 
apparently  irrepressible  impulse  to  improve- 
ment— this  security  againsrt  backsliding  and 
decay,  seems  peculiar  to  Europe,*  and  not 
capable  of  being  communicated,  even  by  her, 
to  ihe  most  docile  races  of  the  other  quarters 
of  the  world :  and  it  is  really  extremely  diffi- 
cult to  explain,  upon  what  are  called  philo- 
sophical principles,  the  causes  of  this  superi- 
ority. We  should  be  very  glad  to  ascribe  it 
to  our  greater  political  Freedom  : — and  no 
doubt,  as  a  secondary  cause,  this  is  among  the 
most  powerful :  as  it  is  to  the  maintenance  of 
that  freedom  that  we  are  indebted  for  the  self- 
estimation,  the  feeling  of  honour,  the  general 
equity  of  the  laws,  and  the  substantia,  se- 
curity both  from  sudden  revolution  and  from 
capricious  oppression,  which  distinguish  our 
portion  of  the  globe.  But  we  cannot  bring 
ourselves  to  regard  this  freedom  as  a  mere 
accident  in  our  history,  that  is  not  itself  to  be 
accounted  for,  as  well  as  its  consequences: 
And  when  it  is  said  that  our  greater  stability 


*  When  we  speak  of  Europe,  it  will  be  under- 
stood that  we  speak,  not  of  the  land,  but  of  tno 
people — and  include,  therefore,  all  the  settlemenib 
and  colonies  of  that  favoured  race,  in  wnarerer 
quarter  of  the  globe  they  may  now  be  established. 
Some  situations  seem  more,  and  some  less,  favour- 
able to  the  preservation  of  the  original  character. 
The  Spaniards  certainly  degenerated  in  Peru — and! 
the  Dutch  perhaps  in  Batavia; — but  the  English 
remain,  we  trust,  unimpaired  in  America. 


274 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MJi:MOIIiS. 


and  prosperity  is  owing  lo  our  greater  freedom, 
we  are  immediately  tempted  to  ask,  by  what 
that  freedom  has  ilseif  been  produced'?  In 
the  same  way  we  might  ascribe  the  superior 
mildness  and  h  "manity  of  our  manners,  the 
abated  ferocity  of  our  wars,  and  generally  our 
respect  for  human  life,  to  the  influence  of  a 
Religion  which  teaches  that  all  men  are  equal 
in  the  sight  of  God,  and  inculcates  peace  and 
charity  as  the  first  of  our  duties.  But,  besides 
the  startling  contrast  between  the  profligacy, 
treachery,  and  cruelty  of  the  Eastern  Empire 
after  its  conversion  to  the  true  faith,  and  the 
simple  and  heroic  virtues  of  the  heathen  re- 

Eublic,  it  would  still  occur  to  inquire,  how  it 
as  happened  that  the  nations  of  European 
descent  have  alone  embraced  the  sublime 
truths,  and  adopted  into  their  practice  the 
mild  precepts,  of  Christianity,  while  the  peo- 
ple of  the  East  have  uniformly  rejected  and 
disclaimed  them,  as  alien  to  their  character 
and  habits — in  spite  of  all  the  eflbrts  of  the 
apostles,  fathers,  and  martyrs,  in  the  primitive 
and  most  effective  periods  of  their  preaching? 
How.  in  short,  it  has  happened  that  the  sensual 
and  sanguinary  creed  of  Mahomet  has  super- 
seded the  pure  and  pacific  doctrines  of  Chris- 
tianity in  most  of  those  very  regions  where  it 
was  first  revealed  to  mankind,  and  first  es- 
tablished by  the  greatest  of  existing  govern- 
ments 1  The  Christian  revelation  is  no  doubt 
the  most  precious  of  all  Heaven's  gifts  to  the 
benighted  world.  But  it  is  plain,  that  there 
was  a  greater  aptitude  to  embrace  and  to 
profit  by  it  in  the  European  than  in  the  Asiatic 
race.  A  free  government,  in  like  manner,  is 
unquestionably  the  most  valuable  of  all  human 
inventions — the  great  safeguard  of  all  other 
temporal  blessings,  and  the  mainspring  of  all 
intellectual  and  moral  improvement : — But 
such  a  government  is  not  the  result  of  a  lucky 
thought  or  happy  casualty ;  and  could  only  be' 
established  among  men  who  had  previously 
learned  both  to  relish  the  benefits  it  secures, 
and  to  understand  the  connection  between  the 
means  it  employs  and  the  ends  at  which  it  aims. 
We  come  then,  though  a  little  reluctantly, 
to  the  conclusion,  that  there  is  a  natural  and  in- 
herent diff'erence  in  the  character  and  temper- 
ament of  the  European  and  the  Asiatic  races 
— consisting,  perhaps,  chiefly  in  a  superior 
capacity  of  patient  and  persevering  thought  in 
the  former — and  displaying  itself,  for  the  most 
part,  in  a  more  sober  and  robust  understanding, 
and  a  more  reasonable,  principled,  and  inflexi- 
ble morality.  It  is  this  which  has  led  us,  at 
once  to  temper  our  political  institutions  with 
prospective  checks  and  suspicious  provisions 
against  abuses,  and,  in  our  diflerent  orders 
and  degrees,  to  submit  without  impatience  to 
those  checks  and  restrictions ; — to  extend  our 
reasonings  by  repeated  observation  and  ex- 
periment, to  larger  and  larger  conclusions — 
and  thus  gradually  to  discover  the  paramount 
importance  of  discipline  and  unity  of  purpose 
in  war,  and  of  absolute  security  to  person  and 
property  in  all  peaceful  pursuits — the  folly  of 
all  passionate  and  vindictive  assertion  of  sup- 
posed rights  and  pretensions,  and  the  certain 
recoil  of  long-continued  injustice  on  the  heads 


of  its  authors — the  substantial  advantages  oi 

honesty  and  fair  dealing  over  the  most  inge- 
nious systems  of  tncK-ery  and  fraud  ; — and 
even — though  this  is  the  last  and  hardest,  as 
well  as  the  most  precious,  of  all  the  lessons 
of  reason  and  experience — that  the  toleration 
even  of  religious  errors  is  not  only  prudent 
and  merciful  in  itself,  and  most  becoming  a 
fallible  and  erring  being,  but  is  the  surest 
and  speediest  way  to  compose  religious  differ- 
ences, and  to  extinguish  that  most  formidable 
bigotry,  and  those  most  pernicious  errors, 
which  are  fed  and  nourished  by  persecution. 
It  is  the  want  of  this  knowledge,  or  rather  of 
the  capacity  for  attaining  it,  that  constitutes 
the  palpable  inferiority  of  the  Eastern  races: 
and,  in  spite  of  their  fancy,  ingenuity,  and 
restless  activity,  condemns  them,  it  would 
appear  irretrievably,  to  vices  and  suff'erings, 
from  which  nations  in  a  far  ruder  condition 
are  comparatively  free.  But  we  are  wander- 
ing too  far  from  the  magnificent  Baber  and 
his  commentators, — and  must  now  leave  these 
vague  and  general  speculations  for  the  facts 
and  details  that  lie  before  us. 

Zehir-ed-din  Muhammed,  surnamed  Baber, 
or  the  Tiger,  was  one  of  the  descendants  of 
Zengiskhan  and  of  Tamerlane ;  and  though 
inheriting  only  the  small  kingdom  of  Ferg- 
hana in  Bucharia,  ultimately  extended  his 
dominions  by  conquest  to  Delhi  and  the 
greater  part  of  Hindostan  :  and  transmitted  to 
his  famous  descendants,  Akber  and  Aureng- 
zebe,  the  magnificent  empire  of  the  Moguls. 
He  was  born  in  1482,  and  died  in  1530. 
Though  passing  the  greater  part  of  his  time 
in  desperate  military  expeditions,  he  was  an 
educated  and  accomplished  man ;  an  elegant 
poet ;  a  minute  and  fastidious  critic  in  all  the 
niceties  and  elegances  of  diction;  a  curious 
and  exact  observer  of  the  statistical  pheno- 
mena of  every  region  he  entered  ;  a  great  ad- 
mirer of  beautiful  prospects  and  fine  flowers ; 
and,  though  a  devoted  Mahometan  in  his 
way,  a  very  resolute  and  jovial  drinker  of 
wine.  Good-humoured,  brave,  munificent, 
sagacious,  and  frank  in  his  character,  he 
might  have  been  a  Henry  IV.  if  his  training 
had  been  in  Europe  : — and  even  as  he  is,  is 
less  stained,  perhaps,  by  the  Asiatic  vices  of 
cruelty  and  perfidy  than  any  other  in  the  list 
of  her  conquerors.  The  work  before  us  is  a 
faithful  translation  of  his  ovvii" account  of  his 
life  and  transactions  ',  written,  Mith  some  con- 
siderable blanks,  up  to  the  year  1508,  in  the 
form  of  a  narrative — and  continued  after- 
wards, as  a  journal,  till  1529.  It  is  here 
illustrated  by  the  most  intelligent,  learned, 
and  least  pedantic  notes  we  have  ever  seen 
annexed  to  such  a  perforaiance  ;  and  by  two 
or  three  introductory  dissertations,  more  clear, 
masterly,  and  full  of  instruction  than  any  it 
has  ever  been  our  lot  to  peruse  on  the  history 
or  geography  of  the  East.  The  translation 
was  begun  by  the  late  very  learned  and  en- 
terprising Dr.  Leyden.  Ft  has  been  com- 
pleted, and  the  whole  of  the  valuable  com- 
mentary added  by  Mr.  W.  Erskine,  on  the 
solicitation  of  the  Hon.  Mountstewart  Elphin- 
stone  and  Sir  John  Malcolm,  the  two  indi- 


MEMOteS  OF  BABER. 


276 


.nduals  in  '.he  world  best  qualified  to  judge 
y(  the  \aUie  or  execution  of  such  a  work.  The 
greater  part  of  the  translation  was  finished 
and  transrriitted  to  this  country  in  1817;  but 
was  onl}^  committed  to  the  press  in  the  course 
of  last  year. 

The  preface  contains  a  learned  account  of, 
the  Turki  language,  (in  which  these  memoirs 
were  written.)  the  prevailing  tong-ue  of  Cen- 
tral Asia,  and  of  which  the  Constantinopolitan 
Turkish  is  one  of  the  most  corrupted  dialects, 
— some  valuable  corrections  of  Sir  William 
Jones'  notices  of  the  Institutes  of  Taimiir, — 
and  a  very  clear  explanation  of  the  metnod 
employed  in  the  translation,  and  the  various 
helps  by  which  the  great  difficulties  of  the 
task  were  relieved.  The  first  Introduction, 
however,  contains  much  more  valuable  mat- 
ters :  It  is  devoted  to  an  account  of  the  great 
Tartar  tribes,  who,  under  the  denomination 
of  the  Turki,  the  Moghul,  and  the  Mandshur 
races,  may  be  said  to  occupy  the  whole  vast 
extent  of  Asia,  north  of  Hindostan  and  part 
of  Persia,  and  westward  from  China.  Of 
these,  the  Mandshurs,  who  have  long  been 
the  sovereigns  of  China,  possess  the  countries 
immediately  to  the  north  and  east  of  that 
ancient  empire — the  Turki,  the  regions  imme- 
diately to  the  north  and  w^est ward  of  India , 
and  Persia  Proper,  stretching  round  the  Cas- 
pian, and  advancing,  by  the  Constantinopoli- 
tan tribes,  considerably  to  the  southeast  of 
Europe.  The  Moghuls  he  principally  be- 
tween the  other  two.  These  three  tribes 
speak,  it  would  appear,  totally  different  lan- 
guages— the  name  of  Tartar  or  Tatar,  by 
which  they  are  generally  designated  in  Eu- 
rope, not  being  acknowledged  by  any  of  them, 
and  appearing  to  have  been  appropriated  only 
to  a  small  clan  of  Moghuls.  The  Huns,  who 
desolated  the  declining  empire  under  Attila*. 
are  thought  by  Mr.  Erskine  to  have  been 
of  the  Moghul  race ;  an^  Zengiskhan,  the 
mighty  conqueror  of  the  thirteenth  century, 
was  certainly  of  that  family.  Their  princes, 
however,  were  afterwards  blended,  by  family 
alliances,  with  those  of  the  Turki ;  and  sev- 
eral of  them,  reig-ning  exclusively  over  con- 
quered tribes  of  that  descent,  came  gradually 
though  of  proper  Moghul  ancestry,  to  reckon 
themselves  as  Turki  sovereigns.  Of  this  de- 
scription was  Taimur  Beg,  or  Tamerlane, 
whose  family,  though  descended  from  Zengis, 
had  long  been  settled  in  the  Turki  kingdom 
of  Samarkand ;  and  from  him  the  illustrious 
Baber,  the  hero  of  the  work  before  us,  a 
decided  Turki  in  language,  character,  and 
prejudices,  was  lineally  sprung.  The  relative 
condition  of  these  enterprising  nations,  and 
their  more  peaceful  brethren  in  the  south, 
cannot  be  more  clearly  or  accurately  described 
than  in  the  words  of  Mr.  Erskine  : — 


*  The  learned  translator  conceives  that  the  sup- 
posed name  of  this  famous  barbarian  was  truly  only 
the  denomination  of  his  office.  It  is  known  that  he 
iMcceeded  his  uncle  in  the  c^overnment,  though 
there  were  children  of  his  alive.  It  is  probable, 
therefore,  that  he  originally  assumed  authority  in 
the  character  of  their  guardian  ;  and  the  word  Ata- 
likiin  Tartar,  signifies  guardian,  or  quasi  parens. 


"  The  whole  of  Asia  may  be  considered  as  divi- 
ded into  two  parts  'iv  the  great  chain  of  mountains 
which  runs  from  Cliina  and  the  Birman  Empire  on 
the  east,  to  the  Blacic  Sea  and  the  Mediterranean 
on  the  west.  From  the  eastward,  where  it  is  of 
great  breadth,  it  keeps  a  north-westerly  course, 
rising  in  height  as  it  advances,  and  forming  the  hiU 
countries  of  Assam,  Bootan,  Nepal,  Sirinagar, 
Tibet,  and  Ladak.  It  encloses  the  valley  of  Kash- 
mir, near  which  it  seems  to  have  gained  its  greatest 
height,  and  thence  proceeds  westward,  passing  to 
the  north  of  Feshawer  and  Kabul,  after  whicli  it 
appears  to  break  into  a  variety  of  smaller  ranges 
of  hills  that  proceed  in  a  westerly  and  south-west- 
erly direction,  generally  terminating  in  the  province 
of  Khorasan.  Near  Herat,  in  that  province,  the 
mountains  sink  away  ;  but  the  range  appears  to 
rise  again  near  Meshhed,  and  is  by  some  consid- 
ered as  resuming  its  course,  running  to  the  south 
of  the  Caspian  and  bounding  Mazenderan,  whence 
it  proceeds  on  through  Armenia,  and  thence  into 
Asia  Minor,  finding  its  termination  in  the  moun- 
tains of  ancient  Lycia.  This  immense  range,  which 
some  consider  as  terminating  at  Herat,  while  it  di- 
vides Bengal,  Hindustan,  the  Penjab,  Aighanistan, 
Persia,  and  part  of  the  Turkish  territory,  from  the 
country  of  the  Moghul  and  Turki  tribes,  which, 
with  few  exceptions,  occupy  the  whole  extent  of 
country  from  the  borders  of  China  to  the  sea  of 
Azof,  may  also  be  considered  as  separating  in  its 
whole  course,  nations  of  comparative  civilisation, 
from  uncivilised  tribes.  To  the  south  of  this  range, 
if  we  perhaps  except  some  part  of  the  Afghan  ter- 
ritory, which,  indeed,  may  rather  be  held  as  part 
of  the  range  itself  than  as  south  of  it,  there  is  no 
nation  which,  at  some  period  or  other  of  its  history, 
has  not  been  the  seat  of  a  powerful  empire,  and  of 
all  those  arts  and  refinements  of  life  which  attend 
a  numerous  and  wealthy  population,  when  pro- 
tected by  a  government  that  permits  the  fancies  and 
energies  of  the  human  mind  to  follow  their  natural 
bias.  The  degrees  of  civilisation  and  of  happinesa 
possessed  in  these  various  regions  may  have  been 
extremely  different ;  but  many  of  the  comforts  of 
wealth  and  abundance,  and  no  small  share  of  the 
higher  treasures  of  cultivated  judgment  and  imagi- 
nation, must  have  been  enjoyed  by  nations  that 
could  produce  the  various  systems  of  Indian  phi- 
losophy and  science,  a  drama  so  polished  as  the 
Sakontala,  a  poet  like  Ferdousi,  or  a  moralist  like 
Sadi.  VVliile  to  the  south  of  this  range  we  every 
where  see  flourishing  cities,  cultivated  fields,  and 
all  the  forms  of  a  regular  government  and  policy, 
to  the  north  of  it,  if  we  except  China  and  the  coun- 
tries to  the  south  of  the  Sirr  or  Jaxartes,  and  along 
its  banks,  we  find  tribes  who,  down  to  the  present 
day,  wander  over  their  extensive  regions  as  their 
forefathers  did,  little  if  at  all  more  refined  than  they 
appear  to  have  been  at  the  very  dawn  of  history. 
Their  flocks  are  still  their  wealth,  their  camp  their 
city,  and  the  same  government  exists  of  separate 
chiefs,  who  are  not  much  exalted  in  luxury  or 
information  above  the  commonest  of  their  subjects 
around  them." 

These  general  remarks  are  followed  up  by 
an  exact  and  most  luminous  geographica? 
enumeration  of  all  the  branches  of  this  great 
northern  family, — accompanied  with  histori- 
cal notices,  and  very  interesting  elucidations 
of  various  passages  both  in  ancient  and 
modern  writers.  The  following  observations 
are  of  more  extensive  apphcation : — 

"  The  general  state  of  society  which  prevailed 
in  the  age  of  Baber,  within  the  countries  that  have 
been  described,  will  be  much  better  understood 
from  a  perusal  of  the  following  Memoirs  than  from 
any  prefatory  observations  that  could  be  offered. 
It  is  evident  that,  in  consequence  of  the  protection 
which  had  been  afforded  to  the  people  of  Maweral. 


276 


fflSTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


nahcr  by  their  regular  governments,  a  considerable 
degree  of  comfort,  and  perhaps  still  more  of  ele- 
gance and  civility,  prevailed  in  the  towns.  The 
whole  age  of  Baber,  however,  was  one  of  great 
confusion.  Nothing  contributed  so  much  to  pro- 
duce the  constant  wars,  and  eventual  devastation 
of  the  country,  which  the  Memoirs  exhibit,  as  the 
want  of  some  fixed  rule  of  Success io7i  to  the  Throne. 
The  ideas  of  regal  descent,  according  to  primogeni- 
ture, were  very  indistinct,  as  is  the  case  in  all  Ori- 
ental, and,  in  general,  in  all  purely  despotic  king- 
doms. When  the  succession  to  the  crown,  hke 
every  thing  else,  is  subject  to  the  will  of  the  prince, 
on  his  death  it  necessarily  becomes  the  subject  of 
contention ; — since  the  will  of  a  dead  king  is  of 
much  less  consequence  than  the  intrigues  of  an 
able  minister,  or  the  sword  of  a  successful  com- 
mander. It  is  the  privilege  of  liberty  and  of  law 
alone  to  bestow  equal  security  on  the  rights  of  the 
monarch  and  of  the  people.  The  death  of  the 
ablest  sovereign  was  only  the  signal  for  a  general 
war.  The  different  parties  at  court,  or  in  the  harem 
of  the  prince,  espoused  the  cause  of  different  com- 
petitors, and  every  neighbouring  potentate  beheved 
himself  to  be  perfectly  justified  in  marching  to  seize 
his  portion  of  the  spoil.  In  the  course  of  the  Me- 
moirs, we  shall  find  that  the  grandees  of  the  court, 
while  they  take  their  place  by  the  side  of  the  candi- 
date of  their  choice,  do  not  appear  to  believe  that 
fidelity  to  him  is  any  very  necessary  virtue.  The 
nobility,  unable  to  predict  the  events  of  one  twelve- 
month, degenerate  into  a  set  of  selfish,  calculating, 
though  perhaps  brave  partizans.  Rank,  and  wealth, 
and  present  enjoyment,  become  their  idols.  The 
prince  feels  the  influence  of  the  general  want  of 
stability,  and  is  himself  educated  in  the  loose  princi- 
ples of  an  adventurer.  In  all  about  him  he  sees 
merely  the  instruments  of  his  power.  The  subject, 
seeing  the  prince  consult  only  his  pleasures,  learns 
on  his  part  to  consult  only  his  private  convenience. 
In  such  societies,  the  steadiness  of  principle  that 
flows  from  the  love  of  right  and  of  our  country 
can  have  no  place.  It  may  be  questioned  whether 
the  prevalence  of  the  Mahommedan  religion,  by 
swallowing  up  civil  in  religious  distinctions,  has  not 
a  tendency  to  increase  this  indifference  to  country, 
wherever  it  is  established." 

"That  the  fashions  of  the  East  are  unchanged, 
is,  in  general,  certainly  true ;  because  the  climate 
and  the  despotism,  from  the  one  or  other  of  which 
a  very  large  proportion  of  them  arises,  have  con- 
tinued the  same.  Yet  one  who  observes  the  way 
in  which  a  Mussulman  of  rank  spends  his  day,  will 
be  led  to  suspect  that  the  maxim  has  sometimes 
been  adopted  wuh  too  little  hmitation.  Take  the 
example  of  his  pipe  and  his  coffee.  The  Kalliun, 
or  Hukkn,  is  seldom  out  of  his  hand  ;  while  the 
coffee-cup  makes  its  appearance  every  hour,  as  if 
it  contained  a  necessary  of  life.  Perhaps  there  are 
no  enjoyments  the  loss  of  which  he  would  feel 
more  severely ;  or  which,  were  we  to  judge  only 
by  the  frequency  of  the  call  for  them,  we  should 
suppose  to  have  entered  from  a  more  remote  pe- 
riod into  the  system  of  Asiatic  life.  Yet  we  know 
that  the  one  (which  has  indeed  become  a  necessary 
of  life  to  every  class  of  Mussulmans)  could  not  have 
been  enjoyed  before  the  discovery  of  America ; 
and  there  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  the  other 
was  not  introduced  into  Arabia  from  Africa,  where 
coffee  is  indigenous,  previously  to  the  sixteenth 
centurv  ;*  and  what  marks  the  circumstance  more 
strongly,  both  of  these  habits  have  forced  their 
way,  in  spite  of  the  remonstrances  of  the  rigorists 
in  religion.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been  fortunate 
for  Baber  had  they  prevailed  in  his  age,  as  they 
might  have  diverted  him  from  the  immoderate  use 
first  of  wine,  and  afterwards  of  deleterious  drugs, 
which  ruined  his  constitution,  and  hastened  on  his 


La  Roque,  Traite  liistorique  de  i'Origine  et  du 
Progres  du  Cafe,  &c.     Paris,  1716,  12mo. 


The  Ydsi^  or  institutions  of  Chengiz,  are 

often  mentioned. 

"They  seem,"  says  Mr.  Erskine,  "tohavebeen 
a  collection  of  the  old  usages  of  the  Moghul  tribes, 
comprehending  some  rules  of  state  and  ceremony, 
and  some  injunctions  for  the  punishment  of  partic- 
ular crimes.  The  punishments  were  only  two- 
death  and  the  bastinado*  ;  the  number  of  blows  ex- 
tending from  seven  to  seven  hundred.  There  ia 
something  very  Chinese  in  the  whole  of  the  Mo- 
ghul system  of  punishment,  even  princes  advanced 
in  years,  and  in  command  of  large  armies,  being 
punished  by  bastinado  with  a  stick,  by  their  father's 
orders. t  Whether  they  received  their  usage  in  this 
respect  from  the  Chinese,  or  communicated  it  to 
them,  is  not  very  certain.  As  the  whole  body  of 
their  laws  or  customs  was  formed  before  the  intro- 
duction of  the  Mussulman  religion,  and  was  proba- 
bly in  many  respects  inconsistent  with  the  Koran, 
as,  for  instance,  in  allowing  the  use  of  the  blood  of 
animals,  and  in  the  extent  of  toleration  granted  to 
other  religions,  it  gradually  fell  into  decay." 

The  present  Moghul  tribes,  it  is  added, 
punish  most  offences  by  fines  of  cattle.  The 
art  of  war  in  the  days  of  Baber  had  not  been 
very  greatly  matured ;  and  though  matcldocks 
and  unwieldy  cannon  had  been  recently  in- 
troduced from  the  West,  the  arms  chiefly 
relied  on  w^ere  still  the  bow  and  the  spear, 
the  sabre  and  the  battle-axe.  Mining  was 
practised  in  sieges,  and  cavalry  seems  to  have 
formed  the  least  considerable  part  of  the 
army. 

There  is  a  second  Introduction,  containing 
a  clear  and  brief  abstract  of  the  history  of 
those  regions  from  the  time  of  Tamerlane  to 
that  of  Baber, — together  with  an  excellent 
Memoir  on  the  annexed  map,  and  an  account 
of  the  hills  and  rivers  of  Bokara,  of  which  it 
would  be  idle  to  attempt  any  abstract. 

As  to  the  Memoirs  themselves,  we  have 
already  said  that  we  think  it  in  vain  to  re- 
commend them  as  a  portion  of  History  with 
which  our  readers  should  be  acquainted, — 
or  consequently  to  aim  at  presenting  them 
with  any  thing  in  the  nature  of  an  abstract, 
or  connected  account  of  the  events  they  so 
minutely  detail.  All  that  we  propose  to  do, 
therefore,  is,  to  extract  a  few  of  the  traits 
which  appear  to  us  the  most  striking  and 
characteristic,  and  to  endeavour,  in  a  very 
short  compass,  to  give  an  idea  of  whatever 
curiosity  or  interest  the  work  possesses.  The 
most  remarkable  thing  about  it,  or  at  least 
that  which  first  strikes  us,  is  the  simplicity 
of  the  style,  and  the  good  sense,  varied  know- 
ledge, and  extraordinary  industry  of  the  royal 
author.  It  is  difficult,  indeed,  to  believe  that 
it  is  the  work  of  an  Asiatic,  and  a  sovereign. 
Though  copiously,  and  rather  difi'usely  writ- 
ten, it  is  perfectly  free  from  the  ornamental 
verbosity,  the  eternal  metaphor,  and  puerile 
exaggerations  of  most  Oriental  compositions ; 
and  though  savouring  so  far  of  royalty  as  to 
abound  in  descriptions  of  dresses  and  cere- 
monies, is  yet  occupied  in  the  main  with  con- 
cerns greatly  too  rational  and  humble  to  be 
much  in  favour  with  monarchs.  As  a  speci- 
men of  the  adventurous  life  of  the  chieitaina 


*  D'Herbelot,  Biblioth.  Orient,  art.  Turk. 

t  Hist,  de  Timur  Bee,  vol.  iii.  pp.  227. 263. 326. 

&.C. 


MEISIOTRS  OF  BASER. 


27- 


of  those  days,  and  of  Baber's  manner  of  de- 
swibing  it,  we  may  pass  at  once  to  his  account 
of  his  being-  besieged  in  Samarkand,  and  the 
particulars  of  his  flight  after  he  was  obliged 
to  abandon  it : — 

"  During  the  continuance  of  the  siege,  the  rounds 
of  the  rampart  were  regularly  gone,  once  every 
night,  sometimes  by  Kasim  Beg,  and  sometimes  by 
other  Begs  and  captains.  From  the  Firozeh  gate 
to  the  Sheikh-Zadeh  gate,  we  were  able  to  go  along 
the  ratnparts  on  horseback ;  everywhere  else  we 
were  obliged  to  go  on  foot.  Setting  out  in  the 
beginning  of  the  night,  it  was  morning  before  we 
tiad  completed  our  rounds. 

"One  day  Sheibani  Khan  made  an  attack  be- 
tween the  Iron  gate  and  that  of  the  Sheikh-Zadeh. 
As  I  was  with  the  reverse,  1  immediately  led  them 
to  the  quarter  that  was  attacked,  without  attending 
to  the  Washing-green  gate  or  the  Needlemakers' 
gate.  That  same  day,  from  the  top  of  the  Sheikh- 
Zadeh's  gateway,  I  struck  a  palish  white  coloured 
horse  an  excellent  shot  with  my  cross-bow  :  it  fell 
dead  the  moment  my  arrow  touched  it ;  but  in  the 
meanwhile  they  had  made  such  a  vigorous  attack, 
near  the  Camel's  Neck,  that  they  effected  a  lodg- 
ment close  under  the  rampart.  Being  hotly  engaged 
in  repelling  the  enemy  where  I  was,  I  had  enter- 
tained no  apprehensions  of  danger  on  the  other  side, 
where  they  had  prepared  and  brought  with  them 
twenty-five  or  twenty-six  scaling-ladders,  each  of 
them  so  broad  that  two  and  three  men  could  mount 
a-breast.  He  had  placed  in  ambush,  opposite  to 
the  city-wall,  seven  or  eight  hundred  chosen  men 
with  these  ladders,  between  the  Ironsmiths'  and 
Needlemakers'  gates,  while  he  himself  moved  to 
the  other  side,  and  made  a  false  attack.  Our  atten- 
tion was  entirely  drawn  off  to  this  attack  ;  and  the 
men  in  ambush  no  sooner  saw  the  works  opposite 
to  them  empty  of  defenders,  by  the  watch  having 
left  them,  than  they  rose  from  the  place  where  they 
had  lain  in  ambush,  advanced  with  extreme  speed, 
and  applied  their  scaling-ladders  all  at  once  between 
the  two  gates  that  have  been  mentioned,  exactly 
opposite  to  Muhammed  Mazid  Terkhan's  house. 
The  Begs  who  were  on  guard  had  only  two  or 
three  of  their  servants  and  attendants  about  them. 
Nevertheless  Kuch  Beg,  Muhammed  Kuli  Kochin, 
Shah  Sufi,  and  another  brave  cavalier,  boldly  assail- 
ed them,  and  displayed  signal  heroism.  Some  of 
the  enemy  had  already  mounted  the  wall,  and 
several  others  were  in  the  act  of  scaling  it,  when 
the  four  persons  who  have  been  mentioned  arrived 
on  the  spot,  fell  upon  them  sword  in  hand,  with  the 
greatest  bravery,  and  dealing  out  furious  blows 
around  them,  drove  the  assailants  back  over  the 
wall,  and  put  them  to  flight.  Kuch  Beg  distin- 
guished himself  above  all  the  rest ;  and  this  was 
an  exploit  for  ever  to  be  cited  to  his  honour,  fie 
twice  during  this  siege  performed  excellent  service 
by  his  valour. 

"  It  was  now  the  season  of  the  ripening  of  the 
grain,  and  nobody  had  brought  in  any  new  corn. 
As  the  siege  had  drawn  out  to  great  length,  the  in- 
habitants were  reduced  to  extreme  distress,  and 
things  came  to  such  a  pass,  that  the  poor  and  meaner 
sort  were  forced  to  feed  on  dogs'  and  asses'  flesh. 
Grain  for  the  horses  becoming  scarce,  they  were 
obliged  to  be  fed  on  the  leaves  of  trees ;  and  it  was 
ascertained  from  experience,  that  the  leaves  of  the 
mulberry  and  blackwood  answered  best.  Many 
used  the  shavings  and  raspings  of  wood,  which 
they  soaked  in  water,  and  gave  to  their  horses. 
For  three  or  four  months  Sheibani  Khan  did  not 
approach  the  fortress,  but  blockaded  it  at  some  dis- 
tance on  all  sides,  changing  his  ground  from  time 
to  lime. 

"  The  ancients  have  said,  that  in  order  to  main- 
tain a  fortress,  a  head,  two  hands,  and  two  feet  are 
necessary.  The  head  is  a  captain,  the  two  hands 
are  two  friendly  forces  that  must  advance  from  op- 
posite sides ;  the  two  feet  are  water  and  stores  of 


provision  within  the  fort.  I  looked  for  aid  and  as> 
sistance  from  the  princes  my  neighbours ;  but  each 
of  them  had  his  attention  fixed  on  some  other  ob- 
ject. For  example.  Sultan  Hussain  Mirza  was  un- 
doubtedly a  brave  and  experienced  monarch,  yet 
neither  did  he  give  me  assistance,  nor  even  senH 
an  ambassador  to  encourage  me." 

He  is  obliged,  in  consequence,  to  evacuate 
the  city,  and  moves  off  privately  in  the  night. 
The  following  account  of  his  flight,  we  think, 
is  extremely  picturesque  and  interesting. 

"  Having  entangled  ourselves  among  the  great 
branches  of  the  canals  of  the  Soghd,  during  the 
darkness  of  the  night,  we  lost  our  way,  and  after 
encountering  many  difficulties  we  passed  Khwajeh 
Didar  about  dawn.  By  the  time  of  early  morning 
prayers,  we  arrived  at  the  hillock  of  Karbogh,  and 
passing  it  on  the  north  below  the  village  of  Kherdek, 
we  made  for  Ilan-uti.  On  the  road,  I  had  a  race 
with  Kamber  Ali  and  Kasim  Beg.  My  horse  got 
the  lead.  As  I  turned  round  on  my  seat  to  see 
how  far  I  had  left  them  behind,  my  saddle-girth 
being  slack,  the  saddle  turned  round,  and  I  came 
to  the  ground  right  on  my  head.  Although  I  im- 
mediately sprang  up  and  mounted,  yet  I  did  not 
recover  the  full  possession  of  my  faculties  till  the 
evening,  and  the  world,  and  all  that  occurred  at  the 
time,  passed  before  my  eyes  and  apprehension  like 
a  dream,  or  a  phantasy,  and  disappeared.  The 
time  of  afternoon  prayers  was  past  ere  we  reached 
Ilan-uti,  where  we  alighted,  and  having  killed  a 
horse,  cut  him  up,  and  dressed  slices  of  his  fiesh ; 
we  stayed  a  little  lime  to  rest  our  horses,  then 
mounting  again,  before  day-break  we  alighted  at 
the  village  of  Khalileh.  From  Khalileh  we  pro- 
ceeded to  Dizak.  At  that  time  Taher  Dfildai,  the 
son  of  Hafez  Muhammed  Beg  Duldai,  was  governor 
of  Dizak.  Here  we  found  nice  fat  flesh,  bread  of 
fine  flour  well  baked,  sweet  melons,  and  excellent 
grapes  in  great  abundance;  thus  passing  from  the 
extreme  of  famine  to  plenty,  and  from  an  estate  of 
danger  and  calamity  to  peace  and  ease. 

"  In  my  whole  life,  I  never  enjoyed  myself  so 
much,  nor  at  any  period  of  it  felt  so  sensibly  the 
pleasures  of  peace  and  plenty.  Enjoyment  after 
suffering,  abundance  after  want,  come  with  in- 
creased relish,  and  afford  more  exquisite  delight.  I 
have  four  or  five  times,  in  the  course  of  my  life, 
passed  in  a  similar  manner  from  distress  to  ease, 
and  from  a  state  of  suffering  to  enjoyment :  but  this 
was  the  first  time  that  I  had  ever  been  delivered  at 
once  from  the  injuries  of  my  enemy,  and  the  pres- 
sure of  hunger,  and  passed  to  the  ease  of  security, 
and  the  pleasures  of  plenty.  Having  rested  and 
enjoyed  ourselves  two  or  three  days  in  Dizak,  we 
proceeded  on  to  Uratippa. 

"  Dekhatis  one  of  the  hill-districts  of  Uratippa. 
It  lies  on  the  skirts  of  a  very  high  mountain,  imme- 
diately on  passing  which  you  come  on  tiie  country 
of  Masikha.  The  inhabitants,  though  Sarts,  have 
large  flocks  of  sheep,  and  herds  of  mares,  like  the 
Turks.  The  sheep  belonging  to  Dekhat  may 
amount  to  forty  thousand.  We  took  up  our  lodg- 
ings in  the  peasants'  houses.  I  lived  at  the  house 
of  one  of  the  head  men  of  the  place.  He  was  an 
aged  man,  seventy  or  eighty  years  old.  His  mother 
was  still  alive,  and  had  attained  an  extreme  old 
age,  being  at  this  time  a  hundred  and  eleven  years 
old.  One  of  this  lady's  relations  had  accompanied 
the  army  of  Taimur  Beg,  when  it  invaded  Hin- 
dustan. The  circumstances  remained  fresh  in  her 
memory,  and  she  often  told  us  stories  on  that  sub- 
ject. In  the  district  of  Dekhat  alone,  there  still 
were  of  this  lady's  children,  grandchildren,  great- 
grandchildren, and  great-great-grandchildren,  to 
the  number  of  ninety-six  persons;  and  including 
those  deceased,  the  whole  amounted  to  two  hun- 
dred. One  of  her  great-grandchildren  was  at  this 
time  a  young  man  of  twenty-five  or  twenty-six 
years  of  age,  with  a  fine  black  beard.     While  ] 


378 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEIVIOIRS. 


remained  in  Dekhat,  I  was  accustomed  to  walk  on 
foot  all  about  tiie  hills  in  the  neighbourhood.  I 
generally  went  out  barefoot,  and,  from  this  habit 
of  walking  barefoot,  I  soon  found  that  our  feet  be- 
came so  hardened  that  we  did  not  mind  rock  or 
stone  in  the  least.  In  one  of  these  walks,  between 
afternoon  and  evening  prayers,  we  met  a  man  who 
was  going  with  a  cow  in  a  narrow  road.  I  asked 
him  the  way.  He  answered,  Keep  your  eye  fixed 
on  the  cow ;  and  do  not  lose  sight  of  her  till  you 
come  to  the  issue  of  the  road,  when  you  will  know 
your  ground.  Khwajeh  Asedulla,  who  was  with  me, 
enjoyed  the  joke,  observing.  What  would  become 
of  us  wise  men,  were  the  cow  to  lose  her  way? 

'*  It  was  wonderfully  cold,  and  the  wind  of  Ha- 
derv/ish  had  here  lost  none  of  its  violence,  and 
blew  keen.  So  excessive  was  the  cold,  that  in  the 
course  of  two  or  three  days  we  lost  two  or  three 
persons  from  its  severity.  I  required  to  bathe  on 
account  of  my  religious  purifications  ;  and  went 
down  for  that  purpose  to  a  rivulet,  which  was  frozen 
on  the  banks,  but  not  in  the  middle,  from  the  ra- 
pidity of  the  current.  I  plunged  myself  into  the 
water,  and  dived  sixteen  times.  The  extreme 
chilhness  of  the  water  quite  penetrated  me." 

"  It  was  now  spring,  and  intelligence  was  brought 
that  Sheibani  Khan  was  advancing  against  Uratippa. 
As  Dekhat  was  in  the  low  country,  I  passed  by 
Abbiirden  and  Amani,  and  came  to  the  hill  country 
of  Masikha.  Abbiirden  is  a  village  which  hes  at 
the  foot  of  Masikha.  Beneath  Abburden  is  a  spring, 
und  close  by  the  spring  is  a  tomb.  From  this 
spring,  towards  the  upland,  the  country  belongs  to 
Masikha,  but  downwards  from  the  spring  it  de- 
pends on  Yelghar.  On  a  stone  which  is  on  the 
brink  of  this  spring,  on  one  of  its  sides,  I  caused 
the  following  verses*  to  be  inscribed  : — 

I  have  heard  that  the  exalted  Jemshid 

Inscribed  on  a  stone  beside  a  fountain, 

'Many  a  man  like  us  has  rested  by  this  fountain, 

And  disappeared  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  I 

Should  we  conquer  the  whole  world  by  our  manhood 

and  strength, 
Yet  could  we  n6t  carry  it  with  us  to  the  grave.' 

In  this  hill-country,  the  practice  of  cutting  verses 
and  other  inscriptions  on  the  rocks  is  extremely 
common." 

After  this,  he  contrives  partly  to  retrieve 
his  affairs,  by  uniting  himself  with  a  warlike 
Khan  of  his  family,  and  takes  the  field  with 
a  considerable  force  against  Tambol.  The 
following  account  of  a  night  skirmish  reminds 
us  of  the  chivalrous  doings  of  the  heroes  of 
Froissart : — 

*'  Just  before  the  dawn,  while  o"**  rnen  were  still 
enjoying  themselves  in  sleep,  K&mber  Ali  Beg 
galloped  up,  exclaiming,  *  The  enemy  are  upon  us — 
rouse  upl'  Having  spoken  these  words,  without 
halting  a  moment,  he  passed  on.  I  had  gone  to 
sleep,  as  was  my  custom  even  in  times  of  security, 
without  taking  off  my  jama,  or  frock,  and  instantly 
arose,  girt  on  my  sabre  and  quiver,  and  mounted 
my  horse.  My  standard-bearer  seized  the  standard, 
but  without  having  time  to  tie  on  the  horse-tail  and 
colours;  but,  taking  the  banner-staff  in  his  hand 
just  as  it  was,  leaped  on  horseback,  and  we  pro- 
ceeded towards  the  quarter  from  which  the  enemy 
were  advancing.  When  I  first  mounted  there  were 
ten  or  fifteen  men  with  me.  By  the  time  I  had 
advanced  a  bowshot,  we  fell  in  with  the  enemy's 
skirmisliers.  At  this  moment  there  might  be  about 
ten  men  with  me.  Riding  quick  up  to  them,  and 
giving  a  discharge  of  our  arrows,  we  came  upon 
the  most  advanced  of  them,  attacked  and  drove 
them  back,  and  continued  to  advance,  pursuing 
them  for  the  distance  of  another  bowshot,  when 
we  fell  in  with  the  main  body  of  the  enemy. 
Sultan  Ahmed  Tambol  was  standing,  with  about  a 


From  the  Boslan  of  Sadi. — Leyden. 


hundred  men.  Tambol  was  speaking  with  anothei 
person  in  the  front  of  the  line,  and  in  the  act  of 
saying,  '  Smite  them  !  Smite  them  !'  but  his  mec 
were  sideling  in  a  hesitating  way,  as  if  saying, 
'  Shall  we  flee?  Let  us  flee!'  but  yet  standing 
still.  At  this  instant  there  were  left  with  me  only 
three  persons:  one  of  these  was  Dost  Nasir, 
another  Mirza  Kiili  Gokultash,  and  Kerimdad  Kho- 
daidad,  the  Turkoman,  the  third.  One  arrow, 
which  was  then  on  the  notch,  I  discharged  on  the 
helniit  of  Tambol,  and  again  applied  my  hand  to 
my  quiver,  and  brought  out  a  green-tipped  barbed 
arrow,  which  my  uncle,  the  Khan,  had  given  me. 
Unwilling  to  throw  it  away,  I  returned  it  to  the 
quiver,  and  thus  lost  as  much  time  as  would  have 
allowed  of  shooting  two  arrows.  I  then  placed 
another  arrow  on  the  string,  and  advanced,  while  the 
other  three  lagged  a  little  behind  me.  Two  persons 
came  right  on  to  meet  me ;  one  of  them  was  Tambol, 
who  preceded  the  other.  There  was  a  highway 
between  us.  He  mounting  on  one  side  of  it  as  I 
mounted  on  the  other,  we  encountered  on  it  in  such 
a  manner,  that  my  right  hand  was  towards  my 
enemy,  and  Tambol's  right  hand  towards  me. 
Except  the  mail  for  his  horse,  Tambol  had  all  his 
armour  and  accoutrements  complete.  I  had  only 
my  sabre  and  bow  and  arrows.  I  drew  up  to  my 
fear,  and  sent  right  for  him  the  arrow  which  I 
had  in  my  hand.  At  that  very  moment,  an  arrow 
of  the  kind  called  Sheibah  struck  me  on  the  right 
thigh,  and  pierced  through  and  through.  I  had  a 
steel  cap  on  my  head.  Tambol,  rushing  on,  smote 
me  such  a  blow  on  it  with  his  sword  as  to  stun  me  ; 
though  not  a  thread  of  the  cap  was  penetrated,  yet 
my  head  was  severely  wounded.  I  had  neglected 
to  clean  my  sword,  so  that  it  was  rusty,  and  I  lost 
time  in  drawing  it.  I  was  alone  and  single  in  the 
midst  of  a  multitude  of  enemies.  It  was  no  season 
for  standing  still ;  so  I  turned  my  bridle  round,  re- 
ceiving another  sabre  stroke  on  the  arrows  in  my 
quiver.  I  had  gone  back  seven  or  eight  paces, 
when  three  foot  soldiers  came  up  and  joined  us. 
Tambol  now  attacked  Dost  Nasir  sword  in  hand. 
They  followed  us  about  a  bowshot.  Arigh- Jakan- 
shah  is  a  large  and  deep  stream,  which  is  not  ford- 
able  everywhere  ;  but  God  directed  us  right,  so 
that  we  came  exactly  upon  one  of  the  fords  of  the 
river.  Immediately  on  crossing  the  river,  the  horse 
of  Dost  Nasir  fell  from  weakness.  We  halted  to 
remount  him,  and  passing  among  the  hillocks  that 
are  between  Khirabuk  and  Feraghineh,  and  going 
from  one  hillock  to  another,  we  proceeded  by  bye- 
roads  towards  Ush." 

We  shall  conclude  our  warlike  extracts 
with  the  following  graphic  and  lively  account 
of  the  author's  attack  on  Akhsi,  and  his  sub- 
sequent repulse : — 

"  Sheikh  Bayezid  had  just  been  released,  and 
was  entering  the  gate,  when  I  met  him.  I  imme- 
diately drew  to  the  head  the  arrow  which  was  on 
my  notch,  and  discharged  it  full  at  him.  It  only 
grazed  his  neck,  but  it  was  a  fine  shot.  The  mo- 
ment he  had  entered  the  gate,  he  turned  short  to 
the  right,  and  fled  by  a  narrow  street  in  great  per- 
turbation. I  pursued  him."  Mirza  Kuli  Gokuliash 
struck  down  one  foot-soldier  with  his  mace,  and 
had  passed  another,  when  the  fellow  aimed  an  ar- 
row at  Ibrahim  Beg,  who  startled  him  by  exclaim- 
ing,  Hai!  Hai !  and  went  forward  ;  after  which  the 
man,  being  about  as  far  oft'  as  the  porch  of  a  house 
is  from  the  hall,  let  fly  at  me  an  arrow,  which  struck 
me  under  the  arm.  I  had  on  a  Kalmuk  mail ;  two 
plates  of  it  were  pierced  and  broken  from  the  blow. 
After  shooting  the  arrow,  he  fled,  and  I  discharged 
an  arrow  after  him.  At  that  very  moment  a  foot- 
soldier  happened  to  be  flying  along  the  rampart, 
and  my  arrow  pinned  his  cap  to  the  wall,  where  it 
remained  shot  through  and  through,  and  danglina 
from  the  parapet.  He  took  off  his  turban,  which 
he  twisted  round  his  arm,  and  ran  away.  A  man 
on  horseback  passed  close  by  ine,  fleeing  up  th« 


MEMOIRS  OF  BABER. 


27* 


•Kirrow  lane  by  which  Sheikh  BayezTd  had  escaped. 

I  struck  him  such  a  blow  on  the  temples  with  tlie 
point  of  my  sword,  that  he  bent  over  as  if  ready  to 
tall  from  his  horse  ;  but  supporting  himself  on  the 

vail  of  the  lane,  he  did  not  lose  nis  seat,  but  es- 
v.aped  with  the  utmost  hazard.  Having  dispersed 
dll  the  horse  and  foot  that  were  at  the  gate,  we  took 
possession  of  it.  There  was  now  no  reasonable 
chance  of  success  ;  for  they  had  two  or  three  thou- 
sand well-armed  men  in  the  citadel,  while  I  had 
only  a  hundred,  or  two  hundred  at  most,  in  the 
outer  stone  fort:  and,  besides,  Jehangir  Mirza, 
about  as  long  before  as  milk  takes  to  boil,  had  been 
beaten  and  driven  out,  and  half  of  my  men  were 
*ith  him." 

Soon  after  this  there  is  an  unlucky  hiatus 

II  all  the  manuscripts  of  the  MemoirSj  so  that 
it  is  to  this  day  unknown  by  what  means  the 
heroic  prince  escaped  from  his  treacherous 
associates,  only  that  we  find  him,  the  year 
after,  warring  prosperously  against  a  new  set 
of  enemies.  Of  his  military  exploits  and  ad- 
ventures, however,  we  think  we  have  now 
given  a  sufficient  specimen. 

In  these  we  have  said  he  resembles  the 
paladins  of  Europe,  in  her  days  of  chivalric 
enterprise.  But  we  doubt  greatly  whether 
any  of  her  knightly  adventurers  could  have 
given  so  exact  an  account  of  the  qualities  and 
productions  of  the  countries  they  visited  as 
the  Asiatic  Sovereign  has  here  put  on  record. 
Of  Kabul,  for  example,  after  describing  its 
boundaries,  rivers,  and  mountains,  he  says — 

"  This  country  lies  between  Hindustan  and  Kho- 
rasan.  It  is  an  excellent  and  profitable  market  for 
commodities.  Were  the  merchants  to  carry  their 
goods  as  far  as  Khita  or  Rum,*  they  would  scarcely 
get  the  same  profit  on  them.  Every  year,  seven, 
eight,  or  ten  thousand  horses  arrive  in  Kabul.  From 
Hindustan,  every  year,  fifteen  or  twenty  thousand 
pieces  of  cloth  are  brought  by  caravans.  The  com- 
modiiies  of  Hindustan  are  slaves,  white  cloths, 
sugar-candy,  refined  and  common  sugar,  drugs, 
and  spices.  There  are  many  merchants  that  are 
not  satisfied  with  getting  thirty  or  forty  for  ten.t 
The  productions  of  Khorasan,  Rum,  Irak,  and 
Chint,  may  all  be  found  in  Kabul,  which  is  the  very 
emporium  of  Hindustan.  Its  warm  and  cold  dis- 
tricts are  close  by  each  other.  From  Kabul  you 
may  in  a  single  day  go  to  a  place  where  snow  never 
falls,  and  in  the  space  of  two  astronomical  hours, 
you  may  reach  a  spot  where  snow  lies  always,  ex- 
cept now  and  then  when  the  summer  happens  to 
be  peculiarly  hot.  In  the  districts  dependant  on 
Kabul,  there  is  great  abundance  of  the  fruits  both 
of  hot  and  cold  climates,  and  they  are  found  in  its 
immediate  vicinity.  The  fruits  of  the  cold  dis- 
tricts in  Kabul  are  grapes,  pomegranates,  apricots, 
peaches,  pears,  apples,  quinces,  jujubes,  damsons, 
almontis,  and  walnuts ;  all  of  which  are  f<?und  in 
great  abundance.  I  caused  the  sour-cherry-tree  $ 
to  be  brought  here  and  planted  ;  it  produced  ex- 
cellent fruit,  and  continues  thriving.  The  fruits  it 
possesses  peculiar  to  a  warm  chmate  are  the  orange, 
citron, II  the  amluk,  and  sugar-cane,  which  are 
brought  from  the  Lamghanat.  I  caused  the  sugar- 
cane to  be  brousht,  and  planted  it  here.  They  bring 
the  JelghuzekT  from  Nijrow.     They  have  num- 


*  Khita  is  Northern  China,  and  its  dependent 
provinces.  Rum  is  Turkey,  particularly  the  pro- 
vinces about  Trebizond. 

t  Three  or  four  hundred  per  cent. 

t  Chin  is  all  China.  ^  Alubala. 

II  A  berry  like  the  karinda. 

H  The  jelghuzekis  the  seed  of  a  kind  of  pine,  the 
fiones  of  which  are  as  big  as  a  man's  two  fists. 


hers  of  bee-hives,  but  honey  is  brought  only  fron, 
the  hill-country  on  the  west.  Therawaah*  ofKa. 
bul  is  of  excellent  quality;  its  quinces  and  damask 
plums  are  excellent,  as  well  as  its  badrengs.t  There 
is  a  species  of  grape  which  they  call  the  water-grape, 
that  is  very  delicious  ;  its  wines  are  strong  and  in- 
toxicating. That^  produced  on  the  skirt  of  the 
mountain  of  Khwajeh  Khan-Saaid  is  celebrated  for 
its  potency,  though  I  describe  it  only  from  what  I 
have  heard  : 

"The  drinker  knows  the  flavour  of  the  Wine;  how 
should  the  sober  know  iti" 

"  Kabul  is  not  fertile  in  grain  ;  a  return  of  four  or 
five  to  one  is  reckoned  favourable.  The  melons  too 
are  not  good,  but  those  raised  from  seed  brought 
from  Khorasan  are  tolerable.  The  climate  is  ex- 
tremely delightful,  and  in  this  respect  there  is  no 
such  place  in  the  known  world.  In  the  nights  of 
summer  you  cannot  sleep  without  a  postin  (or  lamb- 
skin cloak.)  Though  the  snow  falls  very  deep  in 
the  winter,  yet  the  cold  is  never  excessively  intense. 
Samarkand  and  Tabriz  are  celebrated  for  their  fine 
climate,  but  the  winter  cold  there  is  extreme  be- 
yond measure." 

"  Opposite  to  thefort  of  Adinahpur,t  to  the  south, 
on  a  rising  ground,  I  formed  a  charbagh  (or  great 
garden),  in  the  year  nine  hundred  and  fourteen 
(1508).  It  is  called  Baghe  Vafa  (the  Garden  of  Fi- 
delity).  It  overlooks  the  river,  which  flows  between 
the  fort  and  the  palace.  In  the  year  in  which  I 
defeated  Behar  Khan  and  conquered  Lahore  and 
Dibalpur,  I  brought  plantains  and  planted  them 
here.  They  grew  and  thrived.  The  year  before  I 
had  also  planted  the  sugar-cane  in  it,  which  throve 
remarkably  well.  I  sent  some  of  them  to  Badakh- 
shan  and  Bokhara.  It  is  on  an  elevated  site,  enjoya 
running  water,  and  the  climate  in  the  winter  season 
is  temperate.  In  the  garden  there  is  a  small  hillock, 
from  which  a  stream  of  water,  sufficient  to  drive  a 
mill,  incessantly  flows  into  the  garden  below.  The 
four-fold  field-plot  of  this  garden  is  situated  on  this 
eminence.  On  the  south-west  part  of  this  garden 
is  a  reservoir  of  water  ten  gez  square,  which  is 
wholly  planted  round  with  orange  trees  ;  there  are 
likewise  pomegranates.  All  around  the  piece  of 
water  the  ground  is  quite  covered  with  clover.  Thia 
spot  is  the  very  eye  of  the  beauty  of  the  garden. 
At  the  time  when  the  orange  becomes  yellow,  the 
prospect  is  delightful.  Indeed  the  garden  is  charm- 
ingly laid  out.  To  the  south  of  this  garden  lies  the 
Koh-e-Sefid  (the  White  Mountain)  of  Nangenhar, 
which  separates  Bengash  from  Nangenhar.  There 
is  no  road  by  which  one  can  pass  it  on  horseback. 
Nine  streams  descend  from  this  mountain.  The 
snow  on  its  summit  never  diminishes,  whence  prob- 
ably  comes  the  name  of  Koh-e-Sefid^  (the  White 
Mountain).  No  snow  ever  falls  in  the  dales  at  ita 
foot." 

"The  wine  of  Dereh-Nur  is  famous  all  over 
Lamghanat.  It  is  of  two  kinds,  which  they  term 
areh-tdshi  (the  stone-saw),  and  suhaH-tashi  (the 
stone-file).  The  stone-saw  is  of  a  yellowish  colour; 
the  stone-file,  of  a  fine  red.  The  stone-saw,  how- 
ever, is  the  better  wine  of  the  two,  though  neither 
of  them  equals  their  reputation.  Higher  up,  at  the 
head  of  the  glens,  in  this  mountain,  there  are  some 
apes  to  be  met  with.     Apes  are  found  lower  down 


*  The  rawash  is  described  as  a  root  something 
like  beet -root,  but  much  larger — white  and  red  in 
colour,  with  large  leaves,  that  rise  little  from  the 
ground  It  has  a  pleasant  mixture  of  sweet  and 
acid.     It  may  be  the  rhubarb,  raweid. 

t  The  badreng  is  a  laree  green  fruit,  in  shape 
somewhat  like  a  citron.  The  name  is  also  applied 
to  a  large  sort  of  cucumber. 

X  The  fort  of  Adinahpur  is  to  the  south  of  thu 
Kabul  river. 

^  The  Koh-e-Sef  id  is  a  remarkable  position  in 
the  geography  of  Afghanistan,  ^i  is  seen  5^ni 
Peshawer. 


JSO 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


towards  Hindustan,  luit  none  higher  up  than  ihis 
hill.  The  iiihabiiants  used  formerly  lo  keep  hogs,* 
but  in  my  time  they  have  renounced  the  practice." 

His  account  of  the  productions  of  his  pater- 
nal kingdom  of  Ferghana  is  still  more  minute 
— telling  us  even  the  number  of  apple-trees 
in  a  particular  district,  and  making  mention 
of  an  excellent  way  of  drying  apricots,  with 
almonds  put  in  instead  of  the  stones ;  and  of 
a  wood  with  a  jfine  red  bark,  of  admirable  use 
for  making  whip-handles  and  birds'  cages ! 
The  most  remarkable  piece  of  statistics,  how- 
ever, with  which  he  has  furnished  us,  is  in 
j^.j.  .account  of  Hindustan,  which  he  first  en- 
tered as  a  conqueror  in  1525.  It  here  occu- 
pies twenty-five  closely-printed  quarto  pages: 
and  contains,  not  only  an  exact  account  of  its 
boundaries,  population,  resources,  revenues, 
and  divisions,  but  a  full  enumeration  of  all  its 
useful  fruits,  trees,  birds,  beasts,  and  fishes  j 
with  such  a  minute  description  of  their  sev- 
eral habitudes  and  peculiarities,  as  would  make 
no  contemptible  figure  in  a  modern  work  of 
natural  history — carefully  distingTiishing  the 
facts  which  rest  on  his  own  observation  from 
those  which  he  gives  only  on  the  testimony 
of  others,  and  making  many  suggestions  as  to 
the  means  of  improving,  or  transferring  them 
from  one  region  to  another.  From  the  de- 
tailed botanical  and  zoological  descriptions, 
we  can  afl^ord  of  course  to  make  no  extracts. 
What  follows  is  more  general : — 

"  Hindustan  is  situated  in  the  first,  second,  and 
third  climates.  No  part  of  it  is  in  the  fourth.  It  is 
a  remarkably  fine  country.  It  is  quite  a  different 
world,  compared  with  our  countries.  Its  hills  and 
rivers,  its  forests  and  plains,  its  animals  and  plants, 
its  inhabitants  and  their  languages,  its  winds  and 
rains,  are  all  of  a  different  nature.  Although  the 
Germsils  (or  hot  districts),  in  the  territory  of  Kabul, 
bear,  in  many  respects,  some  resemblance  to  Hin- 
dustan, while  in  other  particulars  they  differ,  yet 
you  have  no  sooner  passed  the  river  Sind  than  the 
country,  the  trees,  the  stones,  the  wandering 
tribes, t  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  people,  are 
all  entirely  those  of  Hindustan.  The  northern 
range  of  hills  has  been  mentioned.  Immediately  on 
crossing  the  river  Sind,  we  come  upon  several 
uountries  in  this  range  of  mountains,  connected  with 
'Kashmir,  such  as  Pekheli  and  Shemeng.  Most  of 
hem,  though  now  independent  of  Kashmir,  were 
formerly  included  in  its  territories.  After  leaving 
Kashmir,  these  hills  contain  immmerable  tribes  and 
states,  Pergannahs  and  countries,  and  extend  all  the 
way  to  Bengal  and  the  shores  of  the  Great  Ocean. 
About  these  hills  are  other  tribes  of  men." 

"The  country  and  towns  of  Hindustan  are  ex- 
tremely ugly.  AH  its  towns  and  lands  have  an 
uniform  look ;  its  gardens  have  no  walls ;  the 
greater  part  of  it  is  a  level  plain.  The  banks  of  its 
rivers  and  streams,  in  consequence  of  the  rushing 
of  the  torrents  that  descend  during  the  rainy  season, 
are  worn  deep  into  the  channel,  which  makes  it 

fenerally  difficult  and  troublesome  to  cross  them, 
n  many  places  the  plain  is  covered  by  a  thorny 
'^rush-wood,  to  such  a  degree  that  the  people  of  the 
Pergannahs.  relying  on  these  forests,  take  shelter 
hi  them,  and,  trusting  to  their  inaccessible  situation, 
often  continue  in  a  state  of  revolt,  refusing  to  pay 
their  taxes.  In  Hindustan,  if  you  except  the  rivers, 
there  is  little  running  water.t     Now  and  then  some 

*  This  practice  Baber  viewed  with  disgust,  the  hog 
being  an  impure  animal  in  the  Muhammedan  law. 
t  "The  lis  and  Uluses." 
t  In  Persia  there  are  few  rivers,  but  numbers  of 


standing  water  is  to  be  met  with.  All  these  citie» 
and  countries  derive  their  water  from  wells  or  tanks, 
in  which  it  is  collected  during  the  rainy  season.  In 
Hindustan,  the  populousness  and  decay,  or  totai 
destruction  of  villages,  nay  of  cities,  is  almost  in 
stantaneous.  L'arge  cities  that  have  been  iiihabitert 
for  a  series  of  years,  (if,  on  an  alarm,  the  inhabitants 
take  to  flight,)  in  a  single  day,  or  a  day  and  a  half, 
are  so  completely  abandoned,  that  you  can  scarcely 
discover  a  trace  or  mark  of  population."* 

The  prejudices  of  the  more  active  and 
energetic  inhabitant  of  the  hill  country  are 
still  more  visible  in  the  following  passage : — 

"  Hindustan  is  a  country  that  has  few  pleasures 
to  recommend  it.t  The  people  are  not  handsome. 
They  have  no  idea  of  the  charms  of  friendly  society, 
of  frankly  mixing  together,  or  of  familiar  intercourse. 
They  have  no  genius,  no  comprehension  of  mind, 
no  politeness  of  manner,  no  kindness  or  fellow- 
feeling,  no  ingenuity  or  mechanical  invention  in 
planning  or  executing  their  handicraft  works,  no 
skill  or  knowledge  in  design  or  archiiectjre  ;  they 
have  no  good  horses,  no  good  flesh,  no  grapes  or 
musk-melonst,  no  good  fruits,  no  ice  or  cold  water, 
no  good  food  or  bread  in  their  bazars,  no  baths  or 
colleges,  no  candles,  no  torches,  not  a  candlestick." 

"  The  chief  excellency  of  Hindustan  is,  that  it  ia 
a  large  country,  and  has  abundance  of  gold  and 
silver.  The  climate  during  the  rains  is  very  pleasant. 
On  some  days  it  rains  ten,  fifteen,  and  even  twenty 
times.  During  the  rainy  season,  inundations  como 
pouring  down  all  at  once,  and  form  rivers,  even  in 
places  where,  at  other  times,  there  is  no  water. 
While  the  rains  continue  on  the  ground,  the  air  ia 
singularly  delightful — insomuch,  that  nothing  can 
surpass  its  soft  and  agreeable  temperature.  Its  de- 
fect is,  that  the  air  is  rather  moist  and  damp. 
During  the  rainy  season,  you  cannot  shoot,  even 
with  the  bow  of  our  country,  and  it  becomes  quite 
useless.  Nor  is  it  the  bow  alone  that  becomes 
useless;  the  coats  of  mail,  books,  clothes,  and  fur- 
niture, all  feel  the  bad  effects  of  the  moisture. 
Their  houses,  too,  suffer  from  not  being  substan- 
tially built.  There  is  pleasant  enough  weather  in 
the  winter  and  summer,  as  well  as  in  the  rainy 
season  ;  but  then  the  north  wind  always  blows,  and 
there  is  an  excessive  quantity  of  earth  and  dust  fly- 
ing about.  When  the  rains  are  at  hand,  this  wind 
blows  five  or  six  times  with  excessive  violence,  and 


artifical  canals  or  water-runs  for  irrigation,  and  for 
the  supply  of  water  to  towns  and  villages.  The 
same  is  the  case  in  the  valley  of  Soghd,  and  the 
richer  parts  of  Maweralnaher. 

♦  "  This  is  the  wiilsa  or  walsa,  so  well  described 
by  Colonel  Wilks  in  his  Historical  Sketches,  vol.  i 
p.  309,  note  :  '  On  the  approach  of  an  hostile  army, 
the  unfortunate  inhabitants  of  India  bury  under 
ground  their  most  cumbrous  effects,  and  each  indi- 
vidual, man,  woman,  and  child  above  six  years  of 
age,  (the  infant  children  being  carried  by  their 
mothers,)  with  a  load  of  grain  proportioned  to  their 
strength,  issue  from  their  beloved  homes,  and  lake 
the  direction  of  a  country  (if  such  can  be  found) 
exempt  from  the  miseries  of  war ;  sometimes  of  a 
strong  fortress,  but  more  generally  of  the  most  un- 
frequented hills  and  woods,  where  they  prolong  a 
miserable  existence  until  the  departure  of  the  ene- 
my; and  if  this  should  be  protracted  beyond  the 
time  for  which  they  have  provided  food,  a  largo 
portion  necessarily  d\e»  ol  hunger.'  See  the  note 
itself.  The  Historical  Sketches  should  be  read  by 
every  one  who  desires  to  have  an  accurate  idea  of 
the  SontK  of  India.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  we 
do  not  possess  the  history  of  any  other  part  of  In- 
dia, written  with  the  same  knowledge  or  research.* 

t  Baber's  opinions  regarding  India  are  nearly  the 
same  with  those  of  most  Europeans  of  the  upper 
class,  even  at  the  present  day. 

+  Grapes  and  musk-melons,  particularly  t}«e  lat 
ter.  are  now  common  all  o*tT  India. 


MEMOIRS  OF  BABER. 


281 


such  a  quar  tity  of  dust  flies  about  that  you  cannot 
8ee  one  another.  They  call  this  an  Andhi.*  It 
gets  warm  during  Taurus  and  Gemini,  but  not  so 
warm  as  to  become  intolerable.  The  heat  cannot 
be  compared  to  the  heats  of  Balkh  and  Kandahar. 
It  is  not  above  half  so  warm  as  in  these  places. 
Another  convenience  of  Hindustan  is,  that  the 
workmen  of  every  profession  and  trade  are  innu- 
merable and  without  end.  For  any  work,  or  any 
employment,  there  is  always  a  set  ready,  to  whom 
the  same  employment  and  trade  have  descended 
from  father  to  son  for  ages.  In  the  Zefer-Nameh 
of  Alulla  Sherif-ed-din  Ali  Yezdi,  it  is  mentioned 
as  a  surprising  iact,  that  when  Taimur  Beg  was 
building  the  Sangin  (or  stone)  mosque,  there  were 
Btone-cutters  of  Azerbaejan,  Fars,  Hindustan,  and 
other  countries,  to  the  number  of  two  hundred, 
working  every  day  on  the  mosque.  In  Agra  alone, 
and  of  stone-cutters  belonging  to  that  place  only,  I 
every  day  employed  on  my  palaces  six  hundred  and 
eighty  persons ;  and  in  Agra,  Sikri,  Biana,  Dhulpiir, 
Guahar,  and  Koel,  there  were  every  day  employed 
on  my  works  one  thousand  lour  hundred  and  ninety- 
one  stone-cutters.  In  the  same  way,  men  of  every 
trade  and  occupation  are  numberless  and  without 
Btlnt  in  Hindustan. 

"The  countries  from  Behreh  to  Behar,  which 
ore  now  under  my  dominion,  yield  a  revenue  of 
fifty-two  krorsjt  as  will  appear  from  the  particular 
and  detailed  statement.!;  Of  this  amount,  Per- 
gannahs  to  the  value  of  eight  or  nine  krors'5>  are  in 
the  possession  of  some  Rais  and  Rajas,  who  from 
old  times  have  been  submissive,  and  have  received 
these  Pergannahs  for  the  purpose  of  confirming 
them  in  their  obedience." 

These  Memoirs  contain  many  hundred  char- 
acters and  portraits  of  individuals:  and  it 
would  not  be  fair  not  to  give  our  readers  one 
or  two  specimens  of  the  royal  author's  minute 
style  of  execution  on  such  subjects.  We  may 
begin  with  that  of  Omer-Sheikh  Mirza,  his 
grandfather,  and  immediate  predecessor  in 
the  throne  of  Ferghana : — 

"  Omer-Sheikh  Mirza  was  of  low  stature,  had  a 
short  bushy  beard,  brownish  hair,  and  was  very 
corpulent.  He  used  to  wear  his  tunic  extremely 
tight ;  insomuch,  that  as  he  was  wont  to  contract 
his  belly  while  he  tied  the  strings,  when  he  let  him- 
self out  again  the  strings  often  burst.  He  was  not 
curious  in  either  his  food  or  dress.  He  tied  his 
turban  in  the  fashion  called  Destdr-pech  (or  plaited 
turban).  At  that  time,  all  turbans  were  worn  in 
the  char-pech  (or  four-plait)  style.  He  wore  his 
without  folds,  and  allowed  the  end  to  hang  down. 
During  the  heats,  when  out  of  the  Divan,  he  gene- 
rally wore  the  Moghul  cap. 

"  He  read  elegantly  :  his  general  reading  was 
the  Khamsahs,!!  the  Mesnevis,ir  and  books  of  his- 
tory ;  and  he  was  in  particular  fond  of  reading  the 
Shahnameh.**  1'hough  he  had  a  turn  for  poetry, 
he  did  not  cultivate  it.  He  was  so  strictly  just,  that 
when  the  caravan  from  Khitatt  had  once  reached  the 

*  This  is  still  the  Hindustani  term  for  a  storm,  or 
tempest, 

t  About  a  million  and  a  half  sterling,  or  rather 
1,300.000Z. 

t  This  statement  unfortunately  has  not  been 
preserved. 

$  About  225,0OOZ.  sterling. 

|I  Several  Persian  poets  wrote  Khamsahs,  or 
poems,  on  five  different  given  subjects.  The  most 
celebrated  is  Nezami. 

IT  The  most  celebrated  of  these  Mesnevis  is  the 
mystical  poem  of  Moulavi  Jiliileddin  Muhammed. 
The  Sufis  consider  it  as  equal  to  the  Koran. 

**  The  Shahnameh,  or  Book  of  Kings,  is  the  fa- 
mous poem  of  the  great  Persian  poet  Ferdausi, 
tnd  contains  tne  romantic  history  of  ancient  Persia. 

tt  North  China ;  but  often  applied  to  the  whole 


hill  country  to  the  east  of  Andejan,  and  the  snow 
fell  so  deep  as  to  bury  it,  so  that  of  the  whole  only 
two  persons  escaped,  he  no  sooner  received  in 
formation  of  the  occurrence,  than  he  despatched 
overseers  to  collect  and  take  charge  of  all  the  prop- 
erty and  effects  of  the  people  of  the  caravan  ;  and, 
wherever  the  heirs  were  not  at  hand,  though  him- 
self in  great  want,  his  resources  being  exhausted, 
he  placed  the  property  under  sequestration,  and  pre- 
served it  untouched;  till,  in  the  course  of  one  or 
two  years,  the  heirs,  coming  from  Khorasan  and 
Samarkand,  in  consequence  of  the  intimation  which 
they  received,  he  delivered  back  the  goods  sale 
and  uninjured  into  their  hands.*  Hi-j  generosity 
was  large,  and  so  was  his  whole  soul ;  he  was  of  an 
excellent  temper,  affable,  eloquent,  and  sweet  in 
his  conversation,  yet  brave  withal,  and  manly. 
On  two  occasions  he  advanced  in  front  of  the 
troops,  and  exhibited  distinguished  prowess  ;  once, 
at  the  gales  of  Akhsi,  and  once  at  the  gates  of 
Shahrokhia.  He  was  a  mkldling  shit  with  the 
bow ;  he  had  uncommon  lorce  in  his  fists,  and 
never  hit  a  man  whom  he  did  not  knock  down. 
From  his  excessive  ambition  for  conquest,  he  often 
exchanged  peace  for  war,  and  friendship  for  hostility. 
In  the  earlier  part  of  his  life  he  was  greatly  ad- 
dicted to  drinking  buzeh  and  talar.t  Latterly, 
once  or  twice  in  the  week,  he  indulged  in  a  drink- 
ing party.  He  was  a  pleasant  companion,  and  in 
the  course  of  conversation  used  often  to  cite,  with 
great  felicity,  appropriate  verses  from  the  poets.  In 
his  latter  days  he  was  much  addicted  to  the  use  of 
Maajiin,  J  while  under  the  inffuence  of  which  he  was 
subject  to  a  feverish  irritability.  He  was  a  humane 
man.  He  played  a  gieal  deal  at  backgammon, 
and  sometimes  at  games  of  chance  with  tne  dice.'' 

The  follo'>Ting  is  the  memorial  of  Hussain 
Mirza,  king  of  Khorasan,  who  died  in  1506 : 

"He  had  straight  narroweyes,  his  body  was  robust 
and  firm  ;  from  the  waist  downwards  he  was  of  a 
slenderer  make.  Although  he  was  advanced  in 
years,  and  had  a  white  beard,  he  dressed  in  gay-co- 
loured red  and  green  woollen  clothes.  He  usually 
wore  a  cap  of  black  lamb's  skin,  or  a  kilpak.  Now 
and  then,  on  festival  days,  he  put  on  a  small  turban, 
tied  in  three  folds,  broad  and  showy,  and  having 
placed  a  plume  nodding  over  it,  went  in  this  style  to 
prayers. 

"  On  first  mounting  the  throne,  he  took  it  into 
his  head  that  he  would  cause  the  names  of  the 
twelve  Imams  to  be  recited  in  the  Khhtbeh.  Many 
used  their  endeavours  to  prevent  him.  Finally, 
however,  he  directed  and  arranged  every  thing  ac- 
cording to  the  orthodox  Sunni  faith.  From  a  dis- 
order in  his  joints,  he  was  unable  to  perform  hia 
prayers,  nor  could  he  observe  the  stated  fasts.  He 
was  a  lively,  pleasant  man.  His  temper  was  rather 
hasty,  and  his  language  took  after  his  temper.  In 
many  instances  he  displayed  a  profound  reverence 
for  the  faith  ;  on  one  occasion,  one  of  his  sons  hav- 
ing slain  a  man,  he  delivered  him  up  to  the  avengers 
of  blood  to  be  catried  before  the  judgmen:-seat  of 
the  Kazi.  For  about  six  or  seven  years  after  he 
first  ascended  the  throne,  he  was  very  guarded  in 
abstaining  from  such  things  as  were  forbidden  by 


country  from  China  to  Terfan,  and  now  even  west 
to  the  Ala-tagh  Mountains. 

*  This  anecdote  is  erroneously  related  of  Baber 
himself  b^  Ferishta  and  others. — See  Vow's  Hist. 
of  HiJidostan,  vol.  ii.  p.  218. 

t  Biizeh  is  a  sort  of  intoxicating  liquor  somewhat 
resembling  beer,  made  from  millet.  Talar  I  do 
not  know,  but  understand  it  to  be  a  preparation 
from  the  poppy.  There  is,  however,  nothing  about 
buzeh  or  talar  in  the  Persian,  which  only  specifies 
sherab,  wine  or  strong  drink. 

t  Any  medical  mixture  is  called  a  maajun  ;  but 
in  common  speech  the  term  is  chiefly  applied  to  in- 
toxicating comfits,  and  esnecially  those  prepared 
with  bang. 


082 


fflSTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


the  law ;  afterwards  he  became  addicted  to  drinking 
wine.  During  nearly  forty  years  that  he  was  King 
of  Khorasan,  not  a  day  passed  in  which  he  did  not 
drink  after  mid-day  prayers;  but  he  never  drank 
wine  in  the  morning.  His  sons,  the  whole  of  the 
soldiery,  and  the  town's-people,  followed  his  exam- 
ple in  this  respect,  and  seemed  to  vie  with  each 
other  in  debauchery  and  lasciviousness.  He  was  a 
brave  and  valiant  man.  He  often  engaged  sword 
n  hand  in  fight,  nay,  frequently  distinguished  his 
prowess  hand  to  hand  several  times  in  the  course  of 
the  same  fight.  No  person  of  the  race  of  Taimur 
Beg  ever  equalled  Sultan  Hussain  Mirza  in  the  use 
df  the  scymitar.  He  had  a  turn  for  poetry,  and  com- 
posed a  Diwan.  He  wrote  in  the  'lurki.  His  poet- 
ical name  was  Hussaini.  Many  of  his  verses  are  far 
from  being  bad,  but  the  whole  of  the  Mirza's  Diwan 
is  in  the  same  measure.  Although  a  prince  of  dignity, 
both  as  to  years  and  extent  of  territory,  he  was  as 
fond  as  achildof  keeping  butting  rams,  and  of  amu- 
sing himself  with  flying  pigeons  and  cock-fighting." 

One  of  the  most  striking  passages  in  the 
work  is  the  royal  author's  account  of  the  mag- 
nificence of  the  court  and  city  of  Herat,  when 
he  visited  it  in  1506;  and  especially  his  im- 
posing catalogue  of  the  illustrious  authors,  art- 
ists, and  men  of  genius,  by  whom  it  was  then 
adorned. 

"  Tl^e  age  of  Sultan  Hussain  Mirza  was  certainly 
a  wonderful  age;  and  Khorasan,  paricularly  the 
city  of  Heri,  abounded  with  eminent  men  of  unri- 
valled acquirements,  each  of  whom  made  it  his  aim 
and  ambition  to  carry  to  the  highest  perfection  the 
art  to  which  he  devoted  himself.  Among  these  was 
the  Moulana  Abdal  Rahman  Jami,*  to  whom  there 
was  no  person  of  that  period  who  could  be  compar- 
ed, whether  in  respect  to  profane  or  sacred  science. 
His  poems  are  well  known.  The  merits  of  the 
Mulla  are  of  too  exalted  a  nature  to  admit  of  being 
described  by  me  ;  but  I  have  been  anxious  to  bring 
the  mention  of  his  name,  and  an  allusion  to  his  ex- 
cellences, into  these  humble  pages,  for  a  good  omen 
and  a  blessing !" 

He  then  proceeds  to  enumerate  the  names 
of  between  thirty  and  forty  distinguished  per- 
sons; ranking  first  the  sages  and  theologians, 
to  the  number  of  eight  or  nine;  next  the 
poets,  about  fifteen ;  then  two  or  three  paint- 
ers ;  and  five  or  six  performers  and  composers 
of  music ; — of  one  of  these  he  gives  the  fol- 
lowing instructive  anecdote — 

"  Another  was  Hussian  Udi  (the  lutanist),  who 
played  with  great  taste  on  the  lute,  and  composed 
elegantly.  He  could  play,  usinf;  only  one  string  of 
his  lute  at  a  time.  He  had  the  fault  of  giving  him- 
self many  airs  when  desired  to  play.  On  one  oc- 
casion Sheibani  Khan  desired  him  to  play.  After 
giving  much  trouble  he  played  very  ill,  and  besides, 
aid  not  bring  his  own  instrument,  but  one  that  was 
good  for  nothing.  Sheibani  Khan,  on  learning  how 
matters  stood,  directed  that,  at  that  very  parly,  he 
should  receive  a  certain  number  of  blows  on  the  necJt. 
This  was  one  good  deed  that  Sheibani  Khan  did  in 
his  day  ;  and  indeed  the  aflfectaiion  of  such  people 
deserves  even  more  severe  animadversion." 

In  the  seductions  of  this  luxurious  court, 
Baber's  orthodox  abhorrence  to  wine  was  first 
assailed  with  temptation : — and  there  is  some- 
thing very  naive,  we  think,  in  his  account  of 
his  reasonings  and  feelings  on  the  occasion. 


*  No^  rnoral  poet  ever  had  a  higher  reputation 
than  Jami.  His  poems  are  written  with  groat 
beauty  of  language  and  versification,  in  a  captivating 
strain  of  |-eligious  and  philosophic  mysticism.  He 
is  not  merely  admired  for  his  sublimity  as  a  poet, 
but  venerated  as  a  saint." 


"  As  we  were  guests  at  Mozeffer  Mirza  s  house, 
MozefTer  Mirza  placed  me  above  himself,  and  hav- 
ing filled  up  a  glass  of  welcome,  the  cupbearers  ill 
waiting  began  to  supply  all  who  were  of  the  party 
with  pure  wine,  which  they  quaflfed  as  if  it  had  been 
the  water  of  life.  The  party  waxed  warm,  and  the 
spirit  mounted  up  to  their  heads.  They  took  a  fancy 
to  make  me  drink  too,  and  bring  me  into  the  same 
circle  with  themselves.  Although,  all  that  time,  I 
had  never  been  guilty  of  drinking  wine,  and  I'rom 
never  having  fallen  into  the  practice  was  ignorant 
of  the  sensations  it  produced,  yet  I  had  a  strong 
lurking  inclination  to  wander  in  this  desert,  and  my 
heart  was  much  disposed  to  pass  the  stream.  In 
my  boyhood  I  had  no  wish  for  it,  and  did  not  know 
its  pleasures  or  pains.  When  my  father  at  any  time 
asked  me  to  drink  wine,  I  excused  myself,  and  ab- 
stained. After  my  father's  death,  by  the  guardian 
care  of  Khwajeh  Kazi,  I  remained  pure  and  unde- 
filed.  I  abstained  even  from  forbidden  foods  ;  how 
then  was  I  likely  to  indulge  in  wine  ?  Afterwards 
when,  from  the  force  of  youthful  imagination  and 
constitutional  impulse,  I  got  a  desire  for  wine,  I  had 
nobody  about  my  person  to  invite  me  to  gratify  my 
wishes  ;  nay,  there  was  not  one  who  even  suspected 
my  secret  longing  for  it.  Though  I  had  the  appe- 
tite, therefore,  it  was  difficult  for  me,  unsolicited  aa 
I  was,  to  indulge  such  unlawful  desires.  It  now 
came  into  my  head,  that  as  they  urged  me  so  much, 
and  as,  besides,  I  had  come  itito  a  refined  city  like 
Heri,  in  which  every  means  of  heightening  pleasure 
and  gaiety  was  possessed  in  perfection ;  in  which 
all  the  incentives  and  apparatus  of  enjoyment  were 
combined  with  an  invitation  to  indulgence,  if  I  did 
not  seize  the  present  moment,  I  never  could  expect 
such  another.  I  therefore  resolved  to  drink  wine ! 
But  it  struck  me,  that  as  Badia-ez-zeman  Mirza 
was  the  eldest  brother,  and  as  I  had  declined  receiv- 
ing it  from  his  hand,  and  in  his  house,  he  might  now 
take  offence.  I  therefore  mentioned  this  difficulty 
which  had  occurred  to  me.  My  excuse  was  ap- 
proved  of,  and  I  wgs  not  pressed  any  more,  at  this 
party,  to  drink.  It  was  settled,  however,  that  the 
next  time  we  met  at  Badia-ez-zeman  Mirza's,  I 
should  drink  when  pressed  by  the  two  Mirzas." 

By  some  providential  accident,  however, 
the  conscientious  prince  escaped  from  this 
meditated  lapse;  and  it  was  not  till  some 
years  after,  that  he  gave  way  to  the  long- 
cherished  and  resisted  propensity.  At  what 
particular  occasion  he  first  fell  into  the  snare, 
unfortunately  is  not  recorded — as  there  is  a 
blank  of  several  years  in  the  Memoirs  pre- 
vious to  1519.  In  that  year,  however,  we 
find  him  a  confirmed  toper ;  and  nothing,  in- 
deed, can  be  more  ludicrous  than  the  accuracy 
and  apparent  truth  with  which  he  continues 
to  chronicle  all  his  subsequent  and  very  fre- 
quent excesses.  The  Eastern  votary  of  in- 
toxication has  a  pleasant  way  of  varying  his 
enjoyments,  which  was  never  taken  in  the 
West.  When  the  fluid  elements  of  drunken- 
ness begin  to  pall  on  him,  he  betakes  him  to 
M-hat  is  learnedly  called  a  maajtin,  being  a  sort 
of  electuary  or  confection,  made  up  with 
pleasant  spices,  and  rendered  potent  by  a 
large  admixture  of  opium,  bang,  and  other 
narcotic  ingredients :  producing  a  solid  intoxi- 
cation of  a  very  delightful  and  desirable  de- 
scription. One  of  the  first  drinking  matches 
that  is  described  makes  honourable  mention 
of  this  variety  : — 

"  The  maajun-takers  and  spirit-drinkers,  as  they 
have  different  tastes,  are  very  apt  to  take  offence 
with  each  other.  I  said,  '  Don't  spoil  the  cordiality 
of  the  party  ;  whoever  wishes  to  drink  spirits,  lei 


MEMOIRS  OF  BABER. 


283 


him  drink  spirits ;  and  let  him  that  prefers  maajun, 
cake  maajun;  and  let  not  the  one  party  give  any 
idle  or  provoking  language  to  the  other.'  Some  sat 
down  to  spirits,  some  to  maajun.  The  party  went 
on  for  some  time  tolerably  well.  Baba  Jan  Kabuzi 
had  not  been  in  the  boat ;  we  had  sent  for  him  when 
we  reached  the  royal  tents.  He  chose  to  drink 
spirits.  Terdi  Muhammed  Kipchak,  too,  was  sent 
for,  and  joined  the  spirit-drinkers.  As  the  spirit- 
drinkers  and  maajun-takers  never  can  agree  in  one 
party,  the  spirit-bibing  party  began  to  indulge  in 
foolish  and  idle  conversation,  and  to  make  provok- 
ing remarks  on  maajun  and  maajiin-takers.  Baba 
Jan,  too,  getting  drunk,  talked  very  absurdly.  The 
tipplers,  filling  up  glass  after  glass  for  Terdi  Mu- 
iammed,  made  him  drink  them  off,  so  that  in  a 
very  short  litre  he  was  mad  drunk.  Whatever 
exertions  I  could  make  to  preserve  peace,  were  all 
anavailiiig;  there  was  much  uproar  and  wrangling. 
The  party  became  quite  burdensome  and  unplea- 
sant, and  soon  broke  up." 

The  second  day  after,  we  find  the  royal 
Oacchanal  still  more  grievously  overtaken  : 

"  We  continued  drinking  spirits  in  the  boat  till 
bed-lime  prayers,  when,  being  completely  drunk, 
we  mounted,  and  taking  torches  in  our  hands  came 
at  full  gallop  back  to  the  camp  from  the  river-side, 
falling  sometimes  on  one  side  of  the  horse,  and 
sometimes  on  the  other.  I  was  miserably  drunk, 
and  next  morning,  when  they  told  me  of  our  having 
galloped  into  the  camp  with  lighted  torches  in  our 
hands,  T  had  not  the  slightest  recollection  of  the 
circumstance.  After  coming  home, .  I  vomited 
plentifully." 

Even  in  the  middle  of  a  harassing  and  des- 
ultory campaig-n,  there  is  no  intermission  of 
this  excessive  jollity,  though  it  sometimes  puts 
the  parties  into  jeopardy, — for  example :  — 

"  We  continued  at  this  place  drinking  till  ihe  sun 
was  on  the  decline,  when  we  set  out.  Those  who 
had  been  of  the  party  were  completely  drunk. 
Syed  Kasim  was  so  drunk,  that  two  of  his  servants 
were  obliged  to  put  him  on  horseback,  and  brought 
him  to  the  camp  with  great  difficulty.  Dost  Mu- 
hammed Bakir  was  so  far  gone,  that  Amin  Mu- 
hammed Terkhan,  Masti  Chehreh,  and  those  who 
were  along  with  him,  were  unable,  with  all  their 
exertions,  to  get  him  on  horseback.  They  poured 
a  great  quantity  of  water  over  him,  but  all  to  no 
purpose.  At  this  moment  a  body  of  Afghans  ap- 
peared in  sight.  Amin  Muhammed  Terkhan, 
being  very  drunk,  gravely  gave  it  as  his  opinion, 
that  rather  than  leave  him,  in  the  condition  in  which 
he  wa^  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy,  it  was 
better  at  once  to  cut  off  his  head,  and  carry  it 
away.  Making  another  exertion,  however,  with 
much  difficulty,  they  contrived  to  throw  him  upon 
a  horse,  which  they  led  along,  and  so  brought 
him  off." 

On  some  occasions  they  contrive  to  be 
drunk  four  times  in  twenty-four  hours.  The 
gallant  prince  contents  himself  with  a  strong 
maajun  one  day ;  but 

"  Next  morning  we  hftd  a  drinkins  party  in  the 
same  tent.  We  continued  drinking  till  night.  On 
the  following  morning  we  again  had  an  early  cup, 
and,  getting  intoxicated,  went  to  sleep.  About 
noon-day  prayers,  we  left  Istalif,  and  I  took  a 
maajun  on  the  road.  It  was  about  afternoon  prayers 
betbre  I  reached  Behzadi.  The  crops  were  ex- 
tremely good.  While  I  was  riding  round  the  har- 
vest-fields,  such  of  my  companions  as  were  fond 
of  wine  began  to  contrive  another  drinking-bout. 
Although  I  had  taken  a  maajun,  yet,  as  the  crops 
were  uncommonly  jijie  !  we  sat  down  under  some 
frees  that  had  yielded  a  plentiful  load  of  fruit,  and 
bes[an  to  drink.   We  kept  up  the  party  in  the  same 


place  till  bed-lime  prayers.  Mull  Mahmud  Khalifeh 
having  arrived,  we  invited  jjim  to  join  us.  Abaalla, 
who  had  got  very  drunk,  made  an  observaiion 
which  affected  Khalifeh.  Without  recollfcting  that 
Mdlla  Mahmud  was  present,  he  repeated  the  verse, 

(Persian.)  Examine  whom  you  will,  you  will  find 
him  suffering  from  the  same  wound. 

MCilly  Mahmud,  who  did  not  drink,  reproved  Ab- 
dalla  for  repeating  this  verse  with  levity.*  Abdalla, 
recovering  his  judgment,  was  in  terrible  perturba- 
tion, and  conversed  in  a  wonderfully  smooth  and 
sweet  strain  all  the  rest  of  the  evening." 

In  a  year  or  two  after  this,  when  he  setma 
to  be  in  a  course  of  unusual  indulgence,  we 
meet  with  the  following  edifying  remark : 
"  As  I  intend,  when  forty  years  old,  to  abstain 
from  wine ;  and  as  I  now  want  somewhat  less 
than  one  year  of  being  forty,  I  drink  wine 
most  copiously  I  ^^  When  forty  comes,  how- 
ever, we  hear  nothing  of  this  sage  resolution 
— but  have  a  regular  record  of  the  wine  and 
maajun  parties  as  before,  up  to  the  year  1527. 
In  that  year,  however,  he  is  seized  with  rather 
a  sudden  fit  of  penitence,  and  has  the  resolu- 
tion to  begin  a  course  of  rigorous  reform. 
There  is  something  rather  picturesque  in  his 
very  solemn  and  remarkable  account  of  this 
great  revolution  in  his  habits : 

"  On  Monday  the  23d  of  the  first  Jemadi,  I  had 
mounted  to  survey  my  posts,  and,  in  the  course  of 
my  ride,  was  seriously  struck  with  the  reflection 
that  I  had  always  resolved,  one  time  or  another,  to 
make  an  effectual  repentance,  and  that  some  traces 
of  a  hankering  after  the  renunciation  of  forbidden 
works  had  ever  remained  in  my  heart.  Having 
sent  for  the  gold  and  silver  goblets  and  cups,  with 
all  the  other  utensils  used  for  drinking  parties,  I 
directed  them  to  be  broken,  and  renounced  the  usa 
of  wine — purifying  my  mind  !  The  fragments  of 
the  goblets,  and  other  utensils  of  gold  and  silver,  I 
directed  to  be  divided  among  Derwishes  and  the 
poor.  The  first  person  who  followed  me  in  my  re- 
pentance was  Asas,  who  also  accompanied  me  in 
my  resolution  of  ceasing  to  cut  the  beard,  and  of 
allowing  it  to  grow.t  That  night  and  the  following, 
numbers  of  Amirs  and  courtiers,  soldiers  and  per- 
sons not  in  the  service,  to  the  number  of  nearly 
three  hundred  men,  made  vows  of  reformation. 
The  wine  which  we  had  with  us  we  poured  on  the 
ground  !  I  ordered  that  the  wine  brought  by  Baba 
Dost  should  have  salt  thrown  into  it,  that  it  might 
be  make  into  vinegar.  On  the  spot  where  the  wine 
had  been  poured  out,  I  directed  a  wain  to  be  sunk 
and  built  of  stone,  and  close  by  the  wain  an  alms- 
house to  be  erected." 

He  then  issued  a  magnificent  Firman,  an- 
nouncing his  reformation,  and  recommending 
its  example  to  all  his  subjects.  But  he  still 
persists,  Ave  find,  in  the  use  of  a  mild  maajun. 
We  are  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  add,  that  though 
he  had  the  firmness  to  persevere  to  the  last 
in  his  abstinence  from  wine,  the  sacrifice 
seems  to  have  cost  him  very  dear;  and  he 
continued  to  the  very  end  of  his  life  to  hanker 
after  his  broken  wine-cups,  and  to  look  back 
with  fond  regret  to  the  delights  he  had  ab- 


*  "  This  verse,  I  presume,  is  from  a  religious 
poem,  and  has  a  mystical  meaning.  The  profane 
apphcation  of  it  is  the  ground  of  offence." 

t  "  This  vow  was  sometimes  made  by  persona 
who  set  out  on  a  war  against  the  Infidels.  'I'hey 
did  not  trim  the  beard  till  they  returned  victorious. 
Some  vows  of  a  similar  nature  mav  be  Vound  ia 
Scripture." 


284 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


jurea  for  ever.  There  is  something  abso- 
lutely pathetic,  as  well  as  amiable,  in  the 
following  candid  avowal  in  a  letter  written 
the  very  year  before  his  death  to  one  of  his 
old  drinking  companions : — 

"•In  a  letter  which  I  wrote  to  Abdalla,  I  men- 
tioned that  I  had  much  difficulty  in  reconciling  my- 
self to  the  desert  of  penitence  ;  but   that  1   had 
resolution  enough  to  persevere, — 
(Turki  verse) 

I  am  distressed  since  I  renounced  wine  ; 

I  am  confounded  and  unfit  for  business,— 

Regret  leads  me  to  penitence. 

Penitence  leads  me  to  regret. 
Indeed,  last  year,  my  desire  and  longing  for  wine 
and  social  parties  were  beyond  measure  excessive. 
It  even  came  to  such  a  length  that  I  have  found 
myself  shedding  tears  from  vexation  and  disappoint- 
ment. In  the  present  year,  praise  be  to  God,  these 
troubles  are  over,  and  I  ascribe  them  chiefly  to  the 
occupation  afforded  to  my  mind  by  a  poetical  trans- 
lation, on  which  I  have  employed  myself.  Let  me 
advise  you  too,  to  adopt  a  life  of  abstinence.  Social 
parties  and  wine  are  pleasant,  in  company  with  our 
jolly  friends  and  old  boon  companions.  But  with 
whom  can  you  enjoy  the  social  cup  ?  With  whom 
can  you  indulge  in  the  pleasures  of  wine  ?  If  you 
have  only  Shir  Ahmed,  and  Haider  Kulli,  for  the 
companions  of  your  gay  hours  and  jovial  goblet, 
you  can  surely  find  no  great  difficulty  in  consenting 
to  the  sacrifice.  I  conclude  with  every  good  wish." 

We  have  mentioned  already  that  Baber  ap- 
pears to  have  been  of  a  frank  and  generous 
character — and  there  are,  throughout  the  Me- 
moirs, various  traits  of  clemency  and  tender- 
ness of  heart,  scarcely  to  have  been  expected 
in  an  Eastern  monarch  and  professional  war- 
rior. He  weeps  ten  whole  days  for  the  loss 
of  a  friend  who  fell  over  a  precipice  after  one 
of  their  drinking  parties  •  and  spares  the  lives, 
and  even  restores  the  domains  of  various 
chieftains,  who  had  betrayed  his  confidence, 
and  afterwards  fallen  into  his  power.  Yet 
there  are  traces  of  Asiatic  ferocity,  and  of  a 
hard-hearted  wastefulness  of  life,  Avhich  re- 
mind us  that  we  are  beyond  the  pale  of  Eu- 
ropean gallantry  and  Christian  compassion. 
In  his  wars  in  Afghan  and  India,  the  prisoners 
are  commonly  butchered  in  cold  blood  after 
the  action — and  pretty  uniformly  a  triumphal 

Eyramid  is  erected  of  their  skulls.  These 
orrible  executions,  too,  are  performed  with 
much  solemnity  before  the  royal  pavilion  ; 
and  on  one  occasion,  it  is  incidentally  record- 
ed, that  such  was  the  number  of  prisoners 
brought  forward  for  this  infamous  butchery, 
that  the  sovereign's  tent  had  three  times  to 
be  removed  to  a  different  station — the  ground 
before  it  being  so  drenched  with  blood  and 
encumbered  with  quivering  carcasses  1  On 
one  occasion,  and  on  one  only,  an  attempt 
was  made  to  poison  him — the  mother  of  one 
of  the  sovereigns  whom  he  had  dethroned 
having  bribed  his  cooks  and  tasters  to  mix 
death  in  his  repast.  Upon  the  detection  of 
the  plot,  the  taster  was  cut  to  pieces,  the  cook 
flayed  alive,  and  the  scullions  trampled  to 
death^by  elephants.  Such,  however,  was  the 
respect  paid  to  rank,  or  the  indulgence  to 
maternal  resentment,  that  the  prime  mover 
3f  the  whole  conspiracy,  the  queen  dowager, 
ifl  merely  put  under  restraint,  and  has  a  con- 


tribution levied  on  her  private  foitune.  The 
following  brief  anecdote  speaks  volumes  as  ta 
the  difference  of  European  and  Asiatic  man- 
ners and  tempers : — 

"  Another  of  his  wives  was  Katak  Begum,  who 
was  the  foster-sister  of  this  same  Terkhan  Begum. 
Sultan  Ahmed  Mirza  married  her  for  love.  He  waa 
prodigiously  attached  to  her,  and  she  governed  him 
with  absolute  sway.  She  drank  wine.  During  her 
life,  the  Sultan  durst  not  venture  to  frequent  any 
other  of  his  ladies.  At  last,  however,  he  put  her  to 
death,  and  delivered  himself  from  this  reproach." 

In  several  of  the  passages  we  have  cited, 
there  are  indications  of  this  ambitious  war- 
rior's ardent  love  for  fine  flowers,  beautiful 
gardens,  and  bright  waters.  But  the  work 
abounds  with  traits  of  this  amiable  and,  with 
reference  to  some  of  these  anecdotes,  appar- 
ently ill-sorted  propensity.  In  one  place  he 
says — 

"  In  the  warm  season  they  are  covered  with  the 
cheTiin-laleh  grass  in  a  very  beautiful  manner,  and 
the  Aimaks  and  Turks  resort  to  them.  In  the 
skirts  of  these  mountains  the  ground  is  richly  di- 
versified by  various  kinds  of  tulips.  I  once  directed 
them  to  be  counted,  and  they  brought  in  thirty-two 
or  thirty-three  different  sorts  of  tulips.  There  is 
one  species  which  has  a  scent  in  some  degree  like 
the  rose,  and  which  I  termed  laleh-gul-bui  (the  rose- 
scented  tulip).  This  species  is  found  only  in  the 
Desht-e-Sheikh  (the  Sheikh's  plain),  in  a  small  spot 
of  ground,  and  nowhere  else.  In  the  skirts  of  the 
same  hills  below  Perwan,  is  produced  the  laJeh-ged- 
berg  (or  hundred-leaved  tulip),  which  is  likewise 
found  only  in  one  narrow  spot  of  ground,  as  we 
emerge  from  the  straits  of  Ghurbend." 

And  a  little  after — 

"  Few  quarters  possess  a  district  that  can  rival 
Istalif  A  large  river  runs  through  it,  and  on  either 
side  of  it  are  gardens,  green,  gay,  and  beautiful.  Its 
water  is  so  cold,  that  there  is  no  need  of  icing  it; 
and  it  i.s  particularly  pure.  In  this  district  is  a  gar- 
den, called  Bagh-e-Kilan  (or  the  Great  Garden), 
which  Ulugh  Beg  Mirza  seized  upon.  I  paid  the 
price  of  the  garden  to  the  proprietors,  and  received 
from  them  a  grant  of  it.  On  the  outside  of  the 
garden  are  large  and  beautiful  spreading  plane 
trees,  under  the  shade  of  which  there  are  agreeable 
spots  finely  sheltered.  A  perennial  stream,  large 
enough  to  turn  a  mill,  runs  through  the  garden; 
and  on  its  banks  are  planted  planes  and  other  trees. 
Formerly  this  stream  flowed  in  a  winding  and 
crooked  course,  but  I  ordered  its  course  to  be  al- 
tered according  to  a  regular  plan,  which  added 
greatly  to  the  beauty  of  the  place.  Lower  down 
than  these  villages,  and  about  a  koss  or  a  koss  and 
a  half  above  the  level  plain,  on  the  lower  skirts  of 
the  hills,  is  a  fountain,  named  Khwajeh-seh-yardn 
(Kwajeh  three  friends),  around  which  there  are 
three  species  of  trees;  above  the  fountain  are  many 
beautiful  plane-trees,  which  yield  a  pleasant  shade. 
On  the  two  sides  of  the  fountain,  on  small  emi- 
nences  at  the  bottom  of  the  hills,  there  are  a  num- 
ber of  oak  trees  ;  except  on  these  two  spots,  where 
there  are  groves  of  oak,  there  is  not  an  oak  to  be 
met  with  on  the  hills  to  the  west  of  Kabul.  In  front 
of  this  fountain,  towards  the  plain,  there  are  many 
spots  covered  with  the  flowery  Arghwan*  tree,  and 
besides  these  Arghwan  plots,  there  are  none  else 
in  the  whole  country." 

We  shall  add  but  one  other  notice  of  thii 

"  The  name  Arghwan  is  generally  applied  to  the 
anemone  ;  but  in  Afghanistan  it  is  given  to  a  beau- 
tiful flowering  shrub,  which  grows  nearly  to  th« 
size  of  a  tree." 


MEMOIRS  OF  BABER. 


285 


elegant  taste — though  on  the  occasion  there 
mentioned,  the  flowers  were  aided  by  a  less 
delicate  sort  of  excitement. 

"This  day  I  ate  a  maajun.  While  under  its  in- 
fluence, I  visited  some  beautiful  gardens.  In  dif- 
ferent beds,  the  ground  was  covered  with  purple 
ind  yellow  Arghwan  flowers.  On  one  hand  were 
beds  of  yellow  flowers  in  bloom  ;  on  the  other  hand, 
red  flowers  were  in  blossom.  In  many  places  thoy 
■prung  up  in  the  same  bed,  mingled  together  as  if 
they  had  been  flung  and  scattered  abroad.  I  took 
my  seat  on  a  rising  ground  near  the  cainp,  to  enjoy 
the  view  of  all  the  flower-pots.  On  the  six  sides 
of  this  eminence  they  were  formed  as  into  regular 
beds.  On  one  side  were  yellow  flowers ;  on  another 
the  purple,  laid  out  in  triangular  beds.  On  two 
other  sides,  there  were  fewer  flowers ;  but,  as  far 
as  the  eye  could  reach,  there  were  flower-gardens 
of^a  similar  kind.  In  the  neighbourhood  of  Per- 
»ha\yer,  during  the  spring,  the  flower-plots  are  ex- 
quisitely beautiful." 

We  have,  now  enabled  our  readers,  we 
think,  to  judge  pretty  fairly  of  the  nature  of 
this  very  curious   volume;    and   shall  only 

f)resent  them  with  a  few  passages  from  two 
etters  written  by  the  valiant  author  in  the 
last  year  of  his  hfe.  The  first  is  addressed 
to  his  favourite  son  and  successor  Hiamaiun, 
whom  he  had  settled  in  the  government  of 
Samarcand,  and  who  was  at  this  time  a  sover- 
eign of  approved  valour  and  prudence.  There 
is  a  very  diverting  mixture  of  sound  political 
counsel  and  minute  criticism  on  writing  and 
composition,  in  this  paternal  effusion.  We 
can  give  but  a  small  part  of  it. 

"  In  many  of  your  letters  you  complain  of  sepa- 
ration from  your  friends.  It  is  wrong  for  a  prince 
lo  indulge  in  such  a  complaint. 

"  There  is  certainly  no  greater  bondage  than  that 
in  which  a  king  is  placed  ;  but  it  ill  becomes  him  to 
complain  of  inevitable  separation. 

"in  compliance  with  my  wishes,  you  have  in- 
deed written  me  letters,  but  you  certainly  never 
read  them  over ;  for  had  you  attempted  to  read 
them,  you  must  have  found  it  absolutely  impossible, 
«nd  would  then  undoubtedly  have  put  them  by.  I 
contrived  indeed  to  decipher  and  comprehend  the 
meaning  of  your  last  letter,  but  with  much  diffi- 
culty. It  is  excessively  confused  and  crabbed.  Who 
ever  saw  a  Moamma  (a  riddle  or  a  charade)  in 
prose  ?  Your  speUing  is  not  bad,  yet  not  quite 
correct.  You  have  written  iltafat  with  a  toe  (in- 
Btead  of  a  te),  and  Tiulin^  with  a  he  (instead  of  a 
haf).  Your  letter  may  indeed  be  read;  but  in 
consequence  of  the  far-fetched  words  you  have 
employed,  the  meaning  is  by  no  means  very  intel- 
ligible. You  certainly  do  not  excel  in  letter- writing, 
and  fail  chiefly  because  you  have  too  great  a  desire 
to  show  your  acquirements.  For  the  future,  you 
should  write  unaffectedly,  with  clearness,  using 
plain  words,  which  would  cost  less  trouble  both  to 
the  writer  and  reader." 

The  other  letter  is  to  one  of  his  old  com- 
panions in  arms; — and  considering  that  it  is 
written  by  an  ardent  and  ambitious  conqueror, 
!rom  the  capital  of  his  new  empire  of  Hin- 
lustan,  it  seems  to  us  a  very  striking  proof, 
lot  only  of  the  nothingness  of  high  fortune, 


but  of  the  native  simplicity  and  amiableness 
of  this  Eastern  highlander. 

'•  My  solicitude  to  visit  my  western  dominions  is 
boundless,  and  great  beyond  expression.  'I'hu 
affairs  of  Hindustan  have  at  length,  however,  been 
reduced  into  a  certain  detjree  of  ordtr;  and  I  trust 
in  Almighty  God  that  the  time  is  near  at  hand, 
when,  through  the  grace  of  the  Most  High,  every 
thing  will  be  completely  settled  in  this  country. 
As  soon  as  matters  are  brought  into  that  state,  I 
shall,  God  willing,  set  out  for  your  quarter,  with 
out  losing  a  moment's  time.  Hov;  is  it  possible 
tkat  the  delights  of  those  lands  should  ever  be 
erased  from  the  heart?  Above  all,  how  is  it  possi- 
ble for  one  like  me,  who  have  made  a  vow  of  ab- 
stinence from  wine,  and  of  purity  of  life,  to  forget 
the  delicious  melons  and  grapes  of  that  pleasant 
region  ?  They  very  recently  brought  me  a  single 
musk-melon.  While  cutting  it  up,  1  felt  myself 
affected  with  a  strong  feelmg  of  lonelmess ,  and  a 
sense  of  my  exile  from  my  native  country;  and  I 
could  not  help  shedding  tears  while  I  was  eating  it!" 

On  the  whole,  we  cannot  help  having  a 
liking  for  "the  Tiger" — and  the  ron\antic, 
though  somewhat  apocryphal  account  that  is 
given  of  his  death,  has  no  tendency  to  diminish 
our  partiality.  It  is  recorded  by  Abiilfazi, 
and  other  native  historians,  that  in  the  yeai 
after  these  Memoirs  cease,  Hiamaiun,  the  be- 
loved son  of  Baber,  was  brought  to  Agra  in  a 
state  of  the  most  miserable  health : 

"  When  all  hopes  from  medicine  were  over,  atiu 
while  sevrral  men  of  skill  were  talking  to  the  em- 
peror of  the  melancholy  situation  of  his  son,  Abul 
Baka,  a  personage  highly  venerated  for  his  know- 
ledge and  piety,  remarked  to  Baber,  that  in  such  a 
case  the  Almighty  had  sometimes  vouchsafed  to 
receive  the  ti.'ist  valuable  thing  possessed  by  one 
friend,  as  an  offering  in  exchange  for  the  life  of 
another.  Baber,  exclaiming  that,  of  all  things,  his 
life  was  dearest  to  Humaiiin,  as  Humaiun's  was  to 
him,  and  that,  next  to  the  hfe  of  Hiimaiiin,  his  own 
was  what  he  most  valued,  devoted  his  life  to  Hea- 
ven as  a  sacrifice  for  his  son's  !  The  noblemen 
around  him  entreated  him  to  retract  the  rash  vow, 
and,  in  place  of  his  first  offering,  to  give  the  dia- 
mond taken  at  Agra,  and  reckoned  the  most  valu- 
able on  earth :  that  the  ancient  sages  had  said, 
that  it  was  the  dearest  of  our  w'orldly  possessions 
alone  that  was  to  be  offered  to  Heaven.  But  he 
persisted  in  his  resolution,  declaring  that  no  stonii, 
of  whatever  value,  could  be  put  in  competition  with 
his  life.  He  three  times  walked  round  the  dyiug 
prince,  a  solemnity  similar  to  that  used  in  sacrifices 
and  heave-offerings,  and,  retiring,  prayed  earnestly 
to  God.  After  some  time  he  was  heard  to  exclaim, 
'I  have  borne  it  away!  I  have  borne  it  away!' 
The  Mussulman  historians  assure  us,  that  Hiimaiun 
almost  immediately  began  to  recover,  and  that,  iu 
proportion  as  he  recovered,  the  health  and  strength 
of  Baber  visibly  decayed.  Baber  communicated 
his  dying  instructions  to  Khw^Sjeh  Khalileh,  Kamber 
Ali  Beg,  Terdi  Beg,  and  Hindu  Beg,  who  were 
then  at  court  commending  Humaiun  to  their  pro- 
tection. With  that  unvarying  affection  for  his 
family  T'hich  he  showed  in  all  the  circumstances 
of  his  life,  he  strongly  besought  Humaiiin  to  be 
kind  and  forgiving  to  his  brothers.  Htimaiiin  pro- 
mised— and,  what  in  such  circumstances  is  rare, 
kept  his  promise." 


POETRY. 


(iHarcl),  1819.) 

Tecimens  of  ike  British  P^ts  ;  with  Biographical  and  Critical  Notices,  and  an  huiiy  on  English 
Poetry.    By  Thomas  Campbell.     7  vols.  8vo.     London:  1819. 


We  would  rather  see  Mr.  Campbell  as  a 
poet,  than  as  a  commentator  on  poetry : — be- 
cause we  would  rather  have  a  solid  addition 
to  the  sum  of  our  treasures,  than  the  finest  or 
most  judicious  account  of  their  actual  amount. 
But  we  are  very  glad  to  see  him  in  any  way : 
— and  think  the  work  which  he  has  now  given 
us  very  excellent  and  delightful.  Still,  how- 
ever, we  think  there  is  some  little  room  for 
complaint ;  and,  feeling  that  we  have  not  got 
all  we  were  led  to  expect,  are  unreasonable 
enough  to  think  that  the  learned  author  still 
owes  us  an  arrear :  which  we  hope  he  will 
handsomely  pay  up  in  the  next  edition. 

When  a  great  poet  and  a  man  of  distin- 
guished talents  announces  a  large  selection 
of  English  poetry,  ^'with  biographical  and 
critical  notices,"  we  naturally  expect  such 
notices  of  all,  or  almost  all  the  authors,  of 
whose  works  he  thinks  it  worth  while  to 
favour  us  with  specimens.  The  biography 
sometimes  may  be  unattainable — and  it  may 
still  more  frequently  be  uninteresting — but 
the  criticism  must  always  be  valuable  ',  and, 
indeed,  is  obviously  that  which  must  be 
looked  to  as  constituting  the  chief  value  of 
any  such  publication.  There  is  no  author  so 
obscure,  if  at  all  entitled  to  a  place  in  this 
register,  of  whom  it  would  not  be  desirable  to 
know'the  opinion  of  such  a  man  as  Mr.  Camp- 
bell— and  none  so  mature  and  settled  in  fame, 
upon  whose  beauties  and  defects,  and  poetical 
character  in  general,  the  public  would  not 
have  much  to  learn  from  such  an  authority. 
Now,  there  are  many  authors,  and  some  of 
no  mean  note,  of  whom  he  has  not  conde- 
scended to  say  one  word,  either  in  the  Essay, 
or  in  the  notices  prefixed  to  the  citations.  Of 
Jonathan  Swift,  for  example,  all  that  is  here 
recorded  is  "Born  1667— died  1744;"  and 
Otvvay  is  despatched  in  the  same  summary 
manner— '•  Born  1651— died  1685."  Mar- 
lowe is  commemorated  in  a  single  page,  and 
Butler  in  half  of  one.  All  this  is  rather  ca- 
pricious:— But  this  is  not  all.  Sometimes  the 
notices  are  entirely  biographical,  and  some- 
times entirely  critical.  We  humbly  conceive 
they  ought  always  to  have  been  of  both  des- 
criptions. At  all  events,  we  ought  in  every 
case  to  have  had  some  criticism, — since  this 
rould  always  have  been  had,  and  could 
•carcely  have  failed  to  be  valuable.  Mr.  C, 
we  think,  has  been  a  little  lazy. 
286 


If  he  were  like  most  authorBj  or  even  like 
most  critics,  we  could  easily  heive  pardoned 
this ;  for  we  very  seldom  find  any  work  too 
short.  It  is  the  singular  goodness  of  his  criti- 
cisms that  makes  us  regret  their  fewness;  for 
nothing,  we  think,  can  be  more  fair,  judicious 
and  discriminating,  and  at  the  same  time 
more  fine,  delicate  and  original,  than  the 
greater  part  of  the  discussions  with  ^^■hich  he 
has  here  presented  us.  It  is  very  rare  to  find 
so  much  sensibility  to  the  beauties  of  poetry, 
united  with  so  much  toleration  for  its  faults; 
and  so  exact  a  perception  of  the  merits  of 
every  particular  style,  interfering  so  little 
with  a  just  estimate  of  all.  (Poets,  to  be  sure, 
are  on  the  whole,  we  think,  very  indulgent 
judges  of  poetry ;  and  that  not  so  much,  we 
verily  believe,  from  any  partiality  to  their  own 
vocation,  or  desire  to  exalt  their  fraternity, 
as  from  their  being  more  constantly  alive  to  j  ^ 
those  impulses  which  it  is  .  the  business  of  ~~r^ 
poetry  to  excite,  and  more  quick  to  catch  and 
to  follow  out  those  associations  on  which  its 
efficacy  chiefly  dependsTT^  it  be  true,  as 
we  have  formerly  endeavoured  to  show,  with 
reference  to  this  very  author,  that  poetry  pro- 
duces all  its  greater  effects,  and  works  its 
more  memorable  enchantments,  not  so  much 
by  the  images  it  directly  presents,  as  by  those 
which  it  siiggests^to  the  fancy;  and  melts  or 
inflames  us  less  by  the  fires  which  it  applies 
from  without,  than  by  those  which  it  kindles 
within,  and  of  which  the  fuel  is  in  our  own 
bosoms, — it  will  be  readily  understood  how 
these  effects  should  be  most  powerful  in  the 
sensitive  breast  of  a  poet ;  and  how  a  spark, 
which  would  have  been  instantly  quenched  \ 
in  the  duller  atmosphere  of  an  ordinary  brain,  I 
may  create  a  blaze  in  his  combustible  imagi- 
nation, to  warm  and  enlighten  the  world. 
The  greater  poets,  accordingly,  have  almost 
always  been  the  warmest  admirers,  and  the 
most  liberal  patrons  of  poetry.  The  smaller 
only — your  Laureates  and  Ballad-mongers — 
are  envious  and  irritable — jealous  even  of  the 
dead,  and  less  desirous  of  the  praise  of  others 
than  avaricious  of  their  own. 

But  though  a  poet  is  thus  likely  to  be  a 
gentler  critic  of  poetry  than  another,  and, 
by  having  a  finfix.jense  of  its  beauties,  to  be 
better  qualified  for  theTnost  pleasing  and  im- 
portant part  of  his  office,  there  is  another 
requisitfe  in  which  we  should  be  afraid  he 


CAMPBELL'S  SPECIMENS  OF  THE  P0ET3. 


28T 


would  generally  be  found  wanting,  especially 
in  a  work  of  the  large  and  comprehensive 
nature  of  that  now  before  us — we  mean,  in 
absolute  fairness  and  impartiality  towards  the 
different  t-chools  or  styles  of  poetry  which  he 
may  have  occasion  to  estimate  and  compare. 
Even  the  most  common  and  miscellaneous 
reader  has  a  peculiar  taste  in  this  way — and 
has  generally  erected'Yor  himself  some  ob- 
scure but  exclusive  standard  of  excellence, 
by  which  he  measures  the  pretensions  of  all 
that  come  under  his  view.  One  man  admires 
witty  and  satirical  poetry,  and  sees  no  beauty 
in  rural  imagery  or  picturesque  description ; 
while  another  doats  on  Idyls  and  Pastorals, 
and  will  not  allow  the  affairs  of  polite  life  to 
form  a  subject  for  verse.  One  is  for  simplic- 
ity and  pathos ;  another  for  magnificence  and 
splendour.  One  is  devoted  to  the  Muse  of 
terror ;  another  to  that  of  love.  Some  are  all 
for  blood  and  battles,  and  some  for  music  and 
moonlight — some  for  emphatic  sentiments, 
and  some  for  melodious  verses.  Even  those 
\^hose  taste  is  the  least  exclusive,  have  a  lean- 
ing to  one  class  of  composition  rather  than  to 
another ;  and  overrate  the  beauties  which  fall 
m  with  their  ow^n  propensities  and  associations 
-while  they  are  palpably  unjust  to  those 
which  wear  a  different  complexion,  or  spring 
from  a  different  race. 

But.  if  it  be  difficult  or  almost  impossible 
to  meet  with  an  impartial  judge  for  the  whole 
great   family  of  genius,  even   among  those 

auiet  and  studious  readers  who  ought  to  find 
elight  even  in  their  variety,  it  is  obvious  that 
this  bias  and  obliquity  of  judgment  must  be 
still  more  incident  to  one  who.  by  being  him- 
self a  Poet,  must  not  only  prefer  one  school 
of  poetry  to  all  others,  but  must  actually  he- 
long  to  it,  and  be  disposed,  as  a  pupil,  or  still 
more  as  a  Master,  to  advance  its  pretensions 
above  those  of  all  its  competitors.  Like  the 
votaries  or  leaders  of  other  sects,  successful 
poets  have  been  but  too  apt  to  establish  ex- 
clusive and  arbitrary  creeds;  and  to  invent 
articles  of  faith,  the  slightest  violation  of 
which  effaces  the  merit  of  all  other  virtues. 
Addicting  themselves,  as  they  are  apt  to  do, 
to  the  exclusive  cultivation  of  that  style  to 
which  the  bent  of  their  own  genius  naturally 
inclines  them,  theylc^k  e"^erywhere  for  those 
beauties  of  which  it  i6  peculiarly  susceptible, 
and  are  disgusted  if  they  cannot  be  found. — ^ 
Like  discoverers  in  science,  or  improvers  in 
art.  they  see  nothing  in  the  whole  system  but 
their  own  discoveries  and  improvements,  and 
undervalue  every  thing  that  cannot  be  con- 
nected with  their  own  studies  and  glory.  As 
the  Chinese  mapmakers  allot  all  the  lodgeable 
area  of  the  earth  to  their  own  nation,  and 
thrust  the  other  countries  of  the  world  into 
little  outskirts  and  by-corners — so  poets  are 
disposed  to  represent  their  own  little  field  of 
exertion  as  occupying  all  the  sunny  part  of 
Parnassus,  and  to  exhibit  the  adjoining  regions 
under  terrible  shadows  and  most  unmerciful 
foreshortenings.* 

With  those  impressions  of  the  almost  in- 
evitable partiality  of  poetical  judgments  in 
general,  we  could  not  recollect  that  Mr.  Camp- 


bell was  himself  a  Master  in  a  distinct  tsenoou 
of  poetry,  and  distinguished  by  a  very  pecu- 
liar and  fastidious  style  of  composition,  with- 
out being  apprehensive  that  the  eff'ects  of  this 
bias  would  be  apparent  in  his  work;  and  that, 
with  all  his  talent  and  discernment,  he  would 
now  and  then  be  guilty  of  great,  though  un 
intended  injustice,  to  some  of  those  whose 
manner  was  most  opposite  to  his  own.  We 
are  happy  to  say  that  those  apprehensions 
have  proved  entirely  groundless ;  and  that 
nothing  in  the  volumes  before  us  is  more  ad- 
mirable, or  to  us  more  surprising,  than  the 
perfect  candour  and  undeviating  fairness  Avith 
which  the  learned  author  passes  judgment  on 
all  the  diff'erent  authors  who  come  before  him  j 
— the  quick  and  true  perception  he  has  of  the 
most  opposite  and  almost  contradictory  beau- 
ties— the  good-natured  and  liberal  allowance 
he  makes  for  the  disadvantages  of  each  age 
and  individual — and  the  "temperance  and 
brevity  and  firmness  with  which  he  reproves 
the  excessive  severity  of  critics  less  entitled 
to  be  severe.  No  one  indeed,  we  will  venture 
to  affirm,  ever  placed  himself  in  the  seat  of 
judgment  with  more  of  a  judicial  temper — 
though,  to  obviate  invidious  comparisons,  we 
must  beg  leave  just  to  add,  that  being  called 
on  to  pass  judgment  only  on  the  dead,  whose 
faults  were  no  longer  corrigible,  or  had  already 
been  expiated  by  appropriate  pains,  his  tem- 
per was  less  tried,  and  his  severities  less  pro- 
voked, than  in  the  case  of  living  offenders, — 
and  that  the  very  number  and  variety  of  the 
errors  that  called  for  animadversion,  in  the 
course  of  his  wide  survey,  must  have  made 
each  particular  case  appear  comparatively 
insignificant,  and  mitigated  the  sentence  of 
individual  condemnation. 

It  is  to  this  last  circumstance,  of  the  large 
and  comprehensive  range  which  he  was  ob- 
liged to  take,  and  the  great  extent  and  variety 
of  the  society  in  which  he  was  compelled  to 
mingle,  that  we  are  inclined  to  ascribe,  not 
only  the  general  mildness  and  indulgence  of 
his  judgments,  but  his  happy  emancipation 
from  those  narrow  and  limitary  maxims  by 
which  we  have  already  said  that  poets  are  so 
peculiarly  apt  to  be  entangled.  As  a  large 
and  familiar  intercourse  with  men  of  different 
habits  and  dispositions  never  fails,  in  charac- 
ters of  any  force  or  generosity,  to  dispel  the 
prejudices  with  which  we  at  first  regard  them, 
and  to  lower  our  estimate  of  our  own  superior 
happiness  and  wisdom,  so,  a  very  ample  and 
extensive  course  of  reading  in  any  depart- 
ment of  letters,  tends  nali.  rally  to  enlarge  ou* 
narrov/  principles  of  judgment;  and  not  only 
to  cast  down  the  idols  before  which  Ave  had 
formerly  abased  ourselves,  but  to  disclose  to 
us  the  might  and  the  majesty  of  much  that 
we  had  mistaken  and  contemned. 

In  this  point  of  view,  we  think  such  a  work 
as  is  now  before  us,  likely  to  be  of  great  use 
to  ordinary  readers  of  poetry — not  only  as 
unlocking  to  them  innumerable  new  spring-s 
of  enjoyment  and  admiration,  but  as  having 
a  tendency  to  correct  and  liberalize  theii 
judgments  of  their  old  favourites,  and  to 
strengthen  and  enliven  all  those  faculties  bjf 


288 


POETRY. 


which  ihey  derive  pleasure  from  such  studies. 
•Vor  would  the  benelit,  if  it  once  extended  so 
'  far,  by  any  means  stop  there.  The  character 
of  our  poetry  depends  not  a  little  on  the  taste 
»f  our  poetical  readers ; — and  though  some 
bards  have  always  been  before  their  age,  and 
•some  behind  it,  the  greater  part  must  be 
oretty  nearly  on  its  level.  Present  popularity, 
whatever  disappointed  writers  may  say,  is, 
after  all,  the  only  safe  passage  of  future  glory; 
— and  it  is  really  as  unlikely  that  good  poetry 
should  be  produced  in  any  quantity  where  it 
is  not  relished,  as  that  cloth  should  be  manu- 
factured and  thrust  into  the  market,  of  a 
pattern  and  fashion  for  which  there  was  no 
demand.  A  shallow  and  uninstr acted  taste 
is  indeed  the  most  flexible  and  inconstant — 
and  is  tossed  about  by  every  breath  of  doc- 
trine., and  every  wind  of  authority ;  so  as 
leither  to  derive  any  permanent  delight  from 
the  same  works,  nor  to  assure  any  permanent 
fame  to  their  authors ; — while  a  taste  that  is 
formed  upon  a  wide  and  large  survey  of  e^i- 
during  models,  not  only  affords  a  secure  basis 
for  all  future  judgments,  but  must  compel, 
whenever  it  is  general  in  any  society,  a  salu- 
tary conformity  to  its  great  principles  from  all 
who  depend  on  its  suffrage. — To  accomplish 
such  an  Qbject,  the  general  study  of  a  work 
like  this  certainly  is  not  enough: — But  it 
would  form  an  excellent  preparation  for  more 
extensive  reading — and  would,  of  itself,  do 
much  to  open  the  eyes  of  many  self-satisfied 
persons,  and  startle  them  into  a  sense  of  their 
own  ignorance,  and  the  poverty  and  paltriness 
of  many  of  their  ephemeral  favourites.  Con- 
sidered as  a  nation,  we  are  yet  but  very  im- 
perfectly recovered  from  that  strange  and 
ungrateful  forgetfulness  of  our  older  poets, 
which  began  with  the  Restoration,  and  con- 
tinued almost  unbroken  till  after  the  middle 
of  the  last  century. — Nor  can  the  works  which 
have  chiefly  tended  to  dispel  it  among  the 
instructed  orders,  be  ranked  in  a  higher  class 
than  this  which  is  before  us. — Percy's  Relics 
of  Antient  Poetry  produced,  we  believe,  the 
first  revulsion — and  this  was  followed  up  by 
Wharton's  History  of  Poetry. — Johnson's  Lives 
of  the  Poets  did  something ; — and  the  great 
effect  has  been  produced  by  the  modern  com- 
mentators on  Shakespeare.  Those  various 
works  recommended  the  older  writers,  and 
reinstated  them  in  some  of  their  honours ; — 
but  still  the  works  themselves  were  not  placed 
before  the  eyes  of  ordinary  readers.  This 
was  done  in  part,  perhaps  overdone,  by  the 
entire  republication  of  some  of  our  older  dra- 
matists— and  with  better  effect  by  Mr.  Ellis's 
Specimens.  If  the  former,  however,  was 
rather  too  copious  a  supply  for  the  returning 
appetite  of  the  public,  the  latter  was  too 
scanty  ;  and  both  were  confined  to  too  narrow 
a  period  of  time  to  enable  the  reader  to  enjoy 
the  variety,  and  to  draw  the  comparisons,  by 
which  he  rnight  be  most  pleased  and  instruct- 
ed.— Southey's  continuation  of  Ellis  did  harm 
•ather  than  good ;  for  though  there  is  some 
cleverness  in  the  introduction,  the  work  itself 
8  executed  in  a  crude,  petulant,  and  super- 
Ickl  manner,  —and  bears  all   the  marks  of 


being  a  mere  bookseller's  speculation — An 
we  have  heard  nothing  of  it  from  the  time  of 
its  first  publication,  we  suppose  it  has  had  the 
success  it  deserved. 

There  was  great  room  therefore, — and,  we 
will  even  say,  great  occaidon,  for  such  a  work 
as  this  of  Mr.  Campbell's,  in  the  present  state 
of  our  literature  ; — and  we  are  persuaded,  that 
all  who  care  about  poetry,  and  are  not  already 
acquainted  with  the  authors  of  wdiom  it  treats 
— and  even  all  who  are — cannot  possibly  do 
better  than  read  it  fairly  through,  from  the 
first  page  to  the  last — without  skipping  the 
extracts  which  they  know,  or  those  which  may 
not  at  first  seem  very  attractive.  There  is  no 
reader,  we  will  venture  to  say,  who  will  rise 
from  the  penisal  even  of  these  partial  and 
scanty  fragments,  without  a  fresh  and  deep 
sense  of  the  matchless  richness,  variety,  and 
originality  of  English  Poetry :  while  the  jux- 
taposition and  arrangement  of  the  pieces  not 
only  gives  room  for  endless  comparisons  and 
contrasts, — but  displays,  as  it  were  in  minia- 
ture, the  whole  of  its  wonderful  progress ;  and 
sets  before  us,  as  in  a  great  gallery  of  pictures, 
the  whole  course  and  history  of  the  art,  from 
its  first  rude  and  infant  beginnings,  to  its 
maturity,  and  perhaps  its  decline.  While  it 
has  all  the  grandeur  and  instraction  that  be- 
longs to  such  a  gallery,  it  is  free  from  the 
perplexity  and  distraction  which  is  generally 
complained  of  in  such  exhibitions  3  as  each 
piece  is  necessarily  considered  separately  and 
in  succession,  and  the  mind  cannot  wander, 
like  the  eye,  through  the  splendid  labyrinth 
in  which  it  is  enchanted.  Nothing,  we  think, 
can  be  more  delightful,  than  thus  at  our  ease 
to  trace,  through  all  its  periods,  vicissitudes, 
and  aspects,  the  progress  of  this  highest  and 
most  intellectual  of  all  the  arts — coloured  as 
it  is  in  every  age  by  the  manners  of  the  "times 
which  produce  it.  and  embodying,  besides 
those  flights  of  fancy  and  touches  of  pathos 
that  constitute  its  more  immediate  essence,  j' 
much  of  the  wisdom  and  much  of  the  morality  I 
that  w^as  then  current  among  the  people  ;  and  » 
thus  presenting  us,  not  merely  w4th  almost 
all  that  genius  has  ever  created  for  delight, 
but  with  a  brief  chronicle  and  abstract  of  all 
that  was  once  interesting  to  the  generations 
which  have  gone  by. 

The  steps  of  the  progress  of  such  an  art, 
and  the  circumstances  by  which  they  have 
been  effected,  would  form,  of  themselves,  a 
large  and  interesting  theme  of  speculation. 
Conversant  as  poetry  necessarily  is  with  all 
that  touches  human  feelings,  concerns,  and 
occupations,  its  character  must  have  been  im- 
pressed by  every  change  in  the  moral  and 
political  condition  of  society,  and  must  even 
retain  the  lighter  traces  of  their  successive 
follies,  amusements,  and  pursuits;  while,  in 
the  course  of  ages,  the  very  multiplication 
and  increasing  business  of  the  people  have 
forced  it  through  a  progress  not  wholly  dis- 
similar to  that  which  the  same  causes  have 
produced  on  the  agriculture  and  landscape  of 
the  country ; — where  at  first  we  had  rude  and 
dreary  wastes,  thinly  sprinkled  with  sunny 
spots  of  simpL?  cultivation — then  vast  forestf 


CAMPBELL'S  SPECIMENS  OF  THE  POETS. 


281 


and  chases,  stretcliing  far  around  feudal  cas- 
tles and  pinnacled  abbeys — then  woodland 
hamlets,  and  goodly  mansions,  and  gorgeous 
gardens,  and  parks  rich  with  waste  fertility, 
and  lax  habitations — and,  finally,  crowded 
cities,  and  road-side  villas,  and  brick-walled 
gardens,  and  turnip-fields,  and  canals,  and 
artificial  ruins,  and  ornamented  farms,  and 
cottages  trellised  over  with  exotic  plants  ! 

But,  to  escape  from  those  metaphors  and 
enigmas  to  the  business  before  us,  we  must 
remark,  that  in  order  to  give  any  tolerable 
idea  of  the  poetry  which  was  thus  to  be  rep- 
resented, it  was  necessary  that  the  specimens 
to  be  exhibited  should  be  of  some  compass 
and  extent.  We  have  heard  their  length 
complained  of — but  we  think  with  very  little 
justice.  Considering  the  extent  of  the  works 
from  which  they  are  taken,  they  are  almost 
all  but  inconsiderable  fragments ;  and  where 
the  original  was  of  an  Epic  or  Tragic  charac- 
ter, greater  abridgment  would  have  been 
mere  mutilation, — and  would  have  given  only 
such  a  specimen  of  the  whole,  as  a  brick 
might  do  of  a  building.  From  the  earlier  and 
less  familiar  authors,  we  rather  think  the  cita- 
tions are  too  short ;  and,  even  from  those  that 
are  more  generally  known,  we  do  not  well 
see  how  they  could  have  been  shorter,  with 
any  safety  to  the  professed  object,  and  only 
use,  of  the  publication.  That  object,  we  con- 
ceive, was  to  give  specimens  of  English 
poetry,  from  its  earliest  to  its  latest  periods ; 
and  it  would  be  a  strange  rule  to  have  fol- 
lowed, in  making  such  a  selection,  to  leave 
out  the  best  and  most  popular.  The  work 
certainly  neither  is,  nor  professes  to  be,  a  col- 
lection from  obscure  and  forgotten  authors — 
but  specimens  of  all  who  have  merit  enough 
to  deserve  our  remembrance ; — and  if  some 
few  have  such  redundant  merit  or  good  for- 
tune as  to  be  in  the  hands  and  the  minds  of 
all  the  world,  it  was  necessary,  even  then,  to 
give  some  extracts  from  them, — that  the 
series  might  be  complete,  and  that  there 
might  be  room  for  comparison  with  others, 
and  for  tracing  the  progress  of  the  art  in  the 
strains  of  its  best  models  and  their  various 
imitators. 

In  one  instance^  and  one  only,  Mr.  C.  has 
declined  doing  this  duty ;  and  left  the  place 
of  one  great  luminary  to  be  filled  up  by  recol- 
lections that  he  must  have  presumed  would 
be  universal.  He  has  given  but  two  pages  to 
Shakespeare — and  not  a  line  from  any  of  his 
plays !  Perhaps  he  has  done  rightly.  A 
knowledge  of  Shakespeare  may  be  safely  pre- 
sumed, we  believe,  in  every  reader ;  and,  if 
he  had  begun  to  cite  his  Beauties,  there  is  no 
saying  where  he  would  have  ended.  A  little 
book,  calling  itself  Beauties  of  Shakespeare, 
was  published  some  years  ago,  and  shown,  as 
we  have  heard,  to  Mr.  Sheridan.  He  turned 
over  the  leaves  for  some  time  with  apparent 
satisfaction,  and  then  said,  "This  is  very 
well;  but  where  are  the  other  seven  volumes?'' 
There  is  no  other  author,  however,  whose 
fame  is  such  as  to  justify  a  similar  ellipsis, 
or  whose  works  can  be  thus  elegantly  under- 
stood, in  a  rollpction  of  good  poetry.  Mr.  C. 
19 


has  complied  perhaps  too  far  with  the  pojmlai 
prejudice,  in  confining  his  citations  from  Mil- 
ton to  the  Comus  and  the  smaller  pieces,  and 
leaving  the  Paradise  Lost  to  the  memory  of 
his  readers.  But  though  we  do  not  think  the 
extracts  by  any  means  t«o  long  on  the  whole, 
we  are  certainly  of  opinion  that  some  are  to? 
long  and  others  too  short;  and  that  many, 
especially  in  the  latter  case^  are  not  very 
well  selected.  There  is  far  too  little  of  Mar- 
lowe for  instance,  and  too  much  of  Shirley, 
and  even  of  Massinger.  We  should  have 
liked  more  of  Warner,  Fairfax,  Phineas 
Fletcher,  and  Henry  More — all  poets  of  no 
scanty  dimensions — and  could  have  spared 
several  pages  of  Butler,  Mason,  Whitehead, 
Roberts,  Meston,  and  Amhurst  Selden.  We 
do  not  think  the  specimens  from  Burns  very 
well  selected ;  nor  those  from  Prior — nor  can 
we  see  any  good  reason  for  quoting  the  whole 
Castle  of  Indolence,  and  nothing  else,  for 
Thomson — and  the  whole  Rape  of  the  Lock, 
and  nothing  else,  for  Pope. 

Next  to  the  impression  of  the  vast  fertility, 
compass,  and  beauty  of  our  English  poetry, 
the  reflection  that  recurs  most  frequently  and 
forcibly  to  us,  in  accompanying  Mr.  C.  througi 
his  wide  survey,  is  that  of  the  perishable  na 
ture  of  poetical  fame,  and  the  speedy  oblivior, 
that  has  overtaken  so  many  of  the. promisee 
heirs  of  immortality  !  Of  near  two  hundred 
and  fifty  authors,  whose  works  are  cited  ii» 
these  volumes,  by  far  the  greater  part  of  whom 
were  celebrated  in  their  generation,  there  are 
not  thirty  who  now  enjoy  any  thing  that  can 
be  called  popularity — whose  works  are  to  be 
found  in  the  hands  of  ordinary  readers — in 
the  shops  of  ordinary  booksellers — or  in  the 
press  for  republication.  About  fifty  more  may 
be  tolerably  familiar  to  men  of  taste  or  litera- 
ture : — the  rest  slumber  on  the  shelves  of  col- 
lectors, and  are  partially  known  to  a  few  anti- 
quaries and  scholars.  Now,  the  fame  of  a 
Poet  is  popular,  or  nothing.  He  does  not  ad- 
dress himself,  like  the  man  of  science,  to  the 
learned,  or  those  who  desire  to  learn,  but  to 
all  mankind ;  and  his  purpose  being  to  delight 
and  be  praised,  necessarily  extends  to  all  who 
can  receive  pleasure,  or  join  in  applause.  It 
is  strange,  then,  and  somewhat  humiliating, 
to  see  how  great  a  proportion  of  those  who 
had  once  fought  their  way  successfully  to  dis- 
tinction, and  surmounted  the  rivalry  of  con- 
temporary envy,  have  again  sunk  into  neglect. 
We  have  great  deference  for  public  opinion  ; 
and  readily  admit,  that  nothing  but  what  is 
good  can  be  permanently  popular.  But  though 
its  vivat  be  generally  oracular,  its  per  eat  ap- 
pears to  us  to  be  often  sufficiently  capricious; 
and  while  we  would  foster  all  that  it  bids  to 
live,  we  would  willingly  revive  much  that  it 
leaves  to  die.  The  very  multiplication  of 
works  of  amusement,  necessarily  withdraws 
many  from  notice  that  deserve  to  be  kept  in 
remembrance;  for  we  should  soon  find  it 
labour,  and  not  amusement,  if  we  w^ere  obliged 
to  make  use  of  them  .all,  or  even  to  take  all 
upon  trial.  As  the  materials  of  enjoyment  and 
instruction  accumulate  around  us,  more  and 
more,  we  fear,  must  thus  be  daily  rejected,  and 


990 


POETRY. 


left  to  ^Taste :  For  while  our  tasks  lengthen, 
our  lives  rennain  as  short  as  ever;  and  the 
calls  on  our  time  multiply,  while  our  time 
itself  is  flying  swiftly  away.  This  superfluity 
and  abundance  of  our  treasures,  therefore, 
necessarily  renders  rfiuch  of  them  worthless ; 
and  the  veriest  accidents  may,  in  such  a  case, 
determine  what  part  shall  be  preserved,  and 
what  thrown  away  and  neglected.  When  an 
array  is  decimated,  the  very  bravest  may  fall- 
and  many  poets,  worthy  of  eternal  remem- 
brance, have  probably  been  forgotten,  merely 
because  there  was  not  room  in  our  memories 
for  all. 

By  such  a  work  as  the  present,  however, 
this  injustice  of  fortune  may  be  partly  re- 
dressed— some  small  fragments  of  an  immor- 
tal strain  may  still  be  rescued  from  oblivion — 
and  a  wreck  of  a  name  preserved,  w^hich  time 
appeared  to  have  swallowed  up  for  ever. 
There  is  something  pious  we  think,  and  en- 
dearing, in  the  office  of  thus  g-athering  up  the 
ashes  of  renown  that  has  passed  away;  or 
rather,  of  calling  back  the  departed  life  for 
a  transitory  glow,  and  enabling  those  great 
spirits  which  seemed  to  be  laid  for  ever,  still 
to  draw  a  tear  of  pity,  or  a  throb  of  admira- 
tion, from  the  hearts  of  a  forgetful  generation. 
The  body  of  their  poetry,  probably,  can  never 
be  revived ;  but  some  sparks  of  its  spirit  may 
yet  be  preserved,  in  a  narrower  and  feebler 
rrame. 

When  we  look  back  upon  the  havoc  which 
two  hundred  years  have  thus  made  in  the 
ranks  of  our  immortals  —  and,  above  all, 
when  we  refer  their  rapid  disappearance  to 
the  quick  succession  of  new  competitors,  and 
the  accumulation  of  more  good  works  than 
there  is  time  to  peruse,  we  cannot  help  being 
dismayed  at  the  prospect  which  lies  before 
the  writers  of  the  present  day.  There  never 
was  an  a^^:e  so  prolific  of  popular  poetry  as 
that  in  which  we  now  live ; — and  as  wealth, 
population,  and  education  extend,  the  produce 
18  likely  to  go  on  increasing.  The  last  ten 
years  have  produced,  we  think,  an  annual 
supply  of  about  ten  thousand  lines  of  good 
staple  poetry — poetry  from  the  very  first 
hands  that  we  can  boast  of — that  runs  quickly 
to  three  or  four  large  editions — and  is  as  likely 
to  be  permanent  as  present  success  can  make 
it.  Now,  if  this  goes  on  for  a  hundred  years 
longer,  what  a  task  will  await  the  poetical 
readers  of  1919  !  Our  living  poets  will  then 
be  nearly  as  old  as  Pope  and  Swift  are  at  pres- 
ent— but  there  will  stand  between  them  and 
that  generation  nearly  ten  times  as  much  fresh 
and  fashionable  poetry  as  is  now  interposed 
between  us  and  those  writers : — and  if  Scott 
and  Byron  and  Campbell  have  already  cast 
Pope  and  Swift  a  good  deal  into  the  shade,  in 
what  form  and  dimensions  are  they  themselves 
likely  to  be  presented  to  the  eyes  of  our  great 
grandchildren'?  The  thought,  we  own,  is  a 
little  appalling ; — and  we  confess  we  see  noth- 
ing better  to  imagine  than  that  they  may  find 
a  comfortable  place  in  some  new  collection 
of  specimens — the  centenary  of  the  present 
publication.  There — if  the  future  editor  have 
any  thing  like  the  indulgence  and  veneration 


for  antiquity  of  his  predecessor — there  shall 
posterity  still  hang  with  rapture  on  the  half  of 
Campbell — and  the  fourth  part  of  Byron — and 
the  sixth  of  Scott — and  the  scattered  tytheg 
of  Crabbe — and  the  three  per  cent,  of  Souther, 
— while  some  good-natured  critic  shall  sit  in 
our  mouldering  chair,  and  more  than  half  pre- 
fer them  to  those  by  whom  they  have  been 
superseded  ! — It  is  an  hyperbole  of  good  na- 
ture, however,  we  fear,  to  ascribe  to  them  &ven 
those  dimensions  at  the  end  of  a  century.  Af- 
ter a  lapse  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  years,  we 
are  afraid  to  think  of  the  space  they  may  have 
shrunk  into.  We  have  no  Shakespeare,  alas! 
to  shed  a  never-setting  light  on  his  contem- 
poraries : — and  if  we  continue  to  write  and 
rhyme  at  the  present  rate  for  two  hundred 
years  longer,  there  must  be  some  new  art  of 
short-hand  reading  invented — or  ail  reading 
will  be  given  up  in  despair.  We  need  not 
distress  ourselves,  however,  with  these  afliic- 
tions  of  our  posterity; — and  it  is  quite  time 
that  the  reader  should  know  a  little  of  the 
work  before  us. 

The  Essay  on  English  Poetry  is  very  t;lev- 
erly,  and,  in  many  places,  very  finely  written 
— but  it  is  not  equal,  and  it  is  not  complete. 
There  is  a  good  deal  of  the  poet's  wayward- 
ness even  in  Mr.  C.'s  prose.  His  historical 
Muse  is  as  disdainful  of  drudgery  and  plain 
work  as  any  of  her  more  tuneful  sisters ;  — 
and  so  we  have  things  begun  and  abandoned 
— passages  of  great  eloquence  and  beauty 
followed  up  by  others  not  a  little  careless  and 
disorderly — a  large  outline  rather  meagerly 
filled  up,  but  with  some  morsels  of  exquisite 
finishing  scattered  iri-egiilarly  up  and  down 
its  expanse — little  fragments  of  detail  and 
controversy — and  abrupt  and  impatient  con- 
clusions. Altogether,  however,  the  work  is 
very  spirited ;  and  abounds  with  the  indica- 
tions of  a  powerful  and  fine  understanding, 
and  of  a  delicate  and  original  taste.  We  can- 
not now  afford  to  give  any  abstract  of  the  in- 
formation it  contains — but  shall  make  a  few 
extracts,  to  show  the  tone  and  manner  of  the 
composition. 

The  following  sketch  of  Chaucer,  for  in- 
stance, and  of  the  long  interregnum  that 
succeeded  his  demise,  is  given  v/ith  great 
grace  and  spirit. 

"  His  first,  and  long-continued  predilection,  m'ss 
attracted  by  the  new  and  allegorical  style  of  ro- 
mance, which  had  sprung  up  in  France,  in  the 
thirteenth  century,  under  William  de  Lorris.  We 
find  him,  accordingly,  during  a  great  part  of  his 
poetical  career,  engaged  among  the  dreams,  em- 
blems, flower-worshippings,  and  amatory  parlia- 
ments, of  that  visionary  school.  This,  we  may 
say,  was  a  gymnasium  of  rather  too  light  and  play- 
ful exercise  for  so  strong  a  genius ;  and  it  must  be 
owned,  that  his  allegorical  poetry  is  often  puerile 
and  prolix.  Yet,  even  in  this  walk  of  fiction,  we 
never  entirely  lose  sight  of  that  peculiar  grace  and  • : 
gaiety,  which  distinguish  the  Muse  of  Chaucer; 
and  no  one  who  remembers  his  productions  of  the 
House  of  Fame,  and  the  Flower  and  the  Leaf,  will 
reeret  that  he  sported,  for  a  season,  in  the  field  oi 
allegory.  Even  his  pieces  of  this  description,  the 
most  fantastic  in  design,  and  tedious  in  execution, 
are  generally  interspersed  with  fresh  and  joyous 
descriptions  of  external  nature.  In  this  new  species 
of  romance,  we  perceive  the  vouthful  Muse  of  the 


CAMPBELL'S  SPECIMENS  OF  THE  POETS. 


291 


language,  in  love  with  mystical  meanings  and  forms 
A'  fancy,  more  remote,  if  possible  from  reality, 
ihan  those  of  the  chivalrous  fable  itself;  and  we 
sould,  sometimes,  wish  her  back  from  her  em- 
blematic castles,  to  the  more  solid  ones  of  the  elder 
fable  ;  but  still  she  moves  in  pursuit  of  those  shad- 
ows with  an  impulse  of  novelty,  and  an  exuber- 
ance of  spirit,  that  is  not  wholly  without  its  attrac- 
tion and  delight.  Chaucer  was,  afterwards,  happily 
drawn  to  the  more  natural  style  of  Boccaccio  ;  and 
from  him  he  derived  the  hint  of  a  subject,  in  which, 
besides  his  own  original  portraits  of  contemporary 
life,  he  could  introduce  stories  of  every  description, 
from    the   most  heroic   to  the   most   famihar." — 

pp.  71—73. 
"  Warton,  with  great  beauty  and  justice,  com- 
pares the  appearance  of  Chaucer  in  our  language, 
to  a  premature  day  in  an  English  spring;  after 
which  the  gloom  of  winter  returns,  and  the  buds 
and  blossoms,  which  have  been  called  forth  by  a 
transient  sunshine,  are  nipped  by  frosts,  and  scat- 
tered by  storms.  The  causes  of  the  relapse  of  our 
poetry,  after  Chaucer,  seem  but  too  apparent  in  the 
annals  of  English  history  ;  which,  during  five  reigns 
of  the  fifteenth  century,  continue  to  display  but  a 
tissue  of  conspiracies,  proscriptions,  and  bloodshed. 
Inferior  even  to  France  in  literary  progress,  Eng- 
land displays  in  the  fifteenth  century  a  still  more 
mortifying  contrast  with  Italy.  Italy,  too,  had  her 
religious  schisms  and  public  distractions ;  but  her 
arts  and  literature  had  always  a  sheltering  ptace. 
They  were  even  cherished  by  the  rivalship  of  inde- 
pendent communities,  and  received  encouragement 
from  the  opposite  sources  of  commercial  and  eccle- 
siastical wealth.  But  we  had  no  Nicholas  the 
Fifth,  nor  House  of  Medicis.  In  England,  the  evils 
of  civil  war  agitated  society  as  one  mass.  There 
was  no  refuge  from  them — no  enclosure  to  fence 
in  the  field  of  improvement — no  mound  to  stem  the 
torrent  of  public  troubles.  Before  the  death  of 
Henry  VI.  it  is  said  that  one  half  of  the  nobility  and 
gentry  in  the  kingdom  had  perished  in  the  field,  or 
on  the  scaffold  !" 

The  golden  age  of  Elizabeth  has  often  been 
extolled,  and  the  genius  of  Spenser  delineated, 
with  feeling  and  eloquence.  But  all  that  has 
been  written,  leaves  the  following  striking 
passages  as  original  as  they  are  eloquent. 

"In  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  the  English  mind 
put  forth  its  energies  in  every  direction,  exalted  by 
a  purer  religion,  and  enlarged  by  new  views  of  truth. 
This  was  an  age  of  loyalty,  adventure,  and  gener- 
ous emulation.  The  chivalrous  character  was  soft- 
ened by  intellectual  pursuits,  while  the  genius  of 
chivalry  itself  still  lingered,  as  if  unwilling  to  de- 
part ;  and  paid  his  last  homage  to  a  Warlike  and 
Female  reign.  A  degree  of  romantic  fancy  re- 
mained, too,  in  the  manners  and  superstitions  of 
the  people  ;  and  Allegory  might  be  said  to  parade 
the  streets  in  their  public  pageants  and  festivities. 
Quaint  and  pedantic  as  those  allegorical  exhibitions 
might  often  be,  they  were  nevertheless  more  ex- 
^presBive  of  erudition,  ingenuity,  and  moral  meaning, 
'than  they  had  been  in  former  times.  The  philoso- 
phy of  the  highest  minds,  on  the  other  hand,  still 
partook  of  a  visionary  character.  A  poetical  spirit 
mfused  itself  into  the  practical  heroism  of  the  age ; 
and  some  of  the  worthies  of  that  period  seem  less 
like  ordinary  men,  than  like  beings  called  forth  out 
of  fiction,  and  arrayed  in  the  brightness  of  her 
dreams.  They  had  '  high  thoughts  seated  in  hearts 
of  courtesy.'  The  life  of  Sir  Philip  Sydney  was 
poetry  put  into  action. 

"  The  result  of  activity  and  curiosity  in  the  public 
mind  was  to  complete  the  revival  of  classical  litera- 
ture, to  increase  the  importation  of  foreign  books, 
and  to  multiply  translations,  from  which  poetry  sup- 
plied berself  with  abundant  subjects  and  materials, 
and  in  the  use  of  which  she  showed  a  frank  and 
fearless  energy,  that  criticism  and  satire  had  not 
?«t  acquired  power  to  overawe.    Romance  came 


back  to  us  from  the  southern  la.sguages,  clothed  in 
new  luxury  by  the  warm  imagination  of  the  south. 
The  growth  of  poetry  under  such  circumstances 
might  indeed  be  expected  to  be  as  irregular  as  it  was 
profuse.  The  field  was  open  to  daring  absurdity, 
as  well  as  to  genuine  inspiration;  and  accordingly 
there  is  no  period  in  which  the  extremes  of  good  and 
bad  writing  are  so  abundant." — pp.  120 — 122. 

"The  mistaken  opinion  that  Ben  Jonson  censured 
the  antiquuy  of  the  diction  in  the  '  Fairy  Queen,'  haa 
been  corrected  by  Mr.  Malone,  who  pronounces  it 
to  be  exactly  that  of  his  contemporaries.  His  au- 
thority is  weighty;  still,  however,  without  reviving 
the  exploded  error  respecting  Jonson's  censure,  one 
might  imagine  the  difference  of  Spenser's  style  from 
that  of  Shakespeare's,  whom  he  so  shortly  pre- 
ceded, to  indicate  that  his  Gothic  subject  and  story 
made  him  lean  towards  words  of  the  elder  time. 
At  all  events,  much  of  his  expression  is  now  become 
antiquated ;  though  it  is  beautiful  in  its  antiquity, 
and,  like  the  moss  and  ivy  on  some  majestic  build- 
ing, covers  the  fabric  of  his  language  wiih  romantic 
and  venerable  associations. 

"His  command  of  imagery  is  wide,  easy,  and 
luxuriant.  He  threw  the  soul  of  harmony  into  our 
verse,  and  made  it  more  warmly,  tenderly,  and 
magnificently  descriptive  than  it  ever  was  before, 
or,  with  a  few  exceptions,  than  it  has  ever  been 
since.  It  must  certainly  be  owned,  that  in  descrip- 
tion he  exhibits  nothing  of  the  brief  strokes  and 
robust  power  which  characterize  the  very  greatest 
poets :  But  we  shall  nowhere  find  more  airy  and 
expansive  images  of  visionary  things,  a  sweeter  tone 
of  sentiment,  or  a  finer  flush  in  the  colours  of  lan- 
guage, than  in  this  Rubens  of  English  poetry.  His 
fancy  teems  exuberantly  in  minuteness  of  circum- 
stance ;  like  a  fertile  soil  sending  bloom  and  verdure 
through  the  utmost  extremities  of  the  foliage  which 
it  nourishes.  On  a  comprehensive  view  of  the 
whole  work,  we  certainly  miss  the  charm  of 
strength,  symmetry,  and  rapid  or  interesting  pro- 
gress ;  for  though  the  plan  which  the  poet  designed 
is  not  completed,  it  is  easy  to  see  that  no  additional 
cantos  could  have  rendered  it  less  perplexed.  But 
still  there  is  a  richness  in  his  materials,  even  where 
their  coherence  is  loose,  and  their  disposition  con- 
fused. The  clouds  of  his  allegory  may  seem  to 
spread  into  shapeless  forms,  but  they  are  still  the 
clouds  of  a  glowing  atmosphere.  Though  his  story 
grows  desultory,  the  sweetness  and  grace  of  his 
manner  still  abide  by  him.  We  always  rise  from 
perusing  him  with  melody  in  the  mind's  ear,  and 
with  pictures  of  romantic  beauty  impressed  on  the 
imagination." — pp.  124 — 127. 

In  his  account  of  the  great  dramatic  writers 

of  that  and  the  succeeding  reign,  Mr.  C.'s 
veneration  for  Shakespeare  has  made  him 
rather  unjust,  we  think,  to  the  fame  of  some 
of  his  precursors. — We  have  already  said  that 
he  passes  Marlowe  with  a  very  slight  notice, 
and  a  page  of  citation. — Greene,  certainly  a 
far  inferior  writer,  is  treated  with  the  same 
scanty  courtesy — and  there  is  no  account 
and  no  specimen  of  Kyd  or  Lodge,  though 
both  authors  of  very  considerable  genius  and 
originality. — With  the  writings  of  Peele,  we 
do  not  profess  to  be  acquainted — but  the  quo- 
tations given  from  him  in  the  Essay  should 
have  entitled  him  to  a  place  in  the  body  of 
the  work. — We  must  pass  over  what  he  says 
of  Shakespeare  and  Jonson,  though  full  of 
beauty  and  feeling. — To  the  latter,  indeed,  he 
is  rather  more  than  just. — The  account  of  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher  is  lively  and  discriminating. 

"  The  theatre  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  contains 
all  manner  of  good  and  evil.  The  respective  shares 
of  those  dramatic  partners,  in  the  works  collectively 
published  with  their  names,  have  been  stated  in  a 


292 


POETRY. 


different  part  of  these  volumes.  Fletcher's  share 
in  them  is  by  far  the  largest ;  and  he  is  chargeable 
with  the  greatest  number  of  faults,  although  at  the 
eame  time  his  genius  was  more  airy,  prolific,  and 
fanciful.  There  are  such  extremes  of  grossness 
and  magnificence  in  their  drama,  so  much  sweetness 
and  beauty  interspersed  with  views  of  nature  either 
falsely  romantic,  or  vulgar  beyond  reahty  ;  there  is 
so  much  to  animate  and  amuse  us,  and  yet  so  much 
that  w6  would  willingly  overlook,  that  I  cannot 
help  omparing  the  contrasted  impressions  which 
they  make  to  those  which  we  receive  from  visiting 
some  great  and  ancient  city,  picturesquely  but  irreg- 
ularly built,  glittering  vk^iih  spires  and  surrounded 
with  gardens,  but  exhibiting  in  many  quarters  the 
lanes  and  liovels  of  wretchedness,  'i'hey  have 
scenes  of  wealthy  and  high  life,  which  remind  us  of 
courts  and  palaces  frequented  by  elegant  females 
and  high-spirited  gallants,  whilst  their  noble  old 
martial  characters,  with  Caractacus  in  the  midst  of 
them,  may  inspire  us  with  the  same  sort  of  regard 
which  we  pay  to  the  rough-hewn  magnificence  of 
an  ancient  fortress. 

"  Unhappily,  the  same  simile,  without  being 
hunted  down,  will  apply  but  too  faithfully  to  the 
nuisances  of  the  drama.  Their  language  is  often 
basely  profligate.  Shakespeare's  and  Jonson's  in- 
delicacies are  but  casual  blots;  whilst  theirs  are 
sometimes  essential  colours  of  their  painting,  and 
extend,  in  one  or  two  instances,  to  entire  and  offen- 
sive scenes.  This  fault  has  deservedly  injured  their 
reputation  ;  and,  saving  a  very  slight  allowance  for 
the  fashion  and  taste  of  their  age,  admits  of  no  sort 
of  apology.  Their  drama,  nevertheless,  is  a  very 
wide  one,  and  '  has  ample  room  and  verge  enough^ 
to  permit  the  attention  to  wander  from  these, 
and  to  fix  on  more  inviting  peculiarities — as  on 
the  great  variety  of  their  fables  and  person- 
ages, their  spirited  dialogue,  their  wit,  pathos,  and 
humour.  Thickly  sown  as  their  blemishes  are, 
their  merits  will  bear  great  deductions,  and  still 
'•emain  great.  We  never  can  forget  such  beautiful 
characters  as  their  Cellide,  their  Aspatia  and  Bella- 
/io,  or  such  humorous  ones  as  their  La  Writ  and 
Cacafogo.  Awake  they  will  always  keep  us, 
whether  to  quarrel  or  to  be  pleased  with  them. 
Their  invention  is  fruitful ;  its  beings  are  on  the 
whole  an  active  and  sanguine  generation  ;  and  their 
scenes  are  crowded  to  fulness  with  the  warmth, 
agitation,  and  interest  of  actual  hfe." — pp.  210 — 213. 

Some  of  the  most  splendid  passages  in  the 
Essay  are  dedicated  to  the  fame  of  Milton — 
and  are  offerings  not  unworthy  of  the  shrine. 

"In  Milton,"  he  says,  "  there  may  be  traced  ob- 
ligations to  several  minor  English  poets:  But  his 
genius  had  too  great  a  supremacy  to  belong  to  any 
school.  Though  he  acknowledged  a  filial  rever- 
ence for  Spenser  as  a  poet,  he  left  no  Gothic  irregu- 
lar tracery  in  the  design  of  his  own  great  work,  but 
gave  a  classical  harmony  of  parts  to  its  stupendous 
pile.  It  thus  resembles  a  dome,  the  vastness  of 
which  is  at  first  sight  concealed  by  its  symmetry, 
but  which  expands  more  and  more  to  the  eye  while 
it  is  contemplated.  His  early  poetry  seems  to  have 
neither  disturbed  nor  corrected  the  bad  taste  of  his 
age. — Comus  came  into  the  world  unacknowledged 
by  its  author,  and  Lycidas  appeared  at  first  only 
with  his  initials.  These,  and  other  exquisite  pieces, 
composed  in  the  happiest  years  of  his  life,  at  his 
father's  country-house  at  Horton,  were  collectively 
published,  with  his  name  affixed  to  them,  in  1645 ; 
but  that  precious  volume,  which  included  L' Allegro 
and  II  Penseroso  did  not  (I  believe)  come  to  a 
second  edition,  till  it  was  republished  by  himself  at 
the  distance  of  eight-and-twenty  years.  Almost  a 
century  elapsed  before  his  minor  works  obtained 
their  proper  fame, 

"  Even  when  Paradise  Lost  first  appeared,  though 
it  was  not  neglected,  it  attracted  no  crowd  of  imi- 
tHtors,  and  made  no  visible  change  in  the  poetical 


practice  of  the  age.  He  stood  alone,  and  aloof  abov« 
his  times;  the  bard  of  immortal  subjects,  and,  asfai 
as  there  is  perpetuity  in  language,  of  immortal  fame. 
The  very  choice  of  those  subjects  bespoke  a  con- 
tempt for  any  species  of  excellence  that  was  attain- 
able by  other  men.  There  is  something  that 
overawes  the  mind  in  conceiving  his  long-deliber- 
ated selection  of  that  theme — his  attempting  it  after 
his  eyes  were  shut  upon  the  face  of  nature — his  de- 
pendence, we  might  almost  say,  on  supernatural 
inspiration,  and  in  the  calm  air  of  strength  with 
which  he  opens  Paradise  Lost,  beginning  a  mighty 
performance  without  the  appearance  of  an  effort." 

"  The  warlike  part  of  Paradise  Lost  was  insepa- 
rable from  its  subject.  Whether  it  could  have  been 
differently  managed,  is  a  problem  which  our  rever- 
ence for  Milton  will  scarcely  permit  us  to  state.  ] 
feel  that  reverence  too  strongly  to  suggest  even  the 
possibility  that  Milton  could  have  improved  his 
poem,  by  having  thrown  his  angelic  warfare  into 
more  remote  perspective  :  But  it  seems  to  me  to  be 
most  sublime  when  it  is  least  distinctly  brought 
home  to  the  imagination.  What  an  awful  effect  has 
the  dim  and  undefined  conception  of  the  conflict, 
which  we  gather  from  the  retrospects  in  the  first 
book  I  There  the  veil  of  mystery  is  left  undrawn 
between  us  and  a  subject  which  the  powers  of  de- 
scription were  inadequate  to  exhibit.  The  ministers 
of  divine  vengeance  and  pursuit  had  been  recalled 
— the  thunders  had  ceased 

•  To  bellow  through  the  vast  and  boundless  deep,' 

(in  that  line  what  an  image  of  sound  and  space  is 
conveyed  !) — and  our  terrific  conception  of  the  past 
is  deepened  by  its  indistinctness.  In  optics  there 
are  some  phenomena  which  are  beautifully  decep- 
tive at  a  certain  distance,  but  which  lose  their  illu- 
sive charm  on  the  slightest  approach  to  them  that 
changes  the  light  and  position  in  which  they  are 
viewed.  Something  like  this  takes  place  in  the 
phenomena  of  fancy.  The  array  of  the  fallen 
angels  in  hell — the  unfurling  of  the  standard  of 
Satan — and  the  march  of  his  troops 

•  In  perfect  phalanx,  to  the  Dorian  mood 
Of  flutes  and  soft  recorders' — 

all  this  human  pomp  and  circumstance  of  war  is 
magic  and  overwhelming  illusion.  The  imagination 
is  taken  by  surprise.  But  the  noblest  efibrrs  of 
language  are  tried  with  very  unequal  effect,  to  inter- 
est us  in  the  immediate  and  close  view  of  the  battle 
itself  in  the  sixth  book ;  and  the  martial  demons, 
who  charmed  us  in  the  shades  of  hell,  lose  some 
portion  of  their  sublimity,  when  their  artillery  is 
discharged  in  the  daylight  of  heaven. 

"  If  we  call  diction  the  garb  of  thought,  Milton, 
in  his  style,  may  be  said  to  wear  the  costume  of 
.sovereignty.  The  idioms  even  of  foreign  languages 
contributed  to  adorn  it.  He  was  the  most  learned 
of  poets  ;  yet  his  learning  interferes  not  with  his 
substantial  English  purity.  His  simplicity  is  unim- 
paired by  glowmg  ornament, — like  the  bush  in  the 
sacred  flame,  which  burnt  but  '  was  not  consumed.' 

"  In  delineating  the  blessed  spirits,  Milton  has 
exhausted  all  the  conceivable  variety  that  could  be 
given  to  pictures  of  unshaded  sanctity  ;  but  it  is 
chiefly  in  those  of  the  fallen  angels  that  his  excel- 
lence is  conspicuous  above  every  thing  ancient  or 
modern.  Tasso  had,  indeed,  portrayed  an  infernal 
council,  and  had  given  the  hint  to  our  poet  of  as- 
cribing the  origin  of  pagan  worship  to  those  repro- 
bate spirits.  But  how  poor  and  squahd  in  com- 
parison of  the  Miltonic  Pandaemonium  are  the 
Scyllas,  the  Cyclopses,  and  the  Chimeras  of  the 
Infernal  Council  of  the  Jerusalem  !  Tasso's  con- 
clave of  fiends  is  a  den  of  ngly  incongruous  mon- 
sters. The  powers  of  Milton's  hell  are  godlike 
shapes  and  forms.  Their  appearance  dwarfs  every 
other  poetical  conception,  when  we  turn  our  dilated 
eyes  from  contemplating  them.  It  is  not  their  ex- 
ternal attributes  alone  which  expand  the  imagina- 
tion, but  their  souls,  which  are  as  colossal  as  their 
stature — their  *  thoughts  that  toander  through  ct«r- 


CAMPBELL'S  SPECIMENS  OF  THE  POETS. 


293 


Htty' — the  pride  that  burns  amidst  the  ruins  of  their 
divine  natures,  and  iheu"  genius,  that  feels  with  tiie 
ardour  and  debates  with  Uie  eloquence  of  heaven." 

pp.  242,  247. 

VVe  have  already  said,  that  we  think  Shir- 
ley overpraised — but  he  is  praised  with  great 
eloquence.  There  is  but  little  said  of  Dryden 
m  the  Essay — but  it  is  said  with  force  and 
with  judgment.  In  speaking  of  Pope  and  his 
contemporaries,  Mr.  C.  touches  on  debateable 
ground  :  And  we  shall  close  our  quotations 
from  this  part  of  his  work,  with  the  passage 
in  which  he  announces  his  own  indulgent,  and, 
perhaps,  latitudinarian  opinions. 

"  There  are  exclusionists  in  taste,  who  think  that 
they  cannot  speak  with  sufficient  disparagement  of 
the  English  poets  of  the  tirst  part  of  the  eighteenth 
century  ;  and  they  are  armed  with  a  noble  provoca- 
tive to  Enghsh  contempt,  when  they  have  it  to  say 
that  those  poets  belong  to  a  French  school.  Indeed 
Dryden  himself  is  generally  included  in  that  school; 
though  more  genuine  English  is  to  be  found  in  no 
man's  pages.  But  in  poetry  '  there  are  many  man- 
sions.' I  am  free  to  conless,  that  I  can  pass  from 
the  elder  writers,  and  still  find  a  charm  in  the  cor- 
rect and  equable  sweetness  of  Parnell.  Conscious 
that  his  diction  has  not  the  freedom  and  volubility 
of  the  better  strains  of  the  elder  time,  I  cannot  but 
remark  his  exemption  from  the  quaintness  and  false 
metaphor  which  so  often  disfigure  the  style  of  the 
preceding  age.;  nor  deny  my  respect  to  the  select 
choice  of  his  expression,  the  clearness  and  keeping 
of  his  imagery,  and  the  pensive  dignity  of  his  moral 
feehng. 

"Pope  gave  our  heroic  couplet  its  strictest  me- 
lody and  tersest  expression. 

X)'u»  mot  mi8  en  sa  place  il  enseigne  le  pouvoir. 

If  his  contemporaries  forgot  other  poets  in  admiring 
him,  let  him  not  be  robbed  of  his  just  fame  on  pre- 
tence that  a  part  of  it  was  superfluous.  The  public 
ear  was  long  fatigued  with  repetitions  of  his  man- 
ner ;  but  if  we  place  ourselves  in  the  situation  of 
those  to  whom  his  brilliancy,  succinctness  and  ani- 
mation were  wholly  new,  we  cannot  wonder  at 
their  being  captivated  to  the  fondest  admiration. — 
In  order  to  do  justice  to  Pope,  we  should  forget 
his  imitators,  if  that  were  possible  ;  but  it  is  easier 
to  remember  than  to  forget  by  an  effort — to  acquire 
associations  than  to  shake  them  off.  Every  one 
may  recollect  how  often  the  most  beautiful  air  has 
palled  upon  his  ear,  and  grown  msipid,  from  being 
played  or  sung  by  vulgar  musicians.  It  is  the  same 
thing  with  regard  to  Pope's  versification.  That  his 
peculiar  rhythm  and  manner  are  the  very  best  in 
the  whole  range  of  our  poetry  need  not  be  asserted. 
He  has  a  gracefully  peculiar  manner,  though  it  is 
not  calculated  to  be  an  universal  one  ;  and  where, 
indeed,  shall  we  find  the  style  of  poetry  that  could 
be  pronounced  an  exclusive  model  for  every  com- 
poser? His  pauses  have  little  variety,  and  his 
phrases  are  too  much  weighed  in  the  balance  of 
antithesis.  But  let  us  look  to  the  spirit  that  points 
his  antithesis,  and  to  the  rapid  precision  of  his 
thoughts,  and  we  shall  forgive  him  for  being  too 
antithetic  and  sententious." — pp.  259 — 262. 

And  to  this  is  subjoined  a  long  argument,  to 
E-.how  that  Mr.  Bowles  is  mistaken  in  suppos- 
ing that  a  poet  should  always  draw  his  images 
from  the  works  of  nature,  and  not  from  those 
of  art.  We  have  no  room  at  present  for  any 
discussion  of  the  question;  but  we  do  not 
think  it  is  quite  fairly  stated  in  the  passage  to 
wliich  we  have  referred ;  and  confess  that  we 
are  rather  inclined,  on  the  whole,  to  adhere  to 
th«  creed  of  Mr.  Bowles. 


Of  the  Specimens,  which  compose  I  tie  body 
of  the  work,  we  cannot  pretend  to  give  any 
account.  They  are  themselves  but  tiny  and 
slender  fragments  of  the  works  from  which 
they  are  taken ;  and  to  abridge  them  further 
would  be  to  reduce  them  to  mere  dust  and 
rubbish.  Besides,  we  are  not  called  upon  to 
review  the  poets  of  England  for  the  last  four 
hundred  years ! — but  only  the  present  editor 
and  critic.  In  the  little  we  have  yet  to  say. 
therefore,  we  shall  treat  only  of  the  merits  oi 
Mr.  Campbell.  His  account  of  Hall  and  Cham- 
berlayn  is  what  struck  us  most  in  his  first 
volumes — probably  because  neither  of  the 
writers  whom  he  so  judiciously  praises  were 
formerly  familiar  to  us.  Hall,  who  was  the 
founder  of  our  satirical  poetry,  wrote  his  satires 
about  the  year  1597,  when  only  twenty-three  ^ 
years  old ;  and  whether  we  consider  the  age 
of  the  man  or  of  the  world,  they  appear  to  us 
equally  wonderful.  In  this  extraordinary  work, 

"He  discovered,"  says  Mr.  C.  "not  only  the 
early  vigour  of  his  own  genius,  but  the  power  and 
pliability  of  his  native  tongue:  for  in  the  point,  and 
volubility  and  vigour  of  Hall's  numbers,  we  mi<.'.ht 
frequently  imagine  ourselves  perusing  Dryden. 
This  may  be  exemplified  in  the  harmony  and  pic- 
turesqueness  of  the  following  description  of  a  magnif- 
icent rural  mansion,  which  the  traveller  approaches 
in  the  hopes  of  reaching  the  seat  of  ancient  hospi 
tality,  but  finds  it  deserted  by  its  selfish  owner. 

Beat  the  broad  gates,  a  goodly  hollow  sound. 

With  double  echoes,  doth  again  rebound  ; 

But  not  a  dog  doth  bark  to  welcome  thee, 

Nor  churlish  porter  canst  thou  chafing  see. 

All  dumb  and  silent,  like  the  dead  of  nigh' 

Or  dwelling  of  some  sleepy  Sybarite; 

The  marble  pavement  hid  with  deseft  weed, 

With  house-leek,  thistle,  dock,  and  hemlock  seecL 

Look  to  the  tow'red  chimnies,  which  should  be 
The  wind-pipes  of  good  hospitality, 
Through  which  it  breatheth  to  the  open  air, 
Betokening  life  and  liberal  welfare, 
Lo,  there  th'  unthankful  swallow  takes  her  rest. 
And  fills  the  tunnel  with  her  circled  nest. 

"  His  satires  are  neither  cramped  by  personal  hos- 
tility, nor  spun  out  to  vague  declamations  on  vice  , 
but  give  us  the  form  and  pressure  of  the  times,  ex- 
hibited in  the  faults  of  coeval  literature,  and  in  the 
foppery  or  sordid  traits  of  prevailing  manners.  The 
age  was  undoubtedly  fertile  in  eccentricitv." 

Vol.  ii.  pp.  257,  258. 

What  he  says  of  Chamberlayn,  and  the  ex- 
tracts he  has  made  from  his  Pharonnida,  have 
made  us  quite  impatient  for  an  opportunity  of 
perusing  the  whole  poem. 

The  poetical  merits  of  Ben  Jonson  are 
chiefly  discussed  in  the  Essay ;  and  the  No- 
tice is  principally  biographical.  It  is  very 
pleasingly  written,  though  wath  an  affectionate 
leaning  towards  his  hero.  The  following  short 
passage  affords  a  fair  specimen  of  the  good 
sense  and  good  temper  of  all  Mr.  Campbell's 
apologies. 

"  The  poet's  journey  to  Scotland  (1617)  awakena 
many  pleasing  recollections,  when  we  conceive  him 
anticipating  his  welcome  among  a  people  who  might 
be  proud  of  a  share  in  his  ancestry,  and  setting  out, 
with  manly  strength,  on  a  journey  of  four  hundred 
miles,  on  foot.  W^e  are  assured,  by  one  who  saw 
him  in  Scotland,  that  he  was  treated  with  rer.peci 
and  affection  among  the  nobility  and  gentry  ;  not 


894 


POETRY. 


was  the  romantic  scenery  of  the  country  lost  upon 
his  fancy.  From  the  poem  which  he  meditated  on 
Lochlomond,  it  is  seen  that  he  looked  on  it  with  a 
Doet's  eye.  But,  unhappily,  the  meagre  anecdotes 
of  Drummond  have  made  this  event  of  his  life  too 
prominent,  by  the  over-importance  which  has  been 
attached  to  them.  Drummond,  a  smooth  and  sober 
gentleman,  seems  to  have  disliked  Jonson's  indul- 
gence in  that  conviviality  which  Ben  had  shared 
with  his  Fletcher  and  Shakespeare  at  the  Mermaid. 
In  consequence  of  those  anecdotes,  Jonson's  mem- 
ory has  been  damned  for  brutality,  and  Drum- 
mond's  for  perfidy.  Jonson  drank  freely  at  Haw- 
thornden,  and  talked  big — things  neither  incredible 
nor  unpardonable.  Drummond's  perfidy  amounted 
to  writing  a  letter,  beginning  Sir,  with  one  very 
kind  sentence  in  it,  to  the  man  whom  he  had  de- 
scribed unfavourably  in  a  private  memorandum, 
which  he  never  meant  for  publication.  As  to  Drum- 
mond's decoying  Jonson  under  his  roof  with  any 
premeditated  design  on  his  reputation,  no  one  can 
seriously  believe  it." — Vol.  iii.  pp.  150,  151. 

The  notice  of  Cotton  may  be  quoted,  as  a 
perfect  model  for  such  slight  memorials  of 
writers  of  the  middle  order. 

"  There  is  a  careless  and  happy  humour  in  this 
poet's  Voyage  to  Ireland,  which  seems  to  anticipate 
the  manner  of  Anstey,  in  the  Bath  Guide.  The 
tasteless  indelicacy  of  his  parody  of  th*e  ^Eneid  has 
found  but  too  many  admirers.  His  imitations  of 
Lucian  betray  the  grossest  misconception  of  humor- 
ous efTect,  when  he  attempts  to  burlesque  that 
which  is  ludicrous  already.  He  was  acquainted 
with  French  and  Italian  ;  and  among  several  works 
from  the  former  language,  translated  the  Horace  of 
Corneille,  and  Montaigne's  Essays. 

"  The  father  of  Cotton  is  described  by  Lord  Cla- 
rendon as  an  accomplished  and  honourable  man, 
who  was  driven  by  domestic  afflictions  to  habits 
which  rendered  his  age  less  reverenced  than  his 
youth,  and  made  his  best  friends  wish  that  he  had 
not  lived  so  long.  From  him  our  poet  inherited  an 
incumbered  estate,  with  a  disposition  to  extrava- 
gance little  calculated  to  improve  it.  After  having 
studied  at  Cambridge,  and  returned  from  his  travels 
abroad,  he  married  the  daughter  of  Sir  Thomas 
Owthorp.  in  Nottinghamshire.  He  went  to  Ireland 
as  a  captain  in  the  army  ;  but  of  his  military  pro- 
gress nothing  is  recorded.  Having  embraced  the 
soldier's  life  merely  as  a  shift  in  distress,  he  was 
not  likely  to  pursue  it  with  much  ambition.  It  was 
probably  in  Ireland  that  he  met  with  his  second  wife, 
Mary,  Conntess-Dowager  of  Ardglass,  the  widow 
of  Lord  Cornwall.  She  had  a  jointure  of  1500Z.  a 
year,  secured  from  his  imprudent  management. 
He  died  insolvent,  at  Westminster.  One  of  his 
favourite  recreations  was  angling  ;  and  his  house, 
which  was  situated  on  the  Dove,  a  fine  trout  stream 
which  divides  the  counties  of  Derby  and  Stafford, 
was  the  frequent  resort  of  his  friend  Isaac  Walton. 
There  he  built  a  fishing  house,  '  Piscatoribus  sa- 
crum,' with  the  initials  of  honest  Isaac's  name  and 
his  own  united  in  ciphers  over  the  door.  The  walls 
were  painted  with  fishing-scenes,  and  the  portraits 
of  Cotton  and   Walton  were  upon   the  beaufet. — 

pp.  293,  294. 

There  is  a  very  beautiful  and  afTectionate 
account  of  Parnell. — But  there  is  more  povyer 
of  writing,  and  more  depth  and  delicacy  of 
feeling,  in  the  following  masterly  account  and 
estimate  of  Lillo. 

"  George  Lillo,  was  the  sonof  a  Dutch  jeweller, 
who  married  an  Englishwoman,  and  settled  in  Lon- 
don. Our  poet  was  born  near  Moorfields,  was  bred 
to  his  father's  business,  and  followed  it  for  many 
years.  I'he  story  of  his  dying  in  distress  was  a 
fiction  of  Hammond,  the  poet ;  for  he  bequeathed  a 
cousiderable  proper;;}^  to  his  nephew,  whom  he 


made  his  heir.  It  has  been  said,  that  this  bequcsj 
was  in  consequence  of  his  finding  the  young  man 
disposed  to  lend  him  a  sum  of  money  at  a  time 
when  he  thought  proper  to  feign  pecuniary  distress, 
in  order  that  he  might  discover  the  sincerity  of 
those  calling  themselves  his  friends.  Thomas  Da- 
vies,  his  biographer  and  editor,  professes  to  have 
got  this  anecdote  from  a  surviving  partner  of  Lillo. 
It  bears,  however,  an  intrinsic  air  of  improbability. 
It  is  not  usual  for  sensible  tradesmen  to  affect  be- 
ing on  the  verge  of  bankruptcy;  and  Lillo's  char- 
acter was  that  of  an  uncommonly  sensible  man. 
Fielding,  his  intimate  friend,  ascribes  to  him  a 
manly  simplicity  of  mind,  that  is  extremely  unlike 
such  a  stratagem. 

"  Lillo  is  the  tragic  poet  of  middling  and  familiar 
hfe.  Instead  of  heroes  from  romance  and  history, 
he  gives  the  merchant  and  his  apprentice  ;  and  the 
Macbeth  of  his  '  Fatal  Curiosity^  is  a  private  gen- 
tleman, who  has  been  reduced  by  his  poverty  to 
dispose  of  his  copy  of  Seneca  for  a  morsel  of  bread. 
The  mind  will  be  apt,  after  reading  his  works,  to 
suggest  to  itself  the  question,  how  far  the  graver 
drama  would  gain  or  lose  by  a  more  general  adop- 
tion of  this  plebeian  principle.  The  cares,  it  may 
be  said,  that  are  most  familiar  to  our  existence,  and 
the  distresses  of  those  nearest  to  ourselves  in  situa- 
tion, ought  to  lay  the  strongest  hold  upon  our  sym- 
pathies; and  the  general  mass  of  society  ought  to 
furnish  a  more  express  image  of  man  than  any  de- 
tached or  elevated  portion  of  the  species.  But, 
notwithstanding  the  power  of  Lillo's  works,  we 
entirely  miss  in  them  that  romantic  attraction  which 
invites  to  repeated  perusal  of  them.  They  give  us 
life  in  a  close  and  dreadful  semblance  of  reality, 
but  not  arrayed  in  the  magic  illusion  of  poetry.  His 
strength  lies  in  conception  of  situations,  not  in 
beauty  of  dialogue,  or  in  the  eloquence  of  the  pas- 
sions. Yet  the  effect  of  his  plain  and  homely  sub- 
jects was  so  strikingly  superior  to  that  of  the  vapid 
and  heroic  productions  of  the  day,  as  to  induce 
some  of  his  contemporary  admirers  to  pronounce, 
that  he  had  reached  the  acme  of  dramatic  excel- 
lence, and  struck  into  the  best  and  most  genuine 
path  of  tragedy.  George  Barnwell,  it  was  observed, 
drew  more  tears  than  the  rants  of  Alexander.  This 
might  be  true;  but  it  did  not  bring  the  comparison 
of  humble  and  heroic  subjects  to  a  fair  test ;  for  the 
tragedy  of  Alexander  is  bad,  not  from  its  subject, 
but  from  the  incapacity  of  the  poet  who  composed 
it.  It  does  not  prove  that  heroes,  drawn  from  his- 
tory or  romance,  are  not  at  least  as  susceptible  of 
high  and  poetical  effect,  as  a  wicked  apprentice,  or 
a  distressed  gentleman  pawning  his  moveables.  It 
is  a  different  question  whether  Lillo  has  given  to  hia 
subjects  from  private  life,  the  degree  of  beauty  of 
which  they  are  susceptible.  He  is  a  master  of  ter- 
rific, but  not  of  tender  impressions.  We  feel  a 
harshness  and  gloom  in  his  genius,  even  while  we 
are  compelled  to  admire  its  force  and  originality, 

"  The  peculiar  choice  of  his  subjects  was,  at  all 
events,  happy  and  commendable,  as  far  as  it  re- 
garded himself;  for  his  talents  never  succeeded  so 
well  when  he  ventured  out  of  them.  But  it  is 
another  question,  whether  the  familiar  cast  of  those 
subjects  was  fitted  to  constitute  a  more  genuine, 
or  only  a  subordinate  walk  in  tragedy.  Undoubt- 
edly the  genuine  delineation  of  the  human  heart 
will  please  us,  from  whatever  station  or  circum- 
stances of  life  it  is  derived :  and,  in  the  simple 
pathos  of  tragedy,  probably  very  little  difference 
will  be  felt  from  the  choice  of  characters  being 
pitched  above  or  below  the  line  of  mediocrity  in 
station.  But  something  more  than  pathos  is  re- 
quired in  tragedy  ;  and  the  very  pain  that  attends 
our  sympathy,  would  seem  to  require  agreeable 
and  romantic  associations  of  the  fancy  to  be  blended 
with  its  poignancy.  Whatever  attaches  ideas  of 
importance,  publicity,  and  elevation  to  the  object 
of  pity,  forms  a  brightening  and  alluring  medium 
to  the  imagination.  Athens  herself,  with  all  hel 
simplicity  and  democracy,  delighted  on  the  stage  tc 


CAMPBELL'S  SPECIMENS  Of  THE  POETS. 


295 


'  Let  gorgeous  Tragedy 
In  scepter'd  pall  come  sweeping  by.' 

'  'Even  situations  far  depressed  beneath  the  famil- 
iar mediocrity  of  hfe,  are  more  picturesque  and 
poetical  than  its  ordinary  level.  It  is  certainly  on 
the  virtues  of  the  middling  rank  of  life,  that  the 
strength  and  comforts  of  society  chiefly  depend,  in 
the  same  way  as  we  look  for  the  harvest,  not  on 
cliffs  and  precipices,  but  on  the  easy  slope  and  the 
miiform  plain.  But  the  painter  does  not  in  general 
fix  on  level  countries  for  the  subjects  of  his  noblest 
landscapes.  There  is  an  analogy,  I  conceive,  to 
this  in  the  moral  painting  of  tragedy.  Disparities 
of  station  give  it  boldness  of  outline.  The  com- 
manding situations  of  life  are  its  mountain  scenery 
— the  region  where  its  storm  and  sunshine  may  be 
portrayed  in  their  strongest  contrast  and  colouring." 
Vol.  V.  pp.  58—62. 

Nothing,  we  think,  can  be  more  exquisite 
than  this  criticism, — though  we  are  far  from 
being  entire  converts  to  its  doctrines ;  and  are 
moreover  of  opinion,  that  the  merits  of  Lillo, 
as  a  poet  at  least,  are  considerably  overrated. 
There  is  a  flatness  and  a  weakness  in  his  dic- 
tion, that  we  think  must  have  struck  Mr.  C. 
more  than  he  has  acknowledged, — and  a  tone, 
occasionally,  both  of  vulgarity  and  of  paltry 
affectation,  that  counteracts  the  pathetic  effect 
of  his  conceptions,  and  does  injustice  to  the 
experiment  of  domestic  tragedy. 

The  critique  on  Thomson  is  distinguished 
by  the  same  fine  tact,  candour,  and  concise- 
ness. 

"  Habits  of  early  admiration  teach  us  all  to  look 
back  upon  this  poet  as  the  favourite  companion  of 
our  solitary  walks,  and  as  the  author  who  has  first 
or  chiefly  reflected  back  to  our  minds  a  heightened 
and  refined  sensation  of  the  delight  which  rural 
scenery  aflfords  us.  The  judgment  of  cooler  years 
may  somewhat  abate  our  estimation  of  him,  though 
it  will  still  leave  us  the  essential  features  of  his 
poetical  character  to  abide  the  test  of  reflection. 
The  unvaried  pomp  of  his  diction  suggests  a  most 
unfavourable  comparison  with  the  manly  and  idiom- 
atic simplicity  of  Cowper  :  at  the  same  time,  the 
pervading  spirit  and  feeling  of  his  poetry  is  in  gene- 
ral more  bland  and  delightful  than  that  of  his  great 
rival  in  rural  description.  Thomson  seems  to  con- 
template the  creation  with  an  eye  of  unqualified 
pleasure  and  ecstasy,  and  to  love  its  inhabitants 
with  a  lofty  and  hallowed  feeling  of  religious  hap- 
piness ;  Cowper  has  also  his  philanthropy,  but  it  is 
dashed  with  religious  terrors,  and  with  themes  of 
satire,  regret,  and  reprehension.  Cowper's  image 
of  nature  is  more  curiously  distinct  and  familiar. 
Thomson  carries  our  associations  through  a  wider 
circuit  of  speculation  and  sympathy.  His  touches 
cannot  be  more  faithful  than  Cowper's,  but  they 
are  more  soft  and  select,  and  less  disturbed  by  the 
intrusion  of  homely  objects.  It  is  but  justice  to  say, 
that  amidst  the  feehng  and  fancy  of  the  Seasons, 
we  meet  with  interruptions  of  declamation,  heavy 
narrative,  and  unhappy  digression — with  a  parhelion 
eloquence  that  throws  a  counterfeit  glow  of  expres- 
sion on  common-place  ideas — as  when  he  treats  us 
to  the  solemnly  ridiculous  bathing  of  Musidora  ;  or 
draws  from  the  classics  instead  of  nature;  or,  after 
invoking  inspiration  from  her  hermit  seat,  makes  his 
dedicatory  bow  to  a  patronizing  countess,  or  speaker 
of  the  House  of  Commons.  As  long  as  he  dwells 
in  the  pure  contemplation  of  nature,  and  appeals  to 
the  universal  poetry  of  the  human  breast,  his  re- 
dundant style  comes  to  us  as  something  venial  and 
adventitious — it  is  the  flowing  vesture  of  the  druid  ; 
and  perhaps  to  the  general  experience  is  rather  im- 
posing ;  but  when  he  returns  to  the  familiar  narra- 
wons  or  courtesies  of  life,  the  same  diction  ceases 
to  seem  the  mantle  of  inspiration,  and  only  strikes 


us  by  its  unwieldy  diflference  from  the  common  cos- 
tume of  expression." — pp.  215 — 218. 

There  is  the  same  delicacy  of  taste,  and 
beauty  of  writing,  in  the  following  remarks 
on  Collins — though  we  think  the  Specimena 
afterwards  given  from  this  exquisite  poet  are 
rather  niggardly. 

"  Collins  published  his  Oriental  Eclogues  while 
at  college,  and  his  lyrical  poetry  at  the  age  of 
twenty-six.  Those  works  will  abide  comparison 
with  whatever  Milton  wrote  under  the  age  of  thirty. 
If  they  have  rather  less  exuberant  wealth  of  genuis, 
they  exhibit  more  exquisite  touches  of  pathos. 
Like  Milton,  he  leads  us  into  the  haunted  ground 
of  imagination  ;  like  him,  he  has  the  rich  economy 
of  expression  haloed  with  thought,  which  by  single 
or  few  words  often  hints  entire  pictures  to  the  imagi- 
nation. In  what  short  and  simple  terms,  for  in- 
stance, does  he  open  a  wide  and  majestic  landscape 
to  the  mind,  such  as  we  might  view  from  Benlo- 
mond  or  Snowden — when  he  speaks  of  the  hut 

•That  from  some  mountain's  side 
Views  wilds  and  swelling  floods.' 

And  in  the  line,  '  Where  faint  and  sickly  winds 
for  ever  howl  around,'  he  does  not  seem  merely  to 
describe  the  sultry  desert,  but  brings  it  home  to  the 
senses. 

"A  cloud  of  obscurity  sometimes  rests  on  his 
highest  conceptions,  arising  from  the  fineness  of  his 
associations,  and  the  daring  sweep  of  his  illusions  ; 
but  the  shadow  is  transitory,  and  interferes  very 
little  with  the  light  of  his  imagery,  or  the  warmth 
of  his  feehngs.  The  absence  of  even  this  speck  of 
mysticism  from  his  Ode  on  the  Passions  is  perhaps 
the  happy  circumstance  that  secured  its  unbounded 
popularity.  Nothing,  however,  is  common-place 
in  Collins.  The  pastoral  eclogue,  which  is  insipid 
in  all  other  English  hands,  assumes  in  his  a  touch- 
ing interest,  and  a  picturesque  air  of  novelty.  It 
seems  that  he  himself  ultimately  undervalued  those 
eclogues,  as  deficient  in  characteristic  manners  ;  but 
surely  no  just  reader  of  them  cares  any  more  about 
this  circumstance  than  about  the  authenticity  of  the 
tale  of  Troy. 

"In  his  Ode  to  Fear  he  hints  at  his  dramatic 
ambition  ;  and  he  planned  several  tragedies.  Had 
he  lived  to  enjoy  and  adorn  existence,  it  is  not  easy 
to  conceive  his  sensitive  spirit  and  harmonious  ear 
descending  to  mediocrity  in  any  path  of  poetry  ; 
yet  it  may  be  doubted  if  his  mind  had  not  a  pas- 
sion for  the  visionary  and  remote  forms  of  imagina- 
tion, too  strong  and  exclusive  for  the  general  pur- 
poses of  the  drama.  His  geniys  loved  to  breathe 
rather  in  the  preternatural  and  ideal  element  of 
poetry,  than  in  the  atmosphere  of  imitation,  which 
lies  closest  to  real  life  ;  and  his  notions  of  poetical 
excellence,  whatever  vows  he  might  address  to 
'  the  manners,'  were  still  tending  to  the  vast,  the 
undefinable,  and  the  abstract.  Certainly,  how- 
ever, he  carried  sensibility  and  tenderness  into  the 
highest  regions  of  abstracted  thought :  His  enthu- 
siasm spreads  a  glow  even  amongst  '  the  shadowy 
tribes  of  mind,'  and  his  allegory  is  as  sensible  to 
the  heart  as  it  is  visible  to  the  fancy." — pp.  310,  312. 

Though  we  are  afraid  our  extracts  are  be- 
coming unreasonable,  we  cannot  resist  indulg- 
ing our  own  nationality,  by  producing  this 
specimen  of  Mr.  Campbell's. 

"  The  admirers  of  the  Gentle  Shepherd  must 
perhaps  be  contented  to  share  some  suspicion  of 
national  partiality,  while  they  do  justice  to  their 
own  feeling  of  its  merit.  Yet  as  this  drama  is  n 
picture  of  rustic  Scotland,  it  would  perhaps  be 
saying  little  for  its  fidelity,  if  it  yielded  no  more 
agreeableness  to  the  breast  of  a  native  than  he  could 
expound  to  a  stranger  by  the  strict  letter  of  criti- 
cism. We  should  think  the  painter  had  finished 
the  Ukeness  of  a  mother  very   indifferently,  if  « 


296 


POETRY. 


did  not  bring  home  to  her  children  traits  of  unde- 
finable  expression  which  had  escaped  every  eye 
but  thai  of  famihar  affection.  Ramsay  had  not  the 
force  of  Burns;  but,  neither,  in  just  proportion  to 
his  merits,  is  he  Ukely  to  be  felt  by  an  English 
reader.  The  fire  of  Burns'  wit  and  passion  glows 
through  an  obscure  dialect  by  its  confinement  to 
short  and  concentrated  bursts.  The  interest  which 
Ramsay  excites  is  spread  over  along  poem,  deline- 
ating manners  more  than  passions,  and  the  mind 
must  be  at  home  both  in  the  language  and  manners, 
to  appreciate  the  skill  and  comic  archness  with  which 
he  has  heightened  the  display  of  rustic  character 
without  giving  it  vulgarity,  and  refined  the  view 
of  peasant  life  by  situations  of  sweetness  and  ten- 
derness, without  departing  in  the  least  degree  from 
its  simplicity.  The  Gentle  Shepherd  stands  quite 
apart  from  the  general  pastoral  poetry  of  modern 
Europe.  It  has  no  satyrs,  nor  featureless  simple- 
tons, nor  drowsy  and  still  landscapes  of  nature,  but 
distinct  characters  and  amusing  incidents.  The 
principal  shepherd  never  speaks  out  of  consistency 
with  the  habits  of  a  peasant ;  but  he  moves  in  that 
sphere  with  such  a  manly  spirit,  with  so  much 
cheerful  sensibility  to  its  humble  joys,  with  max- 
ims of  life  so  rational  and  independent,  and  with 
an  ascendency  over  his  fellow  swains  so  well  main- 
tained by  his  force  of  character,  that  if  we  could 
suppose  the  pacific  scenes  of  the  drama  to  be  sud- 
denly changed  into  situations  of  trouble  and  danger, 
we  should,  in  exact  consistency  with  our  former 
idea  of  him,  expect  him  to  become  the  leader  of 
the  peasants,  and  the  Tell  of  his  native  hamlet. 
Nor  is  the  character  of  his  mistress  less  beautifully 
conceived.  She  is  represented,  like  himself,  as 
elevated,  by  a  fortunate  discovery,  from  obscure  to 
opulent  life,  yet  as  equally  capable  of  being  the 
ornament  of  either.  A  Richardson  or  a  D'Arblay, 
had  they  continued  her  history,  might  have  height- 
ened the  portrait,  but  they  would  not  have  altered 
its  outline.  Like  the  poetry  of  Tasso  and  Ariosto, 
that  of  the  Gentle  Shepherd  is  engraven  on  the 
memory,  and  has  sunk  into  the  heart,  of  its  native 
country.  Its  verses  have  passed  into  proverbs,  and 
it  continues  to  be  the  delight  and  solace  of  the 
peasantry  whom  it  describes." — pp.  344 — 346. 

We  think  the  merits  of  Akenside  under- 
rated, and  those  of  Churchill  exaggerated : 
But  we  have  found  no  passage  in  which  the 
amiable  but  equitable  and  reasonable  indulg- 
ence of  Mr.  Campbell's  mind  is  so  conspicu- 
ous, as  in  his  account  of  Chatterton — and  it 
is  no  slight  thing  for  a  poet  to  have  kept  him- 
self cool  and  temperate,  on  a  theme  which 
has  hurried  so  many  inferior  spirits  into  pas- 


"When  we  conceive,"  says  Mr.  C,  "the  in- 
spired boy  transporting  himself  in  imagination  back 
to  the  days  of  his  fictitious  Rowley,  embodying  his 
ideal  character,  and  giving  to  airy  nothing  a  '  local 
habitation  and  a  name,'  we  may  forget  the  im- 
postor in  the  enthusiast,  and  forgive  the  falsehood 
of  his  reverie  for  its  beauty  and  ingenuity.  One 
of  his  companions  has  described  the  air  of  rapture 
and  inspiration  with  which  he  used  to  repeat  his 
passages  from  Rowley,  and  the  delight  which  he 
took  to  contemplate  the  church  of  St.  Mary  Red- 
clitfe,  while  it  awoke  the  associations  of  antiquity 
in  his  romantic  mind.  There  vvas  one  spot  in 
particular,  full  in  view  of  the  church,  where  he 
would  often  lay  himself  down,  and  fix  his  eyes,  as 
;:  were,  in  a  trance.  On  Sundays,  as  long  as  day- 
light lasted,  he  would  walk  alone  in  the  country 
around  Bristol,  taking  drawings  of  churches,  or 
other  objects  that  struck  his  imagination. 

*'  During  the  few  months  of  his  existence  in 
London,  his  letters  to  his  mother  and  sister,  which 
were  aUvaj^s  accompanied  with  presents,  expressed 
ihe  most  jovou»  anticipations.      But  suddenly  all  f 


the  flush  of  his  ga/  hopes  and  busy  projects  ter 
minated  in  despair.  The  particular  causes  which 
led  to  his  catastrophe  have  not  been  distinctly 
traced.  His  own  descriptions  of  his  prospect's 
are  but  little  to  be  trusted  ;  for  while  apparently 
exchanging  his  shadowy  visions  of  Rowley  for  the 
real  adventures  of  life,  he  was  still  moving  under 
the  spell  of  an  imagination  that  saw  every  thing  in 
exaggerated  colours.  Out  of  this  dream  lie  wac 
at  length  awakened,  when  he  found  that  he  had 
miscalculated  the  chances  of  patronage  and  the 
profits  of  literary  labour. 

"  The  heart  which  can  peruse  the  fate  of  Chat- 
terton without  being  moved,  is  little  to  be  envied 
for  its  tranquillity ;  but  the  intellects  of  those  men 
must  be  as  deficient  as  their  hearts  are  uncharitable, 
who,  confounding  all  shades  of  moral  distinction, 
have  ranked  his  literary  fiction  of  Rowley  in  the 
same  class  of  crimes  with  pecuniary  forgery ;  and 
have  calculated  that  if  he  had  not  died  by  his  own 
hand  he  would  have  probably  ended  his  days  upon 
a  gallows !  This  disgusting  sentence  has  been 
pronounced  upon  a  youth  who  was  exemplary  for 
severe  study,  temperance,  and  natural  affection. 
His  Rowleian  forgery  must  indeed  be  pronounced 
improper  by  the  general  law  which  condemns  all 
serious  and  deliberate  falsifications ;  but  it  deprived 
no  man  of  his  fame;  it  had  no  sacrilegious  interfer- 
ence with  the  memory  of  departed  genius ;  it  had 
not,  like  Lauder's  imposture,  any  malignant  motive 
to  rob  a  party,  or  a  country,  of  a  name  which  was 
its  pride  and  ornament. 

"  Setting  aside  the  opinion  of  those  uncharitable 
biographers,  whose  imaginations  have  conducted 
him  to  the  gibbet,  it  may  be  owned  that  his  un- 
formed character  exhibited  strong  and  conflicting 
elements  of  good  and  evil.  Even  the  momentary 
project  of  the  infidel  boy  to  become  a  IMeihodist 
preacher,  betrays  an  obliquity  of  design  and  a  con- 
tempt of  human  credulity  that  is  not  very  amiable. 
But  had  he  been  spared,  his  pride  and  ambition 
would  probably  have  come  to  flow  in  their  proper 
channels.  His  understanding  would  have  taught 
him  the  practical  value  of  truth  and  the  dignity  of 
virtue,  and  he  would  have  despised  artifice,  when 
he  had  felt  the  strength  and  security  oi  wisdom. 
In  estimating  the  promises  of  his  genius,  I  would 
rather  lean  to  the  utmost  enthusiasm  of  his  admir- 
ers, than  to  the  cold  opinion  of  those  who  are  afraid 
of  being  blinded  to  the  defects  of  the  poems  attrib- 
uted to  Rowley,  by  the  veil  of  obsolete  phraseology 
which  is  thrown  over  them. 

"The  inequality  of  Chatterton's  various  pro- 
ductions may  be  compared  to  the  disproportions  of 
the  ungrown  giant.  His  works  had  nothing  of  the 
definite  neatness  of  that  precocious  talent  which 
stops  short  in  early  maturity.  His  thirst  (or  know- 
ledge was  that  of  a  being  taught  by  instinct  to  lay 
up  materials  for  the  exercise  of  great  and  unde- 
veloped powers.  Even  in  his  favourite  maxim, 
pushed  it  might  be  to  hyperbole,  that  a  man  by 
abstinence  and  perseverance  might  accomplish 
whatever  he  pleased,  may  be  traced  the  indications 
of  a  genius  which  nature  had  meant  to  achieve  works 
of  immortality.  Tasso  alone  can  be  compared  to  him 
as  a  juvenile  prodigy.  No  English  poet  ever  equal- 
led him  at  the  same  age." — Vol.  vi.  pp.  15t>— 162. 

The  account  of  Gray  is  excellent,  and  that 
of  Goldsmith  delightful.  We  can  afibrd  to 
give  but  an  inconsiderable  part  of  it. 

"  Goldsmith's  poetry  enjoys  a  calm  and  steady 
popularity.  It  inspires  us,  indeed,  with  no  admira- 
tion of  daring  design,  or  of  fertile  invention  ;  but  it 
presents,  within  its  narrow  limits,  a  distinct  and  un- 
broken view  of  poetical  delighlfulness.  His  descrip- 
tions and  sentiments  have  the  pure  zest  of  nature. 
He  is  refined  without  false  delicacy,  and  correct 
without  insipidity.  Perhaps  there  is  an  intellectual 
composure  in  his  manner,  which  may,  in  some  pas- 
sages, be  said  to  approach  to  the  reserved  and  pro 


CAMPBELL'S  SPECIMENS  OF  THE  POETS. 


^'    2i^? 


paic;  but  he  unbends  from  this  graver  strain  of 
reflection,  to  tenderness,  and  even  to  playfulness, 
with  an  ease  and  grace  almost  exclusively  his  own  : 
and  connects  extensive  views  of  the  happiness  and 
interests  of  society,  with  pictures  of  lile,  that  touch 
the  heart  by  their  familiarity.  His  language  is  cer- 
tainly simple,  though  it  is  not  cast  in  a  rugged  or 
careless  mould.  He  is  no  disciple  of  the  gaunt  and 
famished  school  of  simplicity.  Deliberately  as  he 
wrote,  he  cannot  be  accused  of  wanting  natural  and 
idiomatic  expression ;  but  still  it  is  select  and  re- 
fined expression.  He  uses  the  ornaments  which 
must  always  distinguish  true  poetry  from  prose  ; 
and  when  he  adopts  colloquial  plainness,  it  is  with 
the  utmost  care  and  a'dll,  to  avoid  a  vulgar  humility. 
There  is  more  of  ^his  elegant  simphcity,  of  this 
chaste  economy  and  choice  of  words,  in  Goldsmith, 
than  in  any  modern  poet,  or  perhaps  than  would  be 
attainable  or  desirable  as  a  standard  for  every  writer 
of  rhyme.  In  extensive  narrative  poems  such  a 
style  would  be  too  difficult.  There  is  a  noble  pro- 
priety even  in  the  careless  strength  of  great  poems 
as  in  the  roughness  of  castle  walls;  and,  generally 
speaking,  where  there  is  a  long  course  of  story,  or 
observation  of  life  to  be  pursued,  such  exquisite 
touches  as  those  of  Goldsmith  would  be  too  costly 
materials  for  sustaining  it.  The  tendency  towards 
abstracted  observation  in  his  poetry  agrees  peculiarly 
with  the  compendious  form  of  expression  which  he 
studied;  whilst  the  homefelt  joys,  on  which  his 
fancy  loved  to  repose,  required  at  once  the  chastest 
and  sweetest  colours  of  language,  to  make  them 
harmonize  with -the  dignity  of  a  philosophical  poem. 
His  whole  manner  has  a  still  depth  of  feeling  and 
reflection,  which  gives  back  the  image  of  nature 
unruffled  and  minutely.  He  has  no  redundant 
thoughts,  or  false  transports ;  but  seems  on  every 
occasion  to  have  weighed  the  impulse  to  which  he 
surrendered  himself.  Whatever  ardour  or  casual 
felicities  he  may  have  thus  sacrificed,  he  gained  a 
high  degree  of  purity  and  self-possession.  His 
chaste  pathos  makes  him  an  insinuating  moralist ; 
and  throws  a  charm  of  Claude-like  softness  over  his 
descriptions  of  homely  objects,  that  would  seem 
only  fit  to  be  the  subjects  of  Dutch  painting.  But 
his  quiet  enthusiasm  leads  the  affections  to  humble 
things  without  a  vulgar  association  ;  and  he  inspires 
us  with  a  fondness  to  trace  the  simplest  recollections 
of  Auburn,  till  we  count  the  furniture  of  its  ale- 
house, and  listen  to  the  '  varnished  clock  that 
chcked  behind  thp  door.'  " — pp.261 — 263. 

There  is  too  much  of  William  Whitehead, 
and  almost  too  much  of  Richard  Glover, — and 
a  great  deal  too  much  of  Amhurst  Selden, 
Bramston,  and  ISIeston.  Indeed  the  ne  quid 
nimis  seems  to  have  been  more  forgotten  by 
the  learned  editor  in  the  last,  than  in  any  of 
the  other  volumes.  Yet  there  is  by  no  means 
too  much  of  Burns,  or  Cowper,  or  even  of  the 
Wartons.  The  abstract  of  Burns'  life  is  beau- 
tiful ;  and  v/e  are  most  willing  to  acknowledge 
that  the  defence  of  the  poet,  ag-ainst  some  of 
the  severities  of  this  Journal,  is  substantially 
successful.  No  one  who  reads  all  that  we 
have  written  of  Burns,  will  doubt  of  the  sin- 
cerity of  our  admiration  for  his  genius,  or  of 
the  depth  of  our  veneration  and  sympathy  for 
his  lofty  character  and  his  untimely  fate. 
We  still  think  he  had  a  vulgar  taste  in  letter- 
writing;  and  too  frequently  patronized  the 
belief  of  a  connection  between  licentious  in- 
dulgences atid  generosity  of  character.  But, 
on  looking  back  on  what  we  have  said  on 
these  subjects,  we  are  sensible  that  we  have 
expr(^ssed  ourselves  with  too  much  bitter- 
ness, and  made  the  words  of  our  censure  far 
more  comprehensive  than  our  meaning.     A 


certain  tone  of  exaggeration  is  incident,  we 
fear,  to  the  sort  of  writing  in  which  we  are 
eng-aged.  Reckoning  a  little  too  much,  per- 
haps, on  the  dulness  of  our  readers,  we  are 
often  led,  unconsciously,  to  overslate  oo 
sentiments,  in  order  to  make  them  under- 
stood J  and,  where  a  little  controversial 
warmth  is  added  to  a  little  love  of  effect, 
an  excess  of  colouring  is  apt  to  steal  over 
the  canvass  which  ultimately  offends  no 
eye  so  much  as  our  own.  We  gladly  make 
this  expiation  to  the  shade  of  our  illustrious 
countrjTnan. 

In  his  observations  on  Joseph  Warlon,  Mr. 
C.  resumes  the  controversy  about  the  poetical 
character  of  Pope,  upon  which  he  had  entered 
at  the  close  of  his  Essay ;  and  as  to  which 
we  hope  to  have  some  other  opportunity  of 
giving  our  opinions.  At  present,  however,  we 
must  hasten  to  a  conclusion;  and  shall  make 
our  last  extracts  from  the  notice  of  Cowper, 
which  is  drawn  up  on  somewhat  of  a  larger 
scale  than  any  other  in  the  work.  The  ab- 
stract of  his  life  is  given  with  great  tenderness 
and  beauty,  and  with  considerable  fulness  of 
detail.  But  the  remarks  on  his  poetry  are  the 
most  precious, — and  are  all  that  we  have  now 
room  to  borrow. 

"  The  nature  of  Cowper's  works  makes  us 
peculiarly  identify  the  poet  and  the  man  in  perusing 
them.  As  an  individual,  he  was  retired  and  weaned 
from  the  vanities  of  the  world  ;  and,  as  an  original 
writer,  he  left  the  ambitious  and  luxuriant  subjects 
of  fiction  and  passion,  for  those  of  real  life  and  sim- 
ple nature,  and  for  the  development  of  his  own 
earnest  feelings,  in  behalf  of  moral  and  religious 
truth.  His  language  has  such  a  masculine  idiom, 
atic  strength,  and  his  manner,  whether  he  rises 
into  grace  or  falls  into  negligence,  has  so  much 
plain  and  familiar  freedom,  that  we  read  no  poetry 
with  a  deeper  conviction  of  its  sentiments  having 
come  from  the  author's  heart;  and  of  the  enthu- 
siasm, in  whatever  he  describes,  having  been  un- 
feigned and  unexaggerated.  He  impresses  us  with 
the  idea  of  a  being,  whose  fine  spirit  had  been  long 
enough  in  the  mixed  society  of  the  world  to  be 
polished  by  its  intercourse,  and  yet  withdrawn  so 
soon  as  to  retain  an  unworldly  degree  of  purity  and 
simplicity.  He  was  advanced  in  years  before  he 
became  an  author;  but  his  compositions  display  a 
tenderness  of  feeling  so  youthfully  preserved,  and 
even  a  vein  of  humour  so  far  from  being  extinguished 
by  his  ascetic  habits,  that  we  can  scarcely  regret  his 
not  having  written  them  at  an  earlier  period  of  life. 
For  he  blends  the  determination  of  age  with  an 
exquisite  and  ingenuous  sensibility;  and  though  he 
sports  very  much  with  his  subjects,  yet,  when  he  is 
in  earnest,  there  is  a  gravity  of  long-felt  conviction 
in  his  sentiments,  which  gives  an  uncommon  ripe, 
ness  of  character  to  his  poetry. 

"It  is  due  to  Cowper  to  fix  our  regard  on  this 
unaffectedness  and  authenticity  of  his  works,  con- 
sidered as  representations  of  himself,  because  he 
forms  a  striWng  instance  of  genius  writing  the  his. 
tory  of  its  own  secluded  feelings,  reffections,  and 
enjoyments,  in  a  shape  so  interesting  as  to  engage 
the  imagination  like  a  work  of  fiction.  He  has  in- 
vented no  character  in  fable,  nor  in  the  drama  ;  but 
he  has  left  a  record  of  his  own  character,  whjrli 
forms  not  only  an  object  of  deep  sympathy,  but  u 
subject  for  tY.e  study  of  human  nature.  His  verso 
it  is  true,  corisidered  as  such  a  record,  abounds  with 
opposite  traits  of  severity  and  gentleness,  of  play- 
fulness and  superstition,  of  solemnity  and  ninth, 
which  appear  almost  anomalous  ;  and  there  is.  un- 
doubtedly, sometimes  an  air  of  moody  versatility  in 
the  extreme  contrasts  of  his  feelings.    But  looking 


t9H 


POETRY. 


to  his  poetry  as  an  entire  structure,  it  has  a  massive 
air  of  sincerity.  It  is  founded  in  steadfast  princi- 
ples of  belief;  and,  if  we  may  prolong  the  archi- 
tectural metaphor,  though  its  arches  may  be  some- 
times gloomy,  its  tracery  sportive,  and  its  lights  and 
shadows  grotesquely  crossed,  yet  altogether  it  still 
forms  a  vast,  various,  and  interesting  monument  of 
the  builder's  mind.  Young's  works  are  as  devout, 
as  satirical,  sometimes  as  merry,  as  those  of  Cow- 
per ;  and,  undoubtedly,  more  witty.  But  the  melan- 
choly and  wit  of  Young  do  not  make  up  to  us  the 
idea  of  a  conceivable  or  natural  being.  He  has 
sketched  in  his  pages  the  ingenious,  but  incongruous 
form  of  a  fictitious  mind — Cowper's  soul  speaks 
from  his  volumes." 

"  Considering  the  tenor  and  circumstances  of  his 
life,  it  is  not  much  to  be  wondered  at,  that  some 
asperities  and  peculiarities  should  have  adhered  to  the 
strong  stem  of  his  genius,  Uke  the  moss  and  fungus 
that  cling  to  some  noble  oak  of  the  forest,  amidst  the 
damps  of  its  unsunned  retirement.  It  is  more  sur- 
prising that  he  preserved,  in  such  seclusion,  so  much 
genuine  power  of  comic  observation.  There  is  much 
of  the  full  distinctness  of  Theophrastus,  and  of  the 
nervous  and  concise  spirit  of  La  Bruyere,  in  his 
piece  entitled  \Conversation,'  with  a  cast  of  humour 
superadded,  which  is  peculiarly  English,  and  not  to 
be  found  out  of  England." — V"ol.  vii.  4)p.  357,  358. 

Of  his  greatest  work,  The  Task,  he  after- 
wards observes, 

"  His  whimsical  outset  in  a  work,  where  he 
promises  so  little  and  performs  so  much,  may  be 
advantageously  contrasted  with  those  magnificent 
commencement  of  poems,  which  pledge  both  the 
reader  and  the  writer,  in  good  earnest,  to  a  task. 
Cowper's  poem,  on  the  contrary,  is  like  a  river, 
which  rises  from  a  playful  little  fountain,  and 
gathers  beauty  and  magnitude  as  it  proceeds.  He 
leads  us  abroad  into  his  daily  walks ;  he  exhibits 
the  landscapes  which  he  was  accustomed  to  con- 
template, and  the  trains  of  thought  in  which  he 
habitually  indulged.  No  attempt  is  made  to  in- 
terest us  in  legendary  fictions,  or  historical  recol- 
lections connected  with  the  ground  over  which  he 
expatiates;  all  is  plainness  and  reality:  But  we 
instantly  recognise  the  true  poet,  in  the  clearness, 
sweetness,  and  fidelity  of  his  scenic  draughts ;  in 
his  power  of  giving  novelty  to  what  is  common  ; 
and  in  the  high  relish,  the  exquisite  enjoyment  of 
rural  sights  and  sounds,  which  he  communicates 
to  the  spirit.  '  His  eyes  drink  the  rivers  with  de- 
hght.'  He  excites  an  idea,  that  almost  amounts  to 
sensation,  of  the  freshness  and  delight  of  a  rural 
walk,  even  when  he  leads  us  to  the  wasteful  com- 
mon, which 

'  Overgrown  with  fern,  and  rough 

With  prickly  gorse,  that,  shapeless  and  deform'd. 
And  dang'rous  to  the  touch,  has  yet  its  bloom. 
And  decks  itself  with  ornaments  of  gold. 
Yields  no  unpleasing  ramble.     There  the  turf 
Smells  fresh,  and,  rich  in  odoriProus  herbs 
And  fungous  fruits  of  earth,  regales  the  sense 
With  luxuries  of  unexpected  sweets.' 

"  His  rural  prospects  have  far  less  variety  and 
compass  than  those  of  Thomson  ;  but  his  graphic 
touches  are  more  close  and  minute :  not  that 
Thomson  was  either  deficient  or  undelightful  in 
circumstantial  traits  of  the  beauty  of  nature,  but 
he  looked  to  her  as  a  whole  more  than  Cowper. 
HiQ  genius  was  more  excursive  and  philosophical. 
The  poet  of  Olney,  on  the  contrary,  regarded 
human  philosophy  with  something  of  theological 
contempt.  To  his  eye,  the  great  and  little  things 
of  this  world  were  levelled  into  an  equality,  by  his 
recollection  of  the  power  and  purposes  of  Him 
who  made  them.  They  are,  in  his  view,  only  as 
toys  spread  on  the  lap  and  carpet  of  nature,  for 
this  childhood  of  our  immortal  being.  This  reli- 
gious indi.Terence  to  the  world  is  far,  indeed,  from 
blunting  hi<«  sensibility  to  the  genuine  and  simple  ' 


beauties  of  creation  ;  but  it  gives  hia  taste  o  oorv 
tentment  and  fellowship  with  humble  things.  It 
makes  him  careless  of  selecting  and  refining  his 
views  of  nature  beyond  their  actual  appearances. 
He  contemplated  the  face  of  plain  rural  English 
life,  in  moments  of  leisure  and  sensibility,  till  iti 
minutest  features  were  impressed  upon  his  fancy  ; 
and  he  sought  not  to  embellish  what  he  loved. 
Hence  his  landscapes  have  less  of  the  ideally  beau- 
tiful than  Thomson's ;  but  they  have  an  unrivalled 
charm  of  truth  and  reality. 

'*  He  is  one  of  the  few  poets,  who  have  indulged 
neither  in  descriptions  nor  acknowledgments  of 
the  passion  of  love  ;  but  there  is  no  poet  who  has 
given  us  a  finer  conception  of  the  amenity  of 
female  influence.  Of  all  the  verses  that  have  been 
ever  devoted  to  the  subject  of  domestic  happiness, 
those  in  his  winter  evening,  at  the  opening  of  the 
fourth  book  of  The  Task,  are  perhaps  the  most 
beautiful.  In  perusing  that  scene  of  '  intimate  de- 
lights,' '  fireside  enjoyments,'  and  '  home-born 
happiness,'  we  seem  to  recover  a  part  of  the  for- 
gotten value  of  existence  ;  when  we  recognise  the 
means  of  its  blessedness  so  widely  dispensed,  and 
so  cheaply  attainable,  and  find  them  susceptible 
of  description  at  once  so  enchanting  and  so  faithful. 

"  Though  the  "scenes  of  The  Task  are  laid  in 
retirement,  the  poem  affords  an  amusing  perspec- 
tive of  human  aflfairs.  Remote  as  the  poet  was 
from  the  stir  of  the  great  Babel,  from  the  '  con- 
fuscB  sonus  Urbis,  et  illcetabile  murmur,^  he  glances 
at  most  of  the  subjects  of  public  interest  which 
engaged  the  attention  of  his  contempcfraries.  On 
those  subjects,  it  is  but  faint  praise  to  say  that  he 
espoused  the  side  of  justice  and  humanity.  Abund- 
ance of  mediocrity  of  talent  is  to  be  found  on  the 
same  side,  rather  injuring  than  promoting  the 
cause,  by  its  officious  declamation.  But  nothing 
can  be  further  from  the  stale  commonplace  and 
cuckooism  of  sentiment,  than  the  philanthropic 
eloquence  of  Cowper — he  speaks  '  like  one  having 
authorijty.'  Society  is  his  debtor.  Poetical  expo. 
sitions  of  the  horrors  of  slavery  may,  indeed,  seem 
very  unlikely  agents  in  contributing  to  destroy  it ; 
and  it  is  possible  that  the  most  refined  planter  in 
the  West  Indies,  may  look  with  neither  shame 
nor  compunction  on  his  own  image  in  the  pages 
of  Cowper.  But  such  appeals  to  the  heart  of  the 
community  are  not  lost !  They  fix  themselves 
silently  in  the  popular  memory  ;  and  they  become, 
at  last,  a  part  of  that  public  opinion,  which  must, 
sooner  or  later,  wrench  the  lash  from  the  hand  of 
the  oppressor." — pp.  359 — 364. 

But  we  must  now  break  away  at  once  from 
this  delightful  occupation ;  and  take  our  final 
farewell  of  a  work,  in  which,  what  is  original, 
is  scarcely  less  valuable  than  what  is  repub- 
lished, and  in  which  the  genius  of  a  living 
Poet  has  shed  a  fresh  grace  over  the  fading 
glories  of  so  many  of  his  departed  brothers. 
VVe  wish  somebody  would  continue  the  work, 
by  furnishing  us  with  Specimens  of  our  Living 
Poets.  It  would  be  more  difficult,  to  be  sure, 
and  more  dangerous;  but,  in  some  respects, 
it  would  also  be  more  useful.  The  beautiea 
of  the  unequal  and  voluminous  writers  wouid 
be  more  conspicuous  in  a  selection ',  and  the 
different  styles  and  schools  of  poetry  would 
be  brought  into  fairer  and  nearer  terms  of 
comparison,  by  the  mere  juxtaposition  of  their 
best  productions ;  Avhile  a  better  and  clearet 
view  would  be  obtained,  both  of  the  general 
progress  and  apparent  tendencies  of  the  art, 
than  can  easily  be  gathered  from  the  separate 
study  of  each  important  production.  The 
mind  of  the  critic,  too,  would  be  at  once  en- 
lightened and  tranquillized  by  the  very  cr^at- 
ness  of  the  horizon   thus  subjected  to  bis 


FORD'S  DRAJVIATIC  WORKS. 


299 


«urvey ;  and  he  wouid  probably  regard,  both 
with  less  enthusiasm  and  less  offence,  those 
contrasted  and  compensating  beauties  and 
defects,  when  presented  together,  and  as  it 
were  in  combination,  than  he  can  ever  do 
when  they  come  upon  him  in  distinct  masses, 
ana  without  the  relief  and  softening  of  so  va- 
ried an  assemblage.  On  the  other  hand,  it 
cannot  be  dissembled,  that  such  a  work  would 
be  very  trying  to  the  unhappy  editor's  pro- 
phetic reputation,  as  well  as  to  his  imparti- 
ality and  temper ;  and  would,  at  all  events, 


subject  him  to  the  most  furious  imputations 
of  unfairness  and  malignity.  In  point  of 
courage  and  candour,  we  do  not  know  any- 
body  who  would  do  it  much  better  than 
ourselves!  And  if  Mr.  Campbell  could 
only  impart  to  us  a  fair  share  of  his  ele- 
gance, his  fine  perceptions,  and  his  con- 
ciseness, we  should  like  nothing  better  Inan 
to  suspend,  for  a  while,  these  periodical  lu- 
cubrations, and  furnish  out  a  gallery  of  Liv- 
ing Bards,  to  match  this  exhibition  of  ths 
Departed. 


(^lugtist,  ISn.) 


The  Dramatic  Works  0/ John  Ford;  with  an  Introduction  and  Explanatory  Notes.    By  Henry 
Weber,  Esq.     2  vols.  8vo.  pp.  950.     Edinburgh  and  London:  1811. 


All  true  lovers  of  Enghsh  poetry  ha^e 
been  long  in. 103^6,  with  the  dramatists  of 
"the  ~tme .  ,of_ JElizabeth  and  James;  and 
must  liave  been  sensibly^comforted  by  Jheir 
ilaJt^e  restoration  to  some  degree  of  favour 
'and^ojtp.i-iety.  If  there  was  any  good  rea- 
eon^'mdeed,  to  believe  that  the  notice  which 
they  have  recently  attracted  proceeded  from 
any  thing  but  that  indiscriminate  rage  for 
editing  and  annotating  by  which  the  present 
times  are  so  happily  distinguished,  we  should 
be  disposed  to  hail  it  as  the  most  unequivocal 
s}'mptom  of  improvement  in  public  taste  that 
has  yet  occurred  to  reward  and  animate  our 
labours.  At  all  events,  however,  it  gives  us 
a  chance  for  such  an  improvement ;  by  placing 
in  the  hands  of  many,  who  would  not  other- 
wise have  heard  of  them,  some  of  those  beau- 
tiful performances  which  we  have  always 
regarded  as  among  the  most  pleasing  and 
characteristic  productions  of  our  native  genius. 

Ford  certainly  is  not  the  best  of  those  ne- 
glected writers, — nor  Mr.  Weber  by  any  means 
the  best  of  their  recent  editors :  But  we  cannot 
resist  the  opportunity  which  this  publication 
seems  to  afford,  of  saying  a  word  or  two  of 
class  -of-jarriters^  whom  we  have  long  wor- 
shrgj;ied-  in  secret  with  a  sort  of  idolatrous 
veneration,  and  now  find  once  more  brought 
forward  as  candidates  for  public  applause. 
The  sj-gi,  to  which  they  belong,  indeed,  has 
always  a^BBfiaJ^djo  us  by  far  the  brightest  ip 
the  history  of  Eriglish  literature. — or  indeed 
of  human  intellect  and  capacity.  There 
never  was,  any  where,  any  thing  like  the 
sixty  or  seventy  years  that  elapsed  from  the 
middle  of  Elizabeth's  reig-n  to  the  period  of 
the  Restoration.  In  point  of  real  force  and 
originality  of  genius,  neither  the  age  of  Peri- 
cles, nor  the  age  of  Augustus,  nor  the  times 
of  Leo  X,,  nor  of  Louis  XIV.,  can  come  at  all 
.nto  comparison:  J^oTj  in  that  short  period, 
we  shall  find  the  names  of  almost  aTTTfie 
very  great" rrien  that  this  nation  has  ever 
RSlu£ecl,--the  names'  of  Shakespeare,  and 
Bacon,  and  Spenser,  and  Sydney,  —  and 
fiooTier,  and  Taylor,  and  Barrow,  and  Raleigh, 


T-and  Nagierjand_Miltonj,  and  Cudworth, 
and~KKEB'es,  and^many  otEers ;— men.  all  of 
them,  not  merely  of  great  talents  and  ac-^ 
complishnieiits,  but  of  vast  compass  and 
reach  of  understanding,  and  of  minds  truly 
creative  and  original ; — not  perfecting  art  by 
the  delicacy  of  their  taste,  or  digesting  know- 
ledge by  the  justness  of  their  reasonings ;  but 
making  vast  and  substantial  additions  to  the 
materials  upon  which  taste  and  reason  must  / 
hereafter  be  employed, — and  enlarging,  to  an 
incredible  and  unparalleled  extent,  both  the 
stores  and  the  resources  of  the  human  facul 
ties. 

Whether  the  brisk  concussion  which  was 
given  to  men's  minds  by  the  force  of  the 
Reformation  had  much  effect  in  producing 
this  sudden  development  of  British  genius, 
we  cannot  undertake  to  determine.  For  our 
own  part,  we  should  be  rather  inclined  to 
hold,  that  the  Reformation  itself  was  but  one 
symptom  or  effect  of  that  great  spirit  of  pro- 
gression and  improvement  which  had  been 
set  in  operation  by  deeper  and  more  genera] 
causes;  and  which  afterwards  blossomed  out 
this  splendid  harvest  of  authorship.  But 
whatever  may  have  been  the  causes  that 
determined  the  appearance  of  those  great 
works,  the  fact  is  certain,  not  only  that  they 
appeared  together  in  great  numbers,  but  that 
they  possessed  a  common  character,  which, 
in  spite  of  the  great  diversity  of  their  sub- 
jects and  designs,  would  have  made  them  be 
classed  together  as  the  works  of  the  same 
order  or  description  of  men,  even  if  they  had 
appeared  at  the  most  distant  intervals  of 
time.  They  are  the  works  of^Giants,  in 
short, — and  of  Giants  or~oiie  nallbif  and 
family  :-^and  jheir  characteristics  ^^'^(^^real 
foree.  boldness^  ^Jld..QngJ'.l^]iJ!^^y  V  togetEer  A\-Tt1i 
a  certain"" raciness  of  Eng-lisli  peculiarity,"-' 
which  distinguishes  them  from  all  those  per- 
formances that  have  since  been  produced 
among  ourselves,  upon  a  more  vague  and 
general  idea  of  European  excellence.  Theii 
sudden  ajipearance,  indeed,  in  all  this  ppleii^ 
d'our^ofiiaiive  luxriiance,  can  only  be  am. 


^  -into 


dCO 


POETRY. 


-i 


pared  to  what  happens  on  the  breaking  up  of 
a  virgin  soil, — where  all  the  indigenous  plants 
spring  up  at  once  with  a  rank  and  irrepressi- 
ble fertility,  and  display  whatever  is  peculiar 
or  excellent  in  their  nature,  on  a  scale  the 
most  conspicuous  and  magnificent.  The  crops 
are  not  indeed  so  clean,  as  where  a  more 
exhausted  mould  has  been  stimulated  by 
systematic  cultivation ',  nor  so  profitable,  as 
where  their  quality  has  been  varied  by  a 
judicious  admixture  of  exotics,  and  accom- 
modated to  the  demands  of  the  universe  by 
the  combinations  of  an  unlimited  trade.  But 
to  those  whose  chief  object  of  admiration  is 
the  living  power  and  energy  of  vegetation, 
and  who  take  delight  in  contemplating  the 
various  forms  of  her  unforced  and  natural 
perfection,  no  spectacle  can  be  more  rich, 
splgn^id,  or  attractive. 

In  tlie  times  of  which  we  are  speaking, 
classical  learning,  though  it  had  made  great 
progress,  had  by  no  means  become  an  exclu- 
sive study-  and  the  ancients  had  not  yet 
been  permitted  to  subdue  men's  minds  to  a 
sense  of  hopeless  inferiority,  or  to  condemn 
the  moderns  to  the  lot  of  humble  imitators. 
^Jhey  were  resorted  to,  rather  to  furnish  ma- 
terials and  occasional  ornaments,  than  as 
models  for  the  general  style  of  composition; 
and,  while  they  enriched  the  imagination,  and 
\nsensibly  improved  the  taste  of  their  suc- 
jjessors,  they  did  not  at  all  restrain  their  free- 
dom, or  impair  their  originality.  No  common 
standard  had  yet  beerP^FBCfed,  to  which  all 
the  works  of  JEuropean  genius  were  required 
to  conform ;  and  no  general  authority  was 
acknowledged,  by  which  all  private  or  local 
ideas  of  excellence  must  submit  to  be  cor- 
rected. Both  readers  and  authors  were  com- 
paratively few  in  number.  The  former  were 
infinitely  less  critical  and  difficult  than  they 
have  since  become;  and  the  latter,  if  they 
were  not  less  solicitous  about  fame,  were  at 
least  much  less  jealous  and  timid  as  to  the 
hazards  which  attended  its  pursuit.  Men, 
indeed,  seldom  took  to  writing  in  those  days, 
unless  they  had  a  great  deal  of  matter  to 
communicate:  and  neither  imagined  that 
they  could  make  a  reputation  by  delivering 
commonplaces  in  an  elegant  m'^nner,  or  that 
the  substantial  value  of  their  sentiments 
would  be  disregarded  for  a  little  rudeness  or 
negligence  in  the  finishing.  They  were 
habituated,  therefore,  both  to  depend  upon 
their  own  resources,  and  to  draw  upon  them 
without  fear  or  anxiety;  and  followed  the 
dictates  of  their  own  taste  and  judgment, 
without  standing  much  in  awe  of  the  ancients, 
of  their  readers,  or  of  each  other. 

The  achievements  of  Bacon,  and  those  who 
set  free  our  understandi^igs  from  the  shackles 
of  Papal  and  of  tyrannical  imposition,  afford 
sufficient  evidenceof  the  benefit  which  re- 
sulted to  the  re^sTsoning  faculties  from  this 
happy  independence  of  the  first  great  wri- 
ters of  this  nafion.  But  its  advantages  were, 
if  possible,  still  more  conspicuous  in  the  more 
literary  charajcter  of  their  productions.  The 
quantity  of  bright  thoughts,  of  original  images, 
and  splendid  Expressions,  whichtKey  poured 


forth  upon  every  occasion,  and  by  which  they 
illuminated  and  adorned  the  darkest  and  mosJ 
rugged  topics  to  which  they  had  happened  to 
turn  themselves,  is  such  as  has  never  been 
equalled  in  any  other  age  or  country;  and 
places  them  at  least  as  high,  in  point  of  - 
fancy  and  imagination,  as  of  force  of  reason, 
or  comprehensiveness  of  understanding.  In 
this  highest  and  most  comprehensive  sense 
of  the  word,  a  great  proportion  of  the  writers 
we  have  alluded  to  were  Poets :  and,  without 
going  to  those  who  composed  in  metre,  and 
chiefly  for  purposes  of  delight,  we  will  ven*- 
ture  to  assert,  that  there  is  in  any  one  of  the 
prose  folios  of  Jeremy  Taylor  more  fine  fancy 
and  original  irgagery — more  brilliant  concep- 
tions an^~glowmg  expressions — more  new 
figures,  and  new  applications  of  old  fi^giires — 
more,  in  short,  of  the  body  and  the  soul  of 
poetry,  than  in  all  the  odes  and  the  epics  that 
have  since  been  produced  in  Europe.  There 
are  large  portions  of  Barrow,  and  of  Hooker 
and  Bacon,  of  which  we  may  say  nearly  as 
much :  nor  can  any  one  have  a  tolerably  ade- 
quate idea  of  the  riches  of  our  language  and 
our  native  genius,  who  has  not  made  himself 
acquainted  with  the  prose  writers,  as  well  as 
the  poets,  of  this  memorable  period. 

The^civUjv&X?;  ^"<^1  ^^he  fanaticism  by  which 
they  were  fostered,  checked  all  this,fine  bloom 
of  the  imagination,  and  gave  a  different  and 
less  attractive  character  to  the  energies  which 
they  could  not  extinguish.  Yet,  those  were 
the  times  that  matured  and  drew  forth  the 
dark,  but  powerful  genius  of  such  men  as 
Cromwell,  and  Harrison,  and  Fleetwood,  &c. 
— the  milder  and  more  generous  enthusiasm 
of  Blake,  and  Hutchison,  and  Hampden — 
and  the  stirring  and  indefatigable  spirit  of 
Pym,  and  Hollis,  and  Vane — and  the  chival- 
rous and  accomplished  loyalty  of  Strafford  and 
Falkland ;  at  the  same  time  that  they  stimu- 
lated and  repaid  the  severer  studies  of  Coke, 
and  Selden,  and  Milton.  The  Drama,  how- 
ever, was  entirely  destoyed,  and  has  never 
since  regained  its  honours;  and  Poetry,  in 
general,  lost  its  ease,  and  its  majesty  and 
force,  along  with  its  copiousness  and  origi- 
nality. 

The  Restoration  made  things  still  worse : 
for  it  ^ro'ke  "down  the  barriei's  of  our  literary 
independence,  and  reduced  us  to  a  province 
of  the  great  republic  of  Europe.  The  genius 
and  fancy  which  lingered  through  the  usur- 
pation, though  soured  and  blighted  by  the 
severities  of  that  inclement  season,  were  still 
genuine  English  genius  and  fancy;  and 
owned  no  allegiance  to  any  foreign  authori- 
ties. But  the^ggtoration  brought  in  a  French 
taste  uppn  ns,  and  what  was  calfocl  a  classical 
and  a  poljtejaste  ;  and  the  wingsof  our'ETig'- 
lish "Muses  were  clippc(J^,^rmd_Jj;ijriiiu^(1.  {\i\3lZ 

Lhoir  fiights  regulated  at  the  e.xpciisc  ot  al] 

that  was, peculiar,  and  much  of  what  was 
brightest  in  their  beauty.  The  King  and  hit 
courtiers^  during  their  long  exile,' haH  of  course 
imbiBed  the  taste  of  their  protectors;  and, 
comiiis .  f rpjtii  ihe_4^.£Q.u rt  of  France,  with 
something  of  that  additional  proBlgacy  that 
belonged   to   their   outcast   and    adventurei 


FORD'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS. 


301 


character,  were  likely  enough  to  be  revolted 
by  the  peculiarities,  and  by  the  very  excel- 
lences, of  our  native  literature.  The  grand 
and  sublime  tone  of  our  g-reater  poets,  ap- 
peared to.  them  dull,  moiose,  and  gloomy; 
£nd  the  fine  play  of  their  rich  and  unre- 
,_BtraIned  fancy,  mere  childishness  and  folly : 
while  their  frequent  lapses  and  perpetual  ir- 
r^iirarity  wer&  set  down  as  clear  indications 
of  barbarity  and  ignorance.  Such  sentiments, 
too,  M'ere  natural,  we  must  admit,  for  a  few 
dissipated  and  witty  men,  accustomed  all 
their  days  to  the  regulated  splendour  of  a 
court — to  the  guy  and  heartless  gallantry  of 
French  manners — and  to  the  imposing  pomp 
and  brilliant  regularity  of  French  poetry. 
Biiit,  it  may  appear  somewhat  more  unac- 
countable that  they  should  have  been  able  to 
impose  their  sentiments  upon  the  great  body 
of  the  nation.  A  court,  indeed,  never  has  so 
much  influence  as  at  the  moment  of  a  resto- 
ration :  but  the  influence  of  an  English  court 
has  been  but  rarely  discernible  in  the  litera- 
ture of  the  country  ]  and  had  it  not  been  for 
the  peculiar  circumstances  in  which  the  nation 
was  then  placed,  we  believe  it  would  have 
resisted  this  aUempt  to  naturalise  fpreigii  no- 
tions, as  sturciiiy  as  it  was  done  on  almost 
every  other  occasion. 

At  this  particular  moment,  however,  the 
native  literature  of  the  country  had  been  sunk 
into  a  very  low  and  feeble  state  by  the  rigours 
of  the  usurpation, — the  best  of  its  recent 
models  laboured  under  the  reproach  of  re- 
publicanism,— and  the  courtiers  were  not  only 
disposed  to  see  all  its  peculiarities  with  an 
eye  of  scorn  and  aversion,  but  had  even  a 
good  deal  to  say  in  favour  of  that  very  oppo- 
site style  to  which  they  had  been  habituated. 
Itjwas  a  witty,  and  a  grand,  and  a  splendid 
st^lej^.It^owed_jnpxe..,  §piiplarship  and  art. 
TMinthe  luxuriant  negligence  of  the  old 
Eiglisli  school;  and  was  not  only  fr-efe^-from 
many  of  its  hazards  and  .som©-of  its  faults,, 
but  possessed  merits  of  its  own,  of  a  charac- 
ter more  likely  to  please  those  who  had  then 
the  power  of  conferring  celebrity,  or  con- 
demning to  derision.  Then  it  was  a  style 
which  it  M-as  peculiarly  easy  to  justify  by 
argument ;  and  in  support  of  which  great 
authorities,  as  well  as  imposing  reasons,  w^ere 
alvyays  ready  to  be  produced.  H  came  upon., 
us  with  the  air  and  the  pretension  oT15eing  the' 
glfivated  Europe,  and  a  true  copy 
England, 


^^^^^^^^tie  style  of  polished  antiquity 
on  the  other  hand,  had  had  but  little  inter- 
course with  the  rest  of  the  world  for  a  con- 
siderable period  of  tune  :  Her  language  was 
not  at  all  studied  on  the  Continent,  and  her 
native  authors  had  not  been  taken  into  account 
in  foraiing  those  ideal  standards  of  excellence 
which  had  been  recently  constructed  in  France 
and  Italy  upon  the  authority  of  the  Roman 
classics,  and  of  their  own  most  celebrated 
writers.  When  the  comparison  came  to  be 
made,  therefore,  it  is  easy  to  imagine  that  it 
should  generally  be  thought  to  be  very  much 
to  our  disadvantage,  and  to  understand  how 
the  great  multitude,  even  among  ourselves, 
should  be  dazzled  with  the  pretensions  of  the 


fashionable  style  of  writing,  and  actuahy  feei 
ashamed  of  their  own  richer  and  more  varied 
productions. 

It  would  greatly  exceed  our  limits  to  de- 
scribe accurately  the  particulars  in  which 
this  new  Continental  style  difl'ered  from  our 
old  insular  one :  But,  for  our  present  purpose, 
it  may  be  enough  perhaps  to  say,  that  it  was 
niore  worldly,  and  more  townish, — holdiiig. 
more  qf  reason,  and  ridicule,  and  authority- 
more  elaborate  and  more  assuming — addiess- 
Qii^jjiora  to  the  judgment  than  to  the  feelings, 
and  somewhat  ostentatiously  accommodated 
to  the  habits,  or  supposed  habits,  of  persons 
ifl,. fashionable  life.^.,_  Instead  of  tenderness  and 
fancy,  we  had  satire  and  sophistry — aitificial 
declamation,  in  place  of  the  spontaneous  ani- 
mation  of  genius— and  for  the  universal  lan- 
guage of  Shakespeare,  the  personalities,  the 
party  pohtics,  and  "the  brutal  obscenities  of 
Dryden.  Nothing^  indeed,  can  better  charac- 
terize the  change  which  had  taken  place  in 
our_naliQnal  taste^  than  the  alterations  and 
additions  Avhich  this  eminent  person  presumed 
— and  thought  it  necessary — to  make  on  the 
jgToductions  of  Shakespeare  and  Milton.  The 
heaviness,  the  coarseness,  and  the  bombast 
of  that  abominable  travestie,  in  which  he  has 
exhibited  the  Paradise  Lostjn  the  form  of  an 
opera,  and  the  atrocious  indelicacy  and  com- 
passionable  stupidity  of  the  new  characters 
v/ith  which  he  has  polluted  the  enchanted 
solitude  of  Miranda  and  Prospero  in  the 
Xempest,  are  such  instances  of  degeneracy 
as  we  would  be  apt  to  impute  rather  to  some 
transient  hallucination  in  the  author  himself, 
than  to  the  general  prevalence  of  any  syi5- 
.tematic  bad  taste  in  the  public,  did  we  not 
know  that  Wycherly  and  his  coadjutors  were 
In  the  habit  of  converting  the  neglected  dramas 
of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  into  popular  plays, 
merely  by  leaving  out  all  the  romantic  sweet-' 
ness  of  their  characters — turning  their  melo- 
dious blank  verse  into  vulgar  prose — ^ancl. 
aggravating  the  indelicacy  of  their  lower 
characters^  by  lending  a  more  disgusting 
indecency  to  tbe  whole  dramatis  persona." 

Pryden  was,  beyond   all   comparison,  tlie 
greatest  poet  of  his  own  day ;  and,  endued 
as   he  was  wdth  a  vigorous  and   discursive 
imagination,  and  possessing  a  mastery  ovei 
Jiisjanguage  which  no  later  writer  has  at- 
tained, if  he  had  known  nothing  of  foreign 
literature,  and  been  left  to  form  himself  on 
the  ^models    of    Shakespeare,   Spenser,   and  / 
Milton ;   or  if  he  had  lived  in   the  country,  \ 
at  a  distance  from  the  pollutions  of  courts, 
factions,  and  playhouses,  there,  is  reason  Jo 
.^ink.,that  he  would  have  built  up  the'.pufe"    \   ^ 
aiiH  original  school  of  English  poetry  ^ofirmlj^.      / 
"asloTraveTnade  it  impossible  for  fasEon^oTx  ( 
caprice,  or  prejudice  of  any  sort,  ever  to  have    \ 
rendered  a^y  other  popular  among  our  own 
inhabitants.'^  "'As  if  is,  he  has  not  written  one    j\ 
line  that' is  pathetic,  and  very  few  that  c^j\^/^ 
be  considered  as  sublime.  '  y' 

Addison^  however,  was  the  consummation 
Qf_jhi§  Continental  stylg^,  and  if  it  had  nc: 
JiSSn.redeemed  about  the  same  time  by  the 
^e  talents  of  Pope,  would  probabl}'  have  so 


S02 


POETRY. 


far  discredited  it,  as  to  have  brought  us  back 
^o  our  original  faith  half  a  century  ago.  The 
extreme  caution,  timidity,  and  flatness  of  this 
author  in  his  poetical  compositions — the  nar- 
rowness of  his  range  in  poetical  sentiment 
and  diction,  and  the  utter  want  either  of  pas- 
sion or  of  brilliancy,  render  it  difficult  to  be- 
lieve that  he  was  born  under  the  same  sun 
with  Shakespeare,  and  wrote  but  a  century 
after  him.  His  fame,  at  this  day  stands  solely 
upon  the  \ielicacyjthe  modest  gaiety,  and  in- 
genious "plirity  ofrii8~' prose  style; — for  the 
occasional  elegance  and  small  ingenuity  of 
his  poems  can  never  redeem  the  poverty 
of  their  diction,  and  the  tameness  of  their 
conception.  ..^ope^ha^  incomjiMaHy_]rQO^^^ 
spirit  and  taste  and  jxdmaJtiou :  but  Pope  is  a 
satirist,  andlTrnbralist.  and  a  wit.  and  a  critic, 
and  a  fine  writer,  much  more  than  he  is  a 
poet.  He  has  all  the  delicacies  and  proprie- 
ties and  felicities  of  diction-^-but  he  has  not  a 
great  deal  of  fancy,  and  scarcely  ever  touches 
any  of  the  greater  passions.  He  is  much  the 
best,  we  think,  of  the  classical  Continental 
school ;  but  he  is  not  to  be  compared  with  the 
masters — nor  with  the  pupils — of  that  Old 
English  one  from  which  there  had  been  so 
lamentable  an  apostacy.  There  are  no  pic- 
tures of  nature  or  of  simple  emotion  in  all  his 
writings.  He  is  the  poet  of  town  life,  and  of 
high  life,  and  of  literary  life ;  and  seems  so 
much  afraid  of  incurring  ridicule  by  the  dis- 
play of  natural  feeling  or  unregulated  fancy, 
■that  it  is  difficult  not  to  imagine  that  he  would 
liave  thought  such  ridicule  very  well  directed. 
The  best  of  what  we  copied  from  the  Con- 
tinental poets,  on  this  desertion  of  our  own 
great  originals,  is  to  be.  found,  perhaps,  in  the 
lighter  pieces  of  Prior.  That  tone  of  polite 
raillery — that  airy,  rapid,  picturesque  narra- 
tive, rnixed  up  with  wit  and  naivete — that 
style,  in  short,  of  good  conversation  conceiitra- 
ted  i;ito  flowing  and  polished  veis£is.,.was  not 
withiii.the  vein  of  our  native  pQ.ets ;  and  prob- 
ably never  would  have  been  known  among 
us,  if  we  had  been  left  to  our  own  resources. 
It  is  lamentable  that  this,  which  alone  was 
worth  borrowing,  is  the  only  thing  which  hgs 
Jot  been  retained.  The  tales  and  little  apol- 
ogues of  Prior  are  still  the  only  examples  of 
this  style  in  our  language. 

JWj.th.the  wits  of  Queen  Anne  this  foreign 
jchool  attained  the  summit  of  its  reputation ; 
and  has  ever  since,  we  think,  been  declining, 
'*  though  by  slow  and. almost  imperceptible 
gradations.  Thomson  wag  ^the  first  waiter  of 
any  eminence  who 'seceded  from  it,  and  made 
some  steps  back  to  the  force  and  animation 
of  our  original  poetry.,  Thomson,  however, 
was  educated  in  Scotland,  where  the  new 
style,  we  believe,  had  not  yet  become  famil- 
iar ',  and  lived,  for  a  long  time,  a  retired  and 
unambitious  life,  with  very  little  intercourse 
with  those  wdio  gave  the  tone  in  literature  at 
the  period  of  his  first  appearance.  Thomson, 
accordingly,  has  always  been  popular  with  a 
much  wider  circle  of  readers,  than  either 
Pope  or  Addison;  and,  in  spite  of  consid- 
erable vulgarity  and  signal  cumbrousness 
uf  diction^  has  drawn,  even  from  the  fas- 


tidious, a  much  deeper  and  more  heartfelt 
admiration. 

Young  exhibits,  we  think,  a  curious  com- 
bination, or  contrast  rather,  of  the  two  styles 
of  which  we  have  been  speaking.  Thouglf" 
incapable  either  of  tenderness  or  passion,  he 
liad  a  richness  and  activity  of  fancy  that  be- 
longed rather  to  the  days  of  James  and  Eliza- 
beth, than  to  those  of  George  and  AiiiU£j — 
But  then,  instead  of  indulging  it^jts  the  older 
writers  would  have  done,  in  easy  and  playful_ 
inventions^  in  splendid  descriptions,  oFgtow- 
ing  illustrations,  he  was  led,  by  the  restraints 
and  established  taste  of  his  age,  to  work  it  up 
into  strange  and  fantastical  epigrams^or  mXO' 
sold  and  revolting  hyperboles.  Instead  of" 
letting  it  flow  gracefully  on,  in  an  easy  and 
sparkling  current,  he  perpetually  forces  it  out 
in  jets,  or  makes  it  stagnate  in  formal  canals; 
and  thinking  it  necessary  to  write  like  Pope,' 
when  the  bent  of  his  genius  led  him  rather 
to  copy  what  was  best  in  Cowdey  and  most 
fantastic  in  Shakespeare,  he  has  produced 
something  which  excites  wonder  instead  of 
admiration,  and  is  felt  by  every  one  to  be  at 
once  ingenious,  incongruous,  and  unnatural. 

After.Young,  there  w^as  a  plentiful  lack  of 
poetical  talent,  down  to  a  period  comparatively 
recent.  Akenside  and  Gray,  indeed,  in  the 
interval,  discovered  a  new  way  of  imitating 
the  ancients ; — and  Collins  and  Goldsmith  pro- 
duced some  small  specimens  of  exquisite  and 
original  poetry.  At  last,  Cowper  threw  off  the 
whole  trammels  of  French  criticism  and  arti- 
ficial refinement ;  and,  setting  at  defiance  all 
the  imaginary  requisites  of  poetical  diction 
and  classical  imagery — dignity  of  style,  and 
politeness  of  phraseology — ventured  to  write 
again  with  the  force  and  the  freedom  which 
had  characterised  the  old  school  of  English 
literature,  and  been  so  unhappily  sacrificed, 
upwards  of  a  century  before.  Cowper  had 
many  faults,  and  some  radical  deficiencies ; 
—but  this  atoned  for  all.  There  Mas  some- 
thing so  delightfully  refreshing,  in  seeing 
natural  phrases  and  natural  linages  again  dis- 
playing, their  unforced  graces,  and  waving 
their  unpruned  heads  in  the  enchanted  gar- 
dens of  poetry,  that  no  one  complained  of  the 
taste  displayed  in  the  selection ; — and  Cow- 
per is,  and  is  likely  to  continue,  the  most 
popular  of  all  who  have  written  for  the  present 
or  the  last  generation. 

Of  the  poQts  who  have  corne  afte^  Ifim^we 
cannot,  indeed,  say  that  they  have  attacHeST 
themselves  to  the  school  of  Pope  and  Addt^ 
son ;  or  that  they  have  even  failed  to  show  a 
much  stronger  predilection  for  the  native  bejau- 
ties  of  their  great  predecessors.  Southe^ 
arid  Wordsworth,  and  Coleridge,  and  Miss 
Baillie,  have  !all  qI  them  copied  the  manner 
of  our  older  poets ;  and,  along  w^ith  tHis  indi- 
cation'of  good  taste,  have  given  greaf'"pfoofs_  i 
of  original  genius.  The  misfortune  iSjThat 
their  copies  of  those  great  originals  arallaHip 

tp.tljL£.cha.rge  of  extreme  affectatioo- They 

dp..nat.  write  es  those  great  poets  \ypuld  have 
written :  they  merely  mimic  their  mannerj^nd 
ape /their  peculjawties  i — and  consequentlj^^ 
though  they  profess  to  imitate  the  freest  and 


FORD'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS. 


30» 


most  careless  of  all  versifiers,  their  style  is 
more  remarkably  and  offensively  artificial 
than  tliat  of  any  other  class  of  writers.  They 
have  mixed  in,  too,  so  much  of  the  mawkish 
tone^of  jpastoral  innocence  and  babyish  sim- 
^glicity^wlth  a  sort  of  pedantic  emphasis  and 


ostentatioiis  glitterj  that  it  is  difhcult  not  to 
be  disgusted  with  their  perversity,  and  with 
the  solemn  self-complacency,  and  keen  and 
vindictive  jealousy,  with  which  they  j;iave  put 
in  their  claims  on  public  admiration.  But  we 
have  said  enough  elsewhere  of  the  faults  of 
those  authors ',  and  shall  only  add,  at  present, 
that,  notwithstanding  all  these  faults,  there  is 
a  fertility  and  a  force,  a  warmth  of  feeling 
and  an  exaltation  of  imagination  about  them, 
which  classes  them,  in  our  estimation,  with 
a'inuch  higher  order  of  poets  than  the  fol- 
lowers of  Dryden  and  Addison  ;  and  justifies 
an  anxiety  for  their  fame,  in  all  the  admirers 
of  Milton  and  Shakespeare. 

Of  Scott,  or  of  Campbell,  we  need  scarcely 
say  any  thing,  with  reference  to  our  present 
object,  after  the  very  copious  accounts  we 
have  given  of  them  on  former  occasions.  The 
former  professes  to  copy  something  a  good 
deal  older  than  what  we  consider  as  the  golden 
age  of  English  poetry, — and,  in  reality,  has 
copied  every  style,  and  borrowed  from  every 
manner  that  has  prevailed,  from  the  times  of 
Chaucer  to  his  own ; — illuminating  and  unit- 
ing, if  not  harmonizing  them  all,  by  a  force 
of  colouring,  and  a  rapidity  of  succession, 
which  is  not  to  be  met  with  in  any  of  his 
many  models.  The  latter,  we  think,  can 
scarcely  be  said  to  have  copied  his  pathos,  or 
his  energy,  from  any  models  whatever,  either 
recent  or  early.  The  exquisite  harmony  of 
his  versification  is  elaborated,  perhaps,  from 
the  Castle  of  Indolence  of  Thomson,  and  the 
serious  pieces  of  Goldsmith; — and  it  seems 
to  be  his  misfortune,  not  to  be  able  to  reconcile 
himself  to  any  thing  which  he  cannot  reduce 
within  the  limits  of  this  elaborate  haraiony. 
This  extreme  fastidiousness,  and  the  limita- 
tion of  his  efforts  to  themes  of  unbroken  ten- 
derness or  sublimity,  distinguish  him  from  the 
3areless,  prolific,  and  miscellaneous  authors 
of  our  primitive  poetry; — while  the  enchant- 
ing softness  of  his  pathetic  passages,  ^nd  the 
power  and  originality  of  his  more  sublime 
conceptions,  place  him  at  a  still  greater  dis- 
tance from  the  wits,  as  they  truly  called 
themselves,  of  Charles  II.  and  Queen  Anne. 

We  do  not  know  what  other  apology  to 
offer  for  this  hast^^,  and,  we  fear,  tedious 
sketch  of .the^  Kigtory  pf ,  our  poetry^  but  that 
it  appeared  to  us  to  be  necessary,  in  order  to 
explain  the  peculiar  merit  of  that  class  of 
writers  to  which  the  author  before  us  belongs ; 
and  that  it  will  very  greatly  shorten  what  we 
have  still  to  say  on  the  characteristics  of  our 
older  dramatists.  _An  ppjinion  prgv^jilg^  very 
generally  on  the  Continent,  and  with  forelgn- 
~bfe3~scnbTars'*ainbTTg~(ntrseTv^^^  ourha- 

liprml..taste  hasbeen  corrupted'chiefly  by  our 
doiatry  of  Shakespeare  ; — and  that  it  is  our 
patriotic  and  traditional  admiration  of  that 
singTilar  writer,  that  reconcilesus  to  the.mon- 
w'.rous  comoound  of  faults  and  beauties  that 


occur  in  his  performances,  and  Tnust  to  alJ 
impartial  judges  appear  quite  absurd  and 
uhhatural.  Before  entering  upon  the  charac- 
ter of  a  contemporary  dramatist,  it  was  of 
some  importance,  therefore,  to  show  that 
there  was  a  distinct,  original,  and  independent 
school  of  literature  in  England  in  the  time  of 
Shakespeare  :  to  the  geneial  tone  of  whose 
productions  his  works  were  sufficiently,  con- 
formable ;  and  that  it  \vas  owing  to  circum- 
stances in  a  great  measure  accidental,  that  this 
native  school  was  superseded  about  the  time 
of  the  Restoration,  and  a  foreign  standard  of  ex- 
cellence intruded  on  us,  not  in  the  drama  only, 
but  in  every  other  department  of  poetry.  This 
new  style  of  composition,  however,  though 
adorned  and  recommended  by  the  splendid 
talents  of  many  of  its  followers,  Mas  never 
perfectly  naturalised,  we  think,  in  this  coun- 
try ;  and  has  ceased,  in  a  great  measure,  to 
be  cultivated  by  those  who  have  lately  aimed 
with  the  greatest  success  at  the  higher  hon- 
ours of  poetry.  Our  bv^^of .  Shakespeare, 
therefore,  is  not  a  monomania  or  solitary  and 
unaccountable  infatuation  ;  but  is  merely  the 
natural  love  which  all  men  bear  to  those  forms 
aTexcellence  that  are  accommodated  to  their  , 
peculiar  character,  temperament,  and  situa-  ' 
tfon  ;  and  which  will  always  return,  and  assert  ' 
its  power  over  their  affections,  long  after 
authority  has  lost  its  reverence,  fashions  been 
antiquated,  and  artificial  tastes  passed  away. 
In  endeavouring,  therefore,  to  bespeak  some 
share  of  favour  for  such  of  his  contemporaries 
as  had  fallen  out  of  notice,  during  the  preva- 
lence of  an  imported  literature,  we  conceive 
that  we  are  only  enlarging  that  foundation  of 
native  genius  on  which  alone  any  lasting 
superstructure  can  be  raised,  and  invigorating 
that  deep-rooted  stock  upon  which  all  the 
perennial  blossoms  of  our  literature  must  still 
be  engrafted. 

The  notoriety  of  Shakespeare  may  seem  to 
make  it  superfmous^to  speaK  of  the  peculiari 
ties  of  those  old  dramatists^  of  whom  he  will 
be  adrnitted  to  be"  so  worthy  a  representative. 
Nor  shall  we  venture  to  say  any  thing  of  the 
confusipn  of  their  plots,  the  disorders  of  tKeii  ^ 
chronology,  their  contempt  of  the  unities,  or  I 
their  imperfect   discrimination   between  thef 
provinces  of  Tragedy  and  Comed;^.__^Yetj[here^ 
are  characteristics  which  the  lovers 'oniiera- 
ture  may  not  be  displeased  to  find  enumerated, 
and  M:hich  may  constitute  no  dishonourable 
distinction  for  the  whole  fraternity,  independ- 
ent of  the  splendid  talents  and  incommunica- 
ble graces  of  their  great  chieftain. 

Of  .tlie  old.  English  drarnatists,  then,  in- 
cluding under  this  name  (besides  Shake- 
speare), Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Massinger, 
Jonson,'Ford,  Shirley,  Webster,  Dekkar,  Field, 
and  Rowley^it  may  be  said,  in  geneial,  that 
they  are  more  poetical,,  a^id  more  original  in 
their  diction^  than  the  drarnatists  of  any  othei 
age  or  country.  Their  scenes  abound  more 
m_varied  images,  and  gratuitous  excursions 
of  fanc^;.  Their  illustrations,  and  figures  of 
speech,  are  more  borrowed  from  rural  life.  ' 
and  from  the  simple  occupations  or  universEu 
feelings  of  mankind.   JThey  are  not  confineil 


804 


POETRY. 


Ip  a  certain  range  of  dignified  expressions, 
tiPI.  restricted  to  a  particular  assortment  of 
imagery,  beyond  which  it  is  not  lawful  to  look 
for  embellishments.  Let  any  one  cQjnpgje 
the  prodigious  variety^  and  wide-ranging  free- 
dom of  Shakespeare,  .with  the  narrow  round 
of  flames,  tempests,  treasons,  victims,  and 
tyrants,  that  scantily  adorn  the  sententious 
pomp  of  the  Freiich .  di'arna,  and  he  will  not 
fail  .0  recognise  the. vast  superiority  of  the 
former,  in  the  excitement  of  the  imagination, 
and  all  the  diversities  of  poetical  delight. 
That  very  mixture  of  styles,  of  which  the 
French  critics  have  so  fastidiously  complained, 
forms,  when  not  carried  to  any  height  of  ex- 
travagance, one  of  the  greatest  charms  of  our 
ancient  dramatists.  It  is  equally  sweet  and 
natural  for  personages  toiling  on  the  barren 
heights  of  life,  to  be  occasionally  recalled  to 
some  vision  of  pastoral  innocence  and  tran- 
quillity, as  for  the  victims  or  votaries  of  am- 
bition to  cast  a  glance  of  envy  and  agony  on 
the  jo3's  of  humble  content. 

Those  charming  old  writers,  however,  have 
a  still. more  striking  peculiarity  in  their  con- 
duct of  the  dialogue.  On  the  modern  stage, 
every  scene  is  visibly  studied  and  .digesfed 
beforehand.-^and  every  thing  from  beginning 
to  end,  whether  it  be  description,  or  argument, 
orvituperatioh,  is  very  obviously  and  osten- 
tatiously set  forth  in  the  most  advantageous 
light,  and  with,  all  the  decorations  of  the  most 
elaborate  rhetoric.  Now,  for  mere  rhetoric, 
andjine  composition,  this  is  very  rightj- — but, 
Jor  an  imitation  of  nature,  it  is  not  quite  so 
well:  And  however  we  may  admire  the  skill 
of  the  artist,  w^e  are  not  very  likely  to  be 
moved  with  any  very  lively  sympathy  in  the 
emotions  of  those  very  rhetorical  interlocutors. 
When  we  come  to  any  important  part  ofjhe 
play,  on  the  Contiii'ehlal  or  modern  s"" 
are  .sure  to  have  a' most  complete,  «)rm; 
and  exhausting  discussion  of  it,  in  long  flo 
ing  orations ; — argument  after  ai-g'iHiaeiiL^-o- 
pounded  and  answered  with  inBnite^ingenuity. 
and  topic  after  topicl)rought  fo r war tTTii  Well- 
digested  method,  without  any  deviation  that 
the  most  industrious  and  practised  pleader 
would  not  approve  of, — till  nothing  more  re- 
mains to  be  said,  anTanew'scene  introduces 
us  to_a  new  set  of  gladiators,  as  expert  and 
persevering  as  the  former.  It  is  exactly  the 
^jne  when  a  story  is  to  be  told, — a  tyrant  to 
be  bulITe(I,"'-^6r  a  princess  to  be  wooed.  On 
the^old  English  stage,  howeyer,  the  procee"3^ 
ings  were  by  no  means  so  reg;uJaJ^_^Xil^^e  the 

discussions  a  1  wn ys^ njpfin r  fn^bE^*^ ^JJFL  ^^^^ 

i  J^he  argument  qraSe— actjessand  l!isoraerIy7 
The  persons  of  the  dramaPlh  sKSrt,-  are  made 

]tp~  speak  like  "men  and  women  who  meet 
without  preparation,  in  real  Jifej^  "^TKe i r  rea- 
sonings are  perpetuanj;^brolen  by  pass;.oa,,Qr 
left  irnperfectfor  wanroT^s]^^^  con- 

stantly wander  from  the  point  in  haridj^in  the 
most  unbusinesslike  manner  in  the' worlcl;^ 
and  after  hitting  upon  a  topic  that  wxmktafMu 
a  judicious  playwright  room  for  a  magnificent 
seesaxy  of  pompous  declamation,  . f Key  "have 
genera,llj  trie  awkwardness  to  let  iF  slip,  as 
if  perfectly  unconscious  of  its  value ;  and  uni- 


formly leave  the  scene  without  exhausting 
the  controversy,  or  stating  half  the  plausible 
things  for  themselves  that  any  Ordinary  ad- 
..yisers  might  have   suggested — after  a   few 
weeks'  reflection.     As  specimens  of  eloquent 
argumentation,  we  must  admit  the  signal  in- 
feriority of  our  native  favourites;  but  as  true 
copies  of  nature, — as  vehicles  oLpassionj  and" 
representations  of  character,  we  confess' we^ 
are  tempted  to  give   thein  ,jthe   preference. 
When  a  dramatistbrings  his  chief  cliaracters 
on  the  stage,  we  readily  admit  that  he^^jnu^t 
give  them .  something  to  say, — and  tiiat  Jhis. 
something  must^be  interesting  and  character^ 
istic; — but  he  should  recollect  also,  that  they 
are  supposed  to  come  there  Mithout  having 
anticipated  all  they  were  to  hear,  or  inedi-^ 
tated  on  all  they  were  to  deliver:  ami  iliat  it 
cannot  be  characteristic,  therefore,  because  it 
must  be  glaringly  unnatural,  that  jhgy  shouM  ^ 
proceed  regularly  through  every  possible  view 
qf^the^siibject.,  and  exhaust,  in  set  order^  tlie 
whole  magazine  of  reflections  that  "can  be 
brought  to  bear  upon  their  situation.         """'     ' 

It  would  not  be  fair,  hajjjBJjex,  to  leave  this 
view  of  the  matter,  without  observing,  that  j 
thi,sjnsteadines&  and  irregularity.Qf_dia]o^ue, 
which  gives  such  an  air  of  nature  to  our  olcler 
plays,  and  keeps  the  curiosity  aiiTl"  ■aTtl'ntToa 
so  perpetually  awake,  is  frequent]}  i' 

a  most  blanieable.excessj__aml  thii;. 
dent  of  their  passion  for  verbal  quibble^.  liieie 
i's  an  inequality  and  a  capricious  uncertainty 
in  tiie  taste  and  judgment  of  these_good_old__ 
writei;Sj  which  excites  at  once  our  amazement 
and  our  compassion.  If  it  be  true,  that  no 
other  man  has  ever  written  so  finely  as  Shake- 
speare has  done  in  his  happier  passages,  it  ip 
no  less  true  that  there  is  not  a  scribbler  now 
alive  who  could  possibly  write  worse  than  he 
has  sometimes  written, — who  could,  on  occa- 
sion, devise  more  contemptible  ideas,  or  mis- 
place them  so  abominably,  by  the  side  of  sue}, 
incomparable  excellence.  That  there  wert. 
no  critics,  and  no  critical  readers  in  those  days 
appears  to  us  but  an  imperfect  solution  of  tho 
difficulty.  He  who  could  write  so  admirably, 
must  have  been  a  critic  to  himself.  Children^ 
indeed,  may  play  with  the  most  preciour 
gems,  and  the  most  worthless  pebbles,  with 
out  being  aware  of  any  difference  in  thei 
value ;  but  the  fiery  powers  which  are  neces- 
sary to  the  production  of  intellectual  excel- 
lence, must  enable  the  possessor  to  recognise 
it  as  excellence ;  and  he  who  knows  when  he 
succeeds,  can  scarcely  be  unconscious  of  his 
failures.  Unaccountable,  however,  as  it  is, 
the  fact  is  certain,  that  almost  all  the  dramatic 
writers  of  this  age  appear  to  be  alternately 
inspired,  and  bereft  of  understanding;  anS 
pass,  apparently  without  being  conscious  of 
the  change,  from  the  most  beautiful  displays 
of  genius  to  the  most  melancholy  exemplifi- 
cations of  stupidity. 

There  is  only  one  other  peculiarity  which 
we  shall  notice  in  tHose"  ancient  dramas ;  and 
that  is,  tbp  singular,  thon^rh  vFiry_heauti£ul 
stylgj^ in  which  the  greater  part  oflhem  aro 
cornpbsed, — a  style  which  we  think  must  be 
felt  as  peculiar  bf  all  whf  peruse  them,  though 


FOUD'S  DRAMATIC  WOilK55. 


305 


(.t  is  by  no  means  easy  to  describe  in  what  its 
peculiarity  consists.  It  is  not.  for  the  most 
part,  a  lofty  or  sonorous  style, — nor  can  it  be 
said  generally,  to  be  finical  or  affected,^-or 
strained,  quaint,  or  pedantic : — But  it  is,  at 
the  same  time,  a  style  full  of  turn  and  con- 
trivance,— with  some  little  degree  of  constraint 
and  involution, — very  often  characterised  by 
a  studied  briefness  and  simplicity  of  diction, 
yet  relieved  by  a  certain  indirect  and  figura- 
tive cast  of  expression, — and  almost  always 
coloured  with  a  modest  tinge  of  ingenuity, 
and  fashioned,  rather  too  visibly,  upon  a  par- 
ticular model  of  elegance  and  purity.  In 
scenes  of  powerful  passion,  this  sort  of  arti- 
ficial prettiness  is  commonly  shaken  off;  and, 
in  Shakespeare?  it  disappears  under  all  his 
forms  of  animation:  But  it  sticks  closer  to 
most  of  his  contemporaries.  In  jVlassinger 
(who  has  no  passion),  it  is  almost  always  dis- 
cernable ;  and,  in  the  author  before  us,  it  gives 
a  peculiar  tone  to  almost  all  the  estimable 
parts  of  his  productions. — It  is  now  time,  how- 
ever, and  more  than  time,  that  we  should  turn 
to  this  author. 

His  biography  will  not  detain  us  long  ;  for 
very  little  is  known  about  him.  He  was  born 
in  Devonshire,  in  1586;  and  entered  as  a 
student  in  the  Middle  Temple;  where  he 
began  to  publish  poetry,  and  probably  to  write 
plays,  soon  after  his  twenty-first  year.  He 
did  not  publish  any  of  his  dramatic  works, 
however,  till  1629  ;  and  though  he  is  supposed 
to  have  written  fourteen  or  fifteen  pieces  for 
the  theatres,  only  nine  appear  to  have  been 
printed,  or  to  have  found  their  way  down  to 
the  present  times.  He  is  known  to  have 
written  in  conjunction  with  Rowley  and  Dek- 
kar,  and  is  supposed  to  have  died  about  1640 ; 
— and  this  is  the  whole  that  the  industry  of 
Mr.  Weber,  assisted  by  the  researches  of 
Steevens  and  JNIalone,  has  been  able  to  dis- 
cover of  this  author. 

It  would  be  useless,  and  worse  than  use- 
less, to  give  our  readers  an  abstract  of  the 
fable  and  management  of  each  of  the  nine 
plays  contained  in  the  volumes  before  us.  A 
very  few  brief  remarks  upon  their  general 
ctiaracter,  will  form  a  sufficient  introducTtion 
to  the  extracts,  by  which  we  propose  to  let 
our  readers  judge  for  themselves  of  the  merits 
of  their  execution.  The  comic  parts  are  all 
utterly  bad.  With  none  of  the  richness  of 
Shakespeare's  humour,  the  extravagant  mer- 
riment of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  or  the 
strong  colouring  of  Ben  Johnson,  they  are  as 
heavy  and  as  indecent  as  those  of  Massinger, 
and  not  more  witty,  though  a  little  more  va- 
ried, than  the  buffooneries  of  Wycherley  or 
Dryden.  Fortunately,  however,  the  author's 
merry  vein  is  not  displayed  in  very  many 
parts  of  his  performances.  His  plots  are  not 
very  cunningly  digested ;  nor  developed,  for 
the  most  part,  by  a  train  oif  probable  incidents. 
His  characters  are  drawn  rather  with  occa- 
sional felicity,  than  with  general  sagacity  and 
judgment.  Like  those  of  Massinger,  they  are 
very  apt  to  startle  the  reader  with  sudden  and 
unexpected  transformations,  and  to  turn  out, 
in  the  latter  half  of  the  play,  very  differently 
20 


from  what  they  promised  to  do  in  the  begin- 
ning. This  kind  of  surprise  has  been  repie- 
sented  by  some  as  a  master-stroke  of  art  ir 
the  author,  and  a  great  merit  in  the  perform- 
ance. We  have  no  doubt  at  all,  however,  that 
it  is  to  be  ascribed  merely  to  the  writer's 
carelessness,  or  change  of  purpose ;  and  have 
never  failed  to  feel  it  a  great  blemish  in  every 
serious  piece  where  it  occurs. 

The  author  has  not  much  of  the  oratorical 
stateliness  and  imposing  flow  of  Massinger , 
nor  a  great  deal  of  the  smooth  and  flexible 
diction,  the  wandering  fancy,  and  romantic 
sweetness  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher ;  and  yet 
he  comes  nearer  to  these  qualites  than  to  any 
of  the  distinguishing  characteristics  of  Jonson 
or  Shakespeare.  He  excels  most  in  represent- 
ing the  pride  and  gallantry,  and  high-toned 
honour  of  youth,  and  the  enchanting  softness, 
or  the  mild  and  graceful  magnanimity  of  fe- 
male character.  There  is  a  certain  melan- 
choly air  about  his  most  striking  representa- 
tions; and,  in  the  tender  and  afflicting  pathetic, 
he  appears  to  us  occasionally  to  be  second 
only  to  him  who  has  never  yet  had  an  equal. 
The  greater  part  of  every  play,  however,  is 
bad ;  and  there  is  not  one  which  does  not 
contain  faults  sufficient  to  justify  the  derision 
even  of  those  who  are  incapable  of  compre- 
hending its  contrasted  beauties. 

The  diction  we  think  for  the  most  pan 
beautiful,  and  worthy  of  the  inspired  age 
which  produced  it.  That  we  may  not  be  sus- 
pected of  misleading  our  readers  by  partial 
and  selected  quotations,  we  shall  lay  before 
them  the  very  first  sentence  of  the  play  which 
stands  first  in  this  collection.  The  subject  is 
somewhat  revolting;  thoug/i  managed  with 
great  spirit,  and,  in  the  moic  dangerous  parts, 
with  considerable  dignity.  A  brother  and 
sister  fall  mutually  in  love  with  each  other . 
and  abandon  themselves,  with  a  sort  of  splen- 
did and  perverted  devotedness,  to  their  in-' 
cestuous  passion.  The  sister  is  afterwards 
married,  and  their  criminal  intercourse  de- 
tected by  her  husband, — when  the  brother, 
perceiving  their  destruction  inevitable,  first 
kills  her,  and  then  throws  himself  upon  the 
sword  of  her  injured  husband.'  The  play 
opens  with  his  attempting  to  justify  his  passion 
to  a  holy  friar,  his  tutor — who  thus  addressee 
him. 

'* Friar.  Dispute  no  more  in  this;    lOr  know 
young  man, 
These  are  no  school  points ;  Nice  philosophy 
May  tolerate  unlikely  arguments^ 
But  heaven  admits  no  jest.     Wits  that  presumed 
On  wit  too  much,  by  striving  how  to  prove 
There  was  no  God,  with  foolish  grounds  of  art, 
Discover'd  first  the  nearest  way  to  hell. 
And  filled  the  world  with  dev'lish  atheism. 
Such  questions,  youth,  are  fond  :  for  better  'tis 
To  bless  the  sun,  than  reason  why  it  shines 
Yet  he  thou  talk'st  of  is  above  the  sun. 
No  more  !  I  may  not  hear  it. 

Gio.  Gentle  lather, 

To  you  I  have  unclasp'd  my  burden'd  soul. 
Emptied  the  storehouse  of  my  thoughts  and  heaiv 
Made  myself  poor  of  secrets;  have  not  left 
Another  word  untold,  which  hath  not  spoke 
All  what  I  ever  durst,  or  think,  or  know ; 
A  nd  yet  is  here  the  comfort  I  shall  have  ? 
Must  I  not  do  what  pH  me"  -^Ise  may, — love? 


306 


POETRY. 


No,  father !  i  i  your  eyes  I  see  the  change 

Of  pity  and  compassion  ;  from  your  age, 

As  from  a  sacred  oracle,  distils 

The  hfe  of  counsel.     Teli  ue,  holy  man, 

What  cure  shall  give  me  ease  in  these  extremes  ? 

Friar.  Repentance,  son,  and  sorrow  for  this  sin  : 
For  thou  hast  mov'd  a  majesty  above 
With  thy  unranged,  almost,  blasphemy. 

Gio.  O  do  not  speak  of  that,  dear  confessor. 

Friar.  Then  I  have  done,  and  in  thy  wilful  flame% 
Already  see  thy  ruin  ;  Heaven  is  just. 
Yet  hear  my  counsel ! 

Gio.  As  a  voice  of  life. 

Friar.  Hie  to  thy  father's  house ;  there  lock  thee 
Alone  within  thy  chamber ;  then  fall  down       [fast 
On  both  thy  knees,  and  grovel  on  the  ground; 
Cry  to  thy  heart ;  wash  every  word  thou  utter'st 
In  tears  (and  if 't  bo  possible)  of  blood : 
Beg  Heaven  to  cleanse  the  leprosy  of  love 
That  rots  thy  soul ;  weep,  sigh,  pray 
Three  times  a  day,  and  three  times  every  night ; 
For  seven  days'  space  do  this;  then,  if  thou  find'st 
No  change  in  thy  desires,  return  to  me ; 
I'll  think  on  remedy.     Pray  for  thyself 
At  home,  whilst  I  pray  for  thee  here.     Away ! 
My  blessing  with  thee  !  We  have  need  to  pray." 
Vol.  i.  pp.  9—12. 

In  a  subsequent  scene  with  the  sisterj  the 
same  holy  person  maintains  the  dignity  of  his 
style. 

Friar.  I  am  glad  to  see  this  penance ;  for,  believe 
You  have  unripp'd  a  soul  so  foul  and  guilty,      [me 
As  I  must  tell  you  true,  I  marvel  how 
The  earth  hath  borne  you  up ;  but  weep,  weep  on, 
These  tears  may  do  you  good  ;  weep  faster  yet, 
Whilst  I  do  read  a  lecture. 

Ann.  Wretched  creature  ! 

Friar.  Ay,  you  are  wretched,  miserably  wretch- 
Almost  condemned  alive.     There  is  a  place,      [ed. 
List,  daughter,)  in  a  black  and  hollow  vault. 
Where  day  is  never  seen  ;  there  shines  no  sun. 
But  flaming  horror  of  consum.ing  fires; 
A  lightless  sulphur,  chok'd  with  smoky  fogs 
Of  an  infected  darkness  ;  in  this  place 
Dwell  many  thousand  thousand  sundry  sorts 
Of  never-dying  deaths.     There  damned  souls 
Roar  without  pity  ;  there  are  gluttons  fed 
With  toads  and  adders  ;  there  is  burning  oil 
Pour'd  down  the  drunkard's  throat ;  the  usurer 
Is  forc'd  to  sup  whole  draughts  of  molten  gold ; 
There  is  the  murderer  for  ever  stabb'd. 
Yet  can  he  never  die ;  there  lies  the  wanton 
On  racks  of  burning  steel,  whilst  in  his  soul 
He  feels  the  torment  of  his  raging  lust. 

Ann.  Mercy  !  oh  mercy !  [things, 

Friar.  There  stand  these  wretched 

Who  have  dream'd  out  whole  years  in  lawless  sheets 
And  secret  incests,  cursing  one  another,"  &c. 

Vol.  i.  pp.  63,  64. 

The  most  striking  scene  of  the  play,  how- 
ever, is  that  which  contains  the  catastrophe 
of  the  lady's  fate.  Her  husband,  after  shut- 
ting her  up  for  some  time  in  gloomy  privacy, 
invites  her  brother,  and  all  his  family,  to  a 
•lolema  banquet;  and  even  introduces  him, 
before  it  is  served  up,  into  her  pri\*ate  cham- 
ber, w  tiere  he  finds  her  sitting  on  her  mar- 
riage-bed, in  splendid  attire,  but  filled  with 
boding  terrors  and  agonising  anxiety.  He, 
though  equally  aware  of  the  fate  that  was 
prepared  for  them,  addresses  her  at  first  with 
a  kind  of  wild  and  desperate  gaiety,  to  which 
she  tries  for  a  while  to  answer  with  sober  and 
earnest  warnings, — and  at  last  exclaims  im- 
patiently, 

"Ann.  O  let's  not  waste 

Tli/jse  precious  hours  in  vain  and  useless  speech. 


Alas,  these  gay  attires  were  not  put  on 

But  to  some  end  ;  this  sudden  solemn  feast 

Was  not  ordain'd  to  riot  in  expense  ; 

I  that  have  now  been  chamber' d  here  alcDC 

Barr'd  of  my  guardian,  or  of  any  else, 

Am  not  for  notliing  at  an  instant  freed 

To  fresh  access.    Be  not  deceiv'd,  my  brother. 

This  banquet  is  an  harbinger  of  Death 

To  you  and  me  !  resolve  yourself  it  is, 

And  be  prepar'd  to  welcome  it.  [face 

Gio.  Look  up,  look  here  ;  what  see  you  in  m> 

Ann.  Distraction  and  a  troubled  countenance. 

Gio.  Death  and  a  swift  repining  wrath  ! Yet 

What  see  you  in  mine  eyes  ?  [look, 

Ann.  Methinks  you  weep. 

Gio.  I  do  indeed.    These  are  the  funeral  tears 
Shed  on  your  grave  !  These  furrow'd  up  my  cheeks 
When  first  I  lov'd  and  knew  not  how  to  woo. 
Fair  Annabella !  should  I  here  repeat 
The  story  of  my  hfe,  we  might  lose  time ! 
Be  record,  all  the  spirits  of  the  air. 
And  all  things  else  that  are,  that  day  and  night, 
Early  and  late,  the  tribute  which  my  heart 
Hath  paid  to  Annabella' s  sacred  love  [now. 

Hath  been  these  tears, — which  are  her  mourners 
Never  till  now  did  nature  do  her  best 
To  show  a  matchless  beauty  to  the  world. 
Which  in  an  instant,  ere  it  scarce  was  seen. 
The  jealous  destinies  require  again. 
Pray,  Annabella,  pray  !  since  we  must  part, 
Go  thou,  white  in  thy  soul,  to  fill  a  throne 
Of  innocence  and  sanctity  in  heaven. 
Pray,  pray,  my  sister. 

An7i.  Then  I  see  your  drift; 

Ye  blessed  angels,  guard  me ! 

Gio.  So  say  I. 

Kiss  me  !  If  ever  after-times  should  hear 
Of  our  fast-knit  affections,  though  perhaps 
The  laws  of  conscience  and  of  civil  use 
May  justly  blame  us,  yet  when  they  but  know 
Our  loves,  that  love  will  wipe  away  that  rigour. 
Which  would  in  other  incests  be  abhorr'd. 
Give  me  your  hand.     How  sweetly  hfe  doth  run 
In  these  well-colour'd  veins  !  how  constantly 
These  palms  do  promise  health  !  but  I  could  chide 
With  nature  for  this  cunning  flattery. — 
Kiss  me  again  ! — forgive  me  ! 

Ann.  With  my  heart. 

Gio.  Farewell. 

Aim.  Will  you  be  gone  ? 

Gio.  Be  dark,  bright  sun, 

And  make  this  mid-day  night,  that  thy  gilt  rays 
May  not  behold  a  deed  will  turn  their  splendour 
More  sooty  than  the  poets  feign  their  Styx ! 
One  other  kiss,  my  sister  ! 

Ann.  What  means  this  ? 

Gio.  To  save  thy  fame,  and  kill  thee  in  a  kiss ! 

[Stabs  her. 
Thus  die  !  and  die  by  me',  and  by  my  hand  ! 

Ann.  Oh  brother,'by  your  hand! 

Gio.  When  thou  art  dead 

I'll  give  my  reasons  for't ;  for  to  dispute 
With  thee,  even  in  thy  death,  most  lovely  beauty, 
Would  make  me  stagger  to  perform  this  act 
Which  I  most  glory  in. 

Ann.  Forgive  him.  Heaven — and  me  my  sins  ! 
Farewell. 
Brother  unkind,  unkind, — mercy,  great  Heaven, — 
oh — oh.  [Dies. 

Gio.  She's  dead,  alas,  good  soul !  This  marriage 
In  all  her  best,  bore  her  alive  and  dead.  [bed, 

Soranzo,  thou  hast  miss'd  thy  aim  in  this  ; 
I  have  prevented  now  thy  reaching  plots. 
And  kill'd  a  love,  for  whose  each  drop  of  blood 
I  would  have  pawn'd  my  heart.     Fair  Annabella, 
How  over-glorious  art  thou  in  thy  wounds, 
Triumphing  over  infamy  and  hate  ! 
Shrink  not,  courageous  hand  ;  stand  up,  my  heart. 
And  boldiv  act  my  last,  and  greater  part !" 
—Vol.  i.  pp.  98—101.  [Exit  with  the  hodij. 

There  are  few  things  finer  than  this  m 
Shakespeare.  It  bears  an  obvious  resemblanc-e 


FORD'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS. 


30  • 


mdeed  to  the  death  of  Desdemona;  and, 
taking  it  as  a  detached  scene,  we  think  it 
rather  the  more  beautiful  of  the  two.  The 
\  sweetness  of  the  diction — the  natural  tone  of 
tenderness  and  passion — the  strange  perver- 
sion of  kind  and  magnanimous  natures,  and 
the  horrid  catastrophe  by  which  their  guilt  is 
at  once  consummated  and  avenged,  have  not 
often  been  rivalled,  in  the  pages  either  of  the 
modern  or  the  ancient  drama. 

The  play  entitled  "The  Broken  Heart,"  is 
in  our  author's  best  manner;  and  would  sup- 
ply more  beautiful  quotations  than  we  have 
leh  room  for  inserting.  The  story  is  a  little 
complicated  ',  but  the  following  slight  sketch 
of  it  will  make  our  extracts  sufficiently  in- 
telligible. Penthea,  a  noble  lady  of  Sparta, 
was  betrothed,  with  her  father's  approbation 
and  her  own  full  consent,  to  Orgilus;  but 
being  solicited,  at  the  same  time,  by  Bassanes, 
a  person  of  more  splendid  fortune,  was,  after 
her  father's  death,  in  a  manner  compelled  by 
her  brother  Ithocles  to  violate  her  first  en- 
gagement, and  yield  him  her  hand.  In  this 
ill-sorted  alliance,  though  living  a  life  of  un- 
impeachable purity,  she  was  harassed  and 
degraded  by  the  perpetual  jealousies  of  her 
unworthy  husband ;  and  pined  away,  like  her 
deserted  lover,  in  sad  and  bitter  recollections 
of  the  happy  promise  of  their  youth.  Itho- 
cles, in  the  meantime,  had  pursued  the  course 
of  ambition  with  a  bold  and  commanding 
spirit,  and  had  obtained  the  highest  honours 
of  his  country ',  but  too  much  occupied  in  the 
pursuit  to  think  of  the  misery  to  which  he 
had  condemned  the  sister  who  was  left  to  his 
protection  :  At  last,  however,  in  the  midst  of 
his  proud  career,  he  is  seized  with  a  sudden 
passion  for  Calantha,  the  heiress  of  the  sover- 
eign ;  and,  after  many  struggles,  is  reduced  to 
ask  the  intercession  and  advice  of  his  un- 
happy sister,  who  was  much  in  favour  with 
the  princess.  The  following  is  the  scene  in 
which  he  makes  this  request ; — and  to  those 
who  have  learned,  from  the  preceding  pas- 
sages, the  lofty  and  unbending  temper  of  the 
suppliant,  and  the  rooted  and  bitter  anguish 
of  her  whom  he  addresses,  it  cannot  fail  to 
appear  one  of  the  most  striking  in  the  whole 
Qompass  of  dramatic  composition.* 

"  1th.    Sit  nearer,  sister,  to  me  I — nearer  yet ! 

We  had  one  father ;  in  one  womb  took  life ; 
I  Were  brought  up  twins  together ; — Yet  have  liv'd 
i  At  distance,  like  two  strangers  !     I  could  wish 
I  That  the  first  pillow,  whereon  I  was  cradled, 
j  Had  proved  to  me  a  grave  ! 

!      Pen.  You  had  been  happy  ! 

I  Then  had  you  never  known  that  sin  of  life 

Which  blots  all  following  glories  with  a  vengeance, 

For  forfeiting  the  last  will  of  the  dead, 

From  whom  you  had  your  being. 
Itk.  Sad  Penthea ! 

\  Thou  canst  not  be  too  cruel ;  my  rash  spleen 
j  Hath  with  a  violent  hand  pluck'd  from  thy  bosom 
I  A  love-blest  heart,  to  grind  it  into  dust — 
j  For  which  mine's  now  a-breaking. 

;  *  I  have  often  fancied  what  a  splendid  effect  Mrs. 
■  Siddons  and  John  Kemble  would  have  given  to  the 
i  opening  of  this  scene,  in  actual  representation  ! — 
'  with  the  deep  throb  of  their  low  voices,  their  pa- 
thetic pauses,  and  majestic  attitudes  and  move- 
venis  \ 


Pen.  Not  yei,  heaven 

I  do  beseech  thee  !  first,  let  some  wild  fires 
Scorch,  not  consume  it !  may  the  heat  be  cherish'd 
With  desires  infinite,  but  hopes  impossible  ! 

1th.     Wrong'd  soul,  thy  prayers  are  heard. 

Pen.  Here,  lo,  I  breathe, 

A  miserable  creature,  led  to  ruin 
By  an  unnatural  brother! 

1th.  I  consume 

In  languishing  affections  of  that  trespass ; 
Yet  cannot  die. 

Pen.  The  handmaid  to  the  wages, 

The  untroubled  but  of  country  toil,  drinks  streami 
With  leaping  kids  and  with  the  bleating  lambs, 
And  so  allays  her  thirst  secure  ;  whilst  I 
Quench  my  hot  sighs  with  fleetings  of  my  tears. 

Ith.     The  labourer  doth  eat  his  coarsest  bread, 
Earn'd  with  his  sweat,  and  lies  him  down  to  sleep* 
Whilst  every  bit  I  touch  turns  in  digestion 
To  gall,  as  bitter  as  Penthea's  curse. 
Put  me  to  any  penance  for  my  tyranny 
And  I  will  call  thee  merciful. 

Pen.  Pray  kill  me ! 

Rid  me  from  living  with  a  jealous  husband, 
Then  we  will  join  in  friendship,  be  again 
Brother  and  sister. — Kill  me,  pray  !  na^,  will  ye  ? 

1th.     Thou  shalt  stand 
A  deity,  my  sister,  and  be  worshipp'd 
For  thy  resolved  martyrdom :  wrong'd  maids 
And  married  wives  shall  to  thy  hallow'd  shrine 
Ofier  their  orisons,  and  sacrifice 
Pure  turtles,  crown'd  with  myrtle,  if  thy  pity 
Unto  a  yielding  brother's  pressure,  tend 
One  finger  but,  to  ease  it. 

Pen.     Who  is  the  saint  you  serve  ?     [daughter ! 

1th.     Calantha  'tis! — the  princess!    the  king'i 
Sole  heir  of  Sparta. — Me,  most  miserable !— • 
Do  I  now  love  thee  ?    For  my  injuries 
Revenge  thyself  with  bravery,  and  gossip 
My  treasons  to  the  king's  ears  !     Do  ! — Calanth* 
Knows  it  not  yet ;  nor  Prophilus,  my  nearest. 

Pen.     We  are  reconcil'd  ! — 
Alas,  sir,  being  children,  but  two  branches 
Of  one  stock,  'tis  not  fit  we  should  divide  : 
Have  comfort ;  you  may  find  it. 

1th.  Yes,  in  thee; 

Only  in  thee,  Penthea  mine ! 

Pen.  If  sorrows 

Have  not  too  much  dull'd  my  infected  brain, 
I'll  cheer  invention  for  an  active  strain. 

Ith.    Mad  man  !  why  have  I  wrong'd  a  maid  se 
excellent  ?"  Vol.  i.  pp.  273—277. 

We  cannot  resist  the  temptation  of  adding 
a  part  of  the  scene  in  which  this  sad  ambas- 
sadress acquits  herself  of  the  task  she  had 
undertaken.  There  is  a  tone  of  heart-struck 
sorrow  and  female  gentleness  and  purity 
about  it  that  is  singularly  engaging,  and  con- 
trasts strangely  with  the  atrocious  indecen 
cies  with  which  the  author  has  polluted  hii 
paper  in  other  parts  of  the  same  play. — TLe 
princess  says, 

"  Cal.  Being  alone,  Penthea,  you  now  have 
The  opportunity  you  sought ;  and  might  [granted 
At  all  times  have  commanded. 

Pen.  'Tis  a  benefit 

Which  I  shall  owe  your  goodness  even  in  death  for : 
My  glass  of  life,  sweet  princess,  hath  few  minutes 
Remaining  to  run  down ;  the  sands  are  spent ; 
For  by  an  inward  messenger  I  feel 
The  summons  of  departure  short  and  certain. 

Cal.  You  feed  too  much  >our  melancholy. 

Pen.  Gloriea 

Of  human  greatness  are  but  pleasing  d'Oams 
And  shadows  soon  decaying.     On  the  eiage 
Of  my  mortality,  my  youth  hath  actea 
Some  scenes  of  vanity,  drawn  out  at  length 
By  varied  pleasures,  sweetened  in  the  mixt<.trf!. 
But  tragical  in  issue.    Beauty,  pomp, 


P0ETR1 


With  every  sensuality  our  giddiness 
Doth  frame  an  idol,  are  unconstant  Iriends, 
When  any  troubled  passion  makes  us  halt 
On  the  unguarded  castle  of  the  mind. 

Cal.  To  what  end 
Reach  all  these  moral  texts  ? 

Pen.  To  place  before  ye 

A  perfect  mirror,  wherein  you  may  see 
How  weary  I  am  of  a  lingering  lifej 
Who  count  the  best  a  misery.  • 

Cal.  Indeed 

You  have  no  little  cause ;  yet  none  so  great 
As  to  distrust  a  remedy. 
-  Pen.  That  remedy 

Must  be  a  winding  sheet !  a  fold  of  lead. 
And  some  untrod-on  corner  of  the  earth. — 
Not  to  detain  your  expectation,  princess, 
I  have  an  humble  suit. 

Cal.  Speak ;  and  enjoy  it. 

Pen.  Vouchsafe,  then,  to  be  my  executrix, 
And  take  that  trouble  on  you  to  dispose 
Such  legacies  as  1  bequeath,  impartially ; 
I  have  not  much  to  give  ;  the  pains  are  easy, 
Heav'n  will  reward  your  piety,  and  thank  it 
When  I  am  dead  ;  for  sure  I  must  not  live : 
I  hope  I  cannot." 

After  leaving  her  fame,  her  youth,  &c.  in 
some  very  pretty  but  fantastical,  verses,  she 
proceeds — 

*'Pe7j.  'Tis  longagone,  since  first  I  lost  my  heart; 
Long  have  I  lived  without  it ;  else  for  certain 
I  should  have  given  that  too  ;  But  instead 
Of  it,  to  great  Calantha,  Sparta's  heir, 
By  service  bound,  and  by  affection  vow'd, 
I  do  bequeath  in  holiest  rites  of  love 
Mine  only  brother,  Ithocles. 

Cal.  What  say'st  thou  ? 

Pen.  I  must  leave  the  world 

To  revel  in  Elysium  ;  and  'tis  just 
To  wish  my  brother  some  advantage  here ; 
Yet  by  my  best  hopes,  Ithoclesis  ignorant 
Of  this  pursuit. 

Cal.  You  have  forgot,  Penthea, 

How  still  I  have  a  lather. 

Pen.  But  remember 

I  am  a  sister,  though  to  me  this  brother 
Hath  been,  you  know,  unkind  !  Oh,  most  unkind  !" 
Vol.  i.  pp.  291—293. 

There  are  passages  of  equal  power  and 
beauty  in  the  plays  called  "  Love's  Sacrifice," 
"The  Lover's  Melancholy,"  and  in  '-Fancies 
Chaste  and  Noble."  In  Perkin  Warbeck,  there 
is  a  more  uniform  and  sustained  elevation  of 
Btyle.  But  we  pass  all  those  over,  to  give  our 
readers  a  word  or  two  from  "  The  Witch  of 
Edmonton,"  a  drama  founded  upon  the  recent 
execution  of  a  miserable  old  woman  for  that 
fashionable  offence ;  and  in  which  the  devil, 
in  the  shape  of  a  black  dog,  is  a  principal  per- 
former !  The  greater  part  of  the  play,  in  which 
Ford  was  assisted  by  Dekkar  and  Rowley,  is 
of  course  utterly  absurd  and  contemptible — 
though  not  without  its  value  as  a  memorial 
of  the  strange  superstition  of  the  age ;  but  it 
contains  some  scenes  of  great  interest  and 
beauty,  though  written  in  a  lower  and  more 
familiar  tone  than  most  of  those  we  have  al- 
leady  exhibited.  As  a  specimen  of  the  range 
€#f  the  author's  talents,  we  shall  present  our 
leaders  with  one  of  these.  Frank  Thorney 
had  privately  married  a  woman  of  inferior 
rank  J  and  is  afterwards  strongly  urged  by  his 
father,  and  his  own  inclination,  to  take  a 
second  wife,  in  the  person  of  a  rich  yeoman's 
daughter  wnose  affections  were  fixed  upon 


him.  After  taking  this  unjustifiable  step,  he 
is  naturally  troubled  with  certain  inward 
compunctions,  which  manifest  themselves  ip 
his  exterior,  and  excite  the  apprehensions  oi 
his  innocent  bride.  It  is  her  dialogue  with 
him  that  we  are  now  to  extract  ]  and  we  think 
the  picture  that  it  affords  of  unassuming  inno 
cence  and  singleness  of  heart,  is  drawn  witV 
great  truth,  and  even  elegance.  She  begins 
with  asking  him  why  he  changes  countenance 
so  suddenly.     He  answers — 

"  Who,  I?    For  nothing. 

Sus.  Dear,  say  not  so :  a  spirit  of  your  constancy  < 
Cannot  endure  this  change  for  nothing.    I've  ob- 

serv'd 
Strange  variations  in  you. 

Frank.  In  me  ? 

Sus.  In  you,  sir. 

Awake,  you  seem  to  dream,  and  in  your  sleep 
You  utter  sudden  and  distracted  accents,       [band, 
Like  one  at  enmity  with  peace.    Dear  loving  hus- 
If  I  may  dare  to  challenge  any  interest 
In  you,  give  me  thee  fully  !  you  may  trust 
My  breast  as  safely  as  your  own. 

Frank.  With  what  ? 

You  half  amaze  me  ;  pr'ythee — 

Sus.  Come,  you  shall  not, 

Indeed  you  shall  not  shut  me  from  partaking 
The  least  dislike  that  grieves  you.    I'm  all  yours. 

Frank.  And  I  all  thine. 

Sus.  You  are  not ;  if  you  keep 

The  least  grief  from  me :  but  I  know  the  cause  ; 
It  grows  from  me. 

Frank.  From  you  ? 

Sus.  From  some  distaste 

In  me  or  my  behaviour:  you're  not  kind 
In  the  concealment.     'Las,  sir,  I  am  young. 
Silly  and  plain  ;  more  strange  to  those  contents 
A  wife  should  offer.     Say  but  in  what  I  fail, 
I'll  study  satisfaction. 

Frank.  Come ;  in  nothing. 

Sus.  I  know  I  do:  knew  I  as  well  in  what. 
You  should  not  long  be  sullen.    Pr'ythee,  love. 
If  I  have  been  immodest  or  too  bold. 
Speak' t  in  a  frown  ;  if  peevishly  too  nice, 
Shew't  in  a  smile.     Thy  liking  is  a  glass 
By  which  I'll  habit  my  behaviour. 

Frank.  Wherefore 

Dost  weep  now  ? 

Sus.  You,  sweet,  have  the  power 

To  make  me  passionate  as  an  April  day. 
Now  smile,  then  weep ;  now  pale,  then  crimson  red. 
You  are  the  powerful  moon  of  my  blood's  sea, 
To  make  it  ebb  or  flow  into  my  face. 
As  your  looks  change. 

Frank.  Change  thy  conceit,  I  pr  ythee  : 

Thou'rt  all  perfection  :  Diana  herself 
Swells  in  thy  thoughts  and  moderates  thy  beauty. 
Within  thy  clear  eye  amorous  Cupid  sits 
Feathering  love-shafts,  whose  golden  heads  he  dips 
In  thy  chaste  breast. 

Sus.  Come,  come:  these  golden  strings  of  flattery 
Shall  not  tie  up  my  speech,  sir ;  I  must  know 
The  ground  of  your  disturbance. 

Frank.  Then  louk  nere 

For  here,  here  is  the  fen  in  which  this  hydra 
Of  discontent  grows  rank. 

Sus.  Heaven  shield  it !     Where  \ 

Frank.  In  mine  own  bosom  !  here  the  cause  has 
root ; 
The  poisoned  leeches  twist  about  my  heart. 
And  will,  I  hope,  confound  me. 

Sus.  You  speak  riddles.  ' 

Vol.  ii.  pp.  437— 44a 

The  unfortunate  bigamist  afterwards  re- 
solves to  desert  this  innocent  creature ;  but, 
in  the  act  of  their  parting,  is  moved  by  the 
devil,  who  rubs  against  him  in  the  shape  of  a 


HAZLITT'S  CHARACTERS  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


309 


dog]  to  murder  her.  We  are  tempted  to 
give  the  greater  part  of  this  scene,  just  to 
show  how  much  beauty  of  diction  and  natu- 
ral expression  of  character  may  be  com- 
bined with  the  most  revolting  and  degrading 
absurdities.   The  unhappy  bridegroom  says — 

'•  Why  would  you  delay  ?    we  have   no   other 
business 
Now,  but  to  part.  [time  ? 

Sus.  And  will  not  that,  sweet-heart,  ask  a  long 
Methinks  it  is  the  hardest  piece  of  work 
That  e'er  I  took  in  hand. 

Frank.  Fie,  fie  !  why  look, 

I'll  make  it  plain  and  easy  to  you.    Farewell* 

[Kisses  her. 

Sus.  Ah,  'las  !  I'm  not  half  perfect  in  it  yet. 
I  must  have  it  thus  read  an  hundred  times. 
Pray  you  take  some  pains,  I  confess  my  dulness. 

Frank.  Come  !  again  and  again,  farewell.  [Kisses 
her.]     Yet  wilt  return  ? 
All  questions  of  my  journey,  my  stay,  employment, 
And  revisitation,  fully  I  have  answered  all. 
There's  nothing  now  behind  but — 

Sus.  But  this  request — 

Frank.  Whatis't?  [more, 

Sus.  That  I  may  bring  you  thro'  one  pasture 
Up  to  yon  knot  of  trees:  amongst  those  shadows 
ril  vanish  from  you;  they  shall  leach  me  how. 

Frank.  Why  'tis  granted:  come,  walk  then. 

Sus.  Nay,  not  too  fast : 

They  say,  slow  things  have  best  perfection ; 
The  gentle  show'rwets  to  fertility, 
The  churlish  storm  makes  mischief  with  his  bounty. 

Frank.  Now,  your  request 
Is  out :  yet  will  you  leave  me  ? 

Sus.  What  ?  so  churlishly  ! 

You'll  make  me  stay  for  ever, 
Rather  than  part  with  such  a  sound  from  you. 

Frank.  Why,  you  almost  anger  me. — 'Pray  you 
You  have  no  company,  and  'tis  very  early  ;  [begone. 
Some  hurt  may  betide  you  homewards. 

Sus.  Tush  !  I  fear  none  : 

To  leave  you  is  the  greatest  I  can  suffer. 

Frank.  So  1  I  shall  have  more  trouble." 

Here  the  dog  rubs  against  him ;  and,  after 
some  more  talk,  he  stabs  her ! 

*'  Su!.  Why  then  I  thank  you ; 

You  have  done  lovingly,  leaving  yourself, 
That  you  would  thus  bestow  me  on  another. 


Thou  art  my  husband,  Death  !  I  embrace  thee 
With  all  the  love  I  have.     Forget  the  stain 
Of  my  unwitting  sin:  and  then  I  come 
A  crysta^  virgin  to  thee.     My  soul's  purity 
Shall,  with  bold  wings,  ascend  the  doors  of  mercy 
For  innocence  is  ever  her  companion. 

Frank.  Not  yet  mortal  ?  I  would  not  linger  you, 
Or  leave  you  a  tongue  to  blab.       [Slabs  her  a^ain, 

Stis.  Now  heaven  reward  you  ne'er  the  worse  fol 
I  dTd  not  think  that  death  had  been  so  sweet,    [me ! 
Nor  I  so  apt  to  love  him.     I  could  ne'er  die  better. 
Had  I  stay'd  forty  years  for  preparation: 
For  I'm  in  charity  with  all  the  world. 
Let  me  for  once  be  thine  example,  heaven  ;  r 

Do  to  this  man  as  I,  forgive  him  freely. 
And  may  he  better  die,  and  sweeter  live.     [Dies.^' 
Vol.  ii.  pp.  452 — 445. 

We  cannot  afford  any  more  space  for  Mt. 
Ford ;  and  what  we  have  said,  and  what  we 
have  shown  of  him,  will  probably  be  thought 
enough,  both  by  those  who  are  disposed  to 
scoft',  and  those  who  ar6  inclined  to  admire. 
It  is  but  fair,  however,  to  intimate,  that  a 
thorough  perusal  of  his  works  will  afford  more 
exercise  to  the  former  disposition  than  to  the 
latter.  His  faults  are  glaring  and  abundant ; 
but  we  have  not  thought  it  necessary  to  pro- 
duce any  specimens  of  them,  because  they 
are  exactly  the  sort  of  faults  which  every  one 
acquainted  with  the  drama  of  that  age  reckons 
upon  finding.  No  body  doubts  of  the  exist- 
ence of  such  faults  :  But  there  are  many  who 
doubt  of  the  existence  of  any  counterbalanc- 
ing beauties;  and  therefore  it  seemed  worth 
while  to  say  a  word  or  two  in  their  explana- 
tion. There  is  a  great  treasure  of  poetry,  we 
think,  still  to  be  brought  to  light  in  the  neglect- 
ed writers  of  the  age  to  which  this  author  be- 
longs ;  and  poetry  of  a  kind  which,  if  purified 
and  improved,  as  the  happier  specimens  show 
that  it  is  capable  of  being,  would  be  far  more 
delightful  to  the  generality  of  English  readers 
than  any  other  species  of  poetry.  We  shall 
readily  be  excused  for  our  tediousness  by  those 
who  are  of  this  opinion ;  and  should  not  have 
been  forgiven,  even  if  we  had  not  been  tedious, 
by  those  who  look  upon  it  as  a  he  res  v 


Characters  o 


(2lngtist,  1817.) 

uracters  of  Shakespeare^  Piays.    By  William  Hazlitt.    8  vo.  pp.  352.   London:  1817.* 


This  is  not  a  book  of  black-letter  learning, 
or  historical  elucidation. ; — neither  is  it  a  me- 
taphysical dissertation,  full  of  wise  perplexi- 
ties and  elaborate  reconcilements.    Itlis,  in 

*  It  may  be  thought  that  enough  had  been  said 
of  our  early  dramatists,  in  the  immediately  preced- 
ing article  ;  and  it  probably  is  so.  But  I  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  of  thus  renewing,  in  my  own 
name,  that  vow  of  allegiance,  which  1  had  so  often 
^aken  anonymously,  to  the  oiilj  true  and  lawful 
King  of  our  Enghsh  PoeTfyT  ari3  'now  venture, 
therefore,  fondly  to  replace  this  slight  and  perish- 
able wreath  on  his  augiwt  and  undecaying  shrine  : 
with  no  farther  apology  than  that  it  presumes  to 
direct  attention  but  to  one,  and  that,  as  I  think,  a 
comparatively  neglected  aspect  of  his  universal 
S'Ciiius. 


truth,  rather  an_, encomium  on.  Shakaspes-re. 
than  a_6ommentary  or  critique  on  him. — and 
is  written,  iiiore  to  show  extraordinary  love, 
than  extraordinary  knowledge  of  his  produc- 
tions. Nevertheless,  it  is  a  very  pleasing 
book — and,  we  do  not  hesitate  to  say,  ^  book 
of  very  considerable  originality  and  genius. 
The  author  is  not  merely  an  admirer  of  q^ 
great  dramatist,  but  an  Idolater  of  him ;  and 
openly  professes  his  idolatry.  We  have  our 
selves  too  great  a  leaning  to  the  same  super 
stition,  to  blame  him  very  much  for  his  error: 
and  though  we  think,  of  course,  thatjQ]iL2W|t, 
admiration  JS;  on  the . whol^iinoLS-d is.cr i m inaj- 
ipg  and  jjjd'Cd.O.'J.g;  there  are  not  many  points 
on  which,  especially  after  reading  his  eloquent 


310 


POETRY. 


exposition  of  them,  we  should  be  much  in- 
cHned  to  disagree  with  him. 

The  book,  as  we  have  already  intimated,  is 
written  less  to  tell  the  readervvhat  Mr.  HJcnows^ 
about  Shake  speafe'^dfliTs  writings,  than  , to 
explain  to  them  wHat  he  feels  about.  tHem — 
and  why  he  feels  so — aad  thinks  that  all  whg 
PIoJJesgjQ  love  poetry  should  feel  so  like^wig^. 
What  we  chiefly  look  for  in  sucli  a  work,  ac- 
cordingly, is  a  fine  sense  of  the  beauties  of 
the  author,  and  an  eloquent  exposition  of 
yiem ;  and  all  this,  and  more,  we  think,  may 
be  found  in  the  volume  before  us.  There  is 
nothing  niggardly  in  Mr.  H.'s  praises,  and 
nothing  affected  in  his  raptures.  He  seems 
animated  throughout  with  a  full  and  hearty 
sympathy  with  the  delight  which  his  author 
should  inspire,  and  pours  himself  gladly  out 
in  explanation  of  it,  with  a  fluency  and  ardour, 
obviously  much  more  akin  to  enthusiasm  than 
affectation.  He  seerns  pretty  generally,  in- 
deed^^in  a  state  ojf  happy  intoxication — and 
hari  borrowed  from  Hs  great  orrgTnal^'not  in- 
deed the  force  or  brilliancy  of  his  fancy,  but 
something  of  its  playfulness,  and  a  large  share 
of  his  apparent  joyousnessand  self-indulgence 
in  its  exercise,  'it  is  evidently  a  great  plea- 
sure to  him  to  be  fully  possessed  with  the 
beauties  of  his  author,  and  to  follow  the  im- 
pulse c:  a:s  unrestrained  eagerness  to  impress 
them  upon  his  readers. 

When  we  h<ive  said  that  his  observations 
are  generally  right,  we  have  said,  in  sub- 
Btance,  tTTaTyiey  are  not  generally  original ; 
forJJbLe.  beauties  of  Shakespeare  are  not  of  so 
cRm^oregmYqcar  a  nature  as  to  be  visible  only 
JoT[earned_ej:e.&— and  undoubtedly  his  finest 
passages  are  those  which  please  all  classes  of 
readers,  and  are  admired  for  the  same  quali- 
ties by  judges  from  every  school  of  criticism. 
Even  with  reg-ard  to  those  passages,  however, 
a  skilful  commentator  will  find  something 
worth  hearing  to  tell.  Many  persons  axaveiy 
sensible  of  the  effect  of  fine  poetry  on  their 
feeliiiii-.  w  ho  do  not  well  know  ho,w.,ta  lefej: 
these  iccJings  to  their  causes  ;,a]id  it  is  always 
a  delightful  thing  to  be  made  to  see  clearly 
the  sources  from, ,w^i,Qh  ouF delight  has  pio- 
ceeJeH— and  to  trace  back  tlie'mrngled^stre'arn 
IKalTias  flowed  upon  our  hearts,  to  the  remo- 
ter fountains  from  which  it  has  been  guthered. 
And  when  this  is  done  with  warmth  as  well 
as  precision,  and  embodied  in  an  eloquent  de- 
scription of  the  beauty  which  is  explained,  it 
forms  one  of  the  most  attractive,  and  not  the 
least  instructive,  of  literary  exercises.  In  all 
works  of  merit,  however,  and  especially  in  all 
'  works  of  original  genius,  there  are  a  thousand 
retiring  and  less  obtrusive  graces,  which  es- 
cape hasty  and  superficial  observers,  and  only 
give  out  their  beauties  to  fond  and  patient 
contemplation ; — a  thousand  slight  and  har- 
monising touches,  the  merit  and  the  effect  of 
which  are  equally  imperceptible  to  vulgar 
eyes ;  and  a  thousand  indications  of  the  contin- 
ual presence  of  that  poetical  spirit,  which  can 
only  be  recognised  by  those  who  are  in  some 
measure  under  its  influence,  or  have  prepared 
themselves  to  receive  it,  by  worshipping 
meekly  at  the  shrines  which  it  inhabits. 


In  the  exposition  of  these,  theie  is  room 
enough  for  originality, — and  more  room  thai; 
Mr.  H.  has  yet  filled.     In  many  points,  how- 
ever, he  has  acquitted  himself  excellently  ;— 
partly  in   the  development  of   the  prhicipaf. 
characters  with  which  Shakespeare  has  peo.; 
pled  the  fancies  of  all  English  readers — bur 
principally,  we  think,  in  the  delicate  sensi- 
bility with  which  he   has   traced,  and   the 
natural  eloquence  with  which  he^has  pointed.  _ 
out  that  fond  familiarity  with  beautifu^forms  \ 
andjmages- — ^^that  gleraal jrecurrence  t"o^\diat| 
IS  sweet^orjnajestic  in  the  simple  aspects  o^ 
riatiire— that   indestructible   love   of  floweTs' 
and  odours,  and  dews  and  clear  waters,  and 
soft   airs  and   sounds,  and  bright  skies,  and 
woodland^  solitudes,  and   moonlight   bovvers^ 
which  are  the  Material  elements  of  Poetry — 
and  that  fine  sense  of  their  undefinabje'rela- 
tion  to  meiitareDi.oUQn,.wliich  is'  its" 
and  vivifying  Soul^and  which^  mil 
oT^^aKespeare's'"  most   busy  and  atrocious 
scenes,  falls  like  gleams  of  sunshine  on  rocks 
and  ruins — contrasting  with  all  that  is  rugged 
and  repulsive,  and  reminding  us  of  the  exist- 
ence of  purer  and  brighter  elements ! — which 
HE  ALONE  has  poured  out  from  the  richness 
of  his  own  mind,  without  effort  or  restraint ; 
and  contrived  to  intermingle  with  the  play  of 
all  the  passions,  and  the  vulg^ar  course  of  this 
world's  affairs,  without  deserting  for  an  instant 
the  proper  business  of  the  scene,  or  appearing 
to  pause  or  digress,  from  the  love  of  ornament 
or  need  of  repose !— He  alone,  who,  when 
the  object   requires  it,' is  always. .Js£efl..i!Jid 
worldly  aiKl,  practical— and  who  yet,  withpuT 
changing  hiis.  hand,  .or   stopping  his  course, 
scatters  around   him,  as   he  goe.s^.  all.  sounds^ 
and  shapes  of  sweqtness^^and  conjures  up 
landscapes  of  immortal  fragrance  and  ffesh^-" 
iiess,  and  peoples  ttem  with  ^Sgiiitsjotglo^ 
rious  aspect  and  attr.nctive  gTace^-ancTis  a 
thousand  times  more  lull  of  fancy  and  nha- 
geij;  and  splendour,  ihan  those  who,  in  pur- 
smt  of  such  enchantments,  have  e-liiuiik'ltiicTr 
from  the  delineation  of  character  or  ^as^Jon, 
and  (lecliiu'd  tlit!  dise'iissioii  of  hiniiaiLiiuliea. 
aiid  care?.    ^Siovc  full  of  wisdom  and  ridicule 
and  sagg^dl^,  than  all  the  moralists  arid"  sa- 
tirists  that   ever  existed — he   is  more  wild, 
airy^  and.  hiyentive,  and  more  piajjifilic^and 
"fantastic,  than  all  the  poets  of  all  regions  a^ifd 
ages  o?  the  world: — and   hna  nil  ihasR  p,]f>^ 
ments  so  Jiappilv  mixed  up  in  him,  and  bears 
His^^^h  faculties  so.  temperately... liiaL-Oie 
most  severe  reader  cannot  complain  of  him  r 
for  \yant  of  strength  or  of  iea?on — nor  the  most  j 
sensitive  for  defect  of  eriiaiiKiil  or  ingenuity. ' 
Every  thing  in  him  is  in  niinu  asured  abund-  } 
ance,  and  unequalled  perfection — but  every 
thing  so  balanced  and  l^ept  in  subPi'd ination^  j 
as  no!  to  jostle  or  distmb  or,  take  the  place  ]\ 
of  uhoIIr].    Tlie  most  exquisite  poetical  con-  '; 
ceptions,  images,  and  descriptions,  are  given 
with  such  brevity,  and  introduced  with  such    ; 
skill,  as  merely  to  adorn,  without  loading  the 
sense  they  accompany.     Although  his  saila 
are   purple  and   perfumed,  and  his  prow  of    ! 
beaten  gold,  they  waft  him  on  his  voyage,  not 
less,  but  more  rapidly  and  directly  than  if 


HAZLITT'S  CHARACTERS  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


31 


rhey  had  been  composed  of  baser  materials. 
All  his  excellences,  like  those  of  Nature  her- 
aeTT^'are  thrown  out  toaefKof  yhnd.  insteacrot 
interfering  with,  sup;  immI  each 

other.  His  flowers  ail  -  u;u lands, 

nor  his  fruits  crushed  iuto  baskets — but  spring 
living  from  the  soil,  in  all  the  dew  and  fresh- 
ness of  youth ;  while  the  graceful  foliage  in 
which  they  lurk,  and  the  ample  branches,  the 
rough  and  vigorous  stem,  and  the  wide-spread- 
ing roots  on  which  they  depend,  are  present 
along  with  them,  and  share,  in  their  places, 
the  equal  care  of  their  Creator. 

What  other  poet  has  put  all  the  charm  of  a 
Moonlight  landscape  into  a  single  line '? — and 
that  by  an  image  so  true  to  nature,  and^o 
simple,  as  to  seem  obvious  to  the  most  com- 
mon observation  1 — 
"  See  how  the  Moonlight  sleeps  on  yonder  bank !" 

Who  else  has  expressed,  in  three  lines,  all 
that  is  picturesque  and  lovely  in  a  Summer's 
Dawn? — first  setting  before  our  eyes,  with 
magical  precision,  the  visible  appearances  of 
the  infant  light,  and  then,  by  one  graceful 
and  glorious  image,  pouring  on  our  souls  all 
the  freshness,  cheerfulness,  and  sublimity  of 
returning  morning  1 — 

"  See,  love  !  what  envious  streaks 


Do  lace  the  severing  clouds  in  yonder  East  I 
Night's  candles*  are  burnt  out, — and  jocund  Day 
Stands  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain  tops  !" 

Where  shall  we  find  sweet  sounds  and  odours 
BO  luxuriously  blended  and  illustrated,  as  in 
these  few  words  of  sweetness  and  melody, 
where  the  author  says  of  soft  music — 

"  O  it  came  o'er  my  ear,  like  the  sweet  South 
That  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets, 
SteaUng  and  giving  odour  I" 

This  is  still  finer,  we  think,  than  the  noble 
speech  on  Music  in  the  Merchant  of  Venice, 
and  only  to  be  compared  with  th.e  enchant- 
ments of  Prospero's  island;  where  all  the 
effects  of  sweet  sounds  are  expressed  in  mi- 
raculous numbers,  and  traced  in  their  opera- 
tion on  all  the  gradations  of  being,  from  the 
delicate  Arial  to  the  brutish  Caliban,  who, 
savage  as  he  is,  is  still  touched  with  those 
supernatural  harmonies ;  and  thus  exhorts  his 
Jess  poetical  associates — 

"  Be  not  afraid,  the  isle  is  full  of  noises, 
Sounds,  and  sweet  airs,   that  give   delight  and 
hurt  not. 

*  If  the  advocates  for  the  grand  style  object  to 
this  expression,  we  shall  not  stop  to  defend  it :  But 
to  us,  it  seems  equally  beautiful,  as  it  is  obvious  and 
natural,  to  a  person  coming  out  of  a  lighted  chamber 
into  the  pale  dawn.  The  word  candle,  we  admit, 
is  rather  homely  in  modern  language,  while  lamp  is 
sufficiently  dignified  for  poetry.  The  moon  hangs 
her  silver  lamp  on  high,  in  every  schoolboy's  copy 
of  verses ;  and  she  could  not  be  called  the  candle 
of  heaven  without  manifest  absurdity.  Such  are 
the  caprices  of  usage.  Yet  we  like  the  passage 
before  us  much  better  as  it  is.  than  if  the  candles 
were  changed  into  lamps.  If  we  should  read, 
"  The  lamps  of  heaven  are  quenched,"  or  "  wax 
•lim,"  it  appears  to  us  that  the  whole  charm  of 
the  expression  would  be  lost :  as  our  fancies  would 
no  longer  be  recalled  to  the  privacy  of  that  dim- 
lighted  chamber  which  the  lovers  were  so  reluct- 
aiitly  leavinor 


Sometimes  a  thousand  twanging  instruments 
Will  hum  about  mine  ears,  and  sometimes  voicea 
That  if  I  then  had  waked  after  a  long  sleep, 
Would  make  me  sleep  again." 

Observe,  too,  that  this  and  the  other  poeti- 
cal speeches  of  this  incarnate  demon,  are  not 
mere  ornaments  of  the  poet's  fancy,  but  ex- 
plain his  character,  and  describe  his  situation 
more  briefly  and  eff'ectually,  than  any  other 
words  could  have  done.  In  this  play,  indeed, 
and  in  the  Midsummer-Night's  Dream,  all 
Eden  is  unlocked  before  us,  and  the  whole 
treasury  of  natural  and  supernatural  beauty 
poured  out  profusely,  to  the  delight  of  all  our 
faculties.  We  dare  not  trust  ourselves  with 
quotations ;  but  we  refer  to  those  plays  gen- 
erally— to  the  forest  scenes  in  As  You  Like 
It — the  rustic  parts  of  the  Winter's  Tale — 
several  entire  scenes  in  Cymbeline,  and  in 
Romeo  and  Juliet — and  many  passages  in  all 
the  other  plays — as  illustrating  this  love  of 
nature  and  natural  beauty  of  which  we  have 
been  speaking — the  power  it  had  over  the 
poet,  and  the  power  it  imparted  to  him.  Who 
else  would  have  thought,  on  the  very  thres- 
hold of  treason  and  midnight  murder,  of 
bringing  in  so  sweet  and  rural  an  image  aa 
this,  at  the  portal  of  that  blood-stained  castle 
of  Macbeth  ? 

*'  This  guest  of  summer. 

The  temple-haunting  martlet,  does  approve 
By  his  loved  masonry  that  heaven's  breath 
Smells  wooingly  here.     No  jutting  frieze. 
Buttress,  nor  coigne  of  vantage,  but  this  bird 
Has  made  his  pendent  bed,  and  procreant  cradle. 

Nor  is  this  brought  |in  for  the  sake  of  a.r 
elaborate  contrast  be^veen  the  peaceful  inno- 
cence of  this  exteriojr,  and  the  guilt  and  hor- 
rors that  are  to  be  eaacted  within.  There  is 
no  hint  of  any  such .  suggestion — but  it  is  set 
down  from  the  pnre^lQve  of  n9'tur§  ^P*^,  JTc 
alitj;;;;-because  the~Kindled  mind  of  the  poet 
brought  the  whole  scene  before  his  eyes, 
and  he  painted  all  that  he  saw  in  his  vision. 
The  same  taste  predominates  in  that  em- 
phatic exhortation  to  evil,  where  Lady  Mac- 
beth says, 

**  Look  like  the  innocent  flower. 

But  be  the  serpent  under  it." 

And  in  that  proud  boast  of  the 
Richard — 

"  But  I  was  borfi  so  high  : 
Our  aery  buildeth  in  the  cedar's  top, 
And  dallies  with  the  wind,  and  scorns  the  sun  !' 

The  same  splendour  of  natural  imagery, 
brought  simply  and  directly  to  bear  upon  stern 
and  repulsive  passions,  is  to  be  found  in  the 
cynic  rebukes  of  Apemantus  to  Timon. 

"  Will  these  moist  trees 
That  have  out-Iiv'd  the  eagle,  page  thy  heels, 
And  skip  when  thou  point'st  out  ?  will  the  cold 

brook, 
Candied  with  ice,  caudle  thy  morning  taste 
To  cure  thine  o'er-nigijt's  surfeit  ?" 

No  one  but  Shakespeare  would  have  thought 
of  putting  this  noble  picture  into  the  taunting 
address  of  a  snappish  misanthrope — any  more 
than  the  following  into  the  mouth  of  a  mer- 
cenary murderer. 


bloody 


912 


POETRV. 


Their  lip*  #-!^'e  four  red  roses  on  a  stalk, 

And  in  their  summer  heauty  kissed  each  other  !" 

Or  this  delicious  description  of  concealed  love, 
uito  that  of  a  regretful  and  moralizing  parent. 

"  But  he,  his  own  affections  Counsellor, 
Is  to  himself  so  secret  and  so  close, 
As  is  the  bud  bit  with  an  envious  worm 
Ere  he  can  spread  his  sweet  leaves  to  the  air, 
Or  dedicate  his  beauty  to  the  sun." 

And  yet  all  these  are  so  far  from  being  im- 
natural,  that  they  are  no  sooner  put  where 
they  are,  than  we  feel  at  once  their  beauty 
and  their  effect  \  and  acknowledge  our  obli- 
gations to  that  exuberant  genius  which  alone 
could  thus  throw  out  graces  and  atractions 
where  there  seemed  to  be  neither  room  nor 
call  for  them.  In  the  same  spirit  of  prodi- 
gality he  puts  this  rapturous  and  passionate 
exaltation  of  the  beauty  of  Imogen,  into  the 
mouth  of  one  who  is  not  even  a  lover. 

— "  It  is  her  breathing  that 
Perfumes  the  chamber  thus  !  the  flame  o'  th'  taper 
Bows  towards  her  !  and  would  under-peep  her  lids 
To  see  th'  enclosed  lights,  now  canopied 
Under  the  windows,  white  and  azure,  laced 
With  blue  of  Heaven's  own  tinct  ! — on  her  left 

breast 
A  mole  cinque-spotted,  like  the  crimson  drops 
J'  the  bottom  of  a  cowslip  !" 

But  we  must  break  at  once  away  from  these 
manifold  enchantments — and  recollect  that 
our  business  is  with  Mr.  Hazlitt,  and  not  Mdth 
the  great  and  gifted  author  on  whom  he  is 
employed  :  And,  to  avoid  the  danger  of  any 
further  preface,  we  shall  now  let  him  speak 
a  little  for  himself.  In  his  remarks  on  Cjm- 
beline,  which  is  the  first  play  in  his  arrange- 
ment, he  takes  occasion  to  make  the  follow- 
ing observations  on  the  female  characters  of 
his  author. 

"  It  is  the  peculiar  characteristic  of  Shakespeare's 
heroines,  that  they  seem  to  exist  only  in  their  at- 
tachment to  others.  They  are  pure  abstractions  of 
the  affections.  We  think  as  little  of  their  persons 
as  they  do  themselves  ;  because  we  are  let  into  the 
secrets  of  their  hearts,  which  are  more  important. 
We  are  too  much  interested  in  their  affairs  to  stop 
to  look  at  their  faces,  except  by  stealth  and  at  inter- 
vals. No  one  ever  hit  the  true  perfection  of  the 
female  character,  the  sense  of  weakness  leaning 
on  the  strength  of  its  affections  for  support,  so  well 
as  Shakespeare — no  one  ever  so  well  painted  natu- 
ral tenderness  free  from  affectation  and  disguise — 
no  one  else  ever  so  well  showed  how  delicacy  and 
timidity,  when  driven  to  extremity,  grow  romantic 
and  extravagant :  For  the  romance  of  his  heroines 
(in  which  they  abound)  is  only  an  excess  of  the 
habitual  prejudicesof  their  sex  ;  scrupulous  of  being 
false  to  their  vows  or  truant  to  their  affections,  and 
taught  by  the  force  of  feeling  when  to  forego  the 
forms  of  propriety  for  the  essence  of  it.  His  women 
were  in  this  respect  exquisite  logicians  ;  for  there  is 
nothing  so  logical  as  passion.  Gibber,  in  speaking 
of  the  early  English  stage,  accounts  for  tiie  want 
of  prominence  and  theatrical  display  in  Shake- 
speare's female  characters,  from  the  circumstance, 
that  women  in  those  days  were  not  allowed  to  play 
the  parts  of  women,  whijjh  made  it  necessary  to 
keep  them  a  good  deal  in  the  back  around.  Does 
not  this  state  of  manners  itself,  wnich  prevented 
their  exhibiting  themselves  in  public,  and  confined 
fhem  to  the  relations  and  charities  of  domestic  life, 
»ff(ird  a  truer  explanation  of  the  matter  ?  His  wo- 
men are  certainly  very  unlike  stage  hcroinfs." — 

PD.3.  4. 


His  remarks  on  Macbeth  are  of  a  highei 
and  bolder  character.  After  noticing  the 
wavering  and  perplexity  of  Macbeth's  resolu- 
tion, ''  driven  on,  as  it  were,  by  the  violence 
of  his  Fate,  and  staggering  under  the  weight 
of  his  own  purposes,"  he  strikingly  observes, 

"  This  part  of  his  character  is  admirably  set  off 
by  being  brought  in  connection  with  that  of  Lady 
Macbetn,  whose  obdurate  strength  of  will  and  mas- 
culine firmness  give  her  the  ascendancy  over  her 
husband's  faltering  virtue.  She  at  once  seizes  on 
the  opportunity  that  offers  for  the  accomplishment 
of  their  wished-for  greatness ;  and  never  flinches 
from  her  object  till  all  is  over.  The  magnitude  of  ^ 
her  resolution  almost  covers  the  magnitude  of  her 
guilt.  She  is  a  great  bad  woman,  whom  we  hate, 
but  whom  we  fear  more  than  we  hate.  She  does 
not  excite  our  loathing  and  abhorrence  like  Regan 
and  Gonnerill.  She  is  only  wicked  to  gain  a  great 
end ;  and  is  perhaps  more  distinguished  by  her 
commanding  presence  of  mind  and  inexorable  self- 
will,  which  do  not  suffer  her  to  be  diverted  from  a 
bad  purpose,  when  once  formed,  by  weak  and 
womanly  regrets,  than  by  the  hardness  of  her  heart 
or  want  of  natural  affections." — pp.  18,  19.     . 

But  the  best  part  perhaps  of  this  critique, 
is  the  comparison  of  the  Macbeth  with  the 
Richard  of  the  same  author. 

"  The  leading  features  in  the  character  of  Mac- 
beth are  striking  enough,  and  they  form  what  may 
be  thought  at  first  only  a  bold,  rude,  Gothic  outline. 
By  comparing  it  with  other  characters  of  the  same 
author  we  shall  perceive  the  absolute  truth  and 
identity  which  is  observed  in  the  midst  of  the  giddy 
whirl  and  rapid  career  of  events.  Thus  he  is  as 
distinct  a  being  from  Richard  III.  as  it  is  possible 
to  imagine,  though  these  two  characters  in  common 
hands,  and  indeed  in  the  hands  of  any  other  poet, 
would  have  been  a  repetition  of  the  same  general 
idea,  more  or  less  exaggerated.  For  both  are 
tyrants,  usurpers,  murderers, — both  aspiring  and 
ambitious, — both  courageous,  cruel,  treacherous. 
But  Richard  is  cruel  from  nature  and  constitution. 
Macbeth  becomes  so  from  accidental  circumstances. 
Richard  is  from  his  birth  deformed  in  body  and 
mind,  and  naturally  incapable  of  good.  Macbeth 
is  full  of  "  the  milk  of  htiman  kindness,"  is  frank, 
sociable,  generous.  He  is  tempted  to  the  commis- 
sion of  guilt  by  golden  opportunities,  by  the  instiga- 
tions of  his  wife,  and  by  prophetic  warnings. 
'  Fate  and  metaphysical  aid'  conspire  against  his 
virtue  and  his  loyalty.  Richard  on  the  contrary 
needs  no  prompter  ;  but  wades  through  a  series  of 
crimes  to  the  height  of  his  ambition,  from  the  un- 
governable violence  of  his  temper  and  a  reckless 
love  of  mischief.  He  is  never  gay  but  in  the  pros- 
pect or  in  the  success  of  his  villanies:  Macbeth  is 
full  of  horror  at  the  thoughts  of  the  murder  of 
Duncan,  which  he  is  with  aifficulty  prevailed  on  to 
commit ;  and  of  remorse  after  its  perpetration. 
Richard  has  no  mixture  of  common  humanity  in 
his  comp6shion,  no  regard  to  kindred  or  posterity — 
he  owns  no  fellowship  with  others  ;  he  is  '  himself 
alone.'  Macbeth  is  not  destitute  of  feelings  of 
sympathy,  is  accessible  to  pity,  is  even  made  in 
some  measure  the  dupe  of  his  uxoriousness  ;  ranks 
the  loss  of  friends,  of  the  cordial  love  of  his  follow- 
ers, and  of  his  good  name,  among  the  causes  which 
have  made  him  weary  of  life ;  and  regrets  that  he 
has  ever  seized  the  Crown  by  unjust  means,  since 
he  cannot  transmit  it  to  his  posterity.  There  are 
other  decisive  differences  inherent  in  the  two  char- 
acters. Richard  may  be  regarded  as  a  man  of  the 
world,  a  plotting  hardened  knave,  wholly  regard- 
less of  everything  but  his  own  ends,  and  the  means 
to  secure  them. — Not  so  Macbeth.  The  supersti- 
tions of  the  age,  the  rude  slate  of  society,  the 
local  scenery  and  customs,  all  give  a  wildness  and 
imaainary  grandeur  to  his  character      From  tb« 


HAZLITT'S  CHARACTERS  OF  SHAIiESPtARE. 


313 


atran^eness  of  the  events  that  surround  him,  he  is 
lull  oT  amazement  and  fear;  and  stands  in  doubt 
between  the  world  of  reality  and  the  world  of 
fancy.  He  sees  sighjs  not  shown  to  mortal  eye, 
and  hears  unearthly  music.  All  is  tumult  and  d.is- 
order  within  and  without  his  mind  ;  his  purposes 
recoil  upon  himself,  are  broken  and  disjointed  ;  he 
is  the  double  thrall  of  his  passions  and  his  destiny. 
Richard  is  not  a  character  either  of  imagination  or 
pathos,  but  of  pure  self-will.  There  is  no  conflict 
of  opposite  feelings  in  his  breast.  In  the  busy  tur- 
bulence of  his  projects  he  never  loses  his  self-pos- 
session, and  makes  use  of  every  circumstance  that 
happens  as  an  instrument  of  his  long-reaching  de- 
signs. In  his  last  extremity  we  regard  him  but  as 
a  wild  beast  taken  in  the  toils:  But  we  never  en- 
tirely lose  our  concern  for  Macbeth ;  and  he  calls 
back  all  our  sympathy  by  that  fine  close  of  thought- 
ful melancholy. 

"  My  way  of  life 
Is  fallen  into  the  sear,  the  yellow  leaf; 
And  that  which  should  accompany  old  age, 
As  honour,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends, 
I  must  not  look  to  have  !  But  in  their  stead, 
Curses  not  loud  but  deep  ;  mouth-honour,  breath, 
Which  the  poor  heart  would  fain  denv,  and  dares 
not  !"—  pp.  26—30. 

In  treating  of  the  Julius  Csesar,  Mr.  H.  ex- 
tracts the  following  short  scene,  and  praises  it 
so  highly,  and,  in  our  opinion,  so  justly,  that 
we  cannot  resist  the  temptation  of  extracting 
it  too — together  with  his  brief  commentary. 

**  Brutus.  The  games  are   done,  and  Ctesar  is 
returning.  [sleeve, 

Cassius.  As  they  pass  by,  pluck  Casca  by  the 
And  he  will,  after  his  sour  fashion,  tell  you 
What  has  proceeded  worthy  note  to-day. 

Brutus.  I  will  do  so  ;  but  look  you,  Cassius — 
The  angry  spot  doth  glow  on  Caesar's  brow, 
And  all  the  rest  look  like  a  chidden  train. 
Calphurnia's  cheek  is  pale  ;  and  Cicero 
Looks  with  such  ferret  and  such  fiery  eyes. 
As  we  have  seen  him  in  the  Capitol, 
Being  crost  in  conference  by  some  senator. 

Cassius.  Casca  will  tell  us  what  the  matter  is. 

CcBsar.  Antonius 

Antony.  Caesar? 

CoEsar.     Let  me  have  men  about  me  that  are  fat. 
Sleek-headed  men,  and  such  as  sleep  a-nighis  : 
Yond  Cassius  has  a  lean  and  hungry  look. 
He  thinks  too  much;  such  men  are  dangerous. 

Anto7iy.    Fear  him  not,  Caesar,  he's  not  danger- 
ous: 
He  i^  a  noble  Roman,  and  well  given.  [not : 

Ceesar.     Would  he  were  fatter !     But  I  fear  him 
Yet  if  my  name  were  liable  to  fear, 
I  do  not  know  the  man  I  should  avoid 
So  soon  as  that  spare  Cassius.     He  reads  much ; 
He  is  a  great  observer;  and  he  looks 
Quite  through  the  deeds  of  men.   He  loves  no  plays, 
As  thou  dost,  Antony;  he  hears  no  music: 
Seldom  he  smiles,  and  smiles  in  such  a  sort, 
As  if  he  niock'd  himself,  and  scorned  his  spirit, 
That  could  be  moved  to  smile  at  any  thing. 
Such  men  as  he  be  never  at  heart's  ease 
Whilst  they  behold  a  greater  than  themselves; 
And  therefore  are  they  very  dangerous. 
I  rather  tell  thee  what  is  to  be  fear'd 
Than  what  I  fear;  for  always  I  am  Caesar. 
Come  on  my  right  hand,  for  this  ear  is  deaf, 
And  tell  me  truly  what  thou  think'st  of  him." 

"  We  know  hardly  any  passage  more  expressive 
of  the  genius  of  Shakespeare  than  this.  It  is  as  if 
he  had  been  actually  present,  had  known  the  dif- 
ferent  characters  and  what  they  thought  of  one 
another,  and  had  taken  down  what  he  heard  and 
fiaw,  their  looks,  words,  and  gestures,  just  as  they 
happened." — pp.  36,  37. 

We  may  add  the  following  as  a  specimen 


of  the  moral  and  political  reflect:  ons  which 
this  author  has  intermixed  with  Ms  criticisms. 

"Shakespeare  has  in  this  play  and  elsewhere 
shown  the  same  penetration  into  political  character 
and  the  springs  of  public  events  as  into  those  of 
every-day  lile.  For  instance,  the  whole  design  to 
liberate  their  country  fails  from  the  generous  tem- 
per and  overweening  confidence  of  Brutus  in  the 
goodness  of  their  cause  and  the  assistance  of  others. 
I'hus  it  has  always  been.  Those  who  mean  well 
themselves  think  well  of  others,  and  fall  a  prey  to 
their  security.  The  friends  of  liberty  trust  to  the 
professions  of  others,  because  they  are  themselves 
sincere,  and  endeavour  to  secure  the  public  good 
with  the  least  possible  hurt  to  its  enemies,  who 
have  no  regnrd  to  any  thing  but  their  own  un- 
principled ends,  and  stick  at  nothing  to  accomplish 
them.  Cassius  was  better  cut  out  for  a  conspirator. 
His  heart  prompted  his  head.  His  habitual  jealousy 
made  hiin  lear  the  worst  that  might  happen,  and  hia 
irritability  of  temper  added  to  his  inveteracy  of  pur- 
pose, and  sharpened  his  patriotism.  The  mixed 
nature  of  his  motives  made  him  fitter  to  contend 
with  bad  men.  The  vices  are  never  so  well  em- 
ployed as  in  combating  one  another.  Tyranny  and 
servility  are  to  be  dealt  with  after  their  own  fashion : 
otherwise,  they  will  triumph  over  those  who  spare 
them,  and  finally  pronounce  their  funeral  panegyric, 
as  Antony  did  that  of  Brutus. 

"All  the  conspirators,  save  only  he, 
Did  that  they  did  in  envy  of  great  Caesar : 
He  only  in  a  general  honest  thought 
Of  common  good  to  all,  made  one  of  them. 

pp.  38,  39. 

The  same  strain  is  resumed  in  his  remarks 
on  Coriolanus. 

"  Shakespeare  seems  to  have  had  a  leaning  to 
the  arbitrary  side  of  the  question  ;  perhaps  from 
some  feeling  of  contempt  for  his  own  origin  ;  and 
to  have  spared  no  occasion  of  baiting  the  rabble. 
What  he  says  of  them  is  very  true  :  what  he  says 
of  their  betters  is  also  very  true;  But  he  dwells 
less  upon  it. — The  cause  of  the  people  is  indeed  but 
little  calculated  as  a  subject  for  poetry  :  it  admits  of 
rhetoric,  which  goes  into  argument  and  explanation, 
but  it  presents  no  immediate  or  distinct  images  to 
the  mind.  The  imagination  is  an  exaggeraiins?  and 
exclusive  faculty.  The  understanding  is  a  dividing 
and  measuring  faculty.  The  one  is  an  arisfocrati 
cal,  the  other  a  republican  faculty.  The  principle 
of  poetry  is  a  very  anti-levelling  principle.  It  aims 
at  effect,  and  exists  by  contrast.  It  is  every  thing 
by  excess.  It  puts  the  individual  for  the  species, 
the  one  above  the  infinite  many,  might  before  right, 
A  lion  hunting  a  flock  of  sheep  is  a  more  poetical 
object  than  they ;  and  we  even  take  part  with  the 
lordly  beast,  because  our  vanity  or  some  other  feel- 
ing makes  us  disposed  to  place  ourselves  in  the 
situation  of  the  strongest  party.  There  is  nothing 
heroical  in  a  multitude  of  miserable  rogues  not 
%yishing  to  be  starved,  or  complaining  that  they  are 
like  to  be  so :  but  when  a  single  man  conies  for- 
ward to  brave  their  cries  and  to  make  them  submit 
to  the  last  indignities,  from  mere  pride  and  self-will, 
our  admiration  of  his  prowess  is  immediately  con- 
verted into  contempt  for  their  pusillanimity.'  We 
had  rather,  in  short,  be  the  oppressor  than  the  op- 
pressed. The  love  of  power  in  ourselves  and  the 
admiration  of  it  in  others  are  both  natural  to  man: 
But  the  one  makes  him  a  tyrant,  the  other  a  slave.'" 
—pp.  69—72. 

There  are  many  excellent  remarks  and 
several  fine  quotations,  in  the  discussions  on 
Troilus  and  Cressida.  As  this  is  no  longei 
an  acted  play,  we  venture  to  give  one  extract 
with  Mr.  H.'s  short  observations,  which  p<>r 
fectly  express  our  opinion  of  its  merits. 


314 


POETRY. 


"It  cannot  be  said  of  Shakespeare,  as  was  said 
Bf  some  one,  that  he  was  *  without  o'erflowing  full.' 
He  was  full,  even  to  o'erflowing.  He  gave  heaped 
measure,  running  over.  This  was  his  greatest 
fault.  He  was  only  in  danger  '  of  losing  distinction 
ill  his  thoughts'  (to  borrow  his  own  expression) 

"  As  doth  a  battle  when  they  charge  on  heaps 
The  enemy  flying." 

"  There  is  another  passage,  the  speech  of  Ulysses 
to  Achilles,  showing  him  the  thankless  nature  of 
popularity,  which  has  a  still  greater  depth  of  moral 
observation  and  richness  of  illustration  than  the 
former. 

''Ulysses.  Time  hath,  my  lord,  a  wallet  at  his 
Wherein  he  puts  alms  for  Oblivion  ;  [back, 

A  great-siz'd  monster  of  ingratitudes; 
Those  scraps  are  good  deeds  past ; 
Which  are  devour'd  as  fast  as  they  are  made, 
Forgot  as  soon  as  done :  Persev'rance,  dear  my  lord, 
Keeps  Honour  bright :  to  have  done,  is  to  hang 
Quite  out  of  fashion,  like  a  rusty  mail 
In  monumental  mockery.     Take  the  instant  way  ; 
For  Honour  travels  in  a  strait  so  narrow. 
That  one  but  goes  abreast ;  keep  then  the  path, 
For  Emulation  hath  a  thousand  sons, 
That  one  by  one  pursue  ;  if  you  give  way, 
Or  hedge  aside  from  the  direct  forth-right, 
Like  to  an  entered  tide  they  all  rush  by. 

And  leave  you  hindmost ; 

Or,  hke  a  gallant  horse  fall'n  in  first  rank,   [present, 
O'er-run  and  trampled  on  :  then  what  they  do  in 
Tho'  less  than  yours  in  past,  must  o'ertop  yours : 
For  Time  is  like  a  fashionable  host, 
That  slightly  shakes  his  parting  guest  by  th'  hand, 
And  with  his  arms  outstretch'd  as  he  would  fly, 
Grasps  in  the  comer  :  thus  Welcome  ever  smiles, 
And  Farewel  goes  out  sighing.  0 ,  let  not  virtue  seek 
Remuneration  for  the  thing  it  was  ;  For  beauty,  wit, 
High  birth,  vigour  of  bone,  desert  in  service, 
Love,  friendship,  charity,  are  subjects  all 
To  envious  and  calumniating  time: 
One  touch  of  nature  makes  the  whole  world  kin. 
That  all,  with  one  consent,  praise  new  born  gauds, 
Though  they  are  made  and  moulded  of  things  past." 

"  The  throng  of  images  in  the  above  hnes  is  pro- 
digious ;  and  though  they  sometimes  jostle  against 
one  another,  they  everywhere  raise  and  carry  on 
the  feeling,  which  is  metaphsically  true  and  pro- 
found."— pp.  85 — 87. 

This  Chapter  ends  with  an  ingenious  paral- 
lel between  the  genius  of  Chaucer  and  that 
of  Shakespeare,  which  we  have  not  room  to 
insert. 

The  following  observations  on  Hamlet  are 
very  characteristic  of  Mr.  H.'s  manner  of 
writing  in  the  work  now  before  us ;  in  which 
he  continually  appears  acute,  desultory,  and 
capricious — with  great  occasional  felicity  of 
conception  and  expression — frequent  rashness 
and  carelessness — constant  warmth  of  admi- 
ration for  his  author — and  some  fits  of  extrav- 
agance and  folly,  into  which  he  seems  to  be 
hurried,  either  by  the  hasty  kindling  of  his 
zeal  as  he  proceeds,  or  by  a  selfwilled  deter- 
mination not  to  be  balked  or  baffled  in  any 
thing  he  has  taken  it  into  his  head  he  should 
B&y. 

"Hamlet  is  a  name:  his  speeches  and  sayings 
»bat  the  idle  coinage  of  the  poet's  brain.  But  are 
they  not  real  ?  They  are  as  real  as  our  own  thoughts. 
Their  reality  is  in  the  reader's  mind.  It  is  we  who 
are  Hamlet.  This  play  has  a  prophetic  truth,  which 
ig  above  that  of  history.  Whoever  has  become 
tlinughiful  and  melancholy  through  his  own  mis- 
hapslor  those  of  others  ;  whoever  has  borne  about 


with  him  the  c.oudel  brow  of  reflection,  and  though' 
himself '  too  much  i'  th'  sun;'  whoever  has  seen 
the  golden  lamp  of  day  dimmed  by  envious  mists 
rising  in  his  own  breast,  and  gould  find  in  the  world 
before  him  only  a  dull  blank,  with  nothing  left  re- 
markable in  it ;  whoever  has  known  '  the  pangs  of 
despised  love,  the  insolence  of  office,  or  the  spurns 
which  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes  ;'  he  who 
has  felt  his  mind  sink  within  him,  and  sadness  cling 
to  his  heart  like  a  malady  ;  who  has  had  his  hopeg 
blighted  and  his  youth  staggered  by  the  apparitions 
of  strange  things  ;  who  cannot  be  well  at  ease,  while 
he  sees  evil  hovering  near  him  like  a  spectre  ;  whose 
powers  of  action  have  been  eaten  up  by  thought; 
he  to  whom  the  universe  seems  infinite,  and  him- 
self nothing ;  whose  bitterness  of  soul  makes  him 
careless  of  consequences,  and  who  goes  to  a  play, 
as  his  best  resource  to  shove  off,  to  a  second  re- 
move, the  evils  of  life,  by  a  mock-representation  of 

them. This  is  the  true  Hamlet. 

"  We  have  been  so  used  to  this  tragedy,  that  we 
hardly  know  how  to  criticise  h,  any  more  than  we 
should  know  how  to  describe  our  own  faces.  But 
we  must  make  such  observations  as  we  can.  It  is 
the  one  of  Shakespeare's  plays  that  we  think  of 
oftenest  because  it  abounds  most  in  striking  reflec- 
tions on  human  life,  and  because  the  distresses  of 
Hamlet  are  transferred,  by  the  turn  of  his  mind,  to 
the  general  account  of  humanity.  Whatever  hap- 
pens to  him,  we  apply  to  ourselves ;  because  he 
applies  it  so  himself  as  a  means  of  general  reason- 
ing. He  is  a  great  moralizer,  and  what  makes  him 
worth  attending  to  is,  that  he  morahzes  on  his  own 
feelings  and  experience.  He  is  not  a  commonplace 
pedant.  If  iear  shows  the  greatest  depth  of  pas- 
sion, Hamlet  is  the  most  remarkable  for  the  inge- 
nuity, originahty,  and  unstudied  development  of 
character.  There  is  no  attempt  to  force  an  interest : 
every  thing  is  left  for  time  and  circumstances  to 
unfold.  The  attention  is  excited  without  effort ;  the 
incidents  succeed  each  other  as  matters  of  course  ; 
the  characters  think,  and  speak,  and  act,  just  as 
they  might  do  if  left  entirely  to  themselves.  There 
is  no  set  purpose,  no  straining  at  a  point.  The  ob 
servations  are  suggested  by  the  passing  scene — the 
gusts  of  passion  come  and  go  like  sounds  of  music* 
borne  on  the  wind-  The  whole  play  is  an  exact 
transcript  of  what  might  bp  supposed  to  have  taken 
place  at  the  court  of  Denmark,  at  the  remote  period 
of  time  fixed  upon,  before  the  modern  refinements 
in  morals  and  manners  were  heard  of.  It  would 
have  been  interesting  enough  to  have  been  admit- 
ted as  a  by-stander  in  such  a  scene,  at  such  a  time, 
to  have  heard  and  seen  something  of  what  was 
going  on.  But  here  we  are  more  than  spectators. 
VVe  have  not  only  '  the  outward  pageants  and  the 
signs  of  grief,'  but  *  we  have  that  within  which 
passes  show.'  We  read  the  thoughts  of  the  heart, 
we  catch  the  passions  living  as  they  rise.  Other 
dramatic  writers  give  us  very  fine  versions  and 
paraphrases  of  nature ;  but  Shakespeare,  together 
with  his  own  comment,  gives  us  the  original  text, 
that  we  may  judge  for  ourselves.  This  is  a  great 
advantage. 

"  The  character  of  Hamlet  is  itself  a  pure  effu- 
sion of  genius.  It  is  not  a  character  marked  by 
strength  of  will,  or  even  of  passion,  but  by  refine, 
ment  of  thought  and  sentiment.  Hamlet  is  as  little 
of  the  hero  as  a  man  can  well  be  :  but  he  is  a  young 
and  princely  novice,  full  of  high  enthusiasm  ana 
quick  sensibility,  —  the  sport  of  circumstances, 
questioning  with  fortune,  and  refining  on  his  own 
feelings  ;  and  forced  from  the  natural  bias  of  his 
disposition  by  the  strangeness  of  his  situation." — 
pp.  104—107. 

His  account  of  the  Tempest  is  all  pleasingly 
written,  especially  his  remarks  on  Caliban; 
but  we  rather  give  our  readers  his  specula- 
tions on  Bottom  and  his  associates. 

"  Bottom  the  Weaver  is  a  character  that  has  not 
had  justice  done  him.     He  is  the  most  romantic©! 


HAZLITT'S  CHARACTERS  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


3la 


mechanics ;  He  follows  a  sedentary  trade,  and  he  is 
accordingly  represented  as  conceited*,  serious,  and 
fantastical.  He  is  ready  to  undertake  any  thing  and 
every  thing,  as  it  it  was  as  much  a  matter  of  course 
as  the  motion  ofhis  loom  and  shuttle.  He  is  for  play- 
ing the  tyrant,  the  lover,  the  lady,  the  lion.  '  He  vvill 
roar  that  it  shall  do  any  man's  heart  good  to  hear 
him  ;'  and  this  being  objected  to  as  improper,  he 
Blill  has  a  resource  in  his  good  opinion  of  himself, 
and  'will  roar  you  an  'twere  any  nightingale.' 
Snug  the  Joiner  is  the  moral  man  of  the  piece, 
who  proceeds  by  measurement  and  discretion  in 
all  things.  You  see  him  with  his  rule  and  com- 
passes in  his  hand.  '  Have  you  the  lion's  part 
written  ?  Pray  you,  if  it  be,  give  it  me,  for  I  am 
Blow  of  study.- — '  You  may  do  it  extempore,'  says 
Quince,  '  for  it  is  nothing  but  roaring.'  Starve- 
ling the  Tailor  keeps  the  peace,  and  objects  to  the 
lion  and  the  drawn  sword.  '  I  believe  we  must 
leave  the  killing  out  when  all's  done.'  Starveling, 
however,  does  not  start  the  objections  himself,  but 
seconds  them  when  made  by  others,  as  if  he  had 
no  spirit  to  express  his  fears  without  encourage- 
ment. It  is  too  much  to  suppose  all  this  intentional : 
but  it  very  luckily  falls  out  so." — pp.  126,  127. 

Mr.  H.  admires  Romeo  and  Juliet  rather  too 
much — though  his  encomium  on  it  is  about 
the  most  eloquent  part  of  his  performance : 
But  we  really  cannot  sympathise  with  all  the 
conceits  and  puerilities  that  occur  in  this  play ; 
for  instance,  this  exhortation  to  Night;  which 
Mr.  H.  has  extracted  for  praise  !—  - 

"  Give  me  my  Romeo — and  when  he  shall  die, 
Take  him  nxid  cut  him  out  in  httle  stars, 
And  he  will  make  the  face  of  heaven  so  fine. 
That  all  the  world  will  be  in  love  with  Night, "&c. 

We  agree,  however,  with  less  reservation, 
m  his  rapturous  encomium  on  Lear — but  can 
afTord  no  extracts.  The  following  speculation 
on  the  character  of  Falstaff  is  a  striking,  and, 
on  the  whole,  a  favourable  specimen  of  our 
author's  manner. 

"  Wit  is  often  a  meagre  substitute  for  pleasure- 
able  sensation ;  an  efFusioA  of  spleen  and  petty 
spite  at  the  comforts  of  others,  from  feeling  none  in 
itself.  FalstafTs  wit  is  an  emanation  of  a  fine  con- 
stitution ;  an  exuberance  of  good-humour  and  good- 
nature ;  an  overflowing  of  his  love  of  laughter,  and 
good-fellowship  ;  a  giving  vent  to  his  heart's  ease 
and  over-contentment  with  himself  and  others. — 
He  would  not  be  in  character  if  he  were  not  so  fat 
as  he  is ;  for  there  is  the  greatest  keeping  in  the 
boundles."  'uxury  of  his  imagination  and  the  pam- 
pered sell  indulgence  of  his  physical  appetites.  He 
ir.anures  and  nourishes  his  mind  with  jests,  as  he 
does  his  body  with  sack  and  sugar.  He  carves  out 
his  jokes,  as  he  would  a  capon,  or  a  haunch  of 
venison,  where  there  is  cut  and  come  again:  and 
lavishly  pours  out  upon  them  the  oil  of  gladness. 
His  tongue  drops  fatness,  and  in  the  chambers  of 
his  brain  '  it  snows  of  meat  and  drink.'  He  keeps 
up  perpetual  holiday  and  open  house,  and  M'e  live 
with  him  in  a  round  of  invitations  to  a  rump  and 
dozen. — Yet  we  are  not  left  to  suppose  that  he  was 
1  mere  sensualist.  All  this  is  as  much  in  imagina- 
tion as  in  reality.  His  sensuality  does  not  engross 
and  stupify  his  other  faculties,  but  '  ascends  me 
into  the  brain,  clears  away  all  the  dull,  crude  va- 
pours that  environ  it,  and  makes  it  full  of  nimble, 
fiery,  and  delectable  shapes.'  His  imagination 
keeps  up  the  ball  long  after  his  senses  have  done 
with  it.  He  seems  to  have  even  a  greater  enjoy- 
ment of  the  freedom  from  restraint,  of  good  cheer, 
of  his  ease,  of  his  vanity,  in  the  ideal  and  exagge- 
rated descriptions  which  he  gives  of  them,  than 
in  fact.  He  never  fails  to  enrich  his  discourse 
«alh  allusions  to  eating   and   drinking;    but   we 


never  see  him  at  table.  He  carries  his  own  larder 
about  with  him,  and  he  is  hiniself  'a  tun  of  man.' 
His  pulling  out  the  bottle  in  the  field  of  battle  is  9 
joke  to  show  his  contempt  for  glory  accompanied 
with  danger,  his  systematic  adherence  to  his  Epi 
curean  philosophy  in  the  most  trying  circumstances. 
Again,  such  is  his  deliberate  exaggeration  of  hii 
own  vices,  that  it  does  not  seem  quite  certain 
whether  the  account  of  his  hostess'  bill,  found  in 
his  pocket,  with  such  an  out-of-the-way  charge  for 
capons  and  sack  with  only  one  half-penny-worth 
of  bread,  was  not  put  there  by  himself,  as  a  trick  to 
humour  the  jest  upon  his  favourite  propensities,  and 
as  a  conscious  caricature  of  himself. 

"The  secret  of  Falstaff^'s  wit  is  for  the  most  part 
a  masterly  presence  of  mind,  an  absolute  self-pos- 
session, which  nothing  can  disturb.  His  repartees 
are  involuntary  suggestions  of  his  self-love ;  instinc 
live  evasions  of  every  thing  that  threatens  to  inter- 
rupt the  career  of  his  triumphant  jollity  and 
self-complacency.  His  very  size  floats  him  out  of 
all  his  difficulties  in  a  sea  of  rich  conceits  ;  and  he. 
turns  round  on  the  pivot  of  his  convenience,  with 
every  occasion  and  at  a  moment's  warning.  Hia 
natural  repugnance  to  every  unpleasant  thought  or 
circumstance,  of  itself  makes  light  of  objections, 
and  provokes  the  most  extravagant  and  licentious 
answers  in  his  own  justification.  His  indifference 
to  truth  puts  no  check  upon  his  invention  ;  and  the 
more  improbable  and  unexpected  his  contrivances 
are,  the  more  happily  does  he  seem  to  be  delivered 
of  them,  the  anticipation  of  their  effect  acting  as  a 
stimulus  to  the  gaiety  of  his  fancy.  The  success  of 
one  adventurous  sally  gives  him  spirits  to  undertake 
another:  he  deals  always  in  round  numbers,  and 
his  exaggerations  and  excuses  are  '  open,  palpable, 
monstrous  as  the  father  that  begets  them.'  " 

pp.  189—192. 

It  is  time,  however,  to  make  an  end  of  this. 
We  are  not  in  the  humour  to  discuss  points 
of  learning  with  this  author;  and  our  readers 
now  see  well  enough  what  sort  of  book  he 
has  w^ritten.  We  shall  conclude  with  his  re- 
marks on  Shakespeare's  style  of  Comedy,  in- 
troduced in  the  account  of  the  Twelfth  Night. 

"  This  is  justly  considered  as  one  of  the  most  de- 
lightful of  Shakespeare's  comedies.  It  is  full  of 
sweetness  and  pleasantry.  It  is  perhaps  too  good- 
natured  for  comedy.  It  has  little  satire,  and  no 
spleen.  It  aims  at  the  ludicrous  rather  than  the 
ridiculous.  It  makes  us  laugh  at  the  follies  of 
mankind ;  not  despise  them,  and  still  less  bear  any 
ill-will  towards  them.  Shakespeare's  comic  geniua 
resembles  the  bee  rather  in  its  power  of  extracting 
sweets  from  weeds  or  poisons,  than  in  leaving  a 
sting  behind  it.  He  gives  the  most  amusing  exag- 
geration of  the  prevailing  foibles  of  his  characters, 
but  in  a  way  that  they  themselves,  instead  of  being 
offended  at,  would  almost  join  in  to  humour ;  he 
rather  contrives  opportunities  for  them  to  show 
themselves  off"  in  the  happiest  lights,  than  renders 
them  contemptible  in  the  perverse  construction  of 
the  wit  or  malice  of  others. 

"There  is  a  certain  sta^e  of  society,  in  which 
people  become  conscious  ot  their  peculiarities  and 
absurdities,  affect  to  disguise  what  they  are,  and  set 
up  pretensions  to  what  they  are  not.  This  gives 
rise  to  a  corresponding  style  of  comedy,  the  object 
of  which  's  to  detect  the  disguises  of  self-love,  and 
to  make  reprisals  on  these  preposterous  assumptions 
of  vanity,  by  marking  the  contrast  between  the  real 
and  the  affected  character  as  severely  as  possible, 
and  denying  to  those,  who  would  impose  on  us  for 
what  they  are  not,  even  the  merit  which  they  have. 
This  is  the  comedy  of  artificial  life,  of  wit  and  sa 
tire,  such  as  we  see  in  Congreve,  Wycherley,  Van- 
brugh,  &c.  But  there  is  a  period  in  the  progress 
of  manners  anterior  to  this,  in  which  the  foibles  and 
follies  of  individuals  are  of  nature's  planting,  not  tha 
growth  of  art  or  study ;  in  which  they  are  therefore 


31fc 


POETRY. 


unconscious  of  ther.i  themselves,  or  care  not  who 
knows  them,  if  they  can  but  have  their  whim  out; 
and  in  which,  as  there  is  no  attempt  at  imposition, 
the  spectators  rather  receive  pleasure  from  humour- 
ing the  inclinations  of  the  persons  they  laugh  at, 
than  wish  to  give  them  pain  by  exposing  their  ab- 
surdity. This  may  be  called  the  comedy  of  na- 
ture ;  and  it  is  the  comedy  which  we  generally  find 
in  Shakespeare. — Whether  the  analysis  here  given 
be  just  or  not,  the  spirit  of  his  comedies  is  evidently 
quite  distinct  from  that  of  the  authors  above  men- 
tioned ;  a3  it  is  in  its  essence  the  same  with  that  of 
Cervantes,  and  also  very  frequently  of  Moliere, 
though  he  was  more  systematic  in  his  extravagance 
than  Shakespeare.  Shakespeare's  comedy  is  of  a 
pastoral  and  poetical  cast.  Folly  is  indigenous  to 
the  soil,  and  shoots  out  with  native,  happy,  un- 
checked luxuriance.  Absurdity  has  every  encour- 
agement afforded  it ;  and  nonsense  has  room  to 
flourish  in.  Nothing  is  stunted  by  the  churlish,  icy 
hand  of  indifference  or  severity.  The  poet  runs  riot 
in  a  conceit,  and  idolizes  a  quibble.  His  whole  ob- 
ject is  to  tui-n  the  meanest  or  rudest  objects  to  a 
pleasurable  account.  And  yet  the  relish  which  he 
has  of  a  pun,  or  of  the  quaint  humour  of  a  low 
character,  does  not  interfere  with  the  dehght  with 
which  he  describes  a  beautiful  image,  or  the  most 
refined  love.  The  clown's  forced  jests  do  not  spoil 
the  sweetness  of  the  character  of  Viola.  The  same 
house  is  big  enough  to  hold  Malvolio,  the  Countess 


Maria,  Sir  Toby,  and  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek. 
For  instance,  nothing  can  fall  much  lower  than  this 
last  character  in  intellect  or  morals:  yet  how  are  hia 
weaknesses  nursed  and  dandled  by  Sir  1'oby  into 
something  '  high  fantastical;'  when  on  Sir  Andrew's 
commendation  of  himself  for  dancing  and  fencing. 
Sir  Toby  answers, — '  Wherefore  are  these  things 
hid?  Wherefore  have  these  gifts  a  curtain  before 
them  ?  Are  they  like  to  take  dust,  like  Mrs.  Moll's 
picture?  Why  dost  thou  not  go  to  church  in  a 
galliard,  and  come  home  in  a  coranto  ?  My  very 
walk  should  be  a  jig  !  I  would  not  so  much  as  make 
water  but  in  a  cinque-pace.  What  dost  thou  mean? 
Is  this  a  world  to  hide  virtues  in  ?  I  did  tiiink  by 
the  excellent  constitution  of  thy  leg,  it  was  framed 
under  the  star  of  a  galliard  !' — How  Sir  Toby,  Sir 
Andrew,  and  the  Clown  afterwards  chirp  over  their 
cups!  how  they  'rouse  the  night-owl  in  a  catch, 
able  to  draw  three  ouls  out  of  one  weaver  !'  What 
can  be  better  than  Sir  Toby's  unanswerable  answer 
to  Malvolio,  'Dost  thou  think,  because  thou  art 
virtuous,  there  shall  be  no  more  cakes  and  ale?' — 
In  a  word,  the  best  turn  is  given  to  everything,  in- 
stead of  the  worst.  There  is  a  constant  infusion  of 
the  romantic  and  enthusiastic,  in  proportion  as  the 
characters  are  natural  and  sincere :  whereas,  in  the 
more  artificial  style  of  comedy,  everything  gives 
way  to  ridicule  and  indifference  ;  there  being  noth- 
ing left  but  affectation  on  one  side,  and  incredulity 
on  the  other."— pp.  255 — ^259. 


(J^brtiara,  1S22.) 

Sardanapalus,  a  Tragedy.     The  Two  Foscarij  a  Tragedy^-^  Cain,  a  Mystery.     By  Lord  Byron. 
8vo.  pp.  440.    Murray.  London :  1822.* 

scenity,  or  deforms  with  rant,  the  genuine 
passion  and  profligacy  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra 
— or  intrudes  on  the  enchanted  sohtude  oi\ 
Prospero  and  his*  daughter,  with  the  tones  of ' 
worldly  gallantry,  orthe  caricatures  of  affected 
simplicity.  Otxvav.  with  the  sweet  and  mel- 
low diction  of  ihelformer  age,  had  none  of  its 
force,  variety,  or  invention.  Its  decaying  fires 
burst  forth  in  some  strong  and  irregular  flashes, 
in  the  disorderly  scenes  of  Lee ;  and  sunk  at 
last  in  the  ashes,  and  scarcely  glowing  embers, 
of  Rowfi. 

Since  his  time — till  very  lately — the  school 
of  our  ancient  dramatists  has  been  deserted 
and  we  can  sca;cely  say  that  any  neXv'-offe 
has  been  established.  Instead  of  the  irregu|ar 
and  comprehensive  plot — the  rich  disciJirsrye 
dialogue— the  ramblings  of  fancy — the  magic 
creations  of  poetry — the  rapid  succession  of  | 
incidents  and  characters — the  soft,  flexible, 
and,  ever-varying  diction — and  the  flowing; 
continuotis,  and  easy  versification,  which  char  • 
acterised  those  masters  of  the  golden  time, 
we  have  had  tame,  formal,  elaborate,  and 
stately  compositions — meagre  stories— few 
personages — characters  decorous  and  consist- 1 
eiit,  but  without  nature  or  spirit — a  guarded, 
timid,  classical  diction — ingenious  and  me- 
thodical disquisitions— turgid  or  sententious 
declamations: — and  a  solemn  and  monotonous 
strain  of .  versification.  Nor  can  this  be  as- 
cribed, even  plausibly,  to  any  decay  of  geniun 
among  us;  for  the  most  remarkable  failures 
have  fallen  on  the  highest  talents.  We  have 
already  hinted  at  the  miscarriagesoTDr^den 


It  must  be  a  more  difficult  thing  to  write  a 
good  pla}^ — or  even  a  good  dramatic  poeni — 
than  we  had  imagined.  Not  that  we  should, 
a  priori.,  have  imagined  it  to  be  very  easy : 
But  it  is  impossible  not  to  be  struck  with  the 
fact,  that,  in  comparatively  rude  times,Avhen 
the  resources  of  the  art  had  been  less~<^re- 
fully  considerecl^nd  Poetry  certainly  had  not 
collected  all  Ker  materials,  success  seems  to 
have  been  more  frequently,  and  far  more 
easily  obtained.  Frorn  the  middle  of  Eliza- 
beth's reign  till  the  end  of  James',  the  drama 
formed  by  far  the  most  brilliant  and  beaufTfuT 
part  of^ pur  poetryj^ — and  indeed  of  our  litera- 
ture, .in^^eneraj.  From  that  periojd.  to  the 
Revolution,"itlost  a  part  of  its  splendour  and 
originality;  but  still  continued  to  occupy  the 
most  conspicuous  and  considerable  place  in 
our  literary  annals.  For  the  last  century,  it 
has  been  quite  otherwise.  Our  poetry  has 
ceased  almost  entirely  to  be  dramatic ;  and, 
though  men  of  great  name  and  great  talent 
liave  occasionally  adventured  into  this  once 
fertile  field,  they  have  reaped  no  laurels,  and 
left  no  trophies  behind  them.  The  genius  of 
Dryden  appears  nowhere  to  so  little  advantage 
Es  inliis  tragedies;  and  the  contrast  is  truly 
humiliating  when,  in  a  presumptuous  attempt 
to  heighten  the  colouring,  or  enrich  the  sim- 
plicity of  Shakespeare,  he  bedaubs  with  ob- 


*  I  have  thought  it  best  to  put  all  my  Dramatical 
criticisms  in  one  series:  and,  therefore,  I  take  the 
tragedies  of  Lord  Byron  in  this  place — and  apart 
from  his  L-.  er  poetry. 


LORD  BYRON'S  TRAGEDIES. 


The  exquisite  taste  and  fine  observation  of 
Addisooj  produced  only  the  solemn  mawkish- 
ire'ss'of  Cato.  The  beautiful  fancy,  the  gor- 
geous diction,  and  generous  affections  of 
Thomson,  were  chilled  and  withered  as  soon 
asTie  touched  the  verge  of  the  Drama;  where 
his  name  is  associated  with  a  mass  of  verbose 
puerility,  which  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  could 
ever  have  proceeded  from  the  author  of  the 
Seasons  and  the  Castle  of  Indolence.     Even 


themi^hty_iiitellect,  the  eloquent  morality, 
and  lott y  style  o f  Johnson,  vKicH  gave  too 
tragrcaiieT  magnificent  a  tone  to  his  ordliiaTy 
writing,  failed  altogether  to  support  him  in  his 
attempt  to  write  actual  tragedy;  and  Irene  is 
not  only  unworthy  of  the  imitator  of  Juvenal 
and  the  author  of  Rasselas  and  the  Lives  of 
the  Poets,  but  is  absolutely,  and  in  itself, 
nothing  better  than  a  tissue  of  wearisome 
and  unimpassioned  declamations.  We  have 
named  the  most  celebrated  names  in  our 
literature,  since  the  decline  of  the  drama,  al- 
most to  our  own  days ;  and  if  they  have  neither 
lent  any  new  honours  to  the  stage,  nor  bor- 
rowed any  from  it,  it  is  needless  to  say,  that 
those  Avho  adventured  with  weaker  powers 
had  no  better  fortune.  The  INIourning  Bride 
Q£-..Congreve3  the  Revenge  of  Young,  and  the 
Dougias  of  Home  [we  cannot  add  the  INIys- 
terious  Mother  of  Walpole — even  to  please 
Lord  Byron],  are  almost  the  only  tragedies  of 
the  last  age  that  are  Tamihar  to  the  present; 
^nd  they  are  evidently  the  works  of  a  feebler 
and  more  effeminate  generation— indicating, 
as  much  by  their  exaggerations  as  by  their 
timidit\\  their  own  consciousness  of  inferiority 
^0  their  great  predecessors — whom  they  af- 
fected, however,  not  to  imitate,  but  to  supplant. 
But  the^native  taste  of  our  people  was  not 
thus  to  be  se'duced  and  perverted;  "and^'wlieh 
tjie  wifs"  of  Queen  Anne's  time  had  lost  the 
■authority  of  living  authors,  it  asserted  itself 
bxayfond  recurrence  to  its  original  standards, 
and  a  resolute  neglect  of  the  more  regular 
"arid  elaborate  dramas  by  which  they  had  been 
succeeded.  Shakespeare,  whom  it  had  long 
been  the  fashion  to  decry  and  even  ridicule, 
as  the  jooet  of  a  rude  and  barbarous  age*,  was 
reinstated  in  his  old  supremacy:  and  when 
Tils 'legitimate  progeny  could  no  longer  be 
found  at  home,  his  spurious  issue  were  hailed 
with  rapture  from  foreign  countries,  and  in- 
vited and  w^elcomed  with  the  most  eager 
enthusiasm  on  their  arrival.     The  German 

*  It  is  not  a  little  remarkable  to  find  such  a  man 
OS  ( Joldsmith  joining  in  this  pitiful  sneer.  In  his 
Vicar  of  Wakefield,  he  constantly  represents  his 
fa:iious  town  ladies,  Miss  Carolina  Amelia  Wilhel- 
mina  Skeggs,  and  the  other,  as  discoursing  about 
*'  high  hfe,  Shakespeare,  and  the  musical  glasses  !" 
— And,  in  a  more  serious  passage,  he  introduces  a 
player  as  astonishing  the  Vicar,  by  informing  him 
that  "  Dryden  and  Rowe's  manner  were  quite  out 
of  fashion — our  taste  has  gone  back  a  whole  century; 
Fletcher,  Ben  Jonson,  and,  above  all,  the  plays  of 
Shakespeare,  are  the  only  things  that  go  down." 
"How!"  says  the  Vicar,  "is  it  possible  that  the 
present  age  can  be  pleased  wkh'^that  antiquated  dia- 
lect, that  obsolete  humour,  and  those  overcharged 
Characters  which  abound  in  the  works  you  men- 
tion ?"  No  writer  of  name,  who  was  not  aiming  at 
H  paradox,  would  venture  to  say  this  now 


imitations^  o£  Schiller  and  Kotzebue.  carica- 
tured and  cfistorted  as  tiiey  were  by  the  aber- 
rations of  a  vulgar  and  vitiated  taste,  had  still 
so  much  of  the  raciness  and  vigour  of  the  old 
English  drama,  fiom  which  they  were  avow- 
edly derived,  that  theyinstantly  became  more 
popular  in  England  than  any  thing  that  her 
own  artists  had  recently  produced ;  and  served 
still  more  effectually  to  recal  our  affections  to 
their  native  and  legitimate  rulers.  Then  fol- 
lowed republications  of  INIassinger,  and  Beau- 
monj;  and  Fletcher,  and  Ford,  and  theii 
contemporaries — and  a  host  of  new  tragedies, 
all  written  iif  avowed  and  elaborate  imitation 
oTTEe  ancient  models.  Miss  Baillie,  we  rather 
think,  had  the  merit  of  leading  the  way  in  this 
returnto  our  old  allegiance — and  then  came 
a  volume  of  plays  by  Mr.  Chenevix,  and  a 
succession  of  single  plays,  all  of  considerable 
merit,  from  Mr.  Coleridge,  Mr.  Maturin,  Mr. 
Wilson,  Mr.  Barry  Cornwall,  and  I\lr.  Milman. 
The  first  and  the  last  of  these  names  are  the 
most  likely  to  be  rem.embered ;  but  none  of 
them,  we  fear,  wdll  ever  be  ranked  with  the 
older  worthies;  nor  is  it  conceivable  that  any 
age  should  ever  class  them  together. 

We  do  not  mean,  however,  altogether  tc 
deny,  that  there  may  be  some  illusion,  in  our 
habitual  feelings,  as  to  the  merits  of  the  great 
originals — corisecrated  as  they  are,  in  our 
irnagmatioiis,  by  early  admiration,  and  asBO- 
ciajed,  as  all  their  peculiarities,  and  the  mere 
accidents  and  oddities  of  their  diction  n(Ar 
are,  with  the  recollection  of  their  intrinsic  ex- 
cellences. It  is  owing  to  .this,  we  suppose, 
f^aFwe  can  scarcely  venture  to  ask  ourselves, 
steadily,  and  without  an  inward  startling  ana 
feeling  of  alarm,  jvhaLieception  one  of  Shake- 
speare's^irreg-ular  plays^the  Tempest  for  ex- 
ample, or  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream — 
would  be  likely  to  meet  with,  if  it  were  now 
to  appear  for  the  .first  time,  without  name, 
iTotTceY  or  pieparatiori/?  Nor  can  we  pursue 
the  Hazardous  supposition  through  all  the  pos- 
sibilities to  which  it  invites  us,  without  some- 
thing like  a  sense  of  impiety  and  profanation. 
Yet;  though  some  little  superstition  may  min- 

fle  with  our  faith,  we  must  still  believe  it  to 
e  the  true  one.  Though  time  may  have 
hallowed  many  "things  that  were  at  first  but 
common,  and  accidental  associations  imparted 
a  charm  to  much  that  was  in  itself  indifferent, 
we  cannot  but  believe  that  there  was  an  orig- 
maT  sanctity,  which  time  only  matured  and 
exfeii.ded- — and  an  inherent  charm  from  whicjtl, 
the  association  derived  all  its  po\tgiJ.  And 
when  we  look  candidly  and  calmly  to  the 
works  of  our  garly  dramatists,  it  is  impossible, 
we  think,  to  dispute,  that  after  criticism_Jbaa. 
done  its  worst  on  them — aftei.all,  deductigns 
lor'Impossible  plots  and  fantastical  characters, 
unaccountable  forms  of  speech,  and  occasional 
extravagance,  indelicacy,  and  horrors — there 
Is  a"facitily  and  richness  about  them,  both  of 
thought  and  of  diction— a  force  of  invention, 
and  a  depth  of  sagacity — an  originality  of 
conception,  and  a  play  of  fancy — a  nakedness 
and  energy  of  passion,  and,  above  all,  a  co- 
piousness" of  imagery,  and  a  sweetness  and 
flexibility  of  verse,  which  is  altogether  unri 


318 


POETRV. 


vaUedj  in  earlier  nr  in  |q.tfiy  tTOfiPJ — and  places 
them,  in  bur  estimation,  in  the  very  highest 
and  foremost  place  among  ancient  or  modern 
poets. 

It  is  in  these  particulars  that  the  inferiority 
of  their  recent  imitators  is  most  apparent — in 
the  want  of  ease  and  variety — originality  and 
gracer  There  is,  in  all  their  attempts,  what- 
ever may  be  their  other  merits  or  defects,, an 
air  of  anxiety  and  labour— and  indications,  by 
farjtoo  visible,  at  once  pf  timidity  and  ambi- 
tion. This  may  arise,  in  part,  from  the  fact 
o?^j:^eir_being,  too  pbviously  and  consciously, 
imitators^  They  do  not  aspire  so  mucH  to 
riVatllie  genius  of  their  originals,  as  to  copy 
their  mannej;. ,.  They  do  not  write  as  tjieii 
would  have  written  in  the  present  day,  but  as 
they  imagine  they  themselves  would  have 
written  two  hundred  years  ago.  They  revive 
the  antique  phraseology,  repeat  the  venerable 
oaths,  and  emulate  the  quaint  familiarities  of 
that  classical  period— and  wonder  that  they 
are  not  mistaken  for  new  incarnations  of  its 
departed  poets!  One  great  cause  why  they 
are  not,  is,  that  tjiey  speak  an  unnatural  dia- 
lectj_an.d.,are  constrained  by  a  masquerade 
habit  j^j.^.-G-Gither  of  which  it  is  possible  Jo 
display  that  freedom,  and  those  delicate  traits 
of  character,  which  are  the  life  of  the  drama, 
and  were  among  the  chief  merits  of  those  who 
once  exalted  it  so  highly.  Another  bad  effect 
of  iraitation,  and  especially  of  ""the  imitation 
of  *Yinequal  and  irregular  models  in  a  critical 
age^j  that  nothing  is  thought  fit  to  be  copied 
DuL-tiie  exquisite  and  shining  passages; — 
from  which  it  results,  in  the  ^rs^  place,  that 
^alT  our  rivalry  is. jeseryed, for  occasions  in 
which  its  success  is  most  hopeless^  and,  in 
"the  secoj?c|_ place;  that  instances,  even  of  occa- 
sional success,  want  their  proper  grace  ,an.d 
^Hect^by  being  deprived  of  the  relief^  shading, 
and  preparation,  which  they  would  naturally 
^ve  received  in  a  Jess  fastidious  composition; 
and,  instead  of  the  warm  and  native  and  ever- 
varying  graces  of  a  spontaneous  effusion,  the 
work  acquires  the  false  and  feeble  brilliancy 
of  a  prize  essay  in  a  foreign  tongue — a  collec- 
tion of  splendid  patches  of  different  texture 
l-patiern. 

At  the  bottom  of  all  this — and  perhaps  as 
its  most  efficient  cause — there  lurks,  we  sus- 
p.egt,_afl... unreason  able  and  undue  dread  of 
sm;— not  the  deliberate  and  indulgent 
cfiticTsm  which  we  exercise,  rather  for  the 
encouragement'  of  talent  than  its  warning — 
but  the  vigilant  and  paltry  derision  which  is 
perpetually  stirring  in  idle  societies,  and  but 
too  cdhfihually  present  to  the  spirits  of  all  who 
aspire  to  their  notice.  There  is  nothing  so 
certain,  we  take  it,  as  that  those  who  are  the 
most  alert  in  discovering  the  faults  of  a  work 
of  genius,  are  the  least  touched  with  its  beau- 
ties. Those  who  admire  and  enjoy  fine  poetry, 
in  short,  are  quite  a  different  class  of  persons 
from  those  who  find  out  its  flaws  and  defects 
—who  are  sharp  at  detecting  a  plagiarism  or 
a.  grammatical  inaccuracy,  and  laudably  in- 
dustrious in  bringing  to  lignt  an  obscure  pas- 
sage— sneering  at  an  exaggerated  one — or 
wondering  at  the  meaning  of  some  piece  of 


excessive  simplicity.  It  is  in  vain  to  expect  the 
praises  of  such  people ;  for  they  never  praise; 
— and  it  is  truly  very  little  w^orth  wdiile  to 
disarm  their  censure.  It  is  only  the  praises 
of  the  real  lovers  of  poetry  that  ever  give  it 
trae  fame  or  popularity — and  these  are  little^ 
affected  by  the  cavils  of  the  fastidious.  YeV 
the  genius  of  most  modern  writers  seems  tc 
be  rebuked  under  that  of  those  pragmatical 
and  insignificant  censors.  They  are  so  much 
afraid  of  faults,  that  they  will  scarcely  venture 
upon  beauties;  and  seem  more  anxious  in 
general  to  be  safe,  than  original.  They  dare 
not  indulge  in  a  florid  and  magnificent  way  of 
writing,  for  fear  of  being  charged  with  bom- 
bast by  the  cold-blooded  and  malignant.  They 
must  not  be  tender,  lest  they  should  be  laugh- 
ed at  for  puling  and  whining;  nor  discursive 
and  fanciful  like  their  great  predecessors, 
under  pain  of  being  held  out  to  derision,  as 
ingenious  gentlemen  who  have  dreamed  that 
the  gods  have  made  them  poetical ! 

Thusj  the,  (J.read  of  ridicule,  which  they 
have  ever  before  their  eyes,  represses-all  the 
emotions,  -on-  the  -expression  of  3yMchlhei 
&ucc£jg§.„eniii£iy„.depenib;  and  in  order  to 
escape  the  blame  oTtliose  to  whom  they  can 
give  no  pleasure,  and  through  whom  they  can 
g-ain  no  fame,  they  throw  away  their  best 
chance  of  pleasing  those  who  are  capable  of 
relishing  their  excellences,  and  on  whose  ad- 
miration alone  their  reputation  must  at  all 
events  be  founded.  There  is  a  great  want  of 
magnanimity,  we  think,  as  well  as  of  wisdom, 
in  this  sensitiv.enes&.  .la.,^blame ;  and  we  are 
convinced  that  no  modern  author  will  ever 
wTlte  with  the  grace  and  vigour  of  the  older 
ones,  who  does  not  write  wdth  some  portion 
of  their  fearlessness  and  indifference  to  cen- 
sure. Courage,  in  short,  is  at  least  as  neces- 
sary as  genius  to  the  success  of  a  work  of 
imagination;  since,  wnthout  this,  it  is  im- 
possible to  attain  that  freedom  and  self-pos- 
session, without  w^hlch  no  talents  can  ever 
have  fair  play,  and,  far  less,  that  inward  con- 
fidence and  exaltation  of  spirit  which  must 
accompany  all  the  higher  acts  of  the  under- 
standing. The  earlier  -writers  had  probably 
less  occasion  for  courage  to  secure  them  these 
advantages ;  as  the  public  was  far  less  critical 
in  their  day,  and  much  more  prone  to  admira- 
tion than  to  derision :  But  we  can  still  trace 
in  their  writings  the  indications  both  of  a 
proud  consciousness  of  their  own  powers  and 
privileges,  and  of  a  brave  contempt  for  tne 
cavils  to  which  they  might  expose  them- 
selves. In  our  ow^n  times,  we  know  but  one 
writer  who  is  emancipated  from  this  slavish 
awe  of  vulgar  detraction — this  petty  timidity 
about  being  detected  in  blunders  and  faults 
and  that  is  the  illustrious  author  of  Waverley, 
and  the  other  novels  that  have  made  an  era 
in  our  literature  as  remarkable,  and  as  likely 
to  be  remembered,  as  any  which  can  yet  bo 
traced  in  its  history.  We  shall  not  now  say 
how  large  a  portion  of  his  success  we  ascribe 
to  this  intrepid  temper  of  his  genius;  but  we 
are  confident  that  no  person  can  read  any  one 
of  his  w^onderful  works,  without  feeling  thai 
their  author  -^-as  utterly  careless  of  the  re* 


LORD  BORON'S  TRAGEDIES. 


31U 


proach  of  small  imperfections ;  disdained  thel 
inglorious  labour  of  perpetual  correctness,  and 
has  consequently  imparted  to  his  productions 
that  spirit  and  ease  and  variety,  which  re- 
minds us  of  better  times,  and  gives  lustre  and 
effect  to  those  rich  and  resplendent  passages 
to  which  it -left  him  free  to  aspire. 

Lor5  Byron^n  some  respects,  may  appear 
ncifToTiarre-been  wanting  in JntrejDidlty.  He 
has  not  certainly  been  very  tractable  to  ad- 
vice, nor  very  patient  of  blame.  But  this,  in 
him,  we  fear,^isnots]jmen^ity  to  censure, 
but.,,a:K£j:fii2jQL.joTrpa^  proving 

thathe  is  indifferent  to  detraction,  shows 
only,  that  the  dread  and  dislike  of  it  operate 
with  more  than  common  force  on  his  mind. 
A  critic,  whose  object  was  to  give  pain,  would 
desire  no  better  proof  of  the  efficacy  of  his  in- 
flictions, than  the  bitter  scorn  and  fierce  de- 
fiance with  which  they  are  encountered ;  and 
the  more  vehemently  the  noble  author  pro- 
tests that  he  despises  the  reproaches  that 
hdve  been  bestowed  on  him,  the  more  certain 
it  is  tliat  he  suffers  from  their  severity,  and 
would  bO'glad  to  escape,  if  he  cannot  over- 
bear, them.  But  howev-er  this  may  be,  M'e 
think  it  is  certain  that  his  late  dramatic  efforts 
Jmy^  nQt  fceen.  made  carelessly,  or  without 
a«jd£t;5^  To  us,'at  least,  they.seem  very  elab- 
Qiate—aed— hard-wrought  compositions  j  and 
this  indeed  we  take  to  be  their  leading" char- 
acteristic, and  the  key  to  most  of  their  pe- 
culiarities. 

Considered  as_PoernSj_  we  confess  they  ap- 
jpoacJjQLJls  JiiJbB  ratlipr-,JifiaJOu-:KerbQS£,^iicl 


inelegant — deficient  in  the  passion  and  energy 
which  belongs  to  the  other  writings  of  the 
noble  author — and  still  more  in  the  richness 
of  imagery,  the  originality  of  thought,  and 
the  sweetness  of  versification  for  which  he 
used  to  be  distinguished.  They  are  for  th(; 
most  part  solemn,  prolix,  and  ostentatious — 
lengthened  out  by  large  preparations  for  catas- 
trophes that  never  arrive,  and  tantalizing  us 
with  slight  specimens  and  glimpses  of  a 
higher  interest,  scattered  thinly  up  and  down 
many  weary  pages  of  declamation.  Along 
with  the  concentrated  pathos  and  homestruck 
sentiments  of  his  former  poetry,  the  noble 
author  seems  also,  we  cannot  imagine  why, 
to  have  discarded  the  spirited  and  melodious 
versification  in  which  they  were  embodied, 
and  to  have  formed  to  himself  a  measure 
equally  remote  from  the  spring  and  vigour  of 
hfs  former  compositions,  and  from  the  soft- 
ness and  flexibility  of  the  ancient  masters  of 
the  drama.  There  are  some  sweet  lines,  and 
many  of  great  weight  and  energy;  but  the 
general  march  of  the  verse  is  cumbrous  and 
unmusical.  His  lines  do  not  vibrate  like 
polished  lances,  at  once  strong  and  light,  in 
the  hands  of  his  persons,  but  are  wielded  like 
clumsy  batons  in  a  bloodless  affray.  Instead 
of  the  graceful  familiarity  and  idiomatical 
melodies  of  Shakespeare,  they,  aje  apt,  too,  to 
fall  into  clumsy  prose,  in  their  approaches  to 
the  easy  and  colloquial  style;  and,  in  the 
.oftier  passages,  are  occasionally  deformed  by 
low  and  common  images,  that  harmonize  but 
'U  wilh  the  general  solemnity  of  the  diction. 


As  Plays,  we  are  afraid  we  must  also  say 
that  the  pieci^St.bpjjare  us  are  wanting  :rij.nter- 
est,  0h^-^ctfii\^and^^ptiQ];j : — at  leastAve  musf 
say  this  ofthetKree  last  of  them — for  there  is 
interest  in  Sardanapalus — and  beauties  be- 
sides, that  make  us  blind  to  its  other  defects. 
There   is^  however,  throughout,  a  want   of 


dr^n3,a,tic  effect  and  variety- ;  and  we  suspect 
there  is  something  m  tKe  character  or  habit 
of  Lord  Pyron's  genius  which  will  render  this 
unattainable.  He  has  too  little  sympathy  with^ 
the  ordinary  feelings  and^frantie s  oThumanityy' 
to  succeed  well  in  their  representation — •'  Hi 


sgul_is  like  a  slar,"aiid' dwells  apart. ^"^"Tnioes 


not  "hoTd'The  rriirror  up  to  nature,"  nor  catch 
'^KeTiues  of  surrounding  object^  but,  likeTa 
JuJoBIed  furnace,  throws  out  its  intense  glare 
and  gloomy  grandeur  on  the  narrow  scene  :^ 
w^ichjt  i^adiq^tes.^  He  has  given  us,  in  his 
oEEerworks,  some  glorious  pictures  of  nature 
— some  magnificent  reflections,  and  some  in- 
imitable delineations  of  character:  But  the 
same  feelings  prevail  in  them  all;  and  his 
portraits  in  particular,  though  a  little  varied 
in  the  drapery  and  attitude,  seem  all  copied 
from  the  same  original^  His  Childe  Harold, 
his  Giaour,  Conrad,  Lara,  Manfred,  Cain,  and 
Lucifer — are  all  one  individual.  There  is  the  f 
fe^ame  varnish  of  voluptuousness  on  the  sur-  / 
face — the  same  canker  of  misanthropy  at  the 
core,  of  all  he  touches.  /He  cannot  draw  the 
changes  of  many-coloured  life,  nor  transport 
himself  into  the  condition  of  the  infinitely  di- 
versified characters  by  whom  a  stage  should 
be  peopled. J  The  very  intensity  of  his  feel- 
ings— theToTtiness  of  his  views — the  pride  of 
his  nature  or  his  genius — withhold  him  from 
this  identification;  so  that  in  personating  the 
heroes  of  the  scene,  he  does  little  but  repeat 
himself.  It  would  be  better  for  him,  we 
think,  if  it  were  otherwise.  We  are  sure  it 
would  be  better  for  his  readers.  He  would 
get  more  fame,  and  things  of  far  more  worth 
than  fame,  if  he  would  condescend  to  a  more\ 
extended  and /cordial  sympathy  with  his  fel-  \ 
low-creatures;  and  we  should  have  more 
variety  of  fine  poetry,  and,  at  all  events,  bet- 
ter tragedies.  We  have  no  business  to  read 
him  a  homily  on  the  sinfulness  of  pride  and 
^ncharity ;  but  we  have  a  right  to  say,  that 
it  argues  a  poorness  of  genius  to  keep  always 
to  the  same  topics  and  persons^^  and  that  the 
world  will  weary  at  last  of  the  most  energetic 
pictures  of  misanthropes  and  madmen — out- 
laws and  their  mistresses ! 

A  man  gifted  as  he  is,  when  he  aspires  at 
dramatic  fame,  should  emulate  the  greatest^ 
of  dramatists.     Let   Lord  Byron  then  thinlTp 
of  Shakespeare — and  consider  what  a  noble    | 
range  of  character,  what  a  freedom  from  man- 
nerism and  egotism,  there  is  in  him!  Hoav 
much  he  seems  to  have  studied  nature;  how 
little  to  have  thought  about   himself;   how 
seldorn  to  have  repeated  or  glanced  back  at 
Kls  own  most  successful  inventions !     Why 
indeed    sliould   he?     Nature  was   still  open 
before  him,  and  inexhaustible  ;  and  the  fresh- 
ness and  variety  that  still  delight  his  readers, 
must  have  had  constant  atractions  for  him- 
self.    Take  his  Hamlet,  for  instance.     What 


320 


POETRY. 


a  character  is  there! — how  full  of  thought 
,  and  refinement,  and  fancy  and  individuality  ! 
"  How  infinite  in  faculties !  In  form  and 
motion  how  express  and  admirable !  The 
beauty  of  the  universe,  the  paragon  of  ani- 
"  mals  !"  Yet  close  the  play,  and  we  meet  with 
him  no  more — neither  in  the  author's  other 
works,   nor  any   where   else !      A   common 

uthor  who  had  hit  upon  such  a  character, 
would  have  dragged  it  in  at  every  turn,  and 
worn  it  to  very  tatters.  Sir  John  Falstaff', 
again,  is  a  world  of  wit  and  humour  in  him- 
self. But  except  in  the  two  parts  of  Henry 
IV.,  there  would  have  Deen  no  trace  of  such 
a  being,  had  not  the  author  been  ••  ordered 
to  continue  him"  in  the  Merry  Wives  of 
Windsor.  He  is  not  the  least  like  Benedick, 
or  Mercutio,  or  Sir  Toby  Belch,  or  any  of  the 
other  witty  and  jovial  personages  of  the  same 
author — nor  are  they  like  each  other.  Othello 
is  one  of  the  most  striking  and  powerful  in- 
ventions on  the  stage.  But  when  the  play 
closes,  we  hear  no  more  of  him  !  The  poet's 
creation  comes  no  more  to  life  again,  under  a 
fictitious  name,  than  the  real  man  would  have 
done.  Lord  Byron  in  Shakespeare's  place, 
would  have  peopled  the  world  with  black 
Othellos  I  What  indications  are  there  of  Lear 
in  any  of  his  earlier  plays  ?  What  traces  of 
it  in  any  that  he  wrote  afterwards?  None.  It 
might  have  been  written  by  any  other  man, 
he  is  so  little  conscious  of  it.  He  never  once 
returns  to  that  huge  sea  of  sorrow ;  bu  t  has 
left  it  standing  by  itself,  shoreless  and  un- 
approachable !  Who  else  could  have  afibrded 
not  to  have  "drowned  the  stage  with  tears" 
from  such  a  source  1  But  we  must  break 
away  from  Shakespeare,  and  come  at  last  to 
the  work  before  us. 

'In  a  very  brief  preface^  Lord  Byron  renews  „ 
his  protest  against  looking  upon  any  of  his 
plays,  as  having  been  composed  "'with  the 
most  remote  view  to  the  stage  " — and,  at  the 
same  time,  testifies  in  behalf  of  the  Unities, 
as  essential  to  the  existence  of  the  drama — 
according  to  what  "  was,  till  lately,  the  law 
of  literature  throughout  the  world,  and  is  still 
so,  in  the  more  civilised  parts  of  it."  We 
do  not  think  those  opinions  very  consistent ; 
and  we  think  that  neither  of  them  could  pos- 
sibly find  favour  with  a  person  whose  genius 
had  a  truly  dramatic  character.  We  should 
as  soon  expect  an  orator  to  compose  a  speech 
altogether  unfit  to  be  spoken.  A  drama  is 
not  merely  a  dialogue,  but  an  action:  and 
necessarily  supposes  that  something  is  to 
pass  before  the  eyes  of  assembled  spectators. 
Whatever  is  peculiar  to  its  written  part, 
should  deriy^  its  peculiarity  from  this  con- 
sideration.\  Its  style  should  be  throughout 
an  accompanirhehT  to'"actT6n^ — and  should  be 
calculated  to  excite  the  emotions,  and  keep 
alive  the  attention,  of  gazing  multitudes.  If 
an  author  does  not  bear  this  continually  in 
'.his  mind,  and  does  not  write  in  the  ideal 
presence  of  an  eager  and  diversified  assem- 
blage, he  may  be  a  poet  perhaps,  but  as- 
suredly he  never  will  be  a  dramatist.  If 
Lord  Byron  really  does  not  wish  to  impreg- 
nate his    elaborate   scenes  with  the  living 


spirit  of  the  drama — if  he  has  no  hankeun^ 
after  stage-eff"ect — if  he  is  not  haunted  with 
the  visible  presentment  of  the  persons  he  has 
created — if,  in  setting  down  a  vehement  in- 
vective, he  does  not  fancy  the  tone  hi  which 
Mr.  Kean  would  deliver  it,  and  anticipate  the 
long  applauses  of  the  pit.  then  he  may  be 
sure  that  neither  his  feelings  nor  his  genius 
are  in  unison  with  the  stage  at  all.  Why, 
then,  should  he  affect  the  form,  without  the 
power  of  tragedy  1  He  may,  indeed,  produce 
a  mystery  like  Cain,  or  a  far  sweeter  vision, 
like  Manfred,  without  subjecting  himself  to 
the  censure  of  legitimate  criticism :  But  if^ 
\5dth_a  regular  subject  before  him,  capable  ot_ 
all  the  strength  and  graces  of  the  drama,  lie. 
cToes  not  feel  himself  able  -or  willing  to  draw 
forth  its  resources  so  as  to'  affect  an  audience^ 
with  terror  and  delight,  he  is  not  the  maiV'we 
'want — and  his  time  and  talents  are  wasted 
here.  Diclactic  reasoning  and  eloquent  de- 
scriptipn.  will  not  compensate,  in  a  play^  fora 
dearth  of  drarnatic  spirit  and  inventi^n^:  a/),(J 
besides,  sterling  sense  an^  poetry,  as  p/i/Ai 
ought  to  stand  by  themselves,  withou'^  th<3 
unmeaning  mockery  of  a  dramatis  personcB. 

As  to  Lord  Byron's  pretending  to  set  up  the 
Unities  at  this  time  of  day,  as  "  the  law  of 
literature  throughout  the  world,"  it  is  mere 
caprice  and  contradiction.     He,  if  ever  man 
was,  is  a  law  to  himself — "a  chartered  liber- 
tine;"— and  now,  when  he  is  tired  of  this 
unbridled  licence,  he  wants  to  do  penance 
within  the  Unities!    This  certainly  looks  very 
like  affectation;  or,  if  there  is  any  thing  sin- 
cere in  it,  the  motive  must  be,  thz-t,  by  get- 
ting rid  of  so  much  story  and  action,  in  ordei 
to  simplify  the  plcrt  and  bring  it  within  the 
prescribed  limits,  he  may  fill  up  the  blank 
spaces  with  long  discussions,  and  have  nearly 
all  the  talk  to  himself !  CTor  ourselves,  we_ 
will  confess  that  we  have  had  a  considerablft 
contempt,  for.tliose  same  t/jizYz'es.  ever  since, 
we    read  Pennis'  Criticism   on  Cato  in^our. 
boyhood — except  iudeed  the"  unil;^-  of^ctiQiiT"/ 
which  Lord  Byron  does  not  appear  toseP 
much  store  by.     Dr.  Johnson,  we  conceive, 
has  pretty  well  settled  this  question  :  and  if 
Lord  Byron  chooses  to  grapple  with  him,  he 
will  find  that  it  requires  a  stronger  aim  than 
that  with  which  he  puts  down  our  Laureates. 
We  shall  only  add,  that  -yvhejCLthe  modeiTis_ 
tie  themselves  down  to  write  tragedies  of  the 
same  length,  and  on  the  same  simple  .plan,  in 
other  respects,  with  those  of  Sophocles  and 
-^schylus,  we  shall  not  object  to  their  adher- 
ing to  the  Unities;  for  there  can,  in  that  casej_^ 
be  no  sufficient  inducement  for  violating  them. 
But,  in  the  mean  time,  we  hold  that  Eiigliili 
dramatic  poetry  soars  ahovc  the  Unities,  \\xQ\a&_ 
the  imagination  does.     The  only  pretence  for^ 
insisting  on  them  is,  that  we   suppose  tKe^ 
stage  itself  to  be,  actually  and   really.  tHe_ 
very  spot  on  which  a  given  action  is  peloi-m^ 
ed ;  and,  if  so.  this  space  cannot  be  remove(^ 
to  another,.. But  the  supposition  is  manifestly., 
quite  contrary  to  truth  and  experience.     The 
stage  is  considered  merely  as  a  place  in  wHcR 
any  given  action  ad  libitum  may  be  perform- 
ed ;  and  accordingly  may  be  shifted,  and  la 


LORD  BYRON'S  TRAGEDIES. 


32J 


BO  ill  iraaginatiorij  as  often  as  the  action  re- 
quires it.  That  any  writer  should  ever  have 
msisTe'(rbn  such  an  unity  as  this,  must  appear 
sufficiently  preposterous  j  but.  that  the  defence 
of  it  should  be  taken  up  by  an  author  whose 
plays  are  never  to  be  acted  at  all,  and  which, 
therefore,  have  nothing  more  than  a  nominal 
reference  to  any  stage  or  locality  \yhatever, 
must  strike  one  as  absolutely  incredible. 
y  It  so  happens,  however,  that  the  disadvan- 
tage, and,  in  truth,  absurdity  of  sacrificing 
higher  objects  to  a  fojmaJitj  of  this  kind,  is 
strikingly  displayed  mon^^  these  dramas — 
The  Two  Foscari.  The  whole  interest  here 
turns  upon  the  younger  of  them  having  re- 
turned from  banishment,  in  defiance  of  the 
law  and  its  consequences,  from  an  unconquer- 
able longing  after  his  native  country.  Now, 
the  only  way  to  have  made  this  sentiment 
palpable,  the  practicable  foundation  of  stu- 
pendous sufferings,  would  have  been,  to  have 
g resented  him  to  the  audience  wearing  out 
is  heart  in  exile — and  forming  his  resolution 
to  return,  at  a  distance  from  his  country,  or 
^  hovering,  in  excruciathig  suspense,  within 
sight  of  its  borders.  We  might  then  have 
caught  some  glimpse  of  the  nature  of  his 
motives,  and  of  so  extraordinary  a  character. 
But  as  this  would  have  been  contrary  to  one 
of  the  Unities,  we  first  meet  with  him  led  from 
'•the  Question,"  and  afterwards  taken  back 
to  it  in  the  Ducal  Palace,  or  clinging  to  the 
dungeon-walls  of  his  native  city,  and  expiring 
from  his  dread  of  leaving  them;  and  there- 
fore feel  more  wonder  than  sympathy,  when 
we  are  told  in  a  Jeremiad  of  wilful  lamenta-^ 
tions,  that  these  agonising  consequences  have 
resulted,  not  from  guilt  or  disaster,  but  merely 
from  the  intensity  of  his  love  for  his  country. 
But  we  must  now  look  at  the  other  Trage- 
dies \  and  on  turning  again  to  Sardaxapalus, 
we  are  half  inclined  to  repent  of  the  severity 
of  some  of  our  prece^ng  remarks,  or  to  own 
at  reasrTKar~they  ara>>  not  strictly  applicable 
Jo  thi§,  performance.  /  If  is  a  ^\-orK" beyond  all 
question  of  greaT  cteauty  and  power ^  and 
though  the  heroine  has  many  traits  in  com- 
mon with  the  Medoras  and  Gulnares  of  Lord 
Byron's  undramatic  poetry ^Jhe  hero  must  be 
allowecL  to  be  a  new  character  in  his  hanj^g. 
He  hasjl^ndeed,  the  sgprn  of  war,  and  glory, 
and  priestcraft,  and/ reprilar  morality,  which 
distinp-nishes  the  rest'oJ^liisXtOrdship's  favour- 
ITCSJ  TyoTTiLe  has  no  misanthropy,  and  very 
]2.ttlp  YTH^^^^^^r^m'X^'^i^  regarcled,  on  the 
whole;  na.,QiLg^-lhe  most  truly  good-hu- 
-.jBiOttPedfamiable,  and  respectable  voluptujities 
-■toa?liom~we  have  ever  been  presented .'  ij>. 
/tilts  conception  of  his  character,  the  autKor 
/  has  very  wisely  followed  nature  and  fancy 
v>«cather  than  histor^L^.  ^^^  Sardanapalus  is  not 
an  effeminate,  worn-out  debauchee,  with  shat- 
tered nerves  and  exhausted  senses,  the  slave 
of  indolence  and  vicious  habits;  but  a  san- 
guine votary  of  pleasure,  a  princely  epicure, 
indulging,  revelling  in  boundless  luxury  while 
he  can,  but  with  a  soul  so  inured  to  volup- 
tuousness, so  saturated  with  delights,  that 
pain  and  danger,  when  they  come  uncalled 
for,  give  him  neither  concern  nor  dread; 
21 


and  he  goes  forth,  from  the  banquet  to  the 
battle,  as  to  a  dance  or  measure,  attired  by 
the  Graces,  and  with  youth,  joy,  and  love  for 
his  guides.  He  dallies  with  Bellona  as  her 
bridegroom — for  his  sport  and  pastime ;  and 
the  spear  or  fan,  the  shield  or  shining  mirror, 
become  his  hands  equally  well.  He  enjoys 
life,  in  short,  and  triumphs  over  death;  and 
whether  in  prosperous  or  adverse  circum- 
stances, his  soul  smiles  out  superior  to  evil. 
The  Epicurean  philosophy  of  Sardanapalus 
gives  him  a  fine  opportunity,  in  his  confer- 
ences with  his  stern  and  confidential  adviser, 
Salemenes,  to  contrast  his  own  imputed  and 
fatal  vices  of  ease  and  love  of  pleasure  with 
the  boasted  virtues  of  his  predecessors.  War 
and  Conquest;  and  we  may  as  well  begin 
with  a  short  specimen  of  this  characteristic 
discussion.  Salemenes  is  brother  to  the  ne- 
glected queen  ;  and  the  controversy  originates 
in  the  monarch's  allusion  to  her. 


"  Sard.    Thou  think' st  that  1  have  wrong'd  the 
queen  :  is't  not  so? 

Sale.   ThinJi  !  Thou  hast  wrong'd  her  l 

Sard.  Patience,  prince,  and  hear  ine 

She  has  all  power  and  splendour  of  her  station, 
Respect,  the  tutelage  of  Assyria's  heirs, 
The  homage  and  the  appanage  of  sovereignty. 
I  married  her,  as  monarchs  wed — for  state, 
And  loved  her,  as  most  husbands  love  their  wives. 
If  she  or  thou  supposedst  I  could  link  me 
Like  a  Chaldean  peasaitt  to  his  mate, 
Ye  knew  nor  me,  nor  monarchs,  nor  mankind. 

Sale.  I  pray  thee,  change  the  theme  •  my  blood 
disdains 
Colhplajnt,  and  Salemenes'  sister  seeks  not 
Reluctant  love,  even  from  Assyria's  lord  ! 
Nor  would  she  deign  to  accept  divided  passion 
With  foreign  strumpets  and  Ionian  slaVes. 
The  queen  is  silent. 

Sard.  And  why  not  her  brother? 

Sale.  I  only  echo  thee  the  voice  of  empires, 
Which  he  who  long  neglects  not  long  will  govern. 

Sard.   The  ungrateful  and  ungracious  skves! 
they  murmur 
Because  I  have  not  shed  their  blood,  nor  led  them 
To  dry  into  the  desert's  dust  by  myriads. 
Or  whiten  with  their  bones  the  banks  of  Ganges  ; 
Nor  decimated  them  with  savage  laws, 
Nor  sweated  them  to  build  up  pyramids, 
Or  Babylonian  walls. 

Sale.  Yet  these  are  trophies 

More  worthy  of  a  people  and  their  prince 
Than  songs,  and  lutes,  and  feasts,  and  concubines, 
And  lavish'd  treasures,  and  contemned  virtues. 

Sard.  Oh  !  for  my  trophies  I  have  founded  cities; 
There's  Tarsus  and  Anchialus,  both  buili 
In  one  day — what  could  that  blood-loving  became, 
My  martial  grandam,  chaste  Semiramis, 
Do  more — except  destroy  them? 

-Sale.  |Ti8  most  v'Tie  ; 

I  own  thy  merit  in  those  founded  cities. 
Built  for  a  whim,  recorded  with  averse 
Which  shames  both  ibem  and  thee  to  coming  age» 

Sard.  Shame  me  !  By  Baal,  the  cities,  thougji 
well  built. 
Are  not  more  goodly  than  the  verse  !     Say  wha» 
Thou  wilt  against  the  truth  of  that  brief  reco.d, 
Why,  those  few  lines  contain  the  history 
Of  all  things  human  ;  hear — '  Sardanapalus 
The  king,  and  Son  of  Anacyndaraxes, 
In  one  day  built  Anchialus  and  Tarsus. 
Eat,  drink,  and  love !  the  rest's  not  worth  a  fillip. 

Sale.  A  worthy  moral,  and  a  wise  inscription. 
For  a  king  to  put  up  before  his  subjects  ! 

Sard.  Oh,  thou  wouldst  have  me  doubtless  eei 
up  edicts — 


ttt 


POETRY. 


Obey  the  king — contribute  to  his  freisure — 
Recruit  his  phalanx — sp;ll  your  blood  at  bidding — 
Fall  down  and  worship,  or  get  up  and  !oil.' 
Or  thus — '  Sardanapalijs  on  this  spot 
Slew  fifty  thousand  of  his  enemies. 
These  are  their  sepulchres,  and  this  his  trophy.' 
I  leave  such  things  to  conquerors  ;  enough 
For  me,  if  I  can  make  my  subjects  feel 
The  weight  of  human  misery  less,  iid  glide 
Ungroamng  to  the  tomb  ;  I  take  nc   icence 
Which  I  deny  to  them.     We  all  are  men. 
Sale.  Thy  sires  have  been  revered  as  gods — 
Sard.  In  dust 

And  death — where  they  are  neither  gods  nor  men. 
Talk  not  of  such  to  me  !  the  worms  are  gods; 
At  least  they  banqueted  upon  your  gods, 
And  died  for  lack  of  farther  nutriment. 
Those  gods  were  merely  men ;  look  to  their  issue — 
I  feel  a  thousand  mortal  things  about  me. 
But  nothing  godlike — unless  it  may  be 
The  thing  which  you  condemn,  a  disposition 
To  love  and  to  be  merciful ;  to  pardon 
The  follies  of  my  species,  and  (that's  human) 
To  be  indulgent  to  my  own." — pp.  18 — 21. 

But  the  chief  charm  and  vivifying  angel  of 
the  piece  is  Myrrha,  the  Greek  slave  of  Sar- 
danapalus — a  beautiful,  heroic,  devoted,  and 
ethereal  being — in  love  with  the  generous 
and  infatuated  monarch — ashamed  of  loving 
a  barbarian — and  using  all  her  influence  over 
him  to  ennoble  as  well  as  to  adorn  his  exist- 
ence, and  to  arm  him  ag-ainst  the  terrors  of 
its  close.  Her  voluptuousness  is  that  of  the 
heart — her  heroism  of  the  affections.  If  the 
part  she  takes  in  the  dialogue  be  sometimes 
too  subdued  and  submissive  for  the  lofty 
daring  of  her  character,  it  is  still  such  as 
might  become  a  Greek  slave — a  lovely  Ionian 
girl,  in  whom  the  love  of  liberty  and  the 
scorn  of  tleath,  was  tempered  by  the  con- 
sciousness of  what  she  regarded  as  a  degrading 
passion,  and  ai^  inward  sense  of  fitness  and 
decorum  with  reference  to  her  condition.  The 
development  of  this  character  and  its  con- 
sequences form  so  material  a  part  of  the  play, 
that  most  of  the  citations  with  which  we  shall 
illustrate  our  abstract  of  it  will  be  found  to 
bear  upon  it. 

Salemenes,  in  the  interview  to  which  we 
have  just  alluded,  had  driven  '-the  Ionian 
minion"  from  the  royal  presence  by  his  re- 
proaches. After  his  departure,  the  Monarch 
again  recalls  his  favourite,  and  reports  to  her 
the  warning  he  had  received.  Her  answer 
lets  us  at  once  into  the  nobleness  and  delicacy 
of  her  character. 

"  Mijr.  He  did  well. 

Sard.  And  say'st  t?iou  so  ? 

Thou  whom  he  spurn'd  so  harshly,  and  now  dared 
Drive  from  our  presence  with  his  savage  jeers, 
And  made  thee  weep  and  blush  ? 

Myr.  I  should  do  both 

More  frequently  !  and  he  did  well  to  call  me 
Back  to  my  duty.    But  thou  spakest  of  peril — 
Peril  to  thee — 

Sard.  Ay,  from  dark  plots  and  snares 

From  Medes — and  discontented  troops  and  nations. 
I  know  not  what — a  labyrinth  of  things — 
A  maze  of  mutter'd  threats  and  mysteries  : 
Thou  know'st  the  man — it  is  his  usual  custom. 
But  he  is  honest.   Come,  we'll  think  no  more  on' t — 
But  of  the  midnight  festival. 

Myr.  'Tis  time 

To  thinK  of  aught  save  festivals.     Thou  hast  not 
fepurn'd  his  sage  cautions  ? 

Sard.  What  ?— and  dost  thou  fear  ? 


Myr.  Fear!— I'm  a  Greek,  and  how  should  1 

fear  death  ? 
A  slave,  and  wherefore  should  I  dread  my  freedom  \ 
Sard.  Then  wherefore  dost  thou  turn  so  pale  ? 
Myr.  I  love— 

Sard.  And  do  not  I  ?    I  love  thee  far — far  more 
Than  either  the  brief  life  or  the  wide  realm. 
Which,  it  may  be,  are  menaced:  yet  I  blanch  not. 
Myr.  When  he  who  is  their  ruler 

Forgets  himself,  will  they  remember  him  ? 
Sard.  Myrrha! 

Myr.  Frown  not  upon  me :  you  have  smiled 
Too  often  on  me,  not  to  make  those  frowns 
Bitterer  to  bear  than  any  punishment 
Which  they  may  augur. — King,  I  am  your  subject ! 
Master,  I  am  your  slave  !  Man,  I  have  loved  you  !— 
Loved  you,  I  know  not  by  what  fatal  weakness, 
Although  a  Greek,  and  born  a  foe  to  monarchs-- 
A  slave,  and  hating  fetters — an  Ionian, 
And,  therefore,  when  I  love  a  stranger,  more 
Degraded  by  that  passion  than  by  chains  ! 
Still  I  have  loved  you.     If  that  love  were  strong 
Enough  to  overcome  all  former  nature, 
Shall  it  not  claim  the  privilege  to  save  you  ! 

Sard.  Save  me,  my  beauty  !     Thou  art  very  fair 
And  what  I  seek  of  thee  is  love — not  safety. 
Myr.  And  without  love  where  dwells  security  f 
Sard.  1  speak  of  woman's  love. 
3Iyr.  The  very  first 

Of  human  Ufe  must  spring  from  woman's  breast ; 
Your  first  small  words  are  taught  you  from  her  lips, 
Your  first  tears  quench' d  by  her,  and  your  last 

sighs 
Too  often  breathed  out  in  a  woman's  hearing, 
When  men  have  shrunk  from  the  ignoble  care 
Of  watching  the  last  hour  of  him  who  led  them. 

Sard.  My  eloquent  Ionian  !  thou  speak'st  music  ! 
The  very  chorus  of  the  tragic  song 
I  have  heard  thee  talk  of  as  the  favourite  pastime 
Of  thy  far  father-land.  Nay,  weep  not — calm  thee. 
3Iyr.  I  weep  not — But  I  pray  thee,  do  not  speak 
About  my  fathers,  or  their  land  ! 

Sard.  Yet  oft 

Thou  speakest  of  them. 

3Jyr.  True — true  !  constant  thought 

Will  overflow  in  words  unconsciously  ; 
But  when  another  speaks  of  Greece,  it  vwunds  me. 
Sard.  Well,  then,  how  wouldst  thou  save  me,  as 
thou  saidst  ?  [founders. 

3Iyr.    Look    to    the   annals   of  thine  empire's 
Sard.  They  are  so  blotted  over  with  blood,  I 
cannot,  [ed. 

But  what  wouldst  have  ?  the  empire  has  been  found- 
I  cannot  go  on  multiplying  empires. 
Myr.  Preserve  thine  own. 
Sard.  At  least  I  will  enjoy  it 

Come,  Myrrha,  let  us  on  to  the  Euphrates  ; 
The  hour  invites,  the  galley  is  prepared, 
And  the  pavilion,  deck'd  for  our  return, 
In  fit  adornment  for  the  evening  banquet. 
Shall  blaze  with  beauty  and  with  light,  until 
It  seems  unto  the  stars  which  are  above  us 
Itself  an  opposite  star ;  and  we  will  sit 

Crown'd  with  fresh  flowers  like 

31yr.  Victims. 

Sard.  No,  like  sovereigns, 

The  shepherd  kings  of  patriarchal  times. 
Who  knew  no  brignter  gems  than  summer  wreaths. 
And  none  but  tearless  triumphs.     Let  us  on." 

pp.  31—36. 

The  second  act,  which  contains  the  details 
of  the  conspiracy  of  Arbaces.  its  detection  by 
the  vigilance  of  Salamenes,  and  the  too  rasn 
and  hasty  forgiveness  of  the  rebels  by  the 
King,  is,  on  the  whole,  heavy  and  uninterest- 
ing. '  Early  in  the  third  act,  the  royal  ban- 
quet is  disturbed  by  sudden  tidings  of  trea- 
son and  revolt ;  and  then  the  reveller  blazei 
out  into  the  hero,  and  the  Greek  blood  ot 
Myrrha  mounts  to  its  proper  office!      The 


LORD  BYRON'S  TRAGEDIES. 


323 


Following  passages  are  striking.    A  messenger 
Bays, 

"  Prince  Salemenes  doth  implore  the  king 
To  arm  himself,  although  but  lor  a  moment, 
And  show  himself  unto  the  soldiers  :  his 
Sole  presence  in  this  instant  might  do  more 
Than  hosts  can  do  in  his  behalf. 

Sard.  What,  ho ! 

My  armour  there. 

Myr.  And  wilt  thou  ? 

Sard.  Will  I  not? 

Ho,  there  ! — But  seek  not  for  the  buckler  ;  'tis 
Too  heavy  : — a  light  cuirass  and  my  sword. 

j\lyr.  How  I  do  love  thee  ! 

Sard.  I  ne'er  doubted  it. 

3Ii/r.  But  now  I  know  thee. 

Sard,  {arminif  himself) 
Give  me  the  cuirass — so :  my  baldric  !  now 
My  sword :  I  had  forgot  the  helm,  where  is  it  ? 
That's  well— no,  'tis  too  heavy :.  you  mistake,  too — 
It  was  not  this  I  meant,  but  that  which  bears 
A  diadem  around  it. 

Sfero.  Sire,  I  deem'd 

That  too  conspicuous  from  the  precious  stones 
To  risk  your  sacred  brow  beneath — and,  trust  me, 
This  is  of  better  metal  though  less  rich. 

Sard.  You  deem'd  I   Are  you  too  turn'd  a  rebel  ? 
Fellow ! 
Your  part  is  to  obey :  return,  and — no — 
It  is  too  late — I  will  go  forth  wuhout  it. 

Sfero.  At  least  wear  this. 

Sard.  Wear  Caucasus  !  why,  'tis 

A  mountain  on  my  temples. 
Myrrha,  retire  unto  a  place  of  safety. 
Why  went  you  not  forth  with  the  other  damsels  ? 

3Tyr.  Because  my  place  is  here. 

I  dare  all  things 
Except  survive  what  I  have  loved,  to  be 
A  rebel's  booty :  forth,  and  do  your  bravest." 

pp.  85—89. 

The  noise  of  the  conflict  now  reaches  her 
in  doubtful  clamour ;  and  a  soldier  comes  in, 
of  whom  she  asks  how  the  King  bears  him- 
self— and  is  answered, 

"  Alt.  Like  a  king.     I  must  find  Sfero, 

And  bring  him  a  new  spear  and  his  own  helmet. 
He  fights  till  now  bare-headed,  and  by  far 
Too  much  exposed.    The  soldiers  knew  his  face. 
And  the  foe  too  ;  and  in  the  moon's  broad  light, 
His  silk  tiara  and  his  flowing  hair 
Make  him  a  mark  too  royal.     Every  arrow 
Is  pointed  at  the  fair  hair  and  fair  features. 
And  the  broad  fillet  which  crowns  both. 
The  king !  the  king  fights  as  he  revels. 

Myr.  'Tis  no  dishonour — no — 

'Tis  no  dishonour!  to  have  loved  this  man. 
I  almost  wish  now,  what  I  never  wish'd 
Before,  that  he  were  Grecian.    If  Alcides 
Were  shamed  in  wearing  Lydian  Omphale's 
She-garb,  and  wielding  her  vile  distaff;  surely 
He,  who  springs  up  a  Hercules  at  once, 
Nurs'd  in  effeminate  arts  from  youth  to  manhood, 
And  rushes  from  the  banquet  to  the  battle, 
As  though  it  were  a  bed  of  love,  deserves 
That  a  Greek  girl  should  be  his  paramour, 
And  a  Greek  bard  his  minstrel,  a  Greek  tomb 
His  monument!" — pp.  92,  93. 

Soon  after,  she  rushes  out  in  agony  to  meet 
the  fate  that  seemed  impending.  The  King, 
however,  by  his  daring  valour,  restores  the 
fortune  of  the  fight ;  and  returns,  with  all  his 
train,  to  the  palace.  The  scene  that  ensues 
is  very  masterly  and  characteristic.  Turning 
to  Myrrha — 

"  Know'st  thou,  my  brother,  where  I  lighted  on 
''^his  minion  ? 


Sale.  Herding  with  the  other  female* 

Like  frighten'd  antelopes. 

Sard.  No  '    Like  the  dam 

Of  the  young  lion,  femininely  raging, 
She  urged  on,  with  her  voice  and  gesture,  and 
Her  floating  hair  and  flashing  eyes,  the  soldiers 
In  the  pursuit. 

Sale.  Indeed ! 

Sard.  You  see,  this  night 

Made  warriors  of  more  than  me.  I  paused 
To  look  upon  her,  and  her  kindled  cheek ; 
Her  large  black  eyes,   that  flash'd   through  her 

long  hair 
As  it  stream'd  o'er  her  ;  her  blue  veins  that  rose 
Along  her  most  transparent  brow  ;  her  nostril 
Dilated  from  its  symmetry  ;  her  lips 
Apart ;  her  voice  that  clove  through  all  the  din, 
As  a  lute's  pierceth  through  the  cymbal's  clash, 
Jarr'd  but  not  drown'd  by  the  loud  brattling  ;  her 
Waved  arms,  more  dazzUng  with  their  own  born 

whiteness 
Than  the  steel  her  hand  held,  which  she  caught  up 
From  a  dead  soldier's  grasp  ;  all  these  things  made 
Her  seem  unto  the  troops  a  prophetess 
Of  victory,  or  Victory  herself 
Come  down  to  hail  us  hers. 

Sale,  {i'/i  retiring.)  Myrrha  ! 

Myr.  Prince. 

Sale.  You  have  shown  a  soul  to-night, 

Which,  were  he  not  my  sister's  lord But  now 

I  have  no  time  :  thou  lov'st  the  king  ? 

Myr.  I  love 

Sardanapalus. 

Sale.  But  wouldst  have  him  king  still? 

31yr.  I  would  not  have  him  less  than  what  he 
should  be. 

Sale.  Well,  then,  to  have  him  king,  and  yours, 
and  all 
He  should,  or  should  not  be  ;  to  have  him  live, 
Let  him  not  sink  back  into  luxury. 
You  have  more  power  upon  his  spirit  than 
Wisdom  within  these  walls,  or  fierce  rebellion 
Raging  without :   look  well  that  he  relapse  not. 
[Exit  Salemenes. 

Sard.  Myrrha  !  what,  at  whispers 
With  my  stern  brother  ?     I  shall  soon  be  jealous. 

3Iyr.  {smiling.)  You  have  cause,  sire ;  for  on  the 
earth  there  breathes  not 
A  man  more  worthy  of  a  woman's  love — 
A  soldier's  trust — a  subject's  reverence — 
A  king's  esteem — the  whole  world's  admiration  ! 

Sard.  Praise  him,  but  not  so  warmly.  I  must  not 
Hear  those  sweet  hps  grow  eloquent  in  aught 
That  throws  me  into  the  shade  ;  yet  you  speak 
truth."— pp.  100—105. 

After  this,  there  is  an  useless  and  unnatural 
scene  with  the  Queen,  whose  fondness  her 
erring  husband  meets  with  great  kindness 
and  remorse.  It  is  carefully,  but  rather  tedi- 
ously written ;  and  ends,  a  great  deal  too  long 
after  it  ought  to  have  ended,  by  Salemenes 
carrying  off  his  sister  in  a  fit. 

The  fifth  act  gives,  rather  languidly,  the 
consummation  of  the  rebellion.  Salemenes 
is  slain ;  and  the  King,  in  spite  of  a  desperate 
resistance,  driven  back  to  his  palace  and  its 
gardens.  He  then  distributes  his  treasure  to 
his  friends,  and  forces  them  to  embark  on  the 
river,  which  is  still  open  for  their  escape; 
only  requiring,  as  the  last  service  of  his  faith- 
ful veterans,  Ihat  they  should  build  up  a  huge 
pile  of  combustibles  around  the  throne  in  his 
presence-chamber,  and  leave  him  there  with 
Myrrha  alone ;  and  commanding  them,  when 
they  had  cleared  the  city  with  their  galleys, 
to  sound  their  trumpets  as  a  signal  of  safety. 
We  shall  close  our  extracts  with  a  few  frag- 


^24 


POETRY. 


merits  of  the  final  scene.     This  is  his  fare- 
vvell  to  the  troops. 

"  Sard.  My  best  !  my  last  friends! 

Let's  not  unman  each  other — part  at  once  : 
All  farewells  should  be  sudden,  when  for  ever, 
Else  they  make  an  eternity  of  moments, 
And  clog  the  last  sad  sands  of  life  with  tears. 
Hence,  and  be  happy  :  trust  me,  I  am  not 
Now  to  be  pitied  ;  or  far  more  for  what 
Is  past  than  present ; — for  the  future,  'tis 
In  the  hands  of  the  deities,  if  such  [well. 

There  be  :   I  shall  know  soon.     Farewell — fare- 
[Exeunt  Pania  and  Soldiers. 

Myr.  These  men  were  honest :  It  is  comfort  still 
That  our  last  looks  should  be  on  loving  faces,    [me  ! 

Sard.  And  lovely  ones,  my  beautiful! — but  hear 
If  at  this  moment,  for  we  now  are  on 
The  brink,  thou  feel'st  an  inward  shrinking  from 
This  leap  through  flame  into  the  future,  say  it : 
I  shall  not  love  thee  less ;  nay,  perhaps  more, 
For  yielding  to  thy  nature  :  and  there's  time 
Yet  for  thee  to  escape  hence. 

Myr.  Shall  I  light 

One  of  the  torches  which  lie  heap'd  beneath 
The  ever- burning  lamp  that  burns  whhout. 
Before  Baal's  shrine,  in  the  adjoining  hall  ? 

Sard.  Do  so.     Is  that  thy  answer  ? 

Myr.  Thou  shalt  see."— pp.  162,  163. 

There  is  then  a  long  invocation  to  the 
shades  of  his  ancestors ;  at  the  end  of  which, 
Myrrha  returns  with  a  lighted  torch  and  a 
cup  of  wine — and  says, 

"Lo! 
I've  lit  the  lamp  which  lights  us  to  the  stars. 

Sard.  And  the  cup  ? 

Myr.  'Tis  my  country's  custom  to 

Make  a  libation  to  the  gods. 

Sard,  And  mine 

To  make  libations  amongst  men.     I've  not 
Forgot  the  custom  ;  and  although  alone. 
Will  drain  one  draught  in  memory  of  many 
A  joyous  banquet  past. 

Yet  pause. 
My  Myrrha !  dost  thou  truly  follow  me. 
Freely  and  fearlessly  ? 

Myr.  And  dost  thou  think 

A  Greek  girl  dare  not  do  for  love,  that  which 
^n  Indian  widow  braves  for  custom  ? 

Sard.  Then 

We  but  await  the  signal. 

Myr.  It  is  long 

In  sounding. 

Sard.  Now,  farewell ;  one  last  embrace. 

Myr.  Embrace,  but  not  the  last ;   there  is  one 
more.  [ashes. 

Sard.  True,  the  commingling  fire  will  mix  our 

Myr.  Then  farewell,  thou  earth  ! 

And  loveliest  spot  of  earth  !  farewell  Ionia  ! 
Be  thou  still  free  and  beautiful,  and  far 
Aloof  from  desolation  !     My  last  prayer        [thee  ! 
Was  for  thee,  my  last  thoughts,  save  one,  were  of 

Sard.  And  that? 

Myr.  Is  yours. 

[The  trumpet  of  Pania  sounds  without. 

Sard.  Hark  ! 

Myr.  Now ! 

Sard.  Adieu,  Assyria ! 

1  loved  thee  well,  my  own,  my  fathers'  land, 
And  better  as  my  country  than  my  kingdom. 
I  satiated  thee  with  peace  and  joys ;  and  this 
la  my  reward  !  and  now  I  owe  thee  nothing. 
Not  even  a  grave.  [He  mou7its  the  pile. 

Now,  Myrrha ! 

Myr.  Art  thou  ready ! 

Sard.  As  the  torch  in  thy  grasp. 

[Myrrha  fires  the  pile. 

Myr.  'Tis  fired!  I  come. 

[As  Myrrha  springs  forward  to  throw  herself 
into  the  flames,  the  Curtain  falls  .^^ 

pp.  164—167. 


Having  gone  so  much  at  length  iiiio  thia 
drama,  which  we  take  to  be  much  the  best  in 
the  volume,  we  may  be  excused  for  saying 
little  of  the  others.  ".^^llS-iisIS-Eoscaaiy  we 
think,  is  a  failure.  The  interest  is  founded 
upon  feelings  so  peculiar  or  overstrained,_aA 
to  effgiage;.Jia:^u2iiiailjy f  and  the  whole  story^ 
turns  on  incidents  that  are  neither  pleasing 
nor  natural.  The  Younger  Foscari  undergo?^'^ 
the  rack  twice  (once  in  the  hearing  of  the 
audience),  merely  because  he  has  chosen  to 
feign  himself  a  traitor,  that  he  might  be 
brought  back  from  undeserved  banishment,  I 
and  dies  at  last  of  pure  dotage  on  this  senti-j 
ment;  while  the  Elder  Foscari  submits,  in/ 
profound  and  immovable  silence,  to  this  treat-j 
ment  of  his  son,  lest,  by  seeming  to  feel  for 
his  unhappy  fate,  he  should  be  implicated  in 
his  g-uilt — though  he  is  supposed  guiltless. 

The  ".MarifloJEaliero" — though  rather  more 
vigorously  written — is  scarcely  more  success- 
ful. The  story,  in  so  far  as  it  is  original  in 
our  drama,  is  extrernely  improbable  ;  though, 
like  most  other  very  improbable  stories,  de- 
rived from  authentic  sources :  But,  in  the 
main,  it  is  not  original — being  indeed  merely 
another  Venice  Preserved ;  and  continually 
recalling,  though  certainly  without  eclipsing, 
the  memory  of  the  first.  Except  that  Jaffier 
is  driven  to  join  the  conspirators  by  the  natu- 
ral impulse  of  love  and  misery,  and  the  Doge 
by  a  resentment  so  outrageous  as  to  exclude 
all  sympathy — and  that  the  disclosure,  which 
is  produced  by  love  in  the  old  play,  is  here 
ascribed  (with  less  likelihood)  to  mere  friend- 
ship, the  general  action  and  catastrophe  of 
the  two  pieces  are  almost  identical — while, 
with  regard  to  the  writing  and  management, 
it  must  be  owned  that,  if  Lord  Byron  has  most 
sense  and  vigour,  Otway  has  by  far  the  most 
passion  and  pathos ;  and  that,  though  our  new 
conspirators  are  better  orators  and  reasoners 
than  the  gang  of  Pierre  and  Reynault,  the 
tenderness  of  Belvidera  is  as  much  more 
touching,  as  it  is  more  natural  than  the  stoical 
and  self-satisfied  decorum  of  Angiolina.  The 
abstract,  or  argument  of  the  piece,  is  shortly 
as  follows. 

Marino  Faliero,  Doge  of  Venice,  and  nearly 
fourscore  years  of  age,  marries  a  young  beauty 
of  the  name  of  Angiolina — and,  soon  after 
their  union,  a  giddy  young  nobleman,  whom 
he  had  had  occasion  to  rebuke  m  public,  sticks 
up  some  indecent  lines  on  his  chair  of  state ; 
pui;porting  that  he  was  the  husband  of  a  fair 
wife,  whom  he  had  the  honour  of  keeping  for 
the  benefit  of  others.  The  Doge  having  dis- 
covered the  author  of  this  lampoon,  complains 
of  him  to  the  Senate — who,  upon  proof  of  the 
charge,  sentence  him  to  a  month's  confine- 
ment. The  Doge,  considering  this  as  alto- 
gether inadequate  to  the  reparation  of  his  in- 
jured honour,  immediately  conceives  a  most 
insane  and  unintelligible  animosity  at  the 
whole  body  of  the  nobility — and,  in  spite  of 
the  dignified  example  and  gentle  soothing  of 
Angiolina,  puts  himself  at  the  head  of  a  con- 
spiracy, which  had  just  been  organised  for 
the  overthrow  of  the  governmeijt  by  certaiK 
plebeian  malecontents,  who  had  more  sub- 


LORD  BYRON'S  TRAGEDIES. 


32A 


tantial  wron*;s  and  grievances  to  complain  of. 
One  of  the  faction,  however,  had  a  friend  in 
the  Senate  whom  he  wished  to  preserve ;  and 
goes  to  him,  on  the  eve  of  the  insurrection, 
with  words  of  warning,  which  lead  to  its 
timely  detection.  The  Doge  and  his  asso- 
ciates are  arrested  and  brought  to  trial ;  and 
the  former,  after  a  vain  intercession  from  An- 
giolina,  who  candidly  admits  the  enormity  of 
his  guilt,  and  prays  only  for  his  life,  is  led,  in 
his  ducal  robes,  to  the  place  where  he  was 
first  consecrated  a  sovereign,  and  there  pub- 
licly decapitated  by  the  hands  of  the  execu- 
tioner. 

We  can  afford  but  a  few  specimens  of  the 
execution.  The  following  passage,  in  which 
the  ancient  Doge,  while  urging  his  gentle 
spouse  to  enter  more  warmly  into  his  resent- 
ment, reminds  her  of  the  motives  that  had 
led  him  to  seek  her  alliance,  (her  father's  re- 
quest, and  his  own  desire  to  afford  her  orphan 
helplessness  the  highest  and  most  unsuspect- 
ed protection,)  though  not  perfectly  dramatic, 
has  great  sweetness  and  dignity ;  and  reminds 
us,  in  its  rich  verbosity,  of  the  moral  and 
mellifluous  parts  of  Massinger. 

"Doge.  For  love,  romantic  love,  which  in  my 
I  knew  to  be  illusion,  and  ne'er  saw  [youth 

Lasting,  but  often  fatal,  it  had  been 
No  lure  for  me,  in  my  most  passionate  days, 
And  could  not  be  so  now,  did  such  exist. 
But  such  respect,  and  mildly  paid  regard 
As  a  true  feeling  for  your  welfare,  and 
A  free  compliance  with  all  honest  wishes  ; 
A  kindness  to  your  virtues,  watchfulness 
Not  shown,  but  shadowing  o'er  such  little  failings 
As  youth  is  apt  in,  so  as  not  to  check 
Rashly,  but  win  you  from  them  ere  you  knew 
You  had  been  won,  but  thought  the  change  your 

choice ; 
A  pride  not  in  your  beauty,  but  your  conduct — 
A  trust  in  you — a  patriarchal  love, 
And  not  a  doting  homage — friendship,  faith — 
Such  estimation  in  your  eyes  as  these 
Might  claim,  I  hoped  for." — 
"  I  triisted  to  the  blood  of  Loredano 
Pure  in  your  veins ;  I  trusted  to  the  soul       [you — 
God  gave  you — to  the  truths  your  father  taught 
To  your  belief  in  heaven — to  your  mild  virtues — 
To  your  own  faith  and  honour,  for  my  own. — 
Where  light  thoughts  are  lurking,  or  the  vanities 
Of  worldly  pleasure  rankle  in  the  heart, 
Or  sensual  throbs  convulse  it,  well  I  know 
'Twere  hopeless  for  humanity  to  dream 
Of  honesty  in  such  infected  blood, 
Although  'twere  wed  to  him  it  covets  most ; 
An  incarnation  of  the  poet's  god 
In  all  his  marble-chisell'd  beauty,  or 
The  demi-deity,  Alcides,  in 
His  majesty  of  superhuman  manhood,  _ 
Would  not  suffice  to  bind  where  virtue  is  not." 

pp,  50—53. 

The  fourth  Act  opens  with  the  most  poeti- 
cal and  brilliantly  written  scene  in  the  play — 
though  it  is  a  soliloquy,  and  altogether  alien 
from  the  business  of  the  piece.  Lioni,  a 
young  nobleman,  returns  home  from  a  splen- 
did assembly,  rather  out  of  spirits;  and, 
opening  his  palace  window  for  air,  contrasts 
the  tranquillity  of  the  night  scene  which  lies 
oefore  him,  with  the  feverish  turbulence  and 
glittering  enchantments  of  that  which  he  has 
just  quitted.  Nothing  can  be  finer  than  this 
Dicture  in  both  it«  ^compartments.     There  is 


a  truth  and  a  luxuriance  in  the  description  ol 
the  rout,  which  mark  at  once  the  hand  of  a 
master,  and  raise  it  to  a  very  high  rank  as  a 
piece  of  poetical  painting — while  the  moon- 
light view  from  the  window  is  equally  grand 
and  beautiful,  and  reminds  us  of  those  mag- 
nificent and  enchanting  lookings  forth  in 
Manfred,  which  have  left,  we  will  confess^ 
far  deeper  traces  on  our  fancy,  than  any  thing 
in  the  more  elaborate  work  before  us.  Lioni 
says, 

" 1  will  try 

Whether  the  air  will  calm  my  spirits :  'tis    ' 
A  goodly  night;  the  cloudy  wind  which  blew 
From  the  Levant  has  crept  into  its  cave,         [ness! 
And  tfea  broad  moon  has  brighten'd.     What  a  still- 
[Goes  to  an  open  lattice. 
And  what  a  contrast  with  the  scene  I  left. 
Where  the  tall  torches'  glare,  and  silver  lamps' 
More  pallid  gleam,  along  the  tapestried  walls. 
Spread  over  the  reluctant  gloom  which  haunts 
Those  vast  and  dimly-latticed  galleries 
A  dazzling  mass  of  artificial  light,  [&c. 

Which  show'd  all  things,  but  nothing  as  they  were', 

The  music,  and  the  banquet,  and  the  wine — 
The  garlands,  the  rose  odours,  and  the  flowers — 
The  sparkling  eyes  and  flashing  ornaments — 
The  white  arras  and  the  raven  hair — the  braids 
And  bracelets  ;  swanlike  bosoms,  and  the  necklace, 
An  India  in  itself,  yet  dazzling  not 
The  eye  like  what  it  circled  ;  the  thin  robes 
Floating  like  light  clouds  'twixt  our  gaze  and  heaven- 
The  many-twinkling  feet,  so  small  and  sylphlike, 
Suggesting  the  more  secret  symmetry 
Of  the  fair  forms  which  terminate  so  well ! 
All  the  delusion  of  the  dizzy  scene. 
Its  false  and  true  enchantments — art  and  nature, 
Which  swam  before  my  giddy  eyes,  that  drank 
The  sight  of  beauty  as  the  parch'd  pilgrim's 
On  Arab  sands  the  false  mirage,  which  offers 
A  lucid  lake  to  his  eluded  thirst. 
Are  gone. — Around  me  are  the  stars  and  waters 
Worlds  mirror'd  in  the  ocean  !  goodlier  sight 
Than  torches  glared  back  by  a  gaudy  glass ; 
And  the  great  element,  which  is  to  space 
What  ocean  is  to  earth,  spreads  its  blue  depths, 
Soften'd  with  the  first  breathings  of  the  spring; 
The  high  moon  sails  upon  her  beauteous  way, 
Serenely  smoothing  o'er  the  lofty  walls 
Of  those  tall  piles  and  sea-girt  palaces. 
Whose  porphyry  pillars,  and  whose  costly  fronts, 
Fraught  with  the  orient  spoil  of  many  marbles. 
Like  altars  ranged  along  the  broad  canal, 
Seem  each  a  trophy  of  some  mighty  deed 
Rear'd  up  from  out  the  waters,  scarce  less  strangely 
Than  those  more  massy  and  mysterious  giants 
Of  architecture,  those  Titanian  fabrics. 
Which  point  in  Egypt's  plains  to  times  that  have 
No  other  record  !     All  is  gentle:  nought 
Stirs  rudely  ;  but,  congenial  with  the  night. 
Whatever  walks  is  gliding  like  a  spirit. 
The  tinklings  of  some  vigilant  guitars 
Of  sleepless  lovers  to  a  wakeful  mistress, 
And  cautious  opening  of  the  casement,  showing 
That  he  is  not  unheard  ;  while  her  young  hand. 
Fair  as  the  moonlight  of  which  it  seems  part. 
So  delicately  white,  it  trembles  in 
The  act  of  opening  the  forbidden  lattice. 
To  let  in  love  through  music,  makes  his  heart 
Thrill  like  his  lyre-strings  at  the  sight ! — the  dash 
Phosphoric  of  the  oar,  or  rapid  twinkle 
Of  the  far  lights  of  skimming  gondolas. 
And  the  responsive  voices  of  the  choir 
Of  boatmen,  answering  back  with  verse  for  verse 
Some  dusky  shadow  chequering  the  Rialto  ; 
Some  glimmering  palace  roof,  or  tapering  spire. 
Are  all  the  sights  and  sounds  which  here  pervade 
The  ocean-born  and  earth-commanding  city." 

pp.  98—101. 


326 


POETRY. 


Wi3  can  now  afford  but  one  other  extract ', 
— and  we  take  it  from  the  grand  and  prophetic 
rant  of  which  the  unhappy  Doge  dehver s  him- 
self at  the  pjace  of  execution.  He  asks 
whether  he  may  speak ;  and  is  told  he  may, 
but  that  the  people  are  too  far  off  to  hear  him. 
He  then  says, 

"  I  speak  to  Time  and  to  Eternity, 
Of  which  I  grow  a  portion — not  to  man  ! 
Ye  elements  !  in  which  to  be  resolved 
I  hasten  !  Ye  blue  waves  !  which  bore  my  banner, 
Ye  winds  !  which  flutter'd  o'er  as  if  you  loved  it, 
And  fill'd  my  sweUing  sails,  as  they  were  wafted 
To  mafiy  a  triumph  !  Thou,  my  native  earth, 
Which  I  have  bled  for,  and  thou  foreign  earth. 
Which  drank  this  willing    blood    from    many  a 

wound  !  [Thou  ! 

Thou  sun !    which  shinest  on  these  things,  and 
Who  kindlest  and  who  quenchest  suns  ! — Attest ! 
I  am  not  innocent — But  are  these  guiltless  ? 
I  perish  :  But  not  unavenged  :  For  ages 
Float  up  from  the  abyss  of  time  to  be, 
And  show  these  eyes,  before  they  close,  the  doom 
Of  this  proud  city  ! — Yes,  the  hours 
Are  silently  engendering  of  the  day, 
When  she,  who  built  'gainst  Attila  a  bulwark, 
Shall  yield,  and  bloodlessly  and  basely  yield 
Unto  a  bastard  Attila  ;  without 
Shedding  so  much  blood  in  her  last  defence 
As  these  old  veins,  oft  drain'd  in  shielding  her, 
Shall  pour  in  sacrifice. — She  shall  be  bought  ! 
Then,  when  the  Hebrews  in  thy  palaces, 
The  Hun  in  thy  high  places,  and  the  Greek 
Walks  o'er  thy  mart,  and  smiles  on  it  for  his ; 
When  thy  patricians  beg  their  bitter  bread 
In  narrow  streets,  and  in  their  shameful  need 
Make  their  nobility  a  plea  for  pity  ; — when 
Thy  sons  are  in  the  lowest  scale  of  being. 
Slaves  turn'd  o'er  to  the  vanquish'd  by  the  victors, 
Despised  by  cowards  for  greater  cowardice. 
And  scorn' d  even  by  the  vicious  for  their  vices. 
When  all  the  ills  of  conquer'd  states  shall  cling  thee, 
Vice  without  splendour,  sin  without  relief; 
When  these  and  more  are  heavy  on  thee,  when 
Smiles  without  mirth,  and  pastimes  without  plea- 
Youth  without  honour,  age  without  respect,  [sure, 
Meanness  and  weakness,  and  a  sense  of  woe 
'Gainst  which  thou  wilt  not  strive,  and  dar^st  not 

murmur, 
Have  made  thee  last  and  worst  of  peopled  deserts. 
Then — in  the  last  gasp  of  thine  agony, 
Amidst  thy  many  murders,  think  of  mine! 
Thou  den  of  drunkards  with  the  blood  of  princes  ! 
Gehenna  of  the  waters !  thou  sea  Sodom  I 
Thus  I  devote  thee  to  the  infernal  gods ! 
Thee  and  thy  serpent  seed  ! 

[Here   the  Doge   turns,  and  addresses   the  Exe- 
cutioner. 
Slave,  do  thine  office  ! 
Strike  as  I  struck  the  foe  !     Strike  as  I  would 
Have  struck   those  tyrants  !     Strike  deep  as  my 

curse  ! 
Strike — and  but  once ! — pp.  162 — 165. 

It  will  not  now  be  difficult  to  estimate  the 
character  of  this  work. — As  a  play,  it  is  defi- 
cient in  the  attractive  passions ;  in  probability, 
and  in  depth  and  variety  of  interest;  and 
revolts  throughout,  by  the  extravagant  dis- 
proportion which  the  injury  bears  to  the 
unmeasured  resentment  with  which  it  is 
pursued.  Lord  Byron  iSj  undoubtedly,  a  poet 
of  the  verj  first  order — and  has  talents  to 
reach  the  very  highest  honours  of  the  drama. 
B^he  must  not  again  disdain  love  and  am- 
bition and  jealousy.  JHe  must  not  substitute 
_what  is  merely  bizarre  aiid  extraordinary,  for 
"ft'hat  is  naturally  and  universally  interestmg — 


norexpect,  by  any  exaggerations,  so  to  rouse 
!i!id  fulol^ur  sympathiesj_by  the   s^isetesr 


anger  of  an  old  man,  an^  the  prudish  proprie- 
ties  of  an  un  tempted  woman,  as  by  the 
agency  qf^the  great  and  simple  passions"\vith~ 
whlcH^'lil.sQme  of  their  degrees,  all  men  are 
lamiliar^  and  by  which  alone  the  Dramatic' 
•JfluseJia&JiithertoJiyrought  her  miracles. 
'/  Of  'i:fiain^-a..M^:ster3^^' we  are  constrained 
^tb  say,  that,  though  it  abounds  in  beautiful 
passages,  and  shows  more  power  perhaps  than 
any  of  the  author's  dramatical  compositions, 
we  regret  very  much  that  it  should  ever  have 
been  published.  It  will  give  great  scandal 
and  offenca^to^ous  persons  in  general — and 
may  be  the  means  of  suggestiug  the  most 
painful  doubts  and  distressing  perplexities,  to 
hundreds  of  minds  that  might  never  other- 
wise have  been  exposed  to  such  dangerous 
disturbance.  It^is  nothing  less  than  absurdj_ 
iu  such  a  case,  to  observe,  that  Lucifer  canriot 
well  be  expected  to  talk  like  ari  orthodox" 
divine — and  that  the  conversation  of  the  first 
Rebel  and  the  first  Murderer  was  not  likely 
to  be  very  unexceptionable — or  to  plead  the 
authority  of  Milton,  or  the  authors  of  the  old 
mysteries,  for  such  offensiva- colloquies.  The 
fact  is,  that  here  the^. whole  .ai:guiQ£nt — and  a 
very  elaborate  and  specious  argument  it  is — 
is  directed  against  the  goodness  or  the  power 
wTrhe  Deity,  and  against  the  reasonableriesa 
of  religion  in  general  ]  and  there  is  no  answer 
so'much  as  attempted  to  the  off'ensive  doc- 
trines that  are  so  strenuously  inculcated.  The 
Devil  and  his  pupil  have  the  field  entirely  to 
themselves — and  are  encountered  with  noth- 
ing but  feeble  obtestations  and  unreasoning 
horrors.  Nor  is  this  argumentative  blasphemy 
a  mere  incidental  deformity  that  arises  in  the 
course  of  an  action  directed  to  the  common 
sympathies  of  our  nature.  It  forms,  on  the 
contrary,  the  great  staple  of  the  piece — and 
occupies,  we  should  think,  not  less  than  two 
thirds  of  it ',  so  that  it  is  really  difficult  to  be- 
lieve that  it  was  written  for  any  other  purpose 
than  to  inculcate  these  doctrines — or  at  least  to 
discuss  the  question  on  which  they  bear.  Now, 
we  can  certainly  have  no  objection  to  Lord 
Byron  writing  an  Essay  on  the  Origin  of  Evil 
— and  sifting  the  whole  of  that  vast  and  per- 
plexing subject  with  the  force  and  the  free- 
dom that  would  be  expected  and  allowed  in 
a  fair  philosophical  discussion.  Bjjt  we  do 
not  think  it  fair,  thus  to  argue  it  partially  and 
con  amor e,  in  the  name  of  Lucifer  and  Cain ; 
without  the  responsibility  or  the  liability  to 
answer  that  would  attach  to  a  philosophical 
disputant — and  in  a  form  which  both  doubles 
the  danger,  if  the  sentiments  are  pernicious, 
and  almost  precludes  his  opponents  from  the 
possibility  of  a  reply. 

PJulosophyand_  Poetry  are  both  very  gooc 
thi'ngTinuieirway'fTjut,  in  our  opinion,  the) 
do  not  go  very  well  together.  It  is  but  a  poor. 
{iriH  pedantic  sort  of  poetry  that  see]|f^lii£il^ 
fo  embody  metaphysical  subtil tiesj.nd  abstract 
deductions  of  reason — and  a  very  suspicious 
philosophy  that  aims  at  establishing  its  doc- 
trines by  appeals  to  the  passions  and  th?. , 
fancy.     Though   such^_ar2;iiiu»Hts;~  however 


LORD  BYRON'S  TRAGEDIES. 


3r 


nre  ^^'orth  little  in  the  schools,  it  does  not 
follow  that  their  effect  is  inconsiderable  in  the 
world.  On  the  contrary;  it  is  the  mischief  of 
all  poetical  paradoxes,  that,  from  ..the  very 
limits  and  end  of  poetry,  whictr3eais  only  in 
obvious  and  glancmg  views,  they  are  never 
brought  to  the  fair  test  of  argument.  An  al- 
lusion to  a  doubtful  topic  will  often  pass  for  a 
ueiinitive  conclusion  on  it  •  and,  when  clothed 
in  beautiful  lang-uage,  may  leave  the  most 
pernicious  impressions  behind.  luJixe-Comts 
of  morality,  ^oets  are  unexceptionable  wit- 
nesses; they  may  give  m  the  evidence,  and 
^depose  to  facts  whether  good  or  illj  but  we 
liemur  to  their  arbitrary  and  self-pleasing 
SLTimiiigs  up.^.,They  are  suspected  judges, 
Ttnd  not  very  often  safe  advocates;  M'here  great 
questions  are  concerned,  and  universal  prin- 
ciples brought  to  issue.  But  we  shall  not 
press  this  point  farther  at  present. 

We  shall  give  but  one  specimen,  and  that 
the  least  offensive  we  can  find,  of  the  pre- 
vailing tone  of  this  extraordinary  drama.  It 
is  the  address  (for  we  cannot  call  it  prayer) 
with  which  Cain  accompanies  the  offering  of 
his  sheaves  on  the  altar — and  directed  to  be 
delivered,  standiTig  erect. 

'*  Spirit !  whate'er  or  whosoe'er  thou  art, 
Omnipotent,  it  may  be — and,  if  good. 
Shown  in  the  exemption  of  thy  deeds  from  evil; 
Jehovah  upon  earth!  and  God  in  heaven ! 
And  it  may  be  with  other  names,  because 
Thine  attributes  seem  many,  as  thy  works: — 
If  thou  must  be  propitiated  with  prayers, 
Take  them  !    If  thou  must  be  induced  with  altars, 
And  soften'd  with  a  sacrifice,  receive  them  ! 
Two  beings  here  erect  them  unto  thee.       [smokes 
If  thou  lov'st  blood,  the  shepherd's  shrine,  which 
On  my  right  hand,  hath  shed  it  for  thy  service, 
In  the  first  of  his  flock,  whose  Hmbs  now  reek 
In  sanguinary  incense  to  thy  skies; 
Or  if  the  sweet  and  blooming  fruits  of  earth, 
And  milder  seasons,  which  the  unstain'd  turf 
I  spread  them  on  now  offers  in  the  face 
Of  the  broad  sun  which  ripen'd  them,  may  seem 
Good  to  thee,  inasmuch  as  they  have  not 
Suffer'd  in  Umb  or  life,  and  rather  form 
A  sample  of  thy  works,  than  supphcation 
To  look  on  ours  !    If  a  shrine  without  victim, 
And  altar  without  gore,  may  win  thy  favour, 
Look  on  it  I  and  for  him  who  dressefh  it. 
He  is — such  as  thou  mad'st  him  ;  and  seeks  nothing 
Which  must  be  won  by  kneeUng.    If  he's  evil, 
Strike  him  !  thou  art  omnipotent,  and  may'st, — 
For  what  can  he  oppose  ?    If  he  be  good, 
Strike  him,  or  spare  him,  as  thou  wilt !  since  all 
Rests  upon  thee ;  and  good  and  evil  seem 
To  have  no  power  themselves,  save  in  thy  will ; 
And  whether  that  be  good  or  ill  I  know  not, 
Not  being  omnipotent,  nor  fit  to  judge 
Omnipotence  ;  but  merely  to  endure 
Its  mandate — which  thus  far  I  have  endured." 

pp.  424,  425. 

The  catastrophe  follows  soon  after,  and  is 
brought  about  with  great  dramatic  skill  and 
e/Tect.  The  murderer  is  sorrowful  and  con- 
founded— his  parents  reprobate  and  renounce 
him — his  wife  clings  to  him  with  eager  and 
unhesitating  affection;  and  they  wander  forth 
together  into  the  vast  solitude  of  the  universe. 

We  have  now  gone  through  the  poetical 
part  of  this  volume,  and  ought  here,  perhaps, 
to  close  our  account  of  it.  But  there  are  a 
few  pages  in  prose  that  are  more  talked  of 


than  all  the  rest;  and  t\'nicn  lead  irresistibly 
to  topics,  upon  which  it  seems  at  last  neces- 
sary that  we  should  express  an  opinion.  We 
allude  to  yi^ejconcluclirig  part  of  theAjpj;ieiidis 
lo  ^-  The  Two  FftscaicI,^'  hi  whlcnTord  Byron 
resumes  lu^Habitual  complaint  of  the  hostil- 
ity which  he  has  experienced  from  the  wri- 
ters of  his  own  country — makes  reprisals  on 
those  who  have  assailed  his  reputation — and 
inflicts,  in  particular,  a  memorable  chastise- 
ment upon  the  unhappy  Laureate,  interspersed 
with  some  political  reflections  of  great  weight 
and  authority. 

It  is  not  however  with  these,  or  the  merits 
of  the  treatment  which  Mr.  Southey  has  either 
given  or  received,  that  we  have  now  any  con- 
cern. But  we  have  a  word  or  two  to  say  on 
the  griefs  of  Lord  Byron  himself.  He  com- 
plains bitterly  of  the  detraction  by  which  he 
has  been  assailed — and  intimates  that  his 
works  have  been  received  by  the  public  with 
far  less  cordiality  and  favour  than  he  was  en- 
titled to  expect.  We  are  constrained  to  say 
that  this  appears  to  us  a  very  extraordinary 
mistake.  In  the  whole  course  of  our  experi- 
ence, we  cannot  recollect  a  single  author  who 
has  had  so  little  reason  to  complain  of  his 
reception — to  whose  genius  the  public  has 
been  so  early  and  so  constantly  just — to  whose 
faults  they  have  been  so  long  and  so  signally 
indulgent.  From  the  very  first,  he  must  have 
been  aware  that  he  offended  the  principles 
and  shocked  the  prejudices  oTTKe  majority, 
^Bj^Hi-S.entiments.  a>  iniu'li  as  he  delighted 
them  bj;JhLi§.,laleiiis.  Yet  there  never  was  an 
authoTso  universally  and  v%armly  applauded, 
so  gently  admonished — so  kindly  entreated  to 
look  more  heedfully  to  his  opinions.  He  took 
the  praise,  as  usual,  and  rejected  the  advice. 
As  he  grew  in  fame  and  authority,  he  aggra- 
vated all  his  offences — clung  more  fondly  to 
all  he  had  been  reproached  with — and  only 
took  leave  of  Childe  Harold  to  ally  himself  U 
Don  Juan !  That  he  has  since  been  talked 
of,  in  public  and  in  private,  with  less  unmin- 
gled  admiration — that  his  name  is  now  men- 
tioned as  often  for  censure  as  for  praise — and 
that  the  exultation  with  which  his  country- 
men once  hailed  the  greatest  of  our  living 
poets,  is  now  alloyed  by  the  recollection  of 
the  tendency  of  his  writings — is  matter  of 
notoriety  to  all  the  world;  but  matter  of  sur- 
prise, we  should  imagine,  to  nobody  but  Lord 
Byron  himself. 

He  would  fain  persuade  himself,  indeed, 
that  for  this  decline  of  his  popularity — or 
rather  this  stain  upon  its  lustre — for  he  is  still 
popular  beyond  all  other  example — and  it  is 
only  because  he  is  so  that  we  feel  any  interest 
in  this  discussion; — he  is  indebted,  not^to  any 
actual  demerits  of  his  own,  but  to  the  jealousy 
of  those  he  has  supplanted,  the  envy  of  those 
he  has  outshone,  or  the  party  rancour  of  those 
against  whose  corruptions  he  has  testified ; — 
while,  at  other  times,  he  seems  inclined  to 
insinuate,  that  it  is  chiefly  because  he  is  a 
Gentleman  and  a  Nobleman  that  plebeian  cen- 
sors have  conspired  to  bear  him  down  !  We 
scarcely  think,  however,  that  these  theoriei 
will  pass  with  Lord  Bviwr  himself — we  ar« 


!28 


POETRY. 


sure  they  win  pass  with  no  other  person. —  I 
TLey  are  so  manifestly  inconsistent,  as  mutu- 
ally to  destroy  each  other — and  so  weak,  as 
to  be  quite  insufficient  to  account  for  the  fact, 
even  if  they  could  be  effectually  combined 
for  that  purpose.  The  party  that  Lord  Byron 
has  vliiefly  offended,  bears  no  malice  to  Lords 
and  Gentlemen.  Against  its  rancour,  on  the 
contrary,  these  qualities  have  undoubtedly 
been  his  best  protection ;  and  had  it  not  been 
for  them,  he  may  be  assured  that  he  would, 
long  ere  now,  have  been  shown  up  in  the 
pages  of  the  Quarterly,  with  the  same  candour 
and  liberality  that  has  there  been  exercised 
towards  his  friend  Lady  Morgan.  That  the 
base  and  the  bigoted — those  whom  he  has 
darkened  by  his  glory,  spited  by  his  talent, 
or  mortified  by  his  neglect — have  taken  ad- 
vantage of  the  prevailing  disaffection,  to  vent 
their  puny  malice  in  silly  nicknames  and  vul- 
gar scurrility,  is  natural  and  true.  But  Lord 
Byron  may  depend  upon  it,  that  the  dissatis- 
faction is  not  confined  to  them — and,  indeed, 
that  they  would  never  have  had  the  courage 
to  assail  one  so  immeasurably  their  superior, 
if  he  had  not  at  once  made  himself  vulnera- 
ble by  his  errors,  and  ahenated  his  natural 
defenders  by  his  obstinate  adherence  to  them. 
We  are  not  bigots  or  rival  poets.  We  have 
not  been  detractors  from  Lord  Byron's  fame, 
nor  the  friends  of  his  detractors ;  and  we  tell 
him — far  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger — that 
we  verily  believe  the  great  body  of  the  Eng- 
lish  nation — ^the"  religious,  the  moral,  and  the 
candid  part  of  it — consider  the  tendency  of 
his  writings  to  be  immoral  and  pernicious— 
and  loot  upon  his  perseverance  in  that  strain 
of  composition  with  regret  and  reprehension. 

He  has  no  priestlike  cant  or  priestlike  revil- 
ing to  apprehend  from  us.  We  do  not  charge 
him  with  being  either  a  disciple  or  an  apostle 
of  Satan  ;  nor  do  we  describe  his  poetry  as  a 
mere  compound  of  blasphemy  and  obscenity. 
On  the  contrary,  we  ,ar.ftjnclined  to.  believe 
that  he  \vishes  \yell  to  the  happiness  of . man- 
kind— and  are  glad  to  testify,  that  hjs  poems 
abqundL^i-itk  sentiments  of  great  dignity  aiid 
tenderness,  as  well  as  passages  of  infinite 
subTTifiTty  and  beauty.  But  their  general 
tendency  we  believe,  to  be  in  the  highest 
degree  pernicious :  and  we  even  think  that  it 
is  chiefly  by  means  of  the  fine  and  lofty  sen- 
Hmeiits  they  contain,  that  they  acquire  their 
l^st  fatal  power  oLcprruptiox].  This  may 
soiand  at  first,  perhaps,  like  a  paradox;  but 
we  are  mistaken  if  we  shall  not  make  it  in- 
telligible enough  in  the  end. 

We  think  there  are  indecencies  and  iudeli- 
cgcies^  seductIve^"cIescnptrons  and  profligate 
repfesenfatiohs,  which  are  extremely  lepre- 
KensTBt^.;. /and 'also  audacious  speculations, 
'SnTerrmeous  and  uncharitable  assertions! 
equally  indefensible.  But  if  these  had  stood 
alone,  and  if  the  whole  body  of  his  works 
had  been  made  up  of  gaudy  ribaldry  and 
flashy  scepticism,  the  mischief,  we  think, 
would  have  been  much  less  than  it  is.  He  is 
not  more  obscene,  perhaps,  than  Dryden  or 
Prior,  and  other  classical  and  pardoned  wri- 
ters *  nor  IS  there  any  passage  in  the  history 


even  of  Don  Juan,  so  offevisively  degrading  a« 
Tom  Jones'  afiair  with  Lady  Bellaston.  It 
is  no  doubt  a  wretched  apology  for  the  inde- 
cencies  of  a  man  of  genius,  that  equal  inde- 
cencies have  been  forgiven  to  his  predeces* 
sors :  But  the  precedent  of  lenity  might  have 
been  fofiowed;  and  we  might  have  passed 
both  the  levity  and  the  voluptuousness — the 
dangerous  warmth  of  his  romantic  situations, 
and  the  scandal  of  his  cold-blooded  dissipa- 
tion. It  might  not  have  been  so  easy  to  ge, 
over  his  dogmatic  scepticism — his  hard-heart- 
ed maxims  of  misanthropy — his  cold-blooded 
and  eager  expositions  of  tne  non-existence  of 
virtue  and  honour.  Even  this,  however,  might 
have  been  comparatively  harmless,  if  it  had 
not  been  accompanied  by  that  t\hich  mayt 
look,  at  first  sight,  as  a  palliation — the  frequent ! 
presentment  of  the  most  touching  pictures  of 
tenderness,  generosity,  and  faith. 

Thp^  ^^^'ggJ:lI^2l!l!IlS-^i!i^IlLJ'"^^^  Byron, 
in  short,  is,  that  his  writin"sTav'e'"a"  fehderiCY / 
to^  destroy _jLlI,be-l-i^f  in'Tne  reality  of  yirtuej 
— ancl^^to    make    all    enthusiasm   and   con-^ 
stancy  of  affection  ridiculous]  and  ihts,  noTp " 
so  much  by  direct   maxims  and   examples^ 
of  an  imposing  or   seducing* kind,  as  by  the  '\ 
constant   exhibition   of    the   most    profligate    A 
heartlessness   in  the  persons  who  had  been    •' 
transiently  represented   as  actuated  by  the 
purest  and  most  exalted  emotions — and  in  the 
lessons  of  that  very  teacher  who  had  been,     | 
but  a  moment  before,  so  beautifully  pathetic     i 
in  the  expression  of  the  loftiest  conceptionSj__  ] 
When  a  gay  voluptuary  descants,  somewhat 
too  freely,  on   the  intoxications  of  love  and 
wine,  we  ascribe  his  excesses  to  the  efferves- 
cence of  youthful  spirits,  and  do  not  consider 
him  as  seriously  iinpeaching  either  the  value 
or  the  reality  of  the  severer  virtues ;  and  in 
the  same  way,  when  the  satirist  deals  out  his 
sarcasms  against  the  sincerity  of  human  pro- 
fessions, and  unmasks  the  secret  infirmities 
of  our  bosoms,  we  consider  this  as  aimed  at 
hypocrisy,  and  not  at  mankind :   or,  at  all 
events,  and  in  either  case,  we  consider  the 
Sensualist  and  the  Misanthrope  as  wandering, 
each  in  his  own  delusion — and  are  contented 
to   pity  those   who   have   never  Known  the 
charms  of  a  tender  or  generous  affection .-:»«■ — 
The  true  antidote  to  such  seductive  or  revolt-     ^ 
ing  views  of  human  nature,  is  to  turn  to  the 
scenes  of  its  nobleness  and  attraction  ;  and  to 
reconcile  ourselves  again  to  our  kind,  by  list- 
ening to  the  accents  of  pure  affection  and  in« 
corruptible  honour.    But  if  those  accents  have 
flowed  in  all  their  sweetness,  from  the  very 
lips  that  instantly  open  again  to  mock  ana    j 
blaspheme  them,  the  antidote  is  mingled  with    f 
the  poison,  and  the  draught  is  the  more  dead- 
ly for  the  mixture ! 

The  reveller  may  pursue  his  orgies,  and  the 
wanton  display  her  enchantments,  with  com- 
parative safety  to  those  around  them,  as  long  as 
they  know  or  believe  that  there  are  purer  and 
higher  enjoyments,  and  teachers  and  follow- 
ers of  a  happier  way.  But  if  the  Priest  pass 
£cfljli_the_altar,  with  persuasive  exhortations  to 
peace  and  purity  still  trembling  on  his  tongue, 
to  join  familiarly  in  the  grossest  and  most  pro 


LORD  BYRON'S  TRAGEDIES. 


32B 


f^ne  debauchery 
charmed  all  hearts  by  the  lovely  sanctimo- 
nies of  her  conjugal  and  maternal  endear- 
mentSj  glides  out  from  the  circle  of  her  chil- 
dren, and  gives  bold  and  shameless  way  to 
the  most  abandoned  and  degrading  vices — 
our  notions  of  right  and  wrong  are  at  once 
confounded — our  confidence  in  virtue  shaken 
to  the  foundation — and  our  reliance  on  truth 
and  fidelity  at  an  end  for  ever. 

This  is  the  charge  which  we  bring  against 
Lord  Byron.  We  say  that,  under  some  strange 
misapprehension  as  to  the  truth,  and  the  duty 
of  proclaiming  it;  he  has  exerted  all  the  powers 
of  his  powerful  mind  to  convince  his  readers, 
both  d "  rectly  and  indirectly,  that  all  ennobling 
pursuits,  and  disinterested  virtues,  are  mefe 
deceits  or  illusions — hollow  and  despicable 
mockeries  for  the  most  part,  and,  at  best,  but 
■laborious  follies.  Religion,  love,  patriotism, 
valour^  devotion,  colTstaiicy,  ambiUon — all  are 
to  15e  Taii'ghed  at,  disbelieved  in,  and  de- 
spised !— rand  nothing  is  really  good,  so  far  as 
trg^'can  g"ather,  but  a  succession  of  dangers  to 
Btir  the  blood,  and  of  banquets  and  intrigues 
to  soothe  it  ag-ain  !  If  this  doctrine  stood  aloiie, 
with  its  examples",  it  would  revolr,  we  believe 
more  than  it  would  seduce : — But  the  author 
of  it  has  tli3  uulucky-gift  of  personating  all 
those  sweet  ancTTofty  illusions,  and  that  with 
such  grace  and  force,  and  truth  to  nature,  that 
it  is  impossible  not  to  suppose,  for  the  time,  that 
he  is  among  the  most  devoted  of  their  votaries — 
till  he  casts  ofl'  the  character  with  a  jerk — and. 
the  moment  after  he  has  moved  and  exalted  us 
to  the  very  height  of  our  conception,  resumes 
his  mockery  at  all  things  serious  or  sublime — 
and  lets  us  down  at  once  on  some  coarse  joke, 
hard-hearted  sarcasm,  or  fierce  and  relentless 
personality — as  if  on  purpose  to  show 

"  Whoe'er  was  edified,  himself  was  not  " — 

or  to  demonstrate  practically  as  it  were,  and 
by  example,  how  possible  it  is  to  have  all  fine 
and  noble  feelings,  or  their  appearance,  for  a 
moment,  and  yet  retain  no  particle  of  respect 
for  them — or  of  belief  in  their  intrinsic  worth 
or  permanent  reality.     Thus,  we  have  an  in- 
delicate but  very  clever  scene  of  young  Juan's 
concealment  in  the  bed  of  an  amorous  matron, 
and  of  the  torrent  of  ^'rattling  and  audacious 
eloquence "  with  which  she  repels  the  too 
just  suspicions  of  her  jealous  lord.     All  this 
is  merely  comic,  and  a  little  coarse : — But 
then  the  poet  chooses  to  make  this  shameless 
and  abandoned  woman  address  to  her  young 
gallant  an  epistle  breathing  the  very  spirit  of 
warm,  devoted,  pure,  and  unalterable  love — 
thus  profaning  the  holiest  language  of  the 
.heart,  and  indirectly  associating  it  with  the 
'most  hateful  and  degrading  sensuality.     In 
/like  manner,  the  sublime  and  terrific  descrip- 
:  tion  of  the  Shipwreck  is  strangely  and  dis- 
gustingly broken  by  traits  of  low  humour  and 
'■  buffoonery  ] — ^and  we  pass  immediately  from 
'  the  moans  of  an  eigonising  father  fainting  over 
,  his  famished  son,  to  facetious  stories  of  Juan's 
begging  a  paw  of  his  father's  dog — and  re- 
fusing a  slice  of  his  tutor ! — as  if  it  were  a 
fine  *hing  to  be  hard-hearted — and  pity  and 


compassion  were  fit  only  to  be  laughed  at. 
In  the  same  spirit,  the  glorious  Ode  on  the 
aspirations  of  Greece  after  Liberty,  is  instant- 
ly followed  up  by  a  strain  of  dull  and  cold- 
blooded ribaldry; — and  we  are  hurried  on 
'  from  the  distraction  and  death  of  Kaidee  to 
merry  scenes  of  intrigue  and  masquerading 
in  the  seraglio.  Thus  all^ood  feelings  are 
_excited  only  to  accustom  us  to  tlierr" speed j;' 
and  complete  extinction;  and  we  are  brought 
back,  from  their  transient  and  theatrical  ex- 
lnbitiQC^o_the_stapleand  substantial  doctrine 
of  the  work — the  non-existence  of  constancy 
in  women  or  honour  in  men.  and  the  folly  of 
expecting  to  meet  with  any  such  virtues,  or  ?f 
cultivating  them,  for  an  undeserving  world; 
— and  all  this  mixed  up  with  so  much  wit  and 
cleverness,  and  knowledge  of  human  nature, 
as  to  make  it  irresistibly  pleasant  and  plausi- 
ble— while  there  is  not  only  no  antidote  sup- 
plied, but  every  thing  that  might  have  operated 
in  that  way  has  been  anticipated,  and  pre- 
sented already  in  as  strong  and  engaging  a 
form  as  possible — but  under  such  associations 
as  to  rob  it  of  all  efficacy,  or  even  turn  it  into 
an  auxiliary  of  the  poison. 

This  is  our  sincere  opinion  of  much  of  Lord 
Byron's  most  splendid  poetry — a  little  exagge- 
rated perhaps  in  the  expression,  from  a  desire 
to  make  our  exposition  clear  and  impressive 
— but,  in  substance,  we  think  merited  and 
correct.  We  have  already  said,  and  we  de- 
liberately repeat,  that  we  have  no  notion  that 
Lord  Byron  had  any  mischievous  intention  iu 
these  publications — and  readily  acquit  him  of 
any  wish  to  corrupt  the  morals  or  impair  the 
happiness  of  his  readers.  Such  a  wish,  in- 
deed, is  in  itself  altogether  inconceivable ;  but 
it  is  our  duty,  nevertheless,  to  say,  that  much 
of  what  he  has  published  appears  to  us  to  have 
this  tendency — and  that  we  are  acquainted 
with  no  writings  so  well  calculated  to  ex- 
tinguish in  young  minds  all  generous  enthu- 
siasm and  gentle  affection — all  respect  for 
themselves,  and  all  love  for'  their  kind — to 
make  them  practise  and  profess  hardily  what 
it  teaches  them  to  suspect  in  others — and 
actually  to  persuade  them  that  it  is  wise  and 
manly  and  knowing  to  laugh,  not  only  at  self- 
denial  and  restraint,  but  at  all  aspiring  ambi- 
tion, and  all  warm  and  constant  affection. 

How  opposite  to  this  is  the  system,  or  the 
temper,  oFme  great  author  of  Waverley-^the 
only  Ijving  individual  to  whom  Lord  By 
must  submit  to  be  ranked  as  inferior  in  geni 
— and  still  more  deplorably  inferior  in  all  thal^ 
makes  getii us  either  amiable  in  irseTf,  or 
useful  to  society !  With  all  his  unrivalled 
power  of  invention  and  judgment^  of  pathos 
and  pleasantry,  the  tenor  of  his  sentiments 
is  uniformly  generous,  indulgent,  and  good- 
humoured  ;  and  so  remote  from  the  bitterness 
of  misanthropy,  that  he  never  indulges  in  sar- 
casm, and  scarcely,  in  any  case,  carries  hi? 
merriment  so  far  as  derision.  But  the  pecu- 
liarity by  which  he  stands  most  broadly  and 
proudly  distinguished  from  Lord  Byron  is, 
that,  beginning  as  he  frequently  does,  willi 
some  ludicrous  or  satirical  theme,  he  jneyer__ 
fails  to  raise  out  of  it  some  feelings  of  a  gener- 


ron      \ 

lius  ]y 


Z^o 


POETRY. 


ous  01  gentle  kind,  and  to  end  by  ej:citingj:u^jj,or  so  managed  as  even  Jo  enhan(;e  its  ineriii* 
^tgfljder.  pity,  or  deep. -r£spi°ct,^aiLjlios~e  very 
individuals  or  classes  Of  persons  m- ho"  seemed 
at  first  to  be  brought  on  the  stage  for  our  mere 
sport  and  amusement — thus  making  the  ludi- 
crous itself  subservient  to  the  cause  of  be- 
nevolence— and  inculcating,  at  every  turn, 
and  as  the  true  end  and  result  of  all  his  trials 
and  experiments,  thelove  of  our  kijid^and 
the  duty  andjieli^poT^.  r-ordial  and  genuine 
sympathy  with  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  every 
condition  of  men^  it  seems  to  be  Lord  Byron's  j  time,  we  have  endeavoured  to  point  out  th« 


or  confirm  its  truth.  With  what  different  sen* 
sations,  accordingly,  do  we  read  the  works  of 
those  two  great  writers  ! — With  the  one,  wo 
seem  to  share  a  guy  and  gorgeous  banquet — 
with  the  other,  a  wild  and  dangerous  intoxi- 
cation. Let  Lord  Byron  bethink  him  of  this 
contrast — and  its  causes  and  effects.  Though 
he  scorns  the  precepts,  and  defies  the  censure 
of  ordinary  men,  he  may  yet  be  moved  by  the 
example  of  his  only  superior ! — In  the  mean 


way,  on  ..the  contrary,  never  to  excite  a  kind 
Q.r,ajiobla  sentiment,  without  making  haste  to 
obliterate  it  by  a  torrent  of  unfeeling  mockery 
or  relentless  abuse,  and  taking  pains  to  show 
how  well  those  passing  fantasies  may  be  re- 
conciled to  a  system  of  resolute  misanthropy. 


•anker  that  stains  the  splendid  flowers  of  his 
poetry — or,  rather,  the  serpent  that  lurks  be-; 
neath  them.  If  it  will  not  listen  to  the  voice ' 
of  the  charmer,  that  brilliant  garden,  g-ay  and; 
glorious  as  it  is,  must  be  deserted,  and  its- 
existence  deplored,  as  a  snare  to  the  unwary; 


(5lngu0t,  1817.) 

Manfred ;  a  Dramatic  Foem.     By  Lord  Byron.     8vo.  pp.  75.     London:  1811. 


This  is  a  very  strange — not  a  very  pleasing 
— ^but  unquestionably  a  very  powerful  and 
most  poetical  production.  The  noble  author, 
we  find,  still  .^e.aJ.swdth  that  dark  and  over- 
awing Spirit,  by  whose  aid  he  has  so  often 
Bubtiaed  the  minds  of  his  readers,  and  in 
whose  might  he  has  wrought  so  many  won- 
ders, fn  Manfred,  we  recognise  at  once  the 
gloom  and  potency  of  that  soul  which  burned 
aiTd'lDrasted  arid  fed  upon  itself  in  Harold,  and 
Conrad,  and  Lara — and  which  comes  ag-ain  in 
this  piece,  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger — 
more  proud,  perhaps,  and  more  awful  than 
ever — but  with  the  fiercer  traits  of  its  misan- 
thropy subdued,  as  it  were,  and  quenched  in 
the  gloom  of.  a  deeper  despondency.  Man- 
fred does  not,  like  Conrad  and  Lara,  wreak 
the  anguish  of  his  burning  heart  in  the  dan- 
gers and  daring  of  desperate  and  predatory 
war — nor  seek  to  drown  bitter  thoughts  in  the 
tumult  of  perpetual  contention — nor  yet,  like 
Harold,  does  he  sweep  over  the  peopled  scenes 
of  the  earth  with  high  disdain  and  aversion, 
and  make  his  survey  of  the  business  and 
pleasures  and  studies  of  man  an  occasion  for 
taunts  and  sarcasms,  and  the  food  of  an  im- 
measurable spleen.  He  is  fixed  by  the  genius 
of  the  poet  in  the  majestic  solitudes  of  the 
central  Alps — where,  from  his  youth  up,  he 
has  lived  in  proud  but  calm  seclusion  from 
the  ways  of  men:  conversing  only  with  the 
magnificent  forms  and  aspects  of  nature  by 
which  he  is  surrounded,  and  with  the  Spirits 
of  the  Elements  over  whom  he  has  acquired 
dominion,  by  the  secret  and  ufihallowed  stu- 
dies of  Sorcery  and  Magic.  He  is  averse 
indeed  from  mankind,  and  scorns  the  low  and 
frivolous  nature  to  which  he  belongs ;  but  he 
cherishes  no  animosity  or  hostility  to  that 
feeble  race.  Their  concerns  excite  no  inter- 
est— their  pursuits  no  sympathy — their  joys 
no  envy.  It  is  irksome  and  vexatious  for  him 
W9  be  crossed  by  them  in  his  melancholy  mus- 


ings,— but  he  treats  them  with  gentleness  and  ! 
pity-  and,  except  when  stung  to  impatience/ 
by  too  importunate  an  intrusion,  is  kind  and/' 
considerate  of  the  comforts  of  all  around  him  J 
This  piece  is  properly  entitled  a  Dramatic 
Poem — for  it  is  merely  poetical,  and  is  not  at 
all  a  drama  or  play  in  the  modern  acceptation 
of  the  term.     It  has  no  action  ;  no  plot — and] 
no  characters;   Manfred  merely  muses  and,' 
suffers  from  the  beginning  to  the  end.     His 
distresses  are  the  same  at  the  opening  of  the 
scene  and  at  its  closing — and  the  temper  in 
which  they  are  borne  is  the  same.    A  hunter' 
and  a  priest,  and  some  domestics,  are  indeed 
introducea  ]  but  they  have  no  connection  with 
the  passions  or  sufferings  on  which  the  inter- 
est depends  ]  and  Manfred   is  substantially 
alone  throughout  the  whole  piece.     He  holds 
no  communion  but  with  the  memory  of  the 
Being  he  had  loved    and  the  immortal  Spirits 
whom  he  evokes  to  leproachwith  his  misery, 
and  their  inability  to  relieve  it.     These  un-f 
earthly  beings  approach  nearer  to  the  charac-l 
ter  of  persons  of  the  drama — but  still  they) 
are  but  choral  accompaniments  to  the  per-/ 
formance ;  and  Manfred  is,  in  reality,  the  onlyj 
actor  and  sufferer  on  the  scene.   To  delineatej 
his  character  indeed — to  render  conceivable! 
his  feelings — is  plainly  the  whole  scope  ancj 
design  of  the  poem ;  and  the  conception  and 
execution  are,  in  this  respect,  equally  admir| 
able.     It  is  a  grand  and  terrific  vision  of  a! 
being  Invested  with  superhuman  attributes, \ 
in  order  that  he  may  be  capable  of  more  than 
human  suff'erings,  and  be  sustained  under 
them  by  more  than  hurhan  force  and  pride. 
To  object  to  the  improbability  of  the  fiction  ] 
is,  we  think,  to  mistake  the  end  and  aim  of  \ 
the  author.     Probabilities,  we  apprehend,  did  : 
not  enter  at   all  into   his  consideration — his  ' 
object  was,  to  produce  effect — to  exalt  and  \ 
dilate  the  character  through  whom  he  was  to  [ 
interest  or  appal  us — and  to  raise  our  concep- 


LORD  BYRON'S  MANFREb. 


39) 


tion  of  It,  by  all  the  helps  that  could  be  derived 
from  the  majesty  of  nature,  or  the  dread  of 
8?iperstitioii.  It  is  enough,  therefore,  if  the 
situation  in  which  he  has  placed  him  is  con- 
ceivable— and  if  the  supposition  of  its  reality 
enhances  our  emotions  and  kindles  our  im- 
agination ; — for  it  is  Manfred  only  that  we  are 
required  to  fear,  to  pity,  or  admire.  If  w^e 
can  once  conceive  of  him  as  a  real  existence, 
and  enter  into  the  depth  and  the  height  of  his 
pride  and  his  sorrows,  we  may  deal  as  we 
please  -'vith  the  means  that  have  been  used  to 
furnish  us  with  this  impression,  or  to  enable' 
us  to  attain  to  this  conception.  We  may  re- 
gard them  but  as  types,  or  metaphors,  or  alle- 
gories :  But  he  is  the  thing  to  be  expressed ; 
and  the  feeling  and  the  intellect,  of  which  all 
these  are  but  shadows. 

The  events,  such  as  they  are,  upon  which 
the  piece  may  be  said  to  turn,  have  all  taken 
place  long  before  its  opening,  and  are  but 
dimly  shadowed  out  in  the  casual  communica- 
tions of  the  agonising  being  to  whom  they 
relate.  Nobly  born  and  trained  in  the  castle 
of  his  ancestors,  he  had  very  soon  sequestered 
himself  from  the  society  of  men ;  and,  after 
running  through  the  common  circle  of  human 
sciences,  had  dedicated  himself  to  the  worship 
of  the  wild  magnificence  of  nature,  and  to 
those  forbidden  studies  by  which  he  had 
learned  to  command  its  presiding  powers. — 
One  companion,  however,  he  had,  in  all  his 
tasks  and  enjoyments — a  female  of  kindred 
genius,  taste,  and  capacity — lovely  too  beyond 
all  loveliness ;  but,  as  we  gather,  too  nearly 
related  to  be  lawfully  beloved.  The  catas- 
trophe of  their  unhappy  passion  is  insinuated 
in  the  darkest  and  most  ambiguous  terms — 
all  that  we  make  out  is,  that  she  died  un- 
timely and  by  violence,  on  account  of  this 
fatal  attachment — though  not  by  the  act  of 
its  object.  He  killed  her,  he  says,  not  with 
his  hand — but  his  heart;  and  her  blood  was 
shed,  though  not  by  him  !  From  that  hour, 
life  is  a  burden  to  Him,  and  memory  a  torture 
— and  the  extent  of  his  power  and  knowledge 
serves  only  to  show  him  the  hopelessness  and 
endlessness  of  his  misery. 

The  piece  opens  with'his  evocation  of  the 


Spirits  of  the  Elements,  from  whom  he  de- 
mand a  the  boon  of  forgetfulness — and  ques- 
ticr.s  them  as  to  his  own  immortality.  The 
Bcey.3  is  in  his  Gothic  tower  at  midnight — and 
opens  with  a  soliloquy  that  reveals  at  once 
the  state  of  the  speaker,  and  the  genius  of 
the  author. 

"  The  lamp  must  be  replenish'd — but  even  then 
It  will  not  burn  so  long  as  I  must  watch  ! 
Philosophy  and  science,  and  the  springs 
0(  wonder,  and  the  wisdom  of  the  world, 
I  have  essayed,  and  in  my  mind  there  is 
A  power  to  make  these  subject  to  itself — 
But  they  avail  not:  I  have  done  men  good. 
And  I  have  met  with  good  even  among  men — 
But  this  avail'd  not :  I  have  had  my  foes, 
And  none  have  baffled,  many  fallen  before  me — 
But  this  avail'd  not : — Good,  or  evil,  life. 
Powers,  passions,  all  I  see  in  other  beings, 
Have  been  to  me  as  rain  unto  the  sands, 
Since  that  all-nameless  hour  !     I  have  no  dread, 
And  feel  the  curse  to  have  no  natural  fear, 


Nor  flattering  throb,  that  beats    V\ith  hoi,oj  ol 

wishes, 
Or  lurking  love  of  something  on  the  earth. — 
Now  to  my  task." — pp.  7,  8. 

When  his  evocation  is  completed,  a  star  ii 
seen  at  the  far  end  of  a  gallery,  and  celestial 
voices  are  heard  reciting  a  great  deal  of  poet/y. 
After  they  have  answered  that  the  gift  of 
oblivion  is  not  at  their  disposal,  and  intimated 
that  death  itself  could  not  bestow  it  on  him, 
they  ask  if  he  has  any  further  demand  to 
/nake  of  them.     He  answers, 

"No,  none:   yet  stay! — one  moment,  ere  we 
I  would  behold  ye  face  to  face.     I  hear        [part— 
Your  voices,  sweet  and  melancholy  sounds 
As  music  on  the  waters  ;  and  I  see 
The  steady  aspect  of  a  clear  large  star  ; 
But  nothing  more.     Approach  me  as  ye  are. 
Or  one,  or  all,  in  your  accustom'd  forms. 

Spirit.  We  have  no  forms  beyond  the  elements 
Of  which  we  are  the  mind  and  principle  : 
But  choose  a  form — in  that  we  will  appear. 

Man.  I  have  no  choice  ;  there  is  no  form  on  earth 
Hideous  or  beautiful  to  me.     Let  him 
Who  is  most  powerful  of  ye,  take  such  aspect 
As  unto  him  may  seem  most  fitting. — Come  3 

Seventh  Spirit.      (Appearing  in  the  shape  of  a 
beautiful  female  Jigure.)     Behold  ! 

31.  Oh  God  !  if  it  be  thus,  and  thou 
Art  not  a  madness  and  a  mockery, 
I  yet  might  be  most  happy. — I  will  clasp  thee. 
And  we  again  will  be —  [The  Jigure  vanishes. 

My  heart  is  crush' d  ! 
[Manfued /aZZs  senseless.'' — pp.  15,  16. 


The  first  scene  of  this  extraordinary  per- 
formance ends  with  a  long  poetical  incanta- 
tion, sung  by  the  invisible  spirits  over  the 
senseless  victim  before  them.  The  second 
shows  him  in  the  bright  sunshine  of  morning, 
on  the  top  of  the  Jungfrau  mountain,  medi- 
tating self-destruction — and  uttering  forth  in 
solitude  as  usual  the  voice  of  his  habitual 
despair,  and  those  intermingled  feelings  of 
love  and  admiration  for  the  grand  and  beauti- 
ful objects  w^ith  which  he  is  environed,  that 
unconsciously  win  him  back  to  a  certain 
kindly  sympathy  with  human  enjojuients. 

"  Man.  The  spirits  I  have  raised  abandon  me— 
The  spells  which  I  have  studied  baffle  me — 
The  remedy  I  reck'd  of  tortured  me  ; 
I  lean  no  more  on  suf)erhuman  aid  : 
It  hath  no  power  upon  the  past,  and  for 
The  future,  till  the  past  be  gulf 'd  in  darkness, 
It  is  not  of  my  search. — My  mother  Earth  ! 
And  thou  fresh  breaking  Day,  and  you,  ye  Moun 
Why  are  ye  beautiful  ?     I  cannot  love  ye.     [tains 
And  thou,  the  bright  eye  of  the  universe, 
That  openest  over  all,  and  unto  all 
Art  a  delight — thou  shin'st  not  on  my  heart. 
And  you,  ye  crags,  upon  whose  extreme  edge 
I  stand,  and  on  the  torrent's  brink  beneath 
Behold  the  tall  pines  dwindled  as  to  shrubs 
In  dizziness  of  distance  ;  when  a  leap, 
A  stir,  a  motion,  even  a  breath,  would  bring 
My  breast  upon  its  rocky  bosom's  bed 
To  rest  for  ever — wherefore  do  I  pause  ? 

Ay, 

Thou  winged  and  cloud-cleaving  minister, 

[An  eagle  passef 
Whose  happy  flight  is  highest  into  heaven, 
Well  may'st  thou  swoop  so  near  me — I  should  be 
Thy  prey,  and  gorge  thine  eaglets  !  thou  art  gon« 
Where  the  eye  cannot  follow  thee  ;  but  thine  eye 
Yet  piercest  downward,  onward,  or  above 
With  a  pervading  vision. — Beautiful ! 
How  beautiful  is  all  this  visible  world ' 


B32 


POETRV. 


How  glorious  in  its  action  and  itself! 

But  we,  who  name  ourselves  its  sovereigns,  we, 

Half  dust,  half  deity,  alike  unfit 

To  sink  or  soar,  with  our  inix'd  essence  make 

A  conflict  of  its  elements,  and  breathe 

The  breath  of  degradation  and  of  pride. 

Contending  with  low  wants  and  lofty  will 

Till  our  mortality  predominates, 

And  men  are— what  they  name  not  to  themselves, 

And  trust  not  to  each  other.     Hark  !  the  note, 

[The  diepherd's  pipe  in  the  distance  is  heard' 
The  natural  music  of  the  mountain  reed — 
For  here  the  patriarchal  days  are  not 
A  pastoral  fable — pipes  in  the  liberal  air, 
Mix'd  with  the  sweet  bells  of  the  sauntering  herd  ; 
My  soul  would  drink  those  echoes ! — Oh,  that  I  were 
";•  he  viewless  spirit  of  a  lovely  sound, 
A  living  voice,  a  breathing  harmony, 
A  bodiless  enjoyment — born  and  dying 
With  the  blest  tone  which  made  me  !" — pp.  20 — 22. 

At  this  period  of  his  soliloquy,  ha  is  de- 
scried by  a  Chamois  hunter,  who  overhears 
its  continuance. 

'To  be  thus— 
Grey-hair'd  with  anguish,  like  these  blasted  pmes, 
Wrecks  of  a  single  winter,  barkless,  branchless, 
A  blighted  trunk  upon  a  cursed  root. 
Which  but  supplies  a  feeling  to  decay — 
And  to  be  thus,  eternally  but  thus, 
Having  been  otherwise ! 

Ye  topling  crags  of  ice! 
Ye  avalanches,  whom  a  breath  draws  down 
In  mountainous  o'erwhelming,  come  and  crush  me! 
I  hear  ye  momently  above,  beneath. 
Crash  with  a  frequent  conflict;  but  ye  pass. 
And  only  fall  on  things  which  still  would  live  ; 
On  the  young  flourishing  forest,  or  the  hut 
And  hamlet  of  the  harmless  vitlaoer. 
The  mists  boil  up  around  the  glaciers  !  clouds 
Rise  curling  fast  beneath  me,  white  and  sulphury, 
Like  foam  from  the  roused  ocean  of  deep  Hell, 
Whose  every  wave  breaks  on  a  living  shore. 
Heaped  with  the  damn'd  like  pebbles — lam  giddy!" 

■      pp.  23,  24. 

Just  as  he  is  about  to  spring  from  the  cliff, 
he  is  seized  by  the  hunter,  who  forces  him 
away  from  the  dangerous  place  in  the  midst 
of  the  rising  tempest.  In  the  second  act,  we 
find  iiim  in  the  cottage  of  this  peasant,  and  in 
a  still  wilder  state  of  disorder.  His  host 
offers  him  wine  ;  but,  upon  looking  at  the  cup, 
he  exclaims — 

"  Away,  away  !  there's  bloodupon  the  brim  ! 
Will  it  then  never — never  sink  in  the  earth  ? 

C.  Hun.    What   dost   thou   mean?   thy   senses 

wander  from  thee. 
Man.  I  say  'tis  blood — my  blood  !  the  pure  warm 
stream 
Which  ran  in  the  veins  of  my  fathers,  and  in  ours 
When  we  were  in  our  youth,  and  had  one  heart, 
And  loved  each  other — as  we  should  not  love  ! — 
And  this  was  shed :  but  still  it  rises  up. 
Colouring  the  clouds  that  shut  me  out  from  heaven, 
Where  thou  art  not — and  I  shall  never  be  ! 

C.  Hun.  IV! tin  of  strange  words,  and  some  half- 
maddening  sin,  &c. 
Man.  Think'st  thou  existence  doth  depena  on 
It  doth  ;  but  actions  are  our  epochs:  mine      [time  t 
Have  made  my  days  and  nights  imperishable. 
Endless,  and  all  alike,  as  sands  on  the  shore, 
Innumerable  atoms  ;  and  one  desert. 
Barren  aiid  cold,  on  which  the  wild  waves  break, 
But  nothing  rests,  save  carcasses  and  wrecks. 
Rocks,  and  the  salt-surf  weeds  of  bitterness. 
C.Hun.  Alas!  he's  mad — but  yet   I   must  not 

leave  him. 
Man.  I  would  I  were — for  then  the  things  I  see 
Would  be  but  a  distempered  dream. 


C.  Hun.  What  is  il 

That  thou  dost  see,  »r  think  thou  look'st  upon? 

Man.  Myself,  and  thee — a  peasant  of  the  Alps 
Thy  humble  virtues,  hospitable  home. 
And  spirit  patient,  pious,  proud  and  free  ; 
Thy  self-respect,  grafted  on  innocent  thoughts  ; 
Thy  days  of  health,  and  nights  of  sleep  ;  thy  toils, 
By  danger  dignified,  yet  guiltless  ;  hopes 
Of  cheerful  old  age  and  a  quiet  grave, 
With  cross  and  garland  over  its  green  turf. 
And  thy  grandchildren's  love  for  epitaph; 
This  do  1  see — and  then  I  look  within — 
It  matters  not — my  soul  was  scorch'd  already  1" 

pp.  27—29. 

The  following  scene  is  one_of  .,th^  most 
poetical  and  most  sweetly  written  in  the 
poem.  There  is  a  still  and  delicious  witchery 
in  the  tranquillity  and  seclusion  of  the  place, 
and  the  celestial  beauty  of  the  Being  who 
reveals  herself  in  the  midst  of  these  visible 
enchantments.  In  a  deep  valley  among  the 
mountains,  Manfred  appears  alone  before  a 
lofty  cataract,  pealing  in  the  quiet  sunshine 
down  the  still  and  everlasting  rocks;  and 
says — 

"  It  is  not  noon — the  sunbow's  rays  still  arch 
The  torrent  with  the  many  hues  of  heaven. 
And  roll  the  sheeted  silver's  waving  column 
O'er  the  crag's  headlong  perpendicular, 
And  fling  its  lines  of  foaming  light  along. 
And  to  and  fro,  like  the  pale  courser's  tail, 
The  Giant  steed,  to  be  bestrode  by  Death, 
As  told  in  the  Apocalypse.     No  eyes 
But  mine  now  drink  this  sight  of  loveliness  ; 
I  should  be  sole  in  this  sweet  solitude, 
And  with  the  Spirit  of  the  place  divide 
The  homage  of  these  waters. — I  will  call  her. 

\He  takes  some  of  the  water  into  the  palm  of  his 
hand,  and  flings  it  in  the  air,  muttering  the  ad- 
juration.  After  a  pause,  the  Witch  of  the 
Alps  rises  henealh  the  arch  of  the  sunbow  of 
the  torrent.] 

Man.  Beautiful  Spirit !  with  thy  hair  of  light, 
And  dazzhng  eyes  of  glory  !  in  whose  form 
The  charms  of  Earth's  least-mortal  daughters  grow 
■^Fo  an  unearthly  stat'jre,  in  an  essence 
Of  purer  elements  ;  while  the  hues  of  youth, — 
Carnation'd  like  a  sleeping  infant's  cheek, 
Rock'd  by  the  beating  of  her  mother's  heart, 
Or  the  rose  tints,  which  summer's  twilight  leaves 
Upon  the  lolty  glacier's  virgin  snow. 
The  blush  of  earth  embracing  with  her  heaven, — 
Tinge  thy  celestial  aspect,  and  make  tame 
The  beauties  of  the  sunbow  which  bends  o'er  thee  ! 
Beautiful  Spirit !  in  thy  calm  clear  brow. 
Wherein  is  glass'd  serenity  of  soul. 
Which  of  itself  shows  immortality, 
I  read  that  thou  wilt  pardon  to  a  Son 
Of  Earth,  whom  the  abstruser  Powers  permit 
At  times  to  commune  with  them — if  that  he 
Avail  him  of  his  spells — to  call  thee  thus. 
And  gaze  on  thee  a  moment. 

Witch.  Son  of  Earth! 

I  know  thee,  and  the  Powers  which  give  thee  power! 
I  know  thee  for  a  man  of  many  thoughts, 
And  deeds  of  good  and  ill.  extreme  in  both, 
Fatal  and  fated  in  thy  suflerings. 
I  have  expected  this — what  wouldst  thou  with  met 

Man.  To  look  upon  thy  beauty ! — nothing  fur- 
ther."—pp.  31,  32. 

There  is  something  exquisitely  beautiful,  to 
our  taste,  in  all  this  passage ;  and  both  the 
apparition  and  the  dialogue  are  so  managed, 
that  the  sense  of  their  improbability  is  swal- 
lowed up  in  that  of  their  beauty ; — and,  with^ 
out  actually  believing  that  such  spirits  exist 
or  communicate  themselves,  we  feel  for  the 
moment  as  if  we  stooa  in  their  presence. 


LORD  BYRON'S  MANFRED. 


m 


What  nllows,  though  extremely  powerful, 
and  more  laboured  in  the  writing,  has  less 
charm  for  us.  He  tells  his  celestial  auditor 
the  brief  story  of  his  misfortune ;  and  when 
he  mentions  the  death  of  the  only  being  he 
nad  ever  loved,  the  beauteous  Spirit  breaks  in 
with  her  superhuman  pride. 

"  And  for  this — 
A  beins:  of  the  race  thou  dost  despise, 
The  order  which  thine  own  would  rise  above, 
Mingling  with  us  and  ours,  thou  dost  forego 
The  eitts  of  our  great  knowledge,  and  shrink' st  back 

To  recreant  mortality Away  !  [hour — 

3Ia7i.  Daughter  of  Air !   I  tell  thee,  since  that 
But  words  are  breath  ! — Look  on  me  in  my  sleep, 
Or  watch  my  watchings — Come  and  sit  by  me  ! 
My  solitude  is  solitude  no  more. 
But  peopled  with  the  Furies  ! — I  have  gnash'd 
My  -eeih  in  darkness  till  returning  morn. 
Then  cursed  myself  till  sunset ; — I  have  pray'd 
For  madness  as  a  blessing — 'tis  denied  me. 
I  have  affronted  Death — but  in  the  war 
Of  elements  the  waters  shrunk  from  me, 
And  fatal  things  pass'd  harmless." — pp.  36,  37. 

The  third  scene  is  the  boldest  in  the  exhi- 
bition of  supernatural  persons.  The  three 
Destinies  and  Nemesis  meet,  at  midnight,  on 
the  top  of  the  Alps,  on  their  way  to  the  hall 
of  Arimanes,  and  sing  strange  ditties  to  the 
moon,  of  their  mischiefs  wrought  among  men. 
Nemesis  being  rather  late,  thus  apologizes  for 
keeping  them  waiting. 

I  was  detain'd  repairing  shattered  thrones. 
Marrying  fools,  restoring  dynasties. 
Avenging  men  upon  their  enemies. 
And  making  them  repent  their  own  revenge  ; 
Goading  the  wise  to  madness  ;  i'rom  the  dull 
Shaping  out  oracles  to  rule  the  world 
Afresh ;  for  they  were  waxing  out  of  date, 
And  mortals  dared  to  ponder  for  themselves, 
To  weigh  kings  in  the  balance,  and  to  speak 
Of  freedom,  the  forbidden  fruit. — Away  ! 
We  have  outstaid  the  hour — mount  we  our  clouds  !" 

p.  44. 

This  we  thnik  is  out  of  place  at  least,  if  we 
must  not  say  out  of  character ;  and  though  the 
:  author  may  tell  us  that  human  calamities  are 
'  naturally  subjects  of  derision  to  the  Ministers 
of  Vengeance,  yet  we  cannot  be  persuaded 
that  satirical  and  political  allusions  are  at  all 
compatible  with  the  feelings  and  impressions 
which  it  M-as  here  his  business  to  maintain. 
When  the  Fatal  Sisters  are  ag-ain  assembled 
before  the  throne  of  Arimanes,  Manfred  sud- 
denly appears  among  them,  and  refuses  the 
prostrations  which  they  require.  The  first 
Destiny  thus  loftily  announces  him. 

"  Prince  of  the  Powers  invisible  !     This  man 

Is  of  no  common  order,  as  his  port 

And  presence  here  denote  ;  his  sufferings 

Have  been  of  an  immortal  nature,  like 

Our  own  ;  his  knowledge  and  his  powers  and  will, 

As  far  as  is  compatible  with  clay, 

Which  clogs  the  etherial  essence,  have  been  such 

As  clay  hath  seldom  borne  ;  his  aspirations 

Have  been  beyond  the  dwellers  of  the  earth. 

And  they  have  only  taught  him  what  we  know — 

That  knowledge  is  not  happiness  ;  and  science 

But  an  exchange  of  ignorance  for  that 

Which  is  another  kina  of  ignorance. 

This  is  not  all ; — the  passions,  attributes       [being, 

Of  earth  and  heaven,  from  which  no  power,  nor 

Nor  breath,  from  the  worm  upwards,  is  exemot. 

Have  pierced  his  heart ;  and  in  their  consequence 


Made  him  a  thing,  which  I,  who  pity  not. 
Yet  pardon  those  who  pity.     He  is  mine, 
And  thine,  it  may  be — be  it  so,  or  not, 
No  other  Spirit  in  this  region  hath 
A  soul  Uke  his — or  power  upon  his  soul." 

pp.  47,  48. 

At  his  desire,  the  ghost  of  his  beloved  As* 
tarte  is  then  called  up,  and  appears — but  re- 
fuses to  speak  at  the  command  of  the  Powers 
who  have  raised  her,  till  Manfred  breaks  out 
into  this  passionate  and  agonising  address. 

"  Hear  me,  hear  me — 
Astarte  !  my  beloved  !  speak  to  me  ! 
I  have  so  much  endured — so  much  endure — 
Look  on  me  !  the  grave  hath  not  changed  thee  mora 
Than  I  am  changed  for  thee.     Thou  lovedst  me 
Too  much,  as  I  loved  thee  :  we  were  not  mads 
To  torture  thus  each  other,  though  it  were 
The  deadliest  sin  to  love  as  we  have  loved. 
Say  that  ihou  loath'st  me  not — that  I  do  bear 
This  punishment  for  both — that  thou  wilt  be 
One  of  the  blessed — and  that  I  shall  die ! 
For  hitherto  all  hateful  things  conspire 
To  bind  me  in  existence — in  a  life 
Which  makes  me  shrink  from  immortality — 
A  future  like  the  past !  I  cannot  rest. 
I  know  not  what  I  ask,  nor  what  I  seek: 
I  feel  but  what  thou  art — and  what  I  am  ; 
And  I  would  hear  yet  once,  before  I  perish, 
The  voice  which  was  my  music. — Speak  to  me ! 
For  I  have  call'd  on  thee  in  the  still  night, 
Startled  the  slumbering  birds  from   the  hush'd 

boughs, 
And  woke  the  mountain  wolves,  and  made  the 
Acquainted  with  thy  vainly  echoed  name,      [cavei 
Which  answered  me — many  things  answered  me— 
Spirits  and  men — but  thou  "wert  silent  still ! 
Yet  speak  to  me !  I  have  outwatch'd  the  stars, 
And  gazed  o'er  heaven  in  vain  in  search  of  thee. 
Speak  to  me  I  I  have  wandered  o'er  the  earth 
And  never  found  thy  likeness. — Speak  to  me ! 
Look  on  the  fiends  around — they  feel  for  me  : 
I  fear  them  not,  and  feel  for  thee  alone. — 
Speak  to  me  !  though  it  be  in  wrath  ; — but  say — 
I  reck  not  what — but  let  me  hear  thee  once — 
This  once  ! — once  more  ! 

Phantom  of  Astarte.  Manfred! 

Ma7i.  Say  on,  say  on— 

I  live  but  in  the  sound — ^it  is  thy  voice  !  [ills. 

Pha7i.  Manfred !  To-morrow  ends  thine  earthly 
Farewell ! 

3Ia?i.        Yet  one  word  more — am  I  forgiven? 

Pha7i.  Farewell ! 

31a7i.  Say,  shall  we  meet  again  ? 

Phan.  Farewell ! 

Man.  One  word  for  mercy!  Say,  thoulovestme! 

Phan.  Manfred! 

[The  Spirit  of  Astarte  disappears. 

Nem.  She's  gone,  and  will  not  be  recalled." 

pp.  50— .52. 

The  last  act,  though  in  many  passages  very 
beautifully  written,  seems  to  us  less  powerful. 
It  passes  altogether  in  Manfred's  castle,  and 
is  chiefly  occupied  in  two  long  conversations 
between  him  and  a  holy  abbot,  who  comes  to 
exhort  and  absolve  him,  and  whose  counsel 
he  repels  with  the  most  reverent  gentleness, 
and  but  few  bursts  of  dignity  and  pride.  The 
following  passages  are  full  of  poetry  and, 
feeling. 

"  Ay — father  !  I  have  had  those  earthly  visions. 

And  noble  aspirations  in  my  youth  ; 

To  make  my  own  the  mind  of  other  men, 

The  enlightener  of  nations  ;  and  to  rise 

T  knev/  not  whither — it  might  be  to  fall ; 

But  fall,  even  as  the  mountain-cataract, 

Which  having  leapt  from  its  more  dazzling  neighl 

Even  in  the  foaming  strength  of  its  abyss, 


334 


POETRY. 


(Which  casts  up  misty  columns  that  become 
Clouds  raining  from  the  re-ascended  skies), 
Lies  low  but  mighty  still. — But  this  is  past ! 
My  thoughts  mistook  themselves. 

Abbott.  And  why  not  live  and  act  with  other  rnen  ? 

Man.  Because  my  nature  was  averse  from  life  ; 
And  yet  not  cruel ;  for  I  would  not  make, 
But  find  a  desolation  : — like  the  wind, 
The  red-hot  breath  of  the  most  lone  Simoom, 
Which  dwells  but  in  the  desert,  and  sweeps  o'er 
The  barren  sands  which  bear  no  shrubs  to  blast, 
And  revels  o'er  their  wild  and  arid  waves, 
And  seeketh  not,  so  that  it  is  not  sought. 
But  being  met  is  deadly  !     Such  hath  been 
The  course  of  my  existence  ;  but  there  came 
Things  in  my  path  which  are  no  more." — 

pp.  59,  60. 

There  is  also  a  fine  address  to  the  setting 
Bun — aud  a  singular  miscellaneous  soliloquy, 
in  which  one  of  the  author's  Roman  recol- 
lections is  brought  in,  we  must  say  somewhat 
unnaturally. 

"  The  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  tops 
Of  the  snow-shining  mountains. — Beautiful ! 
I  linger  yet  with  Nature,  for  the  night 
Hath  been  to  me  a  more  familiar  face 
Than  that  of  man  ;  and  in  her  starry  shade 
Of  dim  and  solitary  loveliness, 
I  learn' d  the  language  of  another  world ! 
I  do  remember  me,  that  in  my  youth. 
When  I  was  wandering — upon  such  a  night 
I  stood  within  the  Colosseum's  wall. 
Midst  the  chief  relics  of  almighty  Rome ; 
The  trees  which  grew  along  the  broken  arches 
Waved  dark  in  the  blue  midnight,  and  the  stars 
Shone  through  the  rents  of  ruin  ;  from  afar 
The  watchdog  bayed  beyond  the  Tiber ;  and 
More  near,  from  out  the  Caesars'  palace  came 
The  owl's  long  crv,  and,  interruptedly, 
Of  distant  sentinels  the  fitful  song 
Begun  and  died  upon  the  gentle  wind. 
Some  cypresses  beyond  the  time-worn  breach 
Appear'd  to  skirt  the  horizon  ;  yet  they  stood 
Within  a  bowshot. — 

And  thou  didst  shine,  thou  rolling  moon  !  upon 
All  this,  and  cast  a  wide  and  tender  light. 
Which  soften' d  down  the  hoar  austerity 
Of  rugged  desolation,  and  fill'd  up. 
As  'twere,  anew,  the  gaps  of  centuries  ; 
Leaving  that  beautiful  which  still  was  so, 
And  making  that  which  was  not,  till  the  place 
Became  religion,  and  the  heart  ran  o'er 
With  silent  worship  of  the  great  of  old!" — 

pp.  68,  69. 

In  his  dying  hour  he  is  beset  with  Demons, 
who  pretend  to  claim  him  as  their  forfeit ; — 
but  he  indignantly  and  victoriously  disputes 
their  claim,  and  asserts  his  freedom  from 
their  thraldom. 

**  Must  crimes  be  punish'd  but  by  other  crimes. 
And  greater  criminals  ? — Back  to  thy  hell ! 
Thou  hast  no  power  upon  me,  that  I  feel ; 
Thou  never  shalt  possess  me,  that  I  know  : 
What  I  have  done  is  done  ;  I  bear  within 
A  torture  which  could  nothing  gain  from  thine  : 
The  mind  which  is  immortal  makes  itself 
Requital  for  its  good  or  ill — derives 
No  colour  from  the  fleeting  things  without ; 
But  is  absorb'd  in  sufferance  or  in  joy. 
Born  from  the  knowledge  of  its  own  desert. 
Thou  didst  not  tempt  me,  and  thou  couldst  not 

tempt  me : 
I  have  not  been  thy  dupe,  nor  am  thy  prey — 
But  was  my  own  destroyer,  and  will  be 
My  own  hereafter. — Back,  ye  baffled  fiends  ! 
The  hand  of  death  is  on  me — but  not  yours ! 

[The  Demons  disappear.''^ — pp.  74,  75. 

There  are  great  fauUs,  it  must  be  admitted, 


in  this  poem  ; — ^but  it  is  undoubtedly  a  work 

of  genius  and  originality.      Its  worst  fault, 
perhaps,  i«,  that  it  fatigues  and  overawes  us 
by  the  uniformity  of  its  terror  and  solemnity. 
Another  is  the  painful  and  offensive  nature  oCZ. 
the  circumstance  on  which  its  distress  is  ulti- 
mately founded.     It  all  springs  from  the  dis- j 
appointment  or  fatal  issue  of  an  incestuous  [ 
passion;  and  incest,  according  to  our  modern  i 
ideas — for  it  was  otherwise  in  antiquity — is  j 
not  a  thing  to  be  at  all  brought  before  the  \  . 
imagination.     The  lyrical  songs  of  the  Spirits/ 
are  too  long;  and  not  all  excellent.     There 
is  something  of  pedantry  in  them  now  and 
then;   and  even  Manfred  deals  in  classical 
allusions  a  little  too  much.     If  we  were  to' 
consider  it  as  a  proper  drama,  or  even  as  a 
finished  poem,  we  should  be  obliged  to  add, 
that  it  is  far  too  indistinct  and  unsatisfactory. 
But  this  we  take  to  be  according  to  the  design, 
and  conception  of  the  author.     He  contem- 
plated but  a  dim  and  magnificent  sketch  of  a     . 
subject  which  did  not  admit  of  a  more  accu- 
rate drawing,  or  more  brilliant  colouring.     Its 
obscurity  is  a  part  of  its  grandeur ; — and  the 
darkness  that  rests  upon  it,  and  the  smoky 
distance  in  which  it  is  lost,  are  all  devices  to 
increase  its  majesty,  to  stimulate  our  curi- 
osity, and  to  impress  us  with  deeper  awe. 

It  IS  suggested,  in  an  ingenious  paper,  in  a 
late  Nuniber  of  the  Edinburgh  Mag-azine, 
that  the  general  conception  of  this  piece,  and 
much  of  what  is  excellent  in  the  manner  of 
its  execution,  have  been  borrowed  from  "  the 
Tragical  History  of  Dr.  Faustus"  of  Marlowe; 
and  a  variety  of  passages  are  quoted,  which 
the  author  considers  as  similar,  and,  in  many 
respects,  superior  to  others  in  the  poem  before 
us.  We  cannot  agree  in  the  general  terms 
of  this  conclusion ; — but  there  is,  no  doubt,  a 
certain  resemblance,  both  in  some  of  the 
topics  that  are  suggested,  and  in  the  cast  of 
the  diction  in  which  they  are  expressed. 
Thus,  to  induce  Faustus  to  persist  in  his  un- 
lawful studies,  he  is  told  that  the  Spirits  of 
the  Elements  will  serve  him — 

"  Sometimes  like  women,  or  unwedded  maids. 
Shadowing  more  beauty  in  their  ayrie  browes 
Than  have  the  white  breasts  of  the  Queene  o 
Love." 

And  again,  when  the  amorous  sorcerer  com 
mands  Helen  of  Troy  to  be  revived,  as  hii 
paramour,  he  addresses  her,  on  her  first  ap- 
pearance, in  these  rapturous  lines— 

"  Was  this  the  face  that  launcht  a  thousand  ships, 
And  burn'd  the  toplesse  towers  of  Ilium  ? 
Sweet  Helen  !  make  me  immortal  with  a  kiss  ! 
Her  lips  sucke  forth  my  soule  ! — see  where  it  flies! 
Come,  Helen,  come,  give  me  my  soule  againe  ! 
Here  will  I  dwell,  for  heaven  is  in  that  Up, 
And  all  is  dross  that  is  not  Helena. 
O  !  thou  art  fairer  than  the  evening  ayre, 
Clad  in  the  beauty  of  a  thousand  starres  ; 
More  lovely  than  the  monarch  of  the  skyes 
In  wanton  Arethusa's  azure  arms  !" 

The  catastrophe,  too,  is  bewailed  in  verses  of 
great  elegance  and  classical  beauty. 

"  Cut  is  the  branch  that  might  have  growne  full 
And  burned  is  Apollo's  laurel  bough  [straight- 

That  sometime  grew  within  this  learned  man. 


RELIQUES  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


33 


Faustus  is  gone  ? — regard  his  hellish  fall, 
Whose  fiendful  torture  may  exhort  the  wise, 
Only  to  woiide/  at  unlawful  things." 

But  these,   and  many  other  smooth  and 
fanciful  verses  in   this  curious   old   drama, 
brove  nothing,  we  think,  against  the   origi- 
-naHty  of  Manfred ;  for  there  is  nothing  to  be 
found  there  of  the  pride,  the  abstraction,  and 
the  heart-rooted  misery  in  which  that  origi- 
nality consists.     Faustus  is  a  vulgar  sorcerer, 
.'Vlempted  to  sell  his  soul  to  the  Devil  for  the 
/   ordmary  price  of  sensual  pleasure,  and  earthly 
/     power  and  glory— and  who  shrinks  and  shud- 
\     ders  in  agony  when  the  forfeit  comes  to  be 
exacted.     The  style,  too,  of  Marlowe,  though 
elegant  arid  scholarlike,  is  weak  and  childish 
compared  with  the  depth  and  force  of  much 
-    of  what  we  have  quoted  from  Lord  Byron ; 
and  the  disgusting  buffoonery  and  low  farce 
of  which  his  piece  is  principally  made  up. 


place  it  much  more  in  contrast,  than  in  any 
terms  of  comparison,  with  that  df  his  noble 
successor.  In  the  tone  and  pitch  of  the  com- 
position, as  well  as  in  the  character  of  the 
diction  in  the  more  solemn  parts,  the  piece 
before  us  reminds  us  much  more  of  the  Pro- 
metheus of  iEschylus,  than  of  any  more 
modern  performance.  The  tremendous  soli- 
tude of  the  principal  person — the  supernatural 
beings  with  whom  alone  he  holds  communion 
— the  guilt — the  firmness — the  misery — are 
all  points  of  resemblance,  to  which  the 
grandeur  of  the  poetic  imagery  only  gives  a 
more  striking  efiect.  The  chief  differences 
are,  that  the  subject  of  the  Greek  poet  was 
sanctified  ami  exalted  by  the  established  be- 
lief of  his  country ;  and  that  his  terrors  are 
nowhere  tempered  with  the  sweetness  which 
breathes  from  so  many  passages  of  his  Eng- 
lish rival. 


(Santiar^,  1S09.) 

Rehques  of  Robert  Burns,  consisting  chiefly  of  Original  Letters.,  Poems.,  and  Critical  Ohser- 
vations  on  Scottish  Songs.  Collected  and  published  by  R.  H.  Cromek.  8vo.  pp.  460. 
London:  1808. 


Burns  is  certainly  by  far  the  greatest  of  our 
poetical  prodigies — from  Stephen  Duck  down 
to  Thomas  Dermody.  They  are  forgotten 
already j  or  only  remembered  for  derision. 
But  the  name  of  Burns,  if  we  are  not  mis- 
taken, has  not  yet  "gathered  all  its  fame;" 
and  will  endure  long  after  those  circumstan- 
ces are  forgotten  which  contributed  to  its  first 
notoriety.  So  much  indeed  are  we  impressed 
with  a  sense  of  his  merits,  that  we  cannot 
help  thinking  it  a  derogation  from  them  to 
consider  him  as  a  prodigy  at  all ;  and  are  con- 
vinced that  he  will  never  be  rightly  estimated 
as  a  poet,  till  that  vulgar  wonder  be  entirely 
repressed  which  was  raised  on  his  having 
been  a  ploughman.  It  is  true,  no  doubt,  that 
he  was  born  in  an  humble  station ;  and  that 
much  of  his  early  life  was  devoted  to  severe 
labour,  and  to  the  society  of  his  fellow-labour- 
ers. But  he  was  not  himself  either  unedu- 
cated or  illiterate  ',  and  was  placed  in  a  situa- 
tion more  favourable,  perhaps,  to  the  develop- 
ment of  great  poetical  talents,  than  any  other 
which  could  have  been  assigned  him.  He 
was  taught,  at  a  very  early  age,  to  read  and 
write ;  and  soon  after  acquired  a  competent 
knowledge  of  French,  together  with  the  ele- 
ments of  Latin  and  Geometry.  His  taste  for 
reading  was  encouraged  by  his  parents  and 
many  of  his  associates;  and,  before  he  had 
ever  composed  a  single  stanza,  he  was  not 
only  familiar  with  many  prose  writers,  but 
far  more  intimately  acquainted  with  Pope, 
Shakespeare,  and  Thomson,  than  nine  tenths 
of  the  youth  that  now  leave  our  schools  for 
the  university.  Those  authors,  indeed,  with 
*ome  old  collections  of  songs,  and  the  lives  of 
Hannibal  and  of  Sir  William  Wallace,  were 
^8  habitual  study  trom  the  first  days  of  his 


childhood ;  and,  co-operating  with  the  solitude 
of  his  rural  occupations,  were  sufficient  to 
rouse  his  ardent  and  ambitious  mind  to  the 
love  and  the  practice  of  poetry.  He  had  about 
as  much  scholarship,  in  short,  we  imagine,  as 
Shakespeare ;  and  far  better  models  to  form 
his  ear  to  harmony,  and  train  his  fancy  to 
graceful  invention. 

We  ventured,  on  a  former  occasion,  to  say 
something  of  the  effects  of  regular  education, 
and  of  the  general  diffusion  of  literature,  in 
repressing  the  vigour  and  originality  of  all 
kinds  of  rnental  exertion.  That  speculation 
was  perhaps  carried  somewhat  too  far;  but 
if  the  paradox  have  proof  any  where,  it  is  in 
its  application  to  poetry.  Among  well  edu- 
cated people,  the  standard  writers  of  this 
description  are  at  once  so  venerated  and  so 
familiar,  that  it  is  thought  equally  impossible 
to  rival  them,  as  to  write  verses  without  at- 
tempting it.  If  there  be  one  degree  of  fame 
which  excites  emulation,  there  is  another 
which  leads  to  despair :  Nor  can  we  conceive 
any  one  less  likely  to  be  added  to  the  short 
list  of  original  poets,  than  a  young  man  of  fine 
fancy  and  delicate  taste,  who  has  acquired  a 
high  relish  for  poetry,  by  perusing  the  most 
celebrated  writers,  and  conversing  witn  the 
most  intelligent  judges.  The  head  of  such  a 
person  is  filled,  of  course,  with  all  the  splendid 
passages  of  ancient  and  modern  authors,  and 
w4th  the  fine  and  fastidious  remarks  which 
have  been  made  even  on  those  passages. 
When  he  turns  his  eyes,  therefore,  on  liis* 
own  conceptions  or  designs,  they  can  scarce- 
ly fail  to  appear  rude  and  contemptible.  He 
is  perpetually  haunted  and  depressed  by  the 
ideal  presence  of  those  great  masters,  and 
their  exactinsr  critics.    He  is  aware  to  what 


136 


POETRY. 


comparisons  his  productions  wiA  be  subjected 
among  his  own  friends  and  associates;  and 
recollects  the  derision  with  which  so  many 
rash  adventm-ers  have  been  chased  back  to 
their  obscurity.  Thus^  the  merit  of  his  great 
predecessors  chills,  instead  of  encouraging  his 
ardour ;  and  the  illustrious  names  which  have 
already  reached  to  the  summit  of  excellence, 
act  like  the  tall  and  spreading  trees  of  the 
forest,  which  overshadow  and  strangle  the 
saplings  which  may  have  struck  root  in  the 
soil  below — and  afford  efficient  shelter  to 
nothing  but  creepers  and  parasites. 

There  is,  no  doubt,  in  some  few  individuals, 
"that  strong  divinity  of  soul" — that  decided 
and  irresistible  vocation  to  glory,  which,  in 
spite  of  all  these  obstructions,  calls  out,  per- 
haps once  or  twice  in  a  century,  a  bold  and 
:  original  poet  from  the  herd  of  scholars  and 
;  academical  literati.  But  the  natural  tendency 
of  their  studies,  and  by  far  their  most  com- 
mon effect,  is  to  repress  originality,  and  dis- 
courage enterprise ;  and  either  to  change  those 
whom  nature  meant  for  poets,  into  mere  read- 
li  ers  of  poetry,  or  to  bring  them  out  in  the  form 
of  witty  parodists,  or  ingenious  imitators.  In- 
depenclent  of  the  reasons  which  have  been 
already  suggested,  it  wdll  perhaps  be  found, 
too,  that  necessity  is  the  mother  of  invention, 
in  this  as  well  as  in  the  more  vulgar  arts;  or, 
at  least,  that  inventive  genius  will  frequently 
slumber  in  inaction,  w^here  the  preceding  in- 
genuity has  in  part  supplied  the  wants  of  the 
owner.  A  solitary  and  uninstructed  man. 
with  lively  feelings  and  an  inflammable  imagi- 
nation, will  often  be  irresistibly  led  to  exer- 
cise those  gifts,  and  to  occupy  and  relieve  his 
mind  in  poetical  composition :  But  if  his  edu- 
cation, his  reading,  and  his  society  supply 
him  with  an  abundant  store  of  images  and 
emotions,  he  will  probably  think  but  little  of 
those  internal  resources,  and  feed  his  mind 
contentedly  with  what  has  been  provided  by 
the  industry  of  others. 

To  say  nothing,  therefore,  of  the  distractions 
and  the  dissipation  of  mind  that  belong  to  the 
commerce  of  the  world,  nor  of  the  cares  of 
minute  accuracy  and  high  finishing  which  are 
imposed  on  the  professed  scholar,  there  seem 
to  be  deeper  reasons  for  the  separation  of 
originality  and  accomplishment ;  and  for  the 
partiality  which  has  led  poetry  to  choose 
almost  all  her  prime  favourites  among  the  re- 
cluse and  uninstructed.  A  youth  of  quick 
parts,  in  short,  and  creative  fancy — with  just 
so  much  reading  as  to  guide  his  ambition,  and 
roughhew  his  notions  of  excellence — if  his  lot 
be  thrown  in  humble  retirement,  where  he 
has  no  reputation  to  lose,  and  where  he  can 
easily  hope  to  excel  all  that  he  sees  around 
liim,  is  much  more  likely,  we  think,  to  give 
himself  up  to  poetry,  and  to  train  himself  to 
habits  of  invention,  than  if  he  had  been  en- 
cumbered by  the  pretended  helps  of  extended 
study  and  literary  society. 

If  these  observations  should  fail  to  strike 
of  themselves,  they  may  perhaps  derive  ad- 
ditional weight  from  considering  the  very  re- 
markable fact,  that  almost  all  the  great  poets 
•f  every  country  have  appeared  in  an  early , 


stage  of  their  history,  and  in  a  period  com 
paratively  rude  and  unlettered.     Homer  wen 
forth,  like  the  morning  star,  before  the  dawn 
of  literature  in  Greece,  and  almost  all  the 
great  and  sublime  poets  of  modern  Europe 
are  already  between  two  and  three  hundred 
years  old.     Since  that  time,  although  books 
and  readers,  and  opportunities  of  reading,  ai^ 
multiplied  a  thousand  fold,  we  have  improveeA 
chiefly  in  point  and  terseness  of  expression,  \    , 
iri  the  art  of  raillery,  and  in  clearness  and    y 
simplicity  of  thought.     Force,  richness,  and  i/\ 
variety  of  invention,  are  now  at  least  as  rare/ 
as  ever.     But  the  literature  and  refinement  of 
the  age  does  not  exist  at  all  for  a  rustic  and 
illiterate  individual;  and,  consequently,  the 
present  time  is  to  him  what  the  rude  times 
of  old  w^ere  to  the  vigorous  waiters  which 
adorned  them. 

But  though,  for  these  and  for  other  reasons, 
we  can  see  no  propriety  in  regarding  the 
poetry  of  Burns  chiefly  as  the  wonderful  work 
of  a  peasant,  and  thus  admiring  it  much  in 
the  same  w^ay  as  if  it  had  been  written  with  . 
his  toes;  yet  there  are  peculiarities  in  his 
works  which  remind  us  of  the  lowness  of  his 
origin,  and  faults  for  which  the  defects  of  his 
education  afford  an  obvious  cause,  if  not  a 
legitimate  apology.  In  forming  a  correct  es- 
timate of  these  works,  it  is  necessary  to  take 
into  account  those  peculiarities. 

The  first  is,  the  undiciplined  harshness  and 
acrimony  of  his  invective.  The  great  boast 
of  polished  life  is  the  delicacy,  and  even  the 
generosity  of  its  hostility — that  quality  which 
is  still  the  characteristic,  as  it  furnishes  the 
denomination,  of  a  gentleman — that  principle 
M  hich  forbids  us  to  attack  the  defenceless,  to 
strike  the  fallen,  or  to  mangle  the  slain — and 
enjoins  us,  in  forging  the  shafts  of  satire,  to 
increase  the  polish  exactly  as  we  add  to  their 
keenness  or  their  weight.  For  this,  as  well 
as  for  other  things,  we  are  indebted  to  chival- 
ry ;  and  of  this  Burns  had  none.  His  ingeni- 
ous and  amiable  biographer  has  spoken  re- 
peatedly in  praise  of  his  talents  for  satire — 
we  think,  with  a  most  unhappy  partiality. 
His  epigrams  and  lampoons  appear  to  us,  one 
and  all,  unworthy  of  him; — offensive  from 
their  extreme  coarseness  and  violence — and 
contemptible  from  their  want  of  wit  or  bril- 
liancy. They  seem  to  have  been  written,  not 
out  of  playful  malice  or  virtuous  indignation, 
but  out  of  fierce  and  ungovernable  anger.  His 
whole  raillery  consists  in  railing;  and  his 
satirical  vein  displays  itself  chiefly  in  calling 
names  and  in  swearing.  We  say  this  mainly 
with  a  reference  to  his  personalities.  In  many 
of  his  more  general  representations  of  life  and 
manners,  there  is  no  doubt  much  that  may  be 
called  satirical,  mixed  up  with  admirable  hu- 
mour, and  description  of  inimitable  vivacity. 

There  is  a  similar  want  of  polish,  or  at  least 
of  respectfulness,  in  the  general  tone  of  his 
gallantry.  He  has  written  wath  more  passion, 
perhaps,  and  more  variety  of  natural  feeling,  — 
on  the  subject  of  love,  tnan  any  other  poet 
whatever — but  with  a  fervour  that  is  some- 
times indelicate,  and  seldom  accommodated 
to  the   timidity  and   "sweet    austere  com- 


RELIQUES  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


337 


posure"  of  women  of  refinement.  He  has 
expressed  admirably  the  feelings  of  an  en- 
amoured peasant;  who,  however  refined  or 
eloquent  he  may  be,  always  approaches  his 
mistress  on  a  footing  of  equality;  but  has 
never  caught  that  tone  of  chivalrous  gallantry 
which  uniformly  abases  itself  in  the  presence 
of  the  object  of  its  devotion.  Accordingly, 
instead  of  suing  for  a  smile,  or  melting  in  a 
tear,  his  muse  deals  in  nothing  but  locked 
embraces  and  midnight  rencontres ;  and,  even 
in  his  complimentary  effusions  to  ladies  of 
the  highest  rank,  is  for  straining  them  to  the 
bosom  of  her  impetuous  votary.  It  is  easy, 
accordingly,  to  see  from  his  correspondence, 
that  many  of  his  female  patronesses  shrunk 
from  the  vehement  familiarity  of  his  admira- 
tion ;  and  there  are  even  some  traits  in  the 
rolumes  before  us,  from  which  we  can  gather, 
that  he  resented  the  shyness  and  estrange- 
ment to  which  those  feelings  gave  rise,  with 
at  least  as  little  chivalry  as  he  had  shown  in 

A  producing  them. 

f^"  But  the  leading  vice  in  Burns'  character, 
and  the  cardinal  deformity,  indeed,  of  all  his 
productions,  was  his  contempt,  or  affectation 
of  contempt,  for  prudence,  decency,  and  reg- 
ularity; and  his  admiration  of  thoughtless- 
ness, oddity,  and  vehement  sensibility; — his 
belief,  in  short,  in  the  dispensing  power  of 


genius  and  social  feeli 


all  matters  of 


morality  and  common  sense.  This  is  the 
ve^f  slang  of  the  worst  German  plays,  and 
»Jie  lowest  of  our  town-made  novels;  nor  can 
any  thing  be  more  lamentable,  than  that  it 
slicuid  have  found  a  patron  in  such  a  man  as 
Pr-r/iS,  and  communicated  to  many  of  his  pro- 
auctions  a  character  of  immorality,  at  cnce 
contemptible  and  hateful.  It  is  bvit  too  true, 
that  men  of  the  highest  genius  have  frequently 
becii  hurried  by  their  passions  into  a  violation 
of  prudence  and  duty;  and  there  is  some- 
thing generous,  at  least,  in  the  apology  which 
their  admirers  may  make  for  them,  on  the 
•«core  of  their  keener  feelings  and  habitual 
want  of  reflection.  But  this  apology,  which 
is  quite  unsatisfactory  in  the  mouth  of  another, 
r'ccomes  an  insult  and  an  absurdity  whenever 
it  proceeds  from  their  own.  A  man  may  say 
of  his  friend,  that  he  is  a  noble-hearted  fellow 
— too  generous  to  be  just,  and  with  too  much 
.spirit  to  be  always  prudent  and  regular.  But 
he  cannot  be  allowed  to  say  even  this  of  him- 
self; and  still  less  to  represent  himself  as  a 
hairbrained  sentimental  soul,  constantly  car- 
ried away  by  fine  fancies  and  visions  of  love 
and  philanthropy,  and  born  to  confound  and 
/  despise  the  cold-blooded  sons  of  prudence 
and  sobriety.  This  apology,  indeed,  evidently 
destroys  itself:  For  it  shows  that  conduct  to 
be  the  result  of  deliberate  system,  which  it 
affects  at  the  same  time  to  justify  as  the  frait 
of  mere  thoughtlessness  and  casual  impulse. 
Such  protestations,  therefore,  will  always  be 
treated,  as  they  deserve,  not  only  with  con- 
tempt, but  with  incredulity ;  and  their  mag- 
nanimous authors  set  down  as  determined 
profligates,  who  seek  to  disguise  their  selfish- 
ness under  a  name  somewhat  less  revolting. 
That  profligacy  is  almost  always  selfishness, 
22 


and  that  the  excuse  of  impetuous  feeling  can 
hardly  ever  be  justly  pleaded  for  those  who  "V 
neglect  the  ordinary  duties  of  life,  must  be  /^ 
apparent,  we  think,  even  to  the  least  refle-ct- 
ing  of  those  sons  of  fancy  and  song.  It  re- 
quires no  habit  of  deep  thinking,  nor  any  thing 
more,  indeed,  than  the  information  of  an  honest 
heart,  to  perceive  that  it  is  cruel  and  base  to 
spend,  in  vain  superfluities,  that  money  which 
belongs  of  right  to  the  pale  industrious  trades- 
man and  his  famishing  infants ;  or  that  it  is  p 
vile  prostitution  of  language,  to  talk  of  tiial 
man's  generosity  or  goodness  of  heart,  who 
sits  raving  about  friendship  and  philantnropy 
in  a  tavern,  while  his  wife's  heart  is  breaking 
at  her  cheerless  fireside,  and  his  children 
pining  in  solitary  poverty. 

This  pitiful  cant  of  careless  feeling  and 
eccentric  genius,  accordingly,  has  never  found 
much  favour  in  the  eyes  of  English  sense  ana 
morality.  The  most  signal  effect  which  i»  \ 
ever  produced,  was  on  the  muddy  brains  at  / 
some  German  youth,  who  are  said  to  have 
left  college  in  a  body  to  rob  on  the  highway  : 
because  Schiller  had  represented  the  captain 
of  a  gang  as  so  very  noble  a  creature. — But 
in  this  country,  we  believe,  a  predilection  for 
that  honourable  profession  must  have  pre- 
ceded this  admiration  of  the  character.  The 
style  we  have  been  speaking  of,  accordingly, 
is  now  the  heroics  only  of  the  hulks  and  the 
house  of  correction;  and  has  no  chance,  we 
suppose,  of  being  greatly  admired,  except  in 
the  farewell  speech  of  a  young  gentleman 
preparing  for  Botany  Bay. 

It  is  humiliating  to  think  how  deeply  Burns 
has  fallen  into  this  debasing  error.  He  is  per-     , 
petually  making  a  parade  of  his  thoughtless- 
ness,   inflammability,  and   imprudence,  and 
talking  with  much  complacency  and  exulta- 
tion of  the  offence  he  has  occasioned  to  the 
sober  and   correct  part   of  mankind.     Thisi 
odious  slang  infects  almost  all  his  prose,  and ; 
a  very  great  proportion  of  his  poetry;  and  is,  \ 
we  are  persuaded,  the  chief,  if  not  the  only  > 
source  of  the  disgust  with  which,  in  spite  of 
his  genius,  we  know  that  he  is  regarded  by 
many  very  competent  and  liberal  judges.  His 
apology,  too.  we  are  willing  to  believe,  is  to 
be  found  in  tl^e  original  lowness  of  his  situa- 
tion, and  the(sjightness  of  his  acquaintance  I -t^  "^ 
with  the  world.!  With  his  talents  and  powers' 
of  observation,  iie  could  not  have  seen  muck 
of  the  beings  who  echoed  this  raving,  without 
feeling  for"  them  that  distrust  and  contempt 
which  would  have  made  him  blush  to  think 
he  had  ever  stretched  over  them  the  protect- 
ing shield  of  his  genius. 

Akin  to  this  most  lamentable  trait  of  vul- 
garity, and  indeed  in  some  measure  arising 
out  of  it,  is  that  perpetual  boast  of  his  own 
independence,  which  is  obtruded  upon  the 
readers  of  Burns  in  almost  ever}^  page  of  his 
writings.  The  sentiment  itself  is  noble,  and 
it  is  often  finely  expressed ; — ^but  a  gentleman 
would  only  have  expressed  it  when  he  was 
insulted  or  provoked ;  and  would  never  have 
made  it  a  spontaneous  theme  to  those  friend* 
in  whose  estimation  he  felt  that  his  honour 
stood  clear.     It  is  mixed  up,  too,  in  Burns 


338 


POETRV. 


with  too  fierce  a  tone  of  defiance ;  and  indi- 
cates rather  the  pride  of  a  sturdy  peasant, 
than  the  calm  and  natural  elevation  of  a 
generous  mind. 

The  last  of  the  symptoms  of  rusticity  which 
we  think  it  necessary  to  notice  in  the  works 
of  this  extraordinary  man,  is  that  frequent 
mistake  of  mere  exaggeration  and  violence, 
for  force  and  sublimity,  which  has  defaced 
so  much  of  his  prose  composition,  and  given 
an  air  of  heaviness  and  labour  to  a  good  deal 
of  his  serious  poetry.  The  truth  is,  that  his 
forte  was  in  humour  and  in  pathos — or  rather 
in  tenderness  of  feehcg ;  and  that  he  has  very 
seldom  succeeded,  either  where  mere  wit 
and  sprightliness,  or  where  great  energy  and 
weight  of  sentiment  were  requisite.  He  had 
evidently  a  very'  false  and  crude  notion  of 
what  constituted  strength  of  writing ;  and  in- 
stead of  that  (simple  and  brief  directness 
which  stamps,  the  character  of  vigour  upon 
every  syllable,)  has  generally  had  recourse  to 
a  mere  accumtilation  of  hyperbolical  expres- 
sions, which  encumber  the  diction  instead  of 
exalting  it,  and  show  the  determination  to  be 
impressive,  without  the  power  of  executing 
it.  This  error  also  we  are  inclined  to  ascribe 
entirely  to  the  defects  of  his  education.  The 
value  of  simplicity  in  the  expression  of  pas- 
sion, is  a  lesson,  we  believe,  of  nature  and  of 
genius  j — but  its  importance  in  mere  grave 
and  impressive  writing,  is  one  of  the  latest 
discoveries  of  rhetorical  experience. 

With  the  allowances  and  exceptions  we 
have  now  stated,  we  think  Burns  entitled  to 
the  rank  of  a  great  and  original  genius.  He 
has  in  all  his  compositions  great  force  of  con- 
ception ;  and  great  spirit  and  animation  in  its 
expression.  He  has  taken  a  large  range 
through  the  region  of  Fancy,  and  naturalized 
himself  in  almost  all  her  climates.  He  has 
great  humour — great  powers  of  description — 
great  pathos — and  great  discrimination  of 
character.  Almost  every  thing  that  he  says 
has  spirit  and  originality  ]  and  every  thing  that 
he  says  well,  is  characterized  by  a  charming 
facility,  which  gives  a  grace  even  to  occa- 
sional rudeness,  and  communicates  to  the 
reader  a  delightful  sympathy  with  the  sponta- 
neous soaring  and  conscious  inspiration  of  the 
poet.  J 

Cetisidering  the  reception  which  these 
works  have  met  with  from  the  public,  and  the 
long  period  during  which  the  greater  part  of 
them  have  been  in  their  possession,  it  may 
appear  superflous  to  say  any  thing  as  to  their 
characteristic  or  peculiar  merit.  Though  the 
■  ultimate  judgment  of  the  public,  however,  be 
always  sound,  or  at  least  decisive  as  to  its 
general  result,  it  is  not  always  very  apparent 
upon  what  grounds  it  has  proceeded ;  nor  in 
consequence  of  what,  or  in  spite  of  what,  it 
has  been  obtained.  In  Burns'  works  there  is 
much  to  censure,  as  well  as  much  to  praise ; 
and  as  time  has  not  yet*  separated  his  ore  from 
its  dross,  it  may  be  worth  while  to  state,  in  a 
very  general  way,  what  we  presume  to  antici- 
pate as  the  result  of  this  separation.  Without 
pretending  to  enter  at  all  into  the  comparative 
merit  of  particular  passages  we  may  venture 


to  lay  it  djivn  as  our  opinion — that  hispoetit  / 
is  far  superior  to  his  prose  ;  that  his  Scottish  S 
compositions  are  greatly  to  be  preferred  to  his  ] 
English  ones ;  and  that  his  Songs  will  proba-  1 
bly  outlive  all  his  other  productions.  A  very  \ 
few  remarks  on  each  of  these  subjects  wiU  ^ 
comprehend  almost  all  that  we  have  to  say  of 
the  volumes  now  before  us. 

The  prose  works  of  Burns  consist  a. most 
entirely  of  his  letters.  They  bear,  as  well  aa 
his  poetry,  the  seal  and  the  impress  of  his 
genius;  but  they  contain  much  more  bad 
taste,  and  are  written  with  far  more  apparent 
labour.  His  poetry  M^as  almost  all  \vritten 
primarily  from  feeling,  and  only  secondarily 
from  ambition.  His  letters  seem  to  have  been 
nearly  all  composed  as  exercises,  and  for  dis- 
play. There  are  few  of  them  written  with 
simplicity  or  plainness ;  and  though  natural 
enough  as  to  the  sentiment,  they  are  generally 
very  strained  and  elaborate  in  the  expression. 
A  very  great  proportion  of  them,  too,  relate 
neither  to  facts  nor  feelings,  peculiarly  con- 
nected with  the  author  or  his  correspondent — 
but  are  made  up  of  general  declamation, 
moral  reflections,  and  vague  discussions — all 
evidently  composed  for  the  sake  of  effect,  and 
frequently  introduced  with  long  complaints  of 
having  nothing  to  say,  and  of  the  necessity 
and  difficulty  of  letter- writing. 

By  far  the  best  of  those  compositions,  are 
such  as  we  should  consider  as  exceptions  from 
this  general  character — such  as  contain  some 
specific  information  as  to  himself,  or  are  sug- 
gested by  events  or  observations  directly  ap- 
plicable to  his  correspondent.  One  of  the 
best,  perhaps,  is  that  addressed  to  Dr.  Moore, 
containing  an  account  of  his  early  life,  of 
which  Dr.  Currie  has  made  such  a  judicious 
use  in  his  Biography.  It  is  written  with  great 
clearness  and  characteristic  effect,  and  con- 
tains many  touches  of  easy  humour  and  natu- 
ral eloquence.  We  are  struck,  as  we  open 
the  book  accidentally,  with  the  following 
original  application  of  a  classical  image,  by 
this  unlettered  rustic.  Talking  of  the  first 
vague  aspirations  of  his  own  gigantic  mind, 
he  says — we  think  very  finely — "  I  had  felt 
some  early  stirrings  of  ambition;  but  they 
were  the  blind  gropings  of  Homer's  Cyclop 
round  the  walls  of  his  cave  !"  Of  his  other 
letters,  those  addressed  to  Mrs.  Dunlop  are, 
in  our  opinion,  by  far  the  best.  He  appears, 
from  first  to  last,  to  have  stood  somewhat  in 
awe  of  this  excellent  lady ;  and  to  have  been 
no  less  sensible  of  her  sound  judgment  and 
strict  sense  of  propriety,  than  of  her  steady 
and  generous  partiality.  The  following  pas- 
sage we  think  is  striking  and  chaiatteristic: — 

"I  own  myself  so  little  a  Presbyterian,  that  I 
approve  of  set  times  and  seasons  of  more  than  ordi- 
nary acts  of  devotion,  for  breaking  in  on  that  habit- 
uated routine  of  life  and  thought  which  is  so  apt  to 
reduce  our  existence  to  a  kind  of  instinct,  or  even 
sometimes,  and  with  some  minds,  to  a  state  very 
little  superior  to  mere  machinery. 

"  This  day  ;  the  first  Sunday  of  May ;  a  breezy, 
bluc-skyed  noon,  some  time  about  the  beginning, 
and  a  hoary  morniog:  and  calm  sunny  day  about  the 
end  of  autumn  ;—»these,  time  out  of  mind,  have 
been  with  me  a  kind  of  holidpy. 


RELIQUES  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


33» 


•*1  believe  I  owe  this  to  that  glorious  paper  in  the 
Speclitor,  'The  Vision  of  Mirza;'  a  piece  that 
struck  my  young  fancy  before  I  was  capable  of  fix- 
ing  an  idea  to  a  word  of  three  syllables.  '  On  the 
5th  day  of  the  moon,  which,  according  to  the  custom 
of  my  forefathers,  I  always  keep  holy,  after  having 
washed  myself,  and  offered  up  my  morning  devo- 
tions, I  ascended  the  high  hill  of  Bagdat,  in  order  to 
pass  the  rest  of  the  day  in  meditation  and  prayer.' 

"  We  know  nothing,  or  next  to  nothing,  of  the 
substance  or  structure  of  our  souls,  so  cannot  ac- 
count for  those  seeming  caprices  in  them,  that  one 
should  be  particularly  pleased  with  this  thing,  or 
struck  with  that,  which,  on  minds  of  a  different 
cast,  makes  no  extraordinary  impression.  I  have 
some  favourite  flowers  in  spring  ;  among  which  are 
the  mountain-daisy,  the  hare-bell,  the  fox-glove,  the 
wild  brier-rose,  the  budding  birch,  and  the  hoary 
hawthorn,  that  I  view  and  hang  over  with  particular 
delight.  I  never  hear  the  loud,  solitary  whistle  of 
the  curlew  in  a  summer  noon,  or  the  wild  mixing 
cadence  of  a  troop  of  grey  plover  in  an  autumnal 
morning,  without  feeling  an  elevation  of  soul,  like 
the  enthusiasm  of  devotion  or  poetry.  Tell  me,  my 
dear  friend,  to  what  can  this  be  owing  ?  Are  we  a 
piece  of  machinery,  which,  like  the  Eolian  harp, 
passive,  takes  the  impression  of  the  passing  acci- 
dent? Or  do  these  workings  argue  something 
within  us  above  the  trodden  clod?" — Vol.  ii.  pp. 
195—197. 

To  this  we  may  add  the  following  passage, 
as  a  part,  indeed,  of  the  same  picture : — 

"  There  is  scarcely  any  earthly  object  gives  me 
more— I  do  not  know  if  I  should  call  it  pleasure — 
but  something  which  exalts  me,  something  which 
enraptures  me — than  to  walk  in  the  sheltered  side 
of  a  wood,  or  high  plantation,  in  a  cloudy  winter- 
day,  and  hear  the  stormy  wind  howhng  among  the 
trees,  and  raving  over  the  plain  !  It  is  my  best 
season  for  devotion  :  my  mind  is  wrapt  up  in  a  kind 
of  enthusiasm  to  Him,  who,  in  the  pompous  lan- 
guage of  the  Hebrew  bard,  "  walks  on  the  wings 
of  the  wind." — Vol.  ii.  p.  11. 

The  following  is  one  of  the  best  and  most 
striking  of  a  whole  series  of  eloquent  hypo- 
chondriasm. 

"After  six  weeks'  confinement,  I  am  beginning 
to  walk  across  the  room.  They  have  been  six  hor- 
rible weeks ; — anguish  and  low  spirits  made  me 
unfit  to  read,  write,  or  think. 

"  I  have  a  hundred  times  wished  that  one  could 
resign  life  as  an  officer  resigns  a  commission :  for  I 
would  not  take  in  any  poor,  ignorant  wretch,  by 
selling  out.  Lately  I  was  a  sixpenny  private  ;  and, 
God  knows,  a  miserable  soldier  enough :  now  I 
march  to  the  campaign,  a  starving  cadet — a  little 
more  conspicuously  wretched. 

"  I  am  ashamed  of  all  this  ;  for  though  I  do  want 

bravery  for  the  warfare  of  life,  I  could  wish,  like 

some  other  soldiers,  to  have  as  much  fortitude  or 

cunning  as  to  dissemble  or  conceal  my  cowardice." 

Vol.  ii.  pp.  127,  128. 

One  of  the  most  striking  letters  in  the  col- 
lection, and,  to  us,  one  of  the  most  interest- 
ing, is  the  earliest  of  the  whole  series;  being 
addressed  to  his  father  in  1781,  six  or  seven 
years  before  his  name  had  been  heard  of  out 
of  his  own  family.  The  author  was  then  a 
common  fiax-dresser,  and  his  father  a  poor 
peasant; — yet  there  is  not  one  trait  of  vul- 
garity, either  in  the  thought  or  the  expression ; 
but,  on  the  contrary,  a  dignity  and  elevation 
of  sentiment,  which  must  have  been  con- 
sidered as  of  good  omen  in  a  youth  of  much 
aigher  condition.    The  letter  is  as  follows: — 


"  Honoured  Sir, — I  have  purposely  delayed  wri' 
ting,  in  the  hope  that  I  should  have  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you  on  New-year's  Day ;  but  work  cornel 
so  hard  upon  us,  that  I  do  not  choose  to  be  absent 
on  that  account,  as  well  as  for  some  other  fittlo 
reasons,  which  I  shall  tell  you  at  meeting.  My 
health  is  nearly  the  same  sis  when  you  were  here, 
only  my  sleep  is  a  little  sounder,  and,  on  the  whole, 
I  am  rather  better  than  otherwise,  though  I  mend 
by  very  slow  degrees.  The  weakness  of  my  nervea 
has  so  debilitated  my  mind,  that  I  dare  neither  re- 
view past  wants,  nor  look  forward  into  futurity  ;  for 
the  least  anxiety  or  perturbation  in  my  breast  pro- 
duces most  unhappy  effects  on  my  whole  frame. 
Sometimes,  indeed,  when  for  an  hour  or  two  my 
spirits  are  a  little  lightened,  I  glimmer  a  little  into 
futurity ;  but  my  principal,  and  indeed  my  only 
pleasurable  employment,  is  looking  backwards  and 
forwards,  in  a  moral  and  religious  way.  I  am  quite 
transported  at  the  thought,  that  ere  long,  perhaps 
very  soon,  I  shall  bid  an  eternal  adieu  to  all  the 
pains,  and  uneasinesses,  and  disquietudes  of  this 
weary  life ;  for  I  assure  you  I  am  heartily  tired  of 
it ;  and,  if  I  do  not  very  much  deceive  myself,  I 
could  contentedly  and  gladly  resign  it. 

•The  soul,  uneasy,  and  confin'd  at  home 
Rests  and  expatiates  in  a  life  to  come.' 

"It  is  for  this  reason  I  am  more  pleased  with 
the  15th,  16th,  and  17th  verses  of  the  7th  chapter 
of  the  Revelations,  than  with  any  ten  times  aa 
many  verses  in  the  whole  Bible,  and  would  not  ex-' 
change  the  noble  enthusiasm  with  which  they  in- 
spire me  for  all  that  this  word  has  to  offer.  As  for 
this  world,  I  despair  of  ever  making  a  figure  in  it. 
I  am  not  formed  for  the  bustle  of  the  busy,  nor  the 
flutter  of  the  gay.  I  shall  never  again  be  capable 
of  entering  into  such  scenes.  Indeed  I  am  alto- 
gether unconcerned  for  the  thoughts  of  this  life.  I 
foresee  that  poverty  and  obscurity  probably  await 
me;  and  I  am  in  some  measure  prepared,  and 
daily  preparing  to  meet  them.  I  have  but  just  time 
and  paper  to  return  to  you  my  grateful  thanks  for 
the  lessons  of  virtue  and" piety  you  have  given  me  ; 
which  were  too  much  neglected  at  the  time  of 
.giving  them,  but  which,  I  hope,  have  been  remem- 
bered ere  it  is  yet  too  late." — Vol.  i.  pp.  99 — 101. 

Before  proceeding  to  take  any  particular 
notice  of  his  poetical  compositions,  we  must 
take  leave  to  apprise  our  Southern  readers, 
that  all  his  best  pieces  are  written  in  Scotch; 
and  that  it  is  impossible  for  them  to  form  any 
adequate  judgment  of  their  merits,  without  a 
pretty  long  residence  among  those  who  still 
use  that  language.  To  be  able  to  translate 
the  words,  is  but  a  small  part  of  the  know- 
ledge that  is  necessary.     The  whole  genius 

and  idiom  of  the  language  must  be  familiar ;    \ 

and  the  characters,  and  habits,  and  asfeccia-  ! 
tions  of  those  who  speak  it.  We  beg  leave 
too,  in  passing,  to  observe,  that  this  Scotch  is 
not  to  be  considered  as  a  provincial  dialect — 
the  vehicle  only  of  rustic  vulgarity  and  rude 
local  humour.  It  is  the  language  of  a  whole 
country — long  an  independent  kingdom,  and 
still  separate  in  laws,  character,  and  manners. 
It  is  by  no  means  peculiar  to  the  vulgar ;  but 
is  the  common  speech  of  the  whole  nation  in 
early  life — and,  with  many  of  its  most  ex- 
alted and  accomplished  individuals,  through-  • 
out  their  whole  existence ;  and,  though  it  be 
true  that,  in  later  times,  it  has  been,  in  some 
measure,  laid  aside  by  the  more  ambitious 
and  aspiring  of  the  present  generation,  it  is 
still  recollected,  even  by  them,  as  the  familial 
language  of  their  childhood,  and  of  those  who 
were  the  earliest  objects  of  theii  love  and 


> 


S40 


POETRY. 


vensration.  It  is  connected,  in  their  imagi- 
nation, not  only  with  that  olden  time  which 
is  uniformly  conceived  as  more  pure,  lofty 
and  simple  than  the  present,  but  also  with  all 
the  soft  and  bright  colours  of  remembered 
childhood  and  domestic  affection.  All  its 
phrases  conjure  up  images  of  schoolday  inno- 
cence, and  sports,  and  friendships  which  have 
no  pattern  in  succeeding  years.  Add  to  all 
this,  that  it  is  the  language  of  a  great  body 
of  poetry,  with  which  almost  all  Scotchmen 
are  familiar ;  and,  in  particular,  of  a  great 
multitude  of  songs,  written  with  more  tender- 
ness, nature,  and  feeling,  than  any  other  lyric 
.  compositions  that  are  extant — and  we  may 
I  perhaps  be  allowed  to  say,  that  the  Scotch  is, 
in  reality,  a  highly  poetical  language ;  and 
that  it  is  an  ignorant,  as  well  as  an  illiberal 
prejudice,  which  would  seek  to  confound  it 
with  the  barbarous  dialects  of  Yorkshire  or 
Devon.  In  composing  his  Scottish  poems, 
therefore.  Burns  did  not  merely  make  an  in- 
stinctive and  necessary  use  of  the  only  dialect 
he  could  employ.  The  last  letter  which  we 
have  quoted,  proves,  that  before  he  had  penned 
a  single  couplet,  he  could  write  in  the  dialect 
of  England  with  far  greater  purity  and  pro- 
priety than  nine  tenths  of  those  who  are  called 
well  educated  in  that  country.  He  wrote  in 
Scotch,  because  the  writings  which  he  most 
aspired  to  imitate  were  composed  in  that 
language ;  and  it  is  evident,  from  the  varia- 
tions preserved  by  Dr.  Currie,  that  he  took 
much  greater  pains  with  the  beauty  and  purity 
of  his  expressions  in  Scotch  than  in  English ; 
and,  every  one  who  understands  both,  must 
admit,  with  infinitely  better  success. 

But  though  we  have  ventured  to  say  thus 
much  in  praise  of  the  Scottish  poetry  of  Burns, 
we  cannot  presume  to  lay  many  specimens  of 
it  before  our  readers ;  and,  in  the  few  extracts 
we  may  be  tempted  to  make  from  the  volumes 
before  us,  shall  be  guided  more  by  a  desire  to 
exhibit  what  may  be  intelligible  to  all  our 
•eaders,  than  by  a  feeling'  of  what  is  in  itself 
•f  the  highest  excellence. 

We  have  said  that  Bums  is  almost  equally 
distinguished  for  his  tenderness  and  his  hu- 
mour : — we  might  have  added,  for  a  faculty 
of  combining  them  both  in  the  same  subject, 
not  altogether  without  parallel  in  the  older 
poets  and  ballad-makers,  but  altogether  sin- 
gular, we  think,  among  modem  writers.  The 
passages  of  pure  humour  are  entirely  Scot- 
tish— and  untranslateable.  They  consist  in 
the  most  picturesque  representations  of  life 
and  manners,  enlivened,  and  even  exalted  by 
traits  of  exquisite  sagacity,  and  unexpected 
reflection.  (His  tenderness  is  of  two  sorts; 
that  which  is  combined  with  circumstances 
and  characters  of  humble,  and  sometimes  lu- 
dicrous simplicity;  and  that  which  is  pro- 
duced by  gloomy  and  distressful  impressions 
acting  on  a  mind  of  keen  sensibihty.  The 
passages  which  belong  to  the  former  descrip- 
tion are,  we  think,  the  most  exquisite  and 
original,  and,  in  our  estimation,  indicate  the 
greatest  and  most  amiable  turn  of  genius; 
both  as  being  accompanied  by  fine  and  feeling 
pictures  of  humble  life,  and  as  requiring  that 


delicacy,  as  well  as  justness  of  conception,  bj 
which  alone  the  fastidiousness  of  an  ordinary 
reader  can  be  reconciled  to  such  representa- 
tions. The  exquisite  description  of  "The 
Cotter's  Saturday  Night "  affords,  perhaps,  the 
finest  example  of  this  sort  of  pathetic.  Iti 
whole  beauty  cannot,  indeed,  be  discerned 
but  by  those  whom  experience  has  enabled 
to  judge  of  the  admirable  fidelity  and  c-ora- 
pleteness  of  the  picture.  But,  independent 
altogether  of  national  peculiarities,  and  even 
in  spite  of  the  obscurity  of  the  language,  we 
think  it  impossible  to  peruse  the  following 
stanzas  without  feeling  the  force  of  tender- 
ness and  truth : — 

"  November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh ; 
The  shori'ning  winter-day  is  near  a  close; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh ; 

The  black'ning  trains  o'  craws  to  their  repose  : 
The  toil-worn  Cotler  frae  his  labour  goes, 
This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end, 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes, 
Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 
And  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does  hame- 
ward  bend. 

"  At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree ; 
Th'  expectant  wee-things,  toddling,  stacher  thro' 
To  meet  their  Dad,  wi'  flicherin  noise  an'  glee. 
His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinkin  bonnily, 

His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thriftie  wifie's  smile, 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 
Does  a'  his  weary  carking  cares  beguile, 
An'  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labour  an'  his  toil. 

"  Belyve  the  elder  bairns  come  drapping  in, 
At  service  out,  amang  the  farmers  roun' ; 
Some  ca'  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie  rin 

A  canna  errand  to  a  neebor  town  : 
Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman  grown, 
In  youthfu'  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  e'e. 
Comes  hame,  perhaps,  to  shew  a  braw  new  gown, 
Or  deposite  her  sair-won  penny  fee. 
To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 

"  But  hark !  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door ; 
Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same. 
Tells  how  a  neebor  lad  came  o'er  the  moor. 

To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 
The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 

Sparkle  in  Jenny^s  e'e,  and  flush  her  cheek ; 
With  heart-struck  anxious  care, inquires  his  name, 
While  JeJiny  hafflins  is  afraid  to  speak ; 
Weel  pleas'd,  the  mother  hears  itsnae  wild,  worth- 
less rake. 

"  Wi'  kindly  welcome  Jeimy  brings  him  ben  : 
A  srappan  youth ;  he  taks  the  mother's  eye ; 
BJythe  Jenny  sees  the  visit's  no  ill  ta'en  ; 

The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  and  kye. 

The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'erflows  wi'  joy. 

But  blate  and  laithfu',  scarce  can  weel  behave , 

The  mother,  wi'  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy 

What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu'  an'   sae 

grave ;  [the  lave. 

Weel  pleas'd  to  think  her  bairn's  respected  like 

"  The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face. 
They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a  circle  wide ; 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  wi'  patriarchal  grace, 

The  big  ha' -Bible,  ance  his  father's  pride : 
His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside. 

His  lyart  hafliets  wearing  thin  an'  bare  ; 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide. 
He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care  ;     [air. 
And  '  Let  us  worship  God  I'  he  says,  with  solemn 

"They  chaunt  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise  ; 
They   tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest 
aim,"  &.C. 


RELIQUES  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


I«« 


Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev'ral  way  ; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest: 
The  parent  pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 

And  proffer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm  request 
Thai  He  who  stills  the  raven's  clam'rous  nest, 

And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flow'ry  pride, 
Would,  in  the  way  his  wisdom  sees  the  best, 

For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide  ; 
btJt  chiefly,  in  their  liearts.  with  grace  diviiie  pre- 
side." Vol.  iii.  pp.  174—181. 

The  charm  of  the  fine  lines  written  on  turn- 
ing up  a  mouse's  nest  with  a  plough,  will  also 
be  found  to  consist  in  the  simple  tenderness 
of  the  delineation. 

"  Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin  ! 
Its  silly  wa's  the  wins  are  strewin ! 
An'  naething,  now,  to  big  a  new  ane, 
O'  foggage  green  I 
An'  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin, 

Baith  snell  and  keen! 

"  Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  an'  waste, 
An'  weary  winter  comin  fast, 
An'  cozie  here  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell, 
'Till  crash  !  the  cruel  coulter  past 

Out  thro'  thy  cell. 

"  That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble, 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble  ! 
Nowthou's  turned  out,  for  a'  thy  trouble, 

But  house  or  hald, 
To  thole  the  winter's  sleety  dribble, 

An  cranreueh  cauld !" 

Vol.  iii.  pp.  147. 

The  verges  to  a  Mountain  Daisy,  though 
more  elegant  and  picturesque,  seem  to  derive 
their  chief  beauty  from  the  same  tone  of  sen- 
timent. 

"Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped flow'r, 
Thou's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour ; 
For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 

Thy  slender  stem ; 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  pow'r. 

Thou  bonnie  gem ! 

"  Alas !  it's  no  thy  neebor  sweet, 
The  bonnie  Lark,  companion  meet ! 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet ! 

Wi'  spreckl'd  breast. 
When  upward-springing,  blythe  to  greet 
The  purpUng  east. 

"  Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth  ; 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm. 
Scarce  rear'd  above  the  parent  earth, 
Thy  tender  form. 

"  There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad, 
Thy  snawie  bosom  sun-ward  spread, 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise ; 
But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies!" 
Vol.  iii.  pp.  201,  202. 

There  are  many  touches  of  the  same  kind 
in  most  of  the  popular  and  beautiful  poems  in 
this  collection,  especially  in  the  Winter  Night 
— the  address  to  his  old'Mare — the  address  to 
the  Devil,  &c.; — in  all  which,  though  the 
greater  part  of  the  piece  be  merely  ludicrous 
and  picturesque,  there  are  traits  of  a  delicate 
and  tender  feeling,  indicating  that  unaffected 
Boftness  of  heart  which  is  always  so  enchant- 
mg.  In  the  humorous  address  to  the  Devil, 
which  we  have  just  mentioned,  every  Scottish 


reader  must  have  felt  the  effect  of  this  relent- 
ing nature  in  the  following  stanzas : — 

"  Lang  syne,  in  Edeii' s  bonie  yard, 
When  youthfu'  lovers  first  were  pair'd, 
An'  all  the  soul  of  love  they  shar'd. 

The  raptur'd  hour. 
Sweet  on  the  fragrant,  flow'ry  swaird, 

In  shady  bower : 

"  Then  you,  ye  auld,  snic-drawing  dog ! 
Ye  came  to  Paradise  incog, 
An'  gicd  the  infant  warld  a  shog, 
'Maist  ruin'd  a. 

"  But,  fare  you  weel,  auld  Nickie-ben! 
O  wad  ye  tak  a  thought  an'  men' ! 
Ye  aibUns  might — I  dinna  ken^- 

Still  hae  a  stake — 
I'm  wae  to  think  upo'  yon  den, 

Ev'n  for  your  sake  !" 
Vol.  iii.  pp.  74—76. 

The  finest  examples,  however,  of  this  simple 
and  unpretending  tenderness  is  to  be  found  in 
those  songs  which  are  likely  to  transmit  the 
name  of  Burns  to  all  future  generations.  He 
found  this  delightful  trait  in  the  old  Scottish 
ballads  which  he  took  for  his  model,  and  upon 
which  he  has  improved  with  a  felicity  and 
delicacy  of  imitation  altogether  unrivalled  in 
the  history  of  literature.  Sometimes  it  is  the 
brief  and  simple  pathos  of  the  genuine  old 
ballad ;  as, 

"  But  I  look  to  the  West  when  I  lie  down  to  rest. 
That  happy  my  dreams  and  my  slumbers  may  be; 

For  far  in  the  West  lives  he  I  love  best, 
The  lad  that  is  dear  to  my  baby  and  me." 

Or,  as  in  this  other  specimen — 

"  Drumossie  moor,  Drumossie  day ! 
A  waefu'  day  it  was  to  me  ; 
For  there  I  lost  my  father  dear, 
My  father  dear,  and  brethreil  three. 

"  Their  winding  sheet  the  bluidy  clay. 

Their  graves  are  growing  green  to  see ; 
And  by  them  lies  the  dearest  lad 

That  ever  blest  a  woman's  e'e  ! 
Now  wae  to  thee,  thou  cruel  lord, 

A  bluidy  man  I  trow  thou  be  ; 
For  mony  a  heart  thou  hast  made  sair, 
That  ne'er  did  wrong  to  thine  or  thee." 
Vol.  iv.  p.  337. 

Sometimes  it  is  animated  with  airy  narrative, 
and  adorned  with  images  of  the  utmost  ele- 
gance and  beauty.  As  a  specimen  taken  at 
random,  we  insert  the  following  stanzas : — 

"  And  ay  she  wrought  her  mammie's  wark: 
And  ay  she  sang  sae  merrilie  : 
The  blythest  bird  upon  the  bush 
Had  ne'er  a  lighter  heart  than  she. 

''  But  hawks  will  rob  the  tender  joys 
That  bless  the  litde  Intwhite's  nest; 
And  frost  will  blight  the  fairest  flowers, 
And  love  will  break  the  soundest  rest. 

"  Young  Robie  was  the  bra  west  lad, 
The  flower  and  pride  of  a'  the  glen  ; 
And  he  had  owsen,  sheep,  and  kye, 
And  wanton  naigies  nme  or  ten. 

"He  gaed  ^^^'  Jeanie  to  the  Iryste, 

He  danc'd  wi'  Jeanie  on  the  down  ; 
And  lang  ere  witless  Jeanie  wist, 
Her  heart  was  lint,  her  peace  wa«  Btown. 


842 


POETRY. 


"  As  in  the  hosom  o'  the  stream 

The  moon'heam  dwells  at  dewy  e'en; 
So  trembli?ig,  pure,  was  infant  love 
Within  the  breast  o'  honie  Jean  ! 

Vol.  iv.  p.  80. 

Sometimes,  again,  it  is  plaintive  and  mourn- 
ful— ^in  the  same  strain  of  unaffected  sim- 
nlicity. 

"  O  stay,  sweet  warbling  wood-lark,  stay, 
Nor  quit  for  me  the  trembling  spray  ! 
A  hapless  lover  courts  thy  lay. 
Thy  soothing  fond  complaining. 

"Again,  again  that  tender  part 
That  I  may  catch  thy  melting  art ; 
For  surely  that  would  touch  her  heart, 
Wha  kills  me  wi'  disdaining. 

"  Say,  was  thy  Httle  mate  unkind, 
And  heard  thee  as  the  careless  wind  ? 
Oh,  nocht  but  love  and  sorrow  join'd, 
Sic  notes  o'  woe  could  wauken. 

"  Thou  tells  o'  never-ending  care  ; 
O'  speechless  grief,  and  dark  despair; 
For  pity's  sake,  sweet  bird,  nae  mair ! 
Or  my  poor  heart  is  broken  !" 

Vol.  iv.  pp.  226,  227. 

We  add  the  following  from  Mr.  Cromek's 
new  volume ;  as  the  original  form  of  the  very- 
popular  song  given  at  p.  325,  of  Dr.  Currie's 
fourth  volume : — 

"  Ye  flowery  banks  o'  bonie  Doon, 
How  can  ye  blume  sae  fair  ; 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds. 
And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care  ! 

"  Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird 
That  sings  upon  the  bough  ; 
Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days 
When  my  fause  luve  was  true. 

**  Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird 
That  sings  beside  thy  mate  ; 
For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang. 
And  wist  na  o'  my  fate. 

•'  Aft  hae  I  rov'd  Jjy  bonie  Doon, 
To  see  the  woodbine  twine, 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  love. 
And  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 

"  Wi'  hghtsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose 
Frae  aflf  its  thorny  tree. 
And  my  fause  luver  staw  the  rose. 
But  left  the  thorn  wi'  me." 

Vol.  v.  pp.  17,  18. 

Sometimes  the  rich  imagery  of  the^  poet's 
fancy  overshadows  and  almost  overcoiiies  the 
leading  sentiment. 

"  The  merry  ploughboy  cheers  his  team, 
Wi'  joy  the  tentie  seedsman  stalks. 
But  life  to  me's  a  weary  dream, 
A  dream  of  ane  that  never  wauks. 

■  The  wanton  coot  the  water  skims, 
Amang  the  reeds  the  ducklings  cry. 
The  stately  swan  majestic  swims, 
And  every  thing  is  blest  but  I. 

'•*  The  sheep-herd  steeks  his  faulding  slap, 
And  owre  the  moorlands  whistles  shrill ; 
Wi'  wild,  unequal,  wand'ring  step 
I  meet  him  on  the  dewy  hill. 

'*  And  when  the  lark,  'tween  light  and  dark, 
Blythe  waukens  by  the  daisy's  side, 
And  mounts  and  sings  on  flittering  wings, 
A  woe-worn  ghaist  I  hameward  glide." — 
Vol.  iii.  pp.  284,  285. 


The  sensioility  which  is  thus  associated 
with  simple  imagery  and  gentle  melancholy, 
is  to  us  the  most  winning  and  attractive.  But 
Burns  has  also  expressed  it  when  it  is  merely 
the  instrument  of  torture — of  keen  remorse, 
and  tender  and  agonising  regret.  There  are 
some  strong  traits  of  the  former  feeling,  in  the 
poems  entitled  the  Lament,  Despondency,  &c.  j 
when,  looking  back  to  the  times 

"  When  love's  luxurious  pulse  beat  high," 

he  bewails  the  consequences  of  his  own  ir- 
regularities. There  is  something  cumbrous 
and  inflated,  however,  in  the  diction  of  these 
pieces.  We  are  infinitely  more  moved  with 
his  Elegy  upon  Highland  Mary.  Of  this  first 
love  of  the  poet,  we  are  indebted  to  Mr, 
Cromek  for  a  brief,  but  very  striking  account, 
from  the  pen  of  the  poet  himself.  In  a  note 
on  an  early  song  inscribed  to  this  mistress,  he 
had  recorded  in  a  manuscript  book — 

"  My  Highland  lassie  was  a  warm-hearted, 
charming  young  creature  as  ever  blessed  a  man 
with  generous  love.  After  a  pretty  long  tract  of  the 
most  ardent  reciprocal  attachment,  we  met,  by  ap- 
pointment, on  the  second  Sunday  of  May,  in  a  se- 
questered spot  by  the  Banks  of  Ayr,  where  we 
spent  the  day  in  taking  a  farewell  before  she  should 
embark  for  the  West  Highlands,  to  arrange  mattera 
among  her  friends  for  our  projected  change  of  life. 
At  the  close  of  Autumn  following,  she  crossed  the 
sea  to  meet  me  at  Greenock :  where  she  had  scarce 
landed  when  she  was  seized  with  a  malignant  fever, 
which  hurried  my  dear  girl  to  the  grave  in  a  few 
days  ! — before  I  could  even  hear  of  her  illness." 
Vol.  v.  pp.  237,  238. 

Mr.  Cromek  has  added,  in  a  note,  the  fol- 
lowing interesting  particulars ;  though  wdthout 
specifying  the  authority  upon  which  he  details 
them : — 

"  This  adieu  was  performed  with  all  those  simple 
and  striking  ceremonials  which  rustic  sentiment  has 
devised  to  prolong  tender  emotions  and  to  inspire 
awe.  Th«  lovers  stood  on  each  side  of  a  small 
purling  brook  ;  they  laved  their  hands  in  its  limpid 
stream,  and  holding  a  Bible  between  them,  pro- 
nounced their  vows  to  be  faithful  to  each  other. 
They  parted — never  to  meet  again  ! 

"  The  anniversary  of  Mary  CainphelVs  death  (for 
thai  was  her  name)  awakening  in  the  sensitive  mind 
of  Burns  the  most  lively  emotion,  he  rety-ed  from 
his  family,  then  residing  on  the  farm  of  Ellisland, 
and  wandered,  solitary,  on  the  banks  of  the  Nith, 
and  about  the  farm  yard,  '■'.  «he  extremest  agitation 
of  mind,  nearly  the  wlii/Ie  of  the  night :  His  agita- 
tion was  so  great,  that  he  threw  himself  on  the  side 
of  a  corn  stack,  and  there  conceived  his  sublime  and 
tender  elegy — his  address  To  Mary  i?i  Heaven.^' 
Vol.  v.  p.  238. 

The  poem  itself  is  as  follows : — 

"  Thou  lingering  star,  with  less'ningray, 
That  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn, 
Again  thou  usher'st  in  the  day 
My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn  ! 

'*  O  Mary  !  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 
See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 
Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  this  breast? 

"  That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget. 
Can  I  forget  the  hallowed  grove. 
Where  by  tne  winding  Ayr  we  met, 
To  live  one  day  of  parting  love  ! 

"  Eternity  will  not  efface 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past ; 


RELIQUES  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


348 


Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace  ; 
Ah !  little  thought  we  'twas  our  last ! 

'Ayr  gurgling  kiss'd  his  pebbled  shore, 

O'erhung  with  wild  woods,  thickening,  green, 
The  fragrant  birch,  and  hawthorn  hoar, 
Twin'd  amorous  round  the  raptured  scene. 

*  The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  prest, 
The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray, 
Till  loo,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west 
Proclaim'd  the  speed  of  winged  day  ! 

'*  Still  o'er  these  scenes  my  mem'ry  wakes. 
And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care  ; 
Time  but  the  impression  stronger  makes. 
As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 

•*  My  Mary,  dear  departed  shade ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 
See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid? 
Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast?" 
Vol.  i.  pp.  125,  126. 

Of  his  pieces  of  humour,  the  tale  of  Tarn 
o'  Shanter  is  probably  the  best :  though  there 
are  traits  of  infinite  merit  in  Scotch  Drink, 
the  Holy  Fair,  the  Hallow  E'en,  and  several 
of  the  songs ;  in  all  of  which,  it  is  very  re- 
markable, that  he  rises  occasionally  into  a 
strain  of  beautiful  description  or  lofty  senti- 
ment, far  above  the  pitch  of  his  original  con- 
ception. The  poems  of  observation  on  life 
and  characters,  are  the  Twa  Dogs  and  the 
various  Epistles — all  of  which  show  very  ex- 
traordinary sagacity  and  powers  of  expression. 
They  are  written,  however,  in  so  broad  a  dia- 
lect, that  we  dare  not  venture  to  quote  any 
part  of  them.  The  only  pieces  that  can  be 
classed  under  the  head  of  pure  fiction,  are 
the  Two  Bridges  of  Ayr,  and  the  Vision.  In 
the  last,  there  are  some  vigorous  and  striking 
lines.  We  select  the  passage  in  which  the 
Muse  describes  the  early  propensities  of  her 
favourite,  rather  as  being  more  generally  in- 
telligible, than  as  superior  to  the  rest  of  the 
poem. 

"  I  saw  thee  seek  the  sounding  shore, 
Delighted  with  the  dashing  roar; 
Or  when  the  North  his  fleecy  store 

Drove  through  the  sky, 
I  saw  grim  Nature's  visage  hoar 

Struck  thy  young  eye. 

"  Or  when  the  deep-green  mantl'd  earth 
Warm  cherish'd  ev'ry  flow'ret's  birth, 
And  joy  and  music  pouring  forth 

In  ev'ry  grove, 
I  saw  thee  eye  the  gen'ral  mirth 

With  boundless  love. 

"  When  ripen'd  fields,  and  azure  skies, 
Call'd  forth  the  reapers'  rustling  noise, 
I  saw  thee  leave  their  ev'ning  joys. 

And  lonely  stalk, 
To  vent  thy  bosom's  swelling  rise 

In  pensive  walk. 

"  When  youthful  love,  warm,  blushing,  strong. 
Keen-shivering  shot  thy  nerves  along, 
Those  accents  grateful  to  thy  tongue, 
Th'  adored  Name, 
I  taught  tnee  how  to  pour  in  song, 

To  sooth  thy  flame. 

■  I  saw  thy  pulse's  maddening  play, 
Wild  send  thee  Pleasure's  devious  way. 
Misled  by  Fancy's  meteor-ray. 

By  Passion  driven; 
Rut  yet  th»  light  that  led  astray 

Was  light  from  heaven  !" 
Vol.  iii.  pp.  109,  110. 


There  is  another  fragment,  called  also  a 
Vision,  which  belongs  to  a  higher  order  of 
poetry.  If  Burns  had  never  written  any  lhir,g 
•else,  the  power  of  description,  and  the  vigoul 
of  the  whole  composition,  would  have  entitlet^ 
him  to  the  remembrance  of  posterity 

"  The  winds  were  laid,  the  air  was  still, 
The  stars  they  shot  alang  the  sky  ; 
The  fox  was  howling  on  the  hill, 
And  the  distant-echoing  glens  reply. 

"  The  stream  adown  its  hazelly  path. 
Was  rushing  by  the  ruin'd  wa's, 
Hasting  to  join  the  sweeping  Nith, 
Whase  distant  roaring  swells  an'  fa  s. 

"  The  cauld  blue  north  was  streaming  forth 
Her  lights,  wi'  hissing  eerie  din  ; 
Athort  the  hft  diey  start  and  shift, 
Like  fortune's  favours,  tint  as  win ! 

"  By  heedless  chance  I  turn'd  mine  eyes, 
And  by  the  moon-beam,  shook,  to  see 
A  stern  and  stalwart  ghaist  arise, 
Atiir'd  as  minstrels  wont  to  be. 

"  Had  I  a  statue  been  o'  stane, 

His  darin'  look  had  daunted  me  ; 
And  on  his  bonnet  grav'd  was  plain. 
The  sacred  posy — Liberty  I 

"  And  frae  his  harp  sic  strains  did  flow. 

Might  rous'd  the  slumbering  dead  to  hear  • 
But  oh,  it  was  a  tale  of  woe, 
As  ever  met  a  Briton's  ear ! 

"  He  sang  wi'  joy  the  former  day. 

He  weeping  wail'd  his  latter  times- 
But  what  he  said,  it  wasnae  play, 
I  winna  ventur'tin  my  rhymes." 

Vol.  iv.  344— 346. 

Some  verses,  written  for  a  Hermitage,  sound 
like  the   best  parts  of  Grongar  Hill.      The 
reader  may  take  these  few  lines  as  a  speci 
men: — 

"  As  thy  day  grows  warm  and  high. 
Life's  meridian  flaming  nigh, 
Dost  thou  spurn  the  humble  vale  ? 
Life's  proud  summits  wouldst  thou  scale  ? 
Dangers,  eagle-pinion'd,  bold. 
Soar  around  each  cliffy  hold. 
While  cheerful  peace,  with  linnet  song. 
Chants  the  lowly  dells  among." — Vol.  iii.  p.  299. 

There  is  a  little  copy  of  Verses  upon  a  News- 
paper at  p.  355,  of  Dr.  Currie's  fourth  volume, 
written  in  the  same  condensed  style,  and 
only  wanting  translation  into  English  to  be 
worthy  of  Swift. 

The  finest  piece,  of  the  strong  and  nervous 
sort,  however,  is  undoubtedly  the  address  of 
Robert  Bruce  to  his  army  at  Bannockburn, 
beginning,  '•  Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  Bled. 
The  Death  Song,  beginning, 

"  Farewell,  thou  fair  day,  thou  green  earth  and  ye 
skies. 
Now  gay  with  the  bright  setting  sun," 

is  to  us  less  pleasing.  There  are  specimens, 
however,  of  such  vigour  and  emphasis  scat- 
tered through  his  whole  works,  as  are  sure 
to  make  themselves  and  their  author  remem- 
bered ;  for  instance,  that  noble  descnption  oi 
a  dying  soldier. 

"  Nae  cauld,  faint-hearted  doubtings  teaze  him  : 
Death  comes  !  wi'  fearless  eye  he  sees  hirx, 
Wi'  bluidy  hand  a  welcome  gi'es  him  ; 
An'  when  he  fa's. 


344 


POETRY. 


Hi"  latest  draught  o'  breathin  lea'es  him 

In  tiiint  huzzas  1" — Vol.  iii.  p.  27. 

The  whole  song  of  "  For  a'  that,"  is  written 
Willi  extraordinary  spirit.  The  first  stanza 
end8 — 

"  For  rank  is  but  the  guinea  stamp  ; 
The  mail's  the  goud,  for  a'  that." 

— All  the  songs,  indeed,  abound  with  traits  of 
this  kind.   We  select  the  following  at  random : 

"  O  woman,  lovely  woman,  fair  ! 
An  angel  form's  faun  to  thy  share  ; 
'Twad  been  o'er  meikle  to've  gi'en  thee  mair, 
1  mean  an  angel  mind." — Vol.  iv.  p.  330, 

We  dare  not  proceed  further  in  specifying 
the  merits  of  pieces  which  have  been  so  Long 
published.  Before  concluding  upon  this  sub- 
ject, however,  we  must  beg  leave  to  express 
our  dissent  from  the  poet's  amiable  and  judi- 
cious biographer,  in  what  he  says  of  the  gene- 
ral harshness  and  rudeness  of  his  versification. 
Dr.  Currie,  we  are  afraid,  was  scarcely  Scotch- 
man enough  to  comprehend  the  whole  prosody 
\ ,  of  the  verses  to  which  he  alluded.  Most  of 
y  the  Scottish  pieces  are,  in  fact,  much  more 
carefully  versified  than  the  English ;  and  we 
appeal  to  our  Southern  readers,  whether  there 
be  any  want  of  harmony  in  the  following 
stanza : — 

"  Wild  beats  my  heart  to  trace  your  steps, 
Whose  ancestors,  in  days  of  yore, 
Thro'  hostile  ranks  and  ruin'd  gaps, 

Old  Scotia^ s  bluody  lion  bore: 
Even  I  who  sing  in  rustic  lore, 

Haply  my  sires  have  left  their  shed, 
And  fac'd  grim  danger's  loudest  roar, 
Bold-following  where  your  fathers  led  !" 

Vol.  iii.  p.  233. 

The  following  is  not  quite  English ;  but  it 
is  intelligible  to  all  readers  of  English,  and 
may  satisfy  them  that  the  Scottish  song-writer 
was  not  habitually  negligent  of  his  numbers: — 

"  Their  groves  o'  sweet  myrtle  let  foreign  lands 
reckon,  [fume ; 

Where  bright-beaming  summers  exalt  the  per- 
Far  dearer  to  me  yon  lone  glen  o'  green  breckan, 
Wi'  the  burn  steahng  under  the  lang  yellow 
broom. 
Far  dearer  to  me  are  yon  humble  broom  bowers, 
Where  the  blue  bell  and  gowan  lurk  lowly  un- 
seen : 
For  there,  lightly  tripping  amang  the  wild  flowers, 
A-listening  the  Unnet,  aft  wanders  my  Jean. 

"  Tho'  rich  is  the  breeze  in  their  gay  sunny  vallies. 
And  cauld,  Caledonia's  blast  on  the  wave  ; 
Their  sweet-scented  woodlands   that   skirt  the 
proud  palace,  [slave  ! 

What  are  they?     The  haunt  o'  the  tyrant  and 
The  slave's    spicy  forests,    and    gold-bubbling 
fountains, 
The  brave  Caledonian  views  wi'  disdain  ; 
He  wanders  as  free  as  the  winds  of  his  mountains, 
Save   love's   willing  fetters,  the  chains  o'  his 
Jean."— Vol.  iv.  pp.  228,  229. 

If  we  have  been  able  to  inspire  our  readers 
with  any  portion  of  our  own  admiration  for 
this  extraordinary  writer,  they  will  readily 
forgive  us  for  the  irregularity  of  which  we 
have  beer,  gnilty,  in  introducing  so  long  an 
account  of  his  whole  works,  under  colour  of 
the  additional  volume  of  which  we  have  pre- 
fixed the  title  to  this  article.     The  truth  is, 


however,  that  unless  it  be  taken  in  connection 
with  his  other  works,  the  present  volume  has 
little  interest,  and  could  not  be  made  the  sub- 
ject of  any  intelligible  observations.  It  is 
made  up  of  some  additional  letters,  of  mid- 
dling merit — of  complete  copies  of  others, 
of  which  Dr.  Currie  saw  reason  to  publish 
only  extracts — of  a  number  of  remarks,  b} 
Burns,  on  old  Scottish  songs — and,  finally,  of 
a  few  additional  poems  and  songs,  certainly 
not  disgraceful  to  the  author,  but  scarcely 
fitted  to  add  to  his  reputation.  The  world, 
however,  is  indebted,  we  think,  to  Mr. 
Cromek's  industry  for  this  addition  to  so 
popular  an  author; — and  the  friends  of  the 
poet,  we  are  sure,  are  indebted  to  his  good 
taste,  moderation,  and  delicacy,  for  having 
confined  it  to  the  pieces  which  are  now 
printed.  Burns  wrote  many  rash — many 
violent,  and  many  indecent  things;  of  which 
we  have  no  doubt  many  specimens  must 
have  fallen  into  the  hands  of  so  diligent  a 
collector.  He  has,  however,  carefully  sup- 
pressed every  thing  of  this  description  ;  and 
shown  that  tenderness  for  his  author's  mem- 
ory, which  is  the  best  proof  of  the  venera- 
tion with  which  he  regards  his  talents.  We 
shall  now  see  if  there  be  any  thing  in  the 
volume  which  deserves  to  be  particularly 
noticed. 

The  Preface  is  very  amiable,  and  well 
written.  Mr.  Cromek  speaks  with  becoming 
respect  and  affection  of  Dr.  Currie,  the  learned 
biographer  and  first  editor  of  the  poet,  and 
with  great  modesty  of  his  own  qualifications. 

"As  an  apology  (he  says)  for  any  defects  of  my 
own  that  may  appear  in  this  pubhcation,  I  beg  to 
observe  that  I  am  by  profession  an  artist,  and  not  an 
author.  In  the  manner  of  laying  them  before  the 
public,  I  honestly  declare  that  I  have  done  my 
best ;  and  I  trust  I  may  fairly  presume  to  hope, 
that  the  man  who.  has  contribted  to  extend  the 
bounds  of  literature,  by  adding  another  genuine 
volume  to  the  writings  ot"  Robert  Burns,  has  soni« 
claim  on  the  gratitude  of  his  countrymen.  On  this 
occasion,  I  certainly  feel  something  of  that  sublime 
and  heart-swelling  gratification,  which  he  experi- 
ences who  casts  another  stone  on  the  cairn  of  a 
great  and  lamented  chief" — Preface,  pp.  xi.  xii. 

Of  the  Letters,  which  occupy  nearly  half 
the  volume,  we  cannot,  on  the  whole,  express 
any  more  favourable  opinion  than  that  which 
we  have  already  ventured  to  pronounce  on 
the  prose  compositions  of  this  author  in  gen- 
eral. Indeed  they  abound,  rather  more  than 
those  formerly  published,  in  ravings  about  sen- 
sibility and  imprudence — in  common  swear* 
ing,  and  in  professions  of  love  for  whisky. 
By  far  the  best,  are  those  which  are  addressed 
to  Miss  Chalmers ;  and  that  chiefly  because 
they  seem  to  be  written  with  less  effort,  and  at 
the  same  time  with  more  respect  for  his  cor- 
respondent. The  following  was  written  at  a 
most  critical  period  of  his  life ;  and  the  good 
feelings  and  good  sense  which  it  displays, 
only  make  us  regret  more  deeply  that  they 
were  not  attended  with  greater  firmness. 

"  Shortly  after  my  last  return  to  Ayrshire,  1 
married  '  my  Jean.'  This  was  not  in  consequence 
of  the  attachment  of  romance  perhaps  ;  but  I  had  a 
long  and  much  lov'd  fellow-creature's  hanpineas  oj 


RELIQUES  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


345 


misery  in  my  determination,  and  T  durst  not  trifle 
with  so  important  a  deposite.  Nor  have  I  any 
cause  to  repent  it.  If  1  have  not  got  poHte  tattle, 
modish  manners,  and  fashionable  dress,  I  am  not 
sickened  and  disgusted  with  the  multiform  curse 

^  of  boarding-school  affectation  ;  and  I  have  got  the 
handsomest  figure,  the  sweetest  temper,  the  sound- 
est constitution,  and  the  kindest  heart  in  the  county  ! 
Mrs.  Burns  believes,  as  firmly  as  her  creed,  that  I 
am  le plus  bel  esprit,  et  le  plus  honnete  homme  in 
the  universe  ;  although  she  scarcely  ever  in  her  life, 
except  the  Scriptures  of  the  Old  and  New  Testa- 
ment, and  the  Psalms  of  David  in  metre,  spent  five 
minutes  together  on  either  prose  or  verse. — I  must 
except  also  from  this  last,  a  certain  late  publication 
of  Scots  Poems,  which  she  has  perused  very  de- 
voutly, and  all  the  ballads  in  the  country,  as  she  has 
(O  the  partial  lover  !  you  will  cry)  the  finest ' '  wood- 
note  wild  "  I  ever  heard. — I  am  the  more  particular 
in  this  lady's  character,  as  I  know  she  will  henceforth 
have  the  honour  of  a  share  in  your  best  wishes. 
She  is  still  at  Mauchline,  as  I  am  building  my 
house :  for  this  hovel  that  I  shelter  in  while  occa- 
sionally here,  is  pervious  to  every  blast  that  blows, 

,  and  every  shower  that  falls;  and  I  am  only  pre- 
served from  being  chilled  to  death,  by  being  suffo- 
cated with  smoke.  I  do  not  find  my  farm  that 
pennyworth  I  was  taught  to  expect ;  but  I  believe, 
in  time,  it  maybe  a  saving  bargain.  You  will  be 
pleased  to  hear  that  I  have  laid  aside  idle  eclat, 
and  bind  every  day  after  my  reapers. 

"  Ta  save  me  from  that  horrid  situation  of  at  any 
time  going  down,  in  a  losing  bargain  of  a  farm,  to 
misery,  I  have  taken  my  excise  instructions,  and 
have  my  commission  in  my  pocket  for  any  emerg- 
ency of  fortune!  If  I  could  set  all  before  your 
view,  whatever  disrespect  you,  in  common  with  the 
world,  have  for  this  business,  I  know  you  would 
approve  of  my  idea."— Vol.  v.  pp.  74,  75. 

We  may  add  the  following  for  the  sake  of 
connection. 

"I  know  not  how  the  word  exciseman,  or  still 
more  opprobrious,  ganger,  will  sound  in  your  ears. 
I  too  have  seen  the  day  when  my  auditory  nerves 
woiild  have  felt  very  delicately  on  this  subject ;  but 
a  wife  and  children  are  things  which  have  a  won- 
derful power  in  blunting  these  kind  of  sensations. 
Fifty  pounds  a  year  for  life,  and  a  provision  for 
widows  and  orphans,  you  will  allow,  is  no  bad  set- 
tlement for  a  poet.  For  the  ignominy  of  the  pro-  . 
fession,  I  have  the  encouragement  which  I  once 
heard  a  recruiting  serjeant  give  to  a  numerous,  if 
not  a  respectable  audience,  in  the  streets  of  Kilmar- 
nock— '  Gentlemen,  for  your  further  and  better  en- 
couragement, I  can  assure  you  that  our  regiment  is 
the  most  blackguard  corps  under  the  crown,  and 
consequently  with  ns  an  honest  fellow  has  the  surest 
chance  of  preferment.'  " — Vol.  v.  pp.  99,  100. 

It  Avould  have  been  as  well  if  Mr.  Cromek 
had  left  out  the  history  of  Mr.  Hamilton's  dis- 
sensions with  his  parish  minister, — Burns' 
apology  to  a  gentleman  with  whom  he  had  a 
drunken  squabble, — and  the  anecdote  of  his 
being  used  to  ask  for  more  liqiior,  when  visit- 
ing in  the  country,  under  the  pretext  of  forti- 
fying .limself  against  the  terrors  of  a  little 
wood  lie  had  to  pass  through  in  going  home. 
The  most  interesting  passages,  indeed,  in  this 
part  of  the  volume,  are  those  for  which  we  are 
indebted  to  Mr.  Dromek  himself.  He  informs 
us,  for  instance,  in  a  note, 

"  One  of  Burns'  remarks,  when  he  first  came  to 
Edinburgh,  was.  that  between  the  Men  of  rustic 
Hfe,  and  the  polite  world,  he  observed  little  differ- 
ence— that  in  the  former,  though  unpolished  by 
fashion,  and  unenlightened  by  science,  he  had  found 
«uch  obsorvatior  and  much  intelligence ; — but  a 


refined  and  accomplished  Womai.  was  a  being  al 
most  new  to  him,  and  of  which  he  had  ibrmedbut 
a  very  inadequate  idea." — Vol.  v.  pp.  68,  69. 

He  adds  also,  in  another  place,  that  "  the 
poet,  when  questioned  about  his  habits  of 
composition,  replied,— 'All  my  poetry  is  the 
effect  of  easy  composition,  but  of  laborious 
correction.'  "  It  is  pleasing  to  know  those 
things — even  if  they  were  really  as  trifling  as 
to  a  superficial  observer  they  may  probably 
appear.  There  is  a  very  amiable  letter  from 
Mr.  Murdoch,  the  poet's  early  preceptor,  at 
p.  Ill;  and  a  very  splendid  one  from  Mr. 
Bloomfield,  at  p.  135.  As  nothing  is  more 
rare,  among  the  minor  poets,  than  a  candid 
acknowledgment  of  their  own  inferiority,  we 
think  Mr.  Bloomfield  well  entitled  to  have  his 
magnanimity  recorded. 

"  The  illustrious  soul  that  has  left  amongst  us  the 
name  of  Burns,  has  often  been  lowered  down  to  a 
comparison  with  me  ;  but  the  comparison  exists 
more  in  circumstances  than  in  essentials.  That 
man  stood  up  with  the  stamp  of  superior  intellect 
on  his  brow  ;  a  visible  greatness  :  and  great  and 
patriotic  subjects  would  only  have  called  into  action 
the  powers  of  his  mind,  which  lay  inactive  while  he 
played  calmly  and  exquisitely  the  pastoral  pipe. 

"  The  letters  to  which  I  have  alluded  in  my  pre 
face  to  the  '  Rural  Tales,'  were  friendly  warnings, 
pointed  with  immediate  reference  to  the  fate  of 
that  extraordinary  man.  '  Remember  Burns,'  has 
been  the  watchword  of  my  friends.  I  do  remember 
Burns;  but  I  am  not  Burns!  I  have  neither  his 
fire  to  fan,  or  to  quench  ;  nor  his  passions  to  control ! 
Where  then  is  my  merit,  if  I  make  a  peaceful 
voyage  on  a  smooth  sea,  and  with  no  mutiny  on 
board?"— Vol.  v.  pp.  135,  136. 

The  observations  on  Scottish  songs,  which 
fill  nearly  one  hundred  and  fifty  pages,  are, 
on  the  whole,  minute  and  trifling;  though  the 
exquisite  justness  of  the  poet's  taste,  and  his 
fine  relish  of  simplicity  in  this  species  of  com- 
position, is  no  less  remarkable  here  than  in 
his  correspondence  with  Mr.  Thomson.  Of 
all  other  kinds  of  poetry,  he  was  so  indulgent 
a  judge,  that  he  may  almost  be  termed  an  in- 
discriminate admirer.  We  find,  too,  from 
these  observations,  that  several  songs  and 
pieces  of  songs,  which  he  printed  as  g'enuine 
antiques,  were  really  of  his  own  composition. 

The  commonplace  book,  from  which  Dr. 
Currie  had  formerly  selected  all  that  he 
thought  worth  publication,  is  next  given  entire 
by  Mr.  Cromek.  We  were  quite  as  well,  we 
think,  with  the  extracts: — at  all  events,  there 
was  no  need  for  reprinting  what  had  been 
given  by  Dr.  Currie  ;  a  remark  which  is  equally 
applicable  to  the  letters  of  which  we  had  for- 
merly extracts. 

Of  the  additional  poems  which  form  the 
concluding  part  of  the  volume,  we  have  but 
little  to  say.  We  have  little  doubt  of  their  au- 
thenticity;  for,  though  the  editor  has  omitted, 
in  almost  every  instance,  to  specify  the  source 
from  which  they  were  derived,  they  certainly 
bear  the  stamp  of  the  author's  manner  and 
genius.  They  are  not,  however,  of  his  purest 
metal,  nor  marked  with  his  finest  die :  several 
of  them  have  appeared  in  print  already ;  and 
the  songs  are,  as  usual,  the  best.  This  little 
lamentation  of  a  desolate  damsel,  :b  tender 
and  pretty. 


546 


POETllY. 


•'My  father  put  rat  fraehis  door, 

My  friends  they  hae  disown'd  me  a'; 
But  T  hae  ane  will  tak  my  part, 
The  bonnie  lad  that's  far  awa. 

'*  A  pair  o'  gloves  he  gave  to  me. 

And  silken  snoods  he  gave  me  twa ; 
And  I  will  wear  them  for  his  sake, 
The  bonnie  lad  that's  far  awa. 

"  The  weary  winter  soon  will  pass, 

And  spring  will  deed  the  birken-shaw  ; 
And  my  sweet  babie  will  be  born, 
And  he'll  come  hame  that's  far  awa." 

Vol,  V.  pp.  432,  433. 

We  now  reluctantly  dismiss  this  subject. — 
We  scarcely  hoped,  when  we  began  our  critic- 
al labours,  that  an  opportunity  would  ever 
occur  of  speaking  of  Burns  as  we  wished  to 
speak  of  him ',  and  therefore,  we  feel  grate- 
ful to  Mr.  Cromek  for  giving  us  this  opportu- 
nity. As  we  have  no  means  of  knowing, 
with  precision,  to  what  extent  his  writings  are 
known  and  admired  in  the  southern  part  of 
the  kingdom,  we  have  perhaps  fallen  into  the 
error  of  quoting  passages  that  are  familiar  to 
most  of  our  readers,  and  dealing  out  praise 
which  every  one  of  them  had  previously 
awarded.  We  felt  it  impossible,  however,  to 
resist  the  temptation  of  transcribing  a  few  of 
the  passages  which  struck  us  the  most,  on 
turning  over  the  volumes  •  ^and  reckon  with 
confidence  on  the  gratitude  of  those  to  \vhom 
they  are  new, — while  we  are  not  wdthout 
hopes  of  being  forgiven  by  those  who  have 
been  used  to  admire  them. 

We  shall  conclude  with  two  general  re- 
marks— the  one  national,  the  other  critical. — 
The  first  is,  that  it  is  impossible  to  read  the 
productions  of  Burns,  along  with  his  history, 
without  forming  a  higher  idea  of  the  intelli- 
gence, taste,  and  accomplishments  of  our 
peasantry,  than  most  of  those  in  the  higher 
ranks  are  disposed  to  entertain.  Without 
meaning  to  deny  that  he  himself  was  endow- 
ed with  rare  and  extraordinary  gifts  of  genius 
and  fancy,  it  is  evident,  from  the  whole  details 
of  his  history,  as  well  as  from  the  letters  of 
his  brother,  and  the  testimony  of  Mr.  Murdoch 
and  others,  to  the  character  of  his  father,  that 
the  whole  family,  and  many  of  their  asso- 
ciates, who  never  emerged  from  the  native 
obscurity  of  their  condition,  possessed  talents, 
and  taste,  and  intelligence,  which  are  little 
suspected  to  lurk  in  those  humble  retreats. — 
His  epistles  to  brother  poets,  in  the  rank 
of  small  farmers  and  shopkeepers  in  the  ad- 
joining villajres, — the  existence  of  a  book- 
Bociety  and  debating-club  among  persons  of 
that  description,  and  many  other  incidental 
Iraits  in  his  sketches  of  his  youthful  compan- 
ions,— all  contribute  to  show,  that  not  only 
good  sense,  and  enlightened  morality,  but 
literature,  and  talents  for  speculation,  are  far 
more  generally  diffused  in  society  than  is 
oommonly  imagined;  and  that  the  delights 


and  the  benefits  of  those  gener\5us  and  ha 
manising  pursuits,  are  by  no  means  confined 
to  those  whom  leisure  and  affluence  have 
courted  to  their  enjoyment.  That  much  of 
this  is  peculiar  to  Scotland,  and  may  be  pro-  V 
perly  referred  to  our  excellent  institutions  for 
parochial  education,  and  to  the  natural  sobriety 
and  prudence  of  our  nation,  may  certainly  be  | 
allowed :  but  we  have  no  doubt  that  there  is  •  } 
a  good  deal  of  the  same  principle  in  England, 
and  that  the  actual  intelligence  of  the  lower 
orders  will  be  found,  there  also,  very  far  to 
exceed  the  ordinary  estimates  of  their  supe- 
riors. It  is  pleasing  to  know,  that  the  sources 
of  rational  enjoyment  are  so  widely  dissemi- 
nated ;  and  in  a  free  country,  it  is  comfortable 
to  think,  that  so  great  a  proportion  of  the 
people  is  able  to  appreciate  the  advantages 
of  its  condition,  and  fitUo  be  rehed  on,  in  all 
emergencies  where  steadiness  and  intelli- 
gence may  be  required. 

Our  other  remark  is  of  a  more  limited  ap-    * 
plication;   and   is  addressed   chiefly  to   the 
followers  and  patrons  of  that  new  school  of 
poetry,  against  which  we  have  thought  it  our 
duty  to  neglect  no  opportunity  of  testifying. 
Those  gentlemen  are  outrageous  for  simplic-A 
ity ;  and  we  beg  leave  to  recommend  to  thera 
the  simplicity  of  Burns.    He  has  copied  the  i  it/j 
spoken  language  of  passion  and  affection,  withV  ' 
infinitely  more  fidelity  than  they  have  ever  i 
done,  on  all  occasions  which  properly  admitted,/^ 
of  such  adaptation  :    But  he  has  not  rejected  | 
the  helps  of  elevated  language  and  habitual  | 
associations ;  nor  debased  his  composition  by  1 
an  affectation  of  babyish  interjections,  and/ 
all  the  puling  expletives  of  an  old  nursery-/ 
maid's   vocabulary.      They  may  look  long 
enough  among  his  nervous  and  manly  lines, 
before  they  find  any  "Good  lacks  !" — "'Dear 
hearts !" — or  "As  a  body  may  says,"  in  them|; 
or  any  stuff  abeut  dancing  daffodils  and  sister 
Emmelines.     Let  them  think,  with  what  in- 
finite contempt  the  powerful  mind  of  Burns^ 
would  have  perused  the  story  of  Alice  Fell 
and  her  duffle  cloak, — of  Andrew  Jones  and 
the  half-crown, — or  of   Little  Dan  without 
breeches,  and  his  thievish  grandfather.     Let 
them  contrast  their  own  fantastical  personages 
of  hysterical  school-masters  and  sententious 
leechgatherers,  with  the  authentic  rustics  of  | 
Burns's  Cotters'  Saturday  Night,  and  his  in-l 
imitable  songs ;  and  reflect  on  the  different- 
reception  which  those  personifications  have 
met  with  from  the  public.    Though  they  will 
not  be  reclaimed  from  their  puny  affectations 
by  the  example  of  their  learned  predecessors, 
they  may,  perhaps,  submit  to  be  admonished 
by  a  self-taught  and  illiterate  poet,  who  drew 
from  Nature  far  more  directly  than  they  can] 
do,  and  produced  somethhig  so  much  liker 
the  admired  copies  of  the  masters  whom,  they 
have  abjured. 


CAMPBELL'S  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING. 


f« 


^U^ ' 


(:2lpi-U,  1809.) 


Gertrude  of  Wyoming,  a  Pennsylvanian  Tale;  and  other  Poems.  By  Thomas  Campbell,  anthoi 
of  "  The  rleasures  of  Hope,^^  ^-c.      4to.  pp.  136.   London  :  Longman  &  Co. :  1809. 


We  rejoice  once  more  to  see  a  polished  and 
pathetic  poem — in  the  old  style  of  English 
pathos  and  poetry.  This  is  of  the  pitch  of 
the  Castle  of  Indolence,  and  the  finer  parts  of 
Spenser ;  with  more  feeling,  in  many  places, 
than  thes  first,  and  more  condensation  and 
diligent  finishing  than  the  latter.  If  the  true 
tone  of  nature  be  not  everj^vhere  maintained, 
it  gives  place,  at  least,  to  art  only,  and  not  to 
affectation — and,  least  of  all,  to  affectation  of 
singularity  or  rudeness. 

Beautiful  as  the  greater  part  of  this  volume 
is,  the  public  taste,  we  are  afraid,  has  of  late 
been  too  much  accustomed  to  beauties  of  a 
more  obtrusive  and  glaring  kind,  to  be  fully 
sensible  of  its  merit.  Without  supposing  that 
this  taste  has  been  in  any  great  degree  vitiated, 
or  even  imposed  upon,  by  the  babyism  or  the 
antiquarianism  which  have  lately  been  versi- 
fied for  its  improvement,  we  may  be  allowed 
to  suspect,  that  it  has  been  somewhat  dazzled 
by  the  splendour,  and  bustle  and  variety  of 
the  most  popular  of  our  recent  poems ;  and 
that  the  more  modest  colouring  of  truth  and 
nature  may,  at  this  moment,  seem  somfewhat 
cold  and  feeble.  We  have  endeavoured,  on 
former  occasions,  to  do  justice  to  the  force 
and  originality  of  some  of  those  brilliant  pro- 
ductions, as  well  as  to  the  genius  (fitted  for 
much  higher  things)  of  their  autnors — and 
have  little  doubt  of  being  soon  called  upon 
for  a  renew^ed  tribute  of  applause.  But  we 
cannot  help  saying,  in  the  mean  time,  that 
the  work  before  us  belongs  to  a  class  which 
comes  nearer  to  our  conception  of  pure  and 
perfect  poetry.  Such  productions  do  not, 
indeed,  strike  so  strong  a  blow  as  the  vehe- 
ment effusions  of  our  modern  Trouveurs ; 
but  they  are  calculated,  we  think,  to  please 
more  deeply,  and  to  call  out  more  perma- 
nently, those  trains  of  emotion,  in  which  the 
delight  of  poetry  will  probably  be  found  to 
consist.  They  may  not  be  so  loudly  nor  so 
universally  applauded ;  but  their  mme  will 
probably  endure  longer,  and  they  will  be 
oftener  recalled  to  mingle  with  the  reveries 
of  solitary  leisure,  or  the  consolations  of  real 
sorrow. 

There  is  a  sort  of  poetry,  no  doubt,  as  there 
is  a  sort  of  flowers,  which  can  bear  the  broad 
sun  and  the  ruffling  winds  of  the  world, — 
which  thrive  under  the  hands  and  eyes  of  in- 
discriminating  multitudes,  and  please  as  much 
in  hot  and  crowded  saloons,  as  in  their  own 
sheltered -repositories;  but  the  finer  and  the 
purer  sorts  blossom  only  in  the  shade ;  and 
never  give  out  their  sw^eets  but  to  those  who 
seek  them  amid  the  quiet  and  seclusion  of 
the  scenes  which  gave  them  birth.  There 
are  torrents  and  cascades  which  attract  the 


admiration  of  tittering  parties,  and  of  which 
even  the  busy  must  turn  aside  to  catch  a 
transient  glance :  But  "  the  haunted  stream" 
steals  through  a  still  and  a  solitary  landscape ; 
and  its  beauties  are  never  revealed,  but  to 
him  who  strays,  in  calm  contemplation,  by  its 
course,  and  follows  its  wanderings  with  un- 
distracted  and  unimpatient  admiration.  There 
is  a  reason,  too,  for  all  this,  which  may  be 

made  more  plain  than  by  metaphors.  ^ 

The  highest  delight  which  poetry  produces,^^ 
does  not  arise  from  the  mere  passive  percep- 
tion of  the  images  or  sentiments  which  it  pre- 
sents to  the  mind ;  but  from  the  excitement 
Avliich  is  given  to  its  own  internal  activity^^ 
and  the  character  which  is  impressed  on  th^ 
train  of  its  spontaneous  conceptions.  Even 
the  dullest  reader  generally  sees  more  than 
is  directly  presented  to  him  by  the  poet ;  but 
a  lover  of  poetry  always  sees  infinitely  more; 
and  is  often  indebted  to  his  author  for  little 
more  than  an  impulse,  or  the  key-note  of  a 
melody  which  his  fancy  makes  out  for  itselt. 
Thus,  the  effect  of  poetry,  depends  more  on 
the  fruitfulness  of  the  impressions  to  which  it 
gives  rise,  than  on  their  own  individual  force 
or  novelty ;  and  the  writers  who  possess  the 
greatest  powers  of  fascination,  are  not  those 
who  present  us  with  the  greatest  number  of 
lively  images  or  lofty  sentiments,  but  who 
most  successfully  impart  their  own  impulse 
to  the  current  of  our  thoughts  and  feelings, 
and  give  the  colour  of  their  brighter  concep- 
tions to  those  which  they  excite  in  their  ^ 
readers.  Now,  upon  a  little  consideration,  it  -^ 
will  probably  appear,  that  the  dazzling,  and 
the  busy  and  marvellous  scenes  which  con- 
stitute the  whole  charm  of  some  poems,  are 
not  so  w^ell  calculated  to  produce  this  effect, 
as  those  more  intelligible  delineations  which 
are  borrowed  from  ordinary  life,  and  coloured  ; 
from  familiar  affections.  The  object  is,  tol)^(M'*^ 
awaken  in  our  minds  a  train  of  kindred  emo-  * 
tions,  and  to  excite  our  imaginations  to  work 
out  for  themselves  a  tissue  of  pleasing  or  im- 
pressive conceptions.  But  it  seems  obvious, 
that  this  is  more  likely  to  be  accomplished 
by  surrounding  us  gradually  with  those  ob- 
jects, and  involving  us  in  those  situations 
with  which  we  have  long  been  accustomed 
to  associate  the  feelings  of  the  poet, — than  by 
startling  us  with  some  tale  of  wonder,  or  at- 
tempting to  engage  our  affections  for  per- 
sonages, of  whose  character  and  condition 
we  are  unable  to  form  any  distinct  concep- 
tion. These,  indeed,  are  more  sure  than  the 
other  to  produce  a  momentary  sensation,  by 
the  novelty  and  exaggeration  with  which  they 
are  commonly  atie.;  .,  '■•d ,  but  their  power  ie 
spent  at  the  first  impulse  :  they  do  not  strika 


S48 


POETRY. 


root  and  germinate  in  the  mind,  like  the  seeds 
of  its  native  feelings ;  nor  propagate  through- 
•out  the  imagination  that  long  series  of  delight- 

fffxd  movements,  which  is  only  excited  when 

I  the  song  of  the  poet  is  the  echo  of  our  familiar 

*  feelings. 

■  It  appears  to  us,  therefore,  that  by  far  the 
most  powerful  and  enchanting  poetry  is  that 
which  depends  for  its  effect  upon  the  just 
representation  of  common  feelings  and  com- 
mon situations  j  and  not  on  the  strangeness 
of  its  incidents,  or  the  novelty  or  exotic  splen- 
dour of  its  scenes  and  characters.  The  diffi- 
culty is,  no  doubt,  to  give  the  requisite  force, 
elegance  and  dignity  to  these  ordinary  sub- 
jects, and  to  win  a  way  for  them  to  the  heart, 

■.  by  that  true  and  concise  expression  of  natural 
emotion,  which  is  among  the  rarest  gifts  of 
inspiration.  To  accomplish  this,  the  poet 
must  do  much;  and  the  reader  something. 
The  one  must  practise  enchantment,  and  the 
other  submit  to  it.  The  one  must  purify  his 
conceptions  from  all  that  is  low  or  artificial ; 
and  the  other  must  lend  himself  gently  to  the 
impression,  and  refrain  from  disturbing  it  by 
any  movement  of  worldly  vanity,  derision  or 
hard  heartedness.  In  an  advanced  state  of 
society,  the  expression  of  simple  emotion  is 
so  obstructed  by  ceremony,  or  so  distorted  by 
affectation,  that  though  the  sentiment  itself 
be  still  familiar  to  the  greater  part  of  man- 
kind, the  verbal  representation  of  it  is  a  task 
of  the  utmost  difficulty.  One  set  of  writers,  ac- 
cordingly, finding  the  whole  language  of  men 
and  women  too  sophisticated  for  this  purpose, 
have  been  obliged  to  go  to  the  nursery  for 
a  more  suitable  phraseology ;  another  has 
adopted  the  style  of  courtly  Arcadians;  and 
a  third,  that  of  mere  Bedlamites.  So  much 
more  difficult  is  it  to  express  natural  feelings, 
than  to  narrate  battles,  or  describe  prodigies  ! 
But  even  when  the  poet  has  done  his  part, 
there  are  many  causes  which  may  obstruct 
his  immediate  popularity.  In  the  first  place, 
it  requires  a  certain  degree  of  sensibjlity  to 
perceive  his  merit.  There  are  thousands  of 
people  who  can  admire  a  florid  description, 
or  be  amused  with  a  wonderful  story,  to 
whom  a  pathetic  poem  is  quite  unintelligible. 
In  the  second  place,  it  requires  a  certain  de- 
gree of  leisure  and  tranquillity  in  the  reader. 
A  picturesque  stanza  may  be  well  enough 
relished  while  the  reader  is  getting  his  hair 
combed ;  but  a  scene  of  tenderness  or  emo- 
tion will  not  do,  even  for  the  corner  of  a 
crowded  drawing-room.  Finally,  it  requires 
a  certain  degree  of  courage  to  proclaim  the 
merits  of  such  a  writer.  Those  who  feel  the 
most  deeply,  are  most  given  to  disguise  their 
feelings;  and  derision  is  never  so  agonising 
as  when  it  pounces  on  the  wanderings  of 
misguided  sensibility.  Considering  the  habits 
of  the  age  in  which  we  live,  therefore,  and 
the  fashion,  which,  though  not  immutable, 
has  for  some  time  run  steadily  in  an  opposite 
direction,  we  should  not  be  much  surprised 
if  a  poem,  whose  chief  merit  consisted  in  its 
pathos,  and  in  the  softness  and  exquisite  ten- 
derness of  its  representations  of  domestic  life 
wid  romantic  seclusion,   should  meet  with 


A1 


less  encouragement  than  it  deserves.  If  the 
volume  before  us  were  the  work  of  an  un- 
known writer,  indeed,  we  should  feei  no  lit- 
tle apprehension  about  its  success;  but  Mr. 
Campbell's  name  has  power,  we  are  per- 
suaded, to  insure  a  very  partial  and  a^verj 
general  attention  to  whatever  it  accompanies, 
and,  we  would  fain  hope,  influence  enough  to 
reclaim  the  public  taste  to  a  juster  standard 
of  excellence.  The  success  of  his  former 
work,  indeed,  goes  far  to  remove  our  anxiety 
for  the  fortune  of  this.  It  contained,  perhaps, 
more  brilliant  and  bold  passages  than  are  to 
be  found  in  the  poem  before  us :  But  ^t  was 
inferior,  we  think,  in  softness  and  beauty; 
and.  being  necessarily  of  a  more  desultory 
and  didactic  character,  had  far  less  pathos 
and  interest  than  this  very  simple  tale.  Those 
who  admired  the  Pleasures  of  Hope  for  the 
passages  about  Brama  and  Kosciusko,  may 
perhaps  be  somewhat  disappointed  with  the 
gentler  tone  of  Gertrude ;  but  those  who  loved 
that  charming  work  for  its  pictures  of  infancy 
and  of  maternal  and  connubial  love,  may  read 
on  here  with  the  assurance  of  a  still  highei| 
gratification.  i 

The  story  is  of  very  little  consequence  in  a 
poem  of  this  description;  and  it  is  here,  as 
we  have  just  hinted,  extremely  short  and 
simple.  Albert,  an  English  gentleman  of 
high  character  and  accomplishment,  had  emi- 
grated to  Pennsylvania  about  the  year  1740, 
and  occupied  himself,  after  his  wife's  death, 
in  doing  good  to  his  neighbours,  and  in  edu- 
cating his  infant  and  only  child,  Gertrude. 
He  had  fixed  himself  in  the  pleasant  township 
ofWyoming,on  the  banks  of  the  Susquehanna; 
a  situation  which  at  that  time  might  have 
passed  for  an  earthly  paradise,  with  very  little 
aid  from  poetical  embellishment.  The  beauty 
and  fertility  of  the  country, — the  simple  and 
unlaborious  plenty  which  reigned  among  the 
scattered  inhabitants, — but,  above  all,  the 
singular  purity  and  innocence  of  their  man- 
ners, and  the  tranquil  and  unenvious  equality  ■ /^ 
in  which  they  passed  their  days,  form  alto-  '  / 
gether  a  scene,  on  which  the  eye  of  philan- 
thropy is  never  wearied  with  gazing,  and  to 
whicn,  perhaps,  no  parallel  can  be  found  in 
the  annals  of  the  fallen  world.  The  heart 
turns  with  delight  from  the  feverish  scenes 
of  European  history,  to  the  sweet  repose  of 
this  true  Atlantis ;  but  sinks  to  reflect,  that 
though  its  reality  may  still  be  attested  by 
surviving  witnesses,  no  such  spot  is  now  left, 
on  the  whole  face  of  the  earth,  as  a  refuge 
from  corruption  and  misery  ! 

The  poem  opens  Avith  a  fine  description  of  * 
this  enchanting  retirement.  One  calm  sum- 
mer morn,  a  friendly  Indian  arrives  in  his  ca- 
noe, bringing  with  him  a  fair  boy,  who,  with 
his  mother,  were  the  sole  survivors  of  an 
English  garrison  which  had  been  stomied  by 
a  hostile  tribe.  The  dying  mother  had  com 
mended  her  boy  to  the  care  of  her  wild  de- 
liverers ;  and  their  chief,  in  obedience  to  her 
solemn  bequest,  now  delivers  him  into  the 
hands  of  the  most  respected  of  the  adjoining 
settlers.  Albert  recognises  the  unhappy  or- 
phan as  the  son  of  a  beloved  frieno  ;  and 


CAMPBELL'S  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING. 


34S 


rears  young  Henry  Waldegrave  as  the  happy 
{)laymate  of  Gertrude,  and  sharer  with  her  in 
the  joys  of  tlieir  romantic  solitude,  and  the 
lessons  of  their  venerable  instructor.  When 
he  is  scarcely  entered  upon  manhood,  Henry 
is  sent  for  by  his  friends  in  England,  and 
roams  over  Europe  in  search  of  improvement 
for  eight  or  nine  years, — while  the  quiet  hours 
are  sliding  over  the  father  and  daughter  in 
the  unbroken  tranquilhty  of  their  Pennsylva- 
nian  retreat.  At  last,  Henry,  whose  heart 
had  found  no  resting  place  in  all  the  world 
besides,  returns  in  all  the  mature  graces  of 
manhood,  and  marries  his  beloved  Gertrude. 
Then  there  is  bliss  beyond  all  that  is  blissful 
on  earth, — and  more  feelingly  described  than 
mere  genius  can  ever  hope  to  describe  any 
thing.  But  the  war  of  emancipation  begins ; 
and  the  dream  of  love  and  enjoyment  is 
broken  by  alarms  and  dismal  forebodings. 
While  they  are  sitting  one  evening  enjoying 
those  tranquil  delights,  now  more  endeared 
by  the  fears  which  gather  around  them,  an 
aged  Indian  rushes  into  their  habitation,  and, 
after  disclosing  himself  for  Henry's  ancient 
guide  and  preserver,  informs  them,  that  a 
hostile  tribe  which  had  exterminated  his 
whole  family,  is  on  its  march  towards  their 
devoted  dwellings.  With  considerable  difh- 
culty  they  effect  their  escape  to  a  fort  at  some 
distance  in  the  woods ;  and  at  sunrise.  Ger- 
trude, and  her  father  and  husband,  look  from 
its  battlements  over  the  scene  of  desolation 
which  the  murderous  Indians  had  already 
sp/ead  over  the  pleasant  groves  and  gardens 
of  Wyoming.  While  they  are  standing  wrapt 
in  this  sad  contemplation,  an  Indian  marks- 
man fires  a  mortal  shot  from  his  ambush  at 
Albert ;  and  as  Gertrude  clasps  him  in  agony 
to  her  heart,  another  discharge  lays  her  bleed- 
ing by  his  side  !  She  then  takes  farewell  of 
her  husband,  in  a  speech  more  sw^eetly  pa- 
thetic than  any  thing  ever  written  in  rhyme. 
Henry  prostrates  himself  on  her  grave  in 
convulsed  and  speechless  agony;  and  his 
Indian  deliverer,  throwing  his  mantle  over 
him,  watches  by  him  a  w^hile  in  gloomy  si- 
lence ;  and  at  last  addresses  him  in  a  sort  of 
wild^and  energetic  descant,  exciting  him,  by 
his  example,  to  be  revenged,  and  to  die  !  The 
poem  closes  with  this  vehement  and  impas- 
sioned exhortation. 

Before  proceeding  to  lay  any  part  of  the 
poem  itself  before  our  readers,  we  should  try 
to  give  them  some  idea  of  that  delighful  har- 
mony of  colouring  and  of  expression,  which 
serves  to  unite  every  part  of  it  for  the  pro- 
duction of  one  effect;  and  to  make  the  de- 
scription, narrative,  and  reflections,  conspire 
to  breathe  over  the  whole  a  certain  air  of 
pure  and  tender  enchantment,  which  is  not 
once  dispelled,  through  the  whole  length  of 
the  poem,  by  the  intrusion  of  any  discordant 
impression.  All  that  we  can  now  do,  how- 
ever, is  to  tell  them  that  this  was  its  effect 
upon  our  feelings;  and  to  give  them  their 
chance  of  partaking  in  it,  by  a  pretty  copious 
selection  of  extracts. 

The  descriptive  stanzas  in  the  beginning, 
which  set  out  with  an  invocation  to  Wyoming, 


though  in  some  places  a  little  obscure  and 
overlaboured,  are,  to  our  taste,  very  soft  and 
beautiful. 

*'  On  Susquehanna's  side,  fair  Wyoming! 
Although  the  wild-flower  on  thy  ruin'd  wall 
And  roofless  homes,  a  sad  remembrance  bring 
Of  what  thy  gentle  people  did  befall, 
Yet  thou  wert  once  the  loveliest  land  of  all 
That  see  the  Atlantic  wave  their  morn  restore. 
Sweet  land  !  may  I  thy  lost  delights  recall, 
And  paint  thy  Gertrude  in  her  bowers  of  yore, 
Whose  beauty  was  the  love  of   Pennsylvania'^ 
shore ! 

"  It  was  beneath  thy  skies  that,  but  to  prune 
His  autumn  fruits,  or  skim  the  hght  canoe. 
Perchance,  along  thy  river  calm,  at  noon. 
The  happy  shepherd  swain  had  nought  to  do, 
From  morn  till  evening's  sweeter  pastime  grew  ; 
Their  timbrel,  in  the  dance  of  forests  brown 
When  lovely  maidens  prankt  in  flowrets  new  ; 
And  aye,  those  sunny  mountains  jialf  way  down 
Would  echo  flagelel  from  some  romantic  town. 

"  Then,  where  of  Indian  hills  the  daylight  takes 
His  leave,  how  might  you  the  flamingo  see 
Disporting  hke  a  meteor  on  the  lakes— 
And  playful  squirrel  on  his  nut-grown  tree  : 
And  ev'ry  sound  of  life  was  full  of  glee. 
From  merry  mock-bird's  song,  or  hum  of  men; 
While  heart' ning,  fearing  nought  their  revelry. 
The  wild  deer  arch'd  his  neck  from  glades — and, 

then 
Unhunted,  sought  his  woods  and  wilderness  again. 

"And  scarce  had  Wyoming  of  war  or  crime 
Heard  but  in  transatlantic  story  rung,"  &c. 

pp.  5—7. 

The  account  of  the  German,  Spanish,  Scot- 
tish, and  English  settlers,  and  of  the  patri, 
archal  harmony  in  which  they  were  all  united, 
is  likewise  given  with  great  spirit  and  brevity^ 
as  well  as  the  portrait  of  the  venerable  Albert, 
their  own  elected  judge  and  adviser.  A  sud- 
den transition  is  then  made  to  Gertrude. 

"  Young,  innocent !  on  whose  sweet  forehead  mild 

The  parted  ringlet  shone  in  simplest  guise, 

An  inmate  in  the  home  of  Albert  smil'd, 

Or  blest  his  noonday-walk — she  was  his  only  child '. 

"  The  rose  of  England  bloom'd  on  Gertrude's 

cheek — 
What  though  these  shades  had  seen  her  birth,"  &c. 

p.  11. 

After  mentioning  that  she  was  left  the  only 
child  of  her  mother,  the  author  goes  on  ic 
these  sweet  verses. 

"  A  lov'd  bequest !  and  I  may  half  impart, 

To  them  that  feel  the  strong  paternal  tie, 

How  like  a  new  existence  to  his  heart 

Uprose  that  living  flower  beneath  his  eye  ! 

Dear  as  she  was,  from  cherub  infancy, 

From  hours  when  she  would  round  his  garden  play, 

To  time  when,  as  the  rip'ning  years  went  by. 

Her  lovely  mind  could  culture  well  repay. 

And  more  engaging  grew  from  pleasing  day  to  day 

"  I  may  not  paint  those  thousand  infant  charms ; 
(Unconscious  fascination,  undesign'd !) 
The  orison  repeated  in  his  arms, 
For  God  to  bless  her  sire  and  all  mankind ! 
The  book,  the  bosom  on  his  knee  reclin'd, 
Or  how  sweet  fairy-lore  he  heard  her  con, 
(The  playmate  ere  the  teacher  of  her  mind) , 
All  uncompanion'd  else  her  years  had  gone 
Till  now  in  Gertrude's  eyes  their  ninth  blue  sum 
mer  shone. 

S£ 


350 


POETRY. 


**  And  summer  was  the  tide,  and  sweet  the  hour, 
When  sire  and  daughter  saw,  with  fleet  descent, 
An  Indian  from  his  bark  approach  their  bow' r,"  &c. 

pp.  12,  13. 

This  is  the  guide  and  preserver  of  young 
Henry  Waldegrave ;  who  is  somewhat  fantas- 
tically described  as  appearing 

"Led  by  his  dusky  guide,  like  Morning  brought 
by  Night." 

The  Indian  tells  his  story  with  great  anima- 
tion— the  storming  and  blowing  up  of  the 
English  fort — and  the  tardy  arrival  of  his 
friendly  and  avenging  warriors.  They  found 
all  the  soldiers  slaughtered. 

"  '  And  from  the  tree  we  with  her  child  unbound 
A  lonely  mother  of  the  Christian  land — 
Her  lord — the  captain  of  the  British  band — 
Amidst  the  slaughter  of  his  soldiers  lay  ; 
Scarce  knew  the  widow  our  delivering  hand : 
Upon  her  child  she  sobb'd,  and  swoon'd  away  ; 
Or  shriek'd  unto  the  God  to  whom  the  Christians 
pray.— 

"  '  Our  virgins  fed  her  with  their  kindly  bowls 
Of  fever  balm,  and  sweet  sagaraite  ; 
But  she  was  journeying  to  the  land  of  souls, 
And  hfted  up  her  dying  head  to  pray 
That  we  should  bid  an  antient  friend  convey 
Her  orphan  to  his  home  of  England's  shore  ; 
And  take,  she  said,  this  token  far  away 
To  one  that  will  remember  us  of  yore, 
When  he  beholds  the  ring  that  Waldegrave's  JuHa 
wore. — '  "  pp.  16,  17. 

Albert  recognises  the  child  of  his  murdered 
friend,  with  great  emotion ;  which  the  Indian 
witnesses  with  characteristic  and  picturesque 
composure. 

"  Far  differently  the  Mute  Oneyda  took 
His  calumet  of  peace,  and  cup  of  joy  ; 
As  monumental  bronze  unchang'd  his  look : 
A  soul  that  pity  touch'd,  but  never  shook : 
Train'd,  from  his  tree-rock'd  cradle  to  his  bier, 
The  fierce  extremes  of  good  and  ill  to  brook 
impassive — fearing  but  the  shame  of  fear — 
A  stoic  of  the  woods — a  man  without  a  tear. — " 

p.  20. 

This  warrior,  however,  is  not  without  high 
feelings  and  tender  affections. 

"  He  scorn'd  his  own,  who  felt  another's  woe  : 
And  ere  the  wolf-skin  on  his  back  he  flung. 
Or  laced  his  mocasins,  in  act  to  go, 
A  song  of  parting  to  the  boy  he  sung, 
Who  slept  on  Albert's  couch,  nor  heard  his  friend- 
ly tongue. 

"  '  Sleep,  wearied  one !  and  in  the  dreaming  land 

Should'st  thou  the  spirit  of  thy  mother  greet. 

Oh  !  say,  to-morrow,  that  the  white  man's  hand 

Hath  pluck'd  the  thorns  of  sorrow  from  thy  feet ; 

While.I  in  lonely  wilderness  shall  meet 

Thy  little  foot-prints — or  by  traces  know 

The  fountain,  where  at  noon  I  thought  it  sweet 

To  feed  thee  with  the  quarry  of  my  bow, 

Vnd  pour'd  the  lotus-horn,  or  slew  the  mountain  roe. 

Adieu?  sweet  scion  of  the  rising  sun  !'  "  &c. 

pp.  21,  22. 

The  Second  part  opens  with  a  fine  descrip- 
tion of  Albert's  sequestered  dwelling.  It  re- 
minds us  of  that  enchanted  landscape  in  which 
Thomson  has  embosomed  his  Castle  of  Indo- 
lence.   We  can  make  room  only  for  the  first 


"  A  valley  from  the  river  shore  withdrawn 
Was  Albert's  home  two  quiet  woods  between. 
Whose  lofty  verdure  overlook'd  his  lawn ; 
And  waters  to  their  resting-place  serene, 
Came,  fresh'ning  and  reflecting  all  the  scene  : 
(A  mirror  in  the  depth  of  flowery  shelves ;) 
So  sweet  a  spot  of  earth,  you  might  (I  ween) 
Have  guess'd  some  congregation  of  the  elves 
To  sport   by  summer   moons,  had   shap'd  it  loi 
themselves." — p.  27. 

The  effect  of  this  seclusion  on  Gertrude  u 

beautifully  represented. 

"  It  seem'd  as  if  those  scenes  sweet  influence  had 

On  Gertrude's  soul,  and  kindness  like  their  own 

Inspir'd  those  eyes  affectionate  and  glad, 

That  seem'd  to  love  whate'er  they  look'd  upon ! 

Whether  with  Hebe's  mirth  her  features  shone. 

Or  if  a  shade  more  pleasing  them  o'ercast, 

(As  if  for  heav'nly  musing  meant  alone  ;) 

Yet  so  becomingly  the  expression  past, 

That  each  succeeding  look  was  lovelier  than  the  last, 

*'  Nor  guess  I,  was  that  Pennsylvanian  home. 
With  all  its  picturesque  and  balmy  grace, 
And  fields  that  were  a  luxury  to  roam, 
Lost  on  the  soul  that  look'd  from  such  a  face  ! 
Enthusiast  of  the  woods  !  when  years  apace 
Had  bound  thy  lovely  waist  with  woman's  zone. 
The  sunrise  path,  at  morn,  I  see  thee  trace 
To  hills  with  high  magnolia  overgrown  ; 
And  joy  to    breathe    the  groves,   romantic    and 
alone."— pp.  29,  30" 

The  morning  scenery,  too,  is  touched  with 
a  delicate  and  masterly  hand. 

"  While  yet  the  wild  deer  trod  in  spangling  dew, 
While  boatman  caroU'd  to  the  fresh-blown  air. 
And  woods  a  horizontal  shadow  threw. 
And  early  fox  appear' d  in  momentary  view." 

p.  32. 

The  reader  is  left  rather  too  much  in  the 
dark  as  to  Henry's  departure  for  Europe ; — 
nor,  indeed,  are  we  apprised  of  his  absence, 
till  we  conie  to  the  scene  of  his  ■  unexpected 
return.  Gertrude  was  used  to  spend  the  hot 
part  of  the  day  in  reading  in  a  lonely  and 
rocky  recess  in  those  safe  woods ;  wmch  is 
described  with  Mr.  Campbell's  usual  felicity. 


Rocks  subHme 


To  human  art  a  sportive  semblance  wore  ; 
And  yellow  lichens  colour'd  all  the  clime. 
Like  moonhght  battlements,  and  towers  decayed 
by  time. 

"  But  high,  in  amphitheatre  above. 
His  arms  the  everlasting  aloes  threw : 
Breath'd  but  an  air  of  heav'n,  and  all  the  grove 
As  if  instinct  with  living  spirit  grew, 
RoUing  its  verdant  gulfs  of  every  hue  ; 
And  now  suspended  was  the  pleasing  din, 
Now  from  a  murmur  faint  it  swell'd  anew. 
Like  the  first  note  of  organ  heard  within 
Cathedral  aisles — ere  yet  its  svmphony  begin." 

p.  33. 

In  this  retreat,  which  is  represented  as  so 
solitary,  that  except  her  own, 

"  scarce  an  ear  had  heard 

The  stock-dove  plaining  through  its  gloom  profound. 
Or  winglet  of  the  fairy  humming  bird. 
Like  atoms  of  the  rainbow  fluttering  round."- 

p.34. 

— a  stranger  of  lofty  port  and  gentle  manners 
surprises  her,  one  morning,  and  is  conducted 
to  her  father.  They  enter  into  conversation 
on  the  subject  of  his  travels. 


CAMPBELL'S  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING. 


SSI 


"  And  much  they  lov'd  his  fervid  strain — 
While  he  each  fair  variety  retrac'd 
Of  cHmes,  and  manners,  o'er  the  eastern -main. 
Now  happy  Switzer's  hills — romantic  Spain — 
Gay  hlied  fields  of  France — or,  more  refin'd, 
The  soft  Ausonia's  monumental  reign  ; 
Nor  less  each  rural  image  he  design'd, 
Than  all  the  city's  pomp  and  home  of  human  kind. 

"  Anon  some  wilder  portraiture  he  draws  I 
Of  nature's  savage  glories  he  would  speak— 
The  loneliness  of  earth  that  overawes ! — 
Where,  resting  by  some  tomb  of  old  cacique 
The  lama-driver  on  Peruvia's  peak, 
Nor  voice  nor  living  motion  marks  around  ; 
But  storks  that  to  the  boundless  forest  shriek ; 
Or  wild-cane  arch  high  flung  o'er  gulf  profound. 
That  fluctuates  when  the  storms  of  El  Dorado 
sound."— pp.  36,  37. 

Albert,  at  last,  bethinks  him  of  inquiring 
after  his  stray  ward  young  Henry  j  and  enter- 
tains his  guest  with  a  short  summary  of  his 
history. 

"  His  face  the  wand'rer  hid  ; — but  could  not  hide 
A  tear,  a  smile,  upon  his  cheek  that  dwell ! — 

*  And  speak,  mysterious  stranger  !'  (Gertrude  cried) 

*  It  is  ! — it  is  ! — I  knew — I  knew'him  well ! 

*Tis  Waldegrave's  self,  of  Waldegrave  come  to 
A  burst  of  joy  the  father's  lips  declare  ;  [tell !' 

But  Gertrude  speechless  on  his  bosom  fell : 
At  once  his  open  arms  embrac'd  the  pair  ; 
Was  never  group  more  blest,  in  this  wide  world  of 
care!"— p.  39 

The  first  overflowing  of  their  joy  and  art- 
less love  is  represented  with  all  the  fine 
colours  of  truth  and  poetry ;  but  we  cannot 
now  make  room  for  it.  The  Second  Part  ends 
with  this  stanza : — 

"  Then  would  that  home  admit  them — happier  far 
Than  grandeur's  most  magnificent  saloon — 
While,  here  and  there,  a  solitary  star 
Flush'd  in  the  dark'ning  firmament  of  June; 
And  silence  brought  the  soul-felt  hour  full  soon, 
Inefi*able — which  I  may  not  pourtray  ! 
For  never  did  the  Hymenean  moon 
A  paradise  of  hearts  more  sacred  sway, 
In  all  that  slept  beneath  her  soft  voluptuous  ray," — 

p.  43. 

The  Last  Part  sets  out  with  a  soft  but 
spirited  sketch  of  their  short-lived  felicity. 

* '  Three  little  moons,  how  short !  amidst  the  grove. 
And  pastoral  savannas  they  consume  ! 
While  she,  beside  her  buskin'd  youth  to  rove, 
Delights,  in  fancifully  wild  costume,  , 

Her  lovely  brow  to  shade  with  Indian  plume ; 
And  forth  in  hunter-seeming  vest  they  fare; 
But  not  to  chase  the  deer  in  forest  gloom  ! 
*Tis  but  the  breath  of  heav'n — the  blessed  air — 
,And  interchange  of  hearts,  unknown,  unseen  to 
share. 

* '  What  though  the  sportive  dog  oft  round  them  note. 
Or  fawn,  or  wild  bird  bursting  on  the  wing; 
Yet  who,  in  love's  own  presence,  would  devote 
To  death  those  gentle  throats  that  wake  the  spring  ? 
Or  writhing  from  the  brook  its  victim  bring  ? 
No  ! — nor  let  fear  one  little  warbler  rouse  ; 
But,  fed  by  Gertrude's  hand,  still  let  them  sing, 
Acquaintance  of  her  path,  amidst  the  boughs. 
That  shade  ev'n  now  her  love,  and  witness'd  first 
her  vows." — pp,  48,  49. 

The  transition  to  the  melancholy  part  of  the 
Etory  is  introduced  with  great  tenderness  and 
dignity. 

■  But  mortal  pleasure,  what  art  thou  in  truth  ? 
The  torrent's  smoothness  ere  it  dash  below  ! 


.M^ 


And  must  I  change  my  song  ?  and  must  I  show. 
Sweet  Wyoming  !  the  day,  when  thou  wort  doom'd. 
Guiltless,  to  mourn  thy  loveliest  bow'rs  laid  low  ! 
When,  where  of  yesterday  a  garden  bloom'd, 
Death  overspread  his  pall,  and  black'ning  aahei 
gloom'd? — 

"  Sad  was  the  year,  by  proud  Oppression  driv'n, 
When  Transatlantic  Liberty  arose  ; 
Not  in  the  sunshine,  and  the  smile  of  heav'n, 
But  wrapt  in  whirlwinds,  and  begirt  with  woes: 
Amidst  the  strife  of  fratricidal  foes, 
Her  birth  star  was  the  light  of  burning  plains  ; 
Her  baptism  is  the  weight  of  blood  that  flows 
From  kindred  hearts — the  blood  of  British  veins ! — 
And  famine  tracks  her  steps,  and  pestilential  pains ! " 

pp.  50,  51. 

Gertrude's  alarm  and  dejection  at  the  pros- 
pect of  hostilities  are  well  described : 

"  O,  meet  not  thou,"  she  cries,  "thy  kindred  foe  . 
But  peaceful  let  us  seek  fair  England's  strand,"  &c. 

— as  well  as  the  arguments  and  generous- 
sentiments  by  which  her  husband  labours  tO; 
reconcile  her  to  a  necessary  evil.  The  noc-' 
turnal  irruption  of  the  old  Indian  is  given  with 
great  spirit : — Age  and  misery  had  so  changed 
his  appearance,  that  he  was  not  at  first  recog- 
nised by  any  of  the  party. 

'* '  And  hast  thou  then  forgot ' — he  cried  forlorn. 
And  ey'd  the  group  with  half  indignant  air), 
'  Oh  !  hast  thou.  Christian  chief,  forgot  the  morn 
When  I  with  thee  the  cup  of  peace  did  share  ? 
Then  stately  was  this  head,  and  dark  this  hair. 
That  now  is  white  as  Appalachia's  snow  ! 
But,  if  the  weight  of  fifteen  years'  despair, 
And  age  hath  bow'd  me,  and  the  tort'ring  foe. 
Bring   me  my  Boy — and    he   Avill    his  deliverer 
know !' — 

"It  was  not  long,  with  eyes  and  heart  of  flame. 
Ere  Henry  to  his  lov'd  Oneyda  flew :  [came, 

'Bless  thee,  my  guide!' — but,  backward,  as  he 
The  chief  his  old  bewilder'd  head  withdrew, 
And  grasp'd  his  arm,  and  look'd  and  look'd  him 

through, 
'Twas  strange — nor  could  the  group  a  smile  control, 
The  long,  the  doubtful  scrutiny  to  view : — 
At  last  delight  o'er  all  his  features  stole,       [sonl. — 
'  It  is — my  own  !'  he  cried,  and  clasp'd  him  to  his 

"  '  Yes !  thou  rccall'st  my  pride  of  years ;  for  then 
The  bowstring  of  my  spirit  was  not  slack,       [men. 
When,  spite  of  woods,  and  floods,  and  ambush'd 
I  bore  thee  like  the  quiver  on  my  back. 
Fleet  as  the  whirlwind  hurries  on  the  rack  ; 
Nor  foeman  then,  nor  cougar's  crouch  I  fear'd. 
For  I  was  strong  as  mountain  cataract  r 
And  dost  thou  not  remember  how  we  cheer'd 
Upon  the  last  hill-top,  when  white  men's  huts  ap- 
pear'd  ?'  " — pp.  54 — 56. 

After  warning  them  of  the  approach  of  their 
terrible  foe,  the  conflagration  is  seen,  and  the 
whoops  and  scattering  shot  of  the  enemy  heard 
at  a  distance.  The  motley  militia  of  the 
neigbourhood  flock  to  the  defence  of  Albert : 
the  effect  of  their  shouts  and  music  on  the  old 
Indian  is  fine  and  striking. 

"Rous'd  by  their  warlike  pomp,  and  mirth,  and 
Old  Outalissi  woke  his  battle  song,  [cheer, 

And  beating  with  his  war-club  cadence  stron;*, 
Tells  how  his  deep-stung  indignation  smarts,"  &c. 

p.  61. 

Nor  is  the  contrast  of  this  savage  enthusiasm !  m 
with  the  venerable  composure  of  Albert  less ;  *  f 
beautifully  represented. 


352 


POETRY. 


"  Calm,  opposite  the  Christian  Father  rose, 
Pale  on  his  venerable  brow  its  rays 
Of  martyr  light  the  conflagration  throws; 
One  hand  upon  his  lovely  child  he  lays, 
And  one  th'  uncovered  crowd  to  silence  sways ; 
While,  though  the  battle  flash  is  faster  driv'n — 
Unaw'd,  with  eye  unstartled  by  the  blaze, 
He  for  his  bleeding  country  prays  to  Heaven — 
Prays  that  the  men  of  blood  themselves  may  be 
forgiven." — p.  62. 

They  then  speed  their  night  march  to  the 
distant  fort,  whose  wedged  ravelins  and  re- 
doubts 

**  Wove  like  a  diadem,  its  tracery  round 
The  lofty  summit  of  that  mountain  green  " — 

and  look  back  from  its  lofty  height  on  the 
desolated  scenes  around  them.  We  will  not 
separate,  nor  apologize  for  the  length  of  the 
fine  passage  that  follows;  which  alone,  we 
think,  might  justify  all  we  have  said  in  praise 
of  the  poem. 

"  A  scene  of  death  !  where  fires  beneath  the  sun, 
And  blended  arms,  and  white  pavilions  glow  ; 
And  for  the  business  of  destruction  done, 
Its  requiem  the  war-horn  seem'd  to  blow. 
There,  sad  spectatress  of  her  country's  woe  ! 
The  lovely  Gertrude,  safe  from  present  harm, 
Had  laid  her  cheek,  and  clasp'd  her  hands  of  snow 
On  Waldegrave's  shoulder,  half  within  his  arm 
Enclos'd,  that  felt  her  heart  and  hush'd  its  wild 
alarm ! 

"  But  short  that  contemplation  !  sad  and  short 
The  pause  to  bid  each  much-lov'd  scene  adieu  ! 
Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  the  fort,  [flew, 

Where  friendly  swords  were  drawn,  and  banners 
Ah  !  who  could  deem  that  foot  of  Indian  crew 
Was  near?  —  Yet  there,  with  lust  of  murd'rous 


Gleam'd  like  a  basilisk,  from  woods  in  view, 
The  ambush' d  foeman's  eye — his  volley  speeds  ! 
And  Albert  —  Albert  —  falls!  the  dear  old  father 
bleeds ! 

"  And  tranc'd  in  giddy  horror  Gertrude  swoon'd ! 
Yet,  while  she  clasps  him  lifeless  to  her  zone. 
Say,  burst  they,  borrow'd  from  her  father's  wound, 
Those  drops  ? — O  God  !  the  hfe-blood  is  her  own  ! 
And  falt'ring,  on  her  Waldegrave's  bosom  thrown — 
'Weep  not,   O  Love!' — she  cries,  *  to   see  me 

bleed — 
Thee,  Gertrude's  sad  survivor,  thee  alone — 
Heaven's  peace  commiserate  !  for  scarce  I  heed 
These  wounds ! — Yet  thee  to  leave  is  death,  is 

death  indeed. 

"  *  Clasp  me  a  little  longer,  on  the  brink 

Of  fate  !  while  I  can  feel  thy  dear  caress ; 

And,  when  this  heart  hath  ceas'd  to  beat — oh!  think. 

And  let  it  mitigate  thy  woe's  excess. 

That  thou  hast  been  to  me  all  tenderness, 

And  friend  to  more  than  human  friendship  just. 

Oh  !  by  that  retrospect  of  happiness, 

And  by  the  hopes  of  an  immortal  trust,         [dust ! 

God  shall  assuage  thy  pangs — when  I  am  laid  in 

"  '  Go,  Henry,  go  not  back,  when  I  depart  I 
The  scene  thy  bursting  tears  too  deep  will  move. 
Where  my  dear  father  took  thee  to  his  heart. 
Arid  Gertrude  thought  it  ecstasy  to  rove 
With  thee,  as  with  an  angel,  through  the  grove 
Of  peace — imagining  her  lot  was  cast 
In  heav'n !  for  ours  was  not  like  earthly  love  ! 
And  nmst  this  parting  be  our  very  last  ?      [past. — 
No !  I  shall  love  thee  still,  when  death  itself  is 

"  *  Half  could  I  bear,  methinks,  to  leave  this  earth — 
And  thee,  more  lov'd  than  aught  beneath  the  sun ! 
Could  I  have  hv'd  to  smile  but  on  the  birth 
Of  one  dear  pledge  ! — But  shall  there  then  be  none. 


In  future  times — no  gentle  little  one, 

To  clasp  thy  neck,  and  look,  resembling  me ! 

Yet  seems  it,  ev'n  while  life's  last  pulses  run, 

A  sweetness  in  the  cup  of  death  to  be. 

Lord  of  my  bosom's  love !  to  die  beholding  thee  !' 

"  Hush'd  were  his  Gertrude's  lips  !  but  still  then 

bland 
And  beautiful  expression  seem'd  to  melt 
With  love  that  could  not  die  !  and  still  his  hand 
She  presses  to  the  heart  no  more  that  felt. 
Ah  heart !  where  once  each  fond  affection  dwelt, 
And  features  yet  that  spoke  a  soul  more  fair  !" 

pp.  64—68. 

The  funeral  is  hurried  over  with  pathetic 
brevity  J  and  the  desolate  and  all-enduring 
Indian  brought  in  again  with  peculiar  beauty, 

"  Touch'd  by  the  music,  and  the  melting  scene. 
Was  scarce  one  tearless  eye  amidst  the  crowd  ; — 
Stern  warriors,  resting  on  their  swords,  were  seen 
To   veil  their  eyes,  as   pass'd   each  much-lov'd 

f    shroud — 
While  woman's  softer  soul  in  woe  dissolv'd  aloud. 

"  Then  mournfully  the  parting  bugle  bid 
Its  farewell  o'er  the  grave  of  worth  and  truth. 
Prone  to  the  dust,  afflicted  Waldegrave  hid 
His  face  on  earth  ? — Him  watch'd  in  gloomy  ruth, 
His  woodland  guide ;  but  words  had  none  to  sooth 
The  grief  that  knew  not  consolation's  name  ! 
Casting  his  Indian  mantle  o'er  the  youth, 
He  watch'd  beneath  its  folds,  each  burst  that  came 
Convulsive, ague-hke,  across  his  shuddering  frame!" 

p.  69. 

After  some  time  spent  in  this  mute  and 
awful  pause,  this  stern  and  heart-struck  com- 
forter breaks  oat  into  the  following  touching 
and  energetic  address,  with  which  the  poem 
closes,  with  great  spirit  and  abruptness : — 

"  '  And  I  could  weep  ;' — th'  Oneyda  chief 
His  descant  wildly  thus  began  : 
'  But  that  I  may  not  stain  with  grief 
The  death-song  of  my  father's  son  ! 
Or  bow  his  head  in  woe  ; 
For  by  my  wrongs,  and  by  my  wrath  ! 
To-morrow  Areouski's  breath 
(That  fires  yon  heaven  with  storms  of  death) 
Shall  light  us  to  the  foe : 
And  we  shall  share,  my  Christian  boy ! 
The  foeman's  blood,  the  avenger's  joy  ! — 

"  '  But  thee,  my  flow'r !  whose  breath  was  giv'n 
By  milder  genii  o'er  the  deep. 
The  spirits  of  the  white  man's  heav'n 
Forbid  not  thee  to  weep  ! — 
Nor  will  the  Christian  host. 
Nor  will  thy  father's  spirit  grieve 
To  see  thee,  on  the  battle's  eve. 
Lamenting  take  a  mournful  leave 
Of  her  who  lov'd  thee  most : 
She  was  the  rainbow  to  thy  sight ! 
Thy  sun — thy  heav'n — of  lost  delight  !- 

"  *  To-morrow  let  us  do  or  die  ! 
But  when  the  boh  of  death  is  hurl'd, 
Ah !  whither  then  with  thee  to  fly, 
Shall  Outahssa  roam  the  world  ? 
Seek  we  thy  once-lov'd  home  ? — 
The  hand  is  gone  that  cropt  its  flowers  ! 
Unheard  their  clock  repeats  its  hours . — 
Cold  is  the  hearth  within  their  bow'rs ! — 
And  should  we  thither  roam, 
Its  echoes,  and  its  empty  tread. 
Would  sound  like  voices  from  the  dead ' 

"  '  But  hark,  tne  trump  ! — to-morrow  thoa 
In  glory's  fires  shalt  dry  thy  tears: 
Ev'n  from  the  land  of  shadows  now 
My  father's  awful  ghost  appears, 
Amidst  the  clouds  that  round  us  roll ! 


CAMPBELL'S  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING. 


363 


He  bids  ray  soul  for  battle  tbirst — 

He  bids  me  dry  the  last — the  first — 

The  only  tears  that  ever  burst — 

From  Outalissi's  soul ! — 

Because  I  rnay  not  stain  with  grief 

The  deaih-songofan  Indian  chief!'  " — pp.  70-73. 

It  is  needless,  after  these  extracts,  to  en- 
large upon  the  beauties  of  this  poem.  They 
consist  chiefly  in  the  feeling  and  tenderness 
of  the  whole  delineation,  and  the  taste  and 
delicacy  with  which  all  the  subordinate  parts 
are  made  to  contribute  to  the  general  effect. 
Before  dismissing  it,  however,  we  must  say  a 
little  of  its  faults,  which  are  sufficiently  ob- 
vious and  undeniable.  In  the  first  place,  the 
narrative  is  extremely  obscure  and  imperfect; 
and  has  greater  blanks  in  it  than  could  be 
tolerated  even  in  lyric  poetry.  We  hear  ab- 
solutely nothing  of  Henry,  from  the  day  the 
Indian  first  brings  him  from  the  back  country, 
till  he  returns  from  Europe  fifteen  years  there- 
after. It  is  likewise  a  great  oversight  in  Mr. 
.  (Campbell  to  separate  his  lovers,  when  only 
I  I  twelve  years  of  age — a  period  at  which  it  is 
~  I  utterly  inconceivable  that  any  permanent  at- 
Itachment  could  have  been  formed.  The 
greatest  fault,  however,  of  the  work,  is  the 
occasional  constraint  and  obscurity  of  the  dic- 
tion, proceeding  apparently  from  too  laborious 
an  effort  at  emphasis  or  condensation.  The 
metal  seems  in  several  places  to  have  been 
60  much  overworked,  as  to  have  lost  not  only 
its  ductility,  but  its  lustre ;  and,  while  there 
are  passages  which  can  scarcely  be  at  all  un- 
derstood after  the  most  careful  consideration, 
•there  are  others  which  have  an  air  so  elaborate 
and  artificial,  as  to  destroy  all  appearance  of 
nature  in  the  sentiment.  Our  readers  may 
have  remarked  something  of  this  sort,  in  the 
first  extracts  with  which  we  have  presented 
them.;  but  there  are  specimens  still  more  ex- 
ceptionable. In  order  to  inform  us  that  Albert 
had  lost  his  wife,  Mr.  Campbell  is  pleased  to 
say,  that 

"  Fate  had  reft  his  mutual  heart ;" 

and  in  order  to  tell  us  something  else — though 
what,  we  are  utterly  unable  to  conjecture — 
I      he  concludes  a  stanza  on  the  delights  of  mu- 
i      tual  love,  with  these  three  lines  : — 

"  '  Roll  on,  ye  days  of  raptur'd  influence.' shine? 
Nor,  blind  with  ecstasy's  celestial  fire,     [pire.'  " 
Shall  love  behold  the  spark  of  earth-born  time  ex- 

The  whole  twenty-second  stanza  of  the  first 
part  is  extremely  incorrect ;  and  the  three 
concluding  lines  are  almost  unintelligible. 

"  'But  where  was  I  when  Waldegrave  was  no 
more  ? 
And  thou  didst  pale  thy  gentle  head  extend, 
In  woes,  that  ev'n  the  tribe  of  deserts  was  thy 
friend !'" 

If  Mr.  Campbell  had  duly  considered  the 
primary  necessity  of  perspicuity — especially 
in  compositions  which  aim  only  at  pleasing — 
we  are  persuaded  that  he  would  never  have 
left  these  and  some  other  passages  in  so  very 
questionable  a  state.  There  is  still  a  good 
deal  for  him  to  do,  indeed,  in  a  new  edition  : 
and  working — as  he  must  work — in  the  true 
9.S 


spirit  and  pattern  of  what  is  before  him,  we 
hope  he  will  yet  be  induced  to  make  consider- 
able additions  to  a  work,  which  will  please 
those  most  who  are  most  worthy  to  be  pleased ) 
and  always  seem  most  beautiful  to  those  who 
give  it  the  greatest  share  of  their  attention. 

Of  the  smaller  pieces  which  fill  up  the  vol- 
ume, we  have  scarce  left  ourselves  room  to 
say  any  thing.  The  greater  part  of  them  have 
been  printed  before ;  and  there  are  probably 
few  readers  of  English  poetry  who  are  not  al- 
ready familiar  with  the  Lochiel  and  the  Ho- 
hinlinden — the  one  by  far  the  most  spirited 
and  poetical  denunciation  of  coming  woe, 
since  the  days  of  Cassandra;  the  other  the 
only  representation  of  a  modern  battle,  which 
possesses  either  interest  or  sublimity.  The 
song  to  "  the  Mariners  of  England,"  is  also 
very  generally  known.  It  is  a  splendid  in- 
stance of  the  most  magnificent  diction  adapted 
to  a  familiar  and  even  trivial  metre.  Nothing 
can  be  finer  than  the  first  and  the  last  stanzas. 

"  Ye  mariners  of  England  ! 
That  guard  our  native  seas ; 
Whose  flag  has  braved,  a  thousand  years, 
ThQ  battle,  and  the  breeze  ! 
Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 
To  match  another  foe  ! 
And  sweep  through  the  deep,"  &c. — p.  101. 

"  The  meteor  flag  of  England 
Shall  yet  terrific  burn  ; 
Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart, 
And  the  star  of  peace  return. 
Then,  then,  ye  ocean  warjiors  ! 
Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 
To  the  fame  of  your  name, 
When  the  storm  has  ceas'd  to  blow ; 
When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more. 
And  the  storm  has  ceas'd  to  blow." — pp.  103, 104. 

"  The  Battle  of  the  Baltic,"  though  we  think 
it  has  been  printed  before,  is  much  less  known. 
Though  written  in  a  strange,  and  we  think  an 
unfortunate  metre,  at  has  great  force  and 
grandeur,  both  of  conception  and  expression — 
that  sort  of  force  and  grandeur  which  results 
from  the  simple  and  concise  expression  of 
great  events  and  natural  emotions,  altogether 
unassisted  by  any  splendour  or  amplification 
of  expression.  The  characteristic  merit,  in- 
deed, both  of  this  piece  and  of  Hohinlinden, 
is,  that,  by  the  forcible  delineation  of  one  or 
two  great  circumstances,  they  give  a  clear 
and  most  energetic  representation  of  events 
as  complicated  as  they  are  impressive — :md 
thus  impress  the  mind  of  the  reader  with  all 
the  terror  and  sublimity  of  the  subject,  while 
they  rescue  him  from  the  fatigue  and  perplex- 
ity of  its  details.  Nothing  in  our  judgment 
can  be  more  impressive  than  the  following 
very  short  and  simple  description  of  the  British 
fleet  bearing  up  to  close  action  : 

"  As  they  drifted  on  their  path, 
There  was  silence  deep  as  death  ! 
And  the  boldest  held  his  breath 
For  a  time.—" — p.  109. 

The  description  of  the  battle  itself  (though  it 
begins  with  a  tremendous  line)  is  in  the  same 
spirit  of  homely  sublimity ;  and  worth  a  thoui^ 
sand  stanzas  of  thunder,  shrieks,  shouts,  tri 
dents,  and  heroes. 


M4 


POETRY. 


"  '  Hearts  of  oak,'  our  captains  cried!  when 
From  its  adamantine  lips  [each  gun 

Spread  a  death- shade  round  the  ships  ! 
Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 
Of  the  sun. — 

"  Again !  again !  again ! 
And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 
Till  a  feebler  cheer  the  Dane 
To  our  cheering  sent  us  back  ; — 
Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom  : — 
Then  cease  ! — and  all  is  wail, 
As  they  strike  the  shatter'd  sail  ; 
Or,  in  conflagration  pale, 
Light  the  gloom. — " 

There  are  two  little  ballad  pieces,  published 
for  the  first  time,  in  this  collection,  which 
have  both  very  considerable  merit,  and  afford 
a  favourable  specimen  of  Mr.  Campbell's 
powers  in  this  new  line  of  exertion.  The 
longest  is  the  most  beautiful ;  but  we  give  our 
readers  the  shortest,  because  we  can  give  it 
entire. 

"  O  heard  ye  yon  pibrach  sound  sad  in  the  gale. 
Where  a  band  cometh  slowly  with  weeping  and  wail? 
'Tis  the  chief  of  Glenara  laments  for  his  dear; 
And  her  sire,  and  the  people,  are  called  to  her  bier. 

■'  Glenara  came  first  with  the  mourners  and  shroud ; 
Her  kinsmen  they  follow' d,  but  mourn' d  not  aloud : 
Their  plaids  all  their  bosoms  were  folded  around  :. 
They  march' d  all  in  silence — they  look'd  on  the 
ground. 

*'  In  silence  they  reach'd  over  mountain  and  moor, 
To  a  heath,  where  the  oak-tree  grew  lonely  and 

Jioar ; 
Now  here  let  us  place  the  grey  stone  of  her  cairn : 
*  Why  speak  ye  no  woM  ?' — said  Glenara  the  stern. 

•* '  And  tell  me,  I  charge  you  I  ye  clan  of  my  spouse, 
Why  fold  you  your  mantles,  why  cloud  ye  your 

brows  V 
So  spake  the  rude  chieftain : — no  answer  is  made, 
But  each  mantle  unfolding,  a  dagger  display'd. 

"  'I  dreamt  of  my  lady,  I  dreamt  of  her  shroud,' 
Cried  a  voice  from  the  kinsmen,  all  wrathful  and 
loud; 
And  empty  that  shroud,  and  that  coffin  did  seem  ; 
Glenara !  Glenara !  now  read  me  my  dream  !' 

"  O  !  pale  grew  the  cheek  of  that  chieftain,  I  ween, 
When  the  shroud  was  unclos'd,  and  no  lady  was 


When  a  voice  from  the  kinsmen  spoke  loader  in 

scorn, 
'Twas  the  youth  who  had  lov'd  the  fair  Ellen  of 
Lorn: 

"  '  I  dreamt  of  my  lady,  I  dreamt  of  her  grief, 
I  dreamt  that  her  lord  was  a  barbarous  chief; 
On  a  rock  of  the  ocean  fair  Ellen  did  seem ; 
Glenara !  Glenara !  now  read  me  my  dream  !' 

"  In  dust  low  the  traitor  has  knelt  to  the  ground. 
And  the  desert  reveal'd  where  his  lady  was  found ; 
From  a  rock  of  the  ocean  that  beauty  is  borne, 
Now  joy  to  the  house  of  fair  Ellen  of  Lorn  !" 

pp.  105—107. 

We  close  this  volume,  on  the  whole,  with 
feelings  of  regret  for  its  shortness,  and  of  ad- 
miration for  the  genius  of  its  author.  There 
are  but  two  noble  sorts  of  poetry — the  pathetic 
and  the  sublime ;  and  we  think  he  has  given 
very  extraordinary  proofs  of  his  talents  for 
both.  There  is  something,  too,  we  will  ven- 
ture to  add,  in  the  style  of  many  of  his  con- 
ceptions, which  irresistibly  impresses  us  with 
the  conviction,  that  he  can  do  much  greater 
things  than  he  has  hitherto  accomplished; 
and  leads  us  to  regard  him,  even  yet,  as  a 
poet  of  still  greater  promise  than  performance. 
It  seems  to  us.  as  if  the  natural  force  and 
boldness  of  his  ideas  were  habitually  checked 
by  a  certain  fastidious  timidity,  and  an  anxi- 
ety about  the  minor  graces  of  correct  and 
chastened  composition.  Certain  it  is,  at  least, 
that  his  greatest  and  most  lofty  flights  have 
been  made  in  those  smaller  pieces,  about 
which,  it  is  natural  to  think,  he  must  have 
felt  least  solicitude ;  and  that  he  has  suc- 
ceeded most  splendidly  where  he  must  have 
been  most  free  from  the  fear  of  failure.  We 
wish  any  praises  or  exhortations  of  ours  had 
the  power  to  give  him  confidence  in  his  own 
great  talents ;  and  hope  earnestly,  that  he  will 
now  meet  with  such  encouragement,  as  may 
set  him  above  all  restraints  that  proceed  from 
apprehension;  and  induce  him  to  give  free 
scope  to  that  genius,  of  which  we  are  per- 
suaded that  the  world  has  hitherto  seen  rather 
the  grace  than  the  richness. 


(lantta  1*2,  1525.) 

Theodric,  a  Domestic  Tale:  with  other  Poems.     By  Thomas  Campbell.     12mo.     pp.  150. 

London:  1824. 


If  Mr.  Campbell's  poetry  was  of  a  kind 
that  could  be  forgotten,  his  long  fits  of  silence 
would  put  him  fairly  in  the  way  of  that  mis- 
fortune. But,  in  truth,  he  is  safe  enough; — 
and  has  even  acquired,  by  virtue  of  his  ex- 
emplary laziness,  an  assurance  and  pledge  of 
immortality  which  he  could  scarcely  have 
obtained  without  it.  A  writer  who  is  still 
fresh  in  the  mind  and  favour  of  the  public, 
/urter  twenty  years'  intermission,  may  reason- 
fibly  expect  to  be  remembered  when  death 
.snail  have  finally  sealed  up  the  fountains  of 
[lis  inspiration ;  imposed  silence  on  the  cavils 
of  envioufl  rivals,  and  enhanced  the  value  of 


I  those  relics  to  which  it  excludes  the  possi- 
bility of  any  future  addition.     At  all  events, 
I  he  has  better  proof  of  the  permanent  interest 
I  the  public  take  in  his  productions,  than  those 
ever  can  have  who  are  more  diligent  in  their 
1  multiplication,  and  keep  themselves   in  the 
:  recollection  of  their  great  patron  by  more  fre- 
quent  intimations   of  their  existence.     The 
experiment,  too,  though  not  without  its  haz- 
ards, is  advantageous  in  another  respect ; — for 
the  re-appearance  of  such  an   author,  after 
those  long  periods  of  occultation,  is  naturally 
hailed    as  a  novelty — and  he   receives   the 
double  welcome,  of  a  celebrated  stranger,  and 


CAMPBELL'S  THEODlllC. 


3M 


A  remembered  friend.  There  is,  accordingly, 
no  living  poet,  we  believe,  whose  advertise- 
ment excites  greater  expectation  than  Mr, 
Campbell's: — and  a  new  poem  from  him  is 
waited  for  with  even  more  eagerness  (as  it  is 
certainly  for  a  much  longer  time)  than  a  new 
novel  from  the  author  of  Waverley.  Like  all 
other  human  felicities,  however,  this  high  ex- 
pectation and  prepared  homage  has  its  draw- 
backs and  its  dangers.  A  popular  author,  as 
we  have  been  led  to  remark  on'  former  occa- 
sions, has  no  rival  so  formidable  as  his  former 
self — and  no  comparison  to  sustain  half  so 
dangerous  as  that  which  is  always  made  be- 
tween the  average  merit  of  his  new  work,  and 
the  remembered  beauties — for  little  else  is 
ever  remembered — of  his  old  ones. 

How  this  comparison  will  result  in  the 
present  instance,  we  do  not  presume  to  pre- 
dict with  confidence — but  we  doubt  whether 
it  will  be,  at  least  in  the  beginning,  altogether 
in  favour  of  the  volume  before  us.  The 
poems  of  this  author,  indeed,  are  generally 
more  admired  the  more  they  are  studied,  and 
rise  in  our  estimation  in  proportion  as  they 
become  familiar.  Their  novelty,  therefore,  is 
always  rather  an  obstruction  than  a  help  to 
their  popularity; — and  it  may  well  be  ques- 
tioned, whether  there  be  any  thing  in  the 
novelties  now  before  us  that  can  rival  in  our 
affections  the  long-remembered  beauties  of 
the  Pleasures  of  Hope — of  Gertrude — of 
O'Connor's  Child— the  Song  of  Linden— The 
Mariners  of  England — and  the  many  other 
enchanting  melodies  that  are  ever  present  to 
the  minds  of  all  lovers  of  poetry. 

The  leading  piece  in  the  present  volume  is 
an  attempt  at  a  very  difficult  kind  of  poetry; 
and  one  in  which  the  most  complete  success 
can  hardly  ever  be  so  splendid  and  striking  as 
to  make  amends  for  the  difficulty.     It  is  en- 
. titled  "a  Domestic  Story" — and  it  is  so; — 
|turning  upon  few  incidents — embracing  few 
characters — dealing  in   no   marvels   and   no 
terrors — displaying  no  stormy  passions.  With- 
_  out  complication  of  plot,  in  short,  or  hurry  of 
[.action — with  no  atrocities  to  shudder  at,  or 
Ifeats  of  noble  daring  to  stir  the  spirits  of  the 
^ambitious — it  passes  quietly  on,  through  the 
i  shaded  paths  of  private  life,  conversing  with 
gentle  natures  and  patient  sufferings — and  un- 
folding, with  serene  pity  and  sober  triumph, 
the  pangs  which  are  fated  at  times  to  wring 
:the  breast  of  innocence  and  generosity,  and 
the  courage  and  comfort  which  generosity  and 
innocence   can   never   fail   to   bestow.     The 
,  taste  and  the  feeling  which  led  to  the  selec- 
tion of  such  topics,  could  not  but  impress  their 
I' character  on   the   style   in  which   they  are 
p  treated.     It  is  distinguished  accordingly  by  a 
?•  fine  and  tender  finish,  both  of  thought  and  of 
}  diction — by  a  chastened  elegance  of  words 
■  and   images — a  mild  dignity  and  tempered 
pathos  in  the  sentiments,  and  a  general  tone 
of  simplicity  and  directness  in  the  conduct  of 
the  story,  which,  joined  to  its  great  brevity, 
tends  at  first  perhaps  to  disguise   both  the 
richness  and  the  force  of  the  genius  required 
Ifor  its  production.     But  though  not  cahulated 
\o  strike  at  once  on  the  dull  palled  eai   of  an 


idle  and  occupied  world,  it  is  of  all  othen 
perhaps  the  kinti  of  poetry  best  fitted  to  win 
on  our  softer  hours,  and  to  sink  deep  into  va    \ 
cant   bosoms — unlocking  all  the  sources  of  f 
fond   recollection,  and  leading  us  gently  on  /^ 
through  the  mazes  of  deep  and  engrossing, 
meditation — and  thus  ministering  to  a  deeper 
enchantment  and  more  lasting  delight  than 
can  ever  be  inspired  by  the  more  importunate 
strains  of  more  ambitious  authors. 

There  are  no  doubt  peculiar  and  perhaps 
insuperable  difficulties  in  the  management  of 
themes  so  delicate,  and  requiring  so  fine  and 
so  restrained  a  hand — nor  are  we  prepared  to 
say  that  Mr.  Campbell  has  on  this  occasion 
entirely  escaped  them.  There  are  passages 
that  are  somewhat  fade : — there  are  expres- 
sions that  are  trivial : — But  the  prevailing 
character  is  sweetness  and  beauty ;  and  it 
prevails  over  all  that  is  opposed  to  it.  The 
story,  though  abundantly  simple,  as  our  read- 
ers will  immediately  see,  has  two  distinct 
compartments — one  relating  to  the  Swiss 
maiden,  the  other  to  the  English  wife.  The  ' 
former,  with  all  its  accompaniments,  we  think 
nearly  perfect.  It  is  full  of  tenderness,  purity, 
and  pity ;  and  finished  with  the  most  exquisite 
elegance,  in  few  and  simple  touches.  The 
other,  which  is  the  least  considerable,  has 
more  decided  blemishes.  The  diction  is  in 
many  places  too  familiar,  and  the  incidents 
too  common — and  the  cause  of  distress  has 
the  double  misfortune  of  being  unpoetical  in 
its  nature,  and  improbable  in  its  result.  But 
the  shortest  way  is  to  give  our  readers  a  slight 
account  of  the  poem,  with  such  specimens  as 
may  enable  them  to  judge  fairly  of  it  for 
themselves. 

It  opens,  poetically,  with  the  description 
of  a  fine  scene  in  Switzerland,  and  of  a  rustic 
church-)-ard ;  where  the  friend  of  the  author 
points  out  to  him  the  flowery  grave  of  a 
maiden,  who,  though  gentle  and  fair,  had  died 
of  unrequited  love  : — and  so  they  proceed,  be 
tween  them,  for  the  matter  is  left  poetically 
obscure,  to  her  history.  Her  fancy  had  been 
early  captivated  by  the  tales  of  heroic  daring 
and  chivalric  pride,  with  which  her  country's 
annals  abounded — and  she  disdained  to  give 
her  love  to  any  one  who  was  not  graced  with 
the  virtues  and  glories  of  those  heroic  times 
This  exalted  mood  was  unluckily  fostered  by 
her  brother's  youthful  ardour  in  praise  of  the 
commander  under  whom  he  was  seri^ng 
abroad — by  whom  he  was  kindly  tended  when 
wounded,  and  whose  picture  he  brought  back 
with  him  on  his  return  to  his  paternal  home, 
to  renew,  and  seemingly  to  realize,  the  day- 
dreams of  his  romantic  sister.  This  picture, 
and  the  stories  her  brother  told  of  the  noble 
Theodric,  completed  the  poor  girl's  fascina- 
tion. Her  heart  was  kindled  by  her  fancy; 
and  her  love  was  already  fixed  on  a  being  she 
had  never  seen  !  In  the  mean  time,  Theodric, 
who  had  promised  a  visit  to  his  young  protegiy 
passes  over  to  England,  and  is  betrothed  to  a 
lady  of  that  country  of  infinite  worth  and 
amiableness.  He  then  repairs  to  Switzerland, 
where,  after  a  little  time,  he  discovers  the 
love  of  Julia,  which  he  gently,  hut  fiimly  re- 


356 


POETRY. 


bukes-  returns  to  England,  and  is  married. 
His  wife  has  uncomfortable  relations— quarrel- 
some, selfish,  and  envious ',  and  her  peace  is 
sometimes  wounded  by  their  dissensions  and 
pnkindness.  War  breaks  out  anew,  too,  in 
Theodric's  country;  and  as  he  is  meditating 
a  journey  to  that  quarter,  he  is  surprised  by  a 
visit  from  Julia's  brother,  who  informs  him, 
that,  after  a  long  straggle  with  her  cherished 
love,  her  health  had  a^  last  sunk  under  it,  and 
that  she  now  prayed  only  to  see  him  once 
more  before  she  died !  His  wife  generously 
urges  him  to  comply  with  this  piteous  request. 
He  does  so ;  and  arrives,  in  the  midst  of  wintry 
tempests,  to  see  this  pure  victim  of  too  warm 
an  imagination  expire,  in  smiles  of  speechless 
gratitude  and  love.  While  mourning  over 
her,  he  is  appalled  by  tidings  of  the  dangerous 
illness  of  his  beloved  Constance — hurries  to 
England — and  finds  her  dead  ! — her  fate  hav- 
ing been  precipitated,  if  not  occasioned,  by 
the  harsh  and  violent  treatment  she  had  met 
with  from  her  heartless  relations.  The  piece 
closes  with  a  very  touching  letter  she  had  left 
for  her  husband — and  an  account  of  its  sooth- 
ing effects  on  his  mind. 

This,  we  confess,  is  slight  enough,  in  the 
way  of  fable  and  incident :  But  it  is  not  in 
those  things  that  the  merit  of  such  poems 
consists ;  and  what  we  have  given  is  of  course 
a  mere  naked  outline,  or  argument  rather, 
intended  only  to  explain  and  connect  our 
extracts. 

For  these,  we  cannot  possibly  do  better 
than  begin  with  the  beginning. 

"  'Twas  sunset,  and  the  Ranz  des  Vaches  was  sung, 
And  lights  were  o'er  th'  Helvetian  mountains  flung, 
That  gave  the  glacier  tops  their  richest  glow, 
And  ting'd  the  lakes  like  molten  gold  below. 
Warmth  flush'd  the  wonted  regions  of  the  storm, 
Where,  Phoenix-like,  you  saw  the  eagle's  form, 
That  high  in  Heav'ns  vermilion  wheel' d  and  soar'd  ! 
Woods  nearer  frown'd;  and  cataracts  dash'd  and 

roar'd, 
From  heights  brouzed  by  the  bounding  bouquetin  ; 
Herds  tinkUng  roam'd  the  long-drawn  vales  be- 
tween, [green. 
And  hamlets  glitter'd  white,  and  gardens  flourish'd 
'Twas  transport  to  inhale  the  bright  sweet  air ! 
The  mountain-bee  was  revelling  in  its  glare. 
And  roving  with  his  minstrelsy  across 
The  scented  wild  weeds,  and  enamell'd  moss. 
Earth's  features  so  harmoniously  were  link'd, 
She  seem'd  one  great  glad  form,  with  hfe  instinct, 
That  felt  Heav'n^s  ardent  breath,  and  smil'd  below 
Its  flush  of  love  with  consentaneous  glow. 
A  Gothic  church  was  near ;  the  spot  around 
Was  beautiful,  ev'n  though  sepulchral  ground ; 
For  there  nor  yew  nor  cypress  spread  their  gloom, 
But  roses  blossom'd  by  each  rustic  tomb. 
Amidst  them  one  of  spotless  marble  shone — 
A  maiden's  grave — and  'twas  inscrib'd  thereon. 
That  young  and  lov'd  she  died  whose  dust  was 

there : 
"  '  Yes,*  said  mv  comrade,  '  young  she  died,  and 

fair ! 
Grace  form'd  her,  and  the  soul  of  gladness  play'd 
Once  in  the  blue  eyes  of  that  mountain-maid  ! 
Her  fingers  witch'd  the  chords  they  passed  along. 
And  her  lips  seem'd  to  kiss  the  soul  in  song : 
Yet  woo'd  and  worshipp'd  as  she  was,  till  few 
Aspir'd  to  hope,  'twas  sadly,  strangely  true. 
That  heart,  the  martyr  of  its  fondness  burn'd 
^nd  died  of  love  that  could  not  be  return'd. 

**  *  Her  father  dwelt  where  yonder  Castle  shines 


O'er  clust'ring  trees  and  terrace-mantling  vinek 

As  gay  as  ever,  the  laburnum's  pride  [glide- 

Waves  o'er  each  walk  where  she  was  wont  to 
And  still  the  garden  whence  she  grac'd  her  brow, 
As  lovely  blooms,  though  trode  by  strangers  now. 
How  oft  from  yonder  window  o'er  the  lake. 
Her  song,  of  wild  Helvetian  swell  and  shake, 
Has  made  the  rudest  fisher  bend  his  ear. 
And  rest  enchanted  on  his  oar  to  hear! 
Thus  bright,  accomplish'd,  spirited,  and  bland, 
Well-born,  and  wealthy  for  that  simple  land. 
Why  had  no  gallant  native  youth  the  art 
To  win  so  warm — so  exquisite  a  heart  ? 
She,  midst  these  rocks  inspir'd  with  feeling  strong 
By  mountain-freedom — music — fancy — song, 
Herself  descended  from  the  brave  in  arms. 
And  conscious  of  romance-inspiring  charms. 
Dreamt  of  Heroic  beings;  hoped  to  find 
Some  extant  spirit  of  chivalric  kind  ; 
And  scorning  wealth,  look'd  cold  ev'n  on  the  claim 
Of  manly  worth,  that  lack'd  the  wreath  of  Fame.'  " 

pp.  3—7. 

We  pass  over  the  animated  picture  of  the 
brother's  campaigns,  and  of  the  fame  of  Theo- 
dric,  and  the  affectionate  gratitude  of  parents 
and  sister  for  his  care  and  praises  of  their 
noble  boy.  We  must  make  room,  however, 
for  this  beautiful  sketch  of  his  return. 

"In  time,  the  stripling,  vigorous  and  heal'd, 
Resum'd  his  barb  and  banner  in  the  field. 
And  bore  himself  right  soldier-like,  till  now 
The  third  campaign  had  manlier  bronz'd  his  brow  , 
When  peace,  though  but  a  scanty  pause  for  breath — 
A  curtain-drop  between  the  acts  of  death — 
A  check  in  frantic  war's  unfinished  game. 
Yet  dearly  bought,  and  direly  welcome,  came. 
The  camp  broke  up,  and  Udolph  left  his  chief 
As  with  a  son's  or  younger  brother's  grief: 
But  journeying  home,  how  rapt  his  spirits  rose. 
How  light  his  footsteps  crush'd  St.  Gothard's  snows ! 
How  dear  seem'd  ev'n  the  waste  and  wild  Shreck- 

horn, 
Though  wrapt  in  clouds,  and  frowning  as  in  scorn, 
Upon  a  downward  world  of  pastoral  charms  ; 
Where,  by  the  very  smell  of  dairy-farms, 
And  fragrance  from  the  mountain-herbage  blown, 
Blindfold  his  native  hills  he  could  have  known  ! 

"  His  coming  down  yon  lake — his  boat  in  view 
Of  windows  where  love's  flutt'ring  kerchief  flew — 
The  arms  spread  out  for  him — the  tears  that  burst— 
('Twas  Juha's,  'twas  his  sister's  met  him  first:) 
Their  pride  to  see  war's  medal  at  his  breast, 
And  all  their  rapture's  greeting,  may  be  guess' d." 

pp.  12, 13. 

At  last  the  generous  warrior  appears  m  per- 
son among  those  innocent  beings,  to  whom  he 
had  so  long  furnished  the  grand  theme  of  dis- 
course and  meditation. 

"  The  boy  was  half  beside  himself— the  sire, 
All  frankness,  honour,  and  Helvetian  fire. 
Of  speedy  parting  would  not  hear  him  speak ; 
And  tears  bedew'd  and  brighten'd  Julia's  cheek. 

"  Thus,  loth  to  wound  their  hospitable  pride, 
A  month  he  promis'd  with  them  to  abide  ; 
As  blithe  he  trod  the  mountain-sward  as  they, 
And  felt  his  joy  make  ev'n  the  young  more  gay 
How  jocund  was  their  breakfast  parlour,  fann'd 
By  yon  blue  water's  breath ! — their  walks  how 

bland ! 
Fair  Julia  seem'd  her  brother's  soften'd  sprite — 
A  gem  reflecting  Nature's  purest  light — 
And  with  her  graceful  wit  there  was  inwrought 
A  wildly  sweet  unworldhness  of  thought. 
That  almost  child-like  to  his  kindness  drew. 
And  twain  with  Udolph  in  his  friendship  grew. 
But  did  his  thoughts  to  love  one  moment  range  f— 
No !  he  who  had  lov'd  Constance  could  not  change. 
Besides,  till  grief  betray'd  her  undesign'd. 


CAJMPBELL'S  THEODRIC. 


85^ 


Th'  anlikely  thought  could  scarcely  reach  his  mind, 
That  eyes  so  young  on  years  like  his  should  beam 
TJnwoo'd  devotion  back  for  pure  esteem." 

pp.  17,  18. 

S}Tnptoms  still  more  unequivocal,  however, 
at  last  make  explanations  necessary ;  and  he 
is  obliged  to  disclose  to  her  the  secret  of  his 
love  and  engagement  in  England.  The  effects 
of  this  disclosure,  and  all  the  intermediate 
events,  are  described  with  the  same  grace 
and  delicacy.  But  we  pass  at  once  to  the 
close  of  poor  Julia's  pure-hearted  romance. 

"  That  winter's  eve  how  darkly  Nature's  brow 
Scowl'd  on  the  scenes  it  lights  so  lovely  now  ! 
The  tempest,  raging  o'er  the  realms  of  ice. 
Shook  fragments  from  the  rifted  precipice ; 
And  whilst  their  falling  echoed  to  the  wind, 
The  wolf's  long  howl  in  dismal  discord  join'd, 
While  white  yon  water's  foam  was  rais'd  in  clouds 
That  whirl'd  like  spirits  wailing  in  their  shrouds : 
Without  was  Nature's  elemental  din — 
And  Beauty  died,  and  Friendship  wept  within ! 

**  Sweet  Julia,  though  her  fate  was  finish'd  half, 
Still  knew  him — smil'd  on  him  with  feeble  laugh — 
And  blest  him,  till  she  drew  her  latest  sigh ! 

•'  But  lo !  while  Udolph's  bursts  of  agony. 
And  age's  tremulous  waihngs,  round  him  rose. 
What  accents  pierced  him  deeper  yet  than  those ! 
'Twas  tidings — by  his  English  messenger 
Of  Constance — brief  and  terrible  they  were,"  &c. 

pp.  35,  36. 

These  must  suffice  as  specimens  of  the 
Swiss  part  of  the  poem,  which  we  have  al- 
ready said  we  consider  as  on  the  whole  the 
most  perfect.  The  English  portion  is  un- 
doubtedly liable  to  the  imputation  of  being 
occupied  with  scenes  too  familiar,  and  events 
too  trivial,  to  admit  of  the  higher  embellish- 
ments of  poetry.  The  occasion  of  Theodric's 
first  seeing  Constance — in  the  streets  of  Lon- 
don on  a  night  of  public  rejoicing — certainly 
trespasses  on  the  borders  of  this  wilful  stoop- 
ing of  the  ]Muses'  flight — though  the  scene 
itself  is  described  with  great  force  and  beauty. 

*'  'Twas  a  glorious  sight ! 
At  eve  stupendous  London,  clad  in  light, 
Pour'd  out  triumphant  multitudes  to  gaze  ;  • 
ifouth.  a^e,  wealth,  penury,  smiling  in  the  blaze! 
Th'  illumin'd  atmosphere  was  warm  and  bland, 
A.nd  Beauty's  groups  the  fairest  of  the  land. 
Conspicuous,  as  in  some  wide  festive  room, 
(n  open  chariots  pass'd,  with  pearl  and  plume. 
\midst  them  he  remark'd  a  lovelier  mien,"  &c 

p.  15. 

The  description  of  Constance  herself,  how- 
ever, is  not  liable  to  this,  or  to  any  other  ob- 
jection. 

"  And  to  know  her  well 

Prolong'd,  exalted,  bound,  enchantment's  spell ; 
For  with  affections  warm,  intense,  refin'd. 
She  mix'd  such  calm  and  holy  strength  of  mind, 
That,  like  Heav'n's  image  in  the  smiling  brook, 
Celestial  peace  was  pictur'd  in  her  look, 
^ers  was  the  brow,  in  trials  unperplex'd, 
That  cheer' d  the  sad  and  tranquilliz'd  the  vex'd. 
6he  studied  not  the  meanest  to  eclipse, 
And  yet  the  wisest  listen'd  to  her  lips ; 
Bke  sang  not,  knew  not  Music's  magic  skill, 
But  yet  her  voice  had  tones  that  sway'd  the  will." 

p.  16. 
"  To  paint  that  being  to  a  grov'ling  mind 
Were  like  pourtraying  pictures  to  the  bhnd. 
'Twas  needful  ev'n  infectiously  to  feel 
Her  temper's  fond,  and  firm,  and  gladsome  zeal, 


To  share  existence  with  her,  and  to  gain 
Sparks  from  her  love's  electrifying  chnin. 
Of  that  pure  pride,  which,  lessening  to  her  biiast 
Life's  ills,  gave  all  its  joys  a  treble  zest, 
Before  the  mind  completely  understood 
That  mighty  truth — how  happy  are  the  good !" 

p.  25. 

All  this,  we  think,  is  dignified  enough  foi 
poetry  of  any  description  :  but  we  really  can- 
not extend  the  same  indulgence  to  the  small 
tracassaries  of  this  noble  creature's  unworthy 
relations — their  peevish  quarrels,  and  her  fj 
painful  attempts  to  reconcile  them — her  hus- 
band's grudges  at  her  absence  on  those  er- 
rands— their  teazing  visits  to  him — and  hia 
vexation  at  their  false  reports  that  she  was  to 
spend  '•  yet  a  fortnight ''  away  from  him.  We 
object  equally  lo  the  substance  and  the  dic- 
tion of  the  passages  to  which  we  now  refer. 
There  is  something  questionable  even  in  the 
fatal  indications  by  which,  on  approaching 
his  home,  he  was  first  made  aware  of  the 
calamity  which  had  befallen  him — though 
undoubtedly  there  is  a  terrible  truth  and  im- 
pressive brevity  in  the  passage. 

'•  Nor  hope  left  utterly  his  breast. 
Till  reaching  home,  terrific  omen  !  there 
The  straw-laid  street  preluded  his  despair — 
The  servant's  16ok — the  table  that  reveal'd 
His  letter  sent  to  Constance  last,  still  seal'd, 
Though  speech  and  hearing  left  him,  told  too  clear 
That  he  had  now  to  suffer — not  to  fear  !" — p.  37. 

We  shall  only  add  the  pathetic  letter  in 
which  this  noble  spirit  sought,  from  her  death- 
bed, to  soothe  the  beloved  husband  she  ^^aa 
leaving  with  so  much  reluctance. 

"  '  Theodric  I  this  is  destiny  above 
Our  power  to  baffle  !     Bear  it  then,  my  love  ! 
Your  soul,  I  know,  as  firm  is  knit  to  mine 
As  these  clasp'd  hands  in  blessing  you  now  join  : 
Shape  not  imagin'd  horrors  in  my  fate — 
Ev'n  now  my  suff' rings  are  not  very  great ; 
And  when  your  griefs  first  transports  shall  sub- 
I  call  upon  your  strength  of  soul  and  pride      [side. 
To  pay  my  memory,  if  'tis  worth  the  debt 
Love's  glorifying  tribute — not  forlorn  regret  t 
I  charge  my  name  with  power  to  conjure  up 
Reflection's  balmy,  not  its  bitter  cup. 
My  pard'ning  angel,  at  the  gates  of  Heaven, 
Shall  look  not  more  regard  than  you  have  given 
To  me:  and  our  life's  union  has  been  clad 
In  smiles  of  bliss  as  sweet  as  life  e'er  had. 
Shall  gloom  be  from  such  bright  remembrance  caatf 
Shall  bitterness  outflow  from  sweetness  past  ? 
No  I  imaged  in  the  sanctuary  of  your  breast. 
There  letme  smile,  amidst  high  thoughts  at  rest; 
And  let  contentment  on  your  spirit  shine. 
As  if  its  peace  were  still  a  part  of  mine  : 
For  if  you  war  not  proudly  with  your  pain, 
For  you  I  shall  have  worse  than  liv'd  in  vain. 
But  I  conjure  your  manliness  to  bear 
My  loss  with  noble  spirit — not  despair  • 
I  ask  you  by  our  love  to  promise  this  ! 
And  kiss  these  words,  where  I  have  left  a  kiss— 
The  latest  from  my  Uving  lips  for  yours  ?'  " 

pp.  39 — 41. 

The  tone  of  this  tender  farewell  must  re- 
mind all  our  readers  of  the  catastrophe  of 
Gertrude ;  and  certainly  exjwses  the  author  lo 
the  charge  of  some  poverty  of  invention  n 
the  structure  of  his  pathetic  narratives — a 
charge  from  which  we  are  not  at  this  moment 
particularly  solicitous  to  defend  him. 

The  minor  poems  which  occupy  the  rest  .i" 


358 


POETRY. 


the  volume  are  of  various  character,  and  of 
course  of  unequal  merit ;  though  all  of  them 
are  marked  by  that  exquisite  melody  of  ver- 
sification, and  general  felicity  of  diction, 
which  makes  the  mere  recitation  of  their 
words  a  luxury  to  readers  of  taste,  even  .when 
they  pay  but  little  attention  to  their  sense. 
Most  of  them,  we  believe,  have  already  ap- 
peared in  occasional  publications,  though  it  is 
quite  time  that  they  should  be  collected  and 
engrossed  in  a  less  perishable  record.  If 
they  are  less  brilliant,  on  the  whole,  than  the 
most  exquisite  productions  of  the  author's 
earlier  days,  they  are  generally  marked,  we 
think,  by  greater  solemnity  and  depth  of 
thought,  a  vein  of  deeper  reflection,  and  more 
intense  s\Tnpathy  with  human  feelings,  and, 
if  possible,  by  a  more  resolute  and  entire  de- 
votion to  the  cause  of  liberty.  Mr.  Campbell, 
we  rejoice  to  say,  is  not  among  those  poets 
whose  hatred  of  oppression  has  been  chilled 
by  the  lapse  of  years,  or  allayed  by  the  sug- 
gestions of  a  base  self-interest.  He  has  held 
on  his  course  through  good  and  through  bad 
report,  unseduced,  unterrified ;  and  is  now 
found  in  his  duty,  testifying  as  fearlessly 
against  the  invaders  of  Spain,  in  the  volume 
before  us,  as  he  did  against  the  spoilers  of 
Poland  in  the  very  first  of  his  publications.  It 
is  a  proud  thing  indeed  for  England,  for  poetry, 
and  for  mankind,  that  all  }he  illustrious  poets 
of  the  present  day — Byron,  Moore,  Rogers, 
Campbell — are  distinguished  by  their  zeal  for 
freedom,  and  their  scorn  for  courtly  adula- 
tion; while  those  who  have  deserted  that 
manly  and  holy  cause  have,  from  that  hour, 
felt  their  inspiration  withdrawn,  their  harp- 
strings  broken,  and  the  fire  quenched  in  their 
censers  I  Even  the  Laureate,  since  his  un- 
happy Vision  of  Judgment,  has  ceased  to 
sing;  and  fallen  into  undutiful  as  well  as 
ignoble  silence,  even  on  court  festivals.  As 
a  specimen  of  the  tone  in  which  an  unbought 
Muse  can  yet  address  herself  to  public 
themes,  we  subjoin  a  few  stanzas  of  a  noble 
ode  to  the  Memory  of  the  Spanish  Patriots 
who  died  in  resisting  the  late  atrocious  inva- 


"  Brave  men  who  at  the  Trocadero  fell 
Beside  your  cannons — conquer'dnot,  though  slain! 
There  is  a  victory  in  dying  well 
For  Freedom — and  ye  have  not  died  in  vain  ; 
For  come  what  may,  there  shall  be  hearts  in  Spain 
To  honour,  ay,  embrace  your  martyr'd  lot, 
Cursing  the  Bigot's  and  the  Bourbon's  chain, 
And  looking  on  your  graves,  though  trophied  not. 
As  holier,  hallow'd  ground  than  priests  could  make 
the  spot !" 

"  Yet  laugh  not  in  your  carnival  of  crime 
Too  proudly,  ye  oppressors  ! — Spain  was  free  ; 
Her  soil  has  felt  the  foot-prints,  and  her  clime 
Been  winnow'd  by  the  wings  of  Liberty  ! 
And  these,  even  parting,  scatter  as  they  flee 
Thoughts — influences,  to  live  in  hearts  unborn, 
Opinions  that  shall  wrench  (he  prison-key 
From  Persecution — show  her  mask  oflf-torn, 
^nd  tramp  her  bloated  head  beneath  the  foot  of 
Scorn. 

'  Glory  to  them  that  die  in  this  great  cause  ! 
Kings,  Bigots,  can  inflict  no  brand  of  shame. 
Or  shape  of  death,  to  shroud  them  from  applause: — 
No  ' — manglers  of  the  martyr's  earthly  frame  ! 


Your  hangman  fingers  cannot  touch  his  fame 
Still  in  your  prostrate  land  there  shall  be  some 
Proud  hearts,  the  shrines  of  Freedom's  vestalflamcj. 
Long  trains  of  ill  may  pass  unheeded,  dumb, 
But  Vengeance  is  behind,  and  Justice  is  to  come. ' 

pp.  78—81. 

Mr.  Campbell's  muse,  however,  is  by  no 
means  habitually  political;  and  the  greater 
part  of  the  pieces  in  this  volume  have  a  purely 
moral  or  poetical  character.  The  exquisite 
stanzas  to  the  Rainbow,  we  believe,  are  in 
every  body's  hands ;  but  we  cannot  resist  the 
temptation  of  transcribing  the  latter  part  of 
them. 

"  When  o'er  the  green  undelug'd  earth 
Heaven's  covenant  thou  didst  shine. 
How  came  the  world's  grey  fathers  forth 
To  watch  thy  sacred  sign  ? 

"  And  when  its  yellow  lustre  smil'd 

O'er  mountains  yet  untrod. 

Each  mother  held  aloft  iier  child 

To  bless  the  bow  of  God ! 

"  Methinks,  thy  jubilee  to  keep, 
The  first-made  anthem  rang, 
On  earth  deliver'd  from  the  deep, 
And  the  first  poet  sang. 

"  Nor  ever  shall  the  Muse's  eye 
Unraptur'd  greet  thy  beam  : 
Theme  of  primeval  prophecy, 
Be  still  the  poet's  theme  ! 

"  The  earth  to  thee  her  incense  yields, 
The  lark  thy  welcome  sings. 
When  glitt'ring  in  the  freshen'd  fields 
The  snowy  mushroom  springs  1 

"  How  glorious  is  thy  girdle  cast 
O'er  mountain,  tower,  and  town, 
Or  mirror'd  in  the  ocean  vast, 
A  thousand  fathoms  down  ! 

"  As  fresh  in  yon  horizon  dark. 
As  young  thy  beauties  seem, 
As  when  the  eagle  from  the  ark 
First  sported  in  thy  beam. 

"  For,  faithful  to  its  sacred  page, 
Heaven  still  rebuilds  thy  span, 
Nor  lets  thy  type  grow  pale  with  age 
That  first  spoke  peace  to  man." 

pp.  52—55. 

The  beautiful  verses  on  Mr.  Kemble's  re- 
tirement from  the  stage  afford  a  very  re- 
markable illustration  of  the  tendency  of  Mr. 
Campbell's  genius  to  raise  ordinary  themea 
into  occasions  of  pathetic  poetry,  and  to  invest 
trivial  occurrences  with  the  mantle  of  solemn 
thought.     We  add  a  few  of  the  stanzas. 

"  His  was  the  spell  o'er  hearts 

Which  only  acting  lends — 
The  youngest  of  the  sister  Arts, 

Where  all  their  beauty  blends : 
For  ill  can  Poetry  express. 

Full  many  a  tone  of  thought  sublime, 
And  Painting,  mute  and  motionless. 

Steals  but  a  glance  of  time. 
But  by  the  mighty  Actor  brought, 

Illusion's  perfect  triumphs  come — 
Verse  ceases  to  be  airy  thought, 

And  Sculpture  to  be  dumb." 

"  Hieh  were  the  task — too  high. 
Ye  conscious  bosoms  here ! 
In  words  to  paint  your  memory 
Of  Kemble  and  of  Lear! 
But  who  forgets  that  white  discrowned  head,- 
Those  bursts  of  Reason's  half-extinguish'd  glare 


SCOTT'S  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


35S 


Those  tears  upon  Cordelia's  bosom  shed, 
\n  doubt  more  touching  than  despair, 
If  'twas  reaUty  he  lelt  ?'* 

''  And  (here  was  many  an  hour 

Ot"  blended  kindred  fame, 
When  Siddons's  auxiliar  power 

And  sister  magic  came. 
Together  at  the  Muse's  side 

The  tragic  paragons  had  grown — 
They  were  the  children  of  her  pride, 

The  columns  of  her  throne  ! 
And  undivided  favour  ran 

From  heart  to  heart  in  their  applause, 
Save  for  the  gallantry  of  man. 

In  lovelier  woman's  cause." — pp.  64 — 67. 

We  have  great  difficulty  in  resisting  the 
temptation  to  go  on :  But  in  conscience  we 
rmst  stop  here.  We  are  ashamed,  indeed, 
to  think  how  considerable  a  proportion  of  this 
little  volimie  we  have  already  transferred  into 
our  extracts.  Nor  have  we  much  to  say  of 
the  poems  we  have  not  extracted.  -The 
Ritter  Bann"  and  '-Reullura"  are  the  two 
longest  pieces,  after  Theodric — but  we  think 
not  the  most  successful.  Some  of  the  songs 
are  exquisite — and  most  of  the  occasional 
poems  too  good  for  occasions. 

The  volume  is  very  small — and  it  contains 
all  that  the  distinguished  author  has  written 
for  many  years.  We  regret  this  certainly : — 
but  we  do  not  presume  to  complain  of  it. 
The  service  of  the  Muses  is  a  free  service — 
and  all  that  we  receive  from  their  votaries  is 
a  free  gift,  for  which  we  are  bound  to  them 
in  gratitude — not  a  tribute,  for  the  tardy 
rendering  of  which  they  are  to  be  threatened 
or  distrained.  They  stand  to  the  public  in 
the  relation  of  bSnefactors,  not  of  debtors. 
They  shower  their  largesses  on  unthankful 
heads;  and  disclaim  the  trammels  of  any 
sordid  contract.  They  are  not  articled  clerks, 
in  short,  whom  we  are  entitled  to  scold  for 
their  idleness,  but  the  liberal  donors  of  im- 
mortal possessions;  for  which  they  require 
only  the  easy  quit-rent  of  our  praise.  If  Mr. 
Campbell  is  lazy,  therefore,  he  has  a  right  to 
enjoy  his  laziness,  uimiolested  by  our  impor- 
tunities.     If,  as  we  rather  presume  is  the 


case,  he  prefer  other  employments  to  the 
feverish  occupation  of  poetry,  he  has  a  right 
surely  to  choose  his  employments — and  ii 
more  likely  to  choose  well,  than  the  herd  oJ 
his  officious  advisers.  For  our  own  parts, 
we  are  ready  at  all  times  to  hail  his  appear- 
ances with  delight — but  we  wait  for  them 
with  respect  and  patience ;  and  conceive  that 
we  have  no  title  to  accelerate  them  by  our 
reproaches. 

Before  concluding,  we  would  wish  also  to 
protect  him  against  another  kind  of  injustice. 
Comparing  ihe  small  bulk  of  his  publications 
with  the  length  of  time  that  elapses  between 
them,  people  are  apt  to  wonder  that  so  little 
has  been  produced  after  so  long  an  incuba- 
tion, and  that  poems  are  not  better  which  are 
the  work  of  so  many  years — absurdly  suppo- 
sing, that  the  ingenious  author  is  actually 
labouring  all  the  while  at  what  he  at  last 
produces,  and  has  been  diligently  at  work 
during  the  whole  interval  in  perfecting  that 
which  is  at  last  discovered  to  fall  short  of 
perfection  !  To  those  who  know  the  habits 
of  literary  men,  nothing  however  can  be  more 
ridiculous  than  this  supposition.  Your  true 
drudges,  with  whom  all  that  is  intellectual 
moves  most  wretchedly  slow,  are  the  quickest 
and  most  regular  with  their  publications; 
while  men  of  genius,  whose  thoughts  play 
with  the  ease  and  rapidity  of  lightning,  often 
seem  tardy  to  the  public,  because  there  are 
long  intervals  between  the  flashes  !  We  are 
far  from  undervaluing  that  care  and  labour 
without  which  no  finished  performance  can 
ever  be  produced  by  mortals  ;  and  still  farther 
from  thinking  it  a  reproach  to  any  author, 
that  he  takes  pains  to  render  his  works  worthy 
of  his  fame.  But  when  the  slowness  and  the 
size  of  his  publications  are  invidiously  put 
together  in  order  to  depreciate  their  merits, 
or  to  raise  a  doubt  as  to  the  force  of  the  ge- 
nius that  produced  them,  we  think  it  right  to 
enter  our  caveat  against  a  conclusion,  which 
is  as  rash  as  it  is  ungenerous;  and  indicates 
a  spirit  rather  of  detraction  than  of  reasonable 
judgment. 


(2lpril,  1805.) 


The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel :  a  Poem.    By  Walter  Scott,  Esq.  4to.  pp.  318.     Edinburgh, 
Constable  and  Co. :  London,  Lonarman  and  Co. :  1805.* 


.  We  consider  this  poem  as  an  attempt  to 
transfer  the  refinements  of  modern  poetry  to 
the  matter  and  the  manner  of  the  ancient 

-__ 

/  *  The  Novels  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  have,  no 
(doubt,  cast  his  Poetry  into  the  shade  :  And  it  is 
beyond  question  that  they  must  always  occupy  the 
highest  and  most  conspicuous  place  in  that  splendid 
trophy  which  his  genius  has  reared  to  his  memor]^^ 
Yet,  when  I  recollect  the  vehement  admiration  it 
once  excited,  I  cannot  part  with  the  belief  that 
there  is  much  in  his  poetry  also,  which  our  age 
fitionld  not  allow  to  be  forgotten.  And  it  is  under 
«IU8  impression  that  I  now  venture  to  reprint  my 


metrical  romance.  /  The  author,  enamoured 
of  the  lofty  visioris  of  chivalry,  and  partial 
to  the  strams  in  which  they  were  formerly 

contemporary  notices  of  the  two  poems  which  I 
think  produced  the  greatest  effect  at  the  time  :  the 
one  as  the  first  and  most  strikingly  original  of  the 
whole  series:  the  other  as  being  on  the  whole 
the  best ;  and  also  as  having  led  me  to  make  some 
remarks,  not  only  on  the  general  character  of  the 
author'  s  genius,  but  on  the  peculiar  perils  o^ 
very  popular  poetry — of  which  the  time  that  has 
since  elapsed  has  afforded  some  curious  illustra' 
tions. 


360 


POETRY. 


embodied  J  seems  to  have  employed  all  the 
resources,  of  his  genius  in  endeavouring  to 
recall  them  to  the  favour  and  admiration  of 
Ihe  public  ]  and  in  adapting  to  the  taste  of 
modern  readers  a  species  of  poetry  which 
was  once  the  delight  of  the  courtly,  but  has 
long  ceased  to  gladden  any  other  eyes  than 
those  of  the  scholar  and  the  antiquary.  <_This 
is  a  romance,  therefore,  composed  by  a  min- 
strel of  the  present  day:  or  such  a  romance 
as  we  may  suppose  would  have  been  written 
in  modern  times,  if  that  style  of  composition 
had  continued  to  be  cultivated,  and  partaken 
consequently  of  the  improvements  which 
every  branch  of  literature  has  received  since 
the  time  of  its  desertion.^ 

Upon  this  supposition,/!;  was  evidently  Mr. 
Scott's  business  to  retaih  all  that  was  good, 
and  to  reject  all  that  was  bad  in  the  models 
upon  which  he  was  to  form  himself  J  adding, 
at  the  same  time,  all  the  interest  and  beauty 
which  could  possibly  be  assimilated  to  the 
manner  and  spirit  of  his  originals.  It  was  his 
duty,  therefore,  to  refonn  the  rambling^  ob- 
scure, and  interminable  narratives  of  the  an- 
•cient  romancers — to  moderate  their  digressions 
— to  abridge  or  retrench  their  unmerciful  or 
■  needless  descriptions — and  to  expunge  alto- 
gether those  feeble  and  prosaic  passages,  the 
/rude  stupidity  of  w^hich  is  so  apt  to  excite  the 
derision  of  a  modern  reader.  At  the  same 
time,  he  was  to  rival,  if  he  could,  the  force  and 
vivacity  of  their  minute  and  varied  representa- 
tions— the  characteristic  simplicity  of  their 
pictures  of  manners — the  energy  and  concise- 
ness with  which  they  frequently  describe 
great  events — and  the  lively  colouring  and  ac- 
curate drawing  by  which  they  give  the  effect 
of  reality  to  every  scene  they  undertake  to 
delineate.  In  executing  this  arduous  task,  he 
was  permitted  to  avail  himself  of  all  that 
variety  of  style  and  manner  which  had  been 
sanctioned  by  the  ancient  practice  ;  and  bound 
to  embellish  his  perfonnance  with  all  the 
graces  of  diction  and  versification  which  could 
be  reconciled  to  the  simplicity  and  familiarity 
of  the  minstrel's  song. 

With  w^hat  success  iVIr.  Scott's  efforts  have 
been  attended  in  the  execution  of  this  adven- 
turous undertaking,  our  readers  will  be  better 
able  to  judge  in  the  sequel :  but.  in  the  mean 
time,.;  we  may  safely  venture  to  assert,  that  he 
tias  produced  a  very  beautiful  and  entertain- 
ing poem,  in  a  style  which  may  fairly  be  con- 
sidered as  original ;  and  which  will  be  allowed 
to  afford  satisfactory  evidence  of  the  genius 
of  the  author,  even  though  he  should  not  suc- 
ceed in  converting  the  public  to  his  own 
opinion  as  to  the  interest  or  dignity  of  the  sub- 
ject. We  are  ourselves  inclined  indeed  to 
suspect  that  his  partiality  for  the  strains  of 
mtiquity  has  imposed  a  little  upon  the  sever- 
ity of  his  judgment,  and  impaired  the  beauty 
ef  the  present  imitation,  by  directing  his  at- 
tention rather  to  what  was  characteristic,  than 
to  what  was  unexceptionable  in  his  originals, 
'  Though  he  has  spared  too  many  of  their  faults, 
however,  he  has  certainly  improved  upon 
.iheir  beauties:  and  while  we  can  scarcely 
ih'Jo  1  Rr:rettingj  that  the  feuds  of  Border  chief- 


tains should  have  monopolised  as  mucli  p.)t,' 
try  as  might  have  served  to  immortalise  the 
whole  baronage  of  the  empire,,  we  are  the/ 
more  inclined  to  admire  the  interest  and  mag- 
nificence  which  he  has  contrivea  to  communi-| 
c^e  to  a  subject  so  unpromising. 
^,!  Whatever  may  be  thought  of  the  conduct 
of  the  main  story,  the  manner  .of  introducing  , 
it  must  be  allowed  to  be  extremely  poetical./ 
An  aged  minstrel  who  had  "harped  to  King 
Charles  the  Good,"  and  learned  to  love  his  art 
at  a  time  when  it  was  honoured  by  all  that 
was  distinguished  in  rank  or  in  genius,  having 
fallen  into  neglect  and  misery  in  the  evil  days 
of  the  usurpation,  and  the  more  frivolous  gaie- 
ties or  bitter  contentions  of  the  succeeding 
peigns,  is  represented  as  wandering  about  the 
Border  in  poverty  and  solitude,  a  few  years 
after  the  Revolution.  In  this  situation  he  is 
driven,  by  want  and  weariness,  to  seek  shelter 
in  the  Border  castle  of  the  Duchess  of  Buc- 
cleuch  and  Monmouth ;  and  being  cheered  by 
the  hospitality  of  his  reception,  offers  to  sing 
"an  ancient  strain,"  relating  to  the  old  war- 
riors of  her  family ;  and  after  some  fruitless 
attempts  to  recall  the  long-forgotten  melody, 
pours  forth  "The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,'^ 
in  six  cantos,  very  skilfully  divided  by  some 
recurrence  to  his  own  situation,  and  some 
complimentary  interruptions  from  his  noble 
auditors. 

The  construction  of  a  fable  seems  by  no 
means  the  forte  of  our  modem  poetical  wri-^ 
ters  ]  and  no  great  artifice,  in  that  respect,  was" 
to  be  expected,  perhaps,  from  an  imitator  of 
the  ancient   romancers.     ^Ir.  Scott,  indeed]fs 
has  himself  insinuated,  that  he  considered  the 
story  as  an   object  of  very  subordinate  im- 
portance ;  and  that  he  Avas  less  solicitous  to 
deliver  a  reg-ular  narrative,  than  to  connec 
such  a  series  of  incidents  as  might  enable  him^ 
to  introduce  the  manners  he  had  undertaken! 
to   delineate,  and   the   imagery  with  which 


es,./ 

forf 

fa-\ 


they  were  associated^  Though  the  conceptionX 
of  the  fable  is,  probably  from  these  causes,./ 
exceedingly  defective,  it  is  proper  to  lay 
short  sketch  of  it  before  our  readers,  both  ' 
the  gratification  of  their  curiosity,  and  to 
cilitate  the  application  of  the  remarks  w^e  may 
be  afterwards  tempted  to  offer. 
■  Sir  Walter  Scott  of  Buccleuch,  the  Lord  of 
Branksome,  was  slain  in  a  skirmish  with  the 
Cars,  about  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury. He  left  a  daughter  of  matchless  beauty, 
an  infant  son,  and  a  high-minded  widow,  who, 
though  a  very  virtuous  and  devout  person,  was 
privately  addicted  to  the  study  of  Magic,  in 
which  she  had  been  initiated  by  her  iather. 
Lord  Cranstoun  their  neighbour  was  at  feud 
with  the  whole  clan  of  Scott ;  but  had  fallen 
desperately  in  love  with  the  daughter,  who 
returned  his  passion  with  equal  sincerity  and 
ardour,  though  withheld,  by  her  duty  to  her 
mother,  from  uniting  her  destiny  with  his. 
The  poem  opens  with  a  description  of  the  war- 
like  establishment  of  Branksome-hall ;  and 
the  first  incident  which  occurs  is  a  dialogue 
between  the  Spirits  of  the  adjoining  mountain 
and  river,  who,  after  consulting  the  stars,  de- 
clare that  no  good  fortune  can  ever  bless  the 


SCOTT'S  LA.Y  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


J6i 


mansion  '  till  pride  be  quelled,  and  love  be 
free."  The  lady,  whose  forbidden  studies 
had  taught  her  to  understand  the  language  of 
"juch  speakers,  overhears  this  conversation; 
and  vows,  if  possible,  to  retain  her  purpose  in 
spite  of  it.  She  calls  a  g-allant  knight  of  her 
train,  therefore,  and  directs  him  to  ride  im- 
mediately to  the  abbey  of  Melrose,  and  there 
to  ask,  from  the  monk  of  St.Mary'Saisle,  the 
mighty  book  that  was  hid  in  the  tomb  of  the 
wizard  Michael  Scott.  The  remainder  of  the 
first  canto  is  occupied  with  the  night  journey 
of  the  warrior.  When  he  delivers  his  mes- 
sage, the  monk  appears  filled  with  consterna- 
tion and  terror,  but  leads  him  at  last  through 
many  galleries  and  chapels  to  the  spot  where 
the  wizard  was  interred ;  and,  after  some  ac- 
count of  his  life  and  character,  the  warrior 
heaves  up  the  tomb-stone,  and  is  dazzled  by 
the  streaming  splendour  of  an  ever-burning 
lamp,  which  illuminates  the  sepulchre  of  the 
enchanter.  With  trembling  hand  he  takes 
the  book  from  the  side  of  the  dece&sed,  and 
\   hurries  home  with  it  in  his  bosom-  / 

In  the  mean  tim.e,  Lord  Cranstoun  and  the 
lovely  Marg-aret  have  met  at  dawn  in  the 
woods  adjacent  to  the  castle,  and  are  repeat- 
ing their  vows  of  true  love,  when  they  are 
startled  by  the  approach  of  a  horseman.  The 
lady  retreats ;  and  the  lover  advancing,  finds 
it  to  be  the  messenger  from  Branksome,  with 
whom,  as  an  hereditary  enemy,  he  thinks  it 
necessary  to  enter  immediately  into  combat. 
The  poor  knight,  fatigued  with  his  nocturnal 
adventures,  is  dismounted  at  the  first  shock, 
and  falls  desperately  wounded  to  the  ground ; 
while  Lord  Cranstoun,  relenting  towards  the 
kinsman  of  his  beloved,  directs  his  page  to 
attend  him  to  the  castle,  and  gallops  home 
before  any  alarm  can  be  given.  Lord  Cran- 
stoun's  page  is  something  unearthly.  It  is  a 
little  misshapen  dwarf,  whom  he  found  one 
day  when  he  was  hunting,  in  a  solitary  glen, 
and  took  home  with  him.  It  never  speaks, 
except  now  and  then  to  cry  "  Lost !  lost ! 
lost !"  and  is,  on  the  whole,  a  hateful,  mali- 
cious little  urchin,  with  no  one  good  quality 
but  his  unaccountable  attachment  and  fidelity 
to  his  master.  This  personage,  on  approaching 
the  wounded  Borderer,  discovers  the  mighty 
book  in  his  bosom,  which  he  finds  some  diffi- 
culty in  opening,  and  has  scarcely  had  time 
to  read  a  single  spell  in  it,  when  he  is  stmck 
down  by  an  invisible  hand,  and  the  clasps  of 
the  magic  volume  shut  suddenly  more  closely 
than  ever.  This  one  spell,  however,  enables 
him  to  practice  every  kind  of  illusion.  He 
lays  the  wounded  knight  on  his  horse,  and 
leads  him  into  the  castle,  while  the  warders 
see  nothing  but  a  wain  of  hay.  He  throws 
him  down,  unperceived,  at  the  door  of  the 
lady's  chamber,  and  turns  to  make  good  his 
retreat.  In  passing  throngh  the  court,  how- 
ever, he  sees  the  young  heir  of  Buccleuch  at 
play,  and.  assuming  the  form  of  one  of  his 
companions,  tempts  him  to  go  out  with  him 
to  the  woods,  where,  as  soon  as  they  pass  a 
rivulet,  he  resumes  his  own  shape,  an^  bounds 
away.  The  bewildered  child  is  met  by  two 
English  archers,  who  make  prize  of  him,  and 


carry  him  off,  while  the  goblin  page  returns 
to  the  castle  \  where  he  personates  the  young 
baron,  to  the  great  annoyance  ')f  the  whole 
inhabitants. 

The  lady  finds  the  wounded  knight,  and 
eagerly  employs  charms  for  his  recovery,  that 
she  may  learn  the  story  of  his  disaster.  The 
lovely  Margaret,  in  the  mean  time,  is  sitting 
in  her  turret,  gazing  on  the  western  star,  and 
musing  on  the  scenes  of  the  morning,  when 
she  discovers  the  blazing  beacons  that  an- 
nounce the  approach  of  an  English  enemy. 
The  alarm  i&  immediately  given,  and  bustling 
preparation  made  throughout  the  mansion  for 
defence.  The  English  force  under  the  com- 
mand of  the  Lords  Howard  and  Dacre  speedily 
appears  before  the  castle,  leading  with  them 
the  young  Buccleuch ;  and  propose  that  the 
lady  should  ehher  give  up  Sir  William  of 
Deloraine  (who  had  been  her  messenger  to 
Melrose),  as  having  incurred  the  guilt  of 
march  treason,  or  receive  an  English  garrison 
within  her  walls.  She  answers,  with  much 
spirit,  that  her  kinsman  will  clear  himself  of 
the  imputation  of  treason  by  single  combat, 
and  that  no  foe  shall  ever  get  admittance  into 
her  fortress.  The  English  Lords,  being  se- 
cretly apprised  of  the  approach  of  powerful 
succours  to  the  besieged,  agree  to  the  proposal 
of  the  combat;  and  stipulate  that  the  boy 
shall  be  restored  to  liberty  or  detained  in 
bondage,  according  to  the  issue  of  the  battle. 
The  lists  are  appointed  for  the  ensuing  day; 
and  a  trace  being  proclaimed  in  the  mean 
time,  the  opposite  bands  mingle  in  hospitality 
and  friendship. 

Deloraine  being  wounded,  was  expected  to 
appf-ar  by  a  champion  ;  and  some  contention 
arists  for  the  honour  of  that  substitution. — 
This,  however,  is  speedily  terminated  by  a 
person  in  the  armour  of  the  warrior  himself, 
who  encounters  the  English  champion,  slays 
him,  and  leads  his  captive  young  chieftain  to 
the  embraces  of  his  mother.  At  this  moment 
Deloraine  himself  appears,  half-clothed  and 
unarmed,  to  claim  the  combat  which  has  been 
terminated  in  his  absence !  and  all  flock 
around  the  stranger  who  had  personated  him 
so  successfully.  He  unclasps  his  helmet ; 
and  behold  !  Lord  Cranstoun  of  Teviotside  ! 
The  lady,  overcome  with  gratitude,  and  the 
remembrance  of  the  spirits'  prophecy,  con- 
sents to  forego  the  feud,  and  to  give  the  fair 
hand  of  Margaret  to  that  of  the  enamoured 
Baron.  The  rites  of  betrothment  are  then 
celebrated  with  great  magnificence  :  and  a 
splendid  entertainment  given  to  all  the  Eng- 
lish and  Scottish  chieftains  whom  the  alarm 
had  assembled  at  Branksome.  Lord  Cran- 
stoun's  page  plays  several  unlucky  tricks 
during  the  festival,  and  breeds  some  dissen- 
sion among  the  warriors.  To  soothe  their 
ireful  mood,  the  minstrels  are  introduced, 
who  recite  three  ballad  pieces  of  considerable 
merit.  Just  as  their  songs  are  ended,  a  super 
natural  darkness  spreads  itself  through  the 
hall ;  a  tremendous  flash  of  lightning  and  peal 
of  thunder  ensue,  which  break  just  on  the 
spot  where  the  goblin  page,  had  been  seated, 
who  is  heard  lo  f  ry  ''  Foun  \  !  found !  found  1" 


362 


POETRY. 


and  is  no  more  to  be  seen,  when  the  darkness 
clears  away.  The  whole  party  is  chilled  w4th 
terror  at  this  extraordinary  incident ;  and 
Deloraine  protests  that  he  distinctly  saw  the 
figiare  of  the  ancient  wizard  Michael  Scott  in 
the  middle  of  the  lightning.  The  lady  re- 
nounces for  ever  the  unhallowed  study  of 
magic;  and  all  the  chieftains^  struck  with 
awe  and  consternation,  vow  to  make  a  pil- 
grimage to  Melrose,  to  implore  rest  and  for- 
giveness for  the  spirit  of  the  departed  sorcerer. 
With  the  description  of  this  ceremony  the 
minstrel  closes  his  ^-Lay." 

From  this  little  sketch  of  the  story,  our 
readers  will  easily  perceive,  that,  however 
well  calculated  it  may  be  for  the  introduction 
of  picturesque  imagery,  or  the  display  of  ex- 
traordinary incident,  it  has  but  little  preten- 
sion to  the  praise  of  a  regular  or  roherent 
narrative.  The  magic  of  the  lady,  the  mid- 
night visit  to  Melrose,  and  the  mighty  book 
of  the  enchanter,  which  occupy  nearly  one- 
third  of  the  whole  poem,  and  engross  the 
attention  of  the  reader  for  a  long  time  after 
the  commencement  of  the  narrative,  are  of 
no  use  w^hatsoever  in  the  subsequent  develop- 
ment of  the  fable,  and  do  not  contribute,  in 
any  degree,  either  to  the  production,  or  ex- 
planation of  the  incidents  that  follow.  The 
whole  character  and  proceedings  of  the  goblin 
page,  in  like  manner,  may  be  considered  as 
merely  episodical ;  for  though  he  is  employed 
in  some  of  the  subordinate  incidents,  it  is 
remarkable  that  no  material  part  of  the  fable 
requires  the  intervention  of  supernatural 
agency.  The  young  Buccleuch  might  have 
wandered  into  the  w^ood,  although  he  had  not 
been  decoyed  by  a  goblin;  and  the  dame 
might  have  given  her  daughter  to  the  deliverer 
of  her  son,  although  she  had  never  listened 
to  the  pr^ttlement  of  the  river  and  mountain 
spirits.  (There  is,  besides  all  this,  a  great  deal 
of  gratuitous  and  digressive  description,  and 
the  whole  sixth  canto  may  be  said  to  be  re- 
dundant. The  story  should  naturally  end 
with  the  union  of  the  lovers ;  and  the  account 
-of  the  feast,  and  the  minstrelsy  that  solen^ 
nised  their  betrothment  is  a  sort  of  epilogue, 
superadded  after  the  catastrophe  is  completed 

But  thougTr*v/e  feel  it  to  be  our  duty  to 
point  out  these  obvious  defects  in  the  struc- 
ture of  the  fable,  we  have  no  hesitation  in 
conceding  to  the  author,  that  the  fable  is  but 
a  secondary  consideration  in  performances  of 
this  nature.  A  poem  is  intended  to  please  by 
the  images  it  suggests,  and  the  feelings  it 
inspires;  and  if  it  contain  dehghtful  images 
and  affecting  sentiments,  our  pleasure  will  not 
be  materially  impaired  dj  some  slight  want V 
of  probability  or  coherence  in  the  narrative 
by  which  they  are  connected.  The  callida 
jwutura  of  its  members  is  a  grace,  no  douT5*t,^ 
which  ought  always  to  be  aimed  at ;  but  the 
quality  of  the  members  themselves  is  a  con- 
sideration of  far  higher  importance ;  and  that 
by  which  alone  the  success  and  character  of 
the  work  must  be  ultimately  decided.  The 
adjustment  of  a  fable  may  indicate  the  indus- 
try or  the  judgment  of  the  writer ;  but  the 
Genius  of  the  poet  can  only  be  shown  in  his 


Management  of  its  successive  inciaenls.  In 
these  more  essential  particulars,  Mr.  Scott'n 
tnerits,  we  think,  are  unequivocal.  He  writes 
throughout  with  the  spirif~aii3~the  force  of  a 
poet ;  and  though  he  occasionally  discovers  a 
little  too  much,  perhaps,  of  the  "brave  neg- 
lect," and  is  frequently  inattentive  to  the 
delicate  propriety  and  scrupulous  correctness 
of  his  diction,  he  compensates  for  those  de- 
fects by  the  fire  and  animation  of  his  whole 
composition,  and  th^_,brilliant  colouring  and 
prominent/eatures  of  the  figures  with  which- 
he  has  enlivened  it.  We  shall  now  proceed 
to  lay  before  our  readers  some  of  the  passages 
which  have  made  the  greatest  impression  on 
our  own  minds ;  subjoining,  at  the  same  time, 
such  observations  as  they  have  m6st  forcibly 
suggested. 

In  the  very  first  rank  of  poetical  excellence^'-, 
we  are  inclined  to  place  the  introductory  and 
concluding  lines  of  every  canto ;  in  which  the 
ancient  strain  is  suspended,  and  the  feelings 
and  situatiorj  of  the  Minstrel  himself  de- 
scribed in  the  words  of  the  author.;  The 
elegance  and  the  beauty  of  this  setting,  if  we 
may  so  call  it,  though  entirely  of  modern 
workmanship,  appears  to  us  to  be  fully  more 
worthy  of  admiration  than  the  bolder  relief 
of  the  antiques  w^hich  it  encloses ;  and  leads 
us  to  regret  that  the  author  should  have  wast- 
ed, in  imitation  and  antiquarian  researches, 
so  much  of  those  powers  which  seem  fully 
equal  to  the  task  of  raising  him  an  independent 
reputation.  In  confirmation  of  these  remarks, 
we  give  a  considerable  part  of  the  introduc* 
tion  to  the  whole  poem  : — 

"  The  way  was  long,  the  wind  was  cold, 
The  Minstrel  was  infirm  and  old  ; 
His  wither'd  cheek,  and  tresses  gray, 
Seem'd  to  have  known  a  better  day  ;  *^« 

The  harp,  his  sole  remaining  joy, 
Was  carried  by  an  orphan  boy. 
The  last  of  all  the  Bards  was  lie, 
Who  sung  of  Border  chivalry  ; 
For,  well-a-day  !  their  date  was  fled. 
His  tuneful  brethren  all  were  dead ; 
And  he,  neglected  and  oppress'd, 
Wish'd  to  be  with  them,  and  at  rest! 
No  more,  on  prancing  palfrey  borne, 
He  caroli'd,  light  as  lark  at  morn  ; 
No  longer,  courted  and  caress'd. 
High  plac'd  in  hall,  a  welcome  guest, 
He  pour'd,  to  lord  and  lady  gay. 
The  unpremeditated  lay  ! 
Old  times  were  chang'd,  old  manners  gone  ! 
A  stranger  fill'd  the  Stuarts'  throne; 
The  bigots  of  the  iron  time 
Had  call'd  his  harmless  art  a  crime. 
A  wand'ring  harper,  scorn'd  and  poor. 
He  begg'd  his  bread  from  door  to  door; 
And  tun'd,  to  please  a  peasant's  ear. 
The  harp,  a  King  had  lov'd  to  hear." — pp.3,  4. 

After  describing  his  introduction  to  the 
presence  of  the  Duchess,  and  his  offer  to 
entertain  her  with  his  music,  the  description 
proceeds : — 

"  The  humble  boon  was  soon  obtain'd ; 
The  aged  Minstrel  audience  gain'd. 
But,  when  he  reach'd  the  room  of  state, 
Wbire  she,  with  all  her  ladies,  sate, 
PerRhance  he  wish'd  his  boon  denied  ! 
For,  when  to  tune  his  harp  he  tried, 
His  trembling  hand  had  lost  the  ease 


SCOTT'S  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


363 


Which  marks  security  to  please  ; 
And  scenes,  long  past,  of  joy  and  pain, 
Came  wiid'ring  o'er  his  aged  brain — 

"  Amid  the  strings  his  fingers  stray'd, 
And  an  uncertain  warbling  made — 
And  oft  he  shook  his  hoary  head. 
But  when  he  caught  the  measure  wild, 
The  old  man  rais'd  his  face  and  smil'd ; 
And  lighten'd  up  his  laded  eye, 
With  all  the  poet's  ecstasy  ! 
In  varying  cadence,  soft  or  strong, 
He  swept  the  sounding  chords  along  ; 
The  present  scene,  the  future  lot, 
His  toils,  his  wants,  were  all  forgot ; 
Cold  diffidence,  and  age's  frost, 
In  the  full  tide  of  song  were  lost. 
Each  blank,  in  faithless  mem'ry  void. 
The  poet's  glowing  thought  supplied; 
And,  fvhile  his  harp  responsive  rung, 
'Twas  thus  the  latest  Minstrel  sung." 

p.  6—8. 

We  add,  chiefly  on  account  of  their  brevity. 
the  following  lines,  which  immediately  suc- 
ceed the  description  of  the  funeral  rites  of 
the  English  champion  : — 

"  The  harp'^  wild  notes,  though  hush'd  the  song, 
The  mimic  march  of  death  prolong  ; 
Now  seems  it  far,  and  now  a-near, 
Now  meets,  and  now  eludes  the  ear ; 
Now  seems  some  mountain's  side  to  sweep, 
Now  faintly  dies  in  valley  deep  ; 
Seems  now  as  if  the  Minstrel's  wail. 
Now  the  sad  requiem  loads  the  gale  ; 
Last,  o'er  the  warrior's  closing  grave, 
Rings  the  full  choir  in  choral  stave." 

pp.  155,  156. 

The  close  of  the  poem  is  as  follows : — 

Hush'd  is  the  harp — the  Minstrel  gone. 
And  did  he  wander  forth  alone  ? 
Alone,  in  indigence  and  age, 
To  hnger  out  his  pilgrimage  ? 
No  ! — close  beneath  proud  Newark's  tower. 
Arose  the  Minstrel's  lowly  bower  ; 
A  simple  hut ;  but  there  was  seen 
The  little  garden  hedg'd  with  green, 
The  cheerful  hearth  and  lattice  clean. 
There,  ehelter'd  wand'rers,  by  the  blaze. 
Oft  heard  the  tale  of  other  days ; 
For  much  he  lov'd  to  ope  his  door, 
And  give  the  aid  he  begg'd  before. 
So  pass'd  the  winter's  day — but  still. 
When  summer  smil'd  on  sweet  Bowhill, 
And  July's  eve,  with  balmy  breath, 
Wav'd  the  blue-bells  on  Newark's  heath  ; 
And  flourish'd,  broad,  Blackandro's  oak, 
The  aged  Harper's  soul  awoke ! 
Then  would  he  sing  achievements  high. 
And  circumstance  o'  Chivalry  ; 
Till  the  rapt  traveller  would  stay, 
Forgetful  of  the  closing  day  ; 
And  Yarrow,  as  he  roll'd  along. 
Bore  burden  to  the  Minstrel's  song." 
^  pp.  193,  194. 

Besides  these,  which  are  altogether  de- 
tached from  the  lyric  effusions  of  the  min- 
strel, scree  of  the  most  interesting  passages 
oc  the  poem  are  those  in  which  he  drp,ps_the 
business  of  the  story,  to  moralise,  and  apply 
toliis  own  situation  the  images  and  reflec- 
tions it  has  suggested.  After  concluding  one 
santo  with  an  account  of  the  warlike  array 
prepared  for  the  reception  of  the  English  in- 
vaders, he  opens  the  succeeding  one  with  the 
following  beautiful  verses : — 

"  Sweet  Teviot !  by  thy  silver  tide. 

The  glaring  bale-fires  blaze  no  more  ! 


No  longer  steel-clad  warriors  ride 
Along  thy  wild  and  willow'd  shore  ; 

Where'er  thou  wind'st,  by  dale  or  hill, 

All,  all  is  peaceful,  all  is  still. 
As  if  thy  waves,  since  Time  was  born 

Since  first  they  roll'd  their  way  to  Tweed, 

Had  only  heard  the  shepherd's  reed, 
Nor  started  at  the  bugle-horn  ! 

"  Unlike  the  tide  of  human  time. 

Which,  though  it  change  in  ceaseless  flow 
Retains  each  grief,  retains  each  crime. 

It's  earliest  course  was  doom'd  to  know  ; 
And,  darker  as  it  downward  bears. 
Is  stain'd  with  past  and  present  tears  ! 

Low  as  that  tide  has  ebb'd  with  me, 
It  still  reflects  to  Mem'ry's  eye 
The  hour,  my  brave,  my  only  boy. 

Fell  by  the  side  of  great  Dundee. 
Why,  when  the  volleying  musket  play'd 
Against  the  bloody  Highland  blade. 
Why  was  not  I  beside  him  laid  ! — 
Enough — he  died  the  death  of  fame  ; 
Enough — he  died  with  conquering  Graeme." 
pp.  93,  94. 

There  are  several  other  detached  passages 
of  equal  beauty,  w^hich  might  be  quoted  in 
proof  of  the  effect  which  is  produced  by  this 
dramatic  interference  of  the  narrator ;  but  we 
hasten  to  lay  before  our  readers  some  of  the 
more  characteristic  parts  of  the  performance. 

The  ancient  romance  owes  much  of  its 
interest  to  the  lively  picture  M'hich  it  affords 
of  the  times  of  chivalry,  and  of  those  usages, 
manners,  and  institutions  which  we  have 
been  accustomed  to  associate  in  our  minds, 
with  a  certain  combination  of  magnificence 
with  simplicity,  and  ferocity  with  romantic 
honour.  The  representations  contained  in' 
those  performances,  however,  are  for  the 
most  part  too  rude  and  naked  to  give  com- 
plete satisfaction.  The  execution  is  always 
extremely  unequal ;  and  though  the  writei 
sometimes  touches  upon  the  appropriate  feel- 
ing with  great  effect  and  felicity,  still  this 
appears  to  be  done  more  by  accident  than 
design;  and  he  wanders  away  immediately 
into  all  sorts  of  ludici'ous  or  uninteresting  de- 
tails, without  any  apparent  consciousness  of 
incongruity.  These  defects  Mr.  Scott  has 
corrected  with  admirable  address  and  judg- 
ment in  the  greater  part  of  the  work  now 
before  us ;  and  while  he  has  exhibited  a  very 
striking  and  impressive  picture  of  the  old 
feudal  usages  and  institutions,  he  has  shown 
still  greater  talent  in  engrafting  upon  those 
descriptions  all  the  tender  or  magnanimous 
emotions  to  which  the  circumstances  of  the 
story  naturally  give  rise.  Without  impairing 
the  antique  air  of  the  whole  piece,  or  violating 
the  simplicity  of  the  ballad  style,  he  has  con- 
trived in  this  way,  to  impart  a  much  greater 
dignity,  and  more  powerful  interest  to  hia 
production,  than  could  ever  be  attained  by 
the  unskilful  and  unsteady  delineations  of 
the  old  romancers.  Nothing,  we  think,  can 
afford  a  finer  illustration  of  this  remark,  than 
the  opening  stanzas  of  the  whole  poem  ;  they 
transport  us  at  once  into  the  days  of  knightly 
daring  and  feudal  hostility ;  at  the  same  time 
that  they  suggest,  and  in  a  very  interesting 
way,  all  those  softer  sentiments  which  arise 
out  of  some  parts  of  the  description. 


364 


POETRY. 


'  The  feast  was  over  in  Branksome  tower  ; 
And  the  Ladye  had  gone  to  her  secret  bower  ; 
Her  bower,  that  was  guarded  by  word  and  by 
Deadly  to  hear,  and  deadly  to  tell —  [spell 

Jesu  Maria,  shield  us  well ! 
No  living  wight,  save  the  Ladye  alone, 
Had  dar'd  to  cross  the  threshold  stone. 

*  The  tables  were  drawn,  it  was  idlesse  all ; 
Knight,  and  page,  and  household  squire, 
Loiter'd  through  the  lofty  hall. 

Or  crowded  round  the  ample  fire. 
The  stag-hounds,  weary  with  the  chase, 

Lay  stretch' d  upon  the  rushy  floor, 
And  urg'd  in  dreams  the  forest  race. 
From  Teviot-stone  to  Eskdale-moor," 

pp.9,  10. 

After  a  very  picturesque  representation  of 
the  military  establishment  of  this  old  baronial 
fortress,  the  minstrel  proceeds, 

"  Many  a  valiant  knight  is  here  ; 
But  he,  the  Chieftain  of  them  all, 
His  sword  hangs  rusting  on  the  wall, 

Beside  his  broken  spear  ! 
Bards  long  shall  tell, 
How  Lord  Walter  fell ! 
When  startled  burghers  fled,  afar, 
The  furies  of  the  Border  war ; 
When  the  streets  of  high  Dunedin 
Saw  lances  yleam,  and  falchions  redden, 
And  heard  the  slogan's  deadly  yell — 
Then  the  Chief  of  Branksome  fell! 

"  Can  piety  the  discord  heal, 

Or  staunch  the  death-feud's  enmity  ? 
Can  Christian  lore,  can  patriot  zeal. 

Can  love  of  blessed  charity  ? 
No!  vainly  to  each  holy  shrine. 

In  mutual  pilgrimage,  they  drew  ; 
Implor'd,  in  vain,  the  grace  divine 

For  chiefs,  their  own  red  falchions  slew. 
While  Cessford  owns  the  rule  of  Car, 

While  Ettrick  boasts  the  line  of  Scott, 
The  slaughter'd  chiefs,  the  mortal  jar. 
The  havoc  of  the  feudal  war, 

Shall  never,  never  be  forgot ! 

•*  In  sorrow  o'er  Lord  Walter's  bier, 
The  warlike  foresters  had  bent ; 
And  many  a  flovv»r  and  many  a  tear. 

Old  Teviot's  maids  and  matron's  lent : 
But,  o'er  her  warrior's  bloody  bier. 
The  Ladye  dropp'd  nor  sigh  nor  tear! 
Vengeance,  deep-brooding  o'er  the  slain, 

Had  lock'd  the  source  of  softer  woe ; 
And  burning  pride,  and  high  disdain. 

Forbade  the  rising  tear  to  flow  ; 
Until,  amid  his  sorrowing  clan, 

Her  son  lisp'd  from  the  nurse's  knee— 
'  And,  if  I  live  to  be  a  man. 
My  father's  death  reveng'd  shall  be  !' 
Then  fast  the  mother's  tears  did  seek 
To  dew  the  infant's  kindling  cheek." — pp.12 — 15. 

There  are  not  many  passages  in  English 
poetry  more  impressive  than  some  parts  of' 
this  extract.  As  another  illustration  of  the 
prodigious  improvement  which  the  style  of  the 
old  romance  is  capable  of  receiving  from  a 
more  liberal  admixture  of  pathetic  sentiments 
End  gentle  affections,  we  insert  the  following 
{passage ;  where  the  effect  of  the  picture  is 
Unely  assisted  by  the  contrast  of  its  two  com- 
partments. 

"  So  pass'd  the  day — the  ev'ning  fell, 
'Twas  near  the  time  of  curfew  bell; 
The  air  was  mild,  the  wind  was  calm. 
The  stream  was  smooth,  the  dew  was  balm  ; 
Ev'n  the  rude  watchman,  on  the  tower, 
Enjoy'd  and  blessed  the  lovely  hour. 


Far  more  fair  Margaret  lov'd  and  blees'd 
The  hour  of  silence  and  of  rest. 

On  the  high  turret,  sitting  lone. 
She  wak'd  at  times  the  lute's  soft  tone ; 
Touch'd  a  wild  note,  and  all  between 
Thought  of  the  bower  of  hawthorns  green; 
Her  golden  hair  stream' d  free  from  band, 
Her  fair  cheek  rested  on  her  hand. 
Her  blue  eye  sought  the  west  afar, 
For  lovers  love  the  western  star. 

"  Is  yon  the  star  o'er  Penchryst-Pen, 
That  rises  slowly  to  her  ken, 
And,  spreading  broad  its  wav'ring  light. 
Shakes  its  loose  tresses  on  the  night  ? 
Is  yon  red  glare  the  western  star  ? — 
Ah!  'tis  the  beacon-blaze  of  war  ! 
Scarce  could  she  draw  her  tighten'd  breath; 
For  well  she  knew  the  fire  of  death  !     ' 

"  The  warder  view'd  it  blazing  strong. 
And  blew  his  war-note  loud  and  long, 
Till,  at  the  high  and  haughty  sound. 
Rock,  wood,  and  river,  rung  around  , 
The  blast  alarm'd  the  festal  hall, 
And  startled  forth  the  warriors  all ; 
Far  downwati'd  in  the  castle-yard. 
Full  many  a  torch  and  cpesset  glar'd  ; 
And  helms  and  plumes,  confusedly  toss'd, 
Were  in  the  blaze  half  seen,  half  lost ; 
And  spears  in  wild  disorder  shook. 
Like  reeds  beside  a  frozen  brook. 

'*  The  Seneschal,  whose  silver  hair. 
Was  redden'd  by  the  torches'  glare. 
Stood  in  the  midst,  with  gesture  proud, 
And  issued  forth  his  mandates  loud — 
'  On  Fenchryst  glows  a  bale  of  fire, 
And  three  are  kindling  on  Priesthaughswire 
&c.— pp.  83—85. 

In  these  passages,  the  poetry  of  Mr.  Scott  id 
entitled  to  a  decided  preference  over  that  of 
the  earlier  minstrels;  not  only  from  the 
greater  consistency  and  condensation  of  hia  . 
imagery,  but  from  an  intrinsic  superiority  in 
the  nature  of  his  materials.  From  the  im- 
provement of  taste,  and  the  cultivation  of  the 
finer  feelings  of  the  heart,  poetry  acquires,  in 
a  refined  age,  many  new  and  invaluable  ele- 
ments, which  are  necessarily  unknown  in  <i 
period  of  greater  simplicity.  The  description 
of  external  objects,  however,  is  at  all  times 
equally  inviting,  and  equally  easy  \  and  many 
of  the  pictures  which  have  been  left  by  the 
ancient  romancers  must  be.  admitted  to  pos- 
sess, along  with  great  dijfuseness  and  home- 
liness of  diction,  an  exactness  and  vivacity 
which  cannot  be  easily  exceeded.  In  this 
part  of  his  undertaking,  Mr.  Scott  therefore 
had  fewer  advantages ;  but  we  do  not  think 
that  his  success  has  been  less  remarkable. 
Tn  the  following  description  of  Melrose,  wliich 
introduces  the  second  canto,  the  reader  will 
observe  how  skilfully  he  calls  in  the  aid  of 
sentimental  associations  to  heighten  the  effect 
of  the  picture  which  he  presents  to  the  eye:  "  1 

"  If  thou  wouldst  view  fair  Melrose  aright. 
Go  visit  it  by  the  pale  moonlight : 
For  the  gay  beams  of  lightsome  day 
Gild,  but  to  flout,  the  ruins  gray. 
When  the  broken  arches  are  black  in  night, 
And  each  shafted  oriel  glimmers  white  ; 
When  the  cold  light's  uncertain  shower 
Streams  on  the  ruin'd  central  tower  ; 
When  buttress  and  buttress,  alternately, 
Seem  fram'd  of  ebon  and  ivory  ; 
When  silver  edges  the  imagery, 


SCOTT'S  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


365 


I 


iind  the  scrolls  tLat  teach  thee  to  Hve  and  die  ; 

When  distant  Tweed  is  heard  to  rave, 

And  the  owlet  to  hoot  o'er  the  dead  man's  grave  ; 

Then  go  ! — but  go  alone  the  while — 

Then  view  St.  David's  ruined  pile  ! 

And,  home  returning,  soothly  swear, 

Was  never  scene  so  sad  and  fair  I"    -pp.  35,  36. 

In  the  following  passage  he  is  less  ambi- 
tious; and  confines  himself,  as  an  ancient 
tninstrel  would  have  done  on  the  occasion,  to 
a  minute  and  picturesque  representation  of 
the  visible  object  before  him : — 

'*  When  for  the  lists  they  sought  the  plain, 
The  stately  Ladye's  silken  rein 

Did  noble  Howard  hold  ; 
Unarmed  by  her  side  he  vvalk'd. 
And  much,  in  courteous  phrase,  they  talk'd 

Of  feats  of  arms  of  old. 
Costly  his  garb — his  Flemish  ruff 
Fell  o'er  his  doublet  shap'd  of  buff, 

With  satin  slash'd,  and  lin'd  ; 
Tawny  his  boot,  and  gold  his  spur, 
His  cloak  was  all  of  Poland  fur, 

Ilis  hose  with  silver  twin'd  ; 
His  Bilboa  blade,  by  Marchmen  felt, 
Hung  in  a  broad  and  studded  belt ; 
Hence,  in  rude  phrase,  the  Bord'rers  still 
Call'd  noble  Howard,  Belted  Will."— p.  141. 

The  same  scrupulous  adherence  to  the  style 
of  the  old  romance,  though  greatly  improved 
in  point  of  brevity  and  selection,  is  discernible 
in  the  following  animated  description  of  the 
feast,  which  terminates  the  poem  : — 

"  The  spousal  rites  were  ended  soon  ; 
'Twas  now  the  merry  hour  of  noon, 
And  in  the  lofty-arched  hall 
Was  spread  the  gorgeous  festival : 
Steward  and  squire,  with  heedful  haste, 
Marshall'd  the  rank  of  every  guest ; 
Pages,  with  ready  blade,  were  there, 
The  mighty  meal  to  carve  and  share. 
O'er  capon,  heron-shew,  and  crane. 
And  orincely  peacock's  gilded  train. 
And  u'ei  iiie  ooar's  head,  garnish'd  brave. 
And  cygnet  from  St.  Mary's  wave  ; 
O'er  ptarmigan  and  venison. 
The  priest  had  spoke  his  benison. 
Then  rose  the  riot  and  the  din, 
Above,  beneath,  without,  within  I 
For,  from  the  lofty  balcony. 
Rung  trumpet,  shalm,  and  psaltery; 
Their  clanging  bowls  old  warriors  quafF'd, 
Loudly  they  spoke,  and  loudly  laugh'd  ; 
Whisper'd  young  knights,  in  tone  more  mild, 
To  ladies  fair,  and  ladies  smil'd. 
The  hooded  hawks,  high  perch'd  on  beam, 
The  clamour  join'd  with  whistling  scream. 
And  flapp'd  their  wings,  and  shooTc  their  bells. 
In  concert  with  the  staghound's  yells. 
Round  go  the  flasks  of  ruddy  wine. 
From  Bourdeaux,  Orleans,  or  the  Rhine  ; 
Their  tasks  the  busy  sewers  ply. 
And  all  is  mirth  and  revelry." — pp.  166,  167. 

The  following  picture  is  sufficiently  antique 
in  its  conception,  though  the  execution  is  evi- 
dently modem : — 

"  Ten  of  them  were  sheath'd  in  steel, 
With  belted  sword,  and  spur  on  heel: 
They  quitted  not  their  harness  bright. 
Neither  by  day,  nor  yet  by  night  ; 

They  lay  down  to  rest 

With  corslet  laced, 
Pillow'd  on  buckler  cold  and  hard  ; 

They  carv'd  at  the  meal 

With  gloves  of  steel,  [met  barr'd." 

And  they  drank  the  red  wine  through  the  hel- 


The  whole  scene  of  the  duel,  oi  judicial 
combat,  is  conducted  according  to  the  strict 
ordinances  of  chivahy,  and  delineated  with 
all  the  mniuteness  ot  an  ancient  romancer. 
The  modern  reader  will  probably  find  it  rather 
tedious;  all  but  the  concluding  stanzas,  which 
are  in  a  loftier  measure. 

"  'Tis  done,  'tis  done  !  that  fatal  blow 

Has  stretch'd  him  on  the  bloody  plain  ; 
He  strives  to  rise — Brave  Musgrave,  no  ! 

Thence  never  shall  thou  rise  again  ! 
He  chokes  in  blood — some  friendly  hand 
Undo  the  visor's  barred  band, 
Unfk  the  gorget's  iron  clasp. 
And  give  him  room  for  life  to  gasp ! — 
In  vain,  in  vain — haste,  holy  friar. 
Haste,  ere  the  sinner  shall  expire  ! 
Of  all  his  guilt  let  him  be  shriven. 
And  smooth  his  path  from  earth  to  heaven! 

"  In  haste  the  holy  friar  sped  ; 
His  naked  foot  was  dyed  with  red. 

As  through  the  lists  he  ran  : 
Unmindful  of  the  shouts  on  high, 
That  hail'd  the  conqueror's  victory. 

He  rais'd  the  dying  man  ; 
Loose  wav'd  his  silver  beard  and  hair, 
As  o'er  him  he  kneel'd  down  in  prayer. 
And  still  the  crucifix  on  high, 
He  holds  before  his  dark'ning  eye, 
And  still  he  bends  an  anxious  ear. 
His  falt'ring  penitence  to  hear ; 

Siill  props  him  from  the  bloody  sod 
Still,  even  w-hen  soul  and  body  part. 
Pours  ghostly  comfort  on  his  heart, 

And  bids  him  trust  in  God  ! 
Unheard  he  prays  ;  'tis  o'er,  'tis  o'er  ! 
Richard  of  Musgrave  breathes  no  more.* 

p.  145—147. 

We  have  already  made  so  many  extracts 
from  this  poem,  that  we  can  now  only  afibrd 
to  present  our  readers  with  one  specimen  of 
the  songs  which  Mr.  Scott  has  introduced  in 
the  mouths  of  the  minstrels  in  the  concluding 
canto.  It  is  his  object,  in  those  pieces,  to 
exemplify  the  difi'erent  styles  of  ballad  narra- 
tive which  prevailed  in  this  island  at  different 
periods,  or  in  different  conditions  of  society. 
The  first  is  constructed  upon  the  rude  and 
simple  model  of  the  old  Border  ditties,  and 
produces  its  effect  by  the  direct  and  concise 
narrative  of  a  tragical  occurrence.  The  se- 
cond, sung  by  Fitztraver,  the  bard  of  the  ac- 
complished Surrey,  has  more  of  the  richness 
and  polish  of  the  Italian  poetry,  and  is  very 
beautifully  written,  in  a  stanza  resembling 
that  of  Spenser.  The  third  is  intended  to 
represent  that  wild  style  of  composition  which 
prevailed  among  the  bards  of  the  northern 
continent,  somewhat  softened  and  adorned 
by  the  minstrel's  residence  in  the  south.  We 
prefer  it,  upon  the  w^hole,  to  either  of  the  two 
former,  and  shall  give  it  entire  to  our  readers; 
who  will  probably  be  struck  w^ith  the  poetical 
effect  of  the  dramatic  form  into  which  it  is 
thrown,  and  of  the  indirect  description  by 
which  every  thing  is  most  expressively  told, 
without  one  word  of  distinct  narrative. 

"  O  hsten,  listen,  ladies  gay  ! 

No  haughty  feat  of  arms  I  tell ; 
Soft  is  the  note,  and  sad  the  lay, 
That  mourns  the  lovely  Rosabelle. 

"  — Moor,  moor  the  barge,  ye  gallant  crew ! 
And,  gentle  Ladye,  deign  to  stay! 


166 


POETRl 


Rest  thee  in  Castle  Ravensheuch, 
Nor  tempt  the  stormy  irith  to-day. 

•The  black'ning  wave  is  edg'd  with  white  ; 
To  inch*  and  rock  the  sea-mews  fly  ; 
The  Sshers  have  heard  the  Water-Sprite, 
Whose  screanvs  forbode  that  wreck  is  nigh. 

•  Last  night  the  gifted  seer  did  view 

A  wet  shroud  roU'd  round  Ladye  gay  : 
Then  stay  thee,  fair,  in  Ravensheuch  ; 
Why  cross  the  gloomy  frith  to-day  ?" 

— "  'Tis  not  because  Lord  Lind'say's  heir 

To-night  at  Roslin  leads  the  ball, 
But  that  my  Ladye-mother  there 

Sits  lonely  in  her  castle  hall. 

'  *Ti3  not  because  the  ring  they  ride, 
And  Lind'say  at  the  ring  rides  well ! 
But  that  my  sire  the  wine  will  chide, 
If  'tis  not  fill'd  by  Rosabelle." — 

'  O'er  Roslin  all  that  dreary  night 

A  wondrous  blaze  was  seen  to  gleam ; 
'Twas  broader  than  the  watch-fire  light, 
And  brighter  than  the  bright  moonbeam. 

'•  It  glar'd  on  Roslin's  castled  rock, 

It  redden'd  all  the  copse-wood  glen  ; 
'Twas  seen  from  Dryden's  groves  of  oak, 
And  seen  from  cavern' d  Hawthornden. 

*  Seem'd  all  on  fire  that  chapel  proud, 

Where  Roslin's  chiefs  uncoffin'd  lie  ; 
Each  Baron,  for  a  sable  shroud. 
Sheath' d  in  his  iron  panoply. 

'•  Seem'd  all  on  fire  within,  around, 
Both  vaulted  crypt  and  altar's  pale ; 
Shone  every  pillar  foliage-bound, 
And  gUmmer'd  all  the  dead-men's  mail. 

"  Blaz'd  battlement  and  pinnet  high, 

Blaz'd  every  rose-carv'd  buttress  fair — 
So  still  they  blaze  when  fate  is  nigh 
The  lordly  Une  of  high  St.  Clair! 

'   There  are  twenty  of  Roslin's  barons  bold 
Lie  buried  within  that  proud  chapelle ; 
Each  one  the  holy  vault  doth  hold — ■ 
But  the  sea  holds  lovely  Rosabelle ! 

"  And  each  St.  Clair  was  buried  there. 

With  candle,  with  book,  and  with  knell ; 
But  the  Kelpy  rung,  and  the  Mermaid  sung 
The  dirge  of  lovely  Rosabelle  !"— pp.  181-184. 

From  the  various  extracts  we  have  now 
given,  our  readers  will  be  enabled  to  form  a 
tolerably  correct  judgment  of  this  poem ;  and 
if  they  are  pleased  with  these  portions  of  it 
which  have  now  been  exhibited,  we  may 
Tenture  to  assure  them  that  they  will  not  be 
disappointed  by  the  perusal  of  the  whole. 
TTie  whole  night-journey  of  Deloraine — the 
opening  of  the  wizard's  tomb — the  march  of 
the  English  battle — and  the  parley  before 
the  walls  of  the  castle,  are  all  executed  with 
the  same  spirit  and  poetical  energy,  which 
we  think  is  conspicuous  in  the  specimens  we 
have  already  extracted ;  and  a  great  variety 
'f  short  passages  occur  in  every  part  of  the 
poem,  which  are  still  more  striking  and  meri- 
torious, though  it  is  impossible  to  detach 
them,  without  injury,  in  the  form  of  a  quota- 
lion.  It  is  but  fair  to  apprise  the  reader,  on 
Ihe  other  hand,  that  he  will  meet  with  very 
heavy  passages,  and  with  a  variety  of  details 
which  are  not  likely  to  interest  any  one  but  a 
Borderer  or  an  antiquary.    We  like  very  well 

"•  Isle. 


to  hear  "of  the  Gallant  Chief  of  Olterbume," 
or  "the  Dark  Knight  of  Liddisdale,"  and  fee. 
the  elevating  power  of  great  names,  when 
we  read  of  the  tribes  that  mustered  to  the 
war,  "  beneath  the  crest  of  old  Dunbar,  and 
Hepburn's  mingled  banners."  But  we  really 
cannot  so  far  sympathise  with  the  local  par- 
tialities of  the  author,  as  to  feel  any  glow  of 
^triotism  or  ancient  virtue  in  hearing  of  the 
Todrig  or  Johnston  clans,  or  of  Elliots,  Arm- 
strongs, and  Tinlinns;  still  less  can  we  rehsh 
the  introduction  of  Black  John  of  Athelstane, 
Whitslade  the  Hawk,  Arthur-Jire-the-hraes,  Red 
Roland  Forster,  or  any  other  of  those  wor- 
thies who 

"  Sought  the  beeves  that  made  their  broth, 
In  Scotland  and  in  England  both," 

into  a  poem  which  has  any  pretensions  to 
seriousness  or  dignity.  The  ancient  metrical 
romance  might  have  admitted  those  homely 
personalities;  but  the  present  age  will  not 
endure  them:  And  Mr.  Scott  must  either 
sacrifice  his  Border  prejudices,  or  offend  all 
his  readers  in  the  other  parts  of  the  empire. 

There  are  many  passages,   as  we   have 
already  insinuated,  which  have  the  general 
character  of  heaviness,  such  is  the  minstrel's 
account  of    his   preceptor,   and    Deloraine's 
lamentation   over  the   dead    body  of    Mus- 
grave  :/But  the  goblin  page  is,  in  our  opinion, 
the  capital  deformity  of  the  poem.    We  have  -'[ 
already  said  that  the  whole  machinery  is  use-i 
less :  but  the  magic  studies  of  the  lady,  and 
the  rifled  tomb  of  Michael  Scott,  give  occa- 
sion to  so  much  admirable  poetry,  that  we 
can  on  no  account  consent  to  part  with  them.  _ 
The  page,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  perpetual  j 
burden  to  the  poet,  and  to  the  reader :  it  is  j 
an  undignified  and  improbable  fiction,  which  | 
excites  neither  terror,  admiration,  nor  aston-j 
ishment ;  but  needlessly  debases  the  strain  of  ; 
the  whole  work,  and  ca  'ites  at  once  our  in-j  U 
credulity  and  contempt^    He  is  not  a  "  tricksy  j  /« | 
spirit,"  like  Ariel,  wHn  whom  the  imagina-i 
tion  is   irresistibly  enamoured;    nor  a   tinyj 
monarch,  like  Oberon,  disposing  of  the  desti-! 
nies  of  mortals :  He  rather  appears  to  us  tol 
be  an  awkward  sort  of  a  mongrel  between', 
Puck  and  Caliban ;  of  a  servile  and  brutal  | 
nature ;  and  limited  in  his  powers  to  the  in- 
dulgence of  petty  malignity,  and  ihe  infliction 
of  despicable  injuries.    Besides  this  objection 
to  his  character,  his  existence  has  no  support 
from  any  general  or  established  superstition. 
Fairies  and  devils,  ghosts,  angelsj  ari'fT\vi!ches, 
are  creatures  with  whom  we  are  all  familiar, 
and  who  excite  in  all   classes  of  mankind   j 
emotions  with  which  we  can  easily  be  made  i 
to  sympathise.     But  the  story  of  Gilpin  Hor- 
ner can  never  have  been  believed  out  of  the 
village  where  he  is  said  to  have  made  his 
appearance;  and  has  no  claims  upon  the  cre- 
dulity of  those  who  were  not  (  riginally  of  his 
acquaintance.     There  is  nothing  at  all  inter- 
esting or  elegant  in  the  scenes  of  which  he  is 
the  hero :  and  in  reading  those  passages,  we 
really  could  not  help  suspecting  that  they  did 
not  stand  in  the  romance  when  the  aged  min- 
strel recited  it  to  the  royal  Chares  and  his 


SCOTT'S  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


867 


miglily  earls,  but  were  inserted  afterwards  to 
suit  the  taste  of  the  cottagers  among  whom 
he  begged  his  bread  on  the  Border.  ^Ve  en- 
treat Mr.  Scott  to  inquire  into  the  grounds  of 
this  suspicion ;  and  to  take  advantage  of  any- 
decent  pretext  he  can  lay  hold  of  for  purging 
"  The  Lay ''  of  this  ungraceful  intruder.  We 
woiild  also  move  Tor  aQuo  Warranto  against 
the  spirits  of  the  river  and  the  mountain  ;  for 
though  they  are  come  of  a  very  high  lineage, 
we  do  not  know  what  lawful  business  they 
could  have  at  Bran  k  some  castle  in  the  year 
1550. 

^f  the  diction  of  this  poem  we  have  but 
little  to  say.  From  the  extracts  we  have 
already  given,  our  readers  will  perceive  that 
the  versification  is  in  the  highest  degree  ir- 
regular and  capricious.'  The  nature  of  the 
work  entitled  Mr.  Scott  to  some  licence  in  this 
respect,  and  he  often  employs  it  with  a  very 
pleasing  effect;  but  he  has  frequently  ex- 
ceeded its  just  limits,  and  presented  us  with 
such  combinations  of  metre,  as  must  put  the 
teeth  of  hisr  readers,  we  think,  into  some 
jeopardy.  [He  has,  when  he  pleases,  a  very 
melodious  and  sonorous  style  of  versification, 
but  often  composes,  with  inexcusable  negli- 
gence and  rudeness.]  There  is  a  great  number 
of  lines  dn  which  th^  verse  can  only  be  made 
out  by  running  the  words  together  in  a  very 
unusual  manner ;  and  some  appear  to  us  to 
have  no  pretension  to  the  name  of  verses  at 
all.  What  apology,  for  instance,  will  Mr. 
Scott  make  for  the  last  of  these  two  lines  ? — 

"  For  when  in  studious  mood  he  pac'd 
St.  Kentigern's  hall." 

or  for  these  ? — 

"  How  the  brave  boy  in  future  war, 
Should  tame  the  unicorn'*  pride." 


We  have  called  the  negligence  which  could 
leave  such  lines  as  these  m  a  poem  of  this 
nature  inexcusable;  because  it  is  perfectly 
evident,  from  the  general  strain  of  his  com- 
position, that  Mr.  Scott  has  a  very  accurate 
ear  for  the  harmony  of  versification,  and  that 
he  composes  with  a  facility  vvjiich  must  lighten 
the  labour  of  correction.  >  There  are  some 
smaller  faults  in  the  diction  which  might  have 
been  as  well  corrected  also :  there  is  too  much 
alliteration ;  and  he  reduplicates  his  words  too 
often.  We  have  "never,  never,"  several 
times;  besides  "'tis  o'er,  'tis  o'er"  —  "in 
vain,  in  vain" — "  'tis  done,  'tis  done ;"  and 
several  other  echoes  as  ungraceful../ 

We  will  not  be  tempted  to  say  any  thing 
more  of  this  poem.  Although  it  does  not 
contain  any  great  display  of  what  is  properlv 
called  invention,  it  indicates  perhaps  as  much 
vigour  and  originality  of  poetical  genius  as  any 
performance  which  has  been  lately  offered  to 
the  public.  The  locality  of  the  subject  is 
likely  to  obstruct  its  popularity;  and  the  au- 
thor, by  confining  himself  in  a  great  measure 
to  the  description  of  manners  and  personal 
adventures,  has  forfeited  the  attraction  which 
might  have  been  derived  from  the  delineation 
of  rural  sceneryi  But  he  has  manifested  a 
degree  of  genius  which  cannot  be  overlooked, 
and  given  indication  of  talents  that  seem  well 
worthy  of  being  enlisted  in  the  service  of  the 
epic  muse. 

The  notes,  which  contain  a  great  treasure  of 
Border  history  and  antiquarian  learning,  are 
too  long,  we  think,  for  the  general  reader. 
The  form  of  the  publication  is  also  too  ex- 
pensive ;  and  we  hope  soon  to  see  a  smaller 
edition,  M'ith  an  abridgement  of  the  notes, 
for  the  use  of  the  mere  lovers  of  poetry. 


The  Lady  of  the  Lake:  a  Poem.    By  Walter  Scott.    Second  Edition.    8vo.  pp.  434:  1810. 


'^    Mr.  Scott,  though  living  in  an  age  unusu- 
ally prolific  of  original  poetry,  has  manifestly 
1  outstripped  all  his  competitors  in  the  race  of 
i  popularity ;  and  stands  already  upon  a  height 
/  to  which  no  other  writer  has  attained  in  the 
V  memory  of  any  one  now  alive.     We  doubt, 
.'ndeed,  whether  any  English  poet  ever  had  so 
many  of  his  books  sold,  or  so  many  of  his 
verses  read  and  admired  by  such  a  multitude 
of  persons  in  so  short  a  time.  We  are  credibly 
informed  that  nearly  thirty  thousand  copies 
of  "The  Lay"  have  been  already  disposed 
of  in  this  country ;  and  that  the  demand  for 
Marmion,  and  the  poem  now  before  us,  has 
been  still  more  considerable, — a  circulation 
we  believe,  altogether  without  example,  in 
he  .case  of  a  bulky  work,  not  addressed  to 
the  bigotry  of  the  mere  mob,  either  religious 
%     or  political. 

A  Dopularitv  so  universal  is  a* pretty  sure 


proof  of  extraordinary  merit, — a  far  surer  one, 
we  readily  admit,  than  would  be  afToKled  by 
any  praises  of  ours:  and,  therefore,  though 
w^e  pretend  to  be  privileged,  in  ordinary  cases, 
to  foretell  the  ultimate  reception  of  all  claims 
on  public  admiration,  our  function  may  be 
thought  to  cease,  where  the  event  is  already 
so  certain  and  conspicuous.  As  it  is  a  sore 
thing,  however,  to  be  deprived  of  our  privi- 
leges on  so  important  an  occasion,  we  hope  to 
be  pardoned  for  insinuating,  that,  even  in  such 
a  case,  the  office  of  the  critic  m.ay  not  be  al- 
together superfluous.  Though  the  success  of 
the  author  be  decisive,  and  even  likely  to  be 
permanent,  it  still  may  not  be  without  its  us'^ 
to  point  out,  in  consequence  of  what,  and  in 
spite  of  what,  he  has  succeeded;  nor  alto- 
gether uninstructive  to  trace  the  precise  limits 
of  the  connection  which,  even  in  this  dull 
world,  irdisputably  subsists  between  succeas 


368 


POETRY 


and  desert,  and  to  ascertain  how  far  unex- 
ampled popularity  does  really  imply  unrival- 
led talent. 

As  it  is  the  object  of  poetry  to  give  pleasure, 
It  would  seem  to  be  a  pretty  safe  conclusion, 
that  that  poetry  must  be  the  best  which  gives 
f  ,he  greatest  pleasure  to  the  greatest  number 
of  persons.  Yet  we  must  pause  a  little,  be- 
rore  we  give  our  assent  to  so  plausible  a  pro- 
position. It  would  not  be  quite  correct,  we 
fear,  to  say  that  those  are  invariably  the  best 
judges  who  are  most  easily  pleased.  The 
great  multitude,  even  of  the  reading  world, 
must  necessarily  be  uninstructed  and  inju- 
dicious; and  will  frequently  be  found,  not 
only  to  derive  pleasure  from  what  is  worthless 
in  finer  eyes,  but  to  be  quite  insensible  to 
those  beauties  which  afford  the  most  exquisite 
delight  to  more  cultivated  understandings. 
True  pathos  and  sublimity  will  indeed  chanii 
every  one :  but,  out  of  this  lofty  sphere,  we 
are  pretty  well  convinced,  that  the  poetry 
which  appears  most  perfect  to  a  very  refined 
taste,  will  not  often  turn  out  to  be  very  popular 
poetry. 

This,  indeed,  is  saying  nothing  more,  than 
that  the  ordinary  readers  of  poetry  have  not 
a  very  refined  taste  ;  and  that  they  are  often 
insensible  to  many  of  its  highest  beauties, 
while  they  still  more  frequently  mistake  its 
imperfections  for  excellence.  The  fact,  when 
stated  in  this  simple  way,  commonly  excites 
neither  opposition  nor  surprise  :  and  yet,  if  it 
be  asked,  why  the  taste  of  a  few  individuals, 
who  do  not  perceive  beauty  where  many 
others  perceive  it,  should  be  exclusively  dig- 
nified Vv'ith  the  name  of  a  good  taste;  or  vvhy 
poetry,  which  gives  pleasure  to  a  very  great 
number  of. readers,  should  be  thought  inferior 
to  that  which  pleases  a  much  smaller  num- 
ber,— the  answer,  perhaps,  may  not  be  quite 
so  ready  as  might  have  been  expected  from 
the  alacrity  of  our  assent  to  the  first  propo- 
sition. That  there  is  a  good  answer  to  be 
given,  however,  we  entertain  no  doubt :  and  if 
that  which  we  are  about  to  ofier  should  not 
appear  very  clear  or  satisfactory,  we  must 
submit  to  have  it  thought,  that  the  fault  is  not 
altogether  in  the  subject. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  it  should  be  remem- 
bered, that  though  the  taste  of  very  good 
judges  is  necessarily  the  taste  of  a  few,  it  is 
implied,  in  their  description,  that  they  are  per- 
sons eminently  qualified,  by  natural  sensi- 
bility, and  long  experience  and  refiection,  to 
perceive  all  beauties  that  really  exist,  as  well 
as  to  settle  the  relative  value  and  importance 
of  all  the  different  sorts  of  beauty ; — they  are 
in  that  very  state,  in  short,  to  which  all  who 
are  in  any  degree  capable  of  tasting  those  re- 
fined pleasures  would  certainly  arrive,  if  their 
sensibility  were  increased,  and  their  experi- 
ence and  reflection  enlarged.  It  is  difficult, 
therefore,  in  following  out  the  ordinary  analo- 
gies of  language,  to  avoid  considering  them  as 
in  the  right,  and  calling  their  taste  the  true 
and  the  just  one ;  when  it  appears  that  it  is 
puch  as  is  uniformly  produced  by  the  cultiva- 
tion of  those  faculties  upon  which  all  our  per- 
eptioos  of  taste  so  obviously  depend. 


It  is  to  be  considered  also,  that  though  it  be 
the  end  of  poetry  to  please,  one  of  the  partiea 
whose  pleasure,  and  whose  notions  of  excel- 
lence, will  always  be  primarily  consulted  in 
its  composition,  is  the  poet  himself;  and  as  he 
must  necessarily  be  more  cultivated  than  the 
great  body  of  his  readers,  the  presumption  is,  \ 
that  he  will  always  belong,  comparatively 
speaking,  to  the  class  of  good  judges,  and  en- 
deavour, consequently,  to  produce  that  sort  of 
excellence  which  is  likely  to  meet  with  their 
approbation.  When  authors,  therefore,  and 
those  of  whose  suff"rages  authors  are  most 
ambitious,  thus  conspire  to  fix  upon  the  same 
standard  of  what  is  good  in  taste  and  compo- 
sition, it  is  easy  to  see  how  it  should  come  to 
bear  this  name  in  society,  in  preference  to 
what  might  afford  more  pleasure  to  individuals 
of  less  influence.  Besides  all  this,  it  is  ob- 
vious that  it  must  be  infinitely  more  dijfficult 
to  produce  any  thing  conformable  to  this  ex- 
alted standard,  than  merely  to  fall  in  with  the 
current  of  popular  taste.  To  attain  the  former  i  y 
object,  it  is  necessary,  for  the  most  part,  Uj  v 
understand  thoroughly  all  the  feelings  and 
associations  that  are  modified  or  created  by 
cultivation : — To  accomplish  the  latter,  it  will 
often  be  sufficient  merely  to  have  observed 
the  course  of  familiar  preferences.  Success;-, 
however,  is  rare,  in  proportion  as  it  is  difficult ; 
and  it  is  needless  to  say,  what  a  vast  addition.  ..  . 
rarity  makes  to  value, — or  how  exactly  oxxxT^^ 
admiration  at  success  is  proportioned  to  oui  ( 
sense  of  the  difficulty  of  the  undertaking,      J 

Such  seem  to  be  the  most  general  and  im- 
mediate causes  of  the  apparent  paradox,  of 
reckotiing  that  which  pleases  the  greatest 
number  as  inferior  to  that  which  pleases  the 
few ;  and  such  the  leading  grounds  for  fixing 
the  standard  of  excellence,  in  a  question  of 
mere  feeling  and  gratification,  by  a  diff'erent 
rule  than  that  of  the  quantity  of  gratification 
produced.  With  reg-ard  to  some  of  the  fine 
arts — for  the  distinction  between  popular  and 
actual  merit  obtains  in  them  all — there  are  no 
other  reasons,  perhaps,  to  be  assigned;  and, 
in  Music  for  example,  when  we  have  said  that 
it  is  the  authority  of  those  who  are  best  quali- 
fied by  nature  and  study,  and  the  difficulty 
and  rarity  of  the  attainment,  that  entitles  cer- 
tain exquisite  perforaiances  to  rank  higher 
than  others  that  give  far  more  general  delight, 
we  have  probably  said  all  that  can  be  said  in 
explanation  of  this  mode  of  speaking  and 
judging.  In  poetry,  however,  and  in  some 
other  departments,  this  familiar,  though  some- 
what extraordinary  rule  of  estimation,  is  justi- 
fied by  other  considerations. 

As  it  is  the  cultivation  of  natural  and  per- 
haps universal  capacities,  that  produces  that 
refined  taste  which  takes  away  our  pleasure 
in  vulgar  excellence,  so,  it  is  to  be  considered,  > 
that  There  is  an  universal  tendency  to  the  pre-  > 
pagation  of  such  a  taste ;  and  that,  in  times  ( 
tolerably  favourable-  to    human    happiness,  \ 
there  is  a  continual  progress  and  improvement  ] 
in  this,  as  in  the  other  faculties  of  nations  and ' 
large  assemblages  of  men.     The  number  of 
intelligent  judges  may  therefore  be  regarded 
as  perpetifally  on  the  increase.     The  innef 


I 


SCOTT^S  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


369 


cirjle,  to  which  ihe  poet  deh'ghts  chiefly  to 
pitch  his  voice,  is  perpetually  enlarging;  and, 
looking  to  that  great  futurity  to  which  his  am- 
bition is  constantly  directed,  it  may  be  found, 
that  the  most  refined  style  of  composition  to 
which  he  can  attain,  will  be,  at  the  last,  the 
most  extensively  and  permanently  popular. 
This  holds  true,  we  think,  with  regard  to  all 
the  productions  of  art  that  are  open  to  the 
inspection  of  any  considerable  part  of  the 
community;  but,  with  regard  to  poetry  in 
particular,  there  is  one  circumstance  to  be  at- 
tended to,  that  renders  this  conclusion  pecu- 
liarly safe,  and  goes  far  indeed  to  reconcile 
the  taste  of  the  multitude  with  that  of  more 
cultivated  judges. 

As  it  seems  difficult  to  conceive  that  mere 
cultivation  should  either  absolutely  create  or 
utterly  destroy  any  natural  capacity  of  enjoy- 
ment, it  is  not  easy  to  suppose,  that  the  qual- 
ities which  delight  the  uninstructed  should 
be  siibstantiaUy  different  from  those  which 
give  pleasure  to  the  enlightened.  They  may 
be  arranged  according  to  a  different  scale, — 
and  certain  shades  and  accompaniments  may 
be  more  or  less  indispensable ;  but  the  qualt-1 


ties  in  a  poem  that  give  most  pleasure  to  ther  hired,  and  tawdry  trappings  of  all  who  wish 
f  refined  and  fastidious  critic,  are  in  substance,  *'*"  "^"^  ""  ^^^^  *^^  v.-..-  ♦t.-  ^oc^,',^,-,,i^  \.^x.u 
I    we  believe,  the  very  same  that  delight  the/ 

most  injudicious  of  its  admirers: — and  the 

very  wide  difference  which  exists  between 

their  usual  estimates,  may  be  in  a  great  de 


gree  accounted  for,  by  considering,  that  the 
one  judges  absolutely,  and  the  other  relatively 
— that  the  one  attends  only  to  the  intrinsic 
qualities  of  the  work,  while  the  other  refers 
imore  immediately  to  the  merit  of  the  author. 
"'"]  The  most  popular  passages  in  popular  poetry, 
are  in  fact,  for  the  most  part,  very  beautiful 
land  striking;  yet  they  are  very  often   such 
I  passages  as  could  never  be  ventured  on  by 
I  any  writer  who  aimed  at  the  praise  of  the 
f  judicious;  and  this,  for  the  obvious  reason, 
I  that  they  are  trite  and  hackneyed, — that  they 
f    have   been   repeated  till  they  have  lost  all 
grace  and  propriety, — and,  instead  of  exalting 
the  imagination  by  the  impression  of  original 
genius  or  creative  fancy,  only  nauseate  and 
offend,  by  the  association  of  paltry  plagiarism 
and  impudent  inanity.     It  is  only,  however, 
(wrthose  who  have  read  and  remembered  the 
original  passages,  and  their  better  imitations, 
that  this  effect  is  produced.     To  the  ignorant 
and  the  careless,  the  twentieth  imitation  has 
all  the  charm  of  an  original ;  and  that  which 
oppresses  the  more  experienced  reader  with 
weariness  and  disgust,  rouses  them  with  all 
the  force  and  vivacity  of  novelty.     It  is  not 
then,  because  the  ornaments  of  popular  poetry 
are  deficient  in  intrinsic  worth  and  beauty, 
that  they  are  slighted  by  the  critical  reader, 
but  because  he  at  once  recognises  them  to  be 
stolen,  and  perceives  that  they  are  arranged 
without  taste  or  congruity.    In  his  indignation 
at  the  dishonesty,  and  his  contempt  for  the 
poverty  of  the  collector,  he  overlooks  alto- 
gether the  value  of  what  he  has  collected,  or 
remembers  it  only  as  an  aggravation  of  his 
offence, — as  converting  larceny  into  sacrilege, 
and  adding  the  guilt  of  profanation  to  the  folly 
24 


of  unsuitable  finery.  There  are  other  features, 
no  doubt,  that  distinguish  the  idols  of  vulgar 
admiration  irom  the  beautiful  exemplars  of 
pure  taste;  but  this  is  so  much  the  most  char- 
acteristic and  remarkable,  that  we  know  no 
way  in  which  we  could  so  shortly  describe  the 
poetry  that  pleases  the  multitude,  and  dis- 
pleases the  select  few,  as  by  saying  that  it 
consisted  of  all  the  most  known  and  most 
brilliant  parts  of  the  most  celebrated  authors, 
— of  a  splendid  and  unmeaning  accumulation 
of  those  images  and  phrases  which  had  long 
charmed  every  reader  in  the -works  of  their 
original  inventors. 

The  justice  of  these  remarks  will  probably 
be  at  once  admitted  by  all  who  have  attended 
to  the  history  and  effects  of  what  may  be 
called  Poetical  diction  in  general,  or  even  of 
such  particular  phrases  and  epithets  as  have 
been  indebted  to  their  beauty  for  too  great  a 
notoriety.  Our  associations  with  all  this  class 
of  expressions,  which  have  become  trite  only 
in  consequence  of  their  intrinsic  excellence, 
now  suggest  to  us  no  ideas  but  those  oi  'j' 
schoolboy  imbecih|y  and  childish  affectation. 
We  look  upon  them  merely  asllie^common, 


to  put  on,  for  the  hour,  the  masquerade  habit 
of  poetry;  and,  instead  of  receiving  from  them 
any  kind  of  delight  or  emotion,  do  not  even 
distinguish  or  attend  to  the  signification  of 
the  words  of  which  they  consist.  The  ear  is 
so  palled  with  their  repetition,  and  so  accus- 
tomed to  meet  with  them  as  the  habitual  ex- 
pletives of  the  lowest  class  of  versifiers,  that 
they  come  at  last  to  pass  over  it  without  ex- 
citing any  sort  of  conception  whatever,  and 
are  not  even  so  much  attended  to  as  to  expose 
their  most  gross  incoherence  or  inconsistency 
to  detection.  It  is  of  this  quality  that  Swift 
has  availed  himself  in  so  remarkable  a  man- 
ner, in  his  famous  "Song  by  a  person  of 
quality,"  which  consists  entirely  in  a  selection 
of  some  of  the  most  trite  and  well-sounding 
phrases  and  epithets  in  the  poetical  lexicon 
of  the  time,  strung  together  without  any  kind 
of  meaning  or  consistency,  and  yet  so  dis- 
posed, as  to  have  been  perused,  perhaps  by 
one  half  of  their  readers,  without  any  suspi- 
cion of  the  deception.  Most  of  those  phrases, 
however,  which  had  thus  become  sickening, 
and  almost  insignificant,  to  the  intelligent 
readers  of  poetry  in  the  days  of-Queen  Anne, 
are  in  themselves  beautiful  and  expressive, 
and,  no  doubt,  retain  much  of  their  native 
grace  in  those  ears  that  have  not  been  alien- 
ated by  their  repetition. 

But  it  is  not  merely  from  the  use  of  mucn 
excellent  diction,  ibat  a  modern  poet  is  thus 
debarred  by  the  lavishness  of  his  predf  cessors. 
There  is  a  certain  range  of  subjects  and  char- 
acters, and  a  certain  manner  and  tone,  which 
were  probably,  in  their  origin,  as  graceful  and 
attractive,  which  have  been  proscribed  by  the 
same  dread  of  imitation.  It  would  be  too 
loffg  to  enter,  in  this  place,  into  any  detailed 
examination  of  the  peculiarities — originating 
chiefly  in  this  source — which  distinguish  an- 
cient from  modern  poetry.  It  may  be  enough 
just  to  remark,  that,  as  the  elements  of  poet- 


370 


POETRY. 


ical  emotion  are  necessarily  limited,  so  it  was 
natural  for  those  who  first  sought  / )  excite  it, 
to  avail  themselves  of  those  subjects,  situa- 
tions, and  images,  that  were  most  obviously 
calculated  to  produce  that  effect ;  and  to  assist 
them  by  the  use  of  all  those  aggravating  cn-- 
cumstances  that  most  readily  occurred  as 
likely  to  heighten  their  operation.  In  this, 
way,  they  may  be  said  to  have  got  possession 
of  all  the  choice  materials  of  their  art;  and, 
working  without  fear  of  comparisons,  fell 
naturally  into  a. free  and  graceful  style  of 
execution,  at  the  same  time  that  the  profusion 
of  their  resources  made  them  somewhat  care- 
less and  inexpert  in  their  application.  After- 
poets  were  in  a  very  different  situation.  They 
could  neither  take  the  most  natural  and  gene- 
ral topics  of  interest,  nor  treat  them  with  the 
ease  and  indifference  of  those  who  had  the 
whole  store  at  their  command — because  this 
was  precisely  what  had  been  already  done  by 
those  who  had  gone  before  them':  And  they 
were  therefore  put  upon  various  expedients 
for  attaining  their  object,  and  yet  preserving 
their  claim  to  originality.  Some  of  them  ac- 
cordingly set  themselves  to  observe  and  de- 
lineate both  characters  and  external  objects 
with  greater  minuteness  and  fidelity, — and 
others  to  analyse  more  carefully  the  mingling 
passions  of  the  heart,  and  to  feed  and  cherish 
a  more  limited  train  of  emotion,  through  a 
longer  and  more  artful  succession  of  incidents, 
— while  a  third  sort  distorted  both  nature  and 
passion,  according  to  some  fantastical  theory 
of  their  own;  or  took  such  a  narrow  corner 
of  each,  and  dissected  it  with  such  curious 
and  microscopic  accuracy,  that  its  original 
form  was  no  longer  discernible  by  the  eyes 
of  the  uninstructed.  In  this  way  we  think 
that  modern  poetry  has  both  been  enriched 
with  more  exquisite  pictures,  and  deeper  and 
more  sustained  strains  of  pathetic,  than  were 
known  to  the  less  elaborate  artists  of  antiquity ; 
at  the  same  time  that  it  has  been  defaced 
with  more  affectation,  and  loaded  with  far 
more  intricacy.  But  whether  they  failed  or 
succeeded, — and  whether  they  distinguished 
themselves  from  their  predecessors  by  faults 
or  by  excellences,  the  later  poets,  we  conceive, 
must  be  admitted  to  have  almost  always 
written  in  a  more  constrained  and  narrow 
manner  than  their  originals,  and  to  have  de- 
parted farthei"  from  what  was  obvious,  easy, 
and  natural.  Modern  poetry,  in  this  respect, 
may  be  compared,  perhaps,  without  any  great 
impropriety,  to  modern  sculpture.  It  is  greatly 
inferior  to  the  ancient  in  freedom,  grace,  and 
simplicity;  but,  in  return,  it  frequently  pos- 
sesses a  more  decided  expression,  and  more 
fine  finishing  of  less  suitable  embellishments. 
Whatever  may  be  gained  or  lost,  however, 
by  this  change  of  manner,  it  is  obvious,  that 
poetry  must  become  less  popular  by  means 
of  it :  For  the  most  natural  and  obvious  man- 
ner, is  always  the  most  taking; — and  what- 
ever costs  the  author  much  pains  and  labour, 
is  usually  found  to  require  a  corresponding 
effort  on  the  part  of  the  reader, — which  all 
readers  are  not  disposed  to  make.  That  they 
who  s'^ck  to  be  original  by  means  of  affecta- 


tion^ should-^r^yolt  more  by  their  affectation 

than  thgy^attract  by  their  originaLt};;,  is  just 
and  natural;  but  even  the  nobler  devices  tSat 
win  the  suffrages  of  the  judicious  by  their. .iiiz 
trinsic  beauty,  as  well  as  their  novelty,  are 
apt  to  repel  the  multitude,  and.  to  obstruct 
the  popularity  of  some  of  the  most,  exquisite 
prQilu.ctipns..of  genius.  The  beautiful  but  mi- 
nute delineations  of  such  admirable  observers 
as  Crabbe  or  Cowper,  are  apt  to  appear  tedious 
to  those  who  take  little  interest  in  their  sub- 
jects, and  have  no  concern  about  their  art ; — 
and  the  refined,  deep,  and  sustained  pathetic 
of  Campbell,  is  still  more  apt  to  be  mistaken 
for  monotony  and  languor  by  those  who  are 
either  devoid  of  sensibility,  or  impatient  of 
quiet  reflection.  The  most  popular  style  un- 
doubtedly is  that  which  has  great  variety  and 
brilliancy,  rather  than  exquisite  finish  in  its 
images  and  descriptions ;  and  which  touches 
lightly  on  many  passions,  without  raising  any 
so  high  as  to  transcend  the  comprehension  of 
ordinary  mortals — or  dwelling  on  it  so  long  as 
to  exhaust  their  patience. 

Whether  Mr.  Scott  holds  the  same  opinion 
with  us  upon  these  matters,  and  has  intention- 
ally conformed  his  practice  to  this  theory, — or 
whether  the  peculiarities  in  his  compositions 
have  been  produced  merely  by  following  out 
the  natural  bent  of  his  genius,  we  do  not  pre- 
sume to  determine :  But,  that  he  has  actually 
made  use  of  all  our  recipes  for  popularity,  we 
think  very  evident ;  and  conceive,  that  few 
things  are  more  curious  than  the  singular  skill, 
or  good  fortune,  with  which  he  has  reconcile*! 
his  claims  on  the  favour  of  the  multitude,  with 
his  pretensions   to   more   select  admiration. 
'Confident  in  the  force  and  originality  of  his~> 
own  genius,  he  has  not  been  afraid  to  avail   f^ 
himself  of  common-places  both  of  diction  and  / 
of  sentiment,  Mhenever  they  appeared  to  be  /    ' 
beautiful  or  impressive. — using  them,  how-/  ^ 
ever,  at  all  times,  with  the  skill  and  spirit  of/    j 
an  inventor ;  and,  quite  certain  that  he  could)    ^ 
not  be  mistaken  for  a  plagiarist  or  imitator,  ha"-*-^ 
has  m.ade  free  use  of  that  great  treasury  (A     ^ 
characters,  images,  and   expressions,  whicbV  || 
had  been  accumulated  by  the  most  celebrated  f 
of  his  predecessors, — at  the  same  time  that 
the  rapidity  of  his  transitions,  the  novelty  of 
his  combinations,  and  the  spirit  and  variety 
of  his   own   thoughts  and  inventions,  show 
plainly  that  he  was  a  borrower  from  any  thing 
but  poverty,  and  took  only  what  he  Avould 
have  given,  if  he  had  been  born  in  an  earliex^ 
generation.     The  great  secret  of  his  popu- 
larity, however,  and  the  leading  characteristic 
of  his  poetry,  appear  to  us  to  conti&t  evidently 
in  this,  that  he  has  made  more  use  of  common 
topics,  images,  and  expressions,  than  any  orig- 
inal poet  of  later  times;  and,  at  the  same 
time,  displayed  more  genius  and  originality 
than  any  recent  author  who  has  worked  in 
the  same  materials.     By  the  latter  peculiarity^ 
he  has  entitled  himself  to  the  admiration  oi 
every  description  of  readers ; — by  the  former, 
he  is  recommended  in  an  especial  manner  to 
the  inexperienced — at  the  hazard  of  some  little 
offence  to  the  more  cultivated  and  fastidious. 

In  the  choice  of  his  subjects,  for  example; 


SCOTT'S  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


371 


nc  :1()es  not  attempt  to  interest  merely  by  fine 
/. observation  or  pathetic  sentiment,  out  takes 
"  «Ke  assistance  of  a  story,  and  enlists  the  read- 
er's curiosity  among  his  motives  for  attention. 
rThen  his  characters  are  all  selected  from  the 
f  most  common  dramatis  persorKE  of  poetry ; — 
\  kings,  warriors,  kftights,  outlaws,  nuns,,  min- 
Utrels,  secluded  damsels,  wizards,  and  true 
Hovers.     He  never  ventures  to  carry  us  into 
fthe  cottage  of  the  modern  peasant,  like  Crabbe 
"or  Cowper;  nor  into  the  bosom  of  domestic 
I  privacy,  like  Campbell ',  nor  among  creatures 
:  of  the  imagination,  like  Southey  or  Darwin. 
i  Such  personages,  we  readily  admit,  are  not  in 
'  themselves  so  interesting  or  striking  as  those 
1    to  whom  Mr.  Scott  has  devoted  himself;  but 
j    they  are  far  less  familiar  in  poetry — and  are 
'    therefore  more  likely,  perhaps,  to  engage  the 
^  attention  of  those  to  whom  poetry  is  familiar, 
-i^;^  the  management  of  the  passions,  again,  Mr. 
/Scott  appears  to  us  to  have  pursued  the  same 
(  popular,  and  comparatively  easy  course.    He 
\  has  raised  all  the  most  familiar  and  poetical 
\emotions,  by  the  most  obvious  aggravations, 
iand  in  the  most  compendious  and  judicious 
Avays,     He  has  dazzled  the  reader  with  the 
]  splendour,  and  even  warmed  him  with  the 
I  transient  heat  of  various  affections;  but  he 
[  has  nowhere  fairly  kindled  him  with  enthu* 
j^iasm,  or  melted  him  into  tenderness.    Writ4 
ling  for  the  world  at  large,  he  has  w^isely  ab- 
'stained  from  attempting  to  raise  any  passion 
J  to  a  height  to  which  worldly  people  could  not 
pe  transported ;  and  contented  himself  with 
(giving  his  reader  the  chance  of  feeling,  as  a 
,    ?brave,  kind,  and  affectionate  gentleman  must 
!,  1  often  feel  in  the  ordinary  course  of  his  exist- 
^ '  1  pnce,  without  trying  to  breathe  into  him  either 
\   uhat  lofty  enthusiasm  which  disdains  the  or- 
fdinary  business  and  amusemj3nts  of  life,  or 
i'-t^at  quiet  and  deep  sensibility  which  unfits 
•Ifor  most  of  its  pursuits.     With  regard  to  dic- 
-^iuh  and  imagery,  too,  it  is  quite  obvious  that 
Mr.  Scott  has  not  aimed  at  writing  either  in  a 
very  pure  or  a  very  consistent  style.     He 
seems  to  have  been  anxious  only  to  strike, 
and  to  be  easily  and  universally  understood; 
and,  for  this  purpose,  to  have  culled  the  most 
glittering  and  conspicuous  expressions  of  the 
most  popular  authors,  and  to  have  interwoven 
them  in  splendid  confusion  with  his  own  ner- 
vous diction  and  irregular  versification.     In- 
different whether  he  coins  or  borrows,  and 
drawing  with  equal  freedom,  on  his  memory 
and  his  imagination,  he  goes  boldly  forward. 
'  in  full  reliance  on  a  never-failing  abundance ; 
and  dazzles,  with  his  richness  and  variety, 
I  even  those  who  are  most  apt  to  be  offended 
^:  with  his  glare   and   irregularity.     There   is 
/nothing,  in  Mr,  Scott,  of  the  severe  and  ma- 
'  jestic  style  of  Milton — or  of  the  terse  and 
f  fine  composition  of  Pope — or  of  the  elaborate 
,  elegance  and  melody  of  Campbell — or  even 
of   the   flowing    and   redundant    diction   of 
Southey. — But  there  is  a  medley  of  bright 
images  and  glowing  words,  set  carelessly  and 
.oosely  together — a  diction,  tinged  successive- 
ly with  the  careless  richness  of  Shakespeare, 
he  harshness  and  antique  simplicity  of  the 
old  romances,  the  homehness  of  vulgar  bal- 


lads and  anecdotes,  ai.d  the  sentimenta]  glittef 
of  the  most  modorn  poetry, — passing  from 
the  borders  of  the  ludicrous  to  those  of  the 
sublime — alternately  minute  and  energetic — 
sometimes  artificial,  and  frequently  negligent 
— but  always  full  of  spirit  and  vivacity, — 
abounding  in  images  that  are  striking,  at  first 
sight,  to  minds  of  every  contexture — and 
never  expressing  a.  sentiment  which  it  can 
cost  the  most  ordinary  reader  any  exertion  to 
comprehend. 

Such  seem  to  be  the  leading  qualities  that 
have  contributed  to  Mr,  Scott's  popularity; 
and  as  some  of  them  are  obviously  of  a  kind 
to  diminish  his  merit  in  the  eyes  of  more'r' 
fastidious  judges,  it  is  but  fair  to  complete 
this  view  of  his  peculiarities  by  a  hasty  no- 
tice of  such  of  them  as  entitle  him  to  unquali- 
fied admiration ; — and  here  it  is  impossible 
not  to  be  struck  with  that  vivifying  spirit  of 
strength  and  animation  which  pervades  all 
the  inequalities  of  his  composition,  and  keeps 
constantly  on  the  mind  of  the  reader  the  im- 
pression of  great  power,  spirit  and  intrepidity 
There  is  nothing  cold,  creeping,  or  feeble,  in 
all  Mr.  Scott's  poetry; — no  laborious  littleness, 
or  puling  classical  affectation.  He  has  his  fail- 
ures, indeed,  like  other  people  ;  but  he  always 
attempts  vigorously :  And  never  fails  in  his  im- 
mediate object,  without  accomplishing  some- 
thing far  beyond  the  reach  of  an  ordinary 
writer.  Even  when  he  wanders  from  the 
paths  of  pure  taste,  he  leaves  behind  him  the 
footsteps  of  a  powerful  genius ;  and  moulds 
the  most  humble  of  his  materials  into  a  form 
worthy  of  a  nobler  substance.  Allied  to  this  ' 
inlierent  vigour  andjinimationj  and  in  a  great 
degree  derived  "from  it,"  is  that  air  of  facility 
and  freedom  which  adds  so  peculiar  a  grace 
to  most  of  Mr.  Scott's  compositions.  There 
is  certainly  no  living  poet  whose  works  seem 
to  come  from  him  with  so  much  ease,  or  who 
so  seldom  appears  to  labour,  even  in  the  most 
burdensome  parts  of  his  performance.  He 
seems,  indeed,  never  to  think  either  of  him- 
self or  his  reader,  but  to  be  completely  identi- 
fied and  lost  in  the  personages  with  Mhom he 
is  occupied ;  and  the  attention  of  the  reader 
is  consequently  either  transferred,  unbroken, 
to  their  adventures,  or,  if  it  glance  back  for  a 
moment  to  the  author,  it  is  only  to  think  how 
much  more  might  be  done,  by  putting  forth 
that  strength  at  full,  which  has,  without  ef- 
fort, accomplished  so  many  wonders.  It  is 
owing  partly  to  these  qualities,  and  partly  to 
the  great  variety  of  his  style,  that  Mr.  Scott 
is  much  less  frequently  tedious  than  any  other 
bulky  poet  with  whom  we  are  acquainted. 
His  store  of  images  is  so  copious,  that  he 
never  dwells  upon  one  long  enough  to  pro- 
duce weariness  in  the  reader;  and,  even 
w^here  he  deals  in  borrowed  or  in  tawdry 
wares,  the  rapidity  of  his  transitions,  and  the 
transient  glance  with  which  he  is  satisfied  as 
to  each,  leave  the  critic  no  time  to  be  offend- 
ed, and  hurry  him  forward,  along  with  the 
multitude,  enchanted  with  the  brilliancy  of 
the  exhibition.  Thus,  the  very  frequency  of 
his  deviations  from  pure  taste,  comes,  in  some 
sort,  to  constitute  their  apology;  and  the  pro. 


^ 


372 


POETRY. 


fusion  and  variety  of  his  faults  to  afford  a  new 
proof  of  his  genius. 

These,  we  think,  are  the  general  character- 
istics of  Mr.  Scott's  poetry.    Among  his  minor 
*      peculiarities,  we  might  notice   his   singular 
)r    I    talent  for  description,  and  especially  for  the 
-'"  description  of  scenes  abounding  in  motion  or 

action  of  any  kind.  In  this  department,  in- 
deed, we  conceive  him  to^be  almost  without 
a  rival,  either  among  modern  or  ancient  poets; 
and  the  character  and  process  of  his  descrip- 
tions are  as  extraordinary  as  their  effect  is 
astonishing.  He  places  before  the  eyes  of 
his  readers  a  more  distinct  and  complete  pic- 
ture, perhaps,  than  any  other  artist  ever  pre- 
seiitt>i  by  mere  words  j  and  yet  he  does  not 
(like  Crabbe)  enumerate  all  the  visible  parts 
of  the  subjects  with  any  degree  of  minute- 
ness, nor  confine  himself,  by  any  means,  to 
what  is  visible.  The  singular  merit  of  his 
delineations,  on  the  contrary,  consists  in  this, 
l  that,  with  a  few  bold  and  abrupt  strokes,  he 
finishes  a  most  spirited  outline, — and  then  in- 
stantly kindles  it  by  the  sudden  light  and  co- 
lour of  some  moral  affection.  There  are  none 
of  his  fine  descriptions,  accordingly,  which  do 
not  derive  a  great  part  of  their  clearness  and 
picturesque  effect,  as  well  as  their  interest, 
from  the  quantity  of  character  and  moral  ex- 
pression which  is  thus  blended  with  their  de- 
tails, and  which,  so  far  from  interrupting  the 
conception  of  the  external  object,  very  power- 
fully stimulate  the  fancy  of  the  reader  to 
complete  it ;  and  give  a  grace  and  a  spirit  to 
the  whole  representation,  of  which  we  do  not 
I  know  where  to  IcTok  for  any  other  example. 

Another  very  striking  peculiarity  in  Mr. 
-J  Scott's  poetry,  is  the  air  of  freedom  and  na- 
{>  ture  which  he  has  contrived  to  impart  to  most 
of  his  distinguished  characters;  and  with 
which  no  poet  more  modern  than  Shakespeare 
ihas  ventured  to  represent  personages  of  such 
'dignity.  We  do  not  allude  here  merely,  to  the 
'genuine  familiarity  and  homeliness  of  many 
of  his  scenes  and  dialogues,  but  to  that  air  of 

faiety  and  playfulness  in  which  persons  of 
igh  rank  seem,  from  time  immemorial,  to 
have  thought  it  necessary  to  array,-  not  their 
courtesy  only,  but  their  generosity  and  their 
hostility.  This  tone  of  good  society,  Mr. 
Scott  has  shed  over  his  higher  characters  with 
great  grace  and  effect ;  and  has,  in  this  way, 
not  only  made  his  representations  much  more 
faithful  and  true  to  nature,  but  has  very  agree- 
ably relieved  the  monotony  of  that  tragic  so- 
lemnity which  ordinary  writers  appear  to  think 
mdispensable  to  the  dignity  of  poetical  heroes 
and  heroines.  We  are  not  sure,  however, 
whether  he  has  not  occasionally  exceeded  a 
little  in  the  use  of  this  ornament ;  and  given, 
now  and  then,  too  coquettish  and  trifling  a  tone 
to  discussions  of  weight  and  moment. 

Mr.  Scott  has  many  other  characteristic  ex- 
cellences : — But  we  have  already  detained 
our  readers  too  long  with  this  imperfect  sketch 
of  his  poetical  character,  and  must  proceed, 
without  further  delay,  to  give  them  some  ac- 
count of  the  work  which  is  now  before  us. 
Of  this,  upon  the  whole,  we  are  inclined  to 
Chink  more  highly  than  of  either  of  his  former 


publications.     We  are  more  sure,  nowevei, 

that  it  has  fewer  faults,  than  that  it  nas  greatei 
beauties;  and  as  its  beauties  bear  a  strong 
resemblance  to  those  with  which  the  public 
has  already  been  made  familiar  in  those  cele- 
brated works,  we  should  not  be  surprised  if 
its  popularity  were  less  splendid  and  remark- 
able. For  our  own  parts,  however,  we  are  of 
opinion,  that  it  will  be  oftener  read  hereaftei 
than  either  of  them ;  and,  that,  if  it  had  ap- 
peared first  in  the  series,  their  reception  would 
have  been  less  favourable  than  that  which  it 
has  experienced.  It  is  more  polished  in  its 
diction,  and  more  regular  in  its  versification  j 
the  story  is  constructed  with  infinitely  more 
skill  and  address ;  there  is  a  greater  propor- 
tion of  pleasing  and  tender  passages,  with 
much  less  antiquarian  detail ;  and,  upon  the 
whole,  a  larger  variety  of  characters,  more 
artfully  and  judiciously  contrasted.  There  ia 
nothing  so  fine,  perhaps,  as  the  battle  in  Mar- 
mion — or  so  picturesque  as  some  of  the  scat- 
tered sketches  in  the  Lay ;  but  there  is  a 
richness  and  a  spirit  in  the  whole  piece,  which 
does  not  pervade  either  of  these  poems — a 
profusion  of  incident,  and  a  shifting  brilliancy 
of  colouring,  that  reminds  us  of  the  witchery 
of  Ariosto — and  a  constant  elasticity,  and  oc- 
casional energy,  which  seem  to  belong  more 
peculiarly  to  the  author  now  before  us. 

It  may  appear  superfluous,  perhaps,  for  ua  [ 
to  present  our  readers  with  any  analysis  of  a 
work,  which  is  probably,  by  this  time,  in  the 
hands  of  as  many  persoifs  as  are  likely  to  see 
our  account  of  it.  As  these,  however,  may 
not  be  the  same  persons,  and  as.  without 
making  some  such  abstract,  we  could  not 
easily  render  the  few  remarks  we  have  to 
offer  intelligible,  we  shall  take  the  liberty  of 
beginning  with  a  short  summary  of  the  fable.    \ 

The  first  canto,  which  is  entitled  The  Chase, 
begins  with  a  pretty  long  description  of  a  stag- 
hunt  in  the  Highlands  of  Perthshire.  As  the 
chase  lengthens,  the  sportsmen  drop  off;  till 
at  last  the  foremost  huntsman  is  left  alone ; 
and  his  horse,  overcome  with  fatigue,  stum- 
bles, and  dies  in  a  rocky  valley.  The  ad- 
venturer pursues  a  little  wild  path,  through  a 
deep  ravine ;  and  at  last,  climbing  up  a  craggy 
eminence,  discovers,  by  the  light  of  the  even- 
ing sun.  Loch  Katrine,  with  all  its  woody 
islands  and  rocky  shores,  spread  out  in  glory 
before  him.  After  gazing  with  admiration  on 
this  beautiful  scene,  which  is  described  with 
greater  spirit  than  accuracy,  the  huntsman 
winds  his  horn,  in  the  hope  of  being  heard 
by  some  of  his  attendants ;  and  sees,  to  his 
infinite  surprise,  a  little  skiff,  guided  by  a 
lovely  woman,  glide  from  beneath  the  trees 
that  overhang  the  water,  and  approach  the 
shore  at  his  feet.  The  lad y  calls  to  her  father ; 
and,  upon  the  stranger's  approach,  pushes  her 
shallop  from  the  shore  in  alarm.  After  hold- 
ing a  short  parley  with  him,  however,  from 
the  water,  she  takes  him  into  the  boat,  and 
carries  him  to  a  woody  island ;  where  she 
leads  him  into  a  sort  of  sylvan  mansion,  rude- 
ly constructed  of  trunks  of  trees,  moss,  and 
thatch,  and  hung  round,  within,  with  trophies 
of  war,  and  of  the  chase.     An  elderly  lady  if 


SCOTT'S  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


373 


rtitroduced  at  supper ;  and  the  stranger,  after 
disclosing  himself  to  be  "  James  Filz-James, 
the  knight  of  Snowdoun,"  tries  in  vain  to  dis- 
cover the  name  and  history  of  the  ladies, 
whose  manners  discover  them  to  be  of  high 
rank  and  quality.  He  then  retires  to  sleep, 
and  is  disturbed  with  distressful  visions — 
rises  and  tranquillises  himself,  by  looking  out 
on  the  lovely  moonlight  landscape — says  his 
prayers,  and  sleeps  till  the  heathcock  crows 
on  the  mountains  behind  him : — And  thus 
closes  the  first  canto. 

The  second  opens  with  a  fine  picture  of  the 
aged  harper,  Allan-bane,  sitting  on  the  island 
beach  with  the  damsel,  watching  the  skiff 
which  carries  the  stranger  back  again  to  land. 
The  minstrel  sings  a  sweet  song ;  and  a  con- 
versation ensues,  from  which  the  reader  gath- 
ers, that  the  lady  is  a  daughter  of  the  house 
of  Douglas,  and  that  her  father,  having  been 
exiled  by  royal  displeasure  from  the  court, 
had  been  fain  to  accept  of  this  asylum  from 
Sir  Roderick  Dhu,  a  Highland  chieftain,  who 
had  long  been  outlawed  for  deeds  of  blood, 
but  still  maintained  his  feudal  sovereignty  in 
the  fastnesses  of  his  native  mountains.  It 
appears  also,  that  this  dark  chief  is  in  love 
with  his  fair  protegee  ;  but  that  her  affections 
are  engaged  to  Malcolm  Grasme,  a  younger 
and  more  amiable  mountaineer,  the  companion 
and  guide  of  her  father  in  his  hunting  excur- 
sions. As  they  are  engaged  in  this  discourse, 
the  sound  of  distant  music  is  heard  on  the 
lake ;  and  the  barges  of  Sir  Roderick  are  dis- 
covered, proceeding  in  triumph  to  the  island. 
Her  mother  calls  Ellen  to  go  down  with  lier* 
to  receive  him ;  but  she,  hearing  her  father's 
horn  at  that  instant  on  the  opposite  shore, 
flies  to  meet  him  and  Malcolm  Graeme,  who 
is  received  wnth  cold  and  stately  civility  by 
the  lord  of  the  isle.  After  some  time,  Sir 
Roderick  informs  the  Douglas,  that  his  retreat 
has  been  discovered  by  the  royal  spies,  and 
that  he  has  great  reason  to  believe  that  the 
King  (James  V,),  who,  under  pretence  of  hunt- 
ing, had  assembled  a  large  force  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, was  bent  upon  their  destruction. 
He  then  proposes,  somewhat  impetuously, 
that  they  should  unite  their  fortunes  indis- 
eolubly  by  his  marriage  with  Ellen,  and  rouse 
the  whole  Western  Highlands  to  repress  the 
invasion.  The  Douglas,  with  many  expres- 
sions of  gratitude,  declines  both  the  war  and 
the  alliance  ;  and,  intimating  that  his  daughter 
has  repugnances  which  she  cannot  overcome, 
and  that  he,  though  ungratefully  used  by  his 
sovereign,  will  never  lift  his  arm  against  him, 
declares  that  he  will  retire  to  a  cave  in  the 
neighbouring  mountains,  till  the  issue  of  the 
threat  is  seen.  The  strong  heart  of  Roderick 
is  wrung  with  agony  at  this  rejection ',  and, 
\  when  Malcolm  advances  to  offer  his  services, 
as  Ellen  rises  to  retire,  he  pushes  him  violenj;- 
[  ly  back — and  a  scufHe  ensues,  of  no  very  dig- 
nified character,  w^hich  is  with  difficulty  ap- 
;  peased  by  the  giant  arm  of  Douglas.  Malcolm 
^  then  withdraws  in  proud  resentment  j  and, 
.  refusing  to  be  indebted  to  the  surly  chief 
!  ^ve*  for  the  use  of  his  boat,  plunges  into  the 
'    «vater  and  swims  over  by  moonlight  to  the 


mainland  : — And,  with  the  description  of  this 
feat,  the  second  canto  concludes. 

The  third  canto,  which  is  entitled  "The 
Gathering,"  opens  with  a  long  and  rather 
tedious  account  of  the  ceremonies  employed 
by  Sir  Roderick,  in  preparing  for  the  sum- 
moning or  gathering  of  his  clan.  This  is  ac- 
complished by  the  consecration  of  a  small 
wooden  cross,  which,  with  its  points  scorched 
and  dipped  in  blood,  is  circulated  with  in- 
credible celerity  through  the  whole  territory 
of  the  chieftain.  The  eager  fidelity  with 
which  this  fatal  signal  is  hurried  on  and 
obeyed,  is  represented  w'ith  great  spirit  and 
felicity.  A  youth  starts  from  the  side  of  his 
father's  coffin,  to  bear  it  forward  ',  and  having  < 
run  his  stage,  delivers  it  into  the  hands  of  a 
young  bridegroom  returning  from  church;  ^ 
who  instantly  binds  his  plaid  around  him, 
and  rushes  onward  from  his  bride.  In  the 
mean  time,  Douglas  and  his  daughter  had 
taken  refuge  in  the  mountain  cave ;  and  Sir 
Roderick,  passing  near  their  retreat  in  his 
way  to  the  muster,  hears  Ellen's  voice  sing- 
ing her  evening  hymn  to  the  Virgin.  He  does 
not  obtrude  on  her  devotions,  but  hurries  to 
the  place  of  rendezvous,  where  his  clan  re- 
ceive him  with  a  shout  of  acclamation,  and 
then  couch  on  the  bare  heath  for  the  night  .- 
This  terminates  the  third  canto. 

The  fourth  begins  with  more  incantations. 
Some  absurd  and  disgusting  ceremonies  are 
gone  through,  by  a  wild  hermit  of  the  clan, 
with  a  view  to  ascertain  the  issue  of  the  im- 
pending war; — and  this  oracular  response  is 
"obtained — "that  the  party  shall  prevail  which 
first  sheds  the  blood  of  its  adversary."  We 
are  then  introduced  to  the  minstrel  and  Ellen, 
whom  he  strives  to  comfort  for  the  alarming 
disappearance  of  her  father,  by  singing  a  long 
fairy  ballad  to  her;  and  just  as  the  song  is 
ended,  the  knight  of  Snowdoun  again  appears 
before  her,  declares  his  love,  and  urges  her 
to  put  herself  under  his  protection.  Ellen, 
alarmed,  throws  herself  on  his  generosit}" — 
confesses  her  attachment  to  Graeme — and 
with  difficulty  prevails  on  him  to  seek  his 
own  safety  by  a  speedy  retreat  from  those 
dangerous  confines.  The  gallant  stranger  at 
last  complies ;  but,  before  he  goes,  presents 
her  with  a  ring,  which  he  says  he  had  re- 
ceived from  the  hand  of  King  James,  with  a 
promise  to  grant  any  boon  that  should  be 
asked  by  the  person  producing  it.  As  he  is 
pursuing  his  way  through  the  wild,  his  sus- 
picions are  excited  by  the  conduct  of  his 
guide,  and  confirmed  by  the  musical  warn- 
ings of  a  mad  woman,  who  sings  to  him  about 
the  toils  that  are  set,  and  the  knives  that  are 
whetted  against  him.  He  then  threatens  his 
false  guide,  who  discharges  an  arrow  at  him, 
which  kills  the  maniac.  The  knight  elays  the 
murderer;  and  learning  from  the  expiring 
victim  that  her  brain  had  been  turned  by  the 
cruelty  of  Sir  Roderick,  he  vows  vengeance 
on  his  head ;  and  proceeds  with  grief  and  ap- 
prehension along  his  dangerous  way  When 
chilled  with  the  midnight  cold,  and  exhausted 
with  w^ant  and  fatigue,  he  suddenly  com(J8 
upon  a  chief  reposing  by  a  lonely  watch-fire; 


374 


POETRY. 


and,  though  challenged  in  the  name  of  Rod- 
erick Dhu,  boldly  avows  himself  his  enemy. 
The  clansman,  however,  disdains  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  a  worn-out  wanderer  ;  and  pledges 
himself  to  escort  him  safe  out  of  Sir  Roderick's 
territory ;  after  which,  he  tells  him  he  must 
answer  with  his  sword  for  the  defiance  he 
had  uttered  against  the  chieftain.  The  stran- 
ger accepts  his  courtesy  upon  those  chivalrous 
terms ;  and  the  warriors  sup,  and  sleep  to- 
gether on  the  plaid  of  the  mountaineer. 

They  rouse  themselves  by  dawn,  at  the 
opening  of  the  fifth  canto,  entitled  "  The 
Combat,"  and  proceed  towards  the  Lowland 
frontier  J  the  Highland  warrior  seeking,  by 
the  way,  at  once  to  vindicate  the  character 
of  Sir  Roderick,  and  to  justify  the  predatory 
habits  of  his  clan.  Fitz- James  expresses 
freely  his  detestation  of  both ;  and  the  dis- 
pute growing  warm,  he  says,  that  never  lover 
longed  so  to  see  the  lady  of  his  heart,  as  he 
to  see  before  him  this  murderous  chief  and 
his  myrmidons.  "Have  then  thy  wish!" 
answers  his  guide  ;  and  giving  a  loud  whistle, 
a  whole  legion  of  armed  men  start  up  at 
once  from  their  mountain  ambush  in  the 
heath;  while  the  chief  turns  proudly,  and 
says,  those  are  the  warriors  of  Clan-Alpine — 
and  "I  am  Roderick  Dhu!" — The  Lowland 
knight,  though  startled,  repeats  his  defiance  ] 
and  Sir  Roderick,  respecting  his  valour,  by  a 
signal  dismisses  his  men  to  their  conceal- 
ment, and  assures  him  anew  of  his  safety 
till  they  pass  his  frontier.  Arrived  on  this 
equal  ground,  the  chief  now  demands  satis 
faction ;  and  forces  the  knight,  who  tries  al' 
honourable  means  of  avoiding  the  combat 
with  so  generous  an  adversar}^,  to  stand  upon 
his  defence.  Roderick,  after  a  tough  combat, 
is  laid  wounded  on  the  ground;  and  Fitz- 
James,  sounding  his  bugle,  brings  four  squires 
to  his  side ;  and  after  giving  the  wounded 
chief  into  their  charge,  gallops  rapidly  on 
towards  Stirling.  As  he  ascends  the  hill  to  the 
castle,  he  descries  the  giant  form  of  Douglas 
approaching  to  the  same  place;  and  the 
reader  is  then  told,  that  this  generous  lord 
had  taken  the  resolution  of  delivering  him- 
self up  voluntarily,  with  a  view  to  save  Mal- 
colm Graeme,  and  if  possible  Sir  Roderick 
also,  from  the  impending  danger.  As  he 
draws  near  to  the  castle,  he  sees  the  King 
and  his  train  descending  to  grace  the  holyday 
sports  of  the  commonalty,  and  resolves  to 
mingle  in  them,  and  present  himself  to  the 
eye  of  his  alienated  sovereign  as  victor  in 
those  humbler  contentions.  He  wins  the 
prize  accordingly,  in  archery,  wrestling,  and 
pitching  the  bar;  and  receives  his* reward 
from  the  hand  of  the  prince ;  who  does  not 
condescend  to  recognise  his  former  favourite 
by  one  glance  of  affection.  Roused  at  last 
by  an  insult  from  one  of  the  royal  grooms,  he 
proclaims  himself  aloud  ;  is  ordered  into  cus- 
tody by  the  King,  and  represses  a  tumult  of 
the  populace  which  is  excited  for  his  rescue. 
At  this  instant,  a  messenger  arrives  with 
tidings  of  an  approaching  battle  between  the 
clan  of  Roderick  and  the  King's  lieutenant, 
the  Earl  of  Mar  ,  and  is  ordered  back  to  pre- 


vent the  combat,  by  announcing  that  l/olli 
Sir  Roderick  and  Lord  Douglas  are  in  tha 
hands  of  their  sovereign. 

The  sixth  and  last  canto,  entitled  "The 
Guard  Room,"  opens  with  a  very  animated 
description  of  the  motley  mercenaries  that 
formed  the  royal  guard,  as  they  appeared  at 
early  dawn,  after  a  night  of  stern  debauch. 
While  they  are  quarrelling  and  singing,  the 
sentinels  introduce  an  old  minstrel  and  a 
veiled  maiden,  who  had  been  forwarded  by 
Mar  to  the  royal  presence ;  and  Ellen,  disclos- 
ing her  countenance,  awes  the  ruffian  soldiery, 
into  respect  and  pity,  by  her  grace  and  liber- 
ality. She  is  then  conducted  to  a  more  seemly 
waiting-place,  till  the  King  should  be  visible ; 
and  Allan-bane,  asking  to  be  taken  to  the 
prison  of  his  captive  lord,  is  led,  by  mistake,  to 
the  sick  chamber  of  Roderick  Dhu,  who  is 
dying  of  his  wounds  in  a  gloomy  apartment  of 
the  castle.  The  high-souled  chieftain  inquires 
eagerly  after  the  fortunes  of  his  clan,  the 
Douglas,  and  Ellen ;  and,  when  he  learns  that 
a  battle  has  been  fought  with  a  doubtful  suc- 
cess, entreats  the  minstrel  to  sooth  his  parting 
spirit  with  a  description  of  it.  and  with  the 
victor  song  of  his  clan.  Allan-bane  com- 
plies; and  the  battle  is  told  in  very  animated 
and  irregular  verse.  When  the  vehement 
strain  is  closed,  Roderick  is  found  cold ;  and 
Allan  mourns  him  in  a  pathetic  lament.  In 
the  mean  time,  Ellen  hears  the  voice  of 
Malcolm  Graeme  lamenting  his  captivity  from 
an  adjoining  turret  of  the  palace ;  and,  before 
she  has  recovered  from  her  agitation,  is  start- 
by  the  appearance  of  Fitz-James,  who 
comes  to  inform  her  that  the  court  is  assem- 
bled, and  the  King  at  leisure  to  receive  her 
suit.  He  conducts  her  trembling  steps  to  the 
hall  of  presence,  round  w^hich  Ellen  casts  a 
timid  and  eager  glance  for  the  monarch ;  But 
all  the  glittering  figures  are  uncovered,  and 
James  Fitz-James  alone  wears  his  cap  and 
plume  in  the  brilliant  assembly  !  The  truth 
immediately  rushes  on  her  imagination : —  \ 
The  knight  of  Snowdoun  is  the  King  of  Scot- 
land !  and,  struck  Avith  awe  and  terror,  "she 
falls  speechless  at  his  feet,  clasping  her  hands, 
and  pointing  to  the  ring  in  breathless  agita- 
tion. The  prince  raises  her  with  eager  kind- 
ness— declares  aloud  that  her  father  is  for- 
given, and  restored  to  favour — and  bids  her 
ask  a  boon  for  some  other  person.  The  name 
of  Graeme  trembles  on  her  lips;  but  she 
cannot  trust  herself  to  utter  it,  and  begs  the 
grace  of  Roderick  Dhu.  The  king  answers, 
that  he  would  give  his  best  earldom  to  restore 
him  to  life,  and  presses  her  to  name  some 
other  boon.  She  blushes,  and  hesitates;  and 
the  king,  in  playful  vengeance,  condemns 
Malcolm  Graeme  to  fetters — takes  a  chain  of 
gold  from  his  own  neck,  and  throwing  it  ovei 
that  of  the  young  chief,  puts  the  clasp  into 
the  hand  of  "Ellen  ! 

Such  is  the  brief  and  naked  outline  of 
the  story,  which  Mr.  Scott  has  fembelhshed 
with  such  exquisite  imagery,  and  enlarged 
by  so  many  characteristic  incidents,  as  to 
have  rendered  it  one  of  the  most  attractive 
poems  in    the   language.      That   the   storv 


SCOTT'S  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


375 


upon  the  whole,  is  well  digested  and  happily 
carried  on,  is  evident  from  the  hold  it  keeps 
of  the  reader's  attention  through  every  part 
of  its  progress.  It  has  the  fault,  indeed,  of 
all  stories  that  turn  upon  an  ana^iorisis  or 
recognition,  that  the  curiosity  whicTT  is  ex- 
cited during  the  first  reading  is  extinguished 
for  ever  when  we  arrive  at  the  discovery. 
This,  however,  is  an  objection  which  may  be 
made,  in  some  degree,  to  almost  every  story 
of  interest ;  and  we  must  say  for  Mr.  Scott, 
that  his  secret  is  very  discreetly  kept,  and 
most  felicitously  revealed.  If  we  were  to 
scrutinize  the  fable  with  malicious  severity, 
we  might  also  remark,  that  Malcolm  Graeme 
has  too  insignificant  a  part  assigned  him,  con- 
sidering the  favour  in  which  he  is  held  both 
by  Ellen  and  the  author ;  and  that,  in  bring- 
ing out  the  shaded  and  imperfect  character 
,  of  Roderick  Dhu,  as  a  contrast  to  the  purer 
\virtue  of  his  rival,  Mr.  Scott  seems  to  have 
fallen  into  the  common  error,  of  making  him 
more  interesting  than  him  whose  virtues  he 
was  intended  to  set  off,  and  converted  the 
villain  of  the  piece  in  some  measure  into  its 
hero.  A  modern  poet,  how^ever,  may  perhaps 
be  pardoned  for  an  error,  of  which  Milton 
himself  is  thought  not  to  have  kept  clear; 
and  for  which  there  seems  so  natural  a  cause, 
in  the  difference  between  poetical  and  amia- 
ble characters.  There  are  several  improba- 
bilities, too,  in  the  story,  which  might  disturb 
a  scrupulous  reader.  Allowing  that  the  king 
of  Scotland  might  have  twice  disappeared  for 
several  days,  without  exciting  any  disturb- 
ance or  alarm  in  his  court,  it  is  certainly  rather 
extraordinary,  that  neither  the  Lady  Margaret, 
nor  old  Allan-bane,  nor  any  of  the  attendants 
at  the  isle,  should  have  recognised  his  person ; 
and  almost  as  wonderful,  that  he  should  have 
found  any  difficulty  in  discovering  the  family 
of  his  entertainers.  There  is  something  rather 
awkward,  too,  in  the  sort  of  blunder  or  mis- 
understanding (for  it  is  no  more)  which  gives 
occasion  to  Sir  Roderick's  Gathering  and  all 
its  consequences;  nor  can  any  machinery  be 
conceived  more  clumsy  for  efTecting  the  de- 
liverance of  a  distressed  hero,  than  the  intro- 
troduction  of  a  rnad  woman,  who,  without 
knowing  or  caring  about  the  wanderer,  warns 
him,  by  a  song^  to  take  care  of  the  ambush 
that  was  set  for  him.  The  Maniacs  of  poetry 
have  indeed  had  a  prescriptive  right  to  be 
musical,  since  the  days  of  Ophelia  down- 
wards ;  but  it  is  rather  a  rash  extension  of  this 
privilege,  to  make  them  sing  good  sense,  and 
to  make  sensible  people  be  guided  by  them. 
Before  taking  leave  of  the  fable,  we  must 
be  permitted  to  express  our  disappointment 
and  regret  at  finding  the  general  cast  of  the 
characters  and  incidents  so  much  akin  to  those 
of  Mr.  Scott's  former  pubhcations.  When  we 
heard  that  the  author  of  the  Lay  and  of  Mar- 
mion  was  employed  upon  a  Highland  story, 
we  certainly  expected  to  be  introduced  to  a 
new  creation;  and  to  bid  farewell,  for  awhile, 
»  to  the  knights,  squires,  courtiers,  and  chivalry 
1  of  the  low  country : — But  here  they  are  all 
i  upon  us  again,  in  their  old  characters,  and 
;  nearly  in  their  old  costume.    The  same  age — 


the  same  sovereign — the  same  manners~tha 
same  ranks  of  society — the  same  tone,  both 
for  courtesy  and  for  defiance.  Loch  Katrnie. 
indeed,  is  more  picturesque  than  St.  Mary's 
Loch :  and  Roderick  Dhu  and  his  clan  have 
some  features  of  novelty : — But  the  Douglas 
and  the  King  are  the  leading  personages ;  and 
the  whole  interest  of  the  story  turns  upon  per-  , 
sons  and  events  having  precisely  the  same 
character  and  general  aspect  with  those  which 
gave  their  peculiar  colour  to  the  former  poems. 
It  is  honourable  to  Mr.  Scott's  genius,  no 
doubt,  that  he  has  been  able  to  interest  the 
public  so  deeply  with  this  third  presentment 
of  the  same  chivalrous  scenes:  but  we  cannot 
help  thinking,  that  both  his  glory  and  our  grati- 
fication would  have  been  greatei:,  if  he  had 
changed  his  hand  more  completely,  and  ac- 
tually given  us  a  true  Celtic  story,  with  all  its 
drapery  and  accompaniments  in  a  correspond- 
ing style  of  decoration. 

Such  a  subject,  we  are  persuaded,  has  very 
great  capabilities,  and  only  wants  to  be  in- 
troduced to  public  notice  by  such  a  hand  as 
Mr.  Scott's,  to  make  a  still  more  powerful  im- 
pression than  he  has  already  effected  by  the 
resurrection  of  the  tales  of  romance.  There 
are  few  persons,  we  believe,  of  any  degree  of 
poetical  susceptibility,  who  have  wandered 
among  the  secluded  valleys  of  the  Highlands, 
and  contemplated  the  singular  people  by 
whom  they  are  still  tenanted — with  their  love 
of  music  and  of  song — their  hardy  and  irregu- 
lar life,  so  unlike  the  unvarying  toils  of  the 
Saxon  mechanic — their  devotion  to  their  chiefs 
— their  wild  and  lofty  traditions — their  na- 
tional enthusiasm — the  melancholy  grandeur 
of  the  scenes  they  inhabit — and  the  multi- 
plied superstitions  \vhich  still  linger  among 
them, — without  feeling,  that  there  is  no  exist- 
ing people  so  well  adapted  for  the  purposes 
of  poetry,  or  so  capable  of  furnishing  the  oc- 
casions of  new  and  striking  inventions.*  The 
great  and  continued  popularity  of  Macpher- 
son's  Ossian  (though  discredited  as  a  memorial 
of  antiquity,  at  least  as  much  as  is  warranted 
by  any  evidence  yet  before  the  public),  proves 
how  very  fascinating  a  fabric  might  be  raised 
upon  that  foundation  by  a  more  pow^erful  or 
judicious  hand.  That  celebrated  translation, 
though  defaced  with  the  most  childish  and 
offensive  affectations,  still  charms  with  occa- 
sional gleams  of  a  tenderness  beyond  all  other 
tenderness,  and  a  sublimity  of  a  new  charac- 
ter of  dreariness  and  elevation;  and,  though 
patched  with  pieces  of  the  most  barefaced  pla- 
giarism, still  maintains  a  tone  of  originality 
which  has  recommended  it  in  every  nation  of 
the  civilised  world.  The  cultivated  literati 
of  England,  indeed,  are  struck  with  the  affec- 
tation and  the  plagiarism,  and  renounce  the 
whole  work  as  tawdry  and  factitious ;  but  the 
multitude  at  home,  and  almost  all  classes  of 
readers  abroad,  to  whom  those  defects  are 
less  perceptible,  still  continue  to  admire ;  and 


*  The  Tartan  fever  excited  in  the  South  (and  not 
yet  eradicated)  by  the  Highland  scenes  and  charac- 
ters of  Waverly,  seems  fully  to  justify  this  sugges- 
tion ;  and  makes  it  rather  surprising  that  no  other 
great  writer  has  since  repeated  the  experiment. 


376 


POETRY. 


few  of  our  classical  poets  have  so  sure  and 
regular  a  sale,  both  in  our  own  and  in  other 
languages,  as  the  singular  collection  to  which 
we  have  just  alluded.  A  great  part  of  its 
charm,  we  think,  consists  in  the  novelty  of 
its  Celtic  characters  and  scenery,  and  their 
singTilar  aptitude  for  poetic  combinations ;  and 
therefore  it  is  that  we  are  persuaded,  that  if 
Mr.  Scott's  powerful  and  creative  genius  Avere 
to  be  turned  in  good  earnest  to  such  a  subject, 
something  might  be  produced  still  more  im- 
pressive and  original  than  even  this  age  has 
yet  witnessed. 

It  is  now  time,  however,  that  we  should  lay 
before  our  readers  some  of  the  passages  in 
the  present  poem  which  appear  to  us  most 
characteristic  of  the  peculiar  genius  of  the 
author ; — and  the  first  that  strikes  us,  in  turn- 
ing over  the  leaves,  is  the  following  fine  de- 
scription of  Sir  Roderick's  approach  to  the 
isle,  as  described  by  the  aged  minstrel,  at  the 
close  of  his  conversation  with  Ellen.  The 
moving  picture — the  effect  of  the  sounds — 
and  the  wild  character  and  strong  and  pecu- 
liar nationality  of  the  whole  procession,  are 
given  with  inimitable  spirit  and  pow^er  of  ex- 


"But  hark,  what  sounds  are  these  ? 

My  dull  ears  catch  no  falt'ring  breeze, 
No  weeping  birch  nor  aspen's  wake  ; 
Nor  breath  is  dimpling  in  the  lake  ; 
Still  is  the  canna's  hoary  beard. 
Yet,  by  my  minstrel  faith,  I  heard — 
And  hark  again  !  some  pipe  of  war 
Sends  the  bold  pibroch  from  afar." — 

'  Far  up  the  lengthen'd  lake  were  spied 
Four  dark'ning  specks  upon  the  tide, 
That,  slow,  enlarging  on  the  view. 
Four  mann'd  and'masted  barges  grew. 
And  bearing  downwards  from  Glengyle, 
Steer'd  full  upon  the  lonely  isle  ; 
The  point  of  Brianchoil  they  pass'd, 
And,  to  the  windward  as  they  cast, 
Against  the  sun  they  gave  to  shine 
The  bold  Sir  Rod'rick's  banner'd  Pine  ! 
Nearer  and  nearer  as  they  bear. 
Spears,  pikes,  and  axes  flash  in  air. 
Now  might  you  see  the  tartans  brave. 
And  plaids  and  plumage  dance  and  wave  ; 
Now  see  the  bonnets  sink  and  rise, 
As  his  tough  oar  the  rower  plies  ; 
See  flashing  at  each  sturdy  stroke 
The  wave  ascending  into  smoke  ! 
See  the  proud  pipers  on  the  bow. 
And  mark  the  gaudy  streamers  flow 
From  their  loud  chanters  down,  and  sweep, 
The  furrow'd  bosom  of  the  deep, 
As,  rushing  through  the  lake  amain. 
They  plied  the  ancient  Highland  strain. 

Ever,  as  on  they  bore,  more  loud 
And  louder  rung  the  pibroch  proud. 
At  first  the  sounds,  by  distance  tame, 
Mellow'd  along  the  waters  came. 
And  ling'ring  long  by  cape  and  bay, 
VVail'd  every  harsher  note  away  ; 
Then,  bursting  bolder  on  the  ear. 
The  clan's  shrill  Gath'ring  they  could  hear  ; 
Those  thrilling  sounds,  that  call  the  might 
Of  old  Clan-Alpine  to  the  fight. 
Thick  beat  the  rapid  notes,  as  when 
The  niust'ring  himdreds  shake  the  glen. 
And,  hurrying  at  the  signal  dread. 
The  batfer'd  earth  returns  their  tread  ! 
Then  prelude  light,  of  livelier  tone, 
Express'd  their  merry  marching  on, 


Ere  peal  of  closing  battle  rose 
With  mingled  outcry,  shrieks,  and  blows; 
And  mimic  din  of  stroke  and  ward, 
As  broad-sword  upon  target  jarr'd ; 
And  groaning  pause,  ere  yet  again, 
Condens'd,  the  battle  yell'd  amain; 
The  rapid  charge,  the  rallying  shout, 
Retreat  borne  headlong  into  rout, 
And  bursts  of  triumph  to  declare 
Clan- Alpine's  conquest — all  were  there! 
Nor  ended  thus  the  strain ;  but  slow, 
Sunk  in  a  moan  prolong'd  and  low. 
And  chang'd  the  conquering  clarion  swel, 
For  wild  lament  o'er  those  that  fell. 

"  The  war-pipes  ceas'd  ;  but  lake  and  hill 
Were  busy  with  their  echoes  still ; 
And,  when  they  slept,  a  vocal  strain 
Bade  their  hoarse  chorus  wake  again. 
While  loud  an  hundred  clansmen  raise 
Their  voices  in  their  Chieftain's  praise. 
Each  boatman,  bending  to  his  oar, 
With  measur'd  sweep  the  burthen  bore, 
In  such  wild  cadence,  as  the  breeze 
Makes  through  December's  leafless  trees. 
The  chorus  first  could  Allan  know, 
'  Rod'righ  Vich  Alpine,  ho  !  iero  !' 
And  near,  and  nearer  as  they  row'd, 
Distinct  the  martial  ditty  flow'd. 

"  Boat  Song. 

"  Hail  to  the  chief  who  in  triumph  advances  ! 

Honour'd  and  bless'd  be  the  ever-green  Pine ! 
Long  may  the  Tree  in  his  banner  that  glances, 

Flourish,  the  shelter  and  grace  of  our  line  !" — 

"  Ours  is  no  sapling,  chance-sown  by  the  fountain, 

Blooming  at  Beltane,  in  winter  to  fade  ; 
When  the  whirlwind  has  siripp'd  ev'ry  leaf  on  the 
mountain. 
The  more  shall  Clan-Alpine  exult  in  her  shade. 
Moor'd  in  the  rifted  rock, 
Proof  to  the  tempest's  shock. 
Firmer  he  roots  him  the  ruder  it  blow  ; 
Menteith  and  Breadalbane,  then, 
Echo  his  praise  agen, 
*  Rod'righ  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ieroe  !' 

"  Row,  vassals,  row,  for  the  pride  of  the  Highlands ! 

Stretch  to  your  oars,  for  the  ever-green  Pine  ! 
O  !  that  the  rose-bud  that  graces  yon  islands. 
Were  wreath'd  in  a  garland  around  him  to  twine  ' 
O  that  some  seedling  gem, 
Worthy  such  noble  stem, 
Honour'd  and  bless'd  in  their  shadow  might  grow 
Loud  should  Clan-Alpine  then 
Ring  from  her  deepmost  glen, 
'  Rod'righ  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ieroe  !'  "    f 

pp.  65 — VI. 

The  reader  may  take  next  the  following 
general  sketch  of  Loch  Katrine : — 

"  One  bumish'd  sheet  of  Uving  gold. 
Loch  Katrine  lay  beneath  him  roll'd ; 
Tn  all  her  length  far  winding  lay. 
With  promontory,  creek,  and  b.ty. 
And  islands  that,  empurpled  bright, 
Floated  amid  the  livelier  light ; 
And  moimtains,  that  like  giants  stand, 
"^Fo  sentinel  enchanted  land. 
High  on  the  south,  huge  Benvenue 
Down  to  the  lake  in  masses  threw 
Crags,  knolls,  and  mounds,  confusedly  hurPd 
The  fragments  of  an  earlier  world  ! 
A  wild'ring  forest  feather'd  o'er 
His  ruin'd  sides  and  summit  hoar  ; 
While  on  the  north,  through  middle  air, 
Ben-an  heav'd  high  his  forehead  bare."-pp.  18, 19. 

The  next  is  a  more  minute  view  of  the  same 
scenery  in  a  summer  dawn— closed  with  a  fine 
picture  of  its  dark  lord. 


SCOTT'S  LADl  OF  THE  LAKE. 


377 


"  The  summer  dawn's  reflected  hue 
To  purple  chang'd  Loch  Katrine  blue  ; 
Mildly  and  soft  the  western  breeze 
Just  kiss'd  the  lake,  just  stirr'd  the  trees  ; 
And  the  pleas'd  lake,  Hke  maiden  coy, 
Trembled^but  dimpled  not  for  joy  ! 
The  mountain  shadows  on  her  breast 
Were  neither  broken  nor  at  rest ; 
In  bright  uncertainty  they  lie, 
Like  future  joys  to  Fancy's  eye  ! 
The  water  lily  to  the  lis;ht 
Her  chalice  rear'd  of  silver  bright ; 
The  doe  awoke,  and  to  the  lawn, 
Begemru'd  with  dew-drops,  led  her  fawn  , 
The  grey  mist  left  the  mountain  side. 
The  torrent  show'd  its  glistening  pride  ; 
Invisible  in  flecked  sky, 

The  lark  aer.t  down  her  revelry  ;  . 

The  black-bird  and  the  speckled  thrush 
Goo(^ morrow  gave  from  brake  and  bush ; 
In  answer  coo'd  the  cushat  dove 
Her  notes  of  peace,  and  rest,  and  love. 

"  No  thought  of  peace,  no  thought  of  rest, 
Assuag'd  the  storm  in  Rod' rick's  breast. 
Wivii  sheathed  broad-sword  in  his  hand, 
Abrupt  he  pac'd  the  islet  strand  : 
The  shririKing  band  stood  oft  aghast 
At  the  impatient  glance  he  cast ; — 
Such  glance  the  mountain  eagle  threw. 
As,  from  the  cliffs  of  Ben-venue, 
She  spread  her  dark  sails  on  the  wind, 
And,  high  in  middle  heaven  reclin'd. 
With  her  broad  shadow  on  the  lake, 
Silenc'd  the  warblers  of  the  brake." — pp.  98-100. 

The  following  description  of  the  starting  of 
"  the  fiery  cross,"  bears  more  marks  of  labour 
than  most  of  Mr.  Scott's  poetry,  and  borders, 
perhaps,  upon  straining  and  exaggeration ; 
yet  it  shows  great  power. 

"  Then  Rod'rick,  with  impatient  look. 
From  Brian's  hand  the  symbol  took: 
'  Speed,  Malise,  speed!'  he  said,  and  gave 
The  crosslet  to  his  henchman  brave. 
'  The  muster-place  be  Lanric  mead — 
Instant  the  time — speed,  Malise,  speed  !' 
Like  heath-bird,  when  the  hawks  pursue, 
The  barge  across  Loch  Katrine  flew ; 
High  stopd  the  henchman  on  the  prow  ; 
So  rapidly  the  oargemen  row. 
The  bubbles,  where  they  launch'd  the  boat, 
Were  all  unbroken  and  afloat, 
Dancing  in  foam  and  ripple  still. 
When  it  had  near'd  the  mainland  hill ! 

I  And  from  the  silver  beach's  side 
Still  was  the  prow  three  fathom  wide. 
When  lightly  bounded  to  the  land. 
The  messenger  of  blood  and  brand. 
'  Speed,'  Malise,  speed  !  the  dun  deer's  hide 
On  fleeter  foot  was  never  tied. 
Speed,  Malise,  speed  !  such  cause  of  haste 
Thine  active  sinews  nevp»'  brac'd. 
Bend  'gainst  the  steepy  hnl  thy  breast, 
Burst  down  like  torrent  from  its  crest ; 
With  short  and  springing  footstep  pass 
The  trembling  bog  and  false  morass  ; 
Across  the  brook  like  roe-buck  bound, 
,    And  thread  the  brake  like  questing  hound  ; 
The  crag  is  high,  the  scaur  is  deep. 
Yet  shrink  not  from  the  desperate  leap  ; 
Parch'd  are  thy  burning  lips  and  brow, 
Yet  by  the  fountain  pause  not  now  ; 
Herald  of  battle,  fate,  and  fear, 
Stretch  onward  in  thy  fleet  career  ! 
The  wounded  hind  thou  track'st  not  now, 
Pursu'st  not  maid  through  greenwood  bough, 
Nor  pliest  thou  now  thy  flying  pace 
With  rivals  in  the  mountain  race  ; 
But  danger,  death,  and  warrior  deed, 
Are  in  thy  course — Speed,  Malise.  speed!'  " 
pp.  112—114. 


The  following  reflections  on  an  ancient  field 
of  battle  aflbrd  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
instances  of  false  taste  in  all  Mr.  Scott's  wri- 
tings. Y^et  the  brevity  and  variety  of  the 
images  serve  well  to  show,  as  we  nave  for- 
merly hinted,  that  even  in  his  errors  there  are 
traces  of  a  powerful  genius. 

"  a  dreary  glen. 

Where  scatter'd  lay  the  bones  of  men. 

In  some  forgotten  battle  slain. 

And  bleach'd  by  drifting  wind  and  rain. 

It  might  have  tam'd  a  warrior's  heart, 

To  view  such  mockery  of  his  art ! 

The  knot-grass  fetter'd  there  the  hand. 

Which  once  could  burst  an  iron  band  ; 

Beneath  the  broad  and  ample  bone. 

That  buckler'd  heart  to  fear  unknown, 

A  feeble  and  a  timorous  guest, 

The  field-fare  fram'd  her  lowly  nest! 

There  the  slow  blind-worm  left  his  slime 

On  the  fleet  limbs  that  mock'd  at  time  ; 

And  there,  too,  lay  the  leader's  skull, 

Still  wreath'd  with  chaplet  flush'd  and  full, 

For  heath-bell,  with  her  purple  bloom. 

Supplied  the  bonnet  and  the  plume."-pp.  102, 103 

But  one  of  the  most  striking  passages  ir 
the  poem,  certainly,  is  that  in  which  Sii 
Roderick  is  represented  as  calling  up  his  men 
suddenly  from  their  ambush,  when  Fitz-Jamea 
expressed  his  impatience  to  meet,  face  to 
face,  that  murderous  chieftain  and  his  clan. 

"  '  Have,  then,  thy  wish  !' — He  whistled  shrill : 
And  he  was  answer'd  from  the  hill ! 
Wild  as  the  scream  of  the  curlew. 
From  crag  to  crag  tl.e  signal  flew. 
Instant,  through  copse  and  heath,  arose 
Bonnets  and  spears  and  bended  bows ! 
On  right,  on  left,  above,  below. 
Sprung  up  at  once  the  lurking  foe  ; 
From  shingles  grey  their  lances  start. 
The  bracken-bush  sends  forth  the  dart 
The  rushes  and  the  willow-wand 
Are  bristling  into  axe  and  brand, 
And  ev'ry  tuft  of  broom  gives  life 
To  plaided  warrior  arm'dfor  strife. 
That  whistle  garrison'd  the  glen 
At  once  with  full  five  hundred  men  . 
As  if  the  yawning  hill  to  heaven 
A  subterranean  host  had  given. 
Watching  their  leader's  beck  and  will. 
All  silent  there  they  stood  and  still. 
Like  the  loose  crags  whose  threat'ning  mass 
Lay  tott'ring  o'er  the  hollow  pass, 
As  if  an  infant's  touch  could  urge 
Their  headlong  passage  down  the  verge. 
With  step  and  weapon  forward  flung. 
Upon  the  mountain-side  they  hung. 
The  mountaineer  cast  glance  of  pride 
Along  Benledi's  living  side  ; 
Then  fix'd  bis  eye  and  sable  brow 
Full  on  Fitz- James — "  How  say'st  thou  nowf 
These  are  Clan-Alpine's  warriors  true  ; 
And,  Saxon, — 1  am  Roderick  Dhu  !" — 

"  Fitz-James  was  brave  : — Though  to  his  heart 
The  Hfe-blood  thrill'd  with  sudden  start. 
He  mann'd  himself  with  dauntless  air, 
Return'd  the  Chief  his  haughty  stare. 
His  back  against  a  rock  he  bore. 
And  firmly  plac'd  his  foot  before : — 
*  Come  one,  come  all !  this  rock  shall  fly 
From  its  firm  base  as  soon  as  I.' — 
Sir  Roderick  mark'd — and  in  his  eyes 
Respect  was  mingled  with  surprise. 
And  the  stern  joy  which  warriors  feel 
In  foeman  worthy  of  their  steel. 
Short  space  he  stood — then  wav'd  his  hand. 
Down  sunk  the  disappearing  band  ! 
Each  warrior  vanish'd  where  he  stood. 


3V8 


POETRY. 


In  broom  or  bracken,  heath  or  wooa 

Sunk  brand  and  spear  and  bended  bow, 

In  osiers  pale  and  copses  low  ; 

It  seem'd  as  if  their  mother  Earth 

Had  swallow'd  up  her  warlike  birth! 

The  wind's  last  breath  had  toss'd  in  air, 

Pennon,  and  plaid,  and  plumage  fair — 

The  next  but  swept  a  lone  hill-side, 

Where  heath  and  fern  were  waving  wide  ; 

The  sun's  latt  glance  was  glinted  back. 

From  spear  and  glaive,  from  targe  and  jack — 

The  next,  all  unrdflected,  shone 

On  bracken  green,  and  cold  grey  stone." 

pp.  202—205. 

The  following  picture  is  of  a  very  different 
character;  but  touched  also  with  the  hand  of 
a  true  poet : — 

*'  Yet  ere  his  onward  way  he  took. 
The  Stranger  cast  a  ling' ring  look, 
Where  easily  his  eye  might  reach 
The  Harper  on  the  islet  beach, 
Reclin'd  against  a  blighted  tree. 
As  wasted,  grey,  and  worn  as  he. 
To  minstrel  meditation  given. 
His  rev' rend  brow  was  rais'd  to  heaven, 
As  from  the  rising  sun  to  claim 
A  sparkle  of  inspiring  flame. 
His  hand,  reclin'd  upon  the  wire, 
Seem'd  watching  the  awak'ning  fire  ; 
So  still  he  sate,  as  those  who  wait 
Till  judgment  speak  the  doom  of  fate  ; 
So  still,  as  if  no  breeze  might  dare 
To  lift  one  lock  of  hoary  hair  ; 
So  still,  as  life  itself  were  fled. 
In  the  last  sound  his  harp  had  sped. 
Upon  a  rock  with  lichens  wild, 
Beside  him  Ellen  sate  and  smil'd,"  &c. 

pp.  50,  51. 

Though  these  extracts  have  already  ex- 
tended this  article  beyond  all  reasonable 
bounds,  we  cannot  omit  Ellen's  introduction 
to  the  court,  and  the  transformation  of  Fitz- 
James  into  the  King  of  Scotland.  The  un- 
Known  prince,  it  will  be  recollected,  himself 
conducts  her  into  the  royal  presence  : — 

*  With  beating  heart,  and  bosom  wrung, 
As  to  a  brother's  arm  she  clung. 
Gently  he  dried  the  falling  tear, 

And  gently  whisper'd  hope  and  cheer  ; 
Her  falt'ring  steps  half  led,  half  staid, 
Through  gallery  fair  and  high  arcade, 
Till,  at  his  touch,  its  wings  of  pride 
A  portal  arch  unfolded  wide. 

•  Within  'twas  brilliant  all  and  light, 
A  thronging  scene  of  figures  bright ; 
It  glow'd  on  Ellen's  dazzled  sight, 
As  when  the  setting  sun  has  given 
Ten  thousand  hues  to  summer  even, 
And,  from  their  tissue  fancy  frames 
Aerial  knights  and  fairy  dames. 
Still  by  Fitz-James  her  footing  staid  ; 
A  few  faint  steps  she  forward  made. 
Then  slow  her  drooping  head  she  rais'd, 
And  fearful  round  the  presence  gaz'd ; 
For  him  she  sought,  who  own'd  this  state, 
The  dreaded  prince,  whose  will  was  fate  ! 
She  gaz'd  on  many  a  princely  port. 
Might  well  have  rul'd  a  royal  court ; 

On  many  a  splendid  garb  she  gaz'd — 

Then  tuvn'd  bewilder'd  and  amaz'd. 

For  all  stood  bare  ;  and,  in  the  room, 

Fitz-James  alone  wore  cap  and  plume  ! 

To  him  each  lady's  look  was  lent. 

On  him  each  courtier's  eye  was  bent  ; 

Midst  furs  and  silks  and  jewels  sheen, 

He  stood,  in  "''nple  Lincoln  green, 

The  centre  ot  tne  glitt'ring  ring ! — 

And  Snowdoun's  Knight  is  Scotland's  King . 


"  As  wreath  of  snow  on  mountam  breae;, 
Slides  from*the  rock  that  gave  it  rest. 
Poor  Ellen  glided  from  her  stay, 
And  at  the  Monarch's  feet  she  lay  ; 
No  word  her  choking  voice  comniyids— 
She  show'd  the  ring — she  clasp'd  her  hands* 
O  !  not  a  moment  could  he  brook. 
The  gen'rous'  prince,  that  suppliant  look  ! 
Gently  he  rais'd  her — and  the  while 
Check'd  with  n  glance  the  circle's  smile ; 
Graceful,  but  grave,  her  brow  he  kiss'd, 
And  bade  her  terrors  be  dismiss'd  : — 
'  Yes,  Fair  !  the  wand'ring  poor  Fitz-Jamea 
The  fealty  of  Scotland  claims. 
7^0  him  thy  woes,  thy  wishes,  bring  ; 
He  will  redeem  his  signet  ring,'  "  &c. 

pp.  281—284. 

We  cannot  resist  adding  the  graceful  wind 
ing  up  of  the  whole  story ; — 

"  '  Malcolm,  come  forth  !' — And,  and  at  the  word 
Down  kneel'd  the  Graeme  to  Scotland's  Lord. 
'  For  thee,  rash  youth,  no  suppliant  sues, 
From  thee  may  Vengeance  claim  her  dues, 
Who,  nurtur'd  underneath  our  smile. 
Has  paid  our  care  by  treach'rous  wile, 
And  sought,  amid  thy  faithful  clan, 
A  refuge  for  an  outlaw'd  man, 
Dishonouring  thus  thy  loyal  name, — 
Fetters  and  warder  for  the  Graeme  !' 
His  chain  of  gold  the  King  unstrung. 
The  links  o'er  Malcolm's  neck  he  flung. 
Then  gently  drew  the  glitt'ring  band  ; 
And  laid  the  clasp  on  Ellen's  hand  !" — p.  288. 

There  are  no  separate  introductions  to  the 
cantos  of  this  poem;  but  each  of  them  be- 
gins with  one  or  two  stanzas  in  the  measure 
of  Spenser,  usually  containing  some  reflec- 
tions connected  with  the  subject  about  to  be 
entered  on ;  and  written,  for  the  most  part, 
with  great  tenderness  and  beauty.  The  fol- 
lowing, w^e  think  is  among  the  most  striking : — 

"  Time  rolls  his  ceaseless  course  I  The  race  of  yore 

Who  danc'd  our  infancy  upon  their  knee, 
And  told  our  marvelling  boyhood  legends  store, 

Of  their  strange  ventures  happ'd  by  land  or  sea, 
How  are  they  blotted  from  the  things  that  be  ! 

How  few,  all  weak  and  wither'd  of  their  force. 
Wait,  on  the  verge  of  dark  eternity, 

Like  stranded  wrecks — the  tide  returning  hoarse, 
To  sweep  them  from  our  sight !     Time  rolls  hia 
ceaseless  course  ! 

"  Yet  live  there  still  who  can  remember  well. 
How,  when  a  mountain  chief  his  bugle  blew," 
&c.— pp.  97,  98. 

There  is  an  invocation  to  the  Harp  of  the 
North,  prefixed  to  the  poem ;  and  a  farewell 
subjoined  to  it  ir\  the  same  measure,  written 
and  versified,  it  appears  to  us,  with  more  than 
Mr.  Scott's  usual  care.  We  give  two  of  the 
three  stanzas  that  compose  the  last : — 

"Harp  of  the  North,  farewell !     The  hills  grow 
dark. 

On  purple  peaks  a  deeper  shade  descending; 
In  twilight  copse  the  g-low-worm  lights  her  spark; 

The  deer,  half-seen,  are  to  the  covert  wending. 
Resume  thy  wizard  elm  !  the  fountain  lending, 

And  the  wild  breeze,  thv  wilder  minstrelsy  ; 
Thy  numbers  sweet  withNature's  vespers  blending, 

With  distant  echo  from  the  fold  and  lea. 
And  herd-boy's  evening  pipe,  and  hum  of  hous 
ing  bee. 

**  Hark  !  as  my  ling'ring  footsteps  slow  retire, 
Some  Spirit  of  the  Air  has  wak'd  thy  string  ! 

'Tis  now  a  Seraph  bold,  with  touch  of  fire  ; 
*Ti8  now  the  brush  of  Fairy's  frslic  wing. 


SCOTT'S  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


^7^ 


^. 


Receding  now,  fhe  dying  numbers  ring 

Fainter  and  fainter  down  the  rugged  dell ! 
And  now  the  mountain  breezes  scarcely  bring 

A  wand'riug  witch-note  of  the  distant  spell — 
A.nd  now,  'tis  silent  all ! — Enchantress,  fare  thee 
well !"— pp.  289,  290. 
These  passages,  though  taken  with  very- 
little  selection,  are  favourable  specimens,  we 
think,  on  the  whole,  of  the  execution  of  the 
work  before  us.     We  had  marked  several  of 
an  opposite   character;    but,  fortunately  for 
Mr.  Scott,  we  have  already  extracted  so  much, 
that  we  shall  scarcely  have  room  to  take  any 
notice  of  them;  and  must  condense  all  our 
vituperation  into  a  very  insignificant  compass. 
One  or  two  things,  however,  we  think  it  our 
'duty  to  point  out.     Though  great  pains  have 
evidently  been  taken  with  Brian  the  Hermit, 
we  think  his  whole  character  a  failure,  and 
mere  deformity — hurting  the  interest  of  the 
story  by  its  improbability,  and  rather  heavy 
and  disagreeable,  than  sublime  or  terrible  in 
its  details.     The  quarrel  between  Malcolm 
and  Roderick,  in  the  second   canto,  is  also 
\uiigraceful  and  offensive.  There  is  something 
jfoppish,  and   out  of  character,  in  Malcolm's 
jHsing  to  lead  out  Ellen  from  her  own  parlour; 
{and  the  sort  of  wrestling  match  that  takes 
Iplace   between   the   rival   chieftains  on  the 
sloccasion  is  humiliating  and  indecorous.     The 
Vgreatest  blemish  in  the  poem,  However,  is  the 
ribaldry  and  dull  vulgarity  which  is  put  into 
the  mouths  of  the  soldiery  in  the  guard-room. 
Mr.  Scott  has  condescended  to  write  a  song 
for  them,  which  will  be  read  with  pain,  we 
are  persuaded,  even  by  his  warmest  admirers : 
and  his  whole  genius,  and  even  his  power 
of  versification,  seeras  to  desert  him  when  he 
attempts  to  repeat  their  conversation.     Here 
is  some  of  the  stuff  which  has  dropped,  in 
this  inauspicious  attempt,  from  the  pen  of  one 
of  the  first  poets  of  his  age  or  country : — 

** '  Old  dost  thou  wax,  and  wars  grow  sharp  ; 
Thou  now  hast  glee-maiden  and  hnrp, 
Get  thee  an  ape,  and  trudge  the  land, 
The  leader  of  a  juggler  band.' — 

"  '  No,  comrade  ! — no  such  fortune  mine. 
After  the  fight,  these  sought  our  line. 
That  aged  harper  and  the  girl ; 
And,  having  audience  of  the  Earl, 
Mar  bade  I  should  purvey  them  steed, 
And  bring  them  hitherward  with  speed. 
Forbear  your  mirth  and  rude  alarm, 
For  none  shall  do  them  shame  or  harm.' — 
'  Hear  ye  his  boast !'  cried  John  of  Prent, 
Ever  to  strife  and  jangling  bent : 
'  Shall  he  strike  doe  beside  our  lodge, 
And  yet  the  jealous  niggard  grudge 
To  pay  the  forester  his  fee  ! 
I'll  have  my  share,  howe'er  it  be.'  " 

pp.  250,  251. 

His  Highland  freebooters,  indeed,  do  not 
nse  a  much  nobler  style.     For  example : — 


I 


■  It  is,  because  last  evening-tide 

Brian  an  augury  hath  tried. 

Of  that  dread  kind  which  must  not  be 

Unless  in  dread  extremity, 

The  Taghairm  call'd  ;  by  which,  afar. 

Our  sires  foresaw  the  events  of  war. 

i)uncraggan's  milk-white  bull  they  slew. 

'  Ah  !  well  the  gallant  brute  I  knew  ; 

The  choicest  of  the  prey  we  had, 

When  swept  our  merry-men  Gallangad. 

Sore  did  he  cumber  oar  retreat ; 


And  kept  our  stoutest  kernes  in  awe, 

Even  atthepassof  Beal  'maha.'  " — pp.  146, 147 

Scarcely  more  tolerable  are  such  expres 
sions  as — 

"For  life  is  Hugh  of  Larbert  lame  ;" — 

Or  that  unhappy  couplet,  where  the  King 
himself  is  in  such  distress  for  a  rhyme,  as  ta 
be  obliged  to  apply  to  one  of  the  most  obscure 
saints  on  the  calendar. 

"  'Tis  James  of  Douglas,  by  Saint  Serle  ; 
The  uncle  of  the  banish' d  Earl." 

We  would  object,  too,  to  such  an  accumu- 
lation of  strange  words  as  occurs  in  these 
three  lines : — 

"  *  Fleet  foot  on  the  correi; 
Sage  counsel  i  ,  Cumber ; 
Red  hand  in  the  foray.,''  "  &c. 

Nor  can  we  relish  such  babyish  verses  as 

"  '  He  will  return  : — dear  lady,  trust : — 
With  joy,  return.     He  will — he  must.'  " 

"  '  Nay,  lovely  Ellen !     Dearest !  nay.'  " 

These,  however,  and  several  others  that 
might  be  mentioned,  are  blemishes  which 
may  well  be  excused  in  a  poem  of  more  than 
five  thousand  lines,  produced  so  soon  after 
another  still  longer :  and  though  they  are 
blemishes  which  it  is  proper  to  notice,  be- 
cause they  are  evidently  of  a  kind  that  may 
be  corrected,  it  would  be  absurd,  as  well  aa 
unfair,  to  give  them  any  considerable  weight 
in  our  general  estimate  of  the  work,  or  of  the 
powers  of  the  author.  Of  these,  we  have 
already  spoken  at  sufficient  length ;  and  must 
now  take  an  abrupt  leave  of  Mr.  Scott,  by 
expressing  our  hope,  and  tolerably  confident 
expectation,  of  soon  meeting  with  him  again. 
That  he  may  injure  his  popularity  by  the 
mere  profusion  of  his  publications,  is  no  doubt 
possible ;  though  many  of  the  most  celebrated 
poets  have  been  among  the  most  voluminous  : 
but,  that  the  public  must  gain  by  this  libe- 
rality, does  not  seem  to  admit  of  any  ques- 
tion. H  our  poetical  treasures  were  increased 
by  the  publication  of  Marmion  and  the  Lady 
of  the  Lake,  notwithstanding  the  existence 
of  great  faults  in  both  those  works,  it  is  evi- 
dent that  we  should  be  still  richer  if  we  pos- 
sessed fifty  poems  of  the  same  merit ;  and, 
therefore,  it  is  for  our  interest,  whatever  it 
may  be  as  to  his,  that  their  author's  muse 
should  continue  as  prolific  as  she  has  hitherto 
been.  If  Mr.  Scott  will  only  vary  his  sub- 
jects a  little  more,  indeed,  we  think  we  might 
engage  to  insure  his  own  reputation  against 
any  material  injury  from  their  rapid  parturi- 
tion ;  and,  as  we  entertain  very  great  doubts 
whether  much  greater  pains  would  enable 
him  to  write  much  better  poetry,  we  would 
rather  have  two  beautiful  poems,  with  the 
present  quantum  of  faults — than  one,  with 
only  one-tenth  part  less  alloy.  He  will  always 
be  a  poet,  we  fear,  to  whom  the  fastidious 
will  make  great  objections;  but  he  may 
easily  find,  in  his  popularity,  a  compensation 
for  their  scruples.  He  has  the  jury  hollow  in 
his  favour;  and  though //ic  court  may  think 
that  its  directions  have  not  been  sufficiently 
attended  to,  it  will  not  quarreUvith  tJie  verdict 


180 


POETRY 


(^prtl,  1808.) 

Poeits.     By  the  Reverend  George  Crabbe.     8vo.  pp.  260.     London,  1807.* 


We  receive  the  proofs  of  Mr.  Crabbe' s 
poetical  existeiice,  which  are  contained  in 
this  volume,  with  the  same  sort  of  feeling 
that  would  be  excited  by  tidings  of  an  ancient 
friend,  whom  we  no  longer  expected  to  hear 
of  in  this  world.  We  rejoice  in  his  resurrec- 
tion, botli  for  his  sake  and  for  our  own  :  But 
we  feel  also  a  certain  movement  of  self-con- 
demnation, for  having  been  remiss  in  our  in- 
quiries after  him,  and  somewhat  too  negligent 
of  the  honours  which  ought,  at  any  rate,  to 
have  been  paid  to  his  memory. 

It  is  now,  we  are  afraid,  upwards  of  twenty 
years  since  we  were  first  struck  with  the  vig- 
our, originality,  and  truth  of  description  of 
"The  Village;"  and  since,  we  regretted  that 
an  author,  who  could  write  so  well,  should 
have  written  so  little.  From  that  time  to  the 
present,  we  have  heard  little  of  Mr.  Crabbe ; 
and  fear  that  he  has  been  in  a  great  measure 
lost  sight  of  by  the  public,  as  well  as  by  us. 
With  a  singular,  and  scarcely  pardonable  in- 
difference to  fame,  he  has  remained,  during 
this  long  interval;  in  patient  or  indolent  re- 
pose ;  and.  Without  making  a  single  move- 
ment to  maintain  or  advance  the  reputation 
he   had  acquired,   has  permitted  others  to 

*  I  have  given  a  larger  space  to  Crabbe  in  this 
republication  than  to  any  of  his  contemporary  poets  ; 
not  merely  because  I  think  more  highly  of  him 
than  of  most  of  them,  but  also  because  I  fancy  that 
he  has  had  less  justice  done  him.  The  nature  of 
his  subjects  was  not  such  as  to  attract  either  imita- 
tors or  admirers,  from  among  the  ambitious  or  fan- 
ciful lovers  of  poetry  ;  or,  consequently,  to  set  him 
at  the  head  of  a  School,  or  let  him  surround  him- 
self with  the  zealots  of  a  Sect :  And  it  must  also 
be  admitted,  that  his  claims  to  distinction  depend 
tnlly  as  much  on  his  great  powers  of  observation, 
his  skill  in  touching  the  deeper  sympathies  of  our 
nature,  and  his  power  of  inculcating,  by  their  means, 
the  most  impressive  lessons  of  humanity,  as  on  any 
fine  play  of  fancy,  or  grace  and  beauty  in  his  de- 
lineations. I  have  great  faith,  however,  in  the  in-, 
trinsic  worth  and  ultimate  success  of  those  more 
substantial  attributes ;  and  have,  accordingly,  the 
strongest  impression  that  the  citations  I  have  here 
given  from  Crabbe  will  strike  more,  and  sink  deeper 
;nto  the  minds  of  readers  to  whom  they  are  new 
i.or  by  whom  they  may  have  been  partially  forgot- 
ten), than  any  I  have  been  able  to  present  from 
other  writers.  It  probably  is  idle  enough  (as  well 
as  a  little  presumptuous)  to  suppose  that  a  publica- 
tion like  this  will  afford  many  opportunities  of  test- 
ing the  truth  of  this  prediction.  But,  as  the  ex- 
periment is  to  be  made,  there  can  be  no  harm  in 
mentioning  this  as  one  of  its  objects. 

It  is  but  candid,  however,  after  all,  to  add,  that 
my  concern  for  Mr.  Crabbe's  reputation  would 
scarcely  have  led  me  to  devote  near  one  hundred 
pages  to  the  estimate  of  his  poetical  merits,  had  I 
not  set  some  value  on  the  speculations  as  to  the 
elements  of  poetical  excellence  in  general,  and  its 
moral  bearings  and  affinities — for  the  introduction 
of  which  this  estimate  seemed  to  present  an  occa- 
•ion,  or  apology. 


usurp  the  attention  which  he  was  sure  of 
commanding,  and  allowed  himself  to  tB 
nearly  forgotten  by  a  public,  which  reckons 
upon  being  reminded  of  all  the  claims  which 
the  living  have  on  its  favour.  His  former 
publications,  though  of  distinguished  merit, 
were  perhaps  too  small  in  volume  to  remain 
long  the  objects  of  general  attention,  and 
seem,  by  some  accident,  to  have  been  jostled 
aside  in  the  crowd  of  more  clamorous  com- 
petitors. 

Yet,  though  the  name  of  Crabbe  has  not 
hitherto  been  very  common  in  the  mouths  of 
our  poetical  critics,  we  believe  there  are  few 
real  lovers  of  poetry  to  whom  some  of  hig 
sentiments  and  descriptions  are  not  secretly 
familiar.  There  is  a  truth  and  a  force  in  many 
of  his  delineations  of  rustic  hfe,  which  is  cal- 
culated to  sink  deep  into  the  memory ;  and, 
being  confirmed  by  daily  observation,  they  a- 
are  recalled  upon  innumerable  occasions — yf 
when  the  ideal  pictures  of  more  fanciful  au-j 
thors  have  lost  all  their  interest.  For  our-i 
selves  at  least,  we  profess  to  be  indebted  to 
Mr.  Crabbe  for  many  of  these  strong  impres- 
sions; and  have  known  more  than  one  of  our 
unpoetical  acquaintances,  who  declared  they 
could  never  pass  by  a  parish  workhouse  with- 
out thinking  of  the  description  of  it  they  had 
read  at  school  in  the  Poetical  Extracts.  The 
volume  before  us  will  renew,  we  trust,  and 
extend  many  such  impressions.  It  contains 
all  the  former  productions  of  the  author,  with 
about  double  their  bulk  of  new  matter ;  most 
of  it  in  the  same  taste  and  manner  of  com- 
position with  the  former ;  and  some  of  a  kind, 
of  which  we  have  had  no  previous  example 
in  this  author.  The  whole,  however,  is  of  no 
ordinary  merit,  and  will  be  found,  we  have 
little  doubt,  a  sufficient  warrant  for  Mr.  Crabbe 
to  take  his  place  as  one  of  the  most  original, 
nervous,  and  pathetic  poets  of  the  present 
century. 

His  characteristic,  certainly,  is  force,  and  /V. 
tnvih  of  description,  joined  for  the  most  part;  j 
to  great  selection  and  condensation  of  expres- 
sion ; — that  kind  of  strength  and  originality 
which  we  meet  with  in  Cowper,  and  that  sort 
of  diction  and  versification  which  we  admire 
in  "  The  Deserted  Village  "  of  Goldsmith,  or 
"  The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes"  of  Johnson. 
If  he  can  be  said  to  have  imitated  the  manner 
of  any  author,  it  is  Goldsmith,  indeed,  who 
has  been  the  object  of  his  imitation  ;  and  yet 
his  general  train  of  thinking,  and  his  views 
of  society,  are  so  extremely  opposite,  that, 
when  "The  Village"  was  first  published,  it 
was  commonly  considered  as  an  antidote  or 
an  answer  to  the  more  captivating  representa- 
tions of  "'  The  Deserted  Village."  Compared 
with  this  celebrated  author,  he  will  be  found, 


CRABBE'S  POEMS. 


381 


we  think,  to  have  more  vigour  and  less  deli- 
cacy ;  and  while  he  must  be  admitted  to  be 
inferior  in  the  fine  finish  and  uniform  beauty 
of  his  composition,  we  cannot  help  considering 
—  /  him  as  superior,  both  in  the  variety  and  th« 
/  truth  of  his  pictures.  Instead  of  that  uniform 
^  tint  of  pensive  tenderness  which  overspreads 
the  whole  poetry  of  Goldsmith,  we  find  in  Mr, 
Crabbe  many  gleams  of  gaiety  and  humour. 
Though  his  habitual  views  of  life  are  more 
gloomy  than  those  of  his  rival,  his  poetical 
temperament  seems  far  more  cheerful;  and 
when  the  occasions  of  sorrow  and  rebuke  are 
gone  by,  he  can  collect  himself  for  sarcastic 
pleasantry,  or  unbend  in  innocent  playfulness. 
His  diction,  though  generally  pure  and  pow- 
erful, is  sometimes  harsh,  and  sometimes 
quaint ;  and  he  has  occasionally  admitted  a 
couplet  or  two  in  a  state  so  unfinished,  as  to 
give  a  character  of  inelegance  to  the  passages 
in  which  they  occur.  With  a  taste  less  dis- 
ciplined and  less  fastidious  than  that  of  Gold- 
smith, he  has,  in  our  apprehension,  a  keener 
eye  for  observation,  and  a  readier  hand  for 
the  delineation  of  wji^at  he  has  observed. 
There  is  less  poetical  keeping  in  his  whole 
performance  ;  but  the  groups  of  which  it  con- 
sists are  conceived,  we  think,  with  equal 
genius,  and  drawn  with  greater  spirit  as  well 
as  far  greater  fidelity. 

It  is  not  quite  fair,  perhaps,  thus  to  draw  a 
detailed  parallel  between  a  living  poet,  and 
one  whose  reputation  has  been  sealed  by 
death,  and  by  the  immutable  sentence  of  a 
surviving  generation.  Yet  there  are  so  few 
of  his  contemporaries  to  whom  Mr.  Crabbe 
bears  any  resemblance,  that  we  can  scarcely 
explain  our  opinion  of  his  merit,  without  com- 
paring him  to  some  of  his  predecessors. 
There  is  one  set  of  w^riters,  indeed,  from 
whose  works  those  of  IVIr.  Crabbe  might  re- 
ceive all  that  elucidation  which  results  from 
contrast,  and  from  an  entire  opposition  in  all 
points  of  taste  and  opinion.  We  allude  now 
to  the  Wordsworths,  and  the  Southeys,  and 
Coleridges,  and  all  that  ambitious  fraternity, 
that,  with  good  intentions  and  extraordinary 
talents,  are  labouring  to  bring  back  our  poetry 
to  the  fantastical  oddity  and  puling  childish- 
ness of  Withers,  Quarles,  or  Marvel.  These 
gentlemen  WTite  a  great  deal  about  rustic  life, 
as  well  as  Mr.  Crabbe ;  and  they  even  agree 
with  him  in  dwelling  much  on  its  discomforts ; 
but  nothing  can  be  more  opposite  than  the 
views  they  take  of  the  subject,  or  the  manner 
in  which  they  execute  their  representations  of 
them. 
A^  Mr.  Crabbe  exhibits  the  common  people 
W  of  England  pretty  much  as  they  are,  and  as 
,  I  they  must  appear  to  every  one  who  will  take 
^  I  the  trouble  of  examining  into  their  condition  ', 
ll  at  the  same  time  that  he  renders  his  sketches 
//  in  a  very  high  degree  interesting  and  beautiful 
I  — by  selecting  w^hat  is  most  fit  for  descrip- 
tion— by  grouping  them  into  such  forms  as 
must  catch  the  attention  or  awake  the  mem- 
ory— and  by  scattering  over  the  whole  such 
traits  of  moral  sensibility,  of  sarcasm,  and  of 
deep  reflection,  as  every  one  must  feel  to  be 
natural,  and  own  to  be  powerful.  The  gentle- 


men of  the  new  school,  on  the  other  hanii, 
scarcely  ever  condescend  to  take  their  sub 
jects  from  any  description  of  persons  ^  ttS 
known   to   the   common   inhabitants  of   th< 
world;    but    invent    for   themselves    certain 
whimsical  and  unheard-of  beinj^s,  to  whom 
they  impute  some  fantastical  combination  of 
feelings,  and  then  labour  to  excite  our  sym 
pathy  for  them,  either  by  placing  them  in  in- 
credible situations,  or  by  some  strained  and 
exaggerated  moralisation  of  a  vague  and  tra- 
gical description.   Mr.  Crabbe,  in  short,  shows 
us  something  which  we  have  all  seen,  or  mayi 
see,  in  real  life ;  and  draws  from  it  such  feel 
ings  and  such  reflections  as  every  human  be 
ing  must  acknowledge  that  it  is  calculated  to( 
excite.  He  delights  us  by  the  truth,  and  vivid*] 
and  picturesque  beauty  of  his  representations,  i 
and  by  the  force  and  pathos  of  the  sensations  ( 
with  which  we  feel  that  they  are  connected./ 
Mr.  Wordsworth  and  his  associates,  on  the! 
other  hand,  introduce  us  to  beings  whose  ex-  ?^ 
istence  was  not  previously  suspected  by  the  ' 
acutest  observers  of  nature ;  and  excite  an 
interest  for  them — where  they  do  excite  any 
interest — more   by  an  eloquent  and  refined 
analysis  of  their  own  capricious  feelings,  than 
by  any  obvious  or  intelhgible  ground  of  sym- 
pathy in  their  situation. 

Those  who  are  acquainted  with  the  Lyrical 
Ballads,  or  the  more  recent  publications  of 
Mr.  Wordsworth,  will  scarcely  deny  the  jus- 
tice of  this  representation;  but  in  order  to 
vindicate  it  to  such  as  do  not  enjoy  that  ad- 
vantage, we  must  beg  leave  to  make  a  few 
hasty  references  to  the  former,  and  by  far  the 
least  exceptionable  of  those  productions, 

A  village  schoolmaster,  for  instance,  is  a 
pretty  common  poetical  character.  Goldsmith 
has  drawn  him  inimitably ;  so  has  Shenstone, 
with  the  slight  change  of  sex;  and  Mr.  Crabbe, 
in  two  passages,  has  followed  their  footsteps. 
Now,  Mr.  Wordsworth  has  a  village  school- 
master also — a  personage  who  makes  no  small 
figure  in  three  or  four  of  his  poems.  But  by 
what  traits  is  this  worthy  old  gentleman  de- 
lineated by  the  new  poet  1  No  pedantry — no 
innocent  vanity  of  learning — no  mixture  of 
indulgence  with  the  pride  of  power,  and  of 
poverty  with  the  consciousness  of  rare  ac 
quirements.  Every  feature  w^hich  belongs  to 
the  situation,  or  marks  the  character  in  com- 
mon apprehension,  is  scornfully  discarded  by 
Mr,  Wordsworth;  who  represents  his  grey- 
haired  rustic  pedagogue  as  a  sort  of  half  crazy, 
sentimental  person,  overrun  with  fine  feel- 
ings, constitutional  merriment,  and  a  most 
humorous  melancholy.  Here  are  the  two 
stanzas  in  which  this  consistent  and  intelli- 
gible character  is  pourtrayed.  The  diction  is 
at  least  as  new  as  the  conception. 

"  The  sighs  which  Matthew  heav'd  were  sighs 
Of  one  tir'd  out  with  fun  and  madness  ; 

,    The  tears  which  came  to  Matthew's  eyes 
Were  tears  of  Hght — the  oil  of  gladness. 

"  Yet  societimes,  when  the  secret  cup 

Of  still  and  serious  thought  went  round 

He  seem'd  as  if  he  drank  it  up, 
He  felt  with  spirit  so  profound. 

Thou  soul  of  God's  best  earthly  mould,'^  Sec 


? 


H 


382 


POETRY. 


A  frail  damsel  again  is  a  character  common 
enough  in  all  poems;  and  one  upon  which 
many  fine  and  pathetic  lines  have  been  ex- 
pended.    Mr.  Wordsworth  has  written  more 
than  three  hundred  on  the  subject:  but,  in- 
stead of  new  images  of  tenderness,  or  deli- 
'  cate  representation  of  intelligible  feelings,  he 
has  contrived  to  tell  us  nothing  \vhatever  of 
the  unfortunate  fair  one,  but  that  her  name  is 
\  Martha  Ray ',  and  that  she  goes  up  to  the  top 
■  of  a  hill,  in  a  red  cloak,  and  cries  "  0  misery  !" 
'  All  the  rest  of  the  poem  is  filled  with  a  de- 
scription of  an  old  thorn  and  a  pond,  and  of 
the  silly  stories  which  the  neighbouring  old 
women  told  about  them. 

The  sports  of  childhood,  and  the  untimely 
death  of  promising  youth,  is  also  a  common 
topic  of  poetry.  Mr.  Wordsworth  has  made 
some  blank  verse  about  it ;  but,  instead  of 
the  delightful  and  picturesque  sketches  with 
which  so  many  authors  of  moderate  talents 
have  presented  us  on  this  inviting  subject,  all 
that  he  is  pleased  to  communicate  of  his  rustic 
child,  is,  that  he  used  to  amuse  himself  with 
shouting  to  the  owls,  and  hearing  them  an- 
swer. To  make  amends  for  this  brevity,  the 
process  of  his  mimicry  is  most  accurately  de- 
scribed. 

"  With  fingers  interwoven,  both  hands 

Press'd  closely  palm  to  palm,  and  to  his  mouth 
Uplifted,  he,  as  through  an  instrument, 
Blew  mimic  hootings  to  the  silent  owls, 
That  they  might  answer  him." — 

This  is  all  we  hear  of  him ;  and  for  the 
,  sake  of  this  one  accomplishment,  M^e  are  told, 
I  that  the  author  has  frequently  stood  mute,  and 
I  gazed  on  his  grave  for  half  an  hour  together ! 
Love,  and  the  fantasies  of  lovers,  have  af- 
forded an  ample  theme  to  poets  of  all  ages, 
Mr.  Wordsworth,  however,  has  thought  fit  to 
compose  a  piece,  illustrating  this  copious  sub- 
ject by  one  single  thought.     A  lover  trots 
away  to  see  his  mistress  one  fine  evening, 
gazing  all  the  way  on  the  moon ;  when  he 
comes  to  her  door, 

"  O  mercy  !  to  myself  I  cried, 
If  Lucy  should  be  dead  I" 

And  there  the  poem  ends  ! 

Now,  we  leave  it  to  any  reader  of  common 
candour  and  discernment   to   say,   whether 
/these  representations  of  character  and  senti- 
Ui  ment  are  drawn  from  that  eternal  and  uni- 
P  versal  standard  of  truth  and  nature,  which 
every  one  is  knowing  enough  to  recognise, 
and  no  one  great  enough  to  depait  from  with 
,  impunity ;  j  or  whether  they  are  not  formed, 
A  as  we  have  ventured  to  allege,  upon  certain 
I  fantastic  and    aflTected   peculiarities   in  the 
I  mind  or  fancy  of  the  author,  into  which  it  is 
'  most  improbable  that  many  of  his  readers 
will  enter,  and  which  cannot,  in  some  cases, 
be  comprehended  without  much  effort  and 
;  explanation.  Listead  of  multiplying  instances 
'  of  these  wide  and  wilful  aberrations  from  or- 
dinary nature,  it  may  be  more  satisfactory  to 
produce  the  author's  own  admission  of  the 
narrowness  of  the  plan  upon  which  he  writes, 
and  of  the  very  extraordinary  circumstances 
which  he  himself  sometimes  thinks  it  neces- 


sary for  his  readers  to  keep  in  view,  if  ihe'y 
would  wish  to  understand  the  beauty  or  prr*. 
priety  of  his  delineations. 

A  pathetic  tale  of  guilt  or  superstition  may 
be  told,  we  are  apt  to  fancy,  by  the  poet  him- 
self, in  his  general  character  of  poet,  w^ith  full 
as  much  effect  as  by  any  other  person.  An 
old  nurse,  at  any  rate,  or  a  monk  or  parish 
clerk,  is  always  at  hand  to  give  grace  to  such 
a  narration.  None  of  these,  however,  would 
satisfy  Mr.  Wordsworth.  He  has  Written  a 
long  poem  of  this' sort,  in  which  he  thinks  it 
indispensably  necessary  to  apprise  the  reader, 
that  he  has  endeavoured  to  represent  the 
language  and  sentiments  of  a  particular  char- 
acter— of  which  character,  .he  adds,  "the' 
reader  will  have  a  general  notion,  if  he  has 
ever  known  a  man,  a  captain  of  a  small  trading 
vessel,  for  example,  who  being  past  the  middh 
age  of  life,  has  retired  upon  an  annuity,  orl 
small  independent  income,  to  some  village  oij  i  j 
country,  of  which  he  was  not  a  native,  or  ir^  ''' 
which  he  had  not  been  accustomed  to  live  !"| 

Now,  we  must  be  permitted  to  doubt,^ 
whether,  among  all  the  readers  of  Mr.  Wordsf 
worth  (few  or  many),  there  is  a  fiingle  indif 
vidual  who  has  had  the  happiness  of  knowing 
a  person  of  this  very  peculiar- description;  or 
who  is  capable  of  forming  any  sort  of  coni- 
jecture  of  the  particular  disposition  and  turik 
of  thinking  which  such  a  combination  of  atr 
tributes  would  be  apt  to  produce.  To  us,  we 
will  confess,  the  annonce  appears  as  ludicrous 
and  absurd  as  it  would  be  in  the  author  of  ail 
ode  or  an  epic  to  say,  "  Of  this  piece  the! 
reader  will  necessarily  form  a  very  erroneous 
judgment,  unless  he  is  apprised,  that  it  was 
written  by  a  pale  man  in  a  green  coat — sitting' 
cross-legged  on  an  oaken  stool — with  a  scratch 
on  his  nose,  and  a  spelling  dictionary  on  the  - 
table."* 


*  Some  of  our  readers  may  have  a  curiosity  to 
know  in  what  manner  this  old  annuitant  captain 
does  actually  express  himself  in  the  village  of  his 
adoption.  For  their  gratification,  we  annex  the  two 
first  stanzas  of  his  story  ;  in  which,  with  all  the  at- 
tention we  have  been  able  to  bestow,  we  have  been 
utterly  unable  to  detect  any  traits  that  can  be  sup- 
posed to  characterise  either  a  seaman,  an  annuitant, 
or  a  stranger  in  a  country  town.  It  is  a  style,  on 
the  contrary,  which  we  should  ascribe,  without 
hesitation,  to  a  certain  poetical  fraternity  in  th« 
West  of  England ;  and  which,  we  verily  beheve, 
never  was,  and  never  will  be,  used  by  any  one  oul 
of  that  fraternity. 

"  There  is  a  thorn — it  looks  so  old, 

In  truth  vou'd  find  it  hard  to  say, 
How  it  could  ever  have  been  young ! 

It  looks  so  old  and  grey. 
Not  higher  than  a  two-years'  child, 

It  stands  erect;  this  aged  thorn  ! 
No  leaves  it  has,  no  thorny  points ; 
It  is  a  mass  of  knotted  joints  : 

A  wretched  thing  forlorn. 
It  stands  erect  ;  and  like  a  stone. 
With  lichens  it  is  overgrown. 

"  Like  rock  or  stone,  it  is  o''ergrov:% 
With  lichens;— to  the  very  top ; 

And  hung  with  heavy  tufts  of  moss 
A  melancholy  crop. 

Up  from  the  earth  these  mosses  creep, 
And  this  poor  thorn,  they  clasp  it  round 


CRABBE'S  POEJMS. 


383 


From  these  childish  and  absurd  affecta- 
lioiiB,  we  turn  with  pleasure  to  the  manly 
fense  and  correct  picturing  of  Mr.  Crabbe ; 
and,  after  being  dazzled  and  made  giddy 
with  the  elaborate  raptures  and  obscure  origi- 
nalities of  these  new  artists,  it  is  refreshing  to 
meet  again  with  the  spirit  and  nature  of  our 
old  masters,  in  the  nervous  pages  of  the 
author  now  before  us. 

The  poem  that  stands  first  in  the  volume, 
is  that  to  which  we  have  already  alluded  as 
having  been  first  given  to  the  public  upwards 
of  twenty  years  ago.  It  is  so  old,  and  has  of 
late  been  so  scarce,  that  it  is  probably  new 
to  many  of  our  readers.  We  shall  venture, 
therefore,  to  give  a  few  extracts  from  it  as  a 
specimen  of  Mr.  Grabbers  original  style  of 
composition.  We  have  already  hinted  at  the 
description  of  the  Parish  Workhouse,  and  in- 
sert it  as  an  example  of  no  common  poetry : — 

"  Theirs  is  yon  house  that  holds  the  parish  poor, 
Whose  walls  of  mud  scarce  bear  the  broken  door  ; 
There,  where  the  putrid  vapours  flagging  play, 
And  the  dull  wheel  hums  doleful  through  the  day  ; 
There  children  dwell  who  know  no  parents'  care  ; 
Parents,  who  know  no  children's  love,  dwell  there  ; 
Heart-broken  matrons  on  their  joyless  bed, 
Forsaken  wives,  and  mothers  never  wed  ; 
Dejected  widows  with  unheeded  tears, 
And  crippled  age  with  more  than  childhood-fears  ; 
The  lame,  the  bhnd,  and,  far  the  happiest  they  ! 
The  moping  idiot  and  the  madman  gay. 

"  Here,  too,  the  sick  their  final  doom  receive. 
Here  brought  amid  the  scenes  of  grief,  to  grieve  ; 
Where  the  loud  groans  from  some   sad  chamber 
Mixt  with  the  clamours  of  the  crowd  below,     [flow, 

"  Say  ye,  opprest  by  some  fantastic  woes. 
Some  jarring  nerve  that  baffles  your  repose  ; 
Who  with  sad  prayers  the  weary  doctor  tease, 
To  name  the  nameless  ever-new  disease  ;  | 

How  would  ye  bear  in  real  pain  to  lie, 
Despis'd,  neglected,  left  alone  to  die? 
How  would  ye  bear  to  draw  your  latest  breath. 
Where  all  that's  wretched  paves  the  way  for  death  ? 

",  Such  is  that  room  which  one  rude  beam  divides, 
And  naked  rafters  form  the  sloping  sides  ; 
Where  the  vile  bands  that  bind  the  thatch  are  seen, 
And  lath  and  mud  are  all  that  lie  betv/een  ; 
Save  one  dull  pane,  that,  coarsely  patch'd,  gives 
To  the  rude  tempest,  yet  excludes  the  day :    [way 
Here,  on  a  matted  flock,  with  dust  o'erspread. 
The  drooping  wretch  reclines  his  languid  head  ; 
For  him  no  hand  the  cordial  cup  applies,"  &c. 

pp.  12—14. 

The  consequential  apothecary,  who  gives 
an  impatient  attendance  in  these  abodes  of 
misery,  is  admirably  described  3  but  we  pass 
to  the  last  scene  : — 

"  Now  to  the  church  behold  the  mourners  come, 
Sedately  torpid  and  devoutly  dumb  ; 
The  village  children  now  their  games  suspend. 
To  see  the  bier  that  bears  their  ancient  friend  ; 
For  he  was  one  in  all  their  idle  sport. 
And  like  a  monarch  rul'd  their  little  court ; 
The  pliant  bow  he  form'd,  the  flying  ball. 
The  bat,  the  wicket,  were  his  labours  all ; 
Him  now  they  follow  to  his  grave,  and  stand, 

So  close,  you'd  say  that  they  were  bent. 
With  plain  and  manifest  intent  ! 

To  drag  ii  to  the  ground  ; 
And  all  had  join'd  in  one  endeavour. 
To  bury  this  poor  thorn  for  ever." 

And  this  it  seems,  is  Nature,  and  Pathos,  and 
•oetry ! 


Silent  and  sad,  and  gazing,  hand  in  hand  ; 
While  bending  low,  their  eager  eyes  explore 
The  mingled  relics  of  the  parish  poor  I 
The  bell  tolls  late,  the  moping  owl  flies  round. 
Fear  marks  the  flight  and  magnifies  the  sound  ; 
The  busy  priest,  detain'd  by  weightier  care. 
Defers  his  duty  till  the  day  of  prayer  ; 
And  wailing  long,  the  crowd  retire  distrest, 
To  think  a  poor  man's  bones  should  lie  unblesl." 

pp.  16,  17. 

The  scope  of  the  poem  is  to  show,  that  the 
villagers  of  real  life  have  no  resemblance  to 
the  villagers  of  poetry ;  that  poverty,  in  sober 
truth,  is  very  uncomfortable  •  and  vice  by  no 
means  confined  to  the  opulent.  The  following 
passage  is  powerfully,  and  finely  written : — 

"  Or  will  you  deem  them  amply  paid  in  health, 
Labour's  fair  child,  that  languishes  with  wealth  ? 
Go  then  !  and  see  them  rising  with  the  sun, 
Through  a  long  course  of  daily  toil  to  run  ; 
See  them  beneath  the  dog-star's  raging  heat. 
When  the  knees  tremble  and  the  temples  beat ; 
Behold  them,  leaning  on  their  scythes,  look  o'er 
The  labour  past,  and  toils  to  come  explore  ; 
Through  fens  and  marshy  moors  their  steps  pursue, 
When  their  warm  pores  imbibe  the  evening  dew. 

"  There  may  you  see  the  youth  of  slender  frame 
Contend  with  weakness,  weariness,  and  shame  ; 
Yet  urg'd  along,  and  proudly  loath  to  yield. 
He  strives  to  join  his  fellows  of  the  field  ; 
Till  long-contending  nature  droops  at  last ; 
Declining  health  rejects  his  poor  repast ! 
His  cheerless  spouse  the  coming  danger  sees, 
And  mutual  murmurs  urge  the  slow  disease. 

"  Yet  grant  them  health,  'tis  not  for  us  to  tell, 
Though  the  head  droops  not,  that  the  heart  is  well , 
Or  will  you  praise  that  homely,  healthy  fare, 
Plenteous  and  plain,  that  happy  peasants  share  ? 
Oh  !  trifle  not  with  wants  you  cannot  feel  ! 
Nor  mock  the  misery  of  a  stinted  meal ; 
Homely  not  wholesome — plain  not  plenteous — such 
As  you  who  praise  would  never  deign  to  touch! 

"  Ye  gentle  souls,  who  dream  of  rural  ease. 
Whom  the  smooth  stream  and  smoother  sonnet 
Go  !  if  the  peaceful  cot  your  praises  share,    [please  ; 
Go  look  within,  and  ask  if  peace  be  there  : 
If  peace  be  his — that  drooping,  weary  sire, 
Or  theirs,  that  offspring  round  their  feeble  fire  ! 
Or  hers,  that  matron  pale,  whose  trembling  hand 
Turns  on  the  wretched  hearth  th'  expiring  brand." 

pp.  8—10. 

We  shall  only  give  one  other  extract  from 
this  poem ;  and  we  select  the  following  fine 
description  of  that  peculiar  sort  of  barrenness 
which  prevails  along  the  sandy  and  thinly 
inhabited  shores  of  the  Channel : — 

"  Lo  !  where  the  heath,  with  with'ring  brake  grown 
o'er,  [poor ; 

Lends  the  light  turf  that  warms  the  neighbouring 
From  thence  a  length  of  burning  sand  appears. 
Where  the  thin  harvest  waves  its  wither' d  ears  ; 
There  thistles  stretch  their  prickly  arms  afar. 
And  to  the  ragged  infant  threaten  war  ; 
There  poppies  nodding,  mock  the  hope  of  toil. 
There  the  blue  bugloss  paints  the  sterile  soil ; 
Hardy  and  high,  above  the  slender  sheaf, 
The  slimy  mallow  waves  her  silky  leaf; 
O'er  the  young  shoot  the  charlock  throws  a  shade 
And  clasping  tares  cling  round  the  ^ickly  blade  ; 
With  mingled  tints  the  rocky  coasts  abound. 
And  a  sad  splendour  vainly  shines  around." 

pp.  5,  6. 

The  next  poem,  and  the  longest  in  the 
volume,  is  now  presented  for  the  first  time  to 
the  public.  It  is  dedicated,  like  theformei, 
to  the  delineation  of  rural  life  and  characters, 


3U 


POETRY. 


and  in  entitled,  "The  Village  Register ;"  and, 
upon  a  very  simple  but  singular  plan,  is  divi- 
ded into  three  parts,  viz.  Baptisms,  Marriages, 
and  Burials.  After  an  introductory  and  gen- 
eral view  of  village  manners,  the  reverend 
author  proceeds  to  present  his  readers  with 
an  account  of  all  the  remarkable  baptisms, 
marriages,  and  funerals,  that  appear  on  his 
register  for  the  preceding  year ;  with  a  sketch 
of  the  character  and  behaviour  of  the  respect- 
ive parties,  and  such  reflections  and  exhorta- 
tions as  are  suggested  by  the  subject.  The 
poem  consists,  therefore,  of  a  series  of  por- 
traits taken  from  the  middling  and  lower 
ranks  of  rustic  life,  and  delineated  on  occa- 
sions at  once  more  common  and  more  inter- 
esting, than  any  other  that  could  well  be 
imagined.  They  are  selected,  we  think,  with 
great  judgment,  and  drawn  M'ith  inimitable 
accuracy  and  strength  of  colouring.  They 
are  finished  with  much  more  minuteness  and 
detail,  indeed,  than  the  more  general  pictures 
in  "  The  Village ;"  and,  on  this  account,  may 
appear  occasionally  deficient  in  comprehen- 
sion, or  in  dignity.  They  are,  no  doubt,  exe- 
cuted in  some  instances  with  too  much  of 
a  Chinese  accuracy ;  and  enter  into  details 
which  many  readers  may  pronounce  tedious 
and  unnecessary.  Yet  there  is  a  justness 
and  force  in  the  representation  which  is 
entitled  to  something  more  than  indulgence  ; 
and  though  several  of  the  groups  are  com- 
posed of  low  and  disagreeable  subjects,  still, 
we  think  that  some  allowance  is  to  be  made 
for  the  author's  plan  of  giving  a  full  and  exact 
view  of  village  life,  which  could  not  possibly 
be  accomplished  without  including  those  baser 


varieties.;'  He   aims  at  an    important  moral^l      '  ,     ■,         r  ,  ,        • 

Pffpp.t   bv  this  Pvhibitinn-   pnH   mnftt  not  ha    "Then  came  the  days  of  shame,  the  grievous  night, 


effect  by  this  exhibition;  and  must  not  be 
defrauded  either  of  that,  or  of  the  praise  which 
is  due  to  the  coarser  efforts  of  his  pen,  out  of 
deference  to  the  sickly  delicacy  of  his  more 
fastidious  readers/  We  admit,  however,  that 
there  is  more  carelessness,  as  well  as  more 

lUaintness  in  this  poem  than  in  the  other ; 
and  that  he  has  now  and  then  apparently 
heaped  up  circumstances  rather  to  gratify 
his  own  taste  for  detail  and  accur^^lation, 
than  to  give  any  additional  efiect  to  his  de- 
scription. With  this  general  observation,  we 
beg  the  reader's  attention  to  the  following 
abstract  and  citations. 

The  poem  begins  with  a  general  view,  first 
of  the  industrious  and  contented  villager,  and 
then  of  the  profligate  and  disorderly.  The 
first  compartment  is  not  so  striking  as  the  last. 
Mr.  Crabbe,  it  seems,  has  a  set  of  smugglers 
among  his  flock,  who  inhabit  what  is  called 
the  Street  in  his  village.     There  is  nothing 

-omparable  to  the  following  description,  but 
wome  of  the  prose  sketches  of  Mandevillc : — 

'  Here,  in  cabal,  a  disputatious  crew 
Sach  evening  meet ;  the  sot,  the  cheat,  the  shrew ; 
Riots  are  nightly  heard — the  curse,  the  cries 
Of  beaten  wife,  perverse  in  her  replies : 
Boys  in  their  first  stern  rags,  to  steal  begin, 
And  girls,  who  know  not  sex.  are  skill'd  in  gin  ! 
Snarers  and  smugglers  here  their  gains  divide, 
Ensnarmg  females  here  their  victims  hide  ; 
And  here  is  one,  the  Sibyl  of  the  Row, 
Who  knows  all  secrets,  or  affects  to  know. — 


"  See  !  on  the  fl3or,  what  frowzy  patches  rest ! 
What  nauseous  fragments  on  yon  Iractur'd  chest 
What  downy-dusV  beneath  yon  window-seat ! 
And  round  these  posts  that  serve  this  bed  for  feet 
This  bed  where  all  those  tatter'd  garments  lie. 
Worn  by  each  sex,  and  now  perforce  thrown  by. 

"  See  !  as  we  gaze,  an  infant  lifts  its  head. 
Left  by  neglect,  and  burrow'd  in  that  bed  ; 
The  mother-gossip  has  the  love  supprest, 
An  infant's  cry  once  waken'd  in  her  breast,"  &c 

"  Here  are  no  wheels  for  either  wool  or  flax. 
But  packs  of  cards — made  up  of  sundry  packs  ; 
Here  are  no  books,  but  ballads  on  the  wall, 
Are  some  abusive,  and  indecent  all  ; 
Pistols  are  here,  unpair'd  ;  with  nets  and  hooks, 
Of  every  kind,  for  rivers,  ponds,  and  brooks  ; 
An  ample  flask  that  nightly  rovers  fill. 
With  recent  poison  from  the  Dutchman's  still ; 
A  box  of  tools  with  wires  of  various  size, 
Frocks,  wigs,  and  hats,  for  night  or  day  disguise. 
And  bludgeons  stout  to  gain  or  guard  a  prize. — 

"  Here  his  poor  bird,  th'  inhuman  cocker  bring 
Arms  his  hard  heel,  and  clips  his  golden  wings ; 
With  spicy  food  th'  impatient  spirit  feeds, 
And  shouts  and  curses  as  the  battle  bleeds  : 
Struck  through  the  braiii,  depriv'd  of  both  his  eyes. 
The  vanquish'd  bird  must  combat  till  he  dies  ! 
Must  faintly  peck  at  his  victorious  foe. 
And  reel  and  stagger  at  each  feeble  blow  ; 
When  fall'n,  the  savage  grasps  his  dabbled  plumes, 
His  blood-stain'd  arms,  foT  other  deaths  assumes ; 
And  damns  the  craven-fowl,  that  lost  his  stake. 
And  o7dy  bled  and  perish'd  for  his  sake  !" 

pp.  40 — 44. 

Mr.  Crabbe  now  opens  his  chronicle ;  and 
the  first  babe  that  appears  on  the  list  is  a 
natural  child  of  the  miller's  daughter.  This 
damsel  fell  in  love  with  a  sailor;  but  her 
father  refused  his  consent,  and  no  priest 
would  unite  them  without  it.  The  poor  gir! 
yielded  to  her  passion ;  and  her  lover  went  to 
sea,  to  seek  a  portion  for  his  bride : — 


The  varying  look,  the  wand'nng  appetite  ; 
The  joy  assum'd,  while  sorrow  dimm'd  the  eyes, 
The  forc'd  sad  smiles  that  foUow'd  sudden  sighs, 
And  every  art,  long  us'd,  but  us'd  in  vain. 
To  hide  thy  progress.  Nature,  and  thy  pain. 

"Day  after  day  were  past  in  grief  and  pain. 
Week  after  week,  nor  came  the  youth  again  ; 
Her  boy  was  born  : — No  lads  nor  lasses  came 
To  gra6e  the  rite  or  give  the  child  a  name  ; 
Nor  grave  conceited  nurse,  of  office  proud, 
Bore  the   young  Christian,  roaring  through   the 
In  a  small  chamber  was  my  office  done,     [crowd  ; 
Where  blinks,  through  paper'd  panes,  the  setting 

sun  , 
Where  noisy  sparrows,  perch'don  penthouse  near. 
Chirp  tuneless  joy,  and  mock  the  frequent  tear." — 

"  Throughout  the  lanes,  she  glides  at  evening's 
There  softly  lulls  her  infant  to  repose  ;  [close, 

Then  sits  and  gazes,  but  with  viewless  look, 
As  gilds  the  moon  the  rimpling  of  the  brook  ; 
Then  sings  her  vespers,  but  in  voice  so  low, 
She  hears  their  murmurs  as  the  waters  flow  ; 
And  she  too  murmurs,  and  begins  to  find 
The  solemn  wand' rings  of  a  wounded  mind  ! 

pp.  47 — 49. 

We  pass  the  rest  of  the  Baptisms;  and 
proceed  to  the  more  interesting  chapter  of 
Marriages.  The  first  pair  here  is  an  old  snug 
bachelor,  who^  in  the  first  days  of  dotage, 
had  married  his  maid-servant.  The  reverend 
Mr.  Crabbe  is  very  facetious  on  this  match, 
and  not  very  scrupulously  delicate. 

The  following  picture,  though  liable  in  part 
to  the  same  objection,  is  perfect,  w^e  think,  in 
that  style  of  drawing : — 


CRABBE'S  POEMS. 


385 


"  Next  at  onr  altar  stood  a  luckless  pair, 
Brought  by  strong  passions — and  a  warrant     there; 
By  long  rent  cloak,  hung  loosely,  strove  the  bride, 
From  ev'ry  eye,  what  all  perceiv'd  to  hide  ; 
While  the  boy-bridegroom,  shuffling  in  his  pace, 
Now  hid  awhile,  and  then  expos'd  his  face  ; 
As  shame  alternately  with  anger  strove 
The  brain,  confus'd  with  muddy  ale,  to  move ! 
In  haste  and  stamm'ring  he  perform'd  his  part, 
And  look'd  the  rage  that  rankled  in  his  heart. 
Low  spake  the  lass,  and  lisp'd  and  minc'd  the 

while ; 
Look'd  on  the  lad,  and  faintly  try'd  to  smile ; 
With  soiVnened  speech   and   humbled  tone  she 
To  stir  the  embers  of  departed  love  ;  [strove 

While  he  a  tyrant,  frowning  walk'd  before, 
Felt  the  poor  purse,  and  sought  the  public  door ; 
Slie  sadly  following  in  submission  went, 
And  saw  the  final  shilling  foully  spent ! 
Then  to  her  father's  hut  the  pair  withdrew. 
And  bade  to  love  and  comfort  long  adieu  !" 

pp.  74,  75. 

The  next  bridal  is  that  of  Phoebe  Dawsori; 
the  most  innocent  and  beautiful  of  all  the 
village  maidens.  We  give  the  ibllowing 
pretty  description  of  her  courtship : — 

"  Now,  through  the  lane,  up  hill,  and  cross  the 
(Seen  but  by  few,  and  blushing  to  be  seen —  [green, 
Dejected,  thoughtful,  anxious  and  afraid,) 
Led  by  the  lover,  walk'd  the  silent  maid  : 
Slow  through  the  meadows  rov'd  they,  many  a  mile, 
Toy'd  by  each  bank,  and  trifled  at  each  stile; 
Where,  as  he  painted  every  blissful  view. 
And  highly  colour'd  what  he  strongly  drew, 
The  pensive  damsel,  prone  to  tender  fears, 
Dimm'd  the  fair  prospect  with  prophetic  tears." 

pp.  76,  77. 

This  is  the  taking  side  of  the  picture  :  At 
I  the  end  of  two  years,  here  is  the  reverse. 
I  Nothing  can  be  more  touching,  vre  think,  than 
I  the  quiet  suffering  and  solitary  hysterics  of 
I  this  ill-fated  young  woman : — 

I"  Lo  !  now  with  red  rent  cloak  and  bonnet  black, 
And  torn  green  gown,  loose  hanging  at  her  back. 
One  who  an  infant  in  her  arms  sustains. 
And  seems,  with  patience,  striving  with  her  pains  ; 
Pinch'd  are  her  looks,  as  one  who  pines  for  bread, 
Whose  cares  are  growing,  and  whose  hopes  are  fled  I 
Pale  her  parch'd  lips,  her  heavy  eyes  sunk  low, 
And  tears  unnotic'd  from  their  channels  flow ; 
Serene  her  manner,  till  some  sudden  pain 
Frets  the  meek  soul,  and  then  she's  calm  again  ! — 
Her  broken  pitcher  to  the  pool  she  takes, 
And  every  step  with  cautious  terror  makes  ; 
For  not  alone  that  infant  in  her  arms, 
But  nearer  cause,  maternal  fear,  alarms  ! 
With  water  burden'd,  then  she  picks  her  way, 
Slowly  and  cautious,  in  the  clinging  clay ; 
Till  in  mid-green  she  trusts  a  place  unsound, 
And  deeply  plunges  in  th'  adhesive  ground  ; 
From  whence   her    slender  foot   with    pain  she 

takes,"  &c. 
*'  And  now  her  path,  but  not  her  peace,  she  gains. 
Safe  from  her  task,  but  shiv'ring  with  her  pains ; — 
Her  home  she  reaches,  open  leaves  the  door, 
And  placing  first  her  infant  on  the  floor. 
She  bares  her  bosom  to  the  wind,  and  sits. 
And  sobbing  struggles  with  the  rising  fits  ! 
In  vain  ! — they  come — she  feels  th'  inflaming  grief, 
That  shuts  the  swelling  bosom  from  relief; 
That  speaks  in  feeble  cries  a  soul  distrest, 
Or  the  sad  laugh  that  cannot  be  represt ; 
The  neighbour-matron  leaves  her  wheel,  and  flies 
With  all  the  aid  her  poverty  supplies  ; 
Unfee'd,  the  calls  of  nature  she  obeys, 
Nor  led  by  profit,  nor  allur'd  by  praise  ; 
And  waiting  long,  till  these  contentions  cease. 
Sue  epeaks  of  comfort,  and  departs  in  peace." 

pp.  77,  78. 
25 


The  ardent  lover,  it  seems,  turned  out  a 
brutal  husband : — 

"  If  present,  railing,  till  he  savv  her  pain'd  ; 
If  absent,  spending  what  theirlabours  gain'd  : 
Till  that  fair  form  m  want  and  sickness  pin'd, 
And  hope  and  comfort  fled  that  gentle  mind." 

p.  79. 

It  may  add  to  the  interest  which  some 
readers  will  take  in  this  simple  story,  to  be 
told,  that  it  was  the  last  piece  of  poetry  thai 
was  read  to  Mr.  Fox  during  his  fatal  illness; 
and  that  he  examined  and  made  some  flatter- 
ing remarks  on  the  manuscript  of  it  a  few 
days  before  his  death. 

We  are  obliged  to  pass  over  the  rest  of  the 
Marriages,  though  some  of  them  are  extreme- 
ly characteristic  and  beautiful,  and  to  proceed 
to  the  Burials.     Here  we  have  a  great  variety  \  .  ,^ 
of  portraits.-^the   old   drunken   innkeeper—  lr\ 
the  bustling  farmer's  wife — the  infant — and  j 
next  the  lady  of  the  manor.     The  following 
description  of  her  deserted  mansion  is  strik- 
ing, and  in  the  good  old  taste  of  Pope  and 
Dryden : — 

"  Forsaken  stood  the  hall. 

Worms  ate  the  floors,  the  tap'stry  fled  the  wall ; 
No  fire  the  kitchen's  cheerless  grate  display'd  ; 
No  cheerful  light  the  long-clos'd  sash  convey'd  • 
The  crawling  worm  that  turns  a  summer  fly. 
Here  spun  his  shroud  and  laid  him  up  to  die 
The  winter-death; — upon  the  bed  of  state, 
The  bat,  shrill-shrieking,  woo'd  hisflick'ring  mate*. 
To  empty  rooms,  the  curious  came  no  more, 
From  empty  cellars,  turn'd  the  angry  poor. 
And  surly  beggars  curs'd  the  ever-bolted  door. 
To  one  small  room  the  steward  found  his  way, 
Where  tenants  follow'd,  to  complain  and  pay." 

pp.  104,  105. 

The  old  maid  follows  next  to  the  shades  of 
mortality.  The  description  of  her  house,  fur- 
niture, and  person,  is  admirable,  and  affords 
a  fine  specimen  of  Mr.  Crabbe's  most  minute 
finishing ;  but  it  is  too  long  for  extracting.  We 
rather  present  our  readers  with  a  part  of  the 
character  of  Isaac  Ashford : — 

'*  Next  to  these  ladies,  but  in  nought  allied, 
A  noble  peasant,  Isaac  Ashford,  died. 
Noble  he  was — contemning  all  things  mean. 
His  truth  unquestion'd,  and  his  soul  serene  : 
Of  no  man's  presence  Isaac  felt  afraid  : 
At  no  man's  question  Isaac  look'd  dismay'd: 
Shame  knew  him  not,  he  dreaded  no  disgrace,"  &e 
"  Were  others  joyful,  he  look'd  smiHng  on. 
And  gave  allowance  where  he  needed  none ; 
Yet  far  was  he  from  stoic-pride  remov'd  ; 
He  felt,  with  many,  and  he  warmly  lov'd  : 
I  mark'd  his  action,  when  his  infant  died, 
And  an  old  neighbour  for  offence  was  triea  ; 
The  still  tears,  stealing  down  that  furrow'd  cheek, 
Spoke  pity,  plainer  than  the  tongue  can  speak,"  &c. 

pp.  Ill,  112 

The  rest  of  the  character  is  drawn  with 
equal  spirit ;  but  we  can  only  make  room  for 
the  author's  rinal  commemoration  of  him. 

"  I  feel  his  absence  in  the  hours  of  prayer, 
And  view  his  seat,  and  sigh  for  Isaac  there  : 
I  see,  no  more,  those  white  locks  thinly  spread. 
Round  the  bald  polish  of  that  honour'd  head  ; 
No  more  that  awful  glance  on  playful  wight, 
Compell'd  to  kneel  and  tremble  at  the  sigh*  ; 
To  fold  his  fingers  all  in  dread  the  while, 
Till  Mr.  Ashford  soften' d  to  a  smile  ! 


386 


POETRY. 


No  more  that  meek,  that  euppliant  Icok  in  prayer, 
Nor  thai  pure  faith,  th-t  v-ixe  it  force — are  there  : — 
But  he  is  blest ;  and  1  1  Uiient  no  more, 
A  wise  good  mancontenied  to  be  poor." — p.  114. 

We  then  bury  the  village  midwife,  super- 
seded in  her  old  age  by  a  volatile  doctor; 
then  a  surly  rustic  misanthrope  ;  and  last  of 
all,  the  reverend  author's  ancient  sexton, 
whose  chronicle  of  his  various  pastors  is  given 
rather  at  too  great  length.  The  poem  ends 
with  a  simple  recapitulation. 

We  think  this  the  most  important  of  the 
new  pieces  in  the  volume;  and  have  ex- 
tended our  account  of  it  so  much,  that  we  can 
afford  to  say  but  little  of  the  others.  "The 
Library"  and  "  The  New^spaper"  are  republi- 
cations. They  are  written  with  a  good  deal 
of  terseness,  sarcasm,  and.  beauty ;  but  the 
subjects  are  not  very  interesting,  and  they  will 
rather  be  approved,  we  think,  than  admired 
or  delighted  in .  We  are  not  much  taken  either 
with  "  The  Birth  of  Flattery."  With  many 
nervous  lines  and  ingenious  allusions,  it  has 
something  of  the  languor  which  seems  insep- 
arable from  an  allegory  which  exceeds  the 
length  of  an  epigram. 

"  Sir  Eustace  Grey"  is  quite  unlike  any  of 
the  preceding  compositions.  It  is  written  in 
a  sort  of  lyric  measure;  and  is  intended  to 
represent  the  perturbed  fancies  of  the  most 
terrible  insanity  settling  by  degrees  into  a 
sort  of  devotional  enthusiasm.  The  opening 
stanza,  spoken  by  a  visiter  in  the  madhouse, 
is  very  striking. 

"  I'll  see  no  more  ! — the  heart  is  torn 
By  views  of  woe  we  cannot  heal ; 

Long  shall  I  see  these  things  forlorn, 
And  oft  again  their  griefs  shall  feel, 
As  each  upon  the  mind  shall  steal ; 

That  wan  projector's  mystic  style, 
That  lumpish  idiot  leering  by, 

That  peevish  idler's  ceaseless  wile. 

And  that  poor  maiden  s  half-fornCd  smile, 

While  struggling  for  the  full-drawn  sigh  ! 
I'll  know  no  more!" — p.  217. 

There  is  great  force,  both  of  language  and 
conception,  in  the  wild  narrative  Sir  Eustace 
gives  of  his  frenzy ;  though  we  are  not  sure 
whether  there  is  not  something  too  elaborate, 
and  too  much  worked  up,  in  the  picture.  We 
give  only  one  image,  w^hich  we  think  is  orig- 
inal. He  supposed  himself  hurried  along  by 
two  tormenting  demons. 

"  Through  lands  we  fled,  o'er  seas  we  flew, 
And  halted  on  a  boundless  plain  ; 
Where  nothing  fed,  nor  breath'd.  nor  grew. 
But  silence  rul'd  the  still  domain. 

"  Upon  that  boundless  plain,  below, 

The  setting  sun's  last  rays  were  shed. 
And  gave  a  mild  and  sober  glow, 

Where  all  were  still,  asleep,  or  dead  ; 
Vast  ruins  in  the  midst  were  spread. 

Pillars  and  pediments  sublime. 
Where  the  grey  moss  had  form'd  a  bed, 

And  cloth'd  the  crumbling  spoils  of  Time. 

"  There  was  I  fix'd,  I  know  not  how, 
Condemn'd  for  untold  years  to  stay; 

Yet  years  were  not ;— one  dreadful  now, 
Endur'd  no  change  of  night  or  day  ; 

The  same  mild  evening's  sleeping  ray 


Shone  s:>ftly-soIemn  and  serene, 
And  all  that  time  I  gaz'd  away. 
The  setting  sun's  sad  rays  were  seen.** 

p.  226, 
"The  Hall  of  Justice,"  or  the  story  of  the 
Gipsy  Convict,  is  another  experhnent  of  Mr. 
Crabbers.  It  is  very  nervous — very  shocking 
— and  very  powerfully  represented.  The 
woman  is  accused  of  stealing,  and  tells  her 
story  in  impetuous  and  lofty  language. 

"  My  crime  !  this  sick'ning  child  to  feed, 
I  seiz'd  the  food  your  witness  saw ; 
I  knew  your  laws  forbade  the  deed. 
But  yielded  to  a  stronger  law  !" — 

"  But  I  have  griefs  of  other  kind, 

Troubles  and  sorrows  more  severe  ; 
Give  me  to  ease  my  tortur'd  mind. 

Lend  to  my  woes  a  patient  ear ; 
And  let  me— if  I  may  not  find 

A  friend  to  help — find  one  to  hear. 
"  My  mother  dead,  my  father  lost, 

I  wander'd  with  a  vagrant  crew; 
A  common  care,  a  common  cost. 

Their  sorrows  and  their  sins  I  knew  ; 
With  them  on  want  and  error  forc'd. 

Like  them,  I  base  and  guilty  grew  ! 

"  So  through  the  land  I  wand'ring  went. 
And  little  found  of  grief  or  joy  ; 
But  lost  my  bosom's  sweet  content, 
When  first  I  lov'd  the  gypsy  boy. 
"  A  sturdy  youth  he  was  and  tall, 

His  looks  would  all  his  soul  declare. 
His  piercing  eyes  were  deep  and  small, 
And  strongly  curl'd  his  raven  hair. 
"  Yes,  Aaron  had  each  manly  charm. 
All  in  the  May  of  youthful  pride  ; 
He  scarcely  fear'd  his  father's  arm, 

And  every  other  arm  defied. — 
Oft  when  they  grew  in  anger  warm, 

(Whom  will  not  love  and  power  divide  ?) 
1  rose,  their  wrathful  souls  to  calm. 
Not  yet  in  sinful  combat  tried." 

pp.  240—242. 

The  father  felon  falls  in  love  with  the  be- 
trothed of  his  son,  whom  he  despatches  on 
some  distant  errand.  The  consummation  of 
his  horrid  passion  is  told  in  these  powerful 
stanzas : — 

"  The  night  was  dark,  the  lanes  were  deep, 
And  one  by  one  they  took  their  way ; 
He  bade  me  lay  me  down  and  sleep  ! 
T  only  wept,  and  wish'd  for  day. 

Accursed  be  the  love  he  bore — 
Accursed  was  the  force  he  us''d — 

So  let  him  of  his  God  implore 
For  mercy  ! — and  he  so  refused  T^ — p.  243. 

It  is  painful  to  follow  the  story  out.  The 
son  returns,  and  privately  murders  his  father; 
and  then  marries  his  w^dow !  The  profligate 
barbarity  of  the  life  led  by  those  outcasts  is 
forcibly  expressed  by  the  simple  narrative  of 
the  lines  that  follow : — 

"  I  brought  a  lovely  daughter  forth. 
His  iather's  child,  in  Aaron's  bed  ! 
He  took  her  from  me  in  his  wrath, 

'  Where  is  my  child  ?' — '  Thy  child  is  dead.' 

"  'Twas  false  !     We  wander'd  far  and  wide. 
Through  town  and  country,  field  and  fen, 
Till  Aaron  fighting,  fell  and  died, 
And  I  became  a  wife  again." — p.  248. 

We  have  not  room  to  give  the  sequel  of  this 
dreadful  ballad.     It  certainly  is  not  pleasing 


CRABBE'S  BOROUGH. 


387 


reaaii-g;  but  it.  is  written  with  very  unusual 

power  of  language,  and  shows  Mr.  Crabbe  to 

\  liave  great  mastery  over  the  tragic  passions  of 

'  pity  and  horror.    The  volume  closes  with  some 

verses  of  no  great  value  in  praise  of  Women. 

We  part  with  regret  from  Mr.  Crabbe ;  but 

we  hope  to  meet  with  him  again.    If  his  muse, 

to  be  sure,  is  prolific  only  once  in  twenty-four 

years,  we  can  scarcely  expect  to  live  long 


enough  to  pass  judgment  on  hftr  futuie  pro- 
geny:  But  we  trust,  that  a  larger  portion  of 
public  favour  than  has  hitherto  been  dealt  to 
him  will  encourage  him  to  greater  efforts ;  and 
that  he  will  soon  appear  again  among  the 
worthy  supporters  of  the  old  poetical  estab- 
lishment, and  come  in  time  to  surpass  the 
revolutionists  in  fast  firing,  as  well  as  in  weight 
of  metal. 


(^Ipvil,  1810.) 

The  Borough :  a  Poenij  tn  Twenty-four  Letters.    By  the  Rev.  George  Crabbe,  LL.  B. 
8vo.  pp.  344.     London:  1810. 


We  are  very  glad  to  meet  with  Mr.  Crabbe 
so  soon  again ;  and  particularly  glad  to  find,  that 
his  early  return  has  been  occasioned,  in  part, 
by  the  encouragement  he  received  on  his  last 
appearance.  This  late  spring  of  public  favour, 
we  hope,  he  will  yet  live  to  see  ripen  into  ma- 
ture fame.  We  scarcely  know  any  poet  who 
deserves  it  better ;  and  are  quite  certain  there 
is  none  who  is  more  secure  of  keeping  with 
posterity  whatever  he  may  win  from  his  con- 
temporaries. 

The  present  poem  is  precisely  of  the  char- 
acter of  The  Village  and  The  Parish  Register. 
It  has  the  same  peculiarities,  and  the  same 
faults  and  beauties  j  though  a  severe  critic 
might  perhaps  add,  that  its  peculiarities  are 
more  obtrusive,  its  faults  greater,  and  its  beau- 
ties less.    However  that  be,  both  faults  and 
beauties  are  so  plainly  produced  by  the  pe- 
culiarity, that  it  may  be  worth  while,  before 
giving  any  more  particular  account  of  it,  to  try 
if  we  can  ascertain  in  what  that  consists. 
{»    And  here  we  shall  very  speedily  discover, 
'  that  Mr.  Crabbe  is  distinguished  from  all  other 
poets,  both  by  the  choice  of  his  subjects,  and 
,  by  his  manner  of  treating  them.     All  his  per- 
sons are  taken  from  the  lower  ranks  of  life ; 
and  all  his  scenery  from  the  most  ordinary 
and  familiar  objects  of  nature  or  art.     His 
/characters  and  incidents,  too,  are  as  common 
/  as  the  elements  out  of  which  they  are  com- 
1  pounded  are  humble;  and  not  only  has  he 
p  nothing  prodigious  or  astonishing  in  any  of 
/     his  representations,  but  he  has  not  even  at- 
tempted to  impart  any  of  the  ordinary  colours 
of  poetry  to  those  vulgar  materials.     He  has 
no  moralising  swains  or  sentimental  trades- 
men ;  and  scarcely  ever  seeks  to  charm  us  by 
I     the  artless  graces  or  lowly  virtues  of  his  per- 
jT  sonages.   On  the  contrary,  he  has  represented 
j    his  villagers  and  humble  burghers  as  alto- 
1    gether  as  dissipated,  and  more  dishonest  and 
\  discontented,  than  the  profligates  of  higher 
nife;  and,  instead  of  conducting  us  through 
blooming  groves  and  pastoral  meadows,  has 
<'^ed  us  along  filthy  lanes  and  crowded  wharfs, 
to  hospitals,  alms-houses,  and  gin-shops.     In 
eome  of  these  delineations,  he  may  be  con- 
r   Bidered  as  the  Satirist  of  low  life — an  occupa- 
L  tion  sufliciently  arduous,  and,  in  a  great  de- 
vee,  new  and  original  in  our  language.     But 


by  far  the  greater  part  of  his  poetry  is  of  a 
different  and  a  higher  character;  and  aims 
at  moving  or  delighting  us  by  lively,  touch- 
ing, and  finely  contrasted  representations  of 
the  dispositions,  sufferings,  and  occupations 
of  those  ordinary  persons  who  form  the  far 
greater  part  of  our  fellow-creatures.  This, 
too,  he  has  sought  to  effect,  merely  by  placing 
before  us  the  clearest,  most  brief,  and  most 
striking  sketches  of  their  external  condition — 
the  most  sagacious  and  unexpected  strokes 
of  character — and  the  truest  and  most  pathetic 
pictures,  of  natural  feeling  and  common  suffer- 
ing. By  the  mere  force  of  his  art,  and  the 
novelty  of  his  style,  he  forces  us  to  attend 
to  objects  that  are  usually  neglected,  and  to 
enter  into  feelings  from  which  we  are  in  gene- 
ral but  too  eager  to  escape ; — and  then  trusts 
to  nature  for  the  effect  of  the  representation. 

It  is  obvious,  at  first  sight,  that  this  is  not  a 
task  for  an  ordinary  hand ;  and  that  many  in- 
genious writers,  who  make  a  very  good  figure 
with  battles,  nymphs,  and  moonlight  land- 
scapes, would  find  themselves  quite  helpless, 
if  set  down  among  streets,  harbours,  and 
taverns.  The  difficulty  of  such  subjects,  in 
short,  is  sufficiently  visible — and  some  of 
the  causes  of  that  difficulty :  But  they  have 
their  advantages  also; — and  of  these,  and 
their  hazards,  it  seems  natural  to  say  a  few 
words,  before  entering  more  minutely  into  tht 
merits  of  the  work  before  us. 

The  first  great  advantage  of  such  familial 
subjects  is,  that  every  one  is  necessarily  wel- 
acquainted  with  the  originals ;  and  is  there- 
fore sure  to  feel  all  that  pleasure,  from  a 
faithful  representation  of  them,  which  results 
from  the  perception  of  a  perfect  and  success- 
ful imitation.  In  the  kindred  art  of  painting, 
we  find  that  this  single  consideration  has  been 
sufiicient  to  stamp  a  very  high  value  upon 
accurate  and  lively  delineations  of  objects,  in 
themselves  uninteresting,  and  even  disagree 
able ;  and  no  very  inconsiderable  part  of  the 
pleasure  which  may  be  derived  from  Mr 
Crabbe's  poetiy  may  probably  be  referred  to 
its  mere  truth  and  fidelity;  and  to  the  brevity 
and  clearness  with  whidi  he  sets  before  his 
readers,  objects  and  characters  with  which 
they  have  been  all  their  days  familiar. 

In  his  happier  passages,  however^  he  has  a 


388 


POETRY. 


y 


ii 


V! 


-fl 


higher  merit,  and  imparts  a  far  higher  grati- 
'fication.  The  chief  delight  of  poetry  consists, 
not  sciiwuuch  in  what  it  directly  supplies  to 
the  imagination,  as  in  what  it  enables  it  to 
supply  to  itself; — not  in  warming  the  heart 
by  its  passing  brightness,  but  in  kindling  its 
own  latent  stores  of  light  and  heat  \ — not  in 
hurrying  the  fancy  along  by  a  foreign  and  ac- 
cidental impulse,  but  in  setting  it  agoing,  by 
touching  its  internal  springs  and  principles  of 
activity.  Now,  this  highest  and  most  delight- 
ful effect  can  only  be  produced  by  the  poet's 
striking  a  note  to  which  the  heart  and  the  affec- 
tions naturally  vibrate  in  unison  \ — by  rousing 
one  of  a  large  family  of  kindred  impressions ; — 
by  dropping  the  rich  seed  of  his  fancy  upon  the 
fertile  and  sheltered  places  of  the  imagination. 
But  it  is  evident,  that  the  emotions  connected 
with  common  and  familiar  objects — with  ob- 
jects which  fi-1  every  man's  memory,  and  are 
necessarily  associated  with  all  that  he  has 
ever  really  felt  or  fancied,  are  of  all  others 
the  most  likely  to  answer  this  description,  and 
to  produce,  where  they  can  be  raised  to  a  suf- 
ficient height,  this  great  effect  in  its  utmost 
perfection .  It  is  for  this  reason  that  the  images 
and  affections  that  belong  to  our  univeisal  na- 
ture, are  always,  if  tolerably  represented,  in- 
finitely more  captivating,  in  spite  of  their 
apparent  commonness  and  simplicity,  than 
those  that  are  peculiar  to  certain  situations, 
however  they  may  come  recommended  by 
novelty  or  grandeur.  The  familiar  feeling  of 
maternal  tenderness  and  anxiety,  which  is 
every  day  before  our  eyes,  even  in  the  brute 
creation — and  the  enchantment  of  youthful 
love,  which  is  nearly  the  same  in  all  charac- 
ters, ranks,  and  situations — still  contribute  far 
more  to  the  beauty  and  interest  of  poetry  than 
all  the  misfortunes  of  princes,  the  jealousies  of 
heroes,  and  the  feats  of  giants,  magicians,  or 
ladies  in  annour.  Every  one  can  enter  into 
the  former  set  of  feelings;  and  but  a  few 
mto  the  latter.  The  one  calls  up  a  thousand 
familiar  and  long-remembered  emotions — 
which  are  answered  and  reflected  on  every 
side  by  the  kindred  impressions  which  ex- 
perience or  observation  have  traced  upon 
every  memory :  while  the  other  lights  up  but 
a  transient  and  unfruitful  blaze,  and  passes 
away  without  perpetuating  itself  in  any  kin- 
dred and  native  sensation. 

Now,  the  delineation  of  all  that  concerns 
the  lower  and  most  numerous  classes  of  so- 
ciety, is,  in  this  respect,  on  a  footing  with  the 
pictures  of  our  primary  affections — that  their 
originals  are  necessarily  familiar  to  all  men, 
and  are  inseparably  associated  with  their  own 
most  interesting  impression  s.  Whatever  may 
be  our  ovtn  condition,  we  all  live  surrounded 
with  the  poor,  from  infancy  to  age  ; — we  hear 
daily  of  their  sufferings  and  misfortunes; — 
and  their  toils,  their  crimes,  or  their  pastimes, 
are  our  hourly  spectacle.  Many  diligent 
readers  of  poetry  know  little,  by  their  own 
experience,  of  palaces,  castles,  or  camps ;  and 
still  less  of  tyrants,  warriors,  and  banditti ; — 
but  every  one  understands  about  cottages, 
Htreets,  and  villages;  and  conceives,  pretty 
correctly,  the  character  and  condition  of  sail- 


ors, ploughmen,  and  artificers.  If  the  poef^ 
can  contrive,  therefore,  to  create  a  sufFicientj 
interest  in  subjects  like  these,  they  will  infal  r 
libly  sink  deeper  into  the  mind,  and  be  more) 
prolific  of  kindred  trains  of  emotion,  than  sub-\ 
jects  of  greater  dignity.  Nor  is  the  difficulty) 
of  exciting  such  an  interest  by  any  means  so 
great  as  is  generally  imagined.  For  it  is 
common  human  nature,  and  common  human 
feelings,  after  all,  that  form  the  true  source 
of  interest  in  poetry  of  every  description ; — | 
and  the  splendour  and  the  marvels  by  which' 
it  is  sometimes  surrounded,  serve  no  othei 
purpose  than  to  fix  our  attention  en  thosQ 
workings  of  the  heart,  and  those  energies  of; 
the  understanding,  which  alone  eommand  alj 
the  genuine  sympathies  of  human  beings-/ 
and  which  may  be  found  as  abundantly  in  th^ 
breasts  of  cottagers  as  of  kings.  Wherevei 
there  are  human  beingi5,  therefore,  with  feeJ 
ings  and  characters  to  be  represented,  our  at 
tention  may  be  fixed  by  the  art  of  the  poet- 
by  his  judicious  selection  of  circumstances- 
by  the  force  and  vivacity  of  his  style,  and  thf 
clearness  and  brevity  of  his  representations 

In  point  of  fact,  we  are  all  touched  moit 
deeply,  as  well  as  more  frequently,  in  reaJ 
life,  with  the  sufferings  of  peasants  than  oi 
princes;  and  sympathise  much  oftener,  and 
more  heartily,  with  the  successes  of  the  poor, 
than  of  the  rich  and  distinguished.     The  oc^ 
casions  of  such  feelings  are  indeed  so  many; 
and  so  common,  that  they  do  not  often  leave 
any  very  permanent  traces  behind  them,  but 
pass  away,  and  are  effaced  by  the  very  rapidity 
of  their  succession.     The  business  and   the 
cares,  and  the  pride  of  the  world,  obstruct  the 
development  of  the  emotions  to  which  ihej 
would  naturally  give  rise ;  and  press  so  close 
and  thick  upon  the  mind,  as  to  shut  it,  at  most 
seasons,  against  the  reflections  that  are  per 
petually  seeking  for  admission.    When  we 
have  leisure,  however,  to  look  quietly  into  oui  j 
hearts,  we  shall  find  in  them  an  infinite  mul-  ) 
titude  of  little  fragments  of  sympathy  with) 
our  brethren  in  humble  life — abortive  move- 1 
ments  of  compassion,  and  embryos  of  kindnesp^ 
and  concern,  which  had  once  fairly  begun  to ' 
live  and  germinate  wnthin  them,  though  with- 
ered and  broken  off  by  the  selfish  bustle  and 
fever  of  our  daily  occupations.    Now,  all  these 
may  be  revived  and  carried  on  to  maturity  by 
the  art  of  the  poet ; — and,  therefore,  a  powerj 
ful  effort  to  interest  us  in  the  feelings  of  the 
humble  and  obscure,  will  usually  call  forth 
more  deep,  more  numerous,  and  more  j)ermaf 
nent  emotions,  than  can  ever  be  excited  by 
the  fate  of  princesses  and  heroes.     Indepen- 
dent of  the  circumstances  to  whlcn  we  have 
already  alluded,  there  are  causes  which  make 
us  at  all  times  more  ready  to  enter  into  the 
feelings  of  the  fumble,  than  of  the  exalted 
part  of  our  species.     Our  sympathy  with  theiij 
enjoyments  is  enhanced  by  a  certain  mixturei, 
of  pity  for  their  general  condition,  which,  b\^ 
purifying  it  from  that  taint  of  envy  which  al-i 
most  always  adheres  to  our  admiration  of  the  j 
great,  renders  it  more  welcome  and  satisfac- ; 
tory  to  our  bosoms ;  while  our  concern  for  then '  ^ 
suderings  is  at  onoe  softened  and  endeared  t#    ^ 


CRABBE'S  BOROUGH. 


389 


fis,  by  the  recollection  of  our  own  exemption 
I  Irom  them,  ai>d  by  the  feeling;  that  we  fre- 
'  quently  have  i .  in  our  power  to  relieve  them. 
From  these,  and  from  other  causes,  it  ap- 
pears to  us  to  be  certain,  that  where  subjects, 
taken  from  humble  life,  can  be  made  suffi- 
ciently interesting  to  overcome  the  distaste 
and  the  prejudices  with  which  the  usages  of 
polished  society  too  generally  lead  us  to  re- 
gard them,  the  interest  which  they  excite  will 
commonly  be  more  profound  and  more  lasting 
than  any  that  can  be  raised  upon  loftier 
themes ;  and  the  poet  of  the  Village  and  the 
"Borough  be  oftener.  and  longer  read,  than  the 
poet  of  the  Court  or  the  Camp.  The  most 
popular  passages  of  Shakespeare  and  Cowper, 
we  think,  are  of  this  description:  and  there  is 
much,  both  in  the  volume  before  us,  and  in 
Mr.  Crabbe's  former  publications,  to  which 
we  might  now  venture  to  refer,  as  proofs  of 
the  same  doctrine.  When  such  representa- 
tions have  once  made  an  impression  on  the 
imagination,  they  are  remembered  daily,  and 
for  ever.  We  can  neither  look  around,  nor 
within  us,  without  being  reminded  of  their 
truth  and  their  importance  ',  and,  while  the 
more  brilliant  effusions  of  romantic  fancy  are 
recalled  only  at  long  intervals,  and  in  rare 
situations,  we  feel  that  we  cannot  walk  a  step 
from  our  own  doors,  jior  cast  a  glance  back  on 
our  departed  years,  without  being  indebted  to 
the  poet  of  vulgar  life  for  some  striking  image 
or  touching  reflection,  of  which  the  occasions 
were  always  before  us,  but — till  he  taught  us 
how  to  improve  them — were  almost  always 
allowed  to  escape. 

Such,  we  conceive,  are  some  of  the  advan- 
tages of  the  subjects  which  Mr.  Crabbe  has 
in  a  great  measure  introduced  into  modern 
poetry; — and  such  the  grounds  upon  which 
we  venture  to  predict  the  durability  of  the 
reputation  which  he  is  in  the  course  of  ac- 
quiring. That  they  have  their  disadvantages 
also,  is  obviousj  and  it  is  no  less  obvious,  that 
it  is  to  these  we  must  ascribe  the  greater  part 
of  the  faults  and  deformities  with  which  this 
author  is  fairly  chargeable.  The  two  great 
errors  into  which  he  has  fallen,  are — that  he 
has  described  many  things  not  worth  describ- 
ing;— and  thav  ne  has  frequently  excited  dis- 
gust, instead  of  pity  or  indignation,  in  the 
breasts  of  his  readers.  These  faults  are  ob- 
vious— and,  we  believe,  are  popularly  laid  to 
his  charge  :  Yet  there  is,  in  so  far  as  we  have 
observed,  a  degree  of  misconception  as  to  the 
true  grounds  and  limits  of  the  charge,  which 
we  think  it  worth  while  to  take  this  opportu- 
nity of  correcting. 

The  poet  of  humble  life  must  describe  a 
.great  deal — and  must  even  describe,  minutely, 
Tnany  things  which  possess  in  themselves  no 
jbeauty  or  grandeur.  The  reader's  fancy  must 
I  be  awaked — and  the  power  of  his  own  pencil 
'■  displayed : — a  distinct  locality  and  imaginary 
reality  must  be  given  to  his  characters  and 
agents :  and  the  ground  colour  of  their  com- 
mon condition  must  be  laid  in,  before  his  pe- 
culiar and  selected  groups  can  be  presented 
with  any  effect  or  advantage.  In  the  same 
ivay,  he  must  study  characters  with  a  minute 


and  anatomical  precision;  and  must  make 
both  himself  and  his  readers  familiar  with  the 
ordinary  traits  and  general  family  features  of 
the  beings  among  whom  they  are  to  move,  be- 
fore they  can  either  understand,  or  take  much 
interest  in  the  individuals  who  are  to  engross 
their  attention.  Thus  far,  there  is  no  e.\cf  ss 
or  unnecessary  minuteness.  But  this  facult}"! 
of  observation,  and  this  power  of  description^ 
hold  out  great  temptations  to  go  further.' 
There  is  a  pride  and  a  delight  in  the  exercise 
of  all  peculiar  power ;  and  the  poet,  who  has 
learned  to  describe  external  objects  exqui- 
sitely, with  a  view  to  heighten  the  effect  of 
his  moral  designs,  and  to  draw  characters 
with  accuracy,  to  help  forward  the  interest  or 
the  pathos  of  the  picture,  will  be  in  great  dan- 
ger of  describing  scenes,  and  drawing  char- 
acters, for  no  other  purpose,  but  to  indulge  his 
taste,  and  to  display  his  talents.  It  cannot  be 
denied,  we  think,  that  Mr.  Crabbe  has,  on 
many  occasions,  yielded  to  this  temptation.. 
He  is  led  away,  every  now  and  then,  by  hie 
lively  conception  of  external  objects,  and  by 
his  nice  and  sagacious  observation  of  human 
character:  and  v/antons  and  luxuriates  in  de- 
scriptions and  moral  portrait  painting,  while 
his  readers  are  left  to  wonder  to  what  end  so 
much  industry  has  been  exerted. 

His  chief  fault,  however,  is  his  frequent 
lapse   into   disgusting    representations;    andj 
this,  we  will  confess,  is  an  error  for  which  we' 
find  it  far  more  difficult  either  to  account  or 
to  apologise.     We  are  not,  however,  of  the 
opinion  which  we  have  often  heard  stated, 
that  he  has  represented  human  nature  under  „: 
too  unfavourable  an  aspect ;  or  that  the  dis- 
taste which  his  poetry  sometimes  produces, 
is  owing  merely  to  the  painful  nature  of  the 
scenes  and  subjects  with  which  it  abounds. 
On  the  contrary.  Me  think  he  has  given  a  just- 
er,  as  well  as  a  more  striking  picture,  of  thf* 
true  character  and  situation  of  the  lower  or 
ders  of  this  country,  than  any  other  writer, 
whether  in  verse  or  in  prose ;  and  that  he  haa 
made  no  more  use  of  painful  emotions  than 
was  necessary  to  the  production  of  a  pathetic 
effect. 

/All  powerful  and  pathetic  poetry,  it  is  ob- 
xious,  abounds  in  images  of  distress.  The 
delight  which  it  bestows  partakes  strongly  of 
pain ;  and,  by  a  sort  of  contradiction,  which 
has  long  engaged  the  attention  of  the  reflect- 
ing, the  compositions  that  attract  us  most 
powerfully,  and  detain  us  the  longest,  are 
those  that  produce  in  ^s  most  of  the  effects  of 
actual  suffering  and  wretchedness.  The  so- 
lution of  this  paradox  is  to  be  found,  we  think, 
in  the  simple  fact,  that  pain  is  a  far  stronger 
sensation  than  pleasure,  in  human  existence; 
and  that  the  cardinal  virtue  of  all  things  that 
are  intended  to  delight  the  mind,  is  to  produce 
a  strong  sensation.  Life  itself  appears  to  con- 
sist in  -sensation ;  and  the  universal  passion 
of  all  beings  that  have  life,  seems  to  be.  that 
they  should  be  made  intensely  conscious  of 
it,  by  a  succession  of  powerful  and  engrossing 
emotions.  All  the  mere  gratifications  ornatu 
ral  pleasures  that  are  in  the  power  even  of  the 
most  fortunate,  are  quite  insufficient  to  fill  thif 


390 


POETRY. 


\ra8l  jraying  for  sensation :  And  accordinglyj 
we  see  every  day,  that  a  more  violent  stimu- 
lus is  sought  for  by  those  who  have  attained 
the  vulgar  heights  of  life,  in  the  pains  and 
dangers  of  war — the  agonies  of  gaming — or 
the  feverish  toils  of  ambition.  To  those  who 
have  tasted  of  those  potent  cups,  where  the 
bitter,  however,  so  obviously  predominates, 
the  security,  the  comforts,  and  what  are  call- 
ed the  enjoyments  of  common  life,  are  intol- 
erably insipid  and  disgusting.  Nay,  w^e  think 
we  have  observed,  that  even  those  who,  with- 
out any  effort  or  exertion,  have  experienced 
unusual  misery,  frequently  appear,  in  like 
manner,  to  acquire  a  sort  of  taste  or  craving 
for  it  5  and  come  to  look  on  the  tranquillity  of 
ordinary  life  with  a  kind  of  indifference  not 
unmingled  with  contempt.  It  is  certain,  at 
least,  that  they  dwell  with  most  apparent  satis- 
faction on  the  memory  of  those  days,  which 
have  been  marked  by  the  deepest  and  most 
agonising  sorrows;  and  derive  a  certain  de- 
light from  the  recollections  of  those  over- 
whelming sensations  which  once  occasioned 
so  fierce  a  throb  in  the  languishing  pulse  of 
their  existence. 
i  If  any  thing  of  this  kind,  however,  can  be 

,  traced  in  real  life — if  the  passion  for  emotion 
be  so  strong  as  to  carry  us,  not  in  imagination, 
but  in  reality,  over  the  rough  edge  of  present 
pain — it  will  not  be  difficult  to  explain,  why  it 
^  should  be  so  attractive  in  the  copies  and  fic- 
(  '  tions  of  poetry.  There,  as  in  real  life,  the 
I  great  demand  is  for  emotion ;  while  the  pain 
f  with  which  it  may  be  attended,  can  scarcely, 
by  any  possibility,  exceed  the  limits  of  en- 
durance. The  recollection,  that  it  is  but  a 
copy  and  a  fiction,  is  quite  sufficient  to  keep  it 
down  to  a  moderate  temperature,  and  to  make 
it  welcome  as  the  sign  or  the  harbinger  of  that 
agitation  of  which  the  soul  is  avaricious.  It 
is  not,  then,  from  any  peculiar  quality  in  pain- 
ful emotions  that  they  become  capable  of 
affording  the  delight  which  attends  them  in 
tragic  or  pathetic  poetry — but  merely  from  the 
circumstance  of  their  being  more  intense  and 
powerful  than  any  other  emotions  of  which 
the  mind  is  susceptible.  If  it  was  the  consti- 
tution of  our  nature  to  feel  joy  as  keenly,  or  to 
sympathise  with  it  as  heartily  as  we  do  with 
sorrow,  we  have  no  doubt  that  no  other  sensa- 
tion would  ever  be  intentionally  excited  by 
the  artists  that  minister  to  delight.  But  the 
fact  is.  that  the  pleasures  of  which  we  are  ca- 
pable are  slight  and  feeble  compared  with  the 
pains  that  we  may  endure ;  and  that,  feeble 
as  they  are,  the  sympathy  which  they  excite 
falls  much  more  snort  of  the  original  emotion. 
When  the  object,  therefore,  is  to  obtain  sen- 
sation, there  can  be  no  doubt  to  which  of  the 
two  fountains  we  should  repair ;  and  if  there 
be  but  few  pains  in  real  life  which  are  not,  in 
some  measure,  endeared  to  us  by  the  emo- 
tions with  which  they  are  attended,  we  may 
be  pretty  sure,  that  the  more  distress  we  in- 
troduce into  poetry,  the  more  we  shall  rivet 
the  attention  and  attract  the  admiration  of  the 
reader. 

There  is  but  one  exception  to  this  rule — 
and  it  brings  us  back  from  the  apology  of  Mr. 


{ 


Crabbe,  to  his  condemnation.  Every  form  of  ' 
distress,  whether  it  proceed  from  passion  oi 
from  fortune,  and  whether  it  fall  upon  vice  oi 
virtue,  adds  to  the  interest  and  the  charm  of 
poetry — except  only  that  which  is  connected 
with  ideas  of  Disgv-st — the  least  taint  of  Avhich 
disenchants  the  whole  scene,  and  puts  an  end 
both  to  delight  and  sympathy.  But  what  is 
it,  it  may  be  asked,  that  is  the  proper  object 
of  disgust  1  and  what  is  the  precise  descrip- 
tion of  things  which  we  think  Mr.  Crabbe  so 
inexcusable  for  admitting  1  It  is  not  easy  to 
define  a  term  at  once  so  simple  and  so  signifi- 
cant ;  but  it  may  not  be  without  its  use,  to 
indicate,  in  a  general  way,  our  conception  of 
its  true  force  and  comprehension. 

It  is  needless,  we  suppose,  to  explain  what 
are  the  objects  of  disgust  in  physical  or  exter- 
nal existences.  These  are  sufficiently  plain  and!  f^j 
unequivocal ;  and  it  is  universally  admitted," 
that  all  mention  of  them  must  be  carefully  ex- 
cluded from  every  poetical  description.  With 
regard,  again,  to  human  character,  action,  and 
feeling,  we  should  be  inclined  to  term  every 
thing  disgusting,  which  represented  misery, 
without  making  any  appeal  to  our  love,  res- 
pect, or  admiration.  If  the  suffering  person 
be  amiable,  the  delightful  feeling  of  love  and 
affection  tempers  the  pain  which  the  contem- 
plation of  suffering  has  a  tendency  to  excite, 
and  enhances  it  into  the  stronger,  and  there- 
fore more  attractive,  sensation  of  pity.  ,rif 
there  be  great  power  or  energy,  however, 
united  to  guilt  or  wretchedness,  the  mixture 
of  admiration  exalts  the  emotion  into  some-  -^ 
thing  that  is  sublime  and  pleasing :  and  even/  — 
in  cases  of  mean  and  atrocious,  but  efficientf  i 
guilt,  our  sympathy  with  the  victims  upon 
whom  it  is  practised,  and  our  active  indignation 
and  desire  of  vengeance,  reconcile  us  to  the 
humiliating  display,  and  make  a  compound 
that,  upon  the  whole,  is  productive  of  pleasurci) 

The  only  sufferers,  then,  upon  whom  we| 
cannot  bear  to  look,  are  those  that  excite  pain] 
by  their  wretchedness,  while  they  are  too  de-' 
praved  to  be  the  objects  of  affection,  and  too  j 
weak  and  insignificant  to  be  the  causes  of , 
misery  to  others,  or,  consequently,  of  indigna-' 
tion  to  the  spectators.    Such  are  the  depraved, 
abject,  diseased,  and  neglected   poor — crea- 
tures in  whom  every  thing  amiable  or  res- 
pectable has  been  extinguished  by  sordid  pas- 
sions or  brutal  debauchery;— who  have  no 
means  of  doing  the  mischief  of  which  they  | 
are  capable — -whom  every  one  despises,  and  j 
no  one  can  either  love  or  fear.     On  the  char-  | 
acters,  the  miseries,  and  the  vices  of  such  l 
beings,  we  look  with  disgust  merely:  and,  | 
though  it  may  perhaps  serve  some  moral  pur- ' 
pose,  occasionally  to  set  before  us  this  humi- 
liating spectacle   of  human  nature  sunk  to  , 
utter  w^orthlessness  and  insignificance,  it  is  j 
altogether  in  vain  to  think  of  exciting  either  1 
pity  or  horror,  by  the  truest  and  most  forcible 
representations  of  their   sufferings   or   their 
enormities.     T^ey  have  no  hold  upon  any  of 
the  feelings  that  lead  us  to  take  an  interest  in 
our  fellow-creatures; — we  turn  away  from 
them,  therefore,  with  loathing  and  dispassion- 
ate aversion: — we  feel  our  imagiiia*ions  pol 


CRABBE'S  BOROUGH. 


391 


b 


luted  by  the  intrusion  of  any  images  con- 
nected with  them;  and  are  offended  and 
disgusted  when  we  are  forced  to  look  closely 
upon  those  festering  heaps  of  moral  filth  and 
corruption 


JFv 


^ 


*  writer  who  has  sinned  so  deeply  in  this  re- 
""  epect  as  Mr.  Crabbe — who  has  so  often  pre- 
fteented  us  with  spectacles  \vhich  it  is  purely 
painful   and   degrading  to  contemplate,  and 
I  bestowed  such  powers  of  conception  and  ex- 
pression in  giving  us  distinct  ideas  of  what 
we  must  ever  abhor  to  remember.     If  Mr. 
Crabbe  had  been  a  person  of  ordinary  talents, 
we  might  have  accounted  for  his  error,  in 
some  degree,  by  supposing,  that  his  frequent 
success  in  treating  of  subjects  which  had  been 
usually  rejected  by  other  poets,  had  at  length 
jled  him  to  disregard,  altogether,  the  common 
I  impressions  of  mankind  as  to  what  was  allow- 
able and  what  inadmissible  in  poetry ;  and  to 
reckon  the  unalterable  laws  by  which  nature 
has    regulated   our   sympathies,   among   the 
prejudices  by  which  they  were  shackled  and 
impaired.   It  is  difficult,  however,  to  conceive 
how  a  writer  of  his  quick  and  exact  observa- 
tion should  have  failed  to  perceive,  that  there 
is  not  a  single  instance  of  a  serious  interest 
being  excited  by  an  object  of  disgust:  and 
khat  Shakespeare  himself,  who  has  ventured 
nevery  thing,  has  never  ventured  to  shock  our 
■;Feelings  with  the  crimes  or  the  sufferings  of 
jbeing.s  absolutely  without  power  or  principle. 
Independent  of  universal  practice,  too,  it  is 
still  more  difficult  to  conceive  how  he  should 
have  overlooked   the   reason   on  which  this 
practice  is  founded ;  for  though  it  be  gener- 
I  ally  true,  that  poetical  representations  of  suf- 
1  fering  and  of  guilt  produce  emotion,  and  con- 
'  Bequently  delight,    yet   it   certainly  did   not 
require  the  penetration  of  Mr.  Crabbe  to  dis- 
cover, that   there  is  a  degree   of  depravity 
which,  counteracts  our  sympathy  with  suffer- 
ing, and  a  degree  of  insignificance  which  ex- 
tinguishes our  interest  in  guilt.     We  abstain 
from  giving  any  extracts  in  support  of  this 
accusation ;  but  those  who  have  perused  the 
volume  before  us,  will  have  already  recol-. 
lected  the  story  of  Frederic   Thompson,  of 
Abel  Keene,  of  Blaney,  of  Benbow,  and  a 
good  part  of  those  of  Grimes  and  Ellen  Orford 
— besides  many  shorter  passages.     It  is  now 
time,  however,  to  give  the   reader  a  more 
particular  account  of  the  work  which  contains 
them. 
-^'  The  Borough  of  Mr.  Crabbe,  then,   is  a 
'detailed  and  minute  account  of  an  ancient 
Enghsh  sea-port  town,  of  the  middling  order; 
''     I  containing  a  series  of  pictures  of  its  scenery, 
'^  I  and  of  the  different  classes  and  occupations 
of  its  inhabitants.    It  is  thrown  into  the  form 
^of  letters,  though  without  any  attempt  at  the 
epistolary  character ',  and  treats  of  the  vicar 
and  curate — the  sectaries — the  attornies — the 
apothecaries;  and  the  inns,  clubs,  and  stroll- 
,  ing-players,  that  make  a  figure  in  the  place  : 
Vv  I  —but  more  particularly  of  the  poor,  and  their 
'  characters  and  treatment ;  and  of  almshouses, 
prisons,  and  schools.     Tl:iere  is,  of  course,  no 
unity  or  method  in  the  poem — which  consists 


altogether  of  a  succession  of  unconne'^ted 
descriptions,  and  is  still  more  miscellaneoua 
in  reality,  than  would  be  conjectured  from  the 
titles  of  its  twenty-four  separate  compart- 
ments. As  it  does  not  admit  of  analysis, 
therefore,  or  even  of  a  much  more  particular 
description,  we  can  only  give  our  readers  a 
just  idea  of  its  execution,  by  extracting  a 
few  of  the  passages  that  appear  to  us  most 
characteristic  in  each  of  the  many  styles  it 
exhibits. 

One  of  the  first  that  strikes  us,  is  the 
following  very  touching  and  beautiful  picture 
of  innocent  love,  misfortune  and  resignation — 
all  of  them  taking  a  tinge  of  additional  sweet- 
ness and  tenderness  from  the  humble  con- 
dition of  the  parties;  and  thus  affording  a 
striking  illustration  of  the  remarks  we  have 
ventured  to  make  on  the  advantages  of  such 
subjects.  The  passage  occurs  in  the  second 
letter,  where  the  author  has  been  surveying, 
with  a  glance  half  pensive  and  half  sarcasti- 
cal,  the  monuments  erected  in  the  churchyard. 
He  then  proceeds : — 

"  Yes  !  there  are  real  Mourners — I  have  seen 
A  fair  sad  Girl,  mild,  suffering,  and  serene; 
Attention  (through  the  day)  her  duties  claim'd, 
And  to  be  useful  as  resign'd  she  aim'd  ; 
Neatly  she  dress'd,  nor  vainly  seem'd  t'  expect 
Pity  for  grief,  or  pardon  for  neglect ; 
But  when  her  wearied  Parents  sunk  to  sleep. 
She  sought- this  place  to  tneditate  and  weep; 
Then  to  her  mind  was  all  the  past  display'd, 
That  faithful  Memory  brings  to  Sorrow's  aid: 
For  then  she  thought  on  one  regretted  Youth, 
Her  tender  trust,  rmd  his  unquestion'd  truth  ; 
In  ev'ry  place  she  wander'd,  where  they'd  been, 
And  sadly-sacred  held  the  parting-scene 
Where  last  for  sea  he  took  his  leave  ; — that  place 
With  double  interest  would  she  nightly  trace,"  &>t\ 

"  Happy  he  sail'd  ;  and  great  the  care  she  took. 
That  he  should  softly  sleep,  and  smartly  look ; 
White  was  his  better  linen,  and  his  check 
Was  made  more  trim  than  any  on  the  deck ; 
And  every  comfort  Men  at  Sea  can  know. 
Was  hers  to  buy,  to  make,  and  to  bestow: 
For  he  to  Greenland  sail'd,  and  much  she  told, 
How  he  should  guard  against  the  climate's  cold  ; 
Yet  saw  not  danger;  dangers  he'd  withstood, 
Nor  could  she  trace  the  Fever  in  his  blood : 
Flis  Messmates  smil'd  at  flushings  in  his  cheek, 
And  he  too  smil'd,  but  seldom  would  he  speak; 
For  now  he  found  the  danger,  felt  the  pain, 
With  grievous  symptoms  he  could  not  explain. 

"  He  call'd  his  friend,  and  prefac'd  with  a  sigh 
A  Lover's  message — '  Thomas  !  I  must  die  ! 
Would  I  could  see  my  Sally  !  and  could  rest 
My  throbbing  temples  on  her  faithful  breast. 
And  gazing  go ! — if  not,  this  trifle  take, 
And  say  till  death,  I  wore  it  for  her  sake  : 
Yes !  I  must  die  !  blow  on,  sweet  breeze,  blow  on , 
Give  me  one  look,  before  my  life  be  gone, 
Oh  !  give  me  that !  and  let  me  not  despair — 
One  last  fond  look  I — and  now  repeat  the  prayer.* 

"  He  had  his  wish  ;  had  more  ;  I  will  not  paint 
The  Lover's  meeting  :  she  beheld  him  faint — 
With  tender  fears,  she  took  a  nearer  view. 
Her  terrors  doubling  as  her  hopes  withdrew  ; 
He  tried  to  smile,  and,  half  succeeding,  said, 
'  Yes !  I  must  die  ; — and  hope  for  ever  fled  ! 

"Still  long  she  nurs'd   him;   tender  thoupbls 
meantime 
Were  interchang'd,  and  hopes  and  views  sublime. 
To  her  he  came  to  die  ;  and  every  day 
She  took  some  portion  of  the  dread  away  ! 
With  him  she  pray'd,  to  him  his  Bible  read, 
Sooih'd  the  faint  heart,  and  held  the  aching  head; 


392 


^'OETRY. 


She  came  with  smiles  the  hour  of  pain  to  cheer  ; 
Apart  she  sigh'd  ;  alone,  she  shed  the  tear  ; 
Then,  as  if  breaking  from  a  cloud,  she  gave 
Fret^U  light,  and  gilt  the  prospect  of  the  grave. 

"  One  day  he  lighter  seem'd,  and  ihey  forgot 
The  care,  the  dread,  the  anguish  of  their  lot; 
They  spoke  with  cheerfulness,  and  seem'd  to  think, 
Yet  said  not  so — '  perhaps  he  will  not  sink.' 
A  sudden  brightness  in  his  look  appear'd, — 
A  sudden  vigour  in  his  voice  was  heard  ; 
She  had  been  reading  in  the  Book  of  Prayer, 
And  led  him  forth,  and  plac'd  him  in  his  chair; 
Lively  he  seem'd,  and  spoke  of  all  he  knew, 
The  friendly  many,  and  the  favourite  few; 
Nor  one  that  day  did  he  to  mind  recall, 
But  she  has  treasur'd,  and  she  loves  them  all ; 
VVhf^ri  in  her  way  she  meets  them,  they  appear 
Peculiar  people — death  has  made  them  dear! 
He  iiam'd  his  friend,  but  then  his  hand  she  prest, 
And  fondly  whisper'd,  '  Thou  must  go  to  rest.' 
'  I  go  !'  he  said  ;  but,  as  he  spoke,  she  found 
His  hand  more  cold,  and  flutt'ring  was  the  sound  ; 
Then  gaz'd  aflfrighten'd;  but  she  caught  at  last 
A  dying  look  of  love — and  all  was  past^.— 

"  She  plac'd  a  decent  stone  his  grave  above, 
Neatly  engrav'd — an  offering  of  her  Love  ; 
For  that  she  wrought,  for  that  forsook  her  bed. 
Awake  aUke  to  duty  and  the  dead  ; 
She  would  have  griev'd,  had  friends  presum'd  to 

spare 
The  least  assistance — 'twas  her  proper  care. 

"  Here  will  she  come,  and  on  the  grave  will  sit. 
Folding  her  arms,  in  long  abstracted  fit ; 
But  if  observer  pass,  will  take  her  round, 
And  careless  seem,  for  she  would  not  be  found  ; 
Then  come  again,  and  thus  her  hour  employ, 
While  visions  please  her,  and  while  woes  destroy." 

pp.  23—27. 

There  is  a  passage  in  the  same  lone,  in  the 
letter  on  Prisons.  It  describes  the  dream  of 
a  felon  under  sentence  of  death ',  and  though 
the  exquisite  accuracy  and  beauty  of  the 
landscape  painting  are  such  as  must  have 
recommended  it  to  notice  in  poetry  of  any 
order,  it  seems  to  us  to  derive  an  uspeakable 
charm  from  the  lovi^ly  simplicity  and  humble 
content  of  the  characters — at  least  we  can- 
not conceive  any  walk  of  ladies  and  gentlemen 
that  should  furnish  out  so  sweet  a  picture  as 
terminates  the  following  extract.  It  is  only 
doing  Mr.  Crabbe  justice  to  present  along 
with  it  a  part  of  the  dark  foreground  which 
he  has  drawn,  in  the  waking  existence  of  the 
poor  dreamer. 

"  When  first  I  came 
Within  his  view,  I  fancied  there  was  shame, 
I  judg'd  Resentment ;  1  mistook  the  air — 
These  fainter  passions  live  not  with  Despair  ; 
Or  but  exist  and  die  : — Hope,  Fear  and  Love, 
Joy,  Doubt,  and  Hate,  may  other  spirits  move, 
But  t^uch  not  his,  who  every  waking  hour 
Has  one  fix'd  dread,  and  always  feels  its  power. 
He  takes  his  tasteless  food  ;  and,  when  'tis  done, 
Counts  up  his  meals,  now  lessen'd  by  that  one  ; 
For  Expectation  is  on  Time  intent. 
Whether  he  brings  us  Joy  or  Punishment. 

"  Yes  !  e'en  in  sleep  th'  impressions  all  remain ; 
He  hears  the  sentence,  and  he  feels  the  chain  ; 
He  seems  the  place  for  that  sad  act  to  see. 
And  dreams  the  very  thirst  which  then  will  be  I 
A  priest  attends — it  seems  the  one  he  knew 
fn  his  best  days,  beneath  whose  care  he  grew. 

"  At  this  his  terrors  take  a  sudden  flight — 
He  sees  his  native  village  with  delight ; 
The  house,  the  chamber,  where  he  once  array'd 
His  youthful  person  :  where  he  knelt  and  pray'd  : 
i'hen  too  the  comforts  he  enjoy'd  at  home. 
The  days  of  joy  ;  the  joys  themselves  are  come ; — 


The  hours  of  innocence  ; — the  timid  look 
Of  his  lov'd  maid,  when  first  her  hand  he  took 
And  told  his  hope  ;  her  trembling  joy  appears, 
Her  forc'd  reserve,  and  his  retreating  fears. 

"  Yes!  all  are  with  him  now,  and  all  the  while 
Life's  early  prospects  and  his  Fanny  smile  : 
Then  come  his  sister  and  his  village  friend. 
And  he  will  now  the  sweetest  moments  spend 
Life  has  to  yield  : — No  !  never  will  he  find 
Again  on  earth  such  pleasure  in  his  mind,  [amon". 
He   goes  through   shrubby    walks    these    friends 
Love  in  their  looks  and  pleasure  on  the  tongue. 
Pierc'd  by  no  crime,  and  urg'd  by  no  desire 
For  more  than  true  and  honest  hearts  require^ 
They  feel  the  calm  delight,  and  thus  proceed 
Through  the  green  lane, — then  linger  in  the  mead,— 
Stray  o'er  the  heath  in  all  its  purple  bloom. 
And  pluck  the  blossom  where  the  wild-bees  hum,* 
Then  through  the  broomy  bound  with  ease  they 

pass. 
And  press  the  sandy  sheep-walk's  slender  grass. 
Where  dwarfish  flowers  among  the  gorse  are  spread, 
A?id  the  lamb  bronzes  by  the  linnef  s  bed  !         [way 
Then 'cross  the  bounding  brook  they  make  their 
O'er  its  rough  bridge — and  there  behold  the  bay  ! — 
The  ocean  smiling  to  the  fervid  sun — 
The  waves  that  faintly  fall  and  slowly  run — 
The  ships  at  distance,  and  the  boats  at  hand : 
And  now  they  walk  upon  the  sea-side  sand. 
Counting  the  number,  and  what  kind  they  be, 
Ships  softly  sinking  in  the  sleepy  sea : 
Now  arm  in  arm,  now  parted,  they  behold 
The  glitt'ring  waters  on  the  shingles  roll'd  : 
The  timid  girls,  half  dreading  their  design, 
Dip  the  small  foot  in  the  .retarded  brine. 
And  search  for  crimson  weeds,  which  spreading 
Or  lie  like  pictures  on  the  sand  below ;  [flow, 

With  all  those  bright  red  pebbles,  that  the  sun 
Through  the  small  waves  so  softly  shines  upon  ; 
And  those  live  lucid  jellies  which  the  eye 
Delights  to  trace  as  they  swim  glitt'ring  by  : 
Pearl-shells  and  rubied  star-fish  they  admire, 
And  will  arrange  above  the  parlour  fire — 
Tokens  of  bliss!"— pp.  323—326. 

If  these  extracts  do  not  make  the  reader 
feel  how  deep  and  peculiar  an  interest  may 
be  excited  by  humble  subjects,  we  should 
almost  despair  of  bringing  him  over  to  our 
opinion,  even  by  Mr.  Crabbe's  inimitable  de-* 
scription  and  pathetic  pleading  for  the  parish 
poor.  The  subject  is  one  of  those,  which  ta 
many  wall  appear  repulsive,  and,  to  some 
fastidious  natures  perhaps,  disgusting.  Yet, 
if  the  most  admirable  painting  of  external 
objects — the  most  minute  and  thorough  know- 
ledge of  human  character — and  that  warm 
glow  of  active  and  rational  benevolence  which 
lends  a  guiding  liglit  to  observation,  and  an 
enchanting  colour  to  eloquence,  can  entitle  a 
poet  to  praise,  as  they  do  entitle  him  to  more 
substantial  rewards,  we  are  persuaded  that 
the  following  passage  will  not  be  speedily 
forgotten. 

"  Your  plan  I  love  not : — with  a  number  you 
Have  plac'd  your  poor,  your  pitiable  few  ; 
There,  in  one  house,  for  all  their  lives  to  be, 
T\\Q  pauper-palace,  which  they  hate  to  see  ! 
That  giant  building,  that  high  bounding  wall, 
Those  bare-worn  walks,  that  lofty  thund'ringhall  ♦ 
That  large  loud  clock,  which  tolls  each  dreaded 

hour, 
Those  gates  and  locks,  and  all  those  signs  of  power  : 
It  is  a  prison,  with  a  milder  name. 
Which  few  inhabit  without  dread  or  shame." — 

"  Alas  !  their  sorrows  in  their  boscms  dwell, 
They've  much  to  suffer,  but  have  nought  to  tell 
They  have  no  evil  in  the  place  to  state. 
And  r  arc  not  say,  it  is  the  house  they  na»a : 


CRABBE'S  BOROUGH. 


DM 


rhty  own  there*s  granted  all  such  place  can  give, 
But  live  repining, — for  'tis  there  they  live  !       [see, 

•'  Grandsires  are  there,  who  now  no  more  must 
No  more  must  nurse  upon  the  trembhng  knee, 
The  lost  lov'd  daughters  infant  progeny  ! 
Like  death's  dread  mansion,  this  allows  not  place 
For  joyful  meetings  of  a  kindred  race. 

"  Is  not  the  matron  there,  to  whom  the  son 
Was  wont  at  each  declining  day  to  run  ; 
He  (when  his  toil  was  over)  gave  delight. 
By  lifting  up  the  latch,  and  one  '  Good  night?' 
Yes.  she  is  here  ;  but  nightly  to  her  door 
The  son,  still  lab'ring,  can  return  no  more. 

"  Widows  are  here,  who  in  their  huts  were  left, 
Of  husbands,  children,  plenty,  ease,  bereft ; 
Yot  all  that  grief  within  the  humble  shed 
Was  sofien'd.  soften'd  in  the  humbled  bed  : 
But  here,  in  all  its  force,  remains  the  grief, 
And  not  one  soft'ning  object  for  relief. 

"  Who   can,  when  here,  the   social   neighbour 
Who  learn  the  story  current  in  the  street  ?    [meet  ? 
Who  to  the  long-known  intimate  impart 
Facts  they  have  learn'd,  or  feelings  of  the  heart  ? — 
They  talk,  indeed;  but  who  can  choose  a  friend, 
Or  seek  companions,  at  their  journey's  end?" — 

"  What,  if  no  grievous  fears  their  lives  annoy, 
Is  it  not  worse,  no  prospects  to  enjoy  ? 
'Tis  cheerless  living  in  such  bounded  view, 
With  nothing  dreadful,  but  with  nothing  new  ; 
Nothing  to  bring  them  joy,  to  make  them  weep — 
The  day  itself  is,  like  the  night,  asleep; 
Or  on  the  sameness,  if  a  break  be  made, 
'Tis  by  some  pauper  to  his  grave  convey 'd ; 
By  smuggled  news  from  neighb'ring  village  told. 
News  never  true,  or  truth  a  twelvemonth  old! 
By  some  new  inmate  doom'd  with  them  to  dwell, 
Or  justice  come  to  see  that  all  goes  well  ; 
Or  change  of  room,  or  hour  of  leave  to  crawl 
On  the  black  footway  winding  with  the  wall, 
'Till  the  stern  bell  forbids,  or  master's  sterner  call. 

"  Here  the  good  pauper,  loosing  all  the  praise 
By  worthy  deeds  acquir'd  in  better  days, 
Breathes  a  few  months;  then,  to  his  chamber  led. 
Expires — while  strangers  prattle  round  his  bed." — 

pp.  241—244. 

These  we  take  to  be  specimens  of  Mr. 
Crabbe's  best  style ; — but  he  has  great  variety ; 
— and  some  readers  may  be  better  pleased 
with  his  satirical  vein — which  is  both  copious 
and  original.  The  Vicar  is  an  admirable 
sketch  of  what  mu^t  be  very  difficult  to  draw ; 
— a  good,  easy  man,  with  no  character  at  all. 
\His  little,  humble  vanity; — his  constant  care 
X  \ to  offend  no  one; — his  mawkish  and  feeble 
'  '^  jgallantry — indolent  good  nature,  and  love  of 
jgossipping  and  trifling — are  all  very  exactly, 
|and  very  pleasingly  delineated. 
\  To  the  character  of  Blaney,  we  have  already 
objected,  as  offensive,  from  its  extreme  and 
impotent  depravity.  The  first  part  of  his 
history,  however,  is  sketched  with  a  masterly 
hand ;  and  affords  a  good  specimen  of  that 
sententious  and  antithetical  m.a?Dnerby  which 
Mr.  Crabbe  sometimes  reminds  us  of  the  style 
and  versification  of  Pope. 

"  Blaney,  a  wealthy  heir  at  twenty-one, 
At  twenty-five  was  ruin'd  and  undone  : 
These  years  with  grievous  crimes  we  need  not  load. 
He  found  his  ruin  in  the  common  road  ; 
Gam'd  without  skill,  without  inquiry  bought, 
Lent  without  love,  and  borrow'd  without  thought. 
But,  gay  and  handsome,  he  had  soon  the  dower 
Of  a  kind  wealthy  widow  in  his  power; 
Ther  he  aspir'd  to  loftier  flights  of  vice  ! 
To  singing  harlots  of  enormous  price: 
And  took  a  jockey  in  his  gig  to  buy 
An  horse,  so  valued,  that  a  duke  was  shy : 


To  gain  the  plaudits  of  the  knowing  few. 
Gamblers  and  grooms,  what  would  not   Bhiucn 
do?"— 
"  Cruel  he  was  not. — If  he  left  his  wife, 
He  left  her  to  her  own  pursuits  in  life  ; 
Deaf  to  reports,  to  all  expenses  blind, 
Profuse,  not  just — and  careless  but  not  kind." 

pp.  193,  194. 

Clelia  is  another  worthless  character,  drawn; 
with  infinite  spirit,  and  a  thorough  knowledge) 
of  human  nature.  She  began  life  as  a  spright- 
ly, talking,  flirting  girl,  who  passed  for  a  wit 
and  a  beauty  in  the  half-bred  circles  of  the 
borough;  and  who,  in  laying  herself  out  to 
entrap  a  youth  of  better  condition,  unfortu- 
nately fell  a  victim  to  his  superior  art.  and 
forfeited  her  place  in  society.  She  then  be- 
came the  smart  mistress  of  a  dashing  attor- 
ney— then  tried  to  teach  a  school — lived  as 
the  favourite  of  an  innkeeper — let  lodgings — 
wrote  novels — set  up  a  toyshop — and,  finally, 
was  admitted  into  the  almshouse.  There  is 
nothing  very  interesting  perhaps  in  such  a 
story ;  but  the  details  of  it  show  the  wonderful 
accuracy  of  the  author's  observation  of  char  ' 
acter;  and  give  it,  and  many  of  his  other 
pieces,  a  value  of  the  same  kind  that  sbme 
pictures  are  thought  to  derive  from  the  truth 
and  minuteness  of  the  (zno^pjay  which  they 
display.  There  is  something  original,  too, 
and  well  conceived,  in  the  tenacity  with  which 
he  represents  this  frivolous  person,  as  ad- 
hering to  her  paltry  characteristics,  under 
every  change  of  circumstances.  The  con- 
cluding view  is  as  follows. 

"  Now  friendless,  sick,  andold,  and  wanting  bread. 
The  first-born  tears  of  fallen  pride  were  shed — 
True,  bitter  tears ;  and  yet  that  wounded  pride, 
Among  the  poor,  for  poor  distinctions  sigh'd  ! 
Though  now  her  tales  were  to  her  audience  fit ; 
Though  loud  her  tones,  and  vulgar  grown  her  wit; 
Though  now  her  dress — (but  let  me  not  explain 
The  piteous  patchwork  of  the  needy  vain, 
The  flirtish  form  to  coarse  materials  lent, 
And  one  poor  robe  through  fifty  fashions  sent); 
Though  all  within  was  sad,  without  was  mean — 
Still  'twas  her  wish,  her  comfort  to  be  seen: 
She  would  to  plays  on  lowest  terms  resort. 
Where  once  her  box  was  to  the  beaux  a  court ; 
And.  strange  delight!  to  that  same  house,  where 
Join'd  in  the  dance,  all  gaiety  and  glee,  [she 

Now  with  the  menials  crowding  to  the  wall, 
She'd  see,  not  share,  the  pleasures  of  the  ball, 
And  with  degraded  vanity  unfold, 
How  she  too  triumph' d  in  the  years  of  old." 

pp.  209,  210. 

The  graphic  powers  of  Mr.  Crabbe,  indeed, 
are  too  frequently  wasted  on  unworthy  sub- 
jects. There  is  not,  perhaps,  in  all  English 
poetry  a  more  complete  and  highly  finished 
piece  of  painting,  than  the  following  descrip- 
tion of  a  vast  old  boarded  room  or  warehouse, 
which  was  let  out,  it  seems,  in  the  borough, 
as  a  kind  of  undivided  lodging,  for  beggara 
and  vagabonds  of  every  description.  No  Dutch 
painter  ever  presented  an  interior  more  dis- 
tinctly to  the  eye ;  or  ever  g-ave  half  such  a 
group  to  the  imagination. 

"  That  window  view  ! — oil'd  paper  and  old  glass 
Stain  the  strong  rays,  which,  though  impeded,  pass, 
And  give  a  dusty  warmth  to  that  huge  room. 
The  conquer'd  sunshine's  melancholy  gloom ; 


394 


POETRl 


When  all  those  western  rays,  without  so  bright, 
Within  become  a  ghastly  glimm'ring  hght, 
As  pale  and  faint  upon  the  floor  they  fall, 
Or  feebly  gleam  on  the  opposing  wall  :^ 
That  floor,  once  oak,  now  piec'd  with  fir  unplan'd, 
Or,  where  not  piec'd,  in  places  bor'd  and  stain'd  ; 
That  wall  once  whiten'd,  now  an  odious  sight, 
Stain'd  with  all  hues,  except  its  ancient  white. 

"  Where'er  the  floor  allows  an  even  space, 
Chalking  and  marks  of  various  games  have  place  ; 
Boys,  without  foresight,  pleas'd  in  halters  swing  ! 
On  a  fix' d  hook  men  cast  a  flying  ring  ; 
While  gin  and  snuflf  their  female  neighbours  share. 
And  the  black  beverage  in  the  fractur'd  ware. 

"  On  swinging  shelf  are  things  incongruous  stor'd; 
Scraps  of  their  food — the  cards  and  cribbage  board — 
With  pipes  and  pouches ;  while  on  peg  below. 
Hang  a  lost  member's  fiddle  and  its  bow  : 
That  still  reminds  them  how  he'd  dance  and  play, 
Ere  sent  untimely  to  the  Convict's  Bay  1 

"  Here  by  a  curtain,  by  a  blanket  there. 
Are  various  beds  conceal'd,  but  norje  with  care ; 
Where  some  by  day  and  some  by  night,  as  best 
Suit  their  employments,  seek  uncertain  rest ; 
The  drowsy  children  at  their  pleasure  creep 
To  the  known  crib,  and  there  securely  sleep. 

"  Each  end  contains  a  grate,  and  these  beside 
Are  hung  utensils  for  their  boil'd  and  fry'd — 
All  us'd  at  any  hour,  by  night,  by  day, 
As  suit  the  purse,  the  person,  or  the  prey. 

"  Above  the  fire,  the  mantel-shelf  contains 
Of  china-ware  some  poor  unmatch'd  remains  ; 
There  many  a  tea-cup's  gaudy  fragment  stands, 
All  plac'd  by  Vanity's  unwearied  hands  ; 
For  here  she  lives,  e'en  here  she  looks  about. 
To  find  small  some  consoling  objects  out. 

•'  High  hung  at  either  end,  and  next  the  wall. 
Two  ancient  mirrors  show  the  forms  of  all." 

pp.  249—251. 

The  following  picture  of  a  calm  sea  fog  is 
by  the  same  powerful  hand : — 

'*  When  all  you  see  through  densest  fog  is  seen; 
When  you  can  hear  the  fishers  near  at  hand 
Distinctly  speak,  yet  see  not  where  they  stand ; 
Or  sometimes  them  and  not  their  boat  discern. 
Or  half-conceal'd  some  figure  at  the  stern ; 
Boys  who,  on  shore,  to  sea  the  pebble  cast. 
Will  hear  it  strike  against  the  viewless  mast ; 
While  the  stern  boatman  growls  his  fierce  disdain, 
At  whom  he  knows  not,  whom  he  threats  in  vain. 
"  'Tis  pleasant  then  to  view  the  nets  float  past. 
Net  after  net  till  you  have  seen  the  last ; 
And  as  you  wait  till  all  beyond  you  slip, 
A  boat  comes  gliding  from  an  anchor'd  ship, 
Breaking  the  silence  with  the  dipping  oar, 
And  their  own  tones,  as  labouring  for  the  shore  ; 
Those  measur'd  tones  with  which  the  scene  agree. 
And  give  a  sadness  to  serenity. — pp.  123,  124. 

We  add  one  other  sketch  of  a  similar  char- 
acter, which  though  it  be  introduced  as  the 
haunt  and  accompaniment  of  a  desponding 
spirit,  is  yet  chiefly  remarkable  for  the  singu- 
lar clearness  and  accuracy  with  which  it 
represents  the  dull  scenery  of  a  common  tide 
river.  The  author  is  speaking  of  a  solitary 
and  abandoned  fisherman,  who  was  com- 
pelled— 

"  At  the  same  times  the  same  dull  views  to  see, 
The  bounding  marsh-bank  and  the  blighted  tree  ; 
The  water  only,  when  the  tides  were  high, 
When  low,  the  mud  half-covered  and  half-dry ; 
The  sun-burn'd  tar  that  blisters  on  the  planks. 
And  bank-side  stakes  in  their  uneven  ranks  : 
Heaps  of  entangled  weeds  that  slowly  float, 
As  the  tide  rolls  by  the  impeded  boat. 

"  When  tides  were  neap,  and,  in  the  sultry  day, 
Through  the  tall  bounding  mud-banks  made  their 
Which  on  each  side  rose  swelling,  and  below   [way. 


The  dark  warm  flood  ran  silently  and  slow; 
There  anchoring,  Peter  chose  from  man  to  hido 
There  hang  his  head,  and  view  the  lazy  tide 
In  its  hot  slimy  channel  slowly  glide ; 
W^here  the  small  eels  that  left  the  deeper  way 
For  the  warm  shore,  within  the  shallows  play, 
Where  gaping  muscles,  left  upon  the  mud. 
Slope  their  slow  passage  to  the  fallen  flood  ; — 
Here  dull  and  hopeless  he'd  lie  down  and  trace 
How  sidelong  crabs  had  scrawl'd  their  crooked  race, 
Or  sadly  hsten  to  the  tuneless  cry 
Of  fishing  Gull  or  clanging  Golden  Eye.'''' 

pp.  305,  306. 

Under  the  head  of  Amusements,  we  have  a 
spirited  account  of  the  danger  and  escape  of 
a  party  of  pleasure,  who  landed,  in  a  fine 
evening,  on  a  low  sandy  island,  which  waa 
covered  with  the  tide  at  high  water,  and  were 
left  upon  it  by  the  drifting  away  of  their  boat. 

"On  the  bright  sand  they  trode  with  nimble  feet, 
Dry  shelly  sand  that  made  the  summer  seat ; 
The  wond'ring  mews  flew  flutt'ring  o'er  their  head, 
And  waves  ran  softly  up  their  shining  bed."-p.  127. 

While  engaged  in  their  sports,  they  discover 
their  boat  floating  at  a  distance,  and  are  struck 
with  instant  terror. 

"  Alas  !  no  shout  the  distant  land  can  reach. 
Nor  eye  behold  them  from  the  foggy  beach  ; 
Again  tney  join  in  one  loud  powerful  cry, 
Then  cease,  and  eager  listen  for  reply. 
None  came — the  rising  wind  blew  sadly  by. 
They  shout  once  more,  and  then  they  turn  aside, 
To  see  how  quickly  flow'd  the  coming  tide : 
Between  each  cry  they  find  the  waters  steal 
On  their  strange  prison,  and  new  horrors  feel ; 
Foot  after  foot  on  the  contracted  ground 
The  billows  fall,  and  dreadful  is  the  sound  ! 
Less  and  yet  less  the  sinking  isle  became, 
And  there  was  wailing,  weeping,  wrath,  and  blame. 
Had  one  been  there,  with  spirit  strong  and  high, 
Who  could  observe,  as  he  prepar'd  to  die. 
He  might  have  seen  of  hearts  the  varying  kind, 
And  trac'd  the  movement  of  each  diiTerent  mind: 
He  might  have  seen,  that  not  the  gentle  maid 
Was  more  than  stern  and  haughty  man  afraid,"  &,c. 
"  Now  rose  the  water  through  the  less'ning  sand, 
And  they  seem'd  sinking  while  they  yet  could  stand! 
The  sun  went  down,  they  look'd  from  side  to  side, 
Nor  aught  except  the  gath'ring  sea  descry'd  ; 
Dark  and  more  dark,  more  wet,  more  cold  it  grew, 
And  the  most  hvely  bade  to  hope  adieu ; 
Children,  by  love,  then  lifted  from  the  seas, 
Fell  not  the  waters  at  the  parent's  knees. 
But  wept  aloud  ;  the  wfhd  increas'd  the  sound, 
And  the  cold  billows  as  they  broke  around. 

But  hark  !  an  oar. 

That  sound  of  bliss  !  comes  dashing  to  their  shore  : 
Still,  still  the  water  rises,  '  Haste  !'  they  cry, 
*  Oh  !  hurry,  seamen,  in  delay  we  die!' 
(Seamen  were  these  who  in  their  ship  perceiv'd 
The  drifted  boat,  and  thus  her  crew  reliev'd.) 
And  now  the  keel  just  cuts  the  cover'd  sand, 
Now  to  the  gunwale  stretches  every  hand  ; 
With  trembling  pleasure  all  confus'd  embark, 
And  kiss  the  tackling  of  their  welcome  ark  ; 
While  the  most  giddy,  as  they  reach  the  shore. 
Think  of  their  danger,  and  their  God  adore." 

pp.  127—130. 

In  the  letter  on  Education,  there  are  some 
fine  descriptions  of  boarding-schools  for  both 
sexes,  and  of  the  irksome  and  useless  restraints 
which  they  impose  on  the  bounding  spirits 
and  open  afTections  of  early  youth.  This  is 
followed  by  some  excellent  remarks  on  the 
ennui  which  so  often  falls  to  the  lot  of  the 
learned — or  that  description  at  lea«t  of  the* 


CRABBE'S  BOROUGH. 


395 


learned  t?iat  are  bred  in  English  univer- 
eities.  But  we  have  no  longer  left  room  for 
any  considerable  extracts;  though  we  should 
have  wished  to  lay  before  our  readers  some 
part  of  the  picture  of  the  secretaries — the  de- 
scription of  the  inns — the  strolling  players — 
and  the  clubs.  The  poor  man's  club,  which 
partakes  of  the  nature  of  a  friendly  society, 
is  described  with  that  good-hearted  indulgence 
which  marks  all  Mr.  Crabbe's  writings. 

"  The  printed  rules  he  guards  in  painted  frame, 
And  shows  his  children  where  to  read  his  name." 

We  have  now  alluded,  w^e  believe,  to  what 
is  best  and  most  striking  in  this  poem  ',  and, 
though  we  do  not  mean  to  quote  any  part  of 
what  we  consider  as  less  successful,  we  must 
say,  that  there  are  large  portions  of  it  which 
appear  to  us  considerably  inferior  to  most  of 
the  author's  former  productions.  The  letter 
on  the  Election,  we  look  on  as  a  complete 
failure — or  at  least  as  containing  scarcely  any 
thing  of  what  it  ought  to  have  contained. — 
The  letters  on  Law  and  Physic,  too,  are  tedi- 
ous ;  and  the  general  heads  of  Trades,  Amuse- 
ments, and  Hospital  Government,  by  no  means 
amusing.  The  Parish  Clerk,  too,  we  find  dull, 
and  without  effect ;  and  have  already  given 
our  opinion  of  Peter  Grimes,  Abel  Keene.  and 
Benbow.  We  are  struck,  also,  with  several 
omissions  in  the  picture  of  a  maritime  borough. 
Mr.  Crabbe  might  have  made  a  great  deal  of 
a  press-gang ;  and,  at  all  events,  should  have 
given  us  some  wounded  veteran  sailors,  and 
some  voyagers  with  tales  of  M'onder  from 
foreign  lands. 

The  style  of  this  poem  is  distinguished, 
like  all  Mr.  Crabbe's  other  performances,  by 
great  force  and  compression  of  diction — a  sort 
of  sententious  brevity,  once  thought  essential 
to  poetical  composition,  but  of  which  he  is 
now  the  only  living  example.  But  though  this 
is  almost  an  unvarying  characteristic  of  his 
etyle,  it  appears  to  us  that  there  is  great 
variety,  and  even  some  degree  of  unsteadi- 
ness and  inconsistency  in  the  tone  of  his  ex- 
pression and  versification.  His  taste  seems 
scarcely  to  be  sufficiently  fixed  and  settled  as 
to  these  essential  particulars ;  and,  along  with 
a  certain  quaint,  broken,  and  harsh  manner 
of  his  own,  we  think  we  can  trace  very  fre- 
quent imitations  of  poets  of  the  most  opposite 
character.  The  following  antithetical  and 
half-punning  lines  of  Pope,  for  instance  : — 

"  Sleepless  himself,  to  give  his  readers  sleep  ;" 

and — 

"  Whose  trifling  pleases,  and  whom  trifles  please ; — 

have  evidently  been  copied  by  Mr.  Crabbe  in 
the  following,  and  many  others  : — 

"  And  in  the  restless  ocean,  seek  for  rest." 
"  Denying  her  who  taught  thee  to  deny." 
"  Scraping  they  liv'd,  but  not  a  scrap  they  gave." 
"  Bound  for  a  friend,  whom  honour  could  not  bind." 
'  Among  the  poor,  for  poor  distinctions  sigh'd." 

In  the  same  way,  the  common,  nicely  bal- 
aTiced  line  of  two  members,  which  is  so  char- 
acteristic of  the  same  author,  has  obviously 


been  the  model  of  our  author  in  the  follow 
ing:— 

"  That  woe  could  wish,  or  vanity  devise." 
"  Sick  without  pity,  sorrowing  without  hope." 
"  Gloom  to  the  night,  and  pressure  to  the  chain"— 
and  a  great  multitude  of  others. 

On  the  other  hand,  he  appears  to  us  to  be 
frequently  misled  by  Darwin  into  a  sort  of 
mock-heroic  magnificence,  upon  ordinary  oc- 
casions. The  poet  of  the  Garden,  for  instancCj 
makes  his  n}Tiiphs 

"  Present  the  fragrant  quintessence  of  tea." 

And  the  poet  of  the  Dock-yards  makes  hii 
carpenters 

"  Spread  the  warm  pungence  of  o'erboiHng  tar." 

Mr.  Crabbe,  indeed,  does  not  scrujjle,  on 
some  occasions,  to  adopt  the  mock-heroic  in 
good  earnest.  When  the  landlord  of  the 
Griffin  becomes  bankrupt,  he  says — 

*'  The  insolvent  Griffin  struck  her  wings  sublime," 

and  introduces  a  very  serious  lamentation 
over  the  learned  poverty  of  the  curate,  wuth 
this  most  misplaced  piece  of  buffoonery : — 

"  Oh !  had  he  learn'd  to  make  the  wig  he  wears  !" 

One  of  his  letters,  too,  begins  with  this 
wretched  quibble — 

"  From  Law  to  Physic  stepping  at  our  ease, 
We  find  a  way  to  finish — by  Degrees.^' 

There  are  many  imitations  of  the  peculiai 
rhythm  of  Goldsmith  and  Campbell,  too,  as 
our  readers  must  have  observed  in  some  of 
our  longer  specimens;  —  but  these,  though 
they  do  not  always  make  a  very  hannonioua 
combination,  are  better,  at  all  events,  than 
the  tame  heaviness  and  vulgarity  of  such 
verses  as  the  following : — 


'As  soon 


Could  he  have  thought  gold  issued  from  the  moon.*" 

"A  seaman's  body — there'll  he  more  to-night." 

"  Those  who  will  not  to  any  guide  submit. 
Nor  find  one  creed  to  their  conceptions  fit — 
True  Independents:  while  they  Calvin  hate, 
They  heed  as  little  what  Socinians  state." — p.  54. 

"  Here  pits  of  crag,  with  spongy,  plashy  base, 
To  some  enrich  th'  unculiivaTed  space,"  &.c.  &,c. 

Of  the  sudden,  narsh  turns,  and  broken  con- 
ciseness which  we  think  peculiar  to  himself, 
the  reader  may  take  the  following  speci- 
mens : — 

"  Has  your  wife's  brother,  or  your  uncle's  son, 
Done  aught   amiss ;    or   is  he  thought  t'  have 
done  ?" 

"  Stepping  from  post  to  post  he  reach'd  the  chair  ; 
And  there  he  now  reposes  : — that's  the  Mayor  !" 

He  has  a  sort  of  jingle,  too,  which  we  think 
is  of  his  own  invention ; — for  instance, 

"  For  forms  and  feasts  that  sundry  times  have  past. 
And  formal  feasts  that  will  for  ever  last." 

"  We  term  it  free  and  easy;  and  yet  we 
Find  it  no  easy  matter  to  be  free." 

We  had  more  remarks  to  make  upon  the 
taste  and  diction  of  this  author  ;  and  had  noted 
several  other  little  blemishes,  which  we  mean! 


396 


POETRl'. 


o  have  pointed  out  for  his  correction  :  but  we 
have  no  longer  room  for  such  minute  criticism 

-from  whichj  indeed,  neither  the  author  nor 
the  reader  would  be  likely  to  derive  any  great 
benefit.  We  take  our  leave  of  Mr.  Crabbe, 
therefore,  by  expressing  our  hopes  that,  since 
it  is  proved  that  he  can  write  fast,  he  will  not 
allow  his  powers  to  languish  for  want  of  exer- 
c  ise ',  and  that  we  shall  soon  see  him  ag-ain 
repaying  the  public  approbation,  by  entitling 
liimself  to  a  still  larger  share  of  it.  An  author 
generally  knows  his  own  forte  so  much  better 
than  any  of  his  readers,  that  it  is  commonly 
a  very  foolish  kind  of  presumption  to  offer 
any  advice  as  to  the  direction  of  his  efforts ; 
but  we  own  we  have  a  very  strong  desire  to 
see  Mr.  Crabbe  apply  his  great  powers  to  the 
construction  of  some  interesting  and  connected 
story.  He  has  great  talents  for  narration  ;  and 
that  unrivalled  gift  in  the  delineation  of  char- 
acter, which  is  now  used  only  for  the  creation 
of  detached  portraits,  might  be  turned  to  ad- 


mirable account  m  maintaining  the  mte'.ea*.. 
and  enhancing  the  probability,  of  an  extended 
train  of  adventures.  At  present,  it  is  impos- 
sible not  to  regret,  that  so  much  genius  should 
be  wasted  in  making  us  perfectly  acquainted 
with  individuals,  of  whom  we  are  to  know 
nothing  but  the  characters.  In  such  a  poem, 
however,  Mr.  Crabbe  must  entirely  lay  aside 
the  sarcastic  and  jocose  style  to  which  he  has 
rather  too  great  a  propensity  j  but  which  we 
know,  from  what  he  has  done  in  Sir  Eustace 
Grey,  that  he  can,  when  he  pleases,  entirely 
relinquish.  That  very  powerful  and  original 
performance,  indeed,  the  chief  fault  of  which 
is,  to  be  set  too  thick  with  images — to  be  too 
strong  and  undiluted,  in  short,  for  the  diges- 
tion of  common  readers — makes  us  regret, 
that  its  author  should  ever  have  stopped  to  be 
trifling  and  ingenious  —  or  condescended  to 
tickle  the  imaginations  of  his  readers,  instead 
of  touching  the  higher  passions  of  their  na- 
ture. 


(3SroDembn',  1S12.) 

Tales.    By  the  Reverend  George  Crabbe.     8vo.  pp.  398.     London  :  1812. 


We  are  very  thankful  to  Mr.  Crabbe  for 
these  Tales;  as  we  must  alv/ays  be  for  any 
thing  that  comes  from  his  hands.  But  they 
are  not  exactly  the  tales  which  we  wanted. 
We  did  not,  however,  wish  him  to  write  an 
Epic — as  he  seems  from  his  preface  to  have 
imagined.  We  are  perfectly  satisfied  with 
the  length  of  the  pieces  he  has  given  us ;  and 
delighted  with  their  number  and  variety.  In 
these  respects  the  volume  is  exactly  as  we 
could  have  wished  it.  But  we  should  have 
liked  a  little  more  of  the  deep  and  tragical 
passions ;  of  those  passions  which  exalt  and 
,  overwhelm  the  soul — to  whose  stormy  seat 
the  modern  muses  can  so  rarely  raise  their 
flight — and  which  he  has  wielded  with  such 
terrific  force  in  his  Sir  Eustace  Grey,  and  the 
Gipsy  Woman.  What  we  wanted,  in  short, 
were  tales  something  in  the  style  of  those 
two  singular  compositions — with  less  jocu- 
larity than  prevails  in  the  rest  of  his  writings 
— rather  more  incidents — and  rather  fewer 
details. 

The  pieces  before  us  are  not  of  this  descrip- 
tion ; — they  are  mere  supplementary  chapters 
to  "  The  Borough,"  or  "The  Parish  Register." 

I  The  same  tone — the  same  subjects — the  same 
^t^v  I  style,  measure,  and  versification  ; — the  same 
>     I  finished  .and  minute   delineation   of    things 

'  ordinary  and   common — generally  very  en- 
•  I  gaging  when  employed  upon  external  objects, 

I  but  often  fatiguing  when  directed  merely  to 
1^   insignificant  characters  and  habits; — the  same 

I  strange  mixture  too  of  feelings  that  tear  the 
heart  and  darken  the  imagination,  with  starts 
of  low  humour  and  patches  of  ludicrous  ima- 
gery ; — the  same  kindly  sympathy  with  the 
humble  and  innocent  pleasures  of  the  poor 
and  inelegJint,  and  the  same  indulgence  for 


their  venial  oflTences,  contrasted  with  a  strong 
sense   of  their   frequent  depravity,  and  too 
constant  a  recollection  of  the  suff'erings  it  pro- 
duces ; — and,  finally,  the  same  honours  paid 
to  the  delicate  afiections  and  ennobling  pas- 
sions of  humble  life,  with  the  same  generous    iv^ 
testimony  to  their  frequent  existence;  mixed ^j 
up  as  before,  with  a  reprobation  sufficiently  i 
rigid,  and  a  ridicule  sufficiently  severe,  of 
their  excesses  and  afiectations. 

If  we  were  required  to  make  a  comparative 
estimate  of  the  merits  of  the  present  publica- 
tion, or  to  point  out  the  shades  of  difference 
by  which  it  is  distinguished  from  those  that 
have  gone  before  it,  we  should  say  that  there 
are  a  greater  number  of  instances  on  which 
he  has  combined  the  natural  language  and 
manners  of  humble  life  with  the  energy  of 
true  passion,  and  the  beauty  of  generous 
affection; — in  which  he  has  traced  out  the 
course  of  those  rich  and  lovely  veins  in  the 
rude  and  unpolished  masses  that  lie  at  the 
bottom  of  society ; — and  unfolded,  in  the  mid- 
dling orders  of  the  people,  the  workings  of 
those  finer  feelings,  and  the  stirrings  of  those 
loftier  emotions  which  the  partiality  of  other 
poets  had  attributed,  almost  exclusively,  to 
actors  on  a  higher  scene. 

We  hope,  too,  that  this  more  amiable  and 
consoling  view  of  human  nature  will  have 
the  eff'ect  of  rendering  Mr.  Crabbe  still  more 
popular  than  we  know  that  he  already  is 
among  that  great  body  of  the  people,  from 
among  whom  almost  all  his  subjects  are  taken, 
and  for  whose  use  his  lessons  are  chiefly  in 
tended :  and  we  say  this,  not  only  on  account 
of  the  moral  benefit  which  we  think  they 
may  derive  from  them,  but  because  we  are 
persuaded  that  they  will  derive  more  pleasuie 


CRABBE'S  TALES. 


391 


from  ihem  than  readers  of  any  other  descrip- 
tion. Those  who  do  not  belong  to  that  rank 
of  society  with  which  this  powerful  writer  is 
chiefly  conversant  in  his  poetry,  or  who  have 
not  at  least  gone  much  among  them,  and  at- 
tended diligently  to  their  characters  and  occu- 
pations, can  neither  be  half  aware  of  the 
exquisite  fidelity  of  his  delineations,  ncr  feel 
in  their  full  force  the  better  part  of  the  emo- 
tions which  he  has  suggested.  Vehement 
passion  indeed  is  of  all  ranks  and  conditions ; 
and  its  language  and  external  indications 
nearly  the  same  in  all.  Like  highly  rectified 
spirit,  it  blazes  and  inflames  with  equal  force 
and  brightness,  from  whatever  materials  it  is 
extracted.  But  all  the  softer  and  kindlier 
ailections,  all  the  social  anxieties  that  mix 
with  our  daily  hopes,  and  endear  our  homes, 
and  colour  our  existence,  wear  a  diff'erent 
livery,  and  are  written  in  a  diflerent  character 
in  almost  every  great  caste  or  division  of 
society ;  and  the  heart  is  warmed,  and  the 
spirit  touched  by  their  delineation,  exactly  in 
the  proportion  in  which  we  are  familiar  with 
the  types  by  which  they  are  represented. — 
When  Burns,  in  his  better  days,  walked  out 
in  a  fine  summer  morning  with  Dugald  Stew- 
art, and  the  latter  observed  to  him  w^hat  a 
beauty  the  scattered  cottages,  with  their  white 
walls  and  curling  smoke  shining  in  the  silent 
sun,  imparted  to  the  landscape,  the  present 
poet  answered,  that  he  felt  that  beauty  ten 
times  more  strongly  than  his  compcinion  could 
do ;  and  that  it  was  necessary  to  be  a  cottager 
to  know  what  pure  and  tranquil  pleasures 
often  nestled  below  those  lowly  roofs,  or  to 
read,  in  their  external  appearance,  the  signs 
I  of  so  many  heartfelt  and  long-remembered 
j^ enjoyments.  In  the  same  way,  the  humble 
I  and  patient  hopes — the  depressing  embarrass- 
ments— the  little  mortifications — the  slender 
triumphs,  and  strange  temptations  which  arise 
in  middling  life,  and  are  the  theme  of  Mr. 
Crabbe's  finest  and  most  touching  represen- 
tations— can  only  be  guessed  at  by  those  who 
glitter  in  the  higher  walks  of  existence  ;  while 
they  must  raise  many  a  tumultuous  throb  and 
many  a  fond  recollection  in  the  '  breasts  of 
those  to  whom  they  reflect  so  truly  the  image 
{•  of  their  own  estate,  and  reveal  so  clearly  the 
I  secrets  of  their  habitual  sensations. 
[  We  cannot  help  thinking,  therefore,  that 
though  such  writings  as  are  now  before  us 
must  give  great  pleasure  to  all  persons  of  taste 
and  sensibility,  they  will  give  by  far  the  great- 
est pleasure  to  those  whose  condition  is  least 
remote  from  that  of  the  beings  with  whom 
tliey  are  occupied.  But  we  think  also,  that 
it  was  wise  and  meritorious  in  Mr.  Crabbe  to 
occupy  himself  with  such  beings.  In  this 
country,  there  probably  are  not  less  than 
three  hundred  thousand  persons  who  read  for 
amusement  or  instruction,  among  the  mid- 
dling classes*  of   society.      In   the   higher 


*  By  the  middlins^  classes,  we  mean  almost  all 
those  who  are  below  the  sphere  of  what  is  called 
fashionable  or  public  life,  and  who  do  not  aim  at 
distinction  or  notoriety  beyond  the  circle  of  their 
equals  in  fortime  and  situation. 


classes,  there  are  not  as  many  as  thirtj 
thousand.  It  is  easy  to  see  therefore  whicrs 
a  poet  should  choose  to  please,  for  his  own 
glory  and  emolument,  and  which  he  should 
wish  to  delight  and  amend,  out  of  mere 
philanthropy.  The  fact  too  we  beheve  is, 
that  a  great  part  of  the  larger  body  are  to  the 
full  as  well  educated  and  as  high-minded  aa 
the  smaller  j  and,  though  their  taste  may  net 
be  so  correct  and  fastidious,  we  are  persuaded 
that  their  sensibility  is  greater.  The  mis- 
fortune is,  to  be  sure,  that  they  are  extremely 
apt  to  affect  the  taste  of  their  superiors,  and 
to  counterfeit  even  that  absurd  disdain  of 
which  they  are  themselves  the  objects ;  and 
that  poets  have  generally  thought  it  safest  to 
invest  their  interesting  characters  with  all 
the  trappings  of  splendid  fortune  and  high 
station,  chiefly  because  those  who  know  least 
about  such  matters  think  it  unworthy  to  sym- 
pathise in  the  adventures  of  those  M-ho  are 
without  them  !  For  our  own  parts,  however,  ■ 
we  are  quite  positive,  not  only  that  persons  \ 
in  middling  life  would  naturally  be  most  j 
touched  with  the  emotions  that  belong  to 
their  own  condition,  but  that  those  emotions 
are  in  themselves  the  most  powerful,  and 
consequently  the  best  fitted  for  poetical  oi 
pathetic  representation.  Even  with  regard 
to  the  heroic  and  ambitious  passions,  as  the 
vista  is  longer  which  leads  from  humble 
privacy  to  the  natural  objects  of  such  pas- 
sions ;  so,  the  career  is  likely  to  be  more  im 
petuous,  and  its  outset  more  marked  by  strik- 
ing and  contrasted  emotions : — and  as  to  all 
the  more  tender  and  less  turbulent  affections,  ■ 
upon  which  the  beauty  of  the  pathetic  is 
altogether  dependant,  we  apprehend  it  to  be 
quite  manifest,  that  their  proper  soil  and; 
nidus  is  the  privacy  and  simplicity  of  humble*, 
life; — that  their  very  elements  are  dissipated  j 
by  the  variety  of  objects  that  move  for  ever  \ 
in  the  world  of  fashion ;  and  their  essence 
tainted  by  the  cares  and  vanities  that  are 
diff'used  in  the  atmosphere  of  that  lofty  region. 
But  we  are  wandering  into  a  long  disserta- 
tion, instead  of  making  our  readers  acquainted 
with  the  book  before  us.  The  most  satisfac- 
tory thing  we  can  do,  we  believe,  is  to  give 
them  a  plain  account  of  its  contents,  with 
such  quotations  and  remarks  as  may  occur  to 
us  as  we  proceed. 

The  volume  contains  twenty-one  tales ; — 
the  first  of  which  is  called  '^  The  Dumb  Ora- 
tors." This  is  not  one  of  the  most  engSLg'.ng ; 
and  is  not  judiciously  placed  at  the  portal,  to 
tempt  hesitating  readers  to  go  forward.  The 
second,  however,  entitled  "The  Parting 
Hour,"  is  of  a  far  higher  character,  and 
contains  some  passages  of  great  beauty  anil ' 
pathos.  The  story  is  simply  that  of  a  youth 
and  a  maiden  in  humble  life,  who  had  loved 
each  other  from  their  childhood,  but  were  too 
poor  to  marry.  The  youth  goes  to  the  West 
Indies  to  push  his  fortune ;  but  is  captured 
by  the  Spaniards  and  carried  to  Mexico, 
where,  in  the  course  of  time,  though  still 
sighing  for  his  first  love,  he  marries  a  Span- 
ish girl,  and  lives  twenty  years  with  her  an<l 
his  children — he  is  then  impressed,  and  car 


398 


POETRY. 


ried  round  the  world  for  twenty  years 
longer;  and  is  at  Jast  moved  by  an  irre- 
sistible impulsej  when  old  and  shattered  and 
lonely,  to  seek  his  native  town,  and  the 
scene  of  his  youthful  vows.  He  comes  and 
finds  his  Judith  like  himself  in  a  state  of 
widowhood,  but  still  brooding,  like  himself, 
over  the  memory  of  their  ^arly  love.  She 
had  waited  twelve  anxious  years  without 
tidings  of  him,  and  then  married :  and  now 
when  all  passion,  and  fuel  for  passion,  is 
extinguished  within  them,  the  memory  of 
their  young  attachment  endears  them  to  each 
other,  and  they  still  cling  together  in  sad  and 
subdued  affection,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  the 
rest  of  the  world.  The  history  of  the  growth 
and  maturity  of  their  innocent  love  is  beauti- 
fully given :  but  we  pass  on  to  the  scene  of 
their  parting. 

"  All  things  prepar'd,  on  the  expected  day 
Was  seen  the  vessel  anchor'd  in  the  bay. 
From  her  would  seamen  in  the  evening  come, 
To  take  ih'  advent'rous  Allen  from  his  home  ; 
With  his  own  friends  the  final  day  he  pass'd, 
And  every  painful  hour,  except  the  last. 
The  grieving  Father  urg'd  the  cheerful  glass, 
To  make  the  moments  with  less  sorrow  pass ; 
Intent  the  Mother  look'd  upon  her  son. 
And  wish'd  th'  assent  withdrawn,  the  deed  undone ; 
The  younger  Sister,  as  he  took  his  way, 
Hung  on  his  coat,  and  begg'd  for  more  delay  ; 
But  his  own  Judith  call'd  him  to  the  shore, 
Whom  he  must  meet — for  they  might  meet  no 

more '. — 
And  there  he  found  her — faithful,  mournful,  true, 
Weeping  and  waiting  for  a  last  adieu  ! 
The  ebbing  tide  had  left  the  sand,  and  there 
Mov'd  with  slow  steps  the  melancholy  pair: 
Sweet  were  the  painful  moments — but  how  sweet. 
And  without  pain,  when  they  again  should  meet !" 

p.  29. 

The  sad  and  long-delayed  return  of  this 
ardent  adventurer  is  described  in  a  tone  of 
genuine  pathos,  and  in  some  places  with  such 
truth  and  force  of  colouring,  as  to  outdo  the 
efforts  of  the  first  dramatic  representation. 

'*  But  when  return' d  the  Youth  ? — the  Youth  no 
Return'd  exulting  to  his  native  shore  !  [more 

But  forty  years  were  past ;  and  then  there  came 
A  worn-out  man,  with  wither'd  limbs  and  lame  ! 
Yes  !  old  and  griev'd,  and  trembling  with  decay. 
Was  Alle7i  landing  in  his  native  bay : 
In  an  autumnal  eve  he  left  the  beach. 
In  such  an  eve  he  chanc'd  the  port  to  reach : 
He  was  alone ;  he  press'd  the  very  place 
Of  the  sad  parting,  of  the  last  embrace  : 
There  stood  his  parents,  there  retir'd  the  Maid, 
So  fond,  so  tender,  and  so  much  afraid  ; 
And  on  that  spot,  through  many  a  year,  his  mind 
Turn'd  mournful  back,  half  sinking,  half  resign'd. 

"  No  one  was  present ;  of  its  crew  bereft, 
A  single  boat  was  in  the  billows  left ; 
Sent  trom  some  anchor'd  vessel  in  the  bay, 
At  the  returning  tide  to  sail  away : 
O'er  the  black  stern  the  moonlight  softly  play'd. 
The  loosen' d  foresail  flapping  in  the  shade 
All  silent  else  on  shore ;  but  from  the  town 
A  drowsy  peal  of  distant  bells  came  down  : 
From  the  tall  houses,  here  and  there,  a  light 
Berv'd  some  confus'd  remembrance  to  excite: 
'There,'  he  observ'd,  and  new  emotions  felt, 
•  Was  my  first  home — and  yonder  Judith  dweh,'  &,c. 
A  swarthy  matron  he  beheld,  and  thought 
Bhe  might  unfold  the  very  truths  he  sought  ; 
Confufl'd  and  trembling  he  the  dame  address'd : 


'  The  Booths !  yet  live   they  V   pausing   and  of 

press'd: 
Then  spake  again : — '  Is  there  no  ancient  man, 
David  his  name  ? — assist  me,  if  you  can. — 
Flemings  there  were  ! — and  Judith!  doth  she  live  1 
The  woman  gaz'd,  nor  could  an  answer  give; 
Yet  wond'ring  stood,  and  all  were  silent  by, 
Feeling  a  strange  and  solemn  sympathy." 

pp  31,  32. 

The  meeting  of  the  lovers  is  briefly  told. 

"  But  now  a  Widow,  in  a  village  near, 
Chanc'd  of  the  melancholy  man  to  hear: 
Old  as  she  was,  to  JuditKs  bosom  came 
Some  strong  emotions  at  the  well-known  name  ', 
He  was  her  much-lov'd  Allen  !  she  had  stay'd 
Ten  troubled  years,  a  sad  afflicted  maid,"  <fcc. 

"  The  once-fond  Lovers  met :  Nor  grief  nor  age, 
Sickness  or  pain,  their  hearts  could  disengage  : 
P^ach  had  immediate  confidence  ;  a  friend 
Both  now  beheld,  on  whom  they  might  depend  : 
'  Now  is  there  one  to  whom  I  can  express 
My  nature's  weakness,  and  my  soul's  distress.'  " 

There  is  something  sweet  and  touching, 
and  in  a  higher  vein  of  poetry,  in  the  story 
which  he  tells  to  Judith  of  all  his  adventures, 
and  of  those  other  ties,  of  which  it  still  wrings 
her  bosom  to  hear  him  speak. — ^We  can  afford 
but  one  little  extract. 

"  There,  hopeless  ever  to  escape  the  land, 
He  to  a  Spanish  maiden  gave  his  hand  ; 
In  cottage  sheltered  from  the  blaze  of  day. 
He  sawliis  happy  infants  round  him  play; 
Where  summer  shadows,  made  by  lofty  trees, 
Wav'd  o'er  his  seat,  and  sooth'd  his  reveries; 
E'en  then  he  thought  o{ Englayid,  nor  could  sigh, 
But  his  fond  Isabel  demanded  '  Why  V 
Griev'd  by  the  story,  she  the  sigh  repaid. 
And  wept  in  pity  for  the  English  Maid." 

pp.  35,  36. 

The  close  is  extremely  beautiful,  and  leaves 
upon  the  mind  just  that  impression  of  sadnesa 
which  is  both  salutary  and  delightful,  because 
it  is  akin  to  pity,  and  mingled  with  admira- 
tion and  esteem. 

*'  Thus  silent,  musing  through  the  day,  he  sees 
His  children  -sporting  by  those  lofty  trees. 
Their  mother  singing  in  the  shady  scene, 
Where  the  fresh  springs  burst  o'er  the  lively  green  ; 
So  strong  his  enger  fancy,  he  afirights 
The  faithful  widow  by  its  pow'rful  flights  ; 
For  what  disturbs  him  he  aloud  will  tell. 
And  cry — '  'Tis  she,  my  wife  !  my  Isabel T — 
'  Where  are  my  children  V — Judith  grieves  to  hear 
How  the  soul  works  in  sorrows  so  severe  ; — 
Watch'd  by  her  care,  in  sleep,  his  spirit  takes 
Its  flight,  and  watchful  finds  her  when  he  wakes. 

"  'Tis  now  her  office ;  her  attention  see ! 
While  her  friend  sleeps  beneath  that  shading  tree, 
Careful,  she  guards  him  from  the  glowing  heat. 
And  pensive  muses  at  her  Allen's  feet.        [scenes 

"And  where  is  he?     Ah!  doubtless  in  those 
Of  his  best  days,  amid  the  vivid  greens, 
P'resh  with  unnumber'd  rills,  where  ev'ry  gale 
Breathes  the  rich  fragrance  of  the  neighb'ringvale; 
Smiles  not  his  wife? — and  listens  as  there  comes 
The  night-bird's  music  from  the  thick' ning  glooms  f 
And  as  he  sits  with  all  these  treasures  nigh. 
Gleams  not  with  fairy-light  the  phosphor  fly. 
When  like  a  sparkling  gem  it  wheels  illumin'd  by  I 
This  is  the  joy  that  now  so  plainly  speaks 
In  the  warm  transient  flushing  of  his  cheeks  ; 
For  he  is  list'ning  to  the  fancied  noise 
Of  his  own  children,  eager  in  their  joys ! — 
All  this  he  feels  ;  a  dream.'s  delusive  bliss 
Gives  the  expression,  and  the  glow  like  this. 
And  now  his  Judith  lays  her  knitting  by, 


CRABBE'S  TALES. 


399 


Tnese  strcng  emotions  in  her  friend  to  spy  ; 

For  she  can  fully  of  tneir  nature  deem 

But  see  '.  he  breaks  the  long  protracted  theme, 
And   wakes  and  cries — '  My    God  !    'twas  but  a 
dream  !'  "—pp.39,  40. 

The  third  tale  is  ''The  Gentleman  Farmer," 
and  is  of  a  coarser  texture  than  that  we  have 
just  been  considering — though  full  of  acute 
'  observation,  and  graphic  delineation  of  ordi- 
nary characters.  The  hero  is  not  a  farmer 
turned  gentleman,  but  a  gentleman  turned 
farmer — a  conceited,  active,  talking,  domi- 
neering sort  of  person — who  plants  and  eats 
and  drinks  with  great  vigour — keeps  a  mis- 
tress, and  speaks  with  audacious  scorn  of  the 
tyi'anny  of  wives,  and  the  impositions  of 
priests,  lawyers,  and  physicians.  Being  but 
a  shallow  fellow  however  at  bottom,  his  con- 
fidence in  his  opinions  declines  gradually  as 
his  health  decays;  and,  being  seized  with 
some  maladies  in  his  stomach,  he  ends  with 
marrying  his  mistress,  and  submitting  to  be 
triply  governed  by  three  of  her  confederates ; 
in  the  respective  characters  of  a  quack  doctor, 
a  methodist  preacher,  and  a  projecting  land 
steward .  We  cannot  afford  any  extracts  from 
this  performance. 

The  next,  which  is  called  "Procrastina- 
tion," has  something  of  the  character  of  the 
"Parting  Hour;"  but  more  painful,  and  less 
refined.  It  is  founded  like  it  on  the  story  of 
a  betrothed  youth  and  maiden,  whose  mar- 
riage is  prevented  by  their  poverty ;  and  this 
youth,  too,  goes  to  pursue  his  fortune  at  sea ; 
while  the  damsel  awaits  his  return,  with  an 
old  female  relation  at  home.  He  is  crossed 
with  many  disasters,  and  is  not  heard  of  for 
many  years.  In  the  mean  time,  the  virgin 
gradually  imbibes  her  aunt's  paltry  love  for 
wealth  and  finery ;  and  when  she  comes,  after 
long  sordid  expectation,  to  inherit  her  hoards, 
feels  that  those  new  tastes  have  supplanted 
every  warmer  emotion  in  her  bosom;  and, 
secretly  hoping  never  more  to  see  her  youth- 
ful lover,  gives  herself  up  to  comfortable  gos- 
siping and  formal  ostentatious  devotion.  At 
last,  when  she  is  set  in  her  fine  parlour,  with 
her  china  and  toys,  and  prayer-books  around 
her,  the  impatient  man  bursts  into  her  pres- 
ence, and  reclaims  her  vows !  She  answers 
coldly,  that  she  has  now  done  with  the  world, 
and  only  studies  how  to  prepare  .to  die  !  and 
exhorts  him  to  betake  himself  to  the  same 
needful  meditations.  We  shall  give  the  con- 
clusion of  the  scene  in  the  author's  own  words. 
The  faithful  and  indignant  lover  replies  :— 

"  Heav'n's  spouse  thou  art  not :  nor- can  I  beliexe 
That  God  accepts  her,  who  will  Man  deceive : 
True  I  am  shatter'd,  I  have  service  seen. 
And  service  done,  and  have  in  trouble  been  ; 
My  cheek  (it  shames  me  not)  has  lost  its  red, 
And  the  brown  buff  is  o'er  my  features  spread  ; 
Perchance  my  speech  is  rude ;  for  I  among 
In'  untam'd  have  been,  in  temper  and  in  tongue ; 
But  speak  my  fate  !     For  these  my  sorrows  past, 
Time  lost,  youth  fled,  hope  wearied,  and  at  last 
This  doubt  of  thee — a  childish  thing  to  tell, 
But  certain  truth — my  very  throat  they  swell ; 
They  stop  the  breath,  and  but  for  shame  could  I 
Give  way  to  weakness,  and  with  passion  cry  ; 
These  are  unmanly  struggles,  but  I  feel 
Thia  hour  must  end  them,  and  perhaps  will  heal.'* — 


'•  Here  Dinah  sigh'd  as  if  afraid  to  speak— 
And  then  repeated — *  They  were  frail  and  weak  ; 
His  soul  she  lov'd ;  and  hop'd  he  had  the  grace 
To  fix  his  thoughts  upon  a  better  place.'  " 

pp.  72,  73. 

Nothing  can  be  more  forcible  or  true  to  na- 
ture, than  the  description  of  the  effect  of  thia 
cold-blooded  cant  on  the  warm  and  unsuspect- 
ing nature  of  her  disappointed  suitor. 

"  She  ceased: — With  steady  glance,  as  if  to  see 

The  very  root  of  this  hypocrisy, — 

He  her  small  fingers  moulded  in  his  hard 

And  bronz'd  broad  hand ;  then  told  her  his  regard, 

His  best  respect  were  gone,  but  Love  had  still 

Hold  in  his  heart,  and  govern'd  yet  the  will — 

Or  he  would  curse  her  ! — Saying  this,  he  threw 

The  hand  in  scorn  away,  and  bade  adieu 

To  every  ling'ring  hope,  with  every  care  in  view. 

"  In  health  declining  as  in  mind  distress'd, 
To  some  in  power  his'troubles  he  confess'd, 
And  shares  a  parish-gift.     At  prayers  he  sees 
The  pious  Dinah  dropp'd  upon  her  knees  ; 
Thence  as  she  walks  the  street  with  stately  air. 
As  chance  directs,  oft  meet  the  parted  pair  ! 
When  he,  with  thickset  coat  of  Badge-man's  blue. 
Moves  near  her  shaded  silk  of  changeful  hue  ; 
When  his  thin  locks  of  grey  approach  her  braid 
(A  costly  purchase  made  in  beauty's  aid); 
When  his  frank  air,  and  his  unstudied  pace, 
Are  seen  with  her  soft  manner,  air,  and  grace. 
And  his  plain  artless  look  with  her  sharp  meaning 
It  might  some  wonder  in  a  stranger  move,     [face; 
How  these  together  could  have  talk'd  of  love  !" 

pp.  73,  74. 

"  The  Patron,"  which  is  next  in  order,  ifl 
also  very  good;  and  contains  specimens  of 
very  various  excellence.  The  story  is  that 
of  a  young  man  of  humble  birth,  who  shows 
an  early  genius  for  poetry;  and  having  been, 
with  some  inconvenience  to  his  parents,  pro- 
vided with  a  frugal,  but  regular  education,  ia 
at  last  taken  notice  of  by  a  nobleman  in  the 
neighbourhood,  who  promises  to  promote  him 
in  the  church,  and  invites  him  to  pass  an  au- 
tumn with  him  at  his  seat  in  the  country. 
Here  the  youth,  in  spite  of  the  admirable  ad- 
monitions of  his  father,  is  gradually  overcome 
by  a  taste  for  eleg-ant  enjoyments,  and  allows 
himself  to  fall  in  love  with  the  enchanting 
sister  of  his  protector.  When  the  family 
leave  him  with  indifference  to  return  to  tow^n, 
he  feels  the  first  pang  of  humiliation  and  dis- 
appointment ;  and  afterwards,  when  he  finds 
that  all  his  noble  friend's  fine  promises  end 
in  obtaining  for  him  a  poor  drudging  place  in 
the  Customs,  he  pines  and  pines  till  he  falls 
into  insanity;  and  recovers,  only  to  die  pre 
maturely  in  the  arms  of  his  disappointed  pa 
rents.  We  cannot  make  room  for  the  history 
of  the  Poet's  progress — the  father's  warnings! 
— or  the  blandishments  of  the  careless  syren 
by  whom  he  was  enchanted — though  all  are 
excellent.  We  give  however  the  scene  of  the 
breaking  up  of  that  enchantment ; — a  descrip- 
tion w^hich  cannot  fail  to  strike,  if  it  had  no 
other  merit,  from  its  mere  truth  and  accuracy. 

"Cold  grew  the  foggy  morn  ;  the  day  wasbnei ; 
Loose  on  the  cherry  hung  the  crimson  leaf; 
The  dew  dwelt  ever  on  the  herb  ;  the  woods 
Roar'd  with  strong  blasts,   with  mighty  showers 

the  floods ; 
All  green  was  vanish'd,  save  of  pine  and  yew 
That  still  display' d  tfceir  melancholy  hue,- 


400 


POETRY. 


Save  the  green  holly  with  its  berries  red, 

And  the  green  moss  that  o'er  the  gravel  spread. 

"  To  public  views  niy  Lord  must  soon  attend  ; 
And  soon  the  Ladies — would  they  leave  their  friend? 
The  time  was  fix'd — approach'd — was  near — was 

come  ! 
The  trying  time  that  fill'd  his  soul  with  gloom  ; 
Thoughtful  our  Poet  in  the  morning  rose. 
And  cried,  "  One  hour  my  fortune  will  disclose.' 

"  The  morning  meal  was  past ;  and  all  around 
The  mansion  rang  with  each  discordant  sound  ; 
Haste  was  in  every  foot,  and  every  look 
The  trav'llers'  joy  for  London-journey  spoke  : 
Not  so  our  Youth  ;  whose  feelings  at  the  noise 
Of  preparation  had  no  touch  of  joys  ; 
He  pensive  stood,  and  saw  each  carriage  drawn, 
With  lackies  mounted,  ready  on  the  lawn  : 
The  Ladies  came  ;  and  John  in  terror  threw 
One  painful  glance,  and  then  his  eyes  withdrew  ; 
Not  with  such  speed,  but  he  in  other  eyes 
With  anguish  read — '  I  pity,  but  despise — 
Unhappy  boy  !  presumptuous  scribbler! — you, 
To  dream  such  dreams — be  sober,  and  adieu  !'  " 

pp.  93,  94. 

'•'The  Frank  Cotirtshipj"  which  is  the  next 
in  order,  is  rather  in  the  merry  vein;  and  con- 
tains even  less  than  Mr.  Crabbe's  usual  mod- 
erate allowance  of  incident.  The  whole  of 
the  story  is,  that  the  daughter  of  a  rigid 
Quaker,  having  been  educated  from  home, 
conceives  a  slight  prejudice  against  the  un- 
gallant  manners  of  the  sect,  and  is  prepared 
to  be  very  contemptuous  and  uncomplying 
when  her  father  proposes  a  sober  youth  of  the 
persuasion  for  a  husband; — but  is  so  much 
struck  with  the  beauty  of  his  person,  and  the 
cheerful  reasonableness  of  his  deportmait  at 
their  first  interview,  that  she  instantly  yields 
her  consent.  There  is  an  excellent  descrip- 
tion of  the  father  and  the  unbending  elders  of 
his  tribe ;  and  some  fine  traits  of  natural  co- 
quetry. 

"  The  Widow's  Tale"  is  also  rather  of  the 
facetious  order.  It  contains  the  history  of  a 
farmer's  daughter,  who  comes  home  from  her 
boarding-school  a  great  deal  too  fine  to  tolerate 
the  gross  habits,  or  submit  to  the  filthy  drud- 
gery of  her  father's  house ;  but  is  induced,  by 
the  warning  history  and  sensible  exhortations, 
of  a  neighbouring  widow,  in  v/hom  she  ex- 
pected to  find  a  sentimental  companion,  to 
reconcile  herself  to  all  those  abominations, 
and  marry  a  jolly  young  farmer  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. The  account  of  her  horrors,  on 
first  coming  down,  is  in  Mr.  Crabbe's  best 
style  of  Dutch  painting — a  little  coarse,  and 
needlessly  minute — but  perfectly  true,  and 
marvellously  coloured. 

"  Us'd  to  spare  meals,  disposed  in  manner  pure, 
Her  father's  kitchen  she  could  ill  endure ; 
Where  by  the  steaming  beef  he  hungry  sat, 
And  laid  at  once  a  pound  upon  his  plate ; 
Hot  from  the  field,  her  eager  brothers  seiz'd 
An  equal  part,  and  hunger's  rage  appeas'd ; — 
When  one  huge  wooden  bowl  before  them  stood, 
Fill'd  with  huge  balls  of  farinaceous  food  ; 
With  bacon,  mass  saline,  where  never  lean 
Beneath  the  brown  and  bristly  rind  was  seen  ; 
When  from  a  single  horn  the  party  drew 
Their  copious  draughts  of  heavy  ale  and  new  ; 
She  could  not  breathe  ;  but,  with  a  heavy  sigh, 
Rein'd  the  fair  neck,  and  shut  the  offended  eye  ; 
She  minc'd  the  saneuine  flesh  in  fnisturns  fine. 
And  wonder'd  much  to  see  the  creatures  dine." 

pp.  128,  129. 


"The  Lover's  Journey"  is  a  pretty  fancy j 
and  very  well  executed — at  least  as  to  tlie 
descriptions  it  contains. — A  lover  takes  a  long 
ride  to  see  his  mistress ;  and  passing,  in  full 
hope  and  joy,  through  a  barren  and  fenny 
coimtry.  finds  beauty  in  every  thing.  Being 
put  out  of  humour,  "however,^by  missing  the 
lady  at  the  end  of  this  stage,  he  proceeds 
through  a  lovely  landscape,  and  fuids  every 
thing  ugly  and  disagreeable.  At  last  he  meet.i 
his  fair  one — is  reconciled — and  returns  along 
with  her ;  when  the  landscape  presents  neither 
beauty  nor  deformity ;  and  excites  no  emotion 
whatever  in  a  mind  engrossed  with  more 
lively  sensations.  There  is  nothing  in  this 
volume,  or  perhaps  in  any  part  of  Mr.  Crabbe's 
writings,  more  exquisite  than  some  of  the  de- 
scriptions in  this  story.  The  following,  though 
by  no  means  the  best,  is  too  characteristic  of 
the  author  to  be  omitted  : — 

"  First  o'er  a  barren  heath  beside  the  coast 
Orlando  rode,  and  joy  began  to  boast.  [bloom, 

"  'This  neat  low  gorse,'  said  he,  'with  golden 
Delights  each  sense,  is  beauty,  is  perfume  ; 
Andthis  gay  ling,  with  all  its  purple  flowers, 
A  man  at  leisure  might  admire  for  hours ; 
This  green-fring'd  cup-moss  has  a  scarlet  tip, 
That  yields  to  nothing  but  my  Laura! s  lip  ; 
And  then  how  fine  this  herbage  I  men  may  say 
A  heath  is  barren ;  nothing  is  so  gay.' 

"  Onward  he  went,  and  fiercer  grev^  the  heat. 
Dust  rose  in  clouds  beneath  the  horse's  feet ; 
For  now  he  pass'd  through  lanes  of  burning  sand, 
Bounds  to  thin  crops  or  yet  uncultur'd  land  ; 
Where  the  dark  poppy  flourish'd  on  the  dry 
And  sterile  soil,  and  mock'd  the  thin-set  rye. 

"  The  Lover  rode  as  hasty  lovers  ride. 
And  reach'd  a  common  pasture  wild  and  wide  ; 
Small  black-legg'd  sheep  devour  with  hunger  keen 
The  meager  herbage  ;  fleshless,  lank  and  lean  : 
He  saw  some  scatter'd  hovels  ;  turf  was  pil'd 
In  square  brown  stacks  ;  a  prospect  bleak  and  wild  ! 
A  mill,  indeed,  was  in  the  centre  found. 
With  short  sear  herbage  withering  all  around  ; 
A  smith's  black  shed  oppos'd  a  Wright's  long  shop. 
And  join'd  an  inn  where  humble  travellers  stop." 

pp.  176,  177. 

The  features  of  the  fine  country  are  less 
perfectly  drawn :  But  what,  indeed,  could  be 
made  of  the  vulgar  fine  country  of  Englan  J? 
If  Mr.  Crabbe  had  had  the  good  fortune  to 
live  among  our  Highland  hills,  and  lakes,  and 
upland  woods — our  living  floods  sweeping 
through  forests  of  pine — our  lonely  vales  and 
rough  copse-covered  clifTs ;  what  a  delicious 
picture  would  his  unrivalled  powers  have  ena- 
bled him  to  give  to  the  world  I — But  we  have 
no  right  to  complain,  while  we  have  such  pic- 
tures as  this  of  a  group  of  Gipsies.  It  is  evi- 
dently finished  con  amore  ;  and  does  appear  to 
us  to  be  absolutely  perfect,  both  in  its  moral 
and  its  physical  expression. 

"  Again  the  country  was  enclos'd  ;  a  wide 
And  sandy  road  has  banks  on  either  side  ; 
Where,  lo!  a  hollow  on  the  left  appear'd. 
And  there  a  Gipsy-tribe  their  tent  had  rear'd  ; 
'Twas  open  spread,  to  catch  the  morning  sun. 
And  they  had  now  their  early  meal  begun. 
When  two  brown  Boys  just  left  their  grassy  seat 
The  early  Trav'ller  with  their  pray'rs  to  greet : 
While  yet  Orlando  held  his  pence  in  hand, 
He.  saw  their  sister  on  her  duty  stand  ; 
Some  twelve  years  old,  demure,  affected,  sly, 
Prepar'd  the  force  of  early  powers  to  try  : 


CRABBE'S  TALES. 


401 


Sudden  a  look  of  languor  he  descries, 
And  well-feign'd  apprehension  in  her  eyes  ; 
Train'd,  but  yet  savage,  in  her  speaking  face, 
He  mark'd  the  features  of  her  vagrant  race  ; 
When  a  hght  laugh  and  roguish  leer  express' d 
The  vice  implanted  in  her  youthful  breast ! 
Within,  the  Father,  who  from  fences  nigh 
Had  brought  the  fuel  for  the  fire's  supply,        [by  : 
Watch'd  now  the  feeble  blaze,  and  stood  dejected 
On  ragged  rug,  just  borrow'd  from  the  bed, 
And  by" the  hand  of  coarse  indulgence  fed. 
In  dirty  patchwork  negligently  dress'd, 
Rjeclin'd  the  Wife,  an  infant  at  her  breast ; 
In  her  wild  face  some  touch  of  grace  remain'd. 
Of  vigour. palsied  and  of  beauty  stain'd  ; 
Her  blood-shot  eyes  on  her  unheeding  mate    [state. 
Were  wrathful  turn'd,  and  seem'd  her  wants  to 
Cursing  his  tardy  aid — her  Mother  there 
With  Gipsy-state  engross'd  the  only  chair; 
Solemn  and  dull  her  look:  with  such  she  stands. 
And  reads  the  Milk-maid's  fortune,  in  her  hands, 
Tracing  the  lines  of  life  ;  assum'd  through  years. 
Each  feature  now  the  steady  falsehood  wears ; 
With  hard  and  savage  eye  she  views  the  food, 
And  grudging  pinches  their  intruding  brood  ! 
Last  in  the  group,  the  worn-out  Grandsire  sits 
Neglected,  lost,  and  living  but  by  fits  ; 
Useless,  despis'd,  his  worthless  labours  done. 
And  half  protected  by  the  vicious  Son, 
Who  half  supports  him  !     He  with  heavy  glance, 
Views  the  young  ruffians  who  around  him  dance  ; 
And,  by  the  sadness  in  his  face,  appears 
To  trace  the  progress  of  their  future  years ; 
Through  what  strange  course  of  misery,  vice,  deceit. 
Must  wildly  wander  each  unpractis'd  cheat ; 
What  shame  and  grief,  what  punishment  and  pain, 
Sport  of  fierce  passions,  must  each  child  sustain — 
Ere  they  like  him  approach  their  latter  end. 
Without  a  hope,  a  comfort,  or  a  friend !" 

pp.  180—182. 

The  next  story,  which  is  entitled  "  Edward 
Shore,"  also  contains  many  passages  of  ex- 
quisite beauty.  The  hero  is  a  young  man  of 
aspiring  genius  and  enthusiastic  temper,  with 
an  ardent  love  of  virtue,  but  no  settled  prin- 
ciples either  of  conduct  or  opinion.  He  first 
conceives  an  attachment  for  an  amiable  girl, 
who  is  captivated  with  his  conversation  ] — 
but  being  too  poor  to  marry,  soon  comes  to 
spend  more  of  his  time  in  the  family  of  an  el- 
derly sceptic  (though  we  really  see  no  object 
in  giving  him  that  character)  of  his  acquaint- 
ance, who  had  recently  married  a  young  wife, 
and  placed  unbounded  confidence  in  her  vir- 
tue, and  the  honour  of  his  friend.  In  a  mo- 
ment of  temptation,  they  abuse  this  confi- 
dence. The  husband  renounces  him  with  dig- 
nified composure ;  and  he  falls  at  once  from 
the  romantic  pride  of  his  virtue.  He  then 
seeks  the  company  of  the  dissipated  and  gay  ] 
and  ruins  his  health  and  fortune,  without  re- 
gaining his  tranquillity.  When  in  gaol,  and 
miserable,  he  is  relieved  by  an  unknown  hand ; 
and  traces  the  benefaction  to  the  friend  whose 
former  kindness  he  had  so  ill  repaid.  This 
humiliation  falls  upon  his  proud  spirit  and 
shattered  nerves  with  an  overwhelming  force ; 
and  his  reason  fails  beneath  it.  He  is  for 
some  lime  a  raving  maniac ;  and  then  falls 
into  a  state  of  gay  and  compassionable  im- 
becility, which  is  described  with  inimitable 
beauty  in  the  close  of  this  story.  We  can 
affopd  but  a  few  extracts.  The  nature  of  the 
seductions  which  led  to  his  first  fatal  lapse 
ire  well  intimated  in  the  following  short  pas 
«age:— 

26 


"  Then  as  the  Friend  repos'd,  the  younger  Pair 
Sat  down  to  cards,  and  play'd  beside  his  chair  ; 
Till  he  awaking,  to  his  books  applied. 
Or  heard  the  music  of  th'  obedient  bride: 
If  mild  th'  evening,  in  the  fields  they  stray'd, 
And  their  own  flock  with  partial  eye  survey'd  ; 
But  oft  the  Husband,  to  indulgence  prone, 
Resum'd  his  book,  and  bade  them  walk  alone. 

"  This  was  obey'd;  and  oft  when  this  was  done 
They  calmly  gaz'd  on  the  declining  sun  ; 
In  silence  saw  the  glowing  landscape  fade. 
Or,  sitting,  sang  beneath  the  arbour's  shade  : 
Till  rose  the  moon,  and  on  each  youthful  face, 
Shed  a  soft  beauty,  and  a  dangerous  grace." 

pp.  198,  199. 

The  ultimate  downfall  of  this  lofty  raind^ 
with  its'  agonising  gleams  of  transitory  recol- 
lection, form  a  picture,  than  which  we  do  not 
know  if  the  whole  range  of  our  poetry,  rich  as 
it  is  in  representations  of  disordered  intellect 
furnishes  any  thing  more  touching,  or  delin- 
eated with  more  truth  and  delicacy. 

"  Harmless  at  length  th'  unhappy  man  was  found, 
The  spirit  settled,  but  the  reason  drown'd  ; 
And  all  the  dreadful  tempest  died  away. 
To  the  dull  stillness  of  the  misty  day  ! 

"  And  now  his  freedom  he  attain'd — if  free 
The  lost  to  reason,  truth  and  hope,  can  be; 
The  playful  children  of  the  place  he  meets ; 
Playful  with  them  he  rambles  through  the  streets; 
In  all  they  need,  his  stronger  arm  he  lends, 
And  his  lost  mind  to  these  approving  friends. 

"  That  gentle  Maid,  whom  once  the  Youth  had 
Is  now  with  mild  religious  pity  mov'd  ;  [lov'd, 

Kindly  she  chides  his  boyish  flights,  while  he 
Will  for  a  moment  fix'd  and  pensive  be  ; 
And  as  she  trembhng  speaks,  his  lively  eyes 
Explore  her  looks,  he  hstens  to  her  sighs ; 
Charm'd  by  her  voice,  th'  harmonious  soundsinvade 
His  clouded  mind,  and  for  a  time  persuade  : 
Like  a  pleas'd  Infant,  who  has  newly  caught 
From  the  maternal  glance,  a  gleam  of  thought ; 
He  stands  enrapt,  the  half-known  voice  to  hear, 
And  starts,  half-conscious,  at  the  falling  tear ! 

"  Rarely  from  town,  nor  then  unwatch'd,  he  goes, 
In  darker  mood,  as  if  to  hide  his  woes  , 
But  soon  returning,  with  impatience  seeks  [speaks : 
His  youthful  friends,  and  shouts,  and  sings,  and 
Speaks  a  wild  speech,  with  action  all  as  wild — 
The  children's  leader,  and  himself  a  child  ; 
He  spins  their  top,  or  at  their  bidding,  bends 
His  back,  while  o'er  it  leap  his  laughing  friends  \ 
Simple  and  weak,  he  acts  the  boy  once  more, 
And  heedless  children  call  him  Silly  Shore, ^' 

pp.  206,  207. 

"Squire  Thomas"  is  not  nearly  so  interest- 
ing. This  is  the  history  of  a  mean  domineer- 
ing spirit,  who,  having  secured  the  vsuccession 
of  a  rich  relation  by  assiduous  flattery,  looks 
about  for  some  obsequious  and  yielding  fair 
one,  from  whom  he  may  exact  homage  in  his 
turn.  He  thinks  he  has  found  such  a  one  in 
a  lowly  damsel  in  his  neighbourhood,  and 
marries  her  without  much  premeditation  : — 
when  he  discovers,  to  his  consternation,  not 
only  that  she  has  the  spirit  of  a  virago,  but 
that  she  and  her  family  have  decoyed  him 
into  the  match,  to  revenge,  or  indemnify 
themselves  for  his  having  run  away  with  the 
whole  inheritance  of  their  common  relative. 
She  hopes  to  bully  him  into  a  separate  main 
tenance — but  his  avarice  refuses  to  buy  his 
peace  at  such  a  price ;  and  they  continue  to 
live  together,  on  a  very  successful  system  oi" 
mutual  tormenting. 

"Jesse  and  Colin  "  pleases  us  much  beUer 


402 


POETRY. 


Jesse  is  the  orphan  of  a  poor  clergjTnarij  who 
goes,  upon  her  father's  death,  to  live  with  a 
rich  old  lady  who  had  been  his  friend ;  and 
Colin  is  a  young  farmer,  whose  father  had 
speculated  away  an  handsome  property ;  and 
who,  though  living  in  a  good  degree  by  his 
own  labour,  yet  wished  the  damsel  (who  half 
wished  it  also)  to  remain  and  share  his  hum- 
ble lot.  The  rich  lady  proves  to  be  suspicious, 
overbearing,  and  selfish;  and  sets  Jesse  upon 
the  ignoble  duty  of  acting  the  spy  and  informer 
over  the  other  dependents  of  her  household ; 
nn  the  delineation  6f  whose  characters  Mr. 
Crabbe  has  lavished  a  prodigious  power  of 
observation  and  correct  description : — But  this 
uot  suiting  her  pure  and  ingenuous  mind,  she 
fcuddenly  leaves  the  splendid  mansion,  and 
returns  to  her  native  village,  where  Colin  and 
his  mother  soon  persuade  her  to  form  one  of 
their  happy  family.  There  is  a  great  deal 
of  good-heartedness  in  this  tale,  and  a  kind 
of  moral  beauty,  which  has  lent  more  than 
usual  elegance  to  the  simple  pictures  it  pre- 
sents. We  are  tempted  to  extract  a  good  part 
of  the  denouement. 

"  The  pensive  Colin  in  his  garden  stray'd, 
But  felt  not  then  the  beauties  he  display' d  ; 
There  many  a  pleasant  object  met  his  view, 
A  rising  wood  of  oaks  behind  it  grew  ; 
A  stream  ran  by  it,  and  the  village-green 
And  public  road  were  from  the  garden  seen  ; 
Save  where  the  pine  and  larch  the  bound' ry  made, 
And  on  the  rose  beds  threw  a  soft'ning  shade. 

"  The  Mother  sat  beside  the  garden-door, 
Dress'd  as  in  times  ere  she  and  hers  were  poor; 
The  broad-lac'd  cap  was  known  in  ancient  days, 
When  Madam's  dress compell'd  the  village  praise: 
And  still  she  look'd  as  in  the  times  of  old  ; 
Ere  his  last  farm  the  erring  husband  sold ; 
While  yet  the  Mansion  stood  in  decent  state, 
And  paupers  waited  at  the  well-known  gate. 

"  '  Alas !  my  Son  !'  the  Mother  cried,  '  and  why 
That  silent  grief  and  oft-repeated  sigh  ? 
Fain  would  I  think  that  Jesse  still  may  come 
To  share  the  comforts  of  our  rustic  home  : 
She  surely  lov'd  thee  ;  I  have  seen  the  maid, 
When  thou  hast  kindly  brought  the  Vicar  aid — 
When  thou  hast  eas'd  his  bosom  of  its  pain, 
Oh !  I  have  seen  her — she  will  come  again.' 

"  The  Matron  ceas'd  ;  and  Colin  stood  the  while 
Silent,  but  striving  for  a  grateful  smile  ; 
He  then  replied — '  Ah  !  sure  had  Jesse  stay'd, 
And  shar'd  the  comforts  of  our  sylvan  shade,'  &c. 

"  Sighing  he  spake — but  hark!  he  hears  th'  ap- 
proach 
Of  rattling  wheels  !  and  lo  !  the  evening-coach ; 
Once  more  the  movement  of  the  horses'  feet 
Makes  the  fond  heart  with  strong  emotion  beat : 
Faint  were  his  hopes,  but  ever  had  the  sight 
Drawn  him  to  gaze  beside  his  gate  at  night ; 
And  when  with  rapid  wheels  it  hurried  by, 
He  griev'd  his  parent  with  a  hopeless  sigh  ;      [sum 
And  could  the  blessing  have  been  bought — what 
Had  he  not  offer'd,  to  have  Jesse  come  ? 
She  came  ! — he  saw  her  bending  from  the  door. 
Her  face,  her  smile,  and  he  beheld  no  more  ; 
Lost  in  his  joy  !     The  mother  lent  her  aid 
T'  assist  and  to  detain  the  willing  Maid  ; 
Who  thought  her  late,  her  present  home  to  make, 
Sure  of  a  welcome  for  the  Vicar's  sake ; 
But  the  good  parent  was  so  pieas'd.  so  kind. 
So  pressing  Colin,  she  so  muchinclin'd. 
That  night  advanc'd  ;  and  then  so  long  detain'd 
No  wishes  to  depart  she  felt,  or  feign'd  ;      [main'd. 
Yet  long  in  doubt  she  stood,  and  then  perforce  re- 

"  In  the  mild  evening,  in  the  scene  around, 
The  Maid,  now  free,  peculiar  beauties  found  ; 


Blended  with  village-tones,  the  evening  gile 
Gave  the  sweet  night-bird's  warblings  to  the  vale 
The  youth  embolden'd,  yet  abash'd,  now  told 
His  fondest  wish,  nor  found  the  Maiden  cold,"  &c. 

pp.  240,  241. 

••The  Struggles  of  Conscience,"  though  visi- 
bly laboured,  and,  we  should  suspect,  a  favcar- 
ite  with  the  author,  pleases  us  less  than  any 
tale  in  the  volume.     It  is  a  long  account  of  a| 
low  base  fellow,  who  rises  by  mean  and  dis-l 
honourable  arts'  to  a  sort  of  opulence ;  andj /^j 
without  ever  committing  any  flagrant  crime/ 
sullies  his  mind  with  all  sorts  of  selfish,  heart- 
less, and  unworthy  acts,  till  he  becomes  a  prey 
to  a  kind  of  lang-uid  and  loathsome  remorse. 

'•'  The  Squire  and  the  Priest "  we  do  not  like 
much  better.  A  free  living  and  free  think- 
ing squire  had  been  galled  by  the  public  re- 
bukes of  his  unrelenting  pastor,  and  breeds 
up  a  dependent  relation  of  his  own  to  succeed 
to  his  charge.  The  youth  drinks  and  jokes 
with  his  patron  to  his  heart's  content,  during 
the  progress  of  his  education; — but  just  as 
the  old  censor  dies,  falls  into  the  society  of 
Saints,  becomes  a  rigid  and  intolerant  Method- 
ist, and  converts  half  the  parish,  to  the  infi- 
nite rage  of  his  patron,  and  his  own  ultimate 
affliction. 

"The  Confidant"  is  more  interesting; 
though  not  altogether  pleasing.  A  fair  one 
makes  a  slip  at  the  early  age  of  fifteen,  which 
is  concealed  from  every  one  but  her  mother, 
and  a  sentimental  friend,  from  whom  she 
could  conceal  nothing.  Her  after  life  is  pure 
and  exemplary;  and  at  twenty-five  she  is 
married  to  a  worthy  man,  with  whom  she 
lives  in  perfect  innocence  and  concord  for 
many  happy  years.  At  last,  the  confidant  of 
her  childhood,  whose  lot  has  been  less  pros- 
perous, starts  up  and  importunes  her  for 
money — not  forgetting  to  hint  at  the  fatal  se- 
cret of  which  she  is  the  depository.  After 
agonising  and  plundering  her  for  years,  she 
at  last  comes  and  settles  herself  in  her  house, 
and  embitters  her  whole  existence  by  her  self- 
ish threats  and  ungenerous  extortions.  The 
husband,  who  had  been  greatly  disturbed  at 
the  change  in  his  wife's  temper  and  spirits, 
at  last  accidentally  overhears  enough  to  put 
him  in  possession  of  the  fact ;  and  resolving 
to  forgive  a  fault  so  long  past,  and  so  well  re- 
paired, takes  occasion  to  intimate  his  know- 
ledge of  it,  and  his  disdain  of  the  false  confi- 
dant, in  an  ingenious  apologiie — which,  how- 
ever is  plain  enough  to  drive  the  pestilent 
visiter  from  his  house,  and  to  restore  peace 
and  confidence  to  the  bosom  of  his  grateful 
wife. 

"  Resentment "  is  one  of  the  pieces  in  which 
Mr.  Crabbe  has  exercised  his  extraordinary 
powers  of  giving  pain — though  not  gratuitous- 
ly in  this  instance,  nor  without  inculcating  a 
strong  lesson  of  forgiveness  and  compassioii. 
A  middle-aged  merchant  marries  a  lady  of 
good  fortune,  and  persuades  her  to  make  it 
all  over  to  him  when  he  is  on  the  eve  of  bank- 
ruptcy. He  is  reduced  to  utter  beggary;  and 
his  wife  bitterly  and  deeply  resenting  the 
wrong  he  had  done  her,  renounces  all  con* 
nection  with  him,  and  endures  her  own  re- 


CRABBE'S  TALES. 


40S 


veises  with  magnanimity.  At  last  a  distant 
relation  leaves  her  his  fortune  j  and  she  re- 
turns to  the  enjoyment  of  moderate  wealth, 
and  the  exercise  of  charity — to  all  but  her 
miserable  husband.  Broken  by  age  and  dis- 
ease, he  now  begs  the  waste  sand  from  the 
stone-cutters,  and  sells  it  on  an  ass  throuoh  the 


streets : — 


And  from  each  trifling  gift 


A 


iMade  shift  to  live — and  wretched  was  the  shift." 

The  unrelenting  wife  descries  him  creep- 
ng  through  the  wet  at  this  miserable  em- 
ployment j  but  still  withholds  all  relief;  in 
spite  of  the  touching  entreaties  of  her  com- 
passionate handmaid,  whose  nature  is  as  kind 
and  yielding  as  that  of  her  mistress  is  hard 
and  inflexible.  Of  all  the  pictures  of  mendi- 
cant poverty  that  have  ever  been  brought  for- 
ward in  prose  or  verse — in  charity  sermons  or 
seditious  harangues — we  know  of  none  half  so 
moving  or  complete — so  powerful  and  so  true 
— as  is  contained  in  the  following  passages : — 

"  A  dreadful  winter  came  ;  each  day  severe, 
Misty  when  mild,  and  icy-cold  when  clear  ; 
And  still  the  humble  dealer  took  his  load, 
Returning  slow,  and  shivering  on  the  road  : 
The  Lady,  still  relentless,  saw  him  come, 
And  said, — '  I  wonder,  has  the  Wretch  a  home  !' 
'  A  hut !  a  hovel  I' — '  Then  his  fate  appears 
To  suit  his  crime.' — '  Yes,  Lady,  not  his  years ; — 
No  !  nor  his  sufferings — nor  that  form  decay'd.' — 
'  The  snow,'  quoth  Susan,  '  falls  upon  his  bed — 
It   blows   beside   the   thatch — it   melts   upon   his' 

head.'— 
'  'Tis  weakness,  child,  for  grieving  guilt  to  feel.' 
'  Yes,  but  he  never  sees  a  wholesome  meal ; 
Through  his  bare  dress  appears  his  shrivel'd  skin, 
And  ill  he  fares  without,  and  worse  within : 
With  that  weak  body,  lame,  diseas'd  and  slow. 
What  cold,  pain,  peril,  must  the  sufTrer  know  ! — 
Oh  !  how  those  flakes  of  snow  their  entrance  win 
Through  the  poor  rags,  and  keep  the  frost  within  ! 
His  very  heart  seems  frozen  as  he  goes, 
Leading  that  starv'd  companion  of  his  woes : 
He  tried  to  pray — his  lips,  I  saw  them  move, 
And  he  so  turn'd  his  piteous  looks  above  ; 
But  the  fierce  wind  the  wiUing  heart  opposed, 
And,  ere  he  spoke,' the  lips  in  mis'ry  clos'd  ! 
When  reach'd  his  home,  to  what  a  cheerless  fire 
And  chilling  bed  will  those  cold  limbs  retire  ! 
Yet  ragged,  wretched  as  it  is,  that  bed 
Takes  half  the  space  of  his  contracted  shed  ; 
I  saw  the  thorns  beside  the  narrow  grate. 
With  straw  collected  in  a  putrid  state  : 
There  will  he,  kneeling,  strive  the  fire  4o  raise. 
And  that  will  warm  him  rather  than  the  blaze  ; 
The  sullen,  smoky  blaze,  that  cannot  last 
One  moment  after  his  attempt  is  past : 
And  I  so  warmly  and  so  purely  laid, 
To  sink  to  rest ! — indeed,  I  am  afraid  !'  " 

pp.  320—322. 

The  Lady  at  last  is  moved,  by  this  pleading 
pity,  to  send  him  a  little  relief;  but  has  no 
sooner  dismissed  her  delighted  messenger, 
than  she  repents  of  her  weakness,  and  begins 
to  harden  her  heart  again  by  the  recollection 
of  his  misconduct. 

"  Thus  fix'd,  she  heard  not  her  Attendant  glide 
With  soft  slow  step — till,  standing  by  her  side, 
The  trembling  Servant  gasp'd  for  breath,  and  shed 
Relieving  tears,  then  uttered — '  He  is  dead  !' 

"  '  Dead  !'  said  the  startled  Lady.     '  Yes,  he  fell 
Close  at  the  door  where  he  was  wont  to  dwell. 
There  his  sole  friend,  the  Ass.  was  standing  by. 
Half  dead  lumself,  to  see  his  Master  die.'  " 

pp.  324,  325. 


"The  Convert"  is  rather  drll— though  it 
teaches  a  lesson  that  may  be  useful  in  these 
fanatic  times.  John  Dighton  was  bred  i 
blackguard ;  and  we  have  here  a  most  livelj 
and  complete  description  of  the  items  that  go 
to  the  composition  of  that  miscellaneous  char- 
acter ',  but  being  sore  reduced  by  a  long  fever, 
falls  into  the  hands  of  the  Methodists,  and  be- 
comes an  exemplary  convert.  He  is  then  set 
up  by  the  congregation  in  a  small  stationer's 
shop ',  and,  as  he  begins  to  thrive  in  business, 
adds  worldly  literature  to  the  evangelical 
tracts  which  composed  his  original  stock  in 
trade.  This  scandalises  the  brethren ;  and 
John,  having  no  principles  or  knowledge,  falls 
out  with  the  sect,  and  can  never  settle  in  the 
creed  of  any  other;  and  so  lives  perplexed 
and  discontented — and  dies  in  agitation  and 
terror. 

"The  Brothers"  restores  us  again  to  human 
sympathies.  The  characters,  though  humble,  I 
are  admirably  drawn,  and  the  baser  of  them,  |  f*- 
we  fear,  the  most  strikingly  natural.  An 
open-hearted  generous  sailor  had  a  poor, 
sneaking,  cunning,  selfish  brother,  to  whom  he 
remitted  all  his  prize-money,  and  gave  all  the 
arrears  of  his  pay — receiving,  in  return,  vehe- 
ment professions  of  gratitude,  and  false  pro- 
testations of  regard.  At  last,  the  sailor  is  dis- 
abled in  action,  and  discharged ;  just  as  his 
heartless  brother  has  secured  a  small  office 
by  sycophancy,  and  made  a  prudent  marriage 
with  a  congenial  temper.  He  seeks  the  shelter 
of  his  brother's  house  as  freely  as  he  would 
have  given  it ;  and  does  not  at  first  perceive 
the  coldness  of  his  reception. — But  mortifica- 
tions grow  upon  him  day  by  day.  His  grog 
is  expensive,  and.  his  pipe  makes  the  wife 
sick ;  then  his  voice  is  so  loud,  and  his  man- 
ners so  rough,  that  her  friends  cannot  visit  her 
if  he  appears  at  table  !  So  he  is  banished  by 
degrees  to  a  garret ;  where  he  falls  sick,  and 
has  no  consolation  but  in  the  kindness  of  one 
of  his  nephe\^s,  a  little  boy,  who  administers 
to  his  comforts,  and  listens  to  his  stories  with 
a  delighted  attention.  This  too,  however,  is 
at  last  interdicted  by  his  hard-hearted  parents; 
and  the  boy  is  obliged  to  steal  privately  to 
his  disconsolate  uncle.  One  day  his  father 
catches  him  at  his  door ;  and,  after  beating 
him  back,  proceeds  to  deliver  a  severe  rebuke 
to  his  brother  for  encouraging  the  child  in 
disobedience — when  he  finds  the  unconscious 
culprit  released  by  death  from  his  despicable 
insults  and  reproaches  !  The  great  art  of  the  '^ 
story  consists  in  the  plausible  excuses  with  r\ 
which  the  ungrateful  brother  always  contrive? 
to  cover  his  wickedness.  This  cannot  be  ex- 
emplified in  an  extract ;  but  we  shall  give  9 
few  lines  as  a  specimen. 

"  Cold  as  he  grew,  still  Isoiac  strove  to  show. 
By  well-feign'd  care,  that  cold  he  could  not  grow ; 
And  when  he  saw  his  Brother  look  distress'd, 
He  strove  some  petty  comforts  to  suggest ; 
On  his  Wife  solely  their  neglect  to  lay. 
And  then  t'  excuse  it  as  a  woman's  way ; 
He  too  was  chidden  when  her  rules  he  brok^, 
And  then  she  sicken'd  at  the  scent  of  smoke  !     [find 

"  George,  though  in  doubt,  was  still  consol'd  to 
His  Brother  wishing  to  be  reckon'd  kind  : 
That  Isaac  seem'd  concern'd  by  his  distress. 


f.A 


104 


POETRY. 


Gave  to  his  injur'd  feelings  some  redress  ; 
But  none  he  found  dispos'd  to  lend  an  ear 
To  stories,  all  .were  once  intent  to  hear  ! 
Except  his  Nephew,  seated  on  his  knee. 
He  found  no  creature  car'd  about  the  sea;       [boy, 
But  George  indeed — for  George  they'd  call'd  the 
When  his  good  uncle  was  their  boast  and  joy — 
Would  listen  long,  and  would  contend  with  sleep, 
To  hear  the  woes  and  wonders  of  the  deep ; 
Till  the  fond  mother  cried — '  That  man  will  teach 
The  foolish  boy  his  loud  and  boisterous  speech.' 
So  judg'd  the  Father — and  the  boy  was  taught 
To  shun  the  Uncle,  whom  his  love  had  sought." 

pp.  368,  369. 

"  At  length  he  sicken'd,  and  this  duteous  Child 
Watch'd  o'er  his  sickness,  and  his  pains  beguil'd  ; 
The  Mother  bade  him  from  the  loft  refrain. 
But,  though  with  caution,  yet  he  went  again; 
And  now  his  tales  the  sailor  feebly  told, 
His  heart  was  heavy,  and  his  limbs  were  cold ! 
The  tender  boy  came  often  to  entreat 
His  good  kind  friend  would  of  his  presents  eat : 
Purloin'd  or  purchased,  for  he  saw,  with  shame, 
The  food  untouch'd  that  to  his  Uncle  came ; 
Who,  sick  in  body  and  in  mind,  receiv'd 
The  Boy's  indulgence,  gratified  and  griev'd! 

"  Once  in  a  week  the  Father  came  to  say, 
'  George,  are  you  ill  V — and  hurried  him  away  ; 
Yet  to  his  wife  would  on  their  duties  dwell, 
And  often  cry,  '  Do  use  my  brother  well ;' 
And  something  kind,  no  question,  Isaac  meant, 
And  took  vast  credit  for  the  vague  intent, 

"But,  truly  kind,  the  gentle  Boy  essay'd 
To  cheer  his  Uncle,  firm,  although  afraid ; 
But  now  the  Father  caught  him  at  the  door, 

And,  swearing yes,  the  Man  in  Office  swore, 

And  cried,  *  Away  ! — How !  Brother,  I'm  surpris'd, 
That  one  so  old  can  be  so  ill  advis'd,'  "  &c. 

pp.  370— 371. 

After  the  catastrophe,  he  endures  deserved 
remorse  and  anguish. 

"  He  takes  his  Son,  and  bids  the  boy  unfold 

All  the  good  Uncle  of  his  feehngs  told, 

All  he  lamented — and  the  ready  tear 

Falls  as  he  listens,  sooth'd,  and  griev'd  to  hear. 

' '  *  Did  he  not  curse  me,  child  ?' — 'He  never  curs'd. 

But  could  not  breathe,  and  said  his  heart  would 

burst :' —  [pray  ; 

'  And  so  will  mine  !' — '  Then,  Father,  you  must 

My  Uncle  said  it  took  his  pains  away.'  " — p.  374. 

The  last  tale  in  the  volume,  entitled,  "The 
Learned  Boy,"  is  not  the  most  interesting  in 
the  collection )  though  it  is  mot  in  the  least  Hke 
what  its  title  would  lead  us  to  expect.  It  is 
the  history  of  a  poor,  weakly,  paltry  lad,  who 
is  sent  up  from  the  country  to  be  a  clerk  in 
town ;  and  learns  by  slow  degrees  to  affect 
freethinking,  and  to  practise  dissipation.  Upon 
the  tidings  of  which  happy  conversion  his 
father,  a  worthy  old  farmer,  orders  him  down 
again  to  the  country,  where  he  harrows  up 
the  soul  of  his  pious  grandmother  by  his  in- 
fidel prating — and  his  father  reforms  him  at 
once  by  burning  his  idle  books,  and  treating 
him  with  a  vigorous  course  of  horsewhipping. 
There  is  some  humour  in  this  tale; — and  a 
great  deal  of  nature  and  art,  especially  in  the 
delineation  of  this  slender  clerk's  gradual 
corruption — and  in  the  constant  and  constitu- 
tional predominance  of  weakness  and  folly, 
in  all  his  vice  and  virtue — his  piety  and  pro- 
faneness. 

We  have  thus  gone  through  the  better  part 
of  this  volume  with  a  degree  of  minuteness 
for  which  we  are  not  sure  that  even  our  poet- 


ical readers  will  all  be  disposed  to  i)ianK  us. 
But  considering  Mr.  Crabbe  as,  upon  tha  . 
whole,  the  most  original  writer  who  has  eveiV^I 
come  before  us ;  and  being  at  the  same  time 
of  opinion,  that  his  writings  are  destined  to  a 
still  more  extensive  popularity  than  they  have 
yet  obtained,  we  could  not  resist  the  tempta- 
tion of  contributing  our  little  aid  to  the  fulfil- 
ment of  that  destiny.  Ifc  is  chiefly  for  the 
same  reason  that  we  have  directed  our  re- 
marks rather  to  the  moral  than  the  literary 
qualities  of  his  works ; — to  his  genius  at  least, 
rather  than  his  taste — and  to  his  thoughts 
rather  than  his  figures  of  speech.  By  far  the 
most  remarkable  thing  in  his  writings,  is  the  jm 
prodigious  mass  of  original  observations  and  ' 
reflections  they  every  where  exhibit;  and  that 
extraordinary  power  of  conceiving  and  repre- 
senting an  imaginary  object,  whether  physical 
or  intellectual,  with  such  a  rich  and  complete 
accompaniment  of  circumstances  and  details,; 
as  few  ordinary  observers  either  perceive  or! 
remember  in  realities ;  a  power  which,  though  • 
often  greatly  misapplied,  must  for  ever  entitle 
him  to  the  very  first  rank  among  descriptive 
poets ;  and,  when  directed  to  worthy  objects, 
to  a  rank  inferior  to  none  in  the  highest  de- 
partments of  poetry. 

In  such  an  author,  the  attributes  of  style 
and  versification  may  fairly  be  considered  as 
secondary; — and  yet,  if  we  were  to  go  mi- 
nutely into  them,  they  would  afford  room  for 
a  still  longer  chapter  than  that  which  we  are 
now  concluding.  He  cannot  be  said  to  be 
uniformly,  or  even  generally,  an  elegant  writer. 
His  style  is  not  dignified — and  neither  very 
pure  nor  very  easy.  Its  characters  are  force, 
precision,  and  familiarity; — now  and  then 
obscure — sometimes  vulgar,  and  sometimes 
quaint.  With  a  great  deal  of  tenderness,  and 
occasional  fits  of  the  sublime  of  despair  and 
agony,  there  is  a  want  of  habitual  fire,  and  of 
a  tone  of  enthusiasm  in  the  general  tenor  of 
his  writings.  He  seems  to  recollect  rather 
than  invent;  and  frequently  brings  forward 
his  statements  more  in  the  temper  of  a  cau* 
tious  and  conscientious  witness,  than  of  a  fer- 
vent orator  or  impassioned  spectator.  VLii 
similes  are  almost  all  elaborate  and  ingenious, 
and  rather  seem  to  be  furnished  from  the  ef- 
forts of  a  fanciful  mind,  than  to  be  exhaled 
by  the  spontaneous  ferment  of  a  heated  im- 
agination. His  versification  again  is  frequently 
harsh  and  heavy,  and  his  diction  flat  and 
prosaic ; — both  seeming  to  be  altogether  neg- 
lected in  his  zeal  for  the  accuracy  and  com- 
plete rendering  of  his  conceptions.  Theso 
defects  too  are  infinitely  greater  in  his  recent 
than  in  his  early  compositions.  "The  Vil- 
lage" is  written,  upon  the  whole,  in  a  flowing 
and  sonorous  strain  of  versification ;  and  "Sir 
Eustace  Grey,"  though  a  late  publication,  is 
in  general  remarkably  rich  and  melodious. 
It  is  chiefly  in  his  narratives  and  curious  de- 
scriptions that  these  faults  of  diction  and 
measure  are  conspicuous.  Where  he  is  warm- 
ed by  his  subject,  and  becomes  fairly  indig- 
nant or  pathetic^  his  language  is  often  very 
sweet  and  beautiful.  He  has  no  fixed  system 
or  manner  of  versification ;  but  mixes  several 


CRABBE'S  TALES  OF  THE  HALA.. 


401 


teiy  opposite  styles,  as  it  were  by  accident, 
and  not  in  general  very  judiciously ; — what  is 
peculiar  to  himself  is  not  good,  and  strikes  us 
as  being  both  abrupt  and  affected. 

He  may  profit,  if  he  pleases,  by  these  hints 
— and,  if  he  pleases,  he  may  laugh  at  them. 


It  is  no  great  matter.  If  he  will  only  write  a 
few  more  Tales  of  the  kind  we  have  suggested 
at  the  beginning  of  this  article,  we  shall  en- 
gage for  it  that  he  shall  have  our  praises — and 
those  of  more  fastidious  critics — whatever  he 
the  qualities  of  his  style  or  versification. 


(Jttia,  1819.) 

Tales  of  the  Hall.    By  the  Reverend  George  Crabbe.  2  vols.  8vo.  pp.670.    London:  1819. 


Mr.  Crabbe  is  the  greatest  mannerist,  per- 
haps, of  all  our  living  poets ;  and  it  is  rather 
unfortunate  that  the  most  prominent  features 
of  his  mannerism  are  not  the  most  pleasing. 
The  homely,  quaint,  and  prosaic  style — the 
flat,  and  often  broken  and  jingling  versification 
— the  eternal  full-lengths  of  low  and  worth- 
less characters — with  their  accustomed  gar- 
nishings  of  sly  jokes  and  familiar  moralising — 
are  all  on  the  surface  of  his  writings;  and  are 
almost  unavoidably  the  things  by  which  we 
are  first  reminded  of  him,  when  we  take  up 
any  of  his  new  productions.  Yet  they  are  not 
the  things  that  truly  constitute  his  peculiar 
manner ;  or  give  that  character  by  which  he 
will,  and  ought  to  be,  remembered  with  future 
generations.  It  is  plain  enough,  indeed,  that 
these  are  things  that  will  make  nobody  re- 
membered— and  can  never,  therefore,  be  re- 
ally characteristic  of  some  of  the  most  original 
and  powerful  poetry  that  the  world  has  ever 
seen. 

Mr.  C,  accordingly,  has  other  gifts;  and 
those  not  less  peculiar  or  less  strongly  marked 
than  the  blemishes  with  which  they  are  con- 
trasted ;  an  unrivalled  and  almost  magical 
power  of  observation,  resulting  in  descriptions 
so  true  to  nature  as  to  strike  us  rather  as 
transcripts  than  imitations — an  anatomy  of 
character  and  feeling  not  less  exquisite  and 
searching — an  occasional  touch  of  matchless 
tenderness — and  a  deep  and  dreadful  pathetic, 
interspersed  by  fits,  and  strangely  interwoven 
with  the  most  minute  and  humble  of  his  de- 
tails. Add  to  all  this  the  sure  and  profound 
sagacity  of  the  remarks  with  which  he  every 
now  and  then  startles  us  in  the  midst  of  very 
unambitious  discussions ; — and  the  weight  and 
terseness  of  the  maxims  which  he  drops,  like 
oracular  responses,  on  occasions  that  give  no 
promise  of  such  a  revelation ; — and  last,  though 
not  least,  that  sweet  and  seldom  sounded 
chord  of  Lyrical  inspiration,  the  lightest  touch 
of  which  instantly  charms  away  all  harshness 
from  his  numbers,  and  all  lowness  from  his 
themes — and  at  once  exalts  him  to  a  level 
with  the  most  energetic  and  inventive  poets 
of  his  age. 

These,  we  think,  are  the  true  characteristics 
of  the  genius  of  this  great  writer ;  and  it  is  in 
their  mixture  with  the  oddities  and  defects  to 
which  we  have  already  alluded,  that  the  pe- 
culiarity of  his  manner  seems  to  us  substan- 
tially to  consist.  The  ingredients  may  all  of 
them  be  found,  we  suppose,  in  other  writers; 


but  their  combination — in  such  proportionp  at 
least  as  occur  in  this  instance — may  safely  be 
pronounced  to  be  original. 

Extraordinary,  however,  as  this  combination 
must  appear,  it  does  not  seem  very  difficult 
to  conceive  in  what  way  it  may  have  arisen ; 
and,  so  far  from  regarding  it  as  a  proof  of  sin- 
gular humorousness,  caprice,  or  affectation 
in  the  individual,  we  are  rather  inclined  to 
hold  that  something  approaching  to  it  must  be  * 
the  natural  result  of  a  long  habit  of  observa- 
tion in  a  man  of  genius,  possessed  of  that 
temper  and  disposition  which  is  the  usual  ac- ; 
companiment  of  such  a  habit ;  and  that  the ; 
same  strangel)?"  compounded  and  apparently' 
incongruous  assemblage  of  themes  and  senti- 
ments would  be  frequently  produced  under 
such  circumstances — if  authors  had  oftener 
the  courage  to  write  from  their  own  impres- 
sions, and  had  less  fear  of  the  laugh  or  won- 
der of  the  more  shallow  and  barren  part  of 
their  readers. 

A  great  talent  for  observation,  and  a  delight 
in  the  exercise  of  it — the  power  and  the  practice 
of  dissecting  and  disentangling  that  subtle  and 
complicated  tissue,  of  habit,  and  self-love,  and 
affection,  which  constitute  human  character — 
seems  to  us,  in  all  cases,  to  imply  a  contem- 
plative, rather  than  an  active  disposition.  It 
can  only  exist,  indeed,  where  there  is  a  good 
deal  of  social  sympathy ;  for,  without  this,  the 
occupation  could  excite  no  interest,  and  afford 
no  satisfaction — but  only  such  a  measure  and 
sort  of  sympathy  as  is  gratified  by  being  a 
spectator,  and  not  an  actor  on  the  great  theatre 
of  life — and  leads  its  possessor  rather  to  look 
with  eagerness  on  the  feats  and  the  fortunes 
of  others,  than  to  take  a  share  for  himself  in 
the  game  that  is  played  before  him.  Some 
stirring  and  vigorous  spirits  there  are,  no 
doubt,  in  which  this  taste  and  talent  is  com- 
bined with  a  more  thorough  and  effective 
sympathy ;  and  leads  to  the  study  of  men's 
characters  by  an  actual  and  hearty  partici- 
pation in  their  various  passions  and  pursuits; 
— though  it  is  to  be  remarked,  that  when  such 
persons  embody  their  observations  in  writing, 
they  will  generally  be  found  to  exhibit  their 
characters  in  action,  rather  than  to  describe 
them  in  the  abstract ;  and  to  let  their  various 
personages  disclose  themselves  and  their  pe- 
culiarities, as  it  were  spontaneously,  and  with- 
out help  or  preparation,  in  their  ordinary 
conduct  and  speech — of  all  which  we  have  a 
very  splendid   and  striking  example   in  the 


in 


406 


POETRY. 


Tales  of  My  Landlord;  and  the  other  pieces 
of  tliat  extraordinary  writer.  In  the  common 
case,  however,  a  great  observer,  we  believe, 
will  be  found,  pretty  certainly,  to  be  a  person 
of  a  shy  and  retiring  temper — who  does  not 
mingle  enough  with  the  people  he  surveys,  to 
be.  heated  with  their  passions,  or  infected  with 
their  delusions — and  who  has  usually  been 
led,  indeed,  to  take  up  the  office  of  a  looker 
on,  from  some  little  infirmity  of  nerves,  or 
weakness  of  spirits,  which  has  unfitted  him 
from  playing  a  more  active  part  on  the  busy 
scene  of  existence. 

Now,  it  is  very  obvious,  we  think,  that  this 
contemplative  turn,  and  this  alienation  from 
the  vulgar  pursuits  of  mankind,  must  in  the 
first  place,  produce  a  great  contempt  for  most 
of  those  pursuits,  and  the  objects  they  seek 
to  obtain — a  levelling  of  the  factitious  distinc- 
tions which  human  pride  and  vanity  have  es- 
tablished in  the  world,  and  a  mingled  scorn 
and  compassion  for  the  lofty  pretensions  under 
which  men  so  often  disguise  the  nothingness 
of  their  chosen  occupations.  When  the  many- 
coloured  scene  of  life,  w^ith  all  its  petty  agi- 
tations, its  shifting  pomps,  and  perishable 
passions,  is  surveyed  by  one  who  does  not 
mix  in  its  business,  it  is  impossible  that  it 
should  not  appear  a  very  pitiable  and  almost 
ridiculous  affair ;  or  that  the  heart  should  not 
echo  back  the  brief  and  emphatic  exclama- 
tion of  the  mighty  dramatist — 


Life's  a  poor  player, 


Who  frets  and  struts  his  hour  upon  the  stage, 
And  then  is  heard  no  more  !"— 

Or  the  more  sarcastic  amplification  of  it,  in 
the  words  of  our  great  moral  poet — 

"Behold  the  Child,  by  Nature's  kindly  law, 
Pleas'd  with  a  rattle,  tickl'd  with  a  straw  ! 
Some  livelier  plaything  gives  our  Youth  delight, 
A  Httle  louder,  but  as  empty  quite  : 
Scarfs,  garters,  gold  our  riper  years  engage  ; 
And  beads  and  prayer-books  are  the  toys  of  Age  ! 
Pleas'd  with  this  bauble  still  as  that  before, 
Till  tir'd  we  sleep — and  Life's  poor  play  is  6'erl'''' 

This  is  the*  more  solemn  view  of  the  sub- 
ject : — But  the  first  fruits  of  observation  are 
most  commonly  found  to  issue  in  Satire — the 
unmasking  the  vain  pretenders  to  wisdom, 
and  worth,  and  happiness,  with  whom  society 
is  infested,  and  holding  up  to  the  derision  of 
mankind  those  meannesses  of  the  great,  those 
miseries  of  the  fortunate,  and  those 

"  Fears  of  the  brave,  and  follies  of  the  wise," 

which  the  eye  of  a  dispassionate  observer  so 
quickly  detects  under  the  glittering  exterior 
by  which  they  w^ould  fain  be  disguised — and 
which  bring  pretty  much  to  a  level  the  intel- 
lect, and  morals,  and  enjoyments,  of  the  great 
mass  of  mankind. 

This  misanthropic  end  has  unquestionably 
been  by  far  the  most  common  result  of  a  habit 
of  observation ;  and  that  in  which  its  effects 
have  most  generally  terminated: — Yet  we 
cannot  bring  ourselves  to  think  that  it  is  their 
just  or  natural  termination.  Something,  no 
doubt,  will  depend  on  the  temper  of  the  indi- 
vidual, and  the  proportions  in  which  the  gall 
and  the  milk  of  human  kindness  have  been 


originally  mingled  in  his  composition. — Yel 
satirists,  we  think,  i  ave  not  in  general  been 
ill-natured  persons — and  we  are  inclinea  ra- 
ther to  ascribe  this  limited  and  uncharitable 
application  of  their  powers  of  observation  tn 
their  love  of  fame  and  popularity, — which  are 
well  known  to  be  best  secured  by  successful 
ridicule  or  invective — or,  quite  as  probably, 
indeed,  to  the 'narrowness  and  insufficiency 
of  the  obsei-vations  themselves,  and  the  im- 
perfection of  their  talents  for  their  due  con- 
duct and  extension.  It  is  certain,  at  least,  we 
think,  that  the  satirist  makes  use  but  of  half 
the  discoveries  of  the  observer ;  and  teaches 
but  half — and  the  worser  half — of  the  lessons 
which  may  be  deduced  from  his  occupation. 
He  puts  down,  indeed,  the  proud  pretensions 
of  the  great  and  arrogant,  and  levels  the  vain 
distinctions  which  human  ambition  has  es- 
tablished among  the  brethren  of  mankind ; — 
he 

"  Bares  the  mean  heart  that  lurks  beneath  a  Star," 

— and  destroys  the  illusions  which  would 
limit  our  sympathy  to  the  forward  and  figur- 
ing persons  of  this  world — the  favourites  of 
fame  and  fortune.  But  the  true  result  of  ob- 
servation should  be,  not  so  much  to  cast  down 
the  proud,  as  to  raise  up  the  lowly ; — not  so 
much  to  diminish  our  sympathy  with  the 
powerful  and  renowned,  as  to  extend  it  to  all, 
who,  in  humbler  conditions,  have  the  same, 
or  still  higher  claims  on  our  esteem  or  affec- 
tion.— It  is  not  surely  the  natural  consequence 
of  learning  to  judge  truly  of  the  characters  of 
men,  that  we  should  despise  or  be  indifferent 
about  them  all  ] — and,  though  we  have  learned 
to  see  through  the  false  glare  which  playa 
round  the  envied  summits  of  existence,  and 
to  know  how  little  dignity,  or  happiness,  or 
worth,  or  wisdom,  may  sometimes  belong  to 
the  possessors  of  power,  and  fortune,  and 
learning  and  renown, — it  does  not  follow,  by 
any  means,  that  we  should  look  upon  the 
whole  of  human  life  as  a  mere  deceit  and 
imposture,  or  think  the  concerns  of  our  species 
fit  subjects  only  for  scorn  and  derision.  Our 
promptitude  to  adm.ire  and  to  envy  will  indeed 
be  corrected,  our  enthusiasm  abated,  and  our 
distrust  of  appearances  increased; — but  the 
sympathies  and  affections  of  our  nature  will 
continue,  and  be  better  directed — our  love  of 
our  kind  will  not  be  diminished — and  our  in- 
dulgence for  their  faults  and  follies,  if  we  read 
our  lesson  aright,  will  be  signally  strengthen-  ;' 
ed  and  confirmed.  The  true  and  proper  effect,  | 
therefore,  of  a  habit  of  observation,  and  a  / 
thorough  and  penetrating  knowledge  of  liuman  j 
character,  will  be,  not  to  exting-uish  our  sym- 
pathy, but  to  extend  it — to  turn,  no  doubt, 
many  a  throb  of  admiration,  and  many  a  sigh 
of  love  into  a  smile  of  derision  or  of  pity; 
but  at  the  same  time  to  reveal  much  that 
commands  our  homage  and  excites  our  afi'ec- 
tion,  in  those  humble  and  unexplored  regions 
of  the  heart  and  understanding,  which  never 
engage  the  attention  of  the  incurious, — and  to 
bring  the  whole  family  of  mankind  nearer  to 
a  level,  by  finding  out  latent  merits  as  well  a:* 
latent  defects  in  all  its  members,  and  com- 


CRABBE'S  TALES  OF  THE  HALL. 


407 


pensating  the  flaws  that  are  detected-in  the 
boasted  ornaments  of  life,  by  bringing  to  light 
the  richness  and  the  lustre  that  sleep  in  the 
mines  beneath  its  surface. 

We  are  afraid  some  of  our  readers  may  not 
at  once  perceive  the  application  of  these  pro- 
found remarks  to  the  subject  immediately  be- 
fore us.  But  there  are  others,  we  doubt  not, 
who  do  not  need  to  be  told  that  they  are 
intended  to  explain  how  Mr.  Crabbe,  and  other 
persons  with  the  same  gift  of  observation, 
should  so  often  busy  themselves  with  what 
may  be  considered  as  low  and  vulg-ar  charac- 
ters ;  and,  declining  all  dealings  with  heroes 
and  heroic  topics,  should  not  only  venture  to 
seek  for  an  interest  in  the  concerns  of  ordinary 
mortals,  but  actually  intersperse  small  pieces 
of  ridicule  with  their  undignified  pathos,  and 
endeavour  to  make  their  readers  look  on  their 
b^oks  with  the  same  mingled  feelings  of  com- 
passion and  amusement,  with  which — unnat- 
ural as  it  may  appear  to  the  readers  of  poetry 
— they,  and  all  judicious  observ^ers,  actually 
look  upon  human  life  and  human  nature. — 
This,  we  are  persuaded,  is  the  true  key  to  the 
greater  part  of  the  peculiarities  of  the  author 
before  us ;  and  though  we  have  disserted 
upon  it  a  little  longer  than  was  necessary,  we 
really  think  it  may  enable  our  readers  to  com- 
prehend him,  and  our  remarks  on  him,  some- 
thing better  than  they  could  have  done  with- 
out it. 

There  is,  as  everybody  must  have  felt,  a 
strange  mixture  of  satire  and   sympathy  in 
all  his  productions — a  great  kindliness  and 
compassion  for  the  errors  and  sufferings  of 
our  poor  human  nature,  but  a  strong  distrust 
of  its  heroic  virtues  and  high  pretensions. 
J    His  heart  is  always  open  to  pity,  and  all  the 
!    milder  emotions — but  there  is  little  aspiration 
after  the  grand  and  sublime  of  character,  nor 
very  much  encouragement  for  raptures  and 
ecstasies  of  any  description.    These,  he  seems 
to  think,  are  things  rather  too  fine  for  the  said 
i    poor  human  nature :  and  that,  in  our  low  and 
Y erring  condition,  it  is  a  little  ridiculous  to  pre- 
"  '^tend,  either  to  very  exalted  and  immaculate 
I  virtue,  or  very  pure  and  exquisite  happiness. 
'He  not  only  never  meddles,  therefore,  with 
the  delicate  distresses  and  noble  fires  of  the 
heroes  and  heroines  of  tragic  and  epic  fable, 
but  may  generally  be  detected  indulging  in  a 
lurking  sneer  at  the  pomp  and  vanity  of  all 
such   superfine    imaginations  —  and   turning 
from  them,  to  draw  men  in  their  true  postures 
and  dimensions,  and  with  all  the  imperfec- 
tions that  actually  belong  to  their  condition  : — 
the  prosperous  and  happy  overshadowed  with 
passing  clouds  of  ennui,  and  disturbed  with 
little  Haws  of  bad  humour  and  discontent — 
the  ^reat  and  wise  beset  at  times  with  strange 
weaKnesses  and  meannesses  and  paltry  vexa- 
tions— and  even  the  most  virtuous  and  en- 
lightened falling  far  below  the  standard  of 
poetical  perfection — and  stooping  every  now 
and  then  to  paltry  jealousies  and  prejudices — 
or  sinking  into  shabby  sensualities — or  medi- 
tating on  their  own  excellence  and  import- 
ance, with  a  ludicrous  and  lamentable  anxiety. 
This  is  one  side  of  the  picture ;  and  charac- 


terises sufficiently  the  satirical  vein  of  oui 
author :  But  the  other  is  the  most  extensive 
and  important.  In  rejecting  the  vulgar  sources 
of  interest  in  poetical  narratives,  and  reducing 
his  ideal  persons  to  the  standard  of  reality, 
Mr.  C.  does  by  no  means  seek  to  extinguish 
the  sparks  of  human  sympathy  within  us.  or 
to  throw  any  damp  on  the  curiosity  with  which  ■  //,' 
we  naturally  explore  the  characters  of  each/^  j 
other.  On  the  contrary,  he  has  aflTorded  new 
and  more  wholesome  food  for  all  those  pro- 
pensities— and,  by  placing  before  us  those 
details  which  our  pride  or  fastidiousness  is  so 
apt  to  overlook,  has  disclosed,  in  all  their 
truth  and  simplicity,  the  native  and  unadul- 
terated workings  of  those  affections  which  are 
at  the  bottom  of  all  social  interest,  and  are 
really  rendered  less  touching  by  the  exagge- 
rations of  more  ambitious  artists — while  he 
exhibits,  with  admirable  force  and  endless 
variety,  all  those  combinations  of  passions  and 
opinions,  and  all  that  cross-play  of  selfishness 
and  vanity,  and  indolence  and  ambition,  and 
halJif^and  reason,  which  make  up  the  intel-j 
leirtiial  character  of  individuals,  and  present 
to^  every  one  an  instructive  picture  of  hi^ 
neighbour  or  himself.  Seeing,  by  the  peri 
fectlon  of  his  art,  the  master  passions  in  theii 
springs,  and  the  high  capacities  in  their  rudi 
ments — and  having  acquired  the  gift  of  tracing 
all  the  propensities  and  marking  tendencies 
of  our  plastic  nature,  in  their  first  slight  indi- 
cations, or  even  from  the  aspect  of  the  dis 
guises  they  so  often  assume,  he  does  not 
need,  in  order  to  draw  out  his  characters  in 
all  their  life  and  distinctness,  the  vulgar  de- 
monstration of  those  striking  and  decided 
actions  by  which  their  maturity  is  proclaimed 
even  to  the  careless  and  inattentive ; — but 
delights  to  point  out  to  his  readers,  the  seeds 
or  tender  filaments  of  those  talents  and  feel- 
ings which  wait  only  for  occasion  and  oppor- 
tunity to  burst  out  and  astonish  the  world — 
and  to  accustom  them  to  trace,  in  characters 
and  actions  apparently  of  the  most  ordinary 
description,  the  self-same  attributes  that,  un- 
der other  circumstances,  would  attract  uni- 
versal attention,  and  furnish  themes  for  the, 
most  popular  and  impassioned  descriptions.  \ 
That  he  should  not  be  guided  in  the  choice 
of  his  subject  by  any  regard  to  the  rank  or 
condition  which  his  persons  hold  in  society, 
may  easily  be  imagined ;  and,  with  a  view  to 
the  ends  he  aims  at,  might  readily  be  for- 
given. But  we  fear  that  his  passion  for  ob- 
servation, and  the  delight  he  takes  in  tracing 
out  and  analyzing  all  the  little  traits  that  in- 
dicate character,  and  all  the  little  circum- 
stances that  influence  it.  have  sometimes  led 
him  to  be  careless  about  his  selection  of  the 
instances  in  which  it  was  to  be  exhibited,  or 
at  least  to  select  them  upon  principles  very 
different  from  those  which  give  them  an  in- 
terest in  the  eyes  of  ordinary  readers.  Foi 
the  purpose  of  mere  anatomy,  beauty  of  form 
or  complexion  are  things  quite  indifferent ; 
and  the  physiologist,  who  examines  plants 
only  to  study  their  internal  structure,  and  to 
;  make  himself  master  of  the  contrivances  by 
i  which  their  various  functions  are  perfoiTned 


408 


POETRY. 


]>ays  no  jegs.rd  to  the  brilliancy  of  their  hues, 
ihe  sweetness  of  their  odours,  or  the  graces 
of  their  form.  Those  who  come  to  him  for 
the  sole  purpose  of  acquiring  knowledge  may 
participate  perhaps  in  this  indifference ;  but 
the  world  at  large  will  wonder  at  them — and 
he  w^ill  engage  fewer  pupils  to  listen  to  his 
instructions,  than  if  he  had  condescended  in 
some  degree  to  consult  their  predilections  in 
the  beginning.  It  is  the  same  case,  we  think, 
in  many  respects,  with  Mr.  Crabbe.  Relying 
for  the  interest  he  is  to  produce,  on  the  curi- 
ous expositions  he  is  to  make  of  the  elements 
of  human  character,  or  at  least  finding  his 
own  chief  gratification  in  those  subtle  inves- 
tigations, he  seems  to  care  very  little  upon 
what  particular  individuals  he  pitches  for  the 
purpose  of  these  demonstrations.  Almost 
every  human  mind,  he  seems  to  think,  may 
serve  to  display  that  fine  and  mysterious 
mechanism  which  it  is  his  delight  to  explore 
md  explain; — and  almost  every  condition, 
and  every  history  of  life,  afford  occasions  to 
show  how  it  may  be  put  into  action,  and  pass 
through  its  various  combinations.  It  seems, 
therefore,  almost  as  if  he  had  caught  up  the 
first  dozen  or  two  of  persons  that  came  across 
him  in  the  ordinary  walks  of  life, — and  then 
fitting  in  his  little  window  in  their  breasts, 
and  applying  his  tests  and  instruments  of  ob- 
servation, had  set  himself  about  such  a  minute 
and  curious  scrutiny  of  their  whole  habits, 
history,  adventures,  and  dispositions,  as  he 
thought  must  ultimately  create  not  only  a 
familiarity,  but  an  interest,  which  the  first 
aspect  of  the  subject  was  far  enough  from 
leading  any  one  to  expect.  That  he  suc- 
ceeds more  frequently  than  could  have  been 
anticipated,  we  are  very  willing  to  allow. 
But  we  cannot  help  feeling,  also,  that  a  little 
more  pains  bestowed  in  the  selection  of  his 
characters,  would  have  made  his  power  of 
observation  and  description  tell  with  tenfold 
effect;  and  that,  in  spite  of  the  exquisite 
truth  of  his  delineations,  and  the  fineness  of 
the  perceptions  by  which  he  was  enabled  to 
make  them,  it  is  impossible  to  take  any  con- 
siderable interest  in  many  of  his  personages, 
or  to  avoid  feeling  some  degree  of  fatigue  at 
the  minute  and  patient  exposition  that  is 
made  of  all  that  belongs  to  them. 

These  remarks  are  a  little  too  general,  we 
believe — and  are  not  introduced  with  strict 
propriety  at  the  head  of  our  fourth  article  on 
Mr.  Crabbe's  productions.  They  have  drawn 
out,  however,  to  such  a  length,  that  we  can 
afford  to  say  but  little  of  the  work  imme- 
diately before  us.  It  is  marked  with  all  the 
characteristics  that  we  have  noticed,  either 
now  or  formerly,  as  distinctive  of  his  poetry. 
On  the  whole,  however,  it  has  certainly  fewer 
of  the  grosser  faults — and  fewer  too,  perhaps, 
of  the  more  exquisite  passages  which  occur 
in  his  former  publications.  There  is  nothing 
at  least  that  has  struck  us,  in  going  over  these 
volumes,  as  equal  in  elegance  to  Pha'be  Daw- 
Bon  in  the  Register,  or  in  pathetic  effect  to  the 
Convict's  Dream,  or  Edward  Shore,  or  the 
Parting  Hour,  or  the  Sailor  dying  beside  his 
Sweetheart.     On  the  other  hand,  there  is  far 


less  that  is  horrible,  and  nothing  that  can  b«l 
said  to  be  absolutely  disgusting;  and  the  pic-l 
ture  which  is  afforded  of  society  and  huma? 
nature  is,  on  the  whole,  much  less  painfui 
and  degrading.     There  is  both  less  miser;^' 
and  less  guilt ;  and,  while  the  same  searching 
and  unsparing  glance  is  sent  into  all  the  dark 
caverns  of  the  breast,  and  the  truth  brought,  f 
forth  with  the  same  stern  impartiality,  the? 
result  is  more  comfortable  and  cheering.   The  f 
greater  part  of  the  characters  are  rather  more?* 
elevated   in   station,    and   milder  and   more 
amiable  in  disposition ;  while  the  accidents 
of  life  are  more  mercifully  managed,  and  for- 
tunate circumstances  more  liberally  allowed.     • 
It  is  rather  remarkable,  too,  that  Mr.  Crabbe 
seems  to  become  more  amorous  as  he  grows 
older, — the  interest  of  almost  all  the  stories 
in  his  collection  turning  on  the  tender  pas- 
sion— and  many  of  them  on  its  most  romantic 
varieties. 

The  plan  of  the  work, — for  it  has  rather 
more  of  plan  and  unity  than  any  of  the  for- 
mer,— is  abundantly  simple.  Two  brothers, 
both  past  middle  age,  meet  together  for  the 
first  time  since  their  infancy,  in  the  Hall  of 
their  native  parish,  which  the  elder  and  richer 
had  purchased  as  a  place  of  retirement  for 
his  declining  age — and  there  tell  each  other 
their  own  history,  and  then  that  of  their  guests, 
neighbours,  and  acquaintances.  The  senior 
is  much  the  richer,  and  a  bachelor — having 
been  a  little  distasted  with  the  sex  by  the 
unlucky  result  of  an  early  and  very  extrava- 
gant passion.  He  is,  moreover,  rather  too 
reserved  and  sarcastic,  and  somewhat  Tory- 
ish,  though  with  an  excellent  heart  and  a 
powerful  understanding.  The  younger  is  very 
sensible  also,  but  more  open,  social,  and  talk- 
ative— a  happy  husband  and  father,  with  a 
tendency  to  Whiggism,  and  some  notion  of 
reform — and  a  disposition  to  think  well  both 
of  men  and  women.  The  visit  lasts  two  or 
three  weeks  in  autumn ;  and  the  Tales,  which 
make  up  the  volume,  are  told  in  the  after 
dinner  tete  a  Utes  that  take  place  in  that  time 
between  the  worthy  brothers  over  their  bottle. 
The  married  man,  however,  wearies  at  length 
for  his  wife  and  children ;  and  his  brother  lets 
him  go,  with  more  coldness  than  he  had  ex- 
pected. He  goes  with  him,  however,  a  stage 
on  the  way ;  and,  inviting  him  to  turn  aside  a 
little  to  look  at  a  new  purchase  he  had  made 
of  a  sweet  farm  with  a  neat  mansion,  he  finds 
his  wife  and  children  comfortably  settled 
there,  and  all  dressed  out  and  ready  to  re- 
ceive them  !  and  speedily  discovers  that  he 
is,  by  his  brother's  bounty,  the  proprietor  of 
a  fair  domain  within  a  morning's  ride  of  the 
Hall — where  they  may  discuss  politics,  and 
tell  tales  any  afternoon  they  think  proper. 

Though  their  own  stories  and  descriptions 
are  not,  in  our  opinion,  the  best  in  the  work, 
it  is  but  fair  to  introduce  these  narrative  bro- 
thers and  their  Hall  a  little  more  particularly 
to  our  readers.  The  history  of  the  elder  and 
more  austere  is  not  particularly  probable — 
nor  very  interesting ;  but  it  affords  many  pas- 
sages extremely  characteristic  of  the  author. 
He  was  a  spoiled  child,  and  grew  up  into  a 


CRABBE'S  TALES  OF  THE  HALL. 


409 


yowith  of  a  romantic  and  contemplative  turn — 
dreaming,  in  his  father's  rural  abode,  of  di- 
vine nymphs  and  damsels  all  passion  and 
purity.  One  day  he  had  the  good  luck  to 
rescue  a  fair  lady  from  a  cow,  and  fell  des- 
perately in  love : — Though  he  never  got  to 
speech  of  his  charmer,  who  departed  from 
the  place  where  she  was  on  a  visit,  and 
eluded  the  eager  search  with  which  he  pur- 
sued her,  in  town  and  country,  for  many  a 
long  year :  For  this  foolish  and  poetical  pas- 
sion settled  down  on  his  spirits;  and  neither 
time  nor  company,  nor  the  business  of  a  Lon- 
don banker,  could  effect  a  diversion.  At  last, 
at  the  end  of  ten  or  twelve  years — for  the  fit 
lasted  that  unreasonable  time — being  then  an 
upper  clerk  in  his  uncle's  bank,  he  stumbled 
upon  his  Dulcinea  in  a  very  unexpected  way 
— and  a  way  that  no  one  but  Mr.  Crabbe 
would  either  have  thought  of — or  thought  of 
describing  in  verse.  In  short,  he  finds  her 
established  as  the  chere  amie  of  another  re- 
spectable banker !  and  after  the  first  shock  is 
over,  sets  about  considering  how  he  may  re- 
claim her.  The  poor  Perdita  professes  peni- 
tence ;  and  he  offers  to  assist  and  support  her 
if  she  will  abandon  her  evil  courses.  The 
following  passage  is  fraught  with  a  deep  and 
a  melancholy  knowledge  of  character  and  of 
human  nature. 

"  She  vow'd — s\\e  tried  ! — Alas!  she  ^id  not  know 
How  deeply  rooted  evil  habits  grow! 
She  felt  the  truth  upon  her  spirits  press, 
But  wanted  ease,  indulgence,  show,  excess  ; 
Voluptuous  banquets  ;  pleasures — not  refin'd. 
But  such  as  soothe  to  sleep  th'  opposing  mind — 
She  looU'd  for  idle  vice,  the  time  to  kill, 
And  subtle,  strong  apologies  for  ill ; 
And  thus  her  yielding,  unresisting  soul. 
Sank,  and  let  sin  confuse  her  and  control : 
Pleasures  that  brought  disgust  yet  brought  relief, 
And  minds  she  hated  help'd  to  war  with  grief" 

Vol.  i.  p.  163. 

As  her  health  fails,  however,  her  relapses 
become  less  frequent ;  and  at  last  she  dies, 
grateful  and  resigned.  Her  awakened  lover 
is  stunned  by  the  blow — takes  seriously  to 
business — and  is  in  danger  of  becoming  ava- 
ricious ]  when  a  severe  illness  rouses  him  to 
higher  thoughts,  and  he  takes  his  name  out 
of  the  firm,  and,  being  turned  of  sixty,  seeks 
a  place  of  retirement. 

*'  He  chose  his  native  village,  and  the  hill 

[ie  climb'd  a  boy  had  its  attraction  still ; 

With  that  small  brook  beneath,  where  he  would 

And  stooping  fill  the  hollow  of  his  hand,      [stand, 

To  quench  ih'  impatient  thirst — then  stop  awhile 

To  see  the  sun  upon  the  waters  smile, 

In  that  sweet  weariness,  when,  long  denied, 

We  drink  and  view  the  fountain  that  supplied 

The  sparkling  bliss — and  feel,  if  not  express, 

Our  perfect  ease,  in  that  sweet  weariness. 

"  The  oaks  yet  flourish'd  in  that  fertile  ground, 
Where  still  the  church  with  lofty  tower  was  found  ; 
And  still  that  Hall,  a  first,  a  favourite  view,"  &c. 

*'  The  Hall  of  Binning  !  his  delight  a  boy, 
That  gave  his  fancy  in  her  flight  employ  ; 
Here,  from  his  father's  modest  home,  he  gaz'd, 
Its  grandeur  charm'd  him.  and  its  height  amaz'd  : — 
Now,  young  no  more,  retir'd  to  views  well  known, 
He  finds  that  object  of  his  awe  his  own  ; 
The  Hall  at  Binning  ! — how  he  loves  the  gloom 


That  sun-excluding  window  gives  the  loJm  ; 
Those  broad  brown  stairs  on  which  he  loves  to 

tread  ; 
Those  beams  within  ;  without,  that  length  of  lead, 
On  which  the  names  of  wanton  boys  appear, 
Who  died  old  men,  and  left  memorials  here. 
Carvings  of  feet  and  hands,  and  knots  and  flowers. 
The  fruits  of  busy  minds  in  idle  hours." 

Vol.  i.  pp.  4 — 6. 

So  much  for  Squire  George — unless  any 
reader  should  care  to  know,  as  Mr.  Crabbe 
has  kindly  told,  that — "  The  Gentleman  was 
tall,"  and,  moreover,  "Looked  old  when  fol- 
lowed, but  alert  when  met."  Of  Captain 
Richard,  the  story  is  more  varied  and  ram- 
bling. He  was  rather  neglected  in  his  youth; 
and  passed  his  time,  when  a  boy,  very  much, 
as  we  cannot  help  supposing,  Mr.  Crabbe 
must  have  passed  his  own.  He  ran  wild  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  a  seaport,  and  found 
occupation  enough  in  its  precincts. 

"  Where  crowds  assembled  I  was  sure  to  run. 
Hear  what  was  said,  and  muse  on  what  was  done  ; 
Attentive  list'ningin  the  moving  scene. 
And  often  wond'ring  what  the  men  could  mean. 

"  To  me  the  wives  of  seamen  lov'd  to  tell 
What  storms  endanger'd  men  esteem'd  so  well ; 
What  wondrous  things  in  foreign  parts  they  saw. 
Lands  without  bounds,  and  people  without  law. 

"  No  ships  were  wreck'd  upon  that  fatal  beach, 
But  I  could  give  the  luckless  tale  of  each  ; 
Eager  I  look'd,  till  I  beheld  a  face 
Of  one  dispos'd  to  paint  their  dismal  case  ; 
Who  gave  the  sad  survivors'  doleful  tale, 
From  the  first  brushing  of  the  mighty  gale 
Until  they  struck  !  and,  suffering  in  their  fate, 
I  long'd  the  more  they  should  its  horrors  state  : 
While  some,  the  fond  of  pity,  would  enjoy 
The  earnest  sorrows  of  the  feeling  boy. 

"  There  were  fond  girls,  who  took  me  to  their  side, 
To  tell  the  story  how  their  lovers  died  ! 
They  prais'd  my  tender  heart,  and  bade  me  prove 
Both  kind  and  constant  when  I  came  to  love  !" 

Once  he  saw  a  boat  upset ;  and  still  recoi* 
lects  enough  to  give  this  spirited  sketch  of  the 
scene. 

"  Then  were  those  piercing  shrieks,  that  frantic 
All  hurried !  all  in  tumult  and  affright !  [flight, 

A    gathering  crowd   from  different  streets  drew 

near, 
All  ask,  all  answer — none  attend,  none  hear  ! 

"  O  !  how  impatient  on  the  sands  we  tread, 
And  the  winds  roaring,  and  the  women  led  ! 
They  know  not  who  in  either  boat  is  gone, 
But  think  the  father,  husband,  lover,  one. 

"  And  who  is  she  apart !     She  dares  not  come 
To  join  the  crowd,  yet  cannot  rest  at  home  : 
With  what  strong  interest  looks  she  at  the  waves, 
Meeting  and  clashing  o'er  the  seamen's  graves  ! 
'Tis  a  poor  girl  betroih'd — a  few  hours  more, 
And  he  will  lie  a  corpse  upon  the  shore  ! 
Orie  wretched  hour  had  pass'd  before  we  knew 
Whom  they  had  sav'd  !  Alas  !  they  were  but  two! 
An  orphan'd  lad  and  widow'dman — no  more  ! 
Arid  they  unnoticed  stood  upon  the  shore. 
With  scarce  a  friend  to  greet  them — widows  view'd 
This  man  and  boy,  and  then  their  cries  renew'd." 

He  also  pries  into  the  haunts  of  the  smug- 
glers, and  makes  friends  with  the  shepherds 
on  the  downs  in  summer;  and  then  he  be- 
comes intimate  \vith  an  old  sailoi's  wife,  tii 
whom  he  reads  sermons,  and  histories  and 


410 


POETRY. 


lost  books,  and  hymns,  and  indelicate  bal- 
lads !  The  character  of  this  woman  is  one 
of  the  many  examples  of  talent  and  labour 
Imisapplied.  It  is  very  powerfully,  and,  we 
Idoubt  not,  very  truly  drawn — but  it  will 
attract  few  readers.  Yet  the  story  she  is  at 
last  brought  to  tell  of  her  daughter  will  com- 
mand a  more  general  interest. 

"  Ruth — I  may  tell,  too  oft  had  she  been  told ! — 
Was  tall  and  fair,  and  comely  to  behold, 
Gentle  and  simple  ;  in  her  native  place 
Not  one  compared  with  her  in  form  or  face  ; 
She  was  not  merry,  but  she  gave  our  hearth 
A  cheerful  spirit  that  was  more  than  mirth. 

"  There  was  a  sailor  boy,  and  people  said 

He  was,  as  man,  a  likeness  of  the  maid  ; 

But  not  in  this — for  he  was  ever  glad, 

While  Ruth  was  apprehensive,  mild,  and  sad." — 

They  are  betrothed — and  something  more 
than  betrothed — when,  on  the  eve  of  their 
wedding-day,  the  youth  is  carried  relent- 
lessly off  by  a  press-g'ang ;  and  soon  after 
is  slain  in  battle  ! — and  a  preaching  weaver 
then  woos,  with  nauseous  perversions  of 
scripture,  the  loathing  and  widowed  bride. 
This  picture,  too,  is  strongly  drawn ; — but 
we  hasten  to  a  scene  of  far  more  power  as 
well  as  pathos.  Her  father  urges  her  to  wed 
the  missioned  suitor ;  and  she  agrees  to  give 
her  answer  on  Sunday. 

"  She  left  her  infant  on  the  Sunday  morn, 

A  creature  doom'd  to  shame  !  in  sorrow  born. 

She  came  not  home  to  share  our  humble  meal, — 

Her  father  thinking  what  his  child  would  feel 

From  his  hard  sentence  !— Still  she  came  not  home. 

The  night  grew  dark,  and  yet  she  was  not  come  ! 

The  east-wind  roar'd,  the  sea  return'd  the  sound. 

And  the  rain  fell  as  if  the  world  were  drown'd  : 

There  were  no  lights  without,  and  my  good  man. 

To  kindness  frlghten'd,  with  a  groan  began 

To  talk  of  Ruth,  and  pray  !  and  then  he  took 

The  Bible  down,  and  read  the  holy  book ; 

For  he  had  learning  :  and  when  that  was  done 

We  sat  in  silence — whither  could  we  run, 

We  said — and  then  rush'd  frighten' d  from  the  door, 

For  we  could  bear  our  own  conceit  no  more  : 

We  call'd  on  neighbours — there  she  had  not  been  ; 

We  met  some  wanderers — ours  they  had  not  seen  ; 

We  hurried  o'er  the  beach,  both  north  and  south. 

Then  join'd,  and  wander'd  to  our  haven's  mouth  : 

Where  rush'd  the  falling  waters  wildly  out, 

I  scarcely  heard  the  good  man's  fearful  shout. 

Who  saw  a  something  on  the  billow  ride. 

And — Heaven  have  mercy  on  our  sins!  he  cried, 

It  is  my  child  ! — and  to  the  present  hour 

So  he  believes — and  spirits  have  the  power  ! 

"  And  she  v.'ns  rrone !  the  waters  wide  dnd  deep 
Roll'd  o'er  her  body  as  she  lay  asleep  ! 
She  heard  no  more  the  angry  waves  and  wind. 
She  heard  no  more  the  threat'ning  of  mankind  ; 
Wrapl  in  dark  weeds,  the  refuse  of  the  storm. 
To  the  hard  rock  was  borne  her  comely  form  ! 

"But  O!  what   storm  was  in  that  mind!    what 

strife, 
That  could  compel  her  to  lay  down  her  life  ! 
For  she  was  seen  within  the  sea  to  wade, 
By  one  at  distance,  \*hen  she  first  had  pray'd; 
Then  to  a  rock  v/ithin  the  hither  shoal, 
Softly,  and  with  a  fearful  step,  she  stole  ; 
Then,  when  she  gain'd  it,  on  the  top  she  stood 
A.  moment  still — and  dropt  into  the  flood  ! 
The  man  cried  loudly,  but  he  cried  in  vain, — 
She  heard  not  then — she  never  heard  again  !" — 


Richard  afterwards  te.ls  how  he  left  the 
sea  and  entered  the  army,  and  fought  and 
marched  in  the  Peninsula ;  and  how  he  came 
home  and  fell  in  love  with  a  parson's  daugh- 
ter, and  courted  and  married  her; — and  he 
tells  it  all  very  prettily, — and,  moreover,  that 
he  is  very  happy,  and  very  fond  of  his  wife 
and  children.  But  w^e  must  now  take  the 
Adelphi  out  of  doors;  and  let  them  intro- 
duce some  of  their  acquaintances.  Among 
the  first  to  whom  we  are  presented  are  two 
sisters,  still  in  the  bloom  of  life,  who  had 
been  cheated  out  of  a  handsome  independ- 
ence by  the  cunning  of  a  speculating  banker, 
and  deserted  by  their  lovers  in  consequence 
of  this  calamity.  Their  characters  are  drawn 
with  infinite  skill  and  minuteness,  and  their 
whole  story  told  with  great  feeling  and 
beauty; — but  it  is  difficult  to  make  extracts. 

The  prudent  suitor  of  the  milder  and 
more  serious  sister,  sneaks  pitifully  away 
when  their  fortune  changes.  The  bolder 
lover  of  the  more  elate  and  gay,  seeks  to  take 
a  baser  advantage. 

"  Then  made  he  that  attempt,  in  which  to  fail 
Is  shameful, — still  more  shameful  to  prevail. 
Then  was  there  hghtning  in  that  eye  that  shed 
Its  beams  upon  him, — and  his  frenzy  fled  ; 
Abject  and  trembling  at  her  feet  he  laid, 
Despis'd  and  scorn'd  by  the  indignant  maid. 
Whose  spirits  in  their  agitation  rose, 
Him,  and  her  own  weak  pity,  to  oppose : 
As  liquid  silver  in  the  tube  mounts  high, 
Then  shakes  and  settles  as  the  storm  gQ.es  by  !" — 

The  effects  of  this  double  trial  on  their 
different  tempers  are  also  very  finely  de- 
scribed. The  gentler  Lucy  is  the  most  re- 
signed and  magnanimous.  The  more  aspi- 
ring Jane  suffers  far  keener  anguish  and 
fiercer  impatience ;  and  the  task  of  soothing 
and  cheering  her  devolves  on  her  generous 
sister.  Her  fancy,  too,  is  at  times  a  little 
touched  by  her  afflictions — and  she  whites 
wild  and  melancholy  verses.  The  wander- 
ings of  her  reason  are  represented  in  a  very 
affecting  manner; — but  we  rather  choose  to 
quote  the  following  verses,  which  appear  to 
us  to  be  eminently  beautiful,  and  makes  ua 
regret  that  Mr.  Crabbe  should  have  indulged 
us  so  seldom  with  those  higher  lyrical  effu 
sions. 

"  Let  me  not  have  this  gloomy  view, 

About  my  room,  around  my  bed  ! 
But  morning  roses,  wet  with  dew, 

To  cool  my  burning  brows  instead. 
Like  flow'rs  that  once  in  Eden  grew, 

Let  them  their  fragrant  spirits  shed, 
And  every  day  the  sweets  renew, 

Till  I,  a  fading  flower,  am  dead! 

"  I'll  have  my  grave  beneath  a  hill, 

Where  only  Lucy's  self  shall  know; 
Where  runs  the  pure  pellucid  rill 

Upon  its  orrav(?lly  bed  below  ; 
There  violets  on  the  borders  blow. 

And  insects  their  soft  light  display, 
Till  as  the  morning  sunbeams  glow, 

The  cold  phosphoric  fires  decay. 

"  There  will  the  lark,  the  lamb,  in  sport. 
In  air,  on  earth,  securely  play, 
And  Lucy  to  my  grave  resort, 
As  innocent,  but  not  so  gay. 


CRABBE'S  TALES  OF  THE  HALL. 


411 


O  !  take  me  from  a  world  I  hate, 

Men  cruel,  selfish,  sensual,  cold  ; 
And,  in  some  pure  and  blessed  state, 

Let  me  my  sister  minds  behold  : 
From  gross  and  sordid  views  refin'd, 

Our  heaven  of  spotless  love  to  share, 
For  only  generous  souls  design'd, 

And  not  a  Man  to  meet  us  there." 

Vol.  1.  pp.  212- 


215. 


"The  Preceptor  Husband"  is  exceedingly 
woU  managed — but  is  rather  too  facetious  for 
our  present  mood.  The  old  bachelor,  who 
had  been  five  times  on  the  brink  of  matri- 
mony, is  mixed  up  of  sorrow  and  mirth ; — 
but  we  cannot  make  room  for  any  extracts, 
except  the  following  inimitable  description 
of  the  first  coming  on  of  old  age, — though 
we  feel  assured,  somehow,  that  this  mali- 
cious observer  has  mistaken  the  date  of  these 
ugly  symptoms ;  and  brought  them  into  view 
nine  or  ten,  or,  at  all  events,  six  or  seven  years 
too  early. 

"  Six  years  had  pass'd,  and  forty  ere  the  six. 
When  Time  began  to  play  his  usual  tricks  ! 
The  locks  once  comely  in  a  virgin's  sight,    [white  ; 
Locks  of  pure  brown,  display'd  th'  encroaching 
The  blood  once  fervid  now  to  cool  began. 
And  Time's  strong  pressure  to  subdue  the  man  : 
I  rode  or  walk'd  as  I  was  wont  before. 
But  now  the  bounding  spirit  was  no  more  ; 
A  moderate  pace  would  now  my  body  heat, 
A  walk  of  moderate  length  distress  my  feet. 
I  show'd  my  stranger-guest  those  hills  sublime, 
But  said,  '  the  view  is  poor,  we  need  not  climb  !' 
At  a  friend's  mansion  I  began  to  dread 
The  cold  neat  parlour,  and  the  gay  glazed  bed  ; 
At  home  I  felt  a  more  decided  taste, 
And  must  have  all  things  in  mv  order  placed  ; 
1  ceas'd  to  hunt ;  my  horses  pleased  me  less, 
My  dinner  more  !  I  learn'd  to  play  at  chess ; 
I  took  my  dog  and  gun,  but  saw  the  brute 
Was  disappointed  that  I  did  not  shoot ; 
My  morning  walks  I  now  could  bear  to  lose, 
And  bless'd  the  shower  that  gave  me  not  to  choose  : 
In  fact,  I  felt  a  langour  stealing  on  ; 
The  active  arm,  the  agile  hand  were  gone  ; 
Small  daily  actions  into  habits  grew. 
And  new  dishke  to  forms  and  fashions  new ; 
I  lov'd  my  trees  in  order  to  dispose, 
I  number'd  peaches,  look'd  how  stocks  arose, 
Told  the  same  story  oft — in  short,  began  to  prose." 
Vol.  i.  pp.  260,  261. 

"The  Maid's  Story"  is  rather  long — though 
it  has  many  passages  that  must  be  favourites 
with  Mr.  Crabbe's  admirers.  "Sir  Owen 
Dale  "  is  too  long  also ;  but  it  is  one  of  the  best 
in  the  collection,  and  mast  not  be  discussed 
60  shortly.  Sir  Owen,  a  proud,  handsome 
man,  is  left  a  widower  at  forty-three,  and  is 
soon  after  jilted  by  a  young  lady  of  twenty ; 
who,  after  amusing  herself  by  encouraging  his 
assiduities,  at  last  meets  his  long-expected 
declaration  with  a  very  innocent  surprise  at 
finding  her  familiarity  with  '-'such  an  .old 
frietid  hi  her  father's"  so  strangely  miscon- 
strued ;  The  knight,  of  course,  is  furious ; — 
and,  to  revenge  himself,  looks  out  for  a  hand- 
some young  nephew,  whom  he  engages  to  Jay 
siege  to  her,  and,  after  having  won  her  affec- 
tions, to  leave  her, — as  he  had  been  left.  The 
lad  rashly  engages  in  the  adventure ;  but  soon 
finds  his  pretended  passion  turning  into  a  real 
0!ie — and  entreats  his  uncle,  on  whom  he  is 
dependent;  to  release  him  from  the  unworthy 


part  of  his  vow.  Sir  Owen,  still  mad  for  van 
geance,  rages  at  the  proposal ;  and,  to  confinl 
his  relentless  purpose,  makes  a  visit  to  one, 
who  had  better  cause,  and  had  formerly  ex- 
pressed equal  thirst  for  revenge.  This  was 
one  of  the  higher  class  of  his  tenantry — an  in- 
telligent, manly,  good-humoured  farmer,  who 
had  married  the  vicar's  pretty  niece,  and  lived 
in  great  comfort  and  comparative  elegance, 
till  an  idle  youth  seduced  her  from  his  arms, 
and  left  him  in  rage  and  misery.  It  is  here 
that  the  interesting  part  of  the  story  begins; 
and  few  things  can  be  more  powerful  or  strik- 
ing than  the  scenes  that  ensue.  Sir  Owen 
inquires  whether  he  had  found  the  objects  of 
his  just  indignation.  He  at  first  evades  the' 
question;  but  at  length  opens  his  heart,  and 
tells  him  all.  We  can  afford  to  give  but  a 
small  part  of  the  dialogue. 

"  '  Twice  the  year  came  round — 
Years  hateful  now — ere  I  my  victims  found  : 
But  I  did  find  them,  in  the  dungeon's  gloom 
Of  a  small  garret — a  precarious  home  ; 
The  roof,  unceil'd  in  patches,  gave  the  snow 
Entrance  within,  and  there  were  heaps  below ; 
I  pass'd  a  narrow  region  dark  and  cold, 
The  strait  of  stairs  to  that  infectious  hold  ; 
And,  when  I  enter'd,  misery  met  my  view 
In  every  shape  she  wears,  in  every  hue, 
And  the  bleak  icy  blast  across  the  dungeon  flew. 
There  frown'd  the  ruin'd  walls  that  once  were  white 
There  gleam'd  the  panes  that  once  admitted  light, 
There  lay  unsavory  scraps  of  wretched  food  ; 
And  there  a  measure,  void  of  fuel,  stood. 
But  who  shall,  part  by  part,  describe  the  state 
Of  these,  thus  follow'd  by  relentless  fate  ? 
All,  too,  in  winter,  when  the  icy  air 
Breathed  its  black  venom  on  the  guilty  pair. 

"  '  And  could  you  know  the  miseries  they  endur'd, 
The  poor,  uncertain  pittance  they  procur'd  ; 
When,  laid  aside  the  needle  and  the  pen, 
Their  sickness  won  the  neighbours  of  their  den, 
Poor  as  they  are,  and  they  are  passing  poor, 
To  lend  some  aid  to  those  who  needed  more  ! 
Then,  too,  an  ague  with  the  winter  came. 
And  in  this  state — that  wife  I  cannot  name  ! 
Brought  forth  a  famish'd  child  of  suflfering  and  of 
shame  ! 

"  '  This  had  you  known,  and  traced  them  to  thil 
Where  all  was  desolate,  defiled,  unclean,     [scene 
A  fireless  room,  and,  where  a  fire  had  place, 
The  blast  loud  howHng  down  the  empty  space, 
You  must  have  felt  a  part  of  the  distress, 
Forgot  your  wrongs,  and  made  their  suffering  less  ! 

"  '  In  that  vile  garret — which  I  cannot  paint-r- 
The  sight  was  loathsome,  and  the  smell  was  faint 
And  there  that  wife, — whom  I  had  lov'd  so  well, 
And  thought  so  happy  !  was  condemn'd  to  dwell ; 
The  gay,  the  grateful  wife,  whom  I  was  glad 
To  see  in  dress  beyond  our  station  clad. 
And  to  behold  among  our  neighbours,  fine, 
More  than  perhaps  became  a  wife  of  mine : 
And  now  among  her  neighbours  to  explore. 
And  see  her  poorest  of  the  very  poor  I 
There  she  reclin'd  unmov'd,  her^bosom  bare 
To  her  companion's  unimpassiqn'd  stare. 
And  my  wild  wonder: — Seat  of  virtue  !  chaste 
As  lovely  once  !   O  !  how  wert  thou  disgrac'd! 
I'pon  that  breast,  by  sordid  rags  defil'd, 
Lay  the  wan  features  of  a  famish'd  child  ;— 
That  sin-born  babe  in  utter  misery  laid, 
Too  feebly  wretched  even  to  cry  tor  aid  ; 
The  ragged  sheeting,  o'er  her  person  drawn 
Serv'd  lor  the  dress  that  hunger  placed  in  pawn, 

"  '  At  the  bed's  feet  the  man  reclin'd  his  frame 
Their  chairs  had  perish'd  to  support  the  flame 


412 


FOETRY. 


Tfeat  warm'd  his  agued  limbs ;  and,  sad  to  see, 
That  shook  him  fiercely  as  he  gaz'd  on  me,  &c. 

'  •  She  had  not  food,  nor  aught  a  mother  needs, 
Wiho  for  another  life,  and  dearer,  feeds  : 
I  sdw  her  speechless  ;  on  her  wither'd  breast 
Tl  e  wither'd  child  extended,  but  not  prest, 
Who  sought,  with  moving  lip  and  feeble  cry, 
V&m  instinct !  for  the  fount  without  supply. 

'  *  Sure  it  was  all  a  grievous,  odious  scene, 
Where  all  was  dismal,  melancholy,  mean, 
Ftdl  with  compell'd  neglect,  unwholesome,  and 

unclean ; 
That  arm — that  eye — the  cold,  the  sunken  cheek — 
Spoke  all ! — Sir  Owen — fiercely  miseries  speak !' 

*'  'And  you  reliev'd?' 

*'  '  If  hell's  seducing  crew 
Had  seen  that  sight,  they  must  have  pitied  too.' 

•*  '  Revenge  was  thine — thou  hadst  the  power — the 

right ; 
To  give  it  up  was  Heav'n's  own  act  to  slight.' 

"  '  Tell  me  not.  Sir,  of  rights,  and  wrongs,   or 

powers ! 
I  felt  it  written — Vengeance  is  not  ours  !' — 

"  '  Then  did  you  freely  from  your  soul  forgive  ?' — 

"  *  Sure  as  I  hope  before  my  Judge  to  live, 

Sure  as  I  trust  his  mercy  to  receive, 

Sure  as  his  word  I  honour  and  beheve, 

Sure  as  the  Saviour  died  upon  the  tree 

For  all  who  sin— /or  that  dear  wretch,  and  me — 

Whom,  never  more  on  earth,  will  I  forsake — or  see!' 

"  Sir  Owen  softly  to  his  bed  adjourn'd  ! 
Sir  Owen  quickly  to  his  home  return'd  ; 
And  all  the  way  he  meditating  dwelt 
On  what  this  man  in  his  affliction  felt ; 
How  he,  resenting  first,  forbore,  forgave  ; 
His  passion's  lord,  and  not  his  anger's  slave." 

Vol.  ii.  pp.  36—46. 

We  always  quote  too  much  of  Mr.  Crabbe: 
— perhaps  because  the  pattern  of  his  arabesque 
is  so  large,  that  there  is  no  getting  a  fair  speci- 
men of  it  without  taking  in  a  good  space. 
But  we  must  take  warning  this  time,  and  for- 
bear— or  at  least  pick  out  but  a  few  little 
morsels  as  we  pass  hastily  along.  One  of  the 
best  managed  of  all  the  tales  is  that  entitled 
"  Delay  has  Danger ;" — which  contairis  a  very 
full,  true,  and  particular  account  of  the  way 
in  which  a  weakish,  but  well  meaning  young 
man,  engaged  on  his  own  suit  to  a  very  amia- 
ble girl,  may  be  seduced,  during  her  unlucky 
absenae,  to  entangle  himself  with  a  far  in- 
ferior person,  whose  chief  seduction  is  her 
apparent  humility  and  devotion  to  him. 

We  cannot  give  any  part  of  the  long  and 
finely  converging  details  by  which  the  catas- 
trophe is  brought  about :  But  we  are  tempted 
to  venture  on  the  catastrophe  itself,  for  the 
sake  chiefly  of  the  right  English,  melancholy, 
autumnal  landscape,  with  which  it  con- 
cludes:— 

"  In  that  weak  moment,  when  disdain  arid  pride. 
And  fear  and  fondness,  drew  the  man  aside, 
In  that  weak  moment — '  Wilt  thou,'  he  began, 
'  Be  mine  V  and  joy  o'er  all  her  features  ran  ; 
'  I  will !'  she  softly  whisper'd  ;  but  the  roar 
Of  cannon  would  not  strike  his  spirit  more  ! 
Ev'n  as  his  lips  the  lawless  contract  seai'd  • 
He  fslt  that  conscience  lost  her  seven-fold  shield. 
And  honour  fled  ;  but  still  he  spoke  of  love  ; 
And  all  was  jo/  in  the  consenting  dove  ! 


"  That  evening  all  in  fond  discourse  was  spent ; 

Till  the  sad  lover  to  his  chamber  went,  [pent; 

To  think  on  what  had  past, — to  grieve  and  to  rey 

Early  he  rose,  and  look'd  with  many  a  sigh 

On  the  red  light  that  fiU'd  the  eastern  sky  ; 

Oft  had  he  stood  before,  alert  and  gay, 

To  hail  the  ylories  of  the  new-born  day  : 

But  now  dejected,  languid,  listless,  low. 

He  saw  the  wind  upon  the  water  blow. 

And  the  cold  stream  curl'd  onward,  as  the  gale 

From  the  pine-hill  blew  harshly  down  the  dale; 

On  the  right  side  the  youth  a  wood  survey'd. 

With  all  its  dark  intensity  of  shade  ; 

Where  the  rough  wind  alone  was  heard  to  move, 

In  this,  the  pause  of  nature  and  of  love ; 

When  now  the  young  are  rear'd,  and  when  the  old, 

Lost  to  the  tie,  grow  negligent  and  cold. 

Far  to  the  left  he  saw  the  huts  of  men. 

Half  hid  in  mist,  that  hung  upon  the  fen  ; 

Before  him  swallows,  gathering  for  the  sea, 

Took  their  short  flights,  and  twitter'd  on  the  lea ; 

And  near,  the  bean-sheaf  stood,  the  harvest  done. 

And  slowly  blacken'd  in  the  sickly  sun  ! 

All  these  were  sad  in  nature  ;  or  they  took 

Sadness  from  him,  the  likeness  of  his  look. 

And  of  his  mind — he  ponder'd  for  a  while. 

Then  met  his  Fanny  with  a  borrow'd  smile." 

Vol.  ii.  pp.  84,  85. 

The  moral  autumn  is  quite  as  gloomy,  and 
far  more  hopeless. 

"The  Natural  Death  of  Love"  is  perhaps 
the  best  written  of  all  the  pieces  before  us. 
It  consists  of  a  very  spirited  dialogue  between 
a  married  pair,  upon  the  causes  of  the  differ- 
ence between  the  days  of  marriage  and  those 
of  courtship ; — in  -which  the  errors  and  faults 
of  both  parties,  and  the  petulance,  impatience,  3 
and  provoking  acuteness  of  the  lady,  w4th  the  5  j 
more  reasonable  and  reflecting,  but  somewhat  | 
insulting  manner  of  the  gentleman,  are  all  | 
exhibited  to  the  life ;  and  with  more  uniform  ' 
delicacy  and  finesse  than  is  usual  with  the 
author. 

"  Lady  Barbara,  or  the  Ghost,"  is  a  long 
story,  and  not  very  pleasing.     A  fair  widow 
had  been  warned,  or  supposed  she  had  been 
warned,  by  the  ghost  of  a  beloved  brother, 
that  she  would  be  miserable  if  she  contracted 
a  second  marriage — and  then,  some  fifteen 
years  after,  she  is  courted  by  the  son  of  a 
reverend  priest,  to  whose  house  she  had  re- 
tired— and  upon  whom,  during  all  the  years  ; 
of  his  childhood,  she  had  lavished  the  careali' 
of  a  mother.     She  long  resists  his  unnaturall 
passion ;  but  is  at  length  subdued  by  his  ur-S 
gency  and  youthful  beauty,  and  gives  him  her  j 
hand.     There  is  something  rather  disgusting,/ 
we  think,  in  this  fiction — and  certainly  the| 
worthy  lady  could  not  have  taken  no  way  s(^^ 
likely  to  save  the  ghost's  credit,  as  by  enter-\ 
ing  into  such  a  marriage — and  she  confessed 
as  much,  it  seems,  on  her  deathbed. 

"  The  Widow,"  with  her  three  husbands,  is 
not  quite  so  lively  as  the  wife  of  Bath  with 
her  five  • — but  it  is  a  very  amusing,  as  well  as 
a  very  instructive  legend;  and  exhibits  a  rich 
variety  of  those  striking  intellectual  portraits 
which  mark  the  hand  of  our  poetical  Rem- 
brandt. The  serene  close  of  her  eventful 
life  is  highly  exemplary.  After  carefully  ool^ 
lecting  a,ll  her  dowers  and  joTBtures — 

"  The  widow'd  lady  to  her  cot  retir'd : 
And  there  she  lives,  delighted  and  admir'd ! 


KEATS'  POEMS. 


413 


Civil  to  all,  compliant  and  polite, 
Dispos'd  to  think,  '  whatever  is,  is  ri^ht.' 
At  home  awhile — she  in  the  autumn  tinds 
The  sea  an  object  for  reflecting  minds. 
And  change  for  tender  spirits :  There  she  reads. 
And  weeps  in  comfort,  in  her  graceful  weeds  !" 

Vol.  ii.  p.  213. 

The  concluding  tale  is  but  the  end  of  the 
visit  to  the  Hall,  and  the  settlement  of  the 
younger  brother  near  his  senior,  in  the  way 
we  have  already  mentioned.  It  contains  no 
great  matter ;  but  there  is  so  much  good  na- 
ture and  goodness  of  heart  about  it,  that  we 
cannot  resist  the  temptation  of  gracing  our 
exit  with  a  bit  of  it.  After  a  little  raillery, 
the  elder  brother  says — 

"'We  part  no  more,  dear  Richard!    Thou  wilt 

need 
Thy  brother's  help  to  teach  thy  boys  to  read  ; 
And  I  should  love  to  hear  Matilda's  psalm, 
To  keep  my  spirit  in  a  morning  calm, 
And  feel  the  soft  devotion  that  prepares 
The  soul  to  rise  above  its  earthly  cares  ; 
Then  thou  and  I,  an  independent  two, 
May  have  our  parties,  and  defend  them  too ; 
Thy  liberal  notions,  and  my  loyal  fears. 
Will  give  us  subjects  for  our  future  years ; 
We  will  for  truth  alone  contend  and  read. 
And  our  good  Jaques  shall  o'ersee  our  creed.'  " 

Vol.  ii.  pp.  348,  349. 

And  then,  after  leading  him  up  to  his  new 
purchase,  he  adds  eagerly — 

"  '  Alight,  my  friend,  and  come, 
I  do  beseech  thee,  to  that  proper  home  ! 


Here,  on  this  lawn,  thy  boys  and  girls  shall  run. 
And  play  their  gambols,  when  their  tasks  are  done 
There,  from  that  window,  shall  their  mother  view 
The  happy  tribe,  and  smile  at  all  they  do ; 
While  thou,  more  gravely,  hiding  thy  delight, 
Shalt  cry,  "  O  !  childish  !"  and  enjoy  the  sight  !'  '■ 

Vol.  ii.  p.  352. 

We  shall  be  abused  by  our  political  and 
fastidious  readers  for  the  length  of  this  article. 
But  we  cannot  repent  of  it.  It  will  give  as 
much  pleasure,  we  believe,  and  do  as  much 
good,  as  many  of  the  articles  that  are  meant 
for  thei}'  gratification;  and,  if  it  appear  absurd 
to  quote  so  largely  from  a  popular  and  acces- 
sible work,  it  should  be  remembered,  that  no 
work  of  this  magnitude  passes  into  circulation  L 
with  half  the  rapidity  of  our  Journal — and 
that  Mr.  Crab  be  is  so  unequal  a  writer,  and 
at  times  so  unattractive,  as  to  require,  more 
than  any  other  of  his  degree,  some  explana- 
tion of  his  system,  and  some  specimens  of 
his  powers,  from  those  experienced  and  in- 
trepid readers  whose  business  it  is  to  pioneer 
for  the  lazier  sort,  and  to  give  some  account 
of  what  they  are  to  meet  with  on  their  journey. 
To  be  sure,  all  this  is  less  necessary  now  than 
it  was  on  Mr.  Crabbe's  first  re-appearance 
nine  or  ten  years  ago ;  and  though  it  may  not 
be  altogether  without  its  use  even  at  present, 
it  may  be  as  well  to  confess,  that  we  have 
rather  consulted  our  own  gratification  than 
our  readers'  improvement,  in  what  we  have 
now  said  of  him ;  and  hope  they  will  forgive 


(august,  1820.) 


1.  Endymion:  a  Poetic  Romance. 

2.  Lamia,  Isabella^   The  Eve  of 


"EndymionJ'     12mo.  pp.200.    London:  1820.* 


By  John  Keats.    8vo.  pp.207.     London:  1818. 
St.  Agnes,  and  other  Poems.     By  John  Keats,  author  of 


We  had  never  happened  to  see  either  of 
these  volumes  till  very  lately — and  have  been 
axceedingly  struck  with  the  genius  they  dis- 
play, and  the  spirit  of  poetry  which  breathes 
through  all  their  extravagance.  That  imita- 
tion of  our  old  writers,  and  especially  of  our 
older  dramatists,  to  which  we  cannot  help 
flattering  ourselves  that  w^e  have  somewhat 
contributed,  has  brought   on,  as  it  were,  a 

.-second  spring  in  our  poetry ; — and  few  of  its 
blossoms  are  either  more  profuse  of  sweet- 
niJss,~df  richer 'iii  promise,  than  this  which  is 

"nSTw  before  us.  Mr.  Keats,  we  understand,  is 
BtilJ  a  very  young  man ',  and  his  whole  works, 

*I  still  think  that  a  poet  of  great  power  and 
promise  was  lost  to  us  by  the  premature  death  of 
Keats,  in  the  twenty-fifth  year  of  his  age  ;  and  re- 
gret that  I  did  not  go  more  largely  into  the  exposi- 
tion of  his  merits,  in  the  slight  notice  of  them, 
which  I  now  venture  to  reprint.  But  though  I  can- 
not, with  propriety,  or  without  departing  from  the 
principle  which  must  govern  this  republication,  now 
supply  this  omission,  I  hope  to  be  forgiven  for 
having  added  a  page  or  two  to  the  citations, — by 
which  my  opinion  of  those  merits  was  then  illus- 
trated, and  is  again  left  to  the  judgment  of  the  reader. 


'  indeed,  bear  evidence  enough  of  the  fact. 

1  They  are  full  of  extravagance  and  irregu- 
larity, rash  attempts  at  originality,  intermin  , 
able  wanderings,  and  excessive  obscurity. 
They  manifestly  require,  therefore,  all  the  in 
dulgence  that  can  be  claimed  for  a  first  at- 
tempt : — But  we  think  it  no  less  plain  that 
they  deserve  it :  For  they  are  flushed  all  over 
with  the  rich  lights  of  fancyj  and  so  coloured 
and  bestrewn  with  the  flowers  of  poetry,  that 
even  while  perplexed  and  bewildered  in  their 
labyrinths,  it  is  impossible  to  resist  the  intoxi- 
cation of  their  sweetness,  or  to  shut  our  hearts 
to  The  enchantments  they  so  lavishly  present. 
The  models  upon  which  he  has  formed  him- 
self, in  the  Endymion,  the  earliest  and  by 
much  the  most  considerable  of  his  poems,  are 
obviously  The  Faithful  Shepherdess  of  Fletch- 
er, and  the  Sad  Shepherd  of  Ben  Jonson ; — 
the  exquisite  metres  and  inspir(3d  dictiou'tif 
wKTchne  Has" copied  with  great  boldness  and 
fidelity — and,  like  his  great  originals,  has  also 
contrived  to  impart  to  the  whole  piece  that 
true  rural  and  poetical  air — wliich  breathes 
bflly  in  them,  and  in  Theocritus — which  is  a  i 


414 


POETRY. 


once  homely  and  majestiCj  luxurious  and  rade 


and  sets  before  us  the  P'enuine  slights  an 


soiinds  and  smells  of  the  country-j  with  all 
the  mag-ic  and  grace  of  Elysium,  His  sub- 
ject has  the  disadvantage  of  being  Mytholog- 
ical: and  in  this  respect,  as  well  as  on  ac- 
count of  the  raised  and  rapturous  tone  it  con- 
sequently assumes,  his  poem,  it  may  be 
thought,  would  be.  better  compared  to  the 
Comus  and  the  Arcades  of  Milton,  of  which, 
also,  there  are  many  traces  of  imitation.  The 
great  distinction,  however,  between  him  and 
these  divine  authors,  is,  that  imag^li^aJB 
them  is  subordinate  to  reason  arid  jucTgment, 
while,  with  him,  it  is  paramount  and  supreme 
-^hat  their  ornaments  and  images  are  em- 
ployed" to  emlDellish  and  recommend  just 
sertriments,  engaging  incidents,  and  natural 
characters,  while  his  are  poured  out  without 
measure  or  restraint,  and  with  no  apparent 
design  but  to  unburden  the  breast  of  the 
iratiror;iand  'giim  vent  to  the  overflowing  vein 
of  his  fancy-."  The  thin  and' ^seantytissiie  of 
"his  story  is  merely  the  light  framework  on 
which  his  florid  wreaths  are  suspended  ',  and 
while  his  irnaginations  go  rambling  and  en- 
tangling themselves  every  where,  like  wild 
honeysuckles,  all  idea  of  sober  reason,  and 
plan,  and  consistency,  is  utterly  forgotten,  and 
'•  strangled  in  their  waste  fertility."  A  great 
part  of  the  work,  indeed,  is  written  in  the 
strangest  and  most  fantastical  manner  that 
can  be  imagined.  It  seems  as  if  the  author 
had  ventured  every  thing  that  occurred  to 
him  in  the  shape  of  a  glittering  image  or 
striking  expression — taken  the  first  word  that 
presented  itself  to  make  up  a  rhyme,  and  then 
made  that  word  the  germ  of  a  new  cluster  of 
images — a  hint  for  a  new  excursion  of  the 
fancy — and  so  wandered  on,  equally  forgetful 
whence  he  came,  and  heedless  whither  he 
was  going,  till  he  had  covered  his  pages  with 
an  interminable  arahesque  of  connected  and 
incongruous  figures,  that  multiplied  as  they 
extended,  and  were  only  harmonised  by  the 
brightness  of  their  tints,  and  the  graces  of 
their  forms.  In  this  rash  and  headlong  career 
he  has  of  course  many  lapses  and  failures. 
There  is  no  work,  accordingly,  from  wdiich  a 
malicious  critic  could  cull  more  matter  for 
ridicule,  or  select  more  obscure,  unnatural,  or 
absurd  passages.  But  we  do  not  take  that  to 
be  our  office ; — and  must  beg  leave,  on  the 
'contrary,  to  say,  that  any  one  who,  on  this 
account,  would  represent  the  whole  poem  as 
despicable,  must  either  have  no  notion  of 
poetry,  or  no  regard  to  truth. 

It  is,  in  truth,  at  least  as  full  of  genius  as 
of  absurdity:  arid  he  who  does  not  find  a 
great  deal  in 'it  to  admire  and  to  give  delight, 
cannot  in  his  heart  see  much  beauty  in  the 
two  exquisite  dramas  to  which  we  nave  al- 
ready alluded ;  or  find  any  great  pleasure  in 
some  of  the  finest  creations  of  JVIilton  and 
Shakespeare.  There  are  very  many  such  per- 
sons, we  verily  believe,  even  among  the  read- 
ing and  judicious  part  of  the  community — 
correct  scholars,  we  have  no  doubt,  many  of 
them,  and,  it  may  be,  very  classical  composers 
in  prose  and  in  verse — but  utterly  ignorant,  on 


our  view  of  the  matter,  of  the  true  genius  of 
English  poetry,  and  incapable  of  estimatmg 
its  appropriate  and  most  exquisite  beauties. 
With  that  spirit  we  have  no  hesitation  in  say- 
ing that  Mr.  Keats  is  deeply  imbued — and  of 
those  beauties  he  has  presented  us  with  manj 
striking  examples.  ;  We  are  very  much  in- 
clined indeed  to  add,  that  we  do  not  know 
any  book  which  we  would  sooner  employ  aa 
a  test  to  ascertain  whether  any  one  had  in  ^ 
him  a  native  relish  for  poetry,  and  a  genuine  j 
sensibility  to  its  intrinsic  charm:) The  greater 
and  more  distinguished  poets  of  our  country 
have  so  much  else  in  them,  to  gratify  other 
tastes  and  propensities,  that  they  are  pretty 
sure  to  captivate  and  amuse  those  to  whom 
their  poetry  may  be  but  an  hinderance  and 
obstruction,  as  well  as  those  to  whom  it  con- 
stitutes their  chief  attraction.     The  interest 
of  the  stories  they  tell — the  vivacity  of  the 
characters  they  delineate — the   weight   and 
force  of  the  maxims  and  sentiments  in  which 
they  abound — the  very  pathos,  and  wit  and 
humour  they  display,  which  may  all  and  each 
of  them  exist  apart  from  their  poetry,  and  in- 
dependent of  it,  are  quite  sufficient  to  account 
for  their  popularity/ wnthout  referring  much 
to  that  still  higher  gift,  by  which  they  subdue 
to  their  enchantments  those  whose  souls  are 
truly  attuned  to  the  finer  impulses  of  poetry. 
It  is  only,  therefore,  where  those  other  recom- 
mendations are  wanting,  or  exist  in  a  weaker 
degree,  that  the  true  force  of  the  attraction, 
exercised  by  the  pure  poetry  with  which  they  SQ. 
are  so  ofteji  combined,  can  be  fairly  appre- 
ciated:— -^here.   without   much  incident   or 
many  chaVacters,  and  with  little  wit,  wisdom, 
or  arrangement,  a  number  of  bright  pictures  j 
are  presented  to  the  imagination,  and  a  fine  i 
feeling  expressed  of  those  mysterious  relations 
by  w^hich  visible  external  things  are_ assimi- 
lated  with~m\var3^'!hough'ts  and  emotion .s.  and     i 
b'ecome  the  images  a^d  exponents  of  airpag^^Ty 
sions  arid  aff'ections.   To  an  unpoetical  reader 
such  'passag'6'§  ■  will  generally  appear  mere 
raving  and  absurdity — and  to  this  censure  a 
very  great  part  of  the  volumes  before  us  will 
certainly  be  exposed,  with  this  class  of  read-     , 
ers.  Even  in  the  judgment  of  a  fitter  audience, 
however,  it  must,  we  fear,  be  admitted,  that, 
besides  the  riot  and  extravagance  of  his  fancy 
the  scope  and  substance  of  Mr.  Keats'  poetry 
is  rather  too  dreamy  aiidaT)sfracte(ttt>  excite 
the  strongest  interest,  or  to  stistain  the  atten 
tion  through  a  work  of  any  great  compass  or 
extent.     He  deals  too  much  with  shadowy 
and  incomprehensible  beings,  and  is  too  con- 
stantly rapt  iiito"  an  extramundane  Elysium, 
to  command  a  lasting  interest  with  ordinary 
mortals— and  must   employ  the   agency  ot 
more  varied  and  coarser  emotions,  if  he  wishes 
to  take  rank  with  the  enduring  poets  of  this 
or  of  former  generations.   There  is  something 
very  curious,  too,  we  think,  in  the  way  in 
which  he,  and  Mr.  Barry  Cornwall  also,  have 
dealt  with   the   Pagan  mythology,  of  which 
they  have  made  so  much  use  in  their  poetry. 
Instead  of  presenting  its  imaginary  persons 
under  the  trite  and  vulgxir  traits  that  belong 
to  them  in  the  ordinary  systems,  little  mcie 


M 


KEATS'  POEMS. 


4i^ 


18  borrowed  from  these  than  the  general  con- 
ception of  their  condition  and  relations;  and 
.,  an  original  character  and  distinct  individuality- 
is  then  bestowed  upon  them,  which  has  all 
the  merit  of  invention,  and  all  the  grace  and 
attraction  of  the  fictions  on  which  it  is  en- 
grafted.   The  ancientSj  though  they  probably 
did  not  stand  in  any  great  awe  of  their  dei- 
ties, have  yet  abstained  very  much  from  any 
minute   or  dramatic  representation  of  their 
feelings  and  affections.  In  Hesiod  and  Homer, 
they  are  broadly  delineated  by  some  of  their 
actions  and  adventures,  and  introduced  to  us 
merely  as  the  agents  in  those  particular  trans- 
actions;  while   in   the   Hymns,   from    those 
ascribed    to   Orpheus  and  Homer,  down  to 
I  those  of  Callimachus,  we  have  little  but  pomp- 
ous epithets  and  invocations,  with  a  flattering- 
commemoration  of  their  most  famous  exploits 
— and  are  never  allowed  to  enter  into  their 
j  bosoms,  or  follow  out  the  train  of  their  feel- 
I  ings,  with  the  presumption   of  our  human 
i  sympathy.     Except  the  love-song  of  the  Cy- 
•  clops  to  his  Sea  Nymph  in  Theocritus — the 
Lamentation  of  Venus  for  Adonis  in  Moschus 
--and  the  more  recent  Legend  of  Apuleius, 
we  scarcely  recollect   a  passage   in  all  the 
writings  of  antiquity  in  which  the  passions  of 
,.  an  immortal  are  fairly  disclosed  to  the  scrutiny 
I  ^nd  observation  of  men.     The  author  before 
\  us,  however,  and  some  of  his  contemporaries, 
I  have  dealt  differently  with  the  subject ; — and, 
(sheltering  the  violence  of  the  fiction  under 
\i\\e  ancient  traditionary  fable,  have  in  reality 
iweated  and  imagined  an  entire  new  set  of 
^laracters ;  and  brought  closely  and  minutely 
before  us  the  loves  and  sorrows  and"  perplexi- 
tieErof-berrnrs,'with  whose  names  and  super- 
natural attributes  Afe  had  long  been  familiar, 
without  any  sense  or  feeling  of  their  personal 
character.    We  have  more  than  doubts  of  the 
fitness  of  such  personas^es  to  maintain  a  per- 
manent interest  with  the  modern  public; — 
J)ut  the  Avay  in  which  they  are  here  managed 
"certainly  gives   them  the  best  chance   that 
now  remains  for  them ;  and,  at  all  events,  it 
cannot  t)e  denied  that  tlie  effect  is  striking 
ami'gTa«ef»}-.   -But  we  must  now  proceed  to 
OTlr  extracts. 

The  first  of  the  volumes  before  us  is  occu- 
pied with  the  loves  of  Endymion  and  Diana — 
which  it  would  not  be  very  easy,  and  which 
we  do  not  at  all  intend  to  analyse  in  detail. 
In  the  beginning  of  the  poem,' however,  the 
Shepherd  Prince  is  represented  as  having  had 
strange  visions  and  delirious  interviews  with 
an  unknown  and  celestial  beauty :  Soon  after 
which,  he  is  called  on  to  preside  at  a  festival 
in  honour  of  Pan ;  and  his  appearance  in  the 
procession  is  thus  described  : — 

"His  youth  was  fiilly  blown, 

Showing  hke  Ganymede  to  manhood  grown  ; 

And,  for  those  simple  limes,  his  garments  were 

A  chieftain  king's  :  Beneath  his  breast,  half  bare, 

Was  hung  a  silver  bugle  ;  and  between 

His  nervy  knees  there  lay  a  boar-spear  keen. 

\  smile  was  en  his  countenance  :   He  seem'd. 

To  common  lookers  on,  like  one  who  dream'd 

Of  idleness  in  groves  Elysian  : 

But  there  were  some  who  feelingly  could  scan 

A.  lurking  trouble  in  his  nether  lip, 


And  see  that  oftentimes  the  reins  would  slip 
Through  his  forgotten  hands  !" — pp.  11, 12. 

There  is  then  a  choral  hymn  addressee!  to 
the  sylvan  deity,  which  appears  to  us  to  be 
full^oLh^auty;  and  reminds  us,  in  many 
places,  of  the  finest  strains  of  Sicilian — or  of 
Enghsh  poetry.     A  part  of  it  is  as  follows : — 

"  '  O  thou,  whose  mighty  palace  roof  doth  hang 
From  jagged  trunks  ;  and  overshadoweth 
Eternal  whispers,  glooms,  the  binh,  liie,  death 
Of  unseen  flowers,  in  heavy  peacefulness  ! 
Who  lov'st  to  see  the  hamadryads  dress 
Their  ruffled  locks,  where  meeting  hazels  darken  ; 
And  through  whole  solemn  hours  dost   sit,   and 
The  dreary  melody  of  bedded  reeds —       [hearken 
In  desolate  places,  where  dank  moisture  breeds 
The  pipy  hemlock  to  strange  overgrowth. — 

"  '  O  thou,  for  whose  soul-soothing  quiet,  turtle* 
Passion  their  voices  cooingly  'mong  mwtles, 
What  time  thou  wanderest  at  eventide" 
Through  sunny  meadows,  that  outskirt  the  side 
Of  thine  enmossed  realms :  O  thou,  to  whom 
Broad  leaved  fig  trees  even  now  foredoom 
Their  ripen'd  fruitage  ;  yellow  girted  bees 
Their  golden  honeycombs  ;  our  village  leas 
Their  fairest  blossom'd  beans  and  poppiecl  corn 
The  chuckHng  linnet  its  five  young  unborn, 
To  sing  for  thee  ;  low  creeping  strawberries 
Their  summer  coolness  ;  pent  up  butterflies 
Their  freckled  wings  ;  yea,  the  fresh  budding  yeai 
All  its  completions  !  be  quickly  near, 
By  every  wind  that  nods  the  mountain  pine, 
O  forester  divine ! 

"  '  Thou,  to  whom  every  fawn  and  satyr  flies 
For  wiUing  service  ;  whether  to  surprise 
The  squatted  hare  while  in  half  sleeping  fit ; 
Or  upward  ragged  precipices  flit 
To  save  poor  lambkins  irom  the  eagle's  maw; 
Or  by  mysterious  enticement  draw 
Bewilder'd  shepherds  to  their  path  again  ; 
Or  to  tread  breathless  round  the  frothy  main. 
And  gather  up  all  fancifullest  shells 
For  thee  to  tumble  into  Naiad's  cells, 
And,  being  hidden,  laugh  at  their  out-peeping! 
Or  to  delight  thee  with  fantastic  leaping. 
The  while  they  pelt  each  other  on  the  crown 
With  silv'ry  oak  apples,  and  fir  cones  brown- 
By  all  the  echoes  that  about  thee  ring ! 
Hear  us,  O  satyr  King ! 

"  '  O  Hearkener  to  the  loud  clapping  shears, 
While  ever  and  anon  to  his  shorn  peers 
A  ram  goes  bleating:  Winder  of  the  horn, 
When  snouted  wild-boars  routing  tender  corn 
Anger  our  huntsmen  !  Breather  round  our  farms. 
To  keep  off  mildews,  and  all  weather  harms: 
Strange  ministrant  of  undescribed  sounds. 
That  come  a  swooning  over  hollow  grounds, 
And  wither  drearily  on  barren  moors  !'  " 

pp.  114—117. 

The  enamoured  youth  sinks  into  insensi- 
bility in  the  midst  of  the  solemnity,  and  is 
borne  apart  and  revived  by  the  care  of  hia 
sister;  and,  opening  his  heavy  eyes  in  hei 
arms,  says — 

"  '  I  feel  this  thine  endearing  love 
All  through  my  bosom  !  Thou  art  as  a  dove 
Trembling  its  closed  eyes  and  sleeked  wings 
About  me  ;  and  the  pearliest  dew  not  brings 
Such  morning  incense  from  the  fields  of  May, 
As  do  those  brighter  drops  that  twinkling  stray 
From  those  kind  eyes.     Then  think  not  thou 
That,  any  longer,  I  will  pass  my  days 
Alone  and  sad.     No  !   I  will  once  more  raise 
My  voice  upon  the  mountain  heights  ;  once  rnor« 
Make  my  horn  parley  from  their  foreheads  hoar  ! 
Again  my  trooping  hounds  their  tongues  shall  loll 
Around  the  breathed  boar :  again  I'll  poll 


416 


POETRV. 


The  fair-grown  yew  tree,  for  a  chosen  bow  : 
And,  when  the  pleasant  sun  is  getting  low. 
Again  I'll  linger  in  a  sloping  mead 
To  hear  the  speckled  thrushes,  and  see  feed 
Our  idle  sheep.     So  be  thou  cheered,  sweet, 
And,  if  thy  lute  is  here,  softly  intreat 
My  soul  to  keep  in  its  resolved  course.' 

"  Hereat  Peona,  in  their  silver  source 

Shut  her  pure  sorrow  drops,  with  glad  exclaim  ; 

And  took  a  lute,  from  which  there  pulsing  came 

A  lively  prelude,  fashioning  the  way 

In  which  her  voice  should  wander.    'Twas  a  lay 

More  subtle  cadenced,  more  forest  wild 

Than  Dryope's  lone  lulling  of  her  child  ; 

And  nothing  since  has  floated  in  the  air 

So  mournful  strange." — pp.  25 — 27- 

He  then  tells  her  all  the  story  of  his  love 
and  madness ;  and  gives  this  airy  sketch  of 
the  first  vision  he  had,  or  fancTea  he  had,  of 
his  descending  Goddess.  After  some  rapturous 
intimations  of  the  glories  of  her  gold-burnished 
hair,  he  says — 

"  She  had. 

Indeed,  locks  bright  enough  to  make  me  mad  ! 
And  they  were  simply  gordian'd  up  and  braided, 
Leaving,  in  naked  comeliness,  unshaded, 
Her  pearl  round  ears,  white  neck,  and  orbed  brow  ; 
The  which  were  blended  in,  I  know  not  how. 
With  such  a  paradise  of  lips  and  eyes, 
Blush-tinted  cheeks,  half  smiles,  and  faintest  sighs, 
That  when  I  think  thereon,  my  spirit  clings 
And  melts  into  the  vision !" 

"  And  then  her  hovering  feet ! 
More  bluely  vein'd,  more  soft,  more  whitely  sweet 
Than  those  of  sea-born  Venus,  when  she  rose 
From  out  her  cradle  shell !  The  wind  outblows 
Her  scarf  into  a  fluttering  pavilion  ! — 
'Tis  blue ;  and  overspangled  with  a  million 
Of  little  eyes  ;  as  though  thou  wert  to  shed 
Over  the  darkest,  lushest  blue  bell  bed, 
Handfuls  of  daisies." — 

Overpowered  by  this  "celestial  colloquy 
sublime,"  he  sinks  at  last  into  slumber — and 
on  wakening  finds  the  scene  disenchanted; 
and  the  dull  shades  of  evening  deepening  over 
his  solitude : — 

"  Then  up  I  started. — Ah  !  my  sighs,  my  tears  ! 
My  clenched  hands  !     For  lo  !   the  poppies  hung 
Dew  dabbled  on  their  stalks  ;  the  ouzel  sung 
A  heavy  ditty  ;  and  the  sullen  day 
Had  chidden  herald  Hesperus  away. 
With  leaden  looks.     The  sohtary  breeze 
Bluster'd  and  slept ;  and  its  wild  self  did  teaze 
With  wayward  melancholy.     And  I  thought, 
Mark  me,  Peona  !  that  sometimes  it  brought, 
Faint  Fare-thee-wells — and  sigh-shrilled  Adieus !" 

Soon  after  this  he  is  led  away  by  butterflies 

ta  the  haunts  of  Naiads ;  and  by  them  sent 

down  into  enchanted  caverns,  where  he  sees 

Venus  and  Adonis,  and  great  flights  of  Cupids; 

and  wanders  over  diamond  terraces  among 

beautiful  fountains  and  temples  and  statues, 

and  all  sorts  of  fine  and  strange  things.     All 

this  is  very  fantastical :  But  there  are  splendid 

^jjieces  of  descriptiojii,,9.nd  asortof  wild  rich- 

"ness  in  the  whole.    We  cull  a  few  little  mor- 

"sels.'     This  is  the  picture   of  the  sleeping 

Adonis : — 

"  In  midst  of  all,  there  lay  a  sleeping  youth 
Of  fondest  beauty.     Sideway  his  face  repos'd 
On  one  white  arm,  and  tenderly  unclos'd. 
By  tenderest  pressure,  a  faint  damask  mouth 
To  slumbery  pout ;  just  as  the  morning  south 


Disparts  a  dew-Iipp'd  rose.    Above  his  head, 
Four  lily  stalks  did  their  white  honours  wed 
To  make  a  coronal ;  and  round  him  grew 
All  tendrils  green,  of  every  bloom  and  hue, 
Together  intertwin'd  and  trammel'd  fresh: 
The  vine  of  flossy  sprout ;  the  ivy  mesh. 
Shading  its  Ethiop  berries  ;  and  woodbine. 
Of  velvet  leaves  and  bugle-blooms  divine. 

"  Hard  by, 
Stood  serene  Cupids  watching  silently. 
One  kneeling  to  a  lyre,  touch'd  the  strings, 
Muffling  to  death  the  pathos  with  his  wings ! 
And,  ever  and  anon,  uprose  to  look 
At  the  youth's  slumber ;  while  another  took 
A  willow-bough,  distilling  odorous  dew, 
And  shook  it  on  his  hair  ;  another  flew 
In  through  the  woven  roof,  and  fluttering-wise 
Rain  violets  upon  his  sleeping  eyes." — pp.  72,  73= 

Here  is  another,  and  more  classical  sketch, 
of  Cybele — with  a  picture  of  lions  that  might 
excite  the  envy  of  Rubens,  or  Edwin  Land- 
seer  I 

"  Forth  from  a  rugged  arch,  in  the  dusk  below, 
Came  mother  Cybele  !  alone — alone  ! — 
In  sombre  chariot :  dark  foldings  thrown 
About  her  majesty,  and  front  death-pale 
With  turrets  crown'd.     Four  maned  hons  hale 
The  sluggish  wheels  ;  solemn  their  toothed  maws, 
Their  surly  eyes  brow-hidden,  heavy  paws 
Uplifted  drowsily,  and  nervy  tails 
Cowering  their  tawny  brushes.     Silent  sails 
This  shadowy  queen  athwart,  and  faints  away 
In  another  gloomy  arch  !" — p.  83. 

The  following  picture  of  the  fairy  water- 
works, which  he  unconsciously  sets  playing  in 
these  enchanted  caverns,  is,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, "  high  fantastical ;"  but  we  venture  to 
extract  it,  for  the  sake  of  the  singular  brilliancy 
and  force  of  the  execution  .^— 

"  So  on  he  hies 

Through  caves  and  palaces  of  mottled  ore, 
Gold  dome,  and  crystal  wall,  and  turquoise  floor, 
Black  polish'd  porticos  of  awful  shade. 
Till,  at  the  last,  a  diamond  ballustrade 
Leads  sparkling  just  above  the  silvery  heads 
Of  a  thousand  fountains  ;  so  that  he  could  dash 
The  waters  with  his  spear  !     But  at  that  splash. 
Done  heedlessly,  those  spouting  columns  rose 
Sudden  a  poplar's  height,  and  'gan  to  enclose 
His  diamond  path  with  fretwork,  streaming  round, 
Alive,  and  dazzling  cool,  and  with  a  sound 
Haply,  like  dolphin  tumults,  when  sweet  shells 
Welcome  the  car  of  Thetis  !     Long  he  dwells 
On  this  dehght ;  for  every  minute's  space. 
The  streams  with  changing  magic  interlace  ; 
Sometimes  like  delicatest  lattices, 
Cover'd  with  crystal  vines :  then  weeping  trees 
Moving  about,  as  in  a  gentle  wind  ; 
Which,  in  a  wfnk,  to  wat'ry  gauze  refin'd 
Pour  into  shapes  of  curtain'd  canopies. 
Spangled,  and  rich  with  liquid  broideries 
Of  Flowers,  Peacocks,  Swans,  and  Naiads  fair ! 
Swifter  than  lightning  went  these  wonders  rare  ; 
And  then  the  water  into  stubborn  streams 
Collecting,  mimick'd  the  wrought  oaken  beams, 
Pillars,  and  frieze,  and  high  fantastic  roof 
.Of  those  dark  places,  in  times  far  aloof 
Cathedrals  named  !" 

There  are  strange  melodies  too  around  him; 
and  their  eff'ect  on  the  fancy  is  thus  j^etically 
described : —  ^" 

"  Oh  !  when  the  airy  stress 
Of  Music's  kiss  impregnates  the  free  winds, 
And  with  a  sympathetic  touch  unbinds 
Eolian  magic  from  their  lucid  wombs, 
Then  old  songs  waken  from  forgotten  tomb* ! 


KEATS'  POEMS. 


417 


Old  ditties  sigh  above  their  father's  grave  ! 
Ghosts  of  melodious  prophesyings  rave 
Round  every  spot  where  trod  Apollo's  feet ! 
Bronze  clarions  awake,  and  faintly  bruit, 
Where  long  ago,  a  Giant  battle  was ! 
And  from  the  turf  a  lullaby  doth  pass, 
In  every  place  where  infant  Orpheus  slept !" 

In  the  midst  of  all  these  enchantments  he 
has,  we  do  not  very  well  know  how,  another 
ravishing  interview  with  his  unknown  god- 
dess; and  when  she  again  melts  away  from 
him,  he  finds  himself  in  a  vast  grotto,  where 
he  overhears  the  courtship  of  Alpheus  and 
Arethusa;  and  as  they  elope  together,  dis- 
covers that  the  grotto  has  disappeared,  and 
that  he  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  under  the 
transparent  arches  of  its  naked  waters !  The 
following  is  abundantly  extravagant;  but 
comes  of  no  ignoble  lineage— nor  shames  its 
high  descent : — 

*'  Far  had  he  roam'd. 
With  nothing  save  the  hollow  vast,  that  foam'd 
Above,  around,  and  at  his  feet ;  save  things 
More  dead  than  Morpheus'  imaginings  ! 
Old  rusted  anchors,  helmets,  breast-plates  large 
Of  gone  sea- warriors ;  brazen  beaks  and  targe ; 
Rudders  that  for  a  thousand  years  had  lost 
The  sway  of  human  hand  ;  gold  vase  embo&s'd 
With  long-forgotten  story,  and  wherein 
No  reveller  had  ever  dipp'd  a  chin 
But  those  of  Saturn's  vintage  ;  mould'ring  scrolls, 
Writ  in  the  tongue  of  heaven,  by  those  souls 
Who  first  were  on  the  earth  ;  and  sculptures  rude 
In  pond'rous  stone,  developing  the  mood 
Of  ancient  Nox  ; — then  skeletons  of  man, 
Of  beast,  behemoth,  and  leviathan. 
And  elephant,  and  eagle — and  huge  jaw 
Of  nameless  monster." p.  111. 

There  he  finds  ancient  Glaucus  enchanted 
by  Circe — hears  his  wild  story — and  goes  with 
him  to  the  deliverance  and  restoration  of  thou- 
sands of  drowned  lovers,  whose  bodies  were 
piled  and  stowed  away  in  a  large  submarine 
palace.  When  this  feat  is  happily  performed, 
he  finds  himself  again  on  dry  ground,  with 
woods  and  watej-s  around  him;  and  can- 
not help  falling  desperately  in  love  with  a 
beautiful  damsel  whom  he  finds  there,  pining 
for  some  sach  consolation ;  and  who  tells  a 
long  story  of  having  come  from  India  in  the 
train  of  Bacchus,  and  having  strayed  away 
from  him  into  that  forest ! — So  they  vow  eter- 
nal fidelity;  and  are  wafted  up  to  heaven  on 
flying  horses ;  on  which  they  sleep  and  dream 
among  the  stars; — and  then  the  lady  melts 
away,  and  he  is  again  alone  upon  the  earth ; 
but  soon  rejoins  his  Indian  love,  and  agrees 
to  give  up  his  goddess,  and  live  only  for  her : 
But  she  refuses,  and  says  she  is  resolved  to 
devote  herself  to  the  service  of  Diana:  But, 
when  she  goes  to  accomplish  that  dedication, 
she  turns  out  to  be  the  goddess  herself  in  a 
new  shape  !  and  finally  exalts  her  lover  with 
her  to  a  blessed  immortality ! 

We  have  left  ourselves  room  to  say  but  lit- 
tle of  the  second  volume ;  which  is  of  a  more 
miscellaneous  character.  Lamia  is  a  Greek 
antique  story,  in  the  measure  and  taste  of  En- 
dymion.  Isabella  is  a  paraphrase  of  the  same 
tale  of  Boccacio  wnich  Mr.  Cornwall  has  also 
imitated,  under  the  title  of  "  A  Sicilian  Story." 
It  would  be  worth  while  to  compare  the  two 
27 


imitations ;  but  we  have  no  longer  time  for 
such  a  task.  Mr.  Keats  has  followed  hia 
original  more  closely,  and  has  given  a  deep 
ga^lQ^  .to  several  of  his  stanzas.  The  widow- 
ed bride's  discovery  of  the  murdered  body  is 
very  strikingly  given . 

"  Soon  she  turn'd  up  a  soiled  glove,  whereon     . 

Her  silk  had  play'd  in  purple  phantasies! 
She  kiss'd  it  with  a  lip  more  chill  than  stone, 

And  put  it  in  her  bosom,  where  it  dries. 
Then  'gan  she  work  again  ;  nor  stay'd  her  caie, 
But  to  throw  back  at  times  her  veihng  hair. 

"  That  old  nurse  stood  beside  her,  wondering. 
Until  her  heart  felt  pity  to  the  core. 

At  sight  of  such  a  dismal  labouring ; 

And  so  she  kneeled,  with  her  locks  all  hoar, 

And  put  her  lean  hands  to  the  horrid  thing : 
Three  hours  they  labour'd  at  this  trivial  sore  ; 

At  last  they  felt  the  kernel  of  the  grave,  &,c. 

"  In  anxious  secrecy  they  took  it  home. 

And  then — the  prize  was  all  for  Isabel ! 

She  calm'd  its  wild  hair  with  a  golden  comb  ; 
And  all  around  each  eye's  sepulchral  cell 

Pointed  each  fringed  lash  :  The  smeared  loam 
With  tears,  as  chilly  as  a  dripping  well,    [kep' 

She  drench'd  away  : — and  still  she  comb'd,  an# 

Sighing  all  day — and  still  she  kiss'd,  and  wept 

"  Then  in  a  silken  scarf— sweet  with  the  dews 
Of  precious  flowers  pluck'd  in  Araby, 

And  divine  liquids  come  with  odorous  ooze 
Through  the  cold  serpent-pipe  refreshfully, — 

She  wrapp'd  it  up ;  and  for  its  tomb  did  choose 
A  garden  pot,  wherein  she  laid  it  by. 

And  cover'd  it  with  mould  ;  and  o'er  it  set 

Sweet  Basil,  which  her  tears  kept  ever  wet. 

"  And  she  forgot  the  stars,  the  moon,  the  sun  ! 
And  she  forgot  the  blue  above  the  trees ; 
And  she  forgot  the  dells  where  waters  run. 
And  she  forgot  the  chilly  autumn  breeze  ! 
She  had  no  knowledge  when  the  day  was  don*  , 
And  the  new  morn  she  gav/  not !    But  in  pejL^ 
Hung  over  her  sweet  Basil  evermore, 
And  moisten' d  it  with  tears,  unto  the  core  !" 

pp.  72—75. 

The  following  lines  from  an  ode  to  a  Niio^Ht-  ^ 
ingale  are  equally  distinguished  for  harmony  ' 
and  high  poetic  feeiing ; — 

"  0  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South  ! 

Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  thj  brim. 
And  pcrple-stained  mouth ! 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen. 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  tjic  forest  dim  . 
IV.de  ftr  away  !  dissolve — and  quite  forget 
What  Thou  among  the    leaves    hast   never 
known — 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  ifiret,     [groan  ; 
Here, — where  men  sit  and  hear  each   othei 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  grey  hairs, 
Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and 
dies ! 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden -eyed  despairs. 
The  voice  I  hear,  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown  ! 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 
Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when  sickfoi 
home, 
She  stood  m  tears  amid  the  alien  corn  ! 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charm'd  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam. 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn." 

pp.  108—111. 

We  know  nothing  at  once  so  truly  fresh, 
sj^^num^ "an'd    English^— aiid^.^jie  .same 


418 


POETRY. 


Jime,  BO_MlMLVQ&i^^M&}mS,i  and  Greek 
elegance  an(?.  s,«jipjiijsit;j;,,.?is  this  address  to 
Autumn  :— 

"  Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness — 
Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  Sun  ! 
Conspiring  with  him  now,  to  load  and  bless     [run  1 
With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eaves 
To  bend  with  apples  the  moss'd  cottage  trees, 
And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the- core  ; 
To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel  shells 
With  a  sweet  kernel ;  to  set  budding  more, 
And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees. 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease  ; 
For  Summer  has  o'er-brimm'd  their  clammy  cells. 

"  Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store  ? 

Sometimes,  whoever  seeks  abroad,  may  find 

Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind ; 

Or  on  a  half  reap'd  furrow  sound  asleep  I 

D rows' d  with  the  fumes  of  poppies  ;  while  thy  hook 

Spares  the  next  swarth,  and  all  its  twined  flowers ! 

And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner,  thou  dost  keep 

Steady  thy  laden  head,  across  a  brook ; 

Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look. 

Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours  ! 

"  Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring  ?  Ay,  where  are 

they? 
Think  not  of  them !    Thotc  hast  thy  music  too ; 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day, 
And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue  ! 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 
Among  the  river  sallows  ;  borne  aloft 
Or  sinking,  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies  ! 
And  full  grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn  ; 
Hedge-crickets  sing ;  and  now  with  treble  soft, 
The  redbreast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft. 
And  gath'ring  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies  !" 

One  of  the  sweetest  of  the  smaller  poems  is 
tfeCTernineT^^TIielVe  of  St.  Agnes :"  though 
we  can  now  afford  but  a  scanty  extract.  The 
superstition  is,  that  if  a  maiden  goes  to  bed 
on  that  night  without  supper,  and  never  looks 
up  after  saying  her  prayers  till  she  falls 
asleepj  she  will  see  her  destined  husband  by 
her  bed-side  the  moment  she  opens  her  eyes. 
The  fair  Madeline,  who  was  in  love  with  the 
gentle  Porphyro,  but  thwarted  by  an  imperi- 
ous guardian,  resolves  to  try  this  spell : — and 
Porphyro,  w^ho  has  a  suspicion  of  her  purpose, 
naturally  determines  to  do  what  he  can  to 
help  it  to  a  happy  issue ;  and  accordiugly 
prevails  on  her  ancient  rmrse  to  admit  him 
to  her  virgin  bower  :  where  he  watches  rev- 
erently, till  she  sinks  in  slumber; — arid  then, 
arranging  a  most  elegant  dessert  by  her 
couch,  and  gently  rousing  her  with  a  tender 
and  favourite  air,  finally  reveals  himself,  and 
persuades  her  to  steal  from  the  castle  under 
his  protection.  The  opening  stanza  is  a  fair 
specimen  of  the^swegjUjjesa.au^  .force^of^^jybyg 
composition. 

'St,  Agnes  Eve  !     Ah,  bitter  cold  it  was  ! 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  acold  ; 
The  hare  limp'd  trembling  through  the  frozen  grass. 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold  ! 
Numb  were  the  bedesman's  fingers,  while  he  told 
His  rosary  ;  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seem'd  taking  flight  for  heaven,  without  a  death, 
Past  the  sweet  virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayers  he 
saith." 

But  the  glory  and  charm  of  the  poem  is  in 
ine  description  of  the  fair  maiden's  antique 


chamber,  and  of  all  that  passes  in  that  sw'j#» 
and  angel-guarded  sanctuary :  every  pan  of     \ 
which  is  touched  with  colours~af  oiice  rich     i 
aird  "delicate — and  the  whole  chastened  and    / 
harmonised,  in  the  midst  of  its  gorgeous  dis-  ->' 
trnctness,  by  a  pervading  grace  and  purity,' 
that  indicate  not  less  clearly  the  exaltation- 
than  the  xefinement  of  the  author's  fancy. 
We'-camiat' resist  addiiig  a  gdb3  part  of  tmi 
description. 

"  Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in  ! 
Its  httle  smoke  in  pallid  moonshine  died  : 
The  door  she  closed  !     She  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide  I 
No  utter'd  syllable — or  woe  betide ! 
But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble ; 
Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side  ! 

*'  A  casement  high  and  treple-arch'd  there  was, 

All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 

Of  fruits  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass  •, 

And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device 

Innumerable,  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes. 

As  are  the  tiger  moth's  deep-damask' d  wings  I 

"  Full  on  this  casement  shown  the  wintery  moon. 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast, 
As  down  she  knelt  for  Heaven's  grace  and  boon  ! 
Rose  bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest, 
And  on  he'r  silver  cross,  soft  amethyst ; 
And  on  her  hair,  a  glory  Uke  a  saint ! 
She  seem'd  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest 
Save  wings,  for  heaven  ! — Porphyro  grew  faint, 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal  taint ! 

"Anon  his  heart  revives  !     Her  vespers  done. 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees ; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels,  one  by  one  ; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice  ;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees !, 
Half  hidden,  like  a  Mermaid  in  sea  weed. 
Pensive  a  while  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees 
In  fancy  fair,  St.  Agnes  on  her  bed  ! 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is  fled ! 

"  Soon,  trembling,  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest. 
In  sort  of  wakeful  dream,  perplex'd  she  lay  ; 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  Sleep  oppress'd 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away  ! 
Haven'd  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain, 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again  ! 

"  Stolen  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranc'd, 

Porphyro  gaz'd  upon  her  empty  dress, 

And  listen'd  to  her  breathing;  if  it  chanc'd 

To  sink  into  a  slumb'rous  tenderness? 

Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he  bless, 

And  breath'd  himself; — then  from  the  closet  crept^ 

Noiseless  as  Fear  in  a  wide  wilderness. 

And  over  the  hush'd  carpet  silent  stept. 

"  Then,  by  the  bed-side,  where  the  sinking  moon 
Made  a  dim  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set  "'■' 

A  table,  and,  half  anguish'd,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet,  &,c. 

"  And  still  she  slept — an  azure-Hdded  sleep  . 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavender'd  ; 
While  he,  from  forth  the  closet,  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd  ; 
With  jellies  smoother  than  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucent  syrups,  tinct  with  cinnamon  ; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferr'd 
From  Fez  ;  and  spiced  dainties  every  one. 
From  silken  Samarcand,  to  cedar' d  Lebanor. 

"  Those  delicates  he  heap'd  with  glowing  haiid, 

On  golden  dishes,  and  in  baskets  bright 

Of  wreathed  silver;  sumptuous  they  stand 

In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 

Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light. 

'  And  now,  my  love  !  my  Seraph  fair !  awake ! 

Ope  thy  sweet  eyes !  for  dear  St.  Agnes '  sake !' 


ROGERS'  HUMAN  LIFE. 


419 


It  is  difficult  to  break  off  in  such  a  course 
ftf  citation:  But  we  must  stop  herej  and 
ehall  close  our  extracts  with  the  following 
Uvely  lines : — 

•  O  sweet  Fancy  !  let  her  loose  ! 
,  Summer's  joys  are  spoilt  by  use, 
And  the  enjoying  of  the  Spring 
Fades  as  does  its  blossoming  ; 
Autumn's  red-Hpp'd  fruitage  too, 
Blushing  through  the  mist  and  dew, 
Cloys  with  tasting  :    .What  do  then  ? 
Sit  thee  by  the  ingle,  when 
The  sear  faggot  blazes  bright, 
Spirit  of  a  winter's  night ; 
When  the  soundless  earth  is  muffled. 
And  the  caked  snow  is  shuffled 
From  the  plough-boy's  heavy  shoon  ; 
When  the  Night  doth  meet  the  Noon, 
In  a  dark  conspiracy 
To  banish  Even  from  her  sky. 

— —  Thou  shalt  hear 
Distant  harvest  carols  clear ; 
Rustle  of  the  reaped  corn ; 
Sweet  birds  antheming  the  morn  ; 
And,  in  the  same  moment — hark  ! 
'Tis  the  early  April  lark. 
Or  the  rooks,  with  busy  caw. 
Foraging  for  sticks  and  straw. 
Thou  shalt,  at  one  glance,  behold 
The  daisy  and  the  marigold  ; 
White-plum'd  lilies,  and  the  first 
Hedge-grown  primrose  that  hath  burst ; 
Shaded  hyacinth,  alway 
Sapphire  queen  of  the  mid-May  ; 
And  every  leaf,  and  every  flower 


Pearled  with  the  self-same  shower. 
Thou  shalt  see  the  field-mouse  peep 
Meagre  from  its  celled  sleep  ; 
And  the  snake,  all  winter  thin. 
Cast  on  sunny  bank  its  skin  ; 
Freckled  nest-eggs  thou  shalt  Bee 
Hatching  in  the  hawthorn  tree. 
When  the  hen-bird's  wing  doth  rest 
Quiet  on  her  mossy  nest ; 
Then  the  hurry  and  alarm 
When  the  bee-hive  casts  its  swarm  ; 
Acorns  ripe  down  pattering. 
While  the  autumn  breezes  sing." 

pp.  122—125. 

There  is  a  fragment  of  a  projected  Epic, 
entitled  "Hyperion,"  on  the  expulsion  ol 
Saturn  and  the  Titanian  deities  by  Jupiter 
and  his  younger  adherents,  of  which  we  can- 
not advise  the  completion :  For,  though  there 
are  passages  of  some  force  and  grandeur,  it  is 
sufficiently  obvious,  from^  the  specimen  before 
us,  that  the^subject  is  too  far  removed  from 
all  the  sources'  of  human  interest,  to  be  sue- ' 
cessfully  treated  by  any  modern  author.  Mr. 
Keats  has  unquestionably  a  very  beautiful 
irnagination,  a  perfect  ear  for^Earrmmy^'arRi  a"^ 
great  familiarity  with  the  finest  diction  of 
English  poetry ;  but  he  must  learn  not  to  mis- 
Ttse  OT-rrrisappIy  these  advantages ;  and  neither 
to  waste  the  good  gifts  of  nature  and  study  on 
intractable  themes,  nor  to  luxuriate  top  reck- 
lessly on  such  as  are  more  suitable.  "''''*'^'^'^'' 


(matt§,  1819.) 

Human  Life :  a  Poem.    By  Samuel  Rogers.    4to.    pp.94.    London:  1819. 


These  are  very  sweet  verses.  They  do 
not,  indeed,  stir  the  spirit  like  the  strong  lines 
of  Byron,  nor  make  our  hearts  dance  within 
us,  like  the  inspiring  strains  of  Scott ;  but 
they  come  over  us  with  a  bewitching  soft- 
ness that,  in  certain  moods,  is  still  more  de- 
lightful— and  soothe  the  troubled  spirits  with 
a  refreshing  sense  of  truth,  purity,  and  ele- 
gance. They  are  pensive  rather  than  pas- 
sionate ;  and  more  full  of  wisdom  and  ten- 
derness than  of  high  flights  of  fancy,  or  over- 
whelming bursts  of  emotion — while  they  are 
moulded  into  grace,  at  least  as  much  by  the 
effect  of  the  Moral  beauties  they  disclose,  as 
by  the  taste  and  judgment  with  which  they 
are  constructed. 

/  The  theme  is  Human  Life  ! — not  only  "the 
•subject  of  all  verse  " — but  the  great  centre 
and  source  of  all  interest  in  the  works  of 
human  beings— to  which  both  verse  and  prose 
invariably  bring  us  back,  when  they  succeed 
m  rivetting  our  attention,  or  rousing  our  emo- 
tions— and  which  turns  every  thing  into  poetry 
to  which  its  sensibilities  can  be  ascribed,  or 
by  which  its  vicissitudes  can  be  suggested ! 
Yet  it  is  not  by  any  means  to  that  which,  in 
ordinary  language,  is  termed  the  poetry  or 
the  romance  of  human  life,  that  the  present 
work  is  directed.  The  life  which  it  endeav- 
tuTs  to  set  before  us,  is  not  life  diversified 


with  strange  adventures,  embodied  in  extra- 
ordinary characters,  or  agitated  with  turbu- 
lent passions — not  the  life  of  warlike  paladins, 
or  desperate  lovers,  or  sublime  ruffians — or 
piping  shepherds  or  sentimental  savages,  or 
bloody  bigots  or  preaching  pedlars — or  con- 
querors, poets,  or  any  other  species  of  mad- 
men— but  the  ordinary,  practical,  and  amiable 
life  of  social,  intelligent,  and  affectionate  men 
in  the  upper  ranks  of  society — such,  in  short, 
as  multitudes  may  be  seen  living  every  day 
in  this  country — for  the  picture  is  entirely 
English  —  and  though  not  perhaps  in  the 
choice  of  every  one,  yet  open  to  the  judg 
ment,  and  familiar  to  the  sympathies,  of  all. 
It  contains,  of  course,  no  story,  and  no  indi- 
vidual characters.  It  is  properly  and  pecu- 
liarly contemplative — and  consists  in  a  series 
of  reflections  on  our  mysterious  nature  and 
condition  upon  earth,  and  on  the  marvellous, 
though  unnoticed  changes  which  the  ordinary 
course  of  our  existence  is  continually  bringing 
about  in  our  being.  Its  marking  peculiarity 
in  this  respect  is,  that  it  is  free  from  the  least 
alloy  of  acrimony  or  harsh  judgment,  and 
deals  not  at  all  indeed  in  any  species  of  satiri- 
cal or  sarcastic  remark.  The  poet  looks  here 
on  man,  and  teaches  us  to  look  on  him,  not 
merely  with  love,  but  with  reverence ;  and, 
mingling  a  sort  of  considerate  pity  for  tha 


420 


POETRY. 


shortness  of  his  busy  little  career,  and  the 
disappointments  and  weaknesses  by  which  it 
is  besetj  with  a  genuine  admiration  of  the 
great  capacities  he  unfolds,  and  the  high  des- 
tiny to  which  he  seems  to  be  reserved,  works 
out  a  very  beautiful  and  engaging  picture, 
both  of  the  affections  by  which  Life  is  en- 
deared, the  trials  to  which  it  is  exposed,  and 
the  pure  and  peaceful  enjoyments  with  which 
it  may  often  be  filled. 

This,  after  all,  we  believe,  is  the  tone  of 
true  wisdom  and  true  virtue — and  that  to 
which  all  good  natures  draw  nearer,  as  they 
approach  the  close  of  life,  and  come  to  act 
less,  and  to  know  and  to  meditate  more,  on 
the  varying  and  crowded  scene  of  human  ex- 
istence.— When  the  inordinate  hopes  of  early 
youth,  which  provoke  their  own  disappoint- 
ment, have  been  sobered  down  by  longer  ex- 
perience and  more  extended  views — when  the 
keen  contentions,  and  eager  rivalries,  which 
employed  our  riper  age,  have  expired  or  been 
abandoned — when  we  have  seen,  year  after 
year,  the  objects  of  our  fiercest  hostility,  and  of 
our  fondest  affections,  lie  down  together  in  the 
hallowed  peace  of  the  grave — when  ordinary 
pleasures  and  amusements  begin  to  be  insipid, 
and  the  gay  derision  which  seasoned  them  to 
appear  flat  and  importunate — when  we  reflect 
how  often  we  have  mourned  and  been  com- 
forted— what  opposite  opinions  w^e  have  suc- 
cessively maintained  and  abandoned — to  what 
inconsistent  habits  we  have  gradually  been 
formed — and  how  frequently  the  objects  of 
our  pride  have  proved  the  sources  of  our 
shame  !  we  are  naturally  led  to  recur  to  the 
careless  days  of  our  childhood,  and  from  that 
distant  starting  place,  to  retrace  the  whole 
of  our  career,  and  that  of  our  contemporaries, 
with  feelings  of  far  greater  humility  and  indul- 
gence than  those  by  which  it  had  been  actu- 
ally accompanied : — to  think  all  vain  but  af- 
fection and  honour — the  simplest  and  cheap- 
est pleasures  the  truest  and  most  precious — 
and  generosity  of  sentiment  the  only  mental 
superiority  which  ought  either  to  be  wished 
for  or  admired. 

We  are  aware  that  we  have  said  "  some- 
thing too  much  of  this ;"  and  that  our  readers 
would  probably  have  been  more  edified,  as 
well  as  more  delighted,  by  Mr.  Rogers'  text, 
than  with  our  preachment  upon  it.  But  we 
were  anxious  to  convey  to  them  our  sense  of 
the  spirit  in  which  this  poem  is  written ; — and 
conceive,  indeed,  that  what  we  have  now 
said  falls  more  strictly  within  the  line  of  our 
critical  duty,  than  our  general  remarks  can 
always  be  said  to  do; — because  the  true 
character  and  poetical  effect  of  the  work 
seems,  in  this  instance,  to  depend  much  more 
on  its  moral  expression,  than  on  any  of  its 
merely  literary  qualities. 

The  author,  p^haps,  may  not  think  it  any 
compliment  to  be  thus  told,  that  his  verses 
are  likely  to  be  greater  favourites  with  the 
old  than  with  the  young ; — and  yet  it  is  no 
small  compliment,  we  think,  to  say,  that  they 
are  likely  to  be  more  favourites  M'ith  his 
readers  every  year  they  live : — And  it  is  at 
all  events  true,  whether  it  be  a  compliment 


or  not,  that  as  reaaers  of  all  ages,  if  they  am 
any  way  worth  pleasing,  have  little  glimpses 
and  occasional  visitations  of  those  truths  which 
longer  experience  only  renders  more  familiar, 
so  no  works  ever  sink  so  deep  into  amiable 
minds,  or  recur  so  often  to  their  remem- 
brance, as  those  which  embody  simple,  and 
solemn,  and  reconciling  truths,  in  emphatic 
and  elegant  language — and  anticipate,  as  it 
were,  and  bring  out  with  effect,  those  salu- 
tary lessons  which  it  seems  to  be  the  great 
end  of  our  life  to  inculcate.  The  pictures 
of  violent  passion  and  terrible  emotion  — ■ 
the  breathing  characters,  the  splendid  im- 
agery and  bewitching  fancy  of  Shakespeare 
himself,  are  less  frequently  recalled,  than 
those  great  moral  aphorisms  in  which  he  has 
so  often 

Told  us  the  fashion  of  our  own  estate 
The  secrets  of  our  bosoms — 

and,  in  spite  of  all  that  may  be  said  by  grave 
persons,  of  the  frivolousness  of  poetry,  and  of 
its  admirers,  we  are  persuaded  that  the  most 
memorable,  and  the  most  generally  admired 
of  all  its  productions,  are  those  which  are 
chiefly  recommended  by  their  deep  practical 
wisdom  3  and  their  coincidence  with  those 
salutary  imitations  with  which  nature  herself 
seems  to  furnish  us  from  the  passing  scenes 
of  our  existence. 

The  literary  character  of  the  work  is  akin 
to  its  moral  character ;  and  the  diction  is  aa 
soft,  elegant,  and  simple,  as  the  sentiments 
are  generous  and  true.  The  whole  piece, 
indeed,  is  throughout  in  admirable  keeping ; 
and  its  beauties,  though  of  a  delicate,  rather 
than  an  obtrusive  character,  set  off  each  other 
to  an  attentive  observer,  by  the  skill  with 
which  they  are  harmonised,  and  the  sweet- 
ness w4th  which  they  slide  into  each  other. 
The  outline,  perhaps,  is  often  rather  timidly 
drawn,  and  there  is  an  occasional  want  of 
force  and  brilliancy  in  the  colouring ;  which 
we  are  rather  inclined  to  ascribe  to  the  refined 
and  somewhat  fastidious  taste  of  the  artist, 
than  to  any  defect  of  skill  or  of  power.  We 
have  none  of  the  broad  and  blazing  tints  of 
Scott — nor  the  startling  contrasts  of  Byron — 
nor  the  anxious  and  endlessly  repeated  touch 
of  Southey  —  but  something  which  comes 
much  nearer  to  the  soft  and  tender  manner 
of  Campbell ;  with  still  more  reserve  and  cau- 
tion, perhaps,  and  more  frequent  sacrifices 
of  strong  and  popular  effect,  to  an  abhorrence 
of  glaring  beauties,  and  a  disdain  of  vulgar 
resources. 

The  work  opens  with  a  sort  of  epitome  of 
its  subject — and  presents  us  with  a  brief  ab- 
stract of  man's  (or  at  least  Gentleman's)  fife, 
as  marked  by  the  four  great  eras  of— his  birth 
— his  coming  of  age — his  marriage — and  hia 
death.  This  comprehensive  picture,  with  ita 
four  compartments,  is  comprised  in  less  than 
thirty  lines. — We  give  the  two  latter  scene? 
only. 

"And  soon  again  shall  music  swell  the  breeze  ; 
Soon,  issuing  forth,  shall  glitter  through  the  trees 
Vestures  of  Nuptial  white  ;  and  hymns  be  sung. 
And  violets  scatter'd  round  ;  ani  old  and  young, 


ROGERS'  HUMAN  LIFE. 


421 


In  every  cottage-porch  with  garlands  green, 
Stand  still  to  gaze,  and,  gazing,  bless  the  scene ! 
While,  her  dark  eyes  deciiniiig,  by  his  side 
Moves  in  her  virgin-veil  tlie  gentle  Bride. 

"  And  once,  alas  !  nor  in  a  distant  hour. 
Another  voice  shall  come  from  yonder  tower  ! 
When  in  dim  chambers  long  black  weeds  are  seen, 
And  weepings  heard,  where  only  joy  had  been  ; 
Wlien  by  his  children  borne,  and  from  his  door 
Slowly  departing  to  return  no  more, 
He  rests  in  holy  earth,  with  them  that  went  before  ! 

"  And  such  is  Human  Life  !     So  gliding  on, 
It  glimmers  like  a  meteor,  and  is  gone  !" — pp.  8 — 10. 

After  some  general  and  very  striking  re- 
flections upon  the  perpetual  but  unperceived 
gradations  by  which  this  mysterious  being  is 
carried  through  all  the  stages  of  its  fleeting 
existenccj  the  picture  is  resumed  and  expand- 
ed with  more  touching  and  discriminating 
details.  Infancy,  for  example,  is  thus  finely 
delineated : — 

"  The   hour  arrives,   the  moment   wish'd  and 
fear'd ; 
The  child  is  born,  by  many  a  pang  endear'd. 
And  now  the  mother's  ear  has  caught  his  cry  ; 
Oh  grant  the  cherub  to  her  asking  eye  ! 
He  comes  ! — she  clasps  him.  To  her  bosom  press'd, 
He  drinks  the  balm  of  life,  and  drops  to  rest. 

' '  Her  by  her  smile  how  soon  the  stranger  knows ; 
How  soon,  by  his,  the  glad  discovery  shows ! 
As  to  her  lips  she  lifts  the  lovely  boy, 
What  answering  looks  of  sympathy  and  joy  ! 
He  walks,  he  speaks.     In  many  a  broken  word 
His  wants,  his  wishes,  and  his  griefs  are  heard. 
And  ever,  ever  to  her  lap  he  flies, 
When  rosy  Sleep  comes  on  with  sweet  surprise. 
Lock'd  in  her  arms,  his  arms  across  her  flung 
(That  name  most  dear  for  ever  on  his  tongue), 
As  with  soft  accents  round  her  neck  he  clings. 
And,  cheek  to  cheek,  her  lulling  song  she  sings, 
How  blest  to  feel  the  beatings  of  his  heart, 
Breathe  his  sweet  breath,  and  kiss  for  kiss  impart ; 
Watch  o'er  his  slumbers  like  the  brooding  dove. 
And,  if  she  can,  exhaust  a  mother's  love  !" 

pp.  19,  20. 

This  is  pursued  in  the  same  strain  of  ten- 
derness and  beauty  through  all  its  most  in- 
teresting bearings ; — and  then  we  pass  to  the 
bolder  kindlings  and  loftier  aspirations  of 
Youth. 

"  Then  is  the  Age  of  Admiration — then 
Gods  walks  the  earth,  or  beings  more  than  men ! 
Ha !  then  come  thronging  many  a  wild  desire. 
And  high  imaginings  and  thoughts  of  fire  ! 
Then  from  within  a  voice  exclaims  '  Aspire  !' 
Phantoms,  that  upward  point,  before  him  pass, 
As  in  the  Cave  athwart  the  Wizard's  glass,"  Sec. 

p.  24. 

We  cut  short  this  tablature,  however,  as 
well  as  the  spirited  sketches  of  impetuous 
courage  and  devoted  love  that  belong  to  the 
same  period,  to  come  to  the  joys  and  duties 
of  maturer  life ;  which,  we  think,  are  described 
with  still  more  touching  and  characteristic 
beauties.  The  Youth  passes  into  this  more 
tranquil  and  responsible  state,  of  course,  by 
Marriage ;  and  we  have  great  satisfaction  in 
recurring,  with  our  uxorious  poet,  to  his  rep- 
resentation of  that  eng-aging  ceremony,  upon 
which  his  thoughts  seem  to  dwell  with  so 
much  fondness  and  complacency. 

"  Then  are  they  blest  indeed  !  and  swift  the  hours 
'Till  her  young  Sisters  wreathe  her  hair  in  flowers. 
Kindling  her  beauty — while,  unseen,  the  least 
.  Twitches  her  robe,  then  rjins  behind  the  rest. 


Known  by  her  laugh  that  will  not  be  suppress  d. 
Then  before  All  they  stand  !  The  holy  vow 
And  ring  of  gold,  no  fond  illusions  now. 
Bind  her  as  his  !     Across  the  threshold  led, 
And  ev'ry  tear  kiss'd  off"  as  soon  as  shed, 
His  house  she  enters  ;  there  to  be  a  light 
Shining  within,  when  all  without  is  night ! 
A  guardian-angel  o'er  his  life  presiding. 
Doubling  his  pleasures,  and  his  cares  dividing ! 
How  oft  her  eyes  read  his  ;  her  gentle  mind. 
To  all  his  wishes,  all  his  thoughts  inclin'd  ; 
Still  subject — even  on  the  watch  to  borrow 
Mirth  of  his  mirth,  and  sorrow  of  his  sorrow.'' 

pp.  32,  33. 

Beautiful  as  this  is,  we  think  it  much  infe* 
rior  to  what  follows ;  when  Parental  affection 
comes  to  complete  the  picture  of  Connubial 
bliss. 

"  And  laughing  eyes  and  laughing  voices  fill 
Their  halls  with  gladness.     She,  when  all  are  still. 
Comes  and  undraws  the  curtain  as  they  lie 
In  sleep,  how  beautiful !  He,  when  the  sky 
Gleams,  and  the  wood  sends  up  its  harmony. 
When,  gathering  round  his  bed,  they  climb  to  shaw 
His  kisses,  and  with  gentle  violence  there 
Break  in  upon  a  dream  not  half  so  fair. 
Up  to  the  hill  top  leads  their  little  feet ; 
Or  by  the  forest-lodge  ;  perchance  to  meet 
The  stag-herd  on  its  march,  perchance  to  hear 
The  otter  rusthng  in  the  sedgy  mere  ; 
Or  to  the  echo  near  the  Abbot's  tree, 
'^I'hat  gave  him  back  his  words  of  pleasantry — 
When  the  House  stood,  no  merrier  man  than  be  ! 
And,  as  they  wander  with  a  keen  delight. 
If  but  a  leveret  catch  their  quicker  sight 
Dovvn  a  green  alley,  or  a  squirrel  then 
Climb  the  gnarled  oak,  and  look  and  chmb  again, 
If  but  a  moth  flit  by,  an  acorn  fall, 
He  turns  their  thoughts  to  Him  who  made  them  all." 

pp.  34—36. 
"  But  Man  is  born  to  suffer.     On  the  door 
Sickness  has  set  her  mark  ;  and  now  no  more 
Laughter  within  we  hear,  or  wood-notes  wild 
As  of  a  mother  singing  to  her  child. 
All  now  in  anguish  from  that  room  retire, 
Where  a  young  cheek  glows  with  consuming  hrCi 
And  innocence  breathes  contagion  ! — all  but^one. 
But  she  who  gave  it  birth  ! — From  her  alone 
The  medicine-cup  is  taken.     Through  the  night, 
And  through  the  day,  that  with  its  dreary  light 
Comes  unregarded,  she  sits  silent  by, 
Watching  the  changes  with  her  anxious  eye  : 
While  they  without,  listening  below,  above, 
(Who  but  in  sorrow  know  how  much  they  love  ?) 
From  every  little  noise  catch  hope  and  fear. 
Exchanging  still,  still  as  they  turn  to  hear. 
Whispers  and  sighs,  and  smiles  all  tenderness  ! 
That  would  in  vain  the  starting  tear  repress." 

pp.  38,  39. 

The  scene,  however,  is  not  always  purely 
domestic — though  all  its  lasting  enjoymenti 
are  of  that  origin,  and  look  back  to  that  con- 
summation. His  country  requires  the  arm  of 
a  free  man  !  and  home  and  all  its  joys  must 
be  left,  for  the  patriot  battle.  The  sanguinary 
and  tumultuous  part  is  slightly  touched  ;  But 
the  return  is  exquisite;  nor  do  we  know,  any 
where,  any  verses  more  touching  and  full  of 
heartfelt  beauty,  than  some  of  those  we  are 
about  to  extract. 

"  He  goes,  and  Night  comes  as  it  never  came  ! 
With  shrieks  of  horror! — and  a  vault  of  flame  ! 
And  lo!  when  morning  mocks  the  desolate, 
Red  runs  the  rivulet  bv  ;  and  at  the  gate 
Breathless  a  horse  without  his  rider  stands  ! 
But  hush !  .  .  a  shout  from  the  victorious  bandb 
And  oh  the  smiles  and  tears  !  a  sire  restor'd  ! 
One  wears  his  helm — one  buckles  on  nis  sworH 


422 


POETRY. 


One  hangi!  the  wall  with  laurel-leaves,  and  all 
Spring  to  prepare  the  soldier's  festival ; 
While  She  best-lov'd,  till  then  forsaken  never, 
Chngs  round  his  neck,  as  she  would  chng  for  ever ! 

"  Such  golden  deeds  lead  on  to  golden  days, 
Days  of  domestic  peace — by  him  who  playa 
On  the  great  stage  how  uneventful  thought ; 
Yet  with  a  thousand  busy  projects  fraught, 
A  thousand  incidents  that  stir  the  mind 
To  pleasure,  such  as  leaves  no  sting  behind ! 
Such  as  the  heart  delights  in — and  records 
Within  how  silently — in  more  than  words ! 
A  Holyday — the  frugal  banquet  spread 
On  the  fresh  herbage  near  the  fountain-head 
With  quips  and  cranks — what  time  the  wood-lark 

there 
Scatters  her  loose  notes  on  the  sultry  air. 
What  time  the  king-fisher  sits  perch'd  below, 
Where,  silver-bright,  the  water  lilies  blow  :^  • 
A  Wake — the  booths  whit'ning  the  village-green, 
Where  Punch  and  Scaramouch  aloft  are  seen ; 
Sign  beyond  sign  in  close  array  unfurl'd. 
Picturing  at  large  the  wonders  of  the  world  j 
And  far  and  wide,  over  the  vicar's  pale, 
Black  hoods  and  scarlet  crossing  hill  and  dale, 
All,  all  abroad,  and  music  in  the  gale  : — 
A  Wedding-dance — a  dance  into  the  night ! 
On  the  barn-floor  when  maiden-feet  are  light ; 
When  the  young  bride  receives  the  promis'd  dower, 
And  flowers  are  flung,  '  herself  a  fairer  flower:' — 
A  morning- visit  to  the  poor  man's  shed, 
f  W  ho  would  be  rich  while  One  was  wanting  bread  ?) 
When  all  are  emulous  to  bring  relief. 
And  tears  are  falling  fast — but  not  for  grief: — 
A  Walk  in  Spring — Gr*tt*n,  like  those  with  thee, 
By  the  heath-side  (who  had  not  envied  me  ?) 
When  the  sweet  hmes,  so  full  of  bees  in  June, 
Led  us  to  meet  beneath  their  boughs  at  noon  ; 
And  thou  didst  say  which  of  the  Great  and  Wise, 
Could  they  but  hear  and  at  thy  bidding  rise, 
Thou  wouldst  call  up  and  question." — pp.  42 — 46. 

Other  cares  and  trials  and  triumphs  await 
him.  He  fights  the  good  fight  of  freedom  in 
the  senate,  as  he  had  done  before  in  the  field — 
and  with  greater  peril.  The  heavy  hand  of 
power  weighs  upon  him,  and  he  is  arraigned 
of  crimes  against  the  State. 

*'  Like  Hampden  struggling  in  his  country's  cause, 
The  first,  the  foremost  to  obey  the  laws. 
The  last  to  brook  oppression  !     On  he  moves, 
Careless  of  blame  while  his  own  heart  approves, 
Careless  of  ruin — ("  For  the  general  good 
'Tis  not  the  first  time  I  shall  shed  my  blood.") 
On  through  that  gate  misnamed,*  through  which 

before. 
Went  Sidney,  Russel,  Raleigh,  Cranmer,  More ! 
On  into  twihght  within  walls  of  stone, 
Then  to  the  place  of  trial ;  and  alone, 
Alone  before  his  judges  in  array 
Stands  for  his  life  !  there,  on  that  awful  day. 
Counsel  of  friends — all  human  help  denied — 
All  but  from  her  who  sits  the  pen  to  guide. 
Like  that  sweet  saint  who  sat  by  Russel's  sidet 
Under  the  judgment-seat ! — But  guilty  men 
Triumph  not  always.    To  his  hearth  again, 

*  Traitor's  Gate,  in  the  Tower.  • 

t  We  know  of  nothing  at  once  so  pathetic  and  so 
sublime,  as  the  few  simple  sentences  here  alluded 
to,  in  the  account  of  Lord  Russel's  trial. 

Lord  Eussel.  May  I  have  somebody  write  to  help 
my  memory? 

Mr.  Attorney  General.  Yes,  a  Servant. 

Ijord  Chief  Justice.  Any  of  your  Servants  shall 
assist  you  in  writing  any  thing  you  please  for  you. 

Lord  Russel.  My  Wife  is  here,  my  Lord,  to  do  it  ? 
—When  we  recollect  who  Russel  and  his  wife 
were,  and  what  a  destiny  was  then  impending,  this 
one  trait  makes  the  heart  swell,  almost  to  bursting. 


Again  with  honour  to  his  hearth  restor'J, 
Lo,  in  the  accustom'd  chair  and  at  the  board. 
Thrice  greeting   those  that  most  withdraw 

claim 
(The  humblest  servant  calling  by  his  name). 
He  reads  thanksgiving  in  the  eyes  of  all' 
All  met  as  at  a  holy  festival ! 
— On  the  day  destined  for  his  funeral ! 
Lo,  there  the  Friend,  who,  entering  where  he 
Breath'd  in  his  drowsy  ear  '  Away,  away  I 
Take  thou  my  cloak — Nay,  start  not,  but  obey- 
Take  it  and  leave  me.'  And  the  blushing  Maid, 
Who  through  the  streets  as  through  a  desert  stray'd; 
And,  when  her  dear,  dear  Father  pass'd  along, 
Would  not  be  held;  but,  burstingthrough  the  throng, 
Halberd  and  battle-axe — kissed  him  o'er  and  o'er  ; 
Then  turn'd  and  went — then  sought  him  as  before. 
Believing  she  should  see  his  face  no  more  !" 

pp.  48— .50. 

What  follows  is  sacred  to  still  higher  re- 
membrances. 

"  And  now  once  more  where  most  he  lov'd  to  be, 

In  his  own  fields — breathing  tranquillity — 

We  hail  him — not  less  happy.  Fox,  than  thee ! 

Thee  at  St.  Anne's,  so  soon  of  Care  beguil'd. 

Playful,  sincere,  and  artless  as  a  child  ! 

Thee,  who  wouldst  watch  a  bird's  nest  on  the  spray, 

Through  the  green  leaves  exploring,  day  by  day. 

How  oft  from  grove  to  grove,  from  seat  to  seat, 

With  thee  conversing  in  thy  lov'd  retreat, 

I  saw  the  sun  go  down  ! — Ah,  then  'twas  thine 

Ne'er  to  forget  some  volume  half  divine,       [shade 

Shakespeare's  or  Dryden's — thro'   the  chequer'd 

Borne  in  thy  hand  behind  thee  as  we  stray'd  ; 

And  where  we  sate  (and  many  a  halt  we  made) 

To  read  there  with  a  fervour  all  thy  own, 

And  in  thy  grand  and  melancholy  tone, 

Some  splendid  passage  not  to  thee  unknown. 

Fit  theme  for  long  discourse. — Thy  bell  has  toU'd  ' 

— But  in  thy  place  among  us  we  behold 

One  that  resembles  thee." — ^pp.  52,  53. 

The  scene  of  closing  Age  is  not  less  beautiful 
and  attractive — nor  less  true  and  exemplary.  ' 

"  'Tis  the  sixth  hour. 
The  village-clock  strikes  from  the  distant  tower. 
The  ploughman  leaves  the  field ;  the  traveller  hears. 
And  to  the  inn  spurs  forward.     Nature  wears 
Her  sweetest  smile  ;  the  day-star  in  the  west 
Yet  hovering,  and  the  thistle's  down  at  rest. 

"  And  such,  his  labour  done,  the  calm  He  knows, 
Whose  footsteps  we  have  foUow'd.     Round  him 

glows 
An  atmosphere  that  brightens  to  the  last ; 
The  light,  that  shines,  reflected  from  the  Past, 
— And  from  the  Future  too !   Active  in  Thought 
Among  old  books,  old  friends ;  and  not  unsought 
By  the  wise  stranger.     In  his  morning-hours, 
When  gentle  airs  stir  the  fresh-blowing  flowers. 
He  muses,  turning  up  the  idle  weed  ; 
Or  prunes  or  grafts,  or  in  the  yellow  mead 
Watches  his  bees  at  hiving-time  ;  and  now, 
The  ladder  resting  on  the  orchard-bough. 
Culls  the  delicious  fruit  that  hangs  in  air, 
The  purple  plum,  green  fig,  or  golden  pear. 
Mid  sparkling  eyes,  and  hands  uplifted  there. 

*'  At  night,  when  all,  assembhng  round  the  fire 
Closer  and  closer  draw  till  they  retire, 
A  tale  is  told  of  India  or  Japan, 
Of  merchants  from  Golcond  or  Astracan, 
What  time  wild  Nature  revell'd  unrestrain'd. 
And  Sinbad  voyag'd  and  the  Caliphs  reign'd  ;-  - 
Of  some  Norwegian,  while  the  icy  gale 
Rings  in  the  shrouds  and  beats  the  iron  sail. 
Among  the  snowy  Alps  of  Polar  seas 
Immoveable — for  ever  there  to  freeze ! 
Or  some  great  Caravan,  from  well  to  well 
Winding  as  darkness  on  the  desert  fell,"  &c 


ROGERS'  HUAIAN  LIFE. 


42Q 


"  Age  has  now 
StJtnp'd  with  its  signet  that  ingenuous  brow  ; 
And,  'mid  his  old  hereditary  trees, 
Trees  he  has  climb'd  so  oft,  he  sits  and  sees 
His  children's  children  playing  round  his  knees: 
Envying  no  more  the  young  their  energies 
Than  they  an  old  man  when  his  words  are  wise ; 
His  a  delight  how  pure  .  .  .  without  alloy  ; 
Strong  in  their  strength,  rejoicing  in  their  joy  ! 

"  Now  in  their  turn  assisting,  they  repay 
The  anxious  cares  of  many  and  many  a  day ; 
And  now  by  those  he  loves  reliev'd,  restor'd, 
His  very  wants  and  weaknesses  afford 
A  feehng  of  enjoyment.    In  his  walks, 
Leaning  on  them,  how  oft  he  stops  and  talks, 
While  they  look  up !  Their  questions,  their  replies, 
Fresh  as  the  welling  waterB,  round  him  rise. 
Gladdening  his  spirit." — pp.  53 — 61. 

We  have  dwelt  too  long,  perhaps,  on  a 
work  more  calculated  to  make  a  lasting,  than 
a  strong  impression  on  the  minds  of  its  readers 
— and  not,  perhaps,  very  well  calculated  for 
being  read  at  all  in  the  pages  of  a  Miscel- 
laneous Journal.  We  have  gratified  ourselves, 
however,  in  again  going  over  it;  and  hope  we 
have  not  much  wearied  our  readers.  It  is 
followed  by  a  very  striking  copy  of  verses 
written  at  Paestum  in  1816 — and  more  char- 
acteristic of  that  singular  and  most  striking 
scene,  than  any  thing  we  have  ever  read,  in 
prose  or  verse,  on  the  subject.  The  ruins  of 
PoDstum,  as  they  are  somewhat  improperly 
called,  consist  of  three  vast  and  massive 
Temples,  of  the  most  rich  and  magnificent 
architecture;  which  are  not  ruined  at  all, 
but  as  entire  as  on  the  day  when  they  were 
built,  while  there  is  not  a  vestige  left  of  the 
city  to  which  they  belonged  !  They  stand  in  a 
desert  and  uninhabited  plain,  which  stretches 
for  many  miles  from  the  sea  to  the  mountains 
— and,  after  the  subversion  of  the  Roman 
greatness,  had  fallen  into  such  complete  obli- 
vion, that  for  nearly  nine  hundred  years  they 
had  never  been  visited  or  heard  of  by  any  in- 
telligent person,  till  they  were  accidentally 
discovered  about  the  middle  of  the  last  cen- 
tury.— The  whole  district  in  which  they  are 
situated,  though  once  the  most  fertile  and 
flourishing  part  of  the  Tyrrhene  shore,  has 
been  almost  completely  depopulated  by  the 
Mal'aria ;  and  is  now,  in  every  sense  of  the 
word,  a  vast  and  dreary  desert.  The  follow- 
ing lines  seem  to  us  to  tell  all  that  need  be 
told,  and  to  express  all  that  can  be  felt  of  a 
■ocne  B4  straEge  and  so  mournful. 


"  They  stand  between  the  mountains  and  tne  sea 
Awful  memorials — but  of  whom  we  know  not ! 
The  seaman,  passing,  gazes  from  the  deck. 
The  buffalo-driver,  in  his  shaggy  cloak. 
Points  to  the  work  of  magic,  and  moves  on. 
Time  was  they  stood  along  the  crowded  street, 
Temples  of  Gods !  and  on  their  ample  steps 
What  various  habits,  various  tongues  beset 
The  brazen  gates,  for  prayer  and  sacrifice  ! 

"  How  many  centuries  did  the  sun  go  round 
From  Mount  Alburnus  to  the  Tyrrhene  sea, 
While,  by  some  spell  render'd  invisible, 
Or,  if  approach'd,  approached  by  him  alone 
Who  saw  as  though  he  saw  not,  they  remain'd 
As  in  the  darkness  of  a  sepulchre. 
Waiting  the  appointed  time  !  All,  all  within 
Proclaims  that  Nature  had  resum'd  her  right, 
And  taken  to  herself  what  man  renounc'd ; 
No  cornice,  triglyph,  or  worn  abacus, 
But  with  thick  ivy  hung  or  branching  fern, 
Their  iron-brown  o'erspread  with  brightest  verdure! 

"  From  my  youth  upward  have  I  longed  to  tread 
This  classic  ground. — And  am  I  here  at  last  ? 
Wandering  at  will  through  the  long  porticoes, 
And  catching,  as  through  some  majestic  grove. 
Now  the  blue  ocean,  and  now,  chaos-hke. 
Mountains  and  mountain-gulphs  !  and,  half-way  up. 
Towns  like  the  living  rock  from  which  they  grew  f 
A  cloudy  region,  black  and  desolate, 
Where  once  a  slave  withstood  a  world  in  arms. 

"  The  air  is  sweet  with  violets,  running  wild 
Mid  broken  sculptures  and  fallen  capitals  ! 
Sweet  as  when  TuUy,  writing  down  his  thoughts, 
Sail'd  slowly  by,  two  thousand  years  ago. 
For  Athens  ;  when  a  ship,  if  north-east  winds 
Blew  from  the  Paestan  gardens,  slack'd  her  course. 
The  birds  are  hush'd  awhile  ;  and  nothing  stirs, 
Save  the  shrill-voic'd  cigala  flitting  round 
On  the  rough  pediment  to  sit  and  sing  ; 
Or  the  green  lizard  rustling  through  the  grass, 
And  up  the  fluted  shaft,  with  short  quick  motion, 
To  vanish  in  the  chinks  that  Time  has  made ! 

"  In  such  an  hour  as  this,  the  sun's  broad  disk 
Seen  at  his  setting,  and  a  flood  of  light 
Filling  the  courts  of  these  old  sanctuaries, 
(Gigantic  shadows,  broken  and  confus'd, 
Across  the  innumerable  columns  flung) 
In  such  an  hour  he  came,  who  saw  and  told, 
Led  by  the  mighty  Genius  of  the  Place  ' 
W^allsof  some  capital  city  first  appear'd. 
Half  raz'd,  half  sunk,  or  scatter'd  as  in  scorn  ; 
— And  what  within  them  ?  what  but  in  the  midst 
These  Three,  in  more  than  their  original  grandeur, 
And.  round  about,  no  stone  upon  another  I 
As  if  the  spoiler  had  fallen  back  in  fear. 
And,  turning,  left  them  to  the  elements." 

The  volume  ends  with  a  little  ballad,  enti- 
tled "  The  Boy  of  Egremond" — which  is  welj 
enough  for  a  Lakish  ditty,  but  not  quite  wor« 
thy  of  the  rlace  in  which  we  meet  it. 


484 


POETRY. 


(Ittne,   1S15.) 


Roderick     The  Last  of  the  Goths.     By  Robert  Southey,  Esq.,  Poet-Laureate,  and  MerTihei 
of  the  Royal  Spanish  Academy.     4to.  pp.  477.     London:   1814.* 


ibei    S 


This  is  the  best,  we  think,  and  the  most 
powerful  of  all  Mr.  Southey's  poems.  It 
abounds  with  lofty  sentiments,  and  magnifi- 
cent imagery ;  and  contains  more  rich  and 
comprehensive  descriptions — more  beautiful 
pictures  of  pure  affection — and  more  im- 
pressive representations  of  mental  agony  and 
exultation  than  we  have  often  met  with  in 
the  compass  of  a  single  volume. 

A  work,  of  which  all  this  can  be  said  with 
justice,  cannot  be  without  great  merit;  and 
ought  not,  it  may  be  presumed,  to  be  without 
ereat  popularity.  Justice,  however,  has  some- 
thing more  to  say  of  it :  and  we  are  not  quite 
sure  either  that  it  will  be  very  popular,  or  that 
it  deserves  to  be  so.  It  is  too  monotonous — 
too  wprdy — and  too  uniformly  stately,  tragical, 
and  emphatic.  Above  all,  it  is  now  and  then 
a  little  absurd — and  jpretty  frequently  not  a 
little  affected. 

The  author  is  a  poet  undoubtedly ;  but  not 
of  the  highest  order.  There  is  rather  more 
of  rhetoric  than  of  inspiration  about  him — 
and  we  have  oftener  to  admire  his  taste  and 
industry  in  borrowing  and  adorning,  than  the 
boldness  or  felicity  of  his  inventions.  He 
has  indisputably  a  great  gift  of  amplifying 
and  exalting;  but  uses  it,  we  must  say,  rather 
unmercifully.  He  is  never  plain,  concise,  or 
unaffectedly  simple,  and  is  so  much  bent  upon 
making  the  most  of  every  thiug,  that  he  is 
perpetually  overdoing.  His  sentiments  and 
situations  are,  of  course,  sometimes  ordinary 
enough ;  but  the  tone  of  emphasis  and  pre- 
tension is  never  for  a  moment  relaxed ;  and 
the  most  trivial  occurrences,  and  fantastical 
distresses,  are  commemorated  with  the  same 
vehemence  and  exaggeration  of  manner,  as 
the  most  startling  incidents,  or  the  deepest 
and  most  heart-rending  disasters.  This  want 
of  relief  and  variety  is  sufficiently  painful  of 


*  I  have,  in  my  time,  said  petulant  and  provo- 
king things  of  Mr.  Southey  : — and  such  as  I  would 
not  say  now.  But  I  am  not  conscious  that  I  was 
ever  unfair  to  his  Poetry  :  and  if  I  have  noted 
what  I  thought  its  fauUs,  in  too  arrogant  and  de- 
risive a  spirit,  I  think  I  have  never  failed  to  give 
nearly  and  cordial  praise  to  its  beauties  —  and 
generally  dwelt  much  more  largely  on  the  latter 
than  the  former.  Few  things,  at  all  events,  would 
now  grieve  me  more,  than  to  think  I  might  give 
pain  to  his  many  friends  and  admirers,  by  reprint- 
ing, so  soon  after  his  death,  any  thing  which  might 
appear  derogatory  either  to  his  character  or  his 
genius;  and  therefore,  though  I  cannot  say  that  I 
Vave  substantially  changed  any  of  the  opinions  I 
ftave  formerly  expressed  as  to  his  writings,  I  only 
insert  in  this  publication  my  review  of  his  last 
considerable  poem  :  which  may  be  taken  as  con- 
reying  my  matured  opinion  of  his  merits — and  will 
fie  felt,  1  trust,  to  have  done  no  scanty  or  unwilling 
justice  to  his  great  and  peculiar  powers. 


itself  in  a  womJc  of  such  length ;  but  its  worsl 
effect  is,  that  it  gives  an  air  of  falsetto  and^ 
pretension  to  the  whole  strain  of  the  compo-' 
sition,  and  makes  us  suspect  the  author  of 
imposture  and  affectation,  even  when  he  hag 
good  enough  cause  for  his  agonies  and  rap- 
tures. 

How  is  it  possible,  indeed,  to  commit  our 
sympathies,  without  distrust,  to  the  hands  of 
a  writer,  wno,  after  painting  with  infinite  force 
the  anguish  of  soul  w^hich  pursued  the  fallen 
Roderick  into  the  retreat  to  which  his  crimes 
had  driven  him,  proceeds  with  redoubled 
emphasis  to  assure  us,  that  neither  his  re- 
morse nor  his  downfal  were  half  so  intolera- 
ble to  him,  as  the  shocking  tameness  of  the  sea 
birds  who  flew  round  about  him  in  that  utter 
solitude  !  and  were  sometimes  so  familiar  as 
to  brush  his  cheek  with  their  wings  1 

"  For  his  lost  crown 
And  sceptre  never  had  he  felt  a  thought 
Of  pain  :  Repentance  had  no  pangs  to  spare 
For  trifles  such  as  these.     The  loss  of  these 
Was  a  cheap  penalty  : . .  that  he  had  fallen 
Down  to  the  lowest  depth  of  wretchedness, 
His  hope  and  consolation.     But  to  lose 
His  human  station  in  the  scale  of  things, .  . 
To  see  brute  Nature  scorn  him,  and  renounce 
Its  homage  to  the  human  form  divine!  .  . 
Had  then  almighty  vengeance  thus  reveal'd 
His  punishment,  and  was  he  fallen  indeed 
Below  fallen  man,  .  .  below  redemption's  reach,  . . 
Made  lower  than  the  beasts?" — p.  17. 

This,  if  we  were  in  bad  humour,  we  should 
be  tempted  to  say,  was  little  better  than  drivel- 
ling ] — and  certainly  the  folly  of  it  is  greatly 
aggravated  by  the  tone  of  intense  solemnity 
in  which  it  is  conveyed  :  But  the  worst  fault 
by  far,  and  the  most  injurious  to  the  effect  of 
the  author's  greatest  beauties,  is  the  extreme 
diffuseness  and  verbosity  of  his  style,  and  his 
unrelenting  anxiety  to  leave  nothing  to  the 
fancy,  the  feeling,  or  even  the  plain  under- 
standing of  his  readers — but  to  have  every 
thing  set  down,  and  impressed  and  hammered 
into  them,  which  it  may  any  how  conduce  to 
his  glory  that  they  should  comprehend.  There 
never  was  any  author,  we  are  persuaded,  who 
had  so  great  a  distrust  of  his  readers'  capa- 
city, or  such  an  unwillingness  to  leave  any 
opportunity  of  shining  unimproved ;  and  ac- 
cordingly, we  rather  think  there  is  no  author, 
who,  with  the  same  talents  and  attainments, 
has  been  so  generally  thought  tedious — or 
acquired,  on  the  whole,  a  popularity  so  in- 
ferior to  his  real  deservings.  On  the  present 
occasion,  we  have  already  said,  his  deserv- 
ings appear  to  us  unusually  great,  and  his 
faults  less  than  commonly  conspicuous.  But 
though  there  is  less  childishness  and  trifling 
in  this,  than  in  any  of  his  other  productions, 


SOUTHEY'S  RODERICK. 


42ft 


there  is  still,  we  are  afraid,  enougn  of  tedious- 
ness  and  affected  energy,  very  materially  to 
obstruct  the  popularity  which  the  force,  and 
the  tenderness  and  beauty  of  its  better  parts, 
might  have  otherwise  commanded. 

There  is  one  blemish,  however,  which  we 
think  peculiar  to  the  work  before  us;  and 
that  is,  the  outrageously  religious,  or  rather 
fanatical,  tone  which  pervades  its  whole 
structure ; — the  excessive  horror  and  abuse 
with  which  the  Mahometans  are  uniformly 
spoken  of  on  account  of  their  religion  alone  ; 
and  the  offensive  frequency  and  familiarity 
with  which  the  name  and  the  sufferings  of 
cur  Saviour  are  referred  to  at  every  turn  of 
the  story.  The  spirit  which  is  here  evinced 
towards  the  Moors^  not  only  by  their  valiant 
opponents,  but  by  tne  author  when  speaking 
in  his  own  person,  is  neither  that  of  pious 
reprobation  nor  patriotic  hatred,  but  of  savage 
.  and  bigotted  persecution ;  and  the  heroic 
I  character  and  heroic  deeds  of  his  greatest 
favourites  are  debased  and  polluted  by  the 
paltry  superstitions,  and  sanguinary  fanati- 
cism, which  he  is  pleased  to  ascribe  to  them. 
This,  which  we  are  persuaded  would  be  re- 
volting in  a  nation  of  zealous  Catholics,  must 
be  still  more  distasteful,  we  think,  among 
sober  Protestants ;  while,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  constant  introduction  of  the  holiest  per- 
sons, and  most  solemn  rites  of  religion,  for 
the  purpose  of  helping  on  the  flagging  in- 
terest of  a  story  devised  for  amusement,  can 
scarcely  fail  to  give  scandal  and  offence  to  all 
persons  of  right  feeling  or  just  taste.  This 
remark  may  be  thought  a  little  rigorous  by 
those  who  have  not  looked  into  the  work  to 
which  it  is  applied — For  they  can  have  no 
idea  of  the  extreme  frequency,  and  palpable 
extravagance,  of  the  allusions  and  invoca- 
tions to  which  we  have  referred. — One  poor 
woman,  for  example,  Avho  merely  appears  to 
give  alms  to  the  fallen  Roderick  in  the  season 
of  his  humiliation,  is  very  needlessly  made  to 
exclaim,  as  she  offers  her  pittance, 

"  Christ  Jesus,  for  his  Mother's  sake, 
Have  mercy  on  thee," 

— and  soon  after,  the  King  himself,  when  he 
hears  one  of  his  subjects  uttering  curses  on 
his  name,  is  pleased  to  say, 

"  Oh,  for  the  love  of  Jesus  curse  him  not ! 
O  brother,  do  not  curse  that  sinful  soul. 
Which  Jesus  suffer'd  on  the  cross  to  save  !" 

\^Tiereupon,  one  of  the  more  charitable  audi- 
tors rejoins. 

"  Christ  bless  thee,    brother,   for   that   Christian 
speech  !" 

— and  so  the  talk  goes  on,  through  the  greater 
part  of  the  poem.  Now,  we  must  say  we 
think  this  both  indecent  and  ungraceful;  and 
look  upon  it  as  almost  as  exceptionable  a 
way  of  increasing  the  solemnity  of  poetry,  as 
•  common  swearing  is  of  adding  to  the  energy 
of  discourse. 

We  are  not  quite  sure  whether  we  should 

reckon  his  choice  of  a  subject,  among  Mr. 

Y*,    Southey's  errors  on  the  present  occasion; — 

V    ^'Dut  certainly  no  theme  could  well  have  been 


suggested,  more  utteily  alien  to  all  English 
prejudices,  traditions,  and  habits  of  poetical 
contemplation,  than  the  domestic  history  of  ' 
the  last  Gothic  King  of  Spain, — a  history  ex-  /  -jM 
tremely  remote  and  obscure  in  itself,  andj  ^ 
treating  of  persons  and  places  and  events,'; 
with  which  no  visions  or  glories  are  associated  j 
in  English  imaginations.  The  subject,  how-/ 
ever,  was  selected,  we  suppose,  during  that 
period  when  a  zeal  for  Spanish  libert)',  and  a 
belief  in  Spanish  virtue,  spirit  and  talent,  were 
extremely  fashionable  in  this  country;  and 
before  "  the  universal  Spanish  people "  had 
made  themselves  the  objects  of  mixed  con- 
tempt and  compassion,  by  rushing  prone  into 
the  basest  and  most  insulted  servitude  that 
was  ever  asserted  over  human  beings.  From 
this  degradation  we  do  not  thmk  they  will  be 
redeemed  by  all  the  heroic  acts  recorded  in 
this  poem, — the  interest  of  which,  we  sus- 
pect, will  be  considerably  lowered,  by  the  late 
revolution  in  public  opinion,  as  to  the  merits 
of  the  nation  to  whose  fortunes  it  relates. — • 
After  all,  however,  we  think  it  must  be  allow- 
ed, that  any  author  who  interests  us  in  his 
story,  has  either  the  merit  of  choosing  a  good 
subject,  or  a  still  higher  merit;  —  and  Mr. 
Southey,  in  our  opinion,  has  made  his  story 
very  interesting.  Nor  should  it  be  forgotten, 
that  by  the  choice  which  he  has  made,  he  has 
secured  immense  squadrons  of  Moors,  with 
their  Asiatic  gorgeousness,  and  their  cymbals, 
turbans,  and  Paynim  chivalry,  to  give  a  pic- 
turesque effect  to  his  battles, — and  bevies  of 
veiled  virgins  and  ladies  in  armour, — and 
hermits  and  bishops, — and  mountain  villagers, 
— and  torrents  and  forests,  and  cork  trees  and 
sierras,  to  remind  us  of  Don  Quixote, — and 
store  of  sonorous  names  : — and  altogether,  he 
might  have  chosen  worse  among  more  famihar 
objects. 

The  scheme  or  mere  outline  of  the  fable  is 
extremely  short  and  simple.  Roderick,  the 
valiant  and  generous  king  of  the  Goths,  being 
unhappily  married,  allows  his  affections  to 
wander  on  the  lovely  daughter  of  Count  Julian ; 
and  is  so  far  overmastered  by  his  passion,  as, 
in  a  moment  of  frenzy,  to  offer  violence  to  her 
person.  Her  father,  in  revenge  of  this  cruel 
wrong,  invites  the  Moors  to  seiz<3  on  the  king- 
dom of  the  guilty  monarch ; — and  assimiing 
their  faith,  guides  them  at  last  to  a  signal  and 
sanguinary  victory.  Roderick,  after  perform- 
ing prodigies  of  valour,  in  a  seven-days  fight, 
feels  at  length  that  Heaven  has  ordained  all 
this  misery  as  the  penalty  of  his  offences; 
and,  overwhelmed  with  remorse  and  inward 
agony,  falls  from  his  battle  horse  in  the  midst 
of  the  carnage  :  Stripping  off  his  rich  armour, 
he  then  puts  on  the  dress  of  a  dead  peasant; 
and,  pursued  by  revengeful  furies,  rushes 
desperately  on  through  his  lost  and  desolated 
kingdom,  till  he  is  stopped  by  the  sea ;  on  the 
rocky  and  lonely  shore  of  which  he  passes 
more  than  a  year  in  constant  agonies  of  peni- 
tence and  humiliation, — till  he  is  roused  at 
length,  by  visions  and  impulses,  to  undertake 
something  for  the  deliverance  of  his  suffering 
people.  Grief  and  abstinence  have  now  so 
changed  him,  that  he  is. recognised  by  no  one . 


426 


POETRY 


and  being  universally  believed  to  have  fallen 
in  battle,  he  traverses  great  part  of  his  for- 
mer realm,  witnessing  innumerable  scenes  of 
wretchedness  and  valour,  and  rousing,  by  his 
holy  adjurations,  all  the  generous  spirits  in 
Spain,  to  uni1;e  against  the  invaders.  After  a 
variety  of  trials  and  adventures,  he  at  last 
recovers  his  good  war  horse,  on  the  eve  of  a 
great  battle  with  the  infidels  ',  and,  bestriding 
him  in  his  penitential  robes,  rushes  furiously 
into  the  heart  of  the  fight,  where,  kindling 
with  the  scene  and  the  cause,  he  instinctively 
raises  his  ancient  war  cry,  as  he  deals  his 
resistless  blows  on  the  heads  of  the  mis- 
believers ;  and  the  thrilling  words  of  "  Rode- 
rick the  Goth!  Roderick  and  victory!"  re- 
sounding over  the  astonished  field,  are  taken 
up  by  his  inspired  followers,  and  animate 
them  to  the  utter  destruction  of  the  enemy. 
At  the  close  of  the  day,  however,  when  the 
field  is  w^on,  the  battle  horse  is  found  without 
its  rider  !  and  the  sword  which  he  wielded 
lying  at  his  feet.  The  poem  closes  with  a 
brief  intimation,  that  it  was  not  known  till 
many  centuries  thereafter,  that  the  heroic 
penitent  had  again  sought  the  concealment  of 
a  remote  hermitage,  and  ended  his  days  in 
solitary  penances.  The  poem,  however,  both 
requires  and  deserves  a  more  particular  ana- 
lysis. 

The  first  book  or  canto  opens  with  a  slight 
sketch  of  the  invasion,  and  proceeds  to  the 
fatal  defeat  and  heart-struck  flight  of  Roderick. 
The  picture  of  the  first  descent  of  the  Moorish 
invaders,  is  a  good  specimen  of  the  author's 
broader  and  more  impressive  manner.  He  is 
addressing  the  rock  of  Gibraltar. 

"  Thou  saw'st  the  dark  blue  waters  flash  before 
Their  ominous  way,  and  whiten  round  their  keels  ; 
Their  swarthy  myriads  darkening  o'er  thy  sands. 
There,  on  the  beach,  the  misbelievers  spread 
Their  banners,  flaunting  to  the  sun  and  breeze  : 
Fair  shone  the  sun  upon  their  proud  array, 
White  turbans,  glitt'ring  armour,  shields  engrail'd 
With  gold,  and  scymitars  of  Syrian  steel ; 
And  gently  did  the  breezes,  as  in  sport, 
Curl  their  long  flags  outrolling,  and  display 
The  blazon'd  scrolls  of  blasphemy." — pp.  2,  3. 

The  agony  of  the  distracted  king,  as  he 
flies  in  vain  from  himself  through  his  lost  and 
ruined  kingdom ;  and  the  spectacle  which 
every  where  presented  itself  of  devastation 
and  terror,  and  miserable  emigration,  are  rep- 
resented with  great  force  of  colouring.  At 
tlie  end  of  the  seventh  day  of  that  solitary 
and  despaiiing  flight,  he  arrives  at  the  portal 
of  an  ancient  convent,  from  which  all  its  holy 
tenants  had  retired  on  the  approach  of  the 
Moor's,  except  one  aged  priest,  who  had  staid 
to  deck  the  altar,  and  earn  his  crown  of  martyr- 
dom from  the  infidel  host.  By  him  Roderick 
is  found  grovelling  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  and 
drowned  in  bitter  and  penitential  sorrows. — 
He  leads  him  in  with  compassionate  soothings, 
and  supplicates  him  before  the  altar  to  be  of 
comfort,  and  to  trust  in  mercy.  The  result  is 
told  with  great  feeling  and  admirable  effect : 
and  the  w^orthy  father  weeps  and  watches  with 
his  penitent  through  the  night:  and  in  the 
mornnig  resolves  tc  forego  the  glories  of  mar- 


tyrdom for  his  sake,  and  to  Dear  nim  company 
in  the  retreat  to  which  he  is  hastening.  They 
set  out  together,  and  fix  themselves  in  a  little 
rocky  bay,  opening  out  to  the  lonely  roar  of 
the  Atlantic. 

"  Behind  them  was  the  desert,  ofF'ring  fruit 
And  water  for  their  need  ;  on  either  side 
The  white  sand  sparkling  to  the  sun  ;  in  front. 
Great  Ocean  with  its  everlasting  voice. 
As  in  perpetual  jubilee,  proclaim'd 
The  wonders  of  the  Almighty,  filling  thus 
The  pauses  of  their  fervent  orisons. 
Where  better  could  the  wanderers  rest  than  here  ?" 

p.  14. 

The  Second  Book  begins  wdth  stating,  that 
Roderick  passed  twelve  months  in  penance 
and  austerities,  in  this  romantic  retreat. — At 
the  end  of  that  time,  his  ghostly  father  dies ; 
and  his  agonies  become  more  intolerable,  in 
the  utter  desolation  to  M'hich  he  is  now  left. 
The  author,  however,  is  here  a  little  unlucky 
in  two  circumstances,  which  he  imagines  and 
describes  at  great  length,  as  aggravating  hia 
unspeakable  misery ; — one  is  the  tameness  of 
the  birds, — of  w^hich  we  have  spoken  already 
— the  other  is  the  reflection  which  he  very 
innocently  puts  into  the  mouth  of  the  lonely 
King,  that  all  the  trouble  he  has  taken  in  dig- 
ging his  own  grave,  will  now  be  thrown  away, 
as  there  will  probably  be  nobody  to  stretch 
him  out,  and  cover  him  decently  up  in  it  I — 
However  he  is  clearly  made  out  to  be  very 
miserable ;  and  prays  for  death,  or  for  the 
imposition  of  some  more  active  penance — 

"  any  thing 

But  stillness,  and  this  dreadful  solitude!" 

At  length  he  is  visited,  in  his  sleep,  by  a 
vision  of  his  tender  mother;  who  gives  him 
her  blessing  in  a  gentle  voice,  and  says, 
"  Jesus  have  mercy  on  thee."  The  air  and 
countenance  of  this  venerable  shade,  as  she 
bent  in  sorrow  over  her  unhappy  son,  are 
powerfully  depicted  in  the  following  allusion 
to  her  domestic  calamities.  He  traced  there, 
it  seems,  not  only  the  settled  sadness  of  her 
widowhood — 

"  But  a  more  mortal  wretchedness  than  when 
Witiza's  ruffians  and  the  red-hot  brass 
Had  done  their  work,  and  in  her  arms  she  held 
Her  eyeless  husband  ;  wip'd  away  the  sweat 
Which  still  his  tortures  forc'd  from  every  pore  ; 
Cool'd  his  scorch'd  lips  with  medicinal  herbs, 
And  pray'd  the  while  for  patience  for  herself 
And  him , — and  pray'd  for  vengeance  too !  and  found 
Best  comfort  in  her  curses." — pp.  23,  24. 

While  he  gazes  on  this  piteous  countenance, 
the  character  of  the  vision  is  suddenly  al- 
tered ;  and  the  verses  describing  the  alteration 
afford  a  good  specimen  both  of  Mr.  Southey's 
command  of  words,  and  of  the  profusion  with 
which  he  sometimes  pours  them  out  on  liia 
readers. 

'*  And  lo  !  her  form  was  chang'd  ! 

Radiant  in  arms  she  stood  !  a  bloody  Cross 
Gleam'd  on  her  breastplate  ;  in  her  shield  display'd 
Erect  a  Lion  ramp'd  ;  her  helmed  head 
Rose  like  the  Berecynthian  Goddess  crown'd 
With  towers,  and  in  her  dreadful  hand  the  sword, 
Red  as  a  fire-brand  blaz'd  !  Anon  the  tramp 


SOUTHEY'S  RODERICK. 


4t1 


(M  horsemen,  and  the  din  of  multitudes 
Moving  to  morial  conflict,  rung  around  ; 
The  battle-song,  the  clang  of  sword  and  shield, 
War-cries  and  tumult,  strife  and  hate  and  rage, 
Blasphemous  prayers,  confusion,  agony, 
Rout  and  pursuit,  and  death  !  and  over  all 
The  shout  of  Victory  ...  of  Spain  and  Victory  !" 

pp.  24,  25. 

In  awaking  from  this  prophetic  dreanij  he 
resolves  to  seek  occasion  of  active  service, 
in  such  humble  capacity  as  becomes  his  fallen 
fortune ;  and  turns  from  this  first  abode  of  his 
peni'ence  and  despair. 

The  Third  Book  sets  him  on  his  heroic  pil- 
grimage ;  and  opens  with  a  fine  picture. 

"  'Twas  now  the  earliest  morning  ;  soon  the  Sun, 
Rising  above  Albardos,  pour'd  his  light 
Amid  the  forest,  and  with  ray  aslant 
Em'ring  its  depth  illum'd  the  branchless  pines ; 
Brighten'd  their  bark,  ting'd  with  a  redder  hue 
Its  rusty  stains,  and  cast  along  the  floor 
Long  hues  of  shadow,  where  they  rose  erect, 
Like  pillars  of  the  temple.     With  slow  foot 
Roderick  pursued  his  way." — p.  27. 

We  do  not  know  that  we  could  extract  from 
the  whole  book  a  more  characteristic  passage 
than  that  which  describes  his  emotion  on  his 
first  return  to  the  sight  of  man.  and  the  altered 
aspect  of  his  fallen  people.  He  approaches  to 
the  walls  of  Leyria. 

"  The  sounds,  the  sight 

Of  turban,  girdle,  robe,  and  scymitar, 

And  taw-ny  skins,  awoke  contending  thoughts 

Of  anger,  shame,  and  anguish  in  the  Goth  ! 

The  unaccustom'd  face  of  human-kind 

Confus'd  him  now,  and  through  the  streets  he  went 

With  hagged  mien,  and  countenance  like  one 

Craz'd  or  bewilder' d. 

"  One  stopt  him  short. 
Put  alms  into  his  hand,  and  then  desir'd. 
In  broken  Gothic  speech,  the  moon-struck  man 
To  bless  him.     With  a  look  of  vacancy 
RoHerick  receiv'd  the  alms  ;  his  wand'ring  eye 
Fell  on  the  money ;  and  the  fallen  King, 
Seeing  his  own  royal  impress  on  the  piece, 
Broke  out  into  a  quick  convulsive  voice, 
That  seem'd  like  laughter  first,  but  ended  soon 
In  hollow  groans  supprest ! 
A  Christian  woman  spinning  at  her  door 
Beheld  him,  and  with  sudden  pity  touch'd, 
She  laid  her  spindle  by,  and  running  in 
Took  bread,  and  following  after  calf  d  him  back, 
And  placing  in  his  passive  hands  the  loaf. 
She  said,  Christ  Jesus  for  his  Mother's  sake 
Have  mercy  on  thee  I     With  a  look  that  seem'd 
Like  idiotcy,  he  heard  her,  and  stood  still, 
Staring  awhile ;  then  bursting  into  tears 
Wept  hke  a  child  ! 

"  But  when  he  reach'd 
The  open  fields,  and  found  himself  alone 
Beneath  the  starry  canopy  of  Heaven, 
The  sense  of  solitude,  so  dreadful  late. 
Was  then  repose  and  comfort.     There  he  stopt 
Beside  a  little  rill,  and  brake  the  loaf; 
And  shedding  o'er  that  unaccustom'd  food 
Painful  but  quiet  tears,  with  grateful  soul 
He  breaih'd  thanksgiving  forth  ;  then  made  his  bed 
On  heath  and  myrtle." — pp.  28 — 30. 

After  this,  he  journeys  on  through  deserted 
hamlets  and  desolated  towns,  till,  on  entering 
the  silent  streets  of  Auria,  yet  black  with 
conflagration,  and  stained  with  blood,  the 
vestiges  of  a  more  heroic  resistance  appear 
before  him. 

'  Helmet  and  turban,  scymitar  and  sword, 
Christian  and  Moor  in  death  promiscuous  lay 


Each  where  they  fell ;  and  blood-flakes,  parch'd 

and  crack'd 
Like  the  dry  slime  of  some  receding  flood  ; 
And  half-burnt  bodies,  which  allurd  from  far 
The  wolf  and  raven,  and  to  impious  food 
Tempted  the  houseless  dog." — p.  36. 

While  he  is  gazing  on  this  dreadful  scene 
with  all  the  sympathies  of  admiration  and 
sorrow,  a  young  and  lovely  woman  rushes 
from  the  rains,  and  iniplores  him  to  assist  her 
in  burying  the  bodies' of  her  child,  husband, 
and  parents,  who  all  lie  mangled  at  her  feet. 
He  sadly  complies;  and  listens,  with  beating 
heart  and  kindling  eyes,  to  the  vehement  nar- 
rative and  lofty  vow  of  revenge  with  which 
this  heroine  closes  her  story.  The  story  itself 
is  a  little  commonplace ;  turning  mainly  upon 
her  midnight  slaughter  of  the  Moorish  cap- 
tain, who  sought  to  make  love  to  her  after  the 
sacrifice  of  all  her  family ',  but  the  expression 
of  her  patriotic  devotedness  and  religious  ar- 
dour of  revenge,  is  given  with  great  energy; 
as  well  as  the  effect  which  it  produces  on  the 
waking  spirit  of  the  King.  He  repeats  the 
solemn  vow  which  she  has  just  taken,  and 
consults  her  as  to  the  steps  that  may  be  taken 
for  rousing  the  valiant  of  the  land  to  their  as- 
sistance. The  high-minded  Amazon  then 
asks  the  name  of  her  first  proselyte. 

"  Ask  any  thing  but  that ! 

The  fallen  King  replied.     My  name  was  lost 
When  from  the  Goths  the  sceptre  past  away  !" 

She  rejoins,  rather  less  felicitously,  "  Then 
be  thy  name  Maccabee  f  and  sends  him  on  an 
embassage  to  a  worthy  abbot  among  the 
mountains;  to  whom  he  forthwith  reports 
what  he  had  seen  and  witnessed.  Upon  hear- 
ing me  story  of  her  magTianimous  devotion, 
th§  worthy  priest  instantly  divines  the  name 
of  the  heroine. 

"  Oh  none  but  Adosinda !  .  .  none  but  she,  .  . 
None  but  that  noble  heart,  which  was  the  heart 
Of  Auria  while  it  stood — its  life  and  strength. 
More  than  her  father's  presence,  or  the  arm 
Of  her  brave  lord,  all  valiant  as  he  was. 
Hers  was  the  spirit  which  inspir'd  old  age, 
Ambitious  boyhood,  girls  in  timid  youth, 
And  virgins  in  the  beauty  of  their  spring. 
And  youthful  mothers,  doting  like  herself 
With  ever-anxious  love  :  She  breath'd  through  all 
That  zeal  and  that  devoted  faithfulness. 
Which  to  the  invader's  threats  and  promises 
Turn'd  a  deaf  ear  alike,"  &c. — pp.  53 — 54. 

The  King  then  communes  on  the  affairs  of 
Spain  with  this  venerable  Ecclesiastic  and  his 
associates ;  who  are  struck  with  wonder  at  the 
lofty  mien  which  still  shines  through  his  sunk 
and  mortified  frame. 

"  They  scann'd  his  countenance  :     But  nor  a  trace 
Betray'd  the  royal  Goth  !  sunk  was  that  eye 
Of  sov'reignty  ;  and  on  the  emaciate  cheek 
Had  penitence  and  anguish  deeply  drawn 
Their  furrows  premature,  .  .  forestalling  time, 
And  shedding  upon  thirty's  brow,  more  snows 
Than  threescore  winters  in  their  natural  course 
Might  else  have  sprinkled  there." — p.  57. 

At  length,  the  prelate  lays  his  consecrating 
hands  on  him ;  and  sends  him  to  Pelayo,  th(^ 
heir-apparent  of  the  sceptre,  then  a  prisonei 
or  hostage  at  the  court  of  the  Moorish  prince, 
to  say  that  the  mountaineers  are  still  unenb- 


428 


POETRY. 


dued,  and  xook  to  him  to  guide  them  to 
vengeance. 

These  scenes  last  through  two  books ;  and 
at  the  beginning  of  the  Fifth,  Roderick  sets 
out  on  his  mission.  Here,  while  he  reposes 
himself  in  a  rustic  inn,  he  hears  the  assem- 
bled guests  at  once  lamenting  the  condition 
of  Spain,  and  imprecating  curses  on  the  head 
of  hs  guilty  King.  He  says  a  few  words  vehe- 
mently for  himself;  and  is  supported  by  a 
venerable  old  man,  in  whom  he  soon  recog- 
nises an  ancient  servant  of  his  mother's  house 
— the  guardian  and  playmate  of  his  infant 
days.  Secure  from  discovering  himself,  he 
musters  courage  to  ask  if  his  mother  be  still 
alive;  and  is  soothed  to  milder  sorrow  by 
learning  that  she  is.  At  dawn  he  resumes 
his  course ;  and  kneeling  at  a  broken  crucifix 
on  the  road,  is  insulted  by  a  Moor,  who  po- 
litely accosts  him  with  a  kick,  and  the  dig- 
nified address  of  "God's  curse  confound 
thee  !"  for  which  Roderick  knocks  him  down, 
and  stabs  him  with  his  own  dagger.  The 
worthy  old  man,  whose  name  is  Siverian, 
comes  up  just  as  this  feat  is  performed,  and 
is  requested  to  assist  in  "hiding  the  carrion;" 
after  which  they  proceed  lovingly  together. 
On  their  approach  to  Cordoba,  the  old  man 
calls  sadly  to  mind  the  scene  which  he  had 
witnessed  at  his  last  visit  to  that  place,  some 
ten  years  before,  when  Roderick,  in  the  pride 
of  his  youthful  triumph,  had  brought  the 
haughty  foe  of  his  father  to  the  grave  where 
his  ashes  were  interred,  and  his  gentle  mother 
came  to  see  that  expiation  made.  The  King 
listens  to  this  commemoration  of  his  past 
glories  with  deep,  but  suppressed  emotion ; 
and  entering  the  chapel,  falls  prostrate  qfi  the 
grave  of  his  father.  A  majestic  figure  starts 
forward  at  that  action,  in  the  dress  of  penitence 
and  mourning;  and  the  pilgrims  recognise 
Pelayo,  to  whom  they  both  come  commis- 
sioned.    This  closes  the  Sixth  Book. 

The  Seventh  contains  their  account  of  the 
state  of  affairs,  and  Pelayo's  solemn  accept- 
ance of  the  dangerous  service  of  leaving  the 
meditated  insurrection.  The  abdicated  mon- 
arch then  kneels  down  and  hails  him  King 
of  Spain  !  and  Siverian,  though  with  mourn- 
ful remembrances,  follows  the  high  example. 

The  Eighth  Book  continues  this  midnight 
conversation;  and  introduces  the  young  Al- 
phonso,  Pelayo's  fellow-prisoner,  at  the  Moor- 
ish court,  who  is  then  associated  to  their 
counsels,  and  enters  with  eager  delight  into 
their  plans  of  escape.  These  two  books  are 
rather  dull ;  though  not  without  force  and 
dignity.  The  worst  thing  in  them  ie  a  bit  of 
rnetoric  of  Alphonso,  who  complains  that  his 
delight  in  watching  the  moon  setting  over  his 
native  hills,  was  all  spoiled,  on  looking  up  and 
•seeing  the  Moorish  crescent  on  the  towers  ! 

The  Ninth  Book  introduces  an  important 
person — Florinda,  the  unhappy  daughter  of 
Count  Julian.  She  sits  mufiied  by  Pelayo's 
way,  as  he  returns  from  the  chapel ;  an '  begs 
a  boon  of  him  in  the  name  of  RodericK,  the 
chosen  friend  of  1  is  youth.  He  asks  who  it 
is  that  adjures  him  by  that  beloved  but  now 
anuttered  name  • — 


'*  She  bar'd  her  face,  and,  looking  up,  replied, 
Florinda  !  .  .  Shrinking  then,  with  both  her  hand* 
She  hid  herself,  and  bow'd  her  head  abas'd 

Upon  her  knee  I 

Pelayo  stood  confus'd:  He  had  not  seen 
Count  Julian's  daughter  since,  in  Rod' rick's  courts 
Glittering  in  beauty  and  in  innocence, 
A  radiant  vision,  in  her  joy  she  mov'd  ! 
More  like  a  poet's  dream,  or  form  divine, 
Heaven's  prototype  of  perfect  womanhood, 
So  lovely  was  the  presence,  .  .  than  a  thing 
Of  earth  and  perishable  elements." — p.  110. 

She  then  tells  him,  that  wretched  as  she  is, 
the  reneg-ade  Orpas  seeks  her  hand;  and 
begs  his  assistance  to  send  her  beyond  his 
reach,  to  a  Christian  land.  He  promieed  that 
she  shall  share  his  own  fate ;  and  they  part 
till  evening. 

The  Tenth  Book  sends  all  the  heroic  party 
upon  their  night  pilgrimage  to  the  mountains 
of  Asturia.  Roderick  and  Siverian  had  gone 
before.  Pelayo,  with  Alphonso  and  Florinda, 
follow  in  the  disguise  of  peasants.  Their 
midnight  march,  in  that  superb  climate,  is 
well  described : — 


The  favouring  moon  arose. 


To  guide  them  on  their  flight  through  upland  paths 
Remote  from  frequentage,  and  dales  retir'd. 
Forest  and  mountain  glen.     Before  their  feet 
The  fire-flies,  swarming  in  the  woodland  shade. 
Sprung  up  like  sparks,  and  twinkled  round  their 

way; 
The  timorous  blackbird,  starting  at  their  step. 
Fled  from  the  thicket,  with  shrill  note  of  fear; 
And  far  below  them  in  the  peopled  dell, 
When  all  the  soothing  sounds  of  eve  had  ceas'd. 
The  distant  watch-dog's  voice  at  times  was  heard, 
Answering  the  nearer  wolf.     All  through  the  night 
Among  the  hills  they  travell'd  silently  ; 
Till  when  the  stars  were  setting,  at  what  hour 
The  breath  of  Heaven  is  coldest,  they  beheld 
Within  a  lonely  grove  the  expected  fire, 
Where  Rod'rick  and  his  comrade  anxiously 
Look  for  the  appointed  meeting." 

"  Bright  rose  the  flame  replenish'd  ;  it  illum'd 
The  cork-tree's  furrow'd  rind,  its  rifts  and  swells 
And  redder  scars,  .  .  and  where  its  aged  boughs 
O'erbower'd  the  travellers,  cast  upon  the  leaves 
A  floating,  grey,  unrealising  gleam." — pp.  117,118. 

The  rest  soon  sink  in  serene  and  untroubled 
sleep :  But  Roderick  and  Florinda,  little  dream- 
ing of  each  other's  presence,  are  kept  awake 
by  bitter  recollections.  At  last  she  approaches 
him  ;  and.  awed  by  the  sanctity  of  his  air  and 
raiment,  kneels  down  before  him,  and  asks  if 
he  knows  who  the  wretch  is  who  thus  grovels 
before  him.    He  answers  that  he  does  not : — 

"  Then  said  she,  '  Here  thou  seest 
One  who  is  known  too  fatally  for  all,  .  . 
The  daughter  of  Count  Julian  !'  .  .  .  Well  it  was 
For  Rod'rick  that  no  eye  beheld  him  now  ! 
From  head  to  foot  a  sharper  pang  than  death 
Thrill'd  him;  his  heart,  as  at  a  mortal  stroke, 
Ceas'd  from  its  functions ;  his  breath  fail'd."- -p.  120. 

The  darkness  and  her  own  emotions  pre- 
vent her,  however,  from  observing  him,  and 
she  proceeds : — 

"  '  Father!  at  length  she  said,  all  tongues  amid 

This  general  ruin  shed  their  bitterness 

On  Rod'rick  ;  load  his  memory  with  reproach. 

And  with  their  curses  persecute  his  soul.'  . . . 

'  Why  shouldst  thou  tell  me  this?'  exclaim'd  the 

Goth, 
From  his  cold  forehead  wiping  as  he  spake     (guilt 
The  death  like  moisture:  .  .  Why  of  Rod'rick'i 


SOUTHEY'S  RODERICK. 


4S9 


Tell  n»j  f  Or  thinkest  thou  I  know  it  not  ? 
A!as  !  who  hath  not  heard  ihe  hideous  tale 
Of  Rod' rick's  shame  !'  " 

"  '  There  !  she  cried, 
Drawing  her  body  backward  where  she  knelt, 
And  stretching  forth  her  arms  with  headuprais'd,  . . 
There  !  it  pursues  me  still !  .  .  I  came  to  thee, 
Father,  for  comfort — and  thou  heapest  fire 
Upon  my  head  !     But  hear  me  patiently, 
And  let  me  undeceive  thee  !     Self-abas'd, 
Not  to  arraign  another,  do  I  come  I  . . 
I  come  a  self-accuser,  self-condemn'd. 
To  take  upon  myself  the  pain  deserv'd  ; 
For  I  have  drank  the  cup  of  bitterness, 
And  having  drank  therein  of  heavenly  grace, 
I  must  not  put  away  the  cup  of  shame.' 

**  Thus  as  she  spake  she  falter' d  at  the  close, 
And  in  that  dying  fall  her  voice  sent  forth 
Somewhat  of  its  original  sweetness.     '  Thou !  . . 
Thou  self-abas'd  !'  exelaim'd  the  astonish'd  King ; . . 
*  Thou  self-condemn'd  1'  .  .  The  cup  of  shame  for 

thee  ! 
Thee  .  .  thee,  Florinda !'  .  .  But  the  very  excess 
Of  passion  check'd  his  speech." — pp.  121,  122. 

Still  utterly  unconscious  of  her  strange  con- 
fessor, she  goes  on  to  explain  herself : — 

"  '  I  lov'd  the  King  !  .  . 

Tenderly,  passionately,  madly  lov'd  him  ! 
Sinful  it  was  to  love  a  child  of  earth 
"With  such  entire  devotion  as  I  lov'd 
Rod'rick,  the  heroic  Prince,  the  glorious  Goth  ! 
He  was  the  sunshine  of  my  soul !  and  like 
A  flower,  I  liv'd  and  flourish'd  in  his  light 
Oh  bear  not  with  rne  thus  impatiently  ! 
No  tale  of  weakness  this,  that  in  the  act 
Of  penitence,  indulgent  to  itself, 
With  garrulous  palliation  half  repeats 
The  sin  it  ill  repents.     I  will  be  brief  " 

pp.  123,  124. 

She  then  describes  the  unconscious  growth 
of  their  mutual  passion — enlarges  upon  her 
own  imprudence  in  affording  him  opportuni- 
ties of  declaring  it — and  expresses  her  con- 
viction, that  the  wretched  catastrophe  was 
brought  about,  not  by  any  premeditated  guilt, 
but  in  a  moment  of  delirium,  which  she  had 
herself  been  instrumental  in  bringing  on  : — 

*' '  Here  then,  O  Father,  at  thy  feet  I  own 
Myself  the  guiltier ;  and  full  well  I  knew 
These  were  his  thoughts  !  But  vengeance  master'.d 
And  in  my  agony  I  curst  the  man  [me. 

Whom  I  lov'd  best.' 

*  Dost  thou  recall  that  curse  V 
Cried  Rod'rick,  in  a  deep  and  inward  voice, 
Still  with  his  head  depress'd,  and  covering  still 
His  countenance.     '  Recall  it  ?'  she  exelaim'd  ; 
'  Father  !  I  came  to  thee  because  I  gave 
The  reins  to  wrath  too  long  .  .  because  I  wrought 
His  ruin,  death,  and  infamy.  .  .  O  God, 
Forgive  the  wicked  vengeance  thus  indulg'd  ! 
As  I  forgive  the  King  !'  "—p.  132. 

Roderick  again  stops  her  enthusiastic  self- 
accusation,  and  rejects  her  too  generous  vin- 
dication of  the  King ;  and  turning  to  Siverian, 
adds — 

"  *  To  that  old  man,'  said  he, 

'  And  to  the  mother  of  the  unhappy  Goth, 
Tell,  if  it  please  thee,  not  what  thou  hast  pour'd 
Into  my  secret  ear,  but  that  the  child 
For  whom  they  mourn  with  anguish  unallay'd 
Sinn'd  not  from  vicious  will,  or  heart  corrupt. 
But  fell  by  fatal  circumstance  betray'd  ! 
And  if,  in  charity  to  them,  thou  say'st 
Something  to  palliate,  something  to  excuse 
An  act  of  sudden  frenzy,  when  the  fiend 


O'ercame  him,  thou  nn'sU  do  for  Roderick 
All  he  could  ask  thee,  all  that  can  be  done 
On  earth,  and  all  liis  spirit  could  endure !' 
Then,  vent'ring  towards  her  an  imploring  look, 
'  Wilt  thou  join  with  me  for  his  soul  m  prayer  ?* 
He  said,  and  trembled  as  he  spake.     That  voice 
Of  sympathy  was  like  Heaven's  influence. 
Wounding  at  once  and  comforting  the  soul. 
'  O  Father  !  Christ  requite  thee  !'  she  exelaim'd  . 
*  Thou  hast  set  free  the  sprifigs  which  with'rina 

Have  clos'd  too  long.'  " [griew 

"  Then  in  a  firmer  speech, 
'  For  Rod'rick,  for  Count  Julian,  and  myself. 
Three  wretchedest  of  all  the  human  race  ! 
Who  have  destroy'd  each  other  and  ourselves. 
Mutually  wrong' d  and  wronging — let  us  pray  !" 

pp.  133,  134. 

There  is  great  power,  we  think,  and  great 
dramatic  talent,  in  this  part  of  the  poem. 
The  meeting  of  Roderick  and  Florinda  was  a 
touchstone  for  a  poet  who  had  ventured  on 
such  a  subject  •  and  Mr.  Southey,  we  must 
say,  has  come  out  of  the  test,  of  standard 
weight  and  purity. 

The  Eleventh  Book  brings  them  in  safety 
to  the  castle  of  Count  Pedro,  the  Father  of  the 
young  Alphonso,  formerly  the  feudal  foe,  but 
now  the  loyal  soldier  of  Pelayo.  They  find 
him  arming  in  his  courts,  with  all  his  vassals, 
to  march  instantly  against  the  Moors :  And 
their  joyful  welcome,  and  the  parental  delight 
of  father  and  mother  at  the  return  of  their 
noble  boy,  are  very  beautifully  described. 

The  Twelfth  Canto  contiimes  these  prepa- 
rations.— The  best  part  of  it  is  the  hasty  and 
hopeful  investiture  of  the  young  Alphonso, 
with  the  honours  of  knighthood.  The  mix- 
ture of  domestic  affection  with  military  ar- 
dour, and  the  youthful  innocence,  ingenuous 
modesty,  and  unclouded  hopes  of  that  bloom- 
ing age,  are  feelingly  combined  in  the  follow- 
ing amiable  picture,  in  which  the  classical 
reader  will  recognise  many  touches  of  true. 
Homeric  description : — 

"  Rejoicing  in  their  task, 
The  servants  of  the  house  with  emulous  love 
Dispute  the  charge.     One  brings  the  cuirass,  one     * 
The  buckler  ;  this  exultingly  displays 
The  sword,  his  comrade  lifts  the  helm  on  high  : 
Greek  artists  in  the  imperial  city  forg'd 
That  splendid  armour,  perfect  in  their  craft ; 
With  curious  skill  they  wrought  it,  fram'd  alike 
To  shine  amid  the  pageantry  of  war. 
And  for  the  proof  of  battle.     Many  a  time 
Alphonso  from  his  nurse's  lap  had  stretch'd 
His  infant  hand  toward  it  eagerly. 
Where,  gleaming  to  the  central  fire,  it  hung 

High  on  the  hall. 

No  season  this  for  old  solemnities  ! 

For  wassailry  and  sport ;  .  .  the  bath,  the  bed, 

The  vigil,  .  .  all  preparatory  rites 

Omitted  now,  . .  here  in  the  face  of  Heaven, 

Before  the  vassals  of  his  father's  house, 

With  them  in  instant  peril  to  partake 

The  chance  of  life  or  death,  the  heroic  boy 

Dons  his  first  arms  I  the  coated  scales  of  steel 

Which  o'er  the  tunic  to  his  knees  depend ; 

The  hose,  the  sleeves  of  mail :  bareheaded  then 

He  stood.     But  when  Count  Pedro  took  the  epurq 

And  bent  his  knee,  in  service  to  his  son, 

Alphonso  from  that  gesture  half  drew  back. 

Starting  in  rev'rence,  and  a  deeper  hue 

Spread  o'er  the  glow  of  joy  which  flush'd  his  cheeka 

Do  thou  the  rest,  Pelayo !  said  the  Count 

So  shall  the  ceremony  of  this  hour 

Exceed  in  honour  what  in  form  it  lacks." 

pp.  147—149. 


430 


POETRY. 


The  ceremony  is  followed  by  a  solemn  vow 
of  fidelity  to  Spain,  and  eternal  war  with  the 
Infidel,  administered  by  Roderick,  and  devout- 
ly taken  by  J;he  young  Knight,  and  all  his  as- 
sembled followers. 

The  Thirteenth  Book  contains  a  brief  account 
of  the  defeat  of  a  Moorish  detachment  by  this 
faithful  troop ;  and  of  the  cowardice  and  re- 
buke of  Count  Eudon,  who  had  tamely  yielded 
to  the  invaders,  and  is  dismissed  with  scorn 
to  the  castle  which  his  brave  countrymen  had 
redeemed.  They  then  proceed  to  guard  or 
recover  the  castle  of  Pelayo. 

The  Fourteenth  Book  describes  their  happy 
arrival  at  that  fortress,  at  the  fall  of  evening  ] 
where,  though  they  do  not  find  his  wife  and 
daughters,  w^ho  had  retired  for  safety,  to  a 
sacred  cave  in  the  mountains,  they  meet  a 
joyful  and  triumphant  band  of  his  retainers, 
returning  from  a  glorious  repulse  of  the  Moors, 
and  headed  by  the  inspiring  heroine  Adosinda ; 
who  speedily  recognises  in  Roderick  her 
mournful  assistant  and  first  proselyte  at  Auria, 
while  he  at  the  same  moment  discovers, 
among  the  ladies  of  her  train,  the  calm  and 
venerable  aspect  of  his  beloved  mother, 
Rusilla. 

The  Fifteenth  Book  contains  the  history  of 
his  appearance  before  that  venerated  parent. 
Unable  to  sleep,  he  had  wandered  forth  before 
dawn — 

"  that  morn 

With  its  cold  dews  might  bathe  his  throbbing  brow, 
And  with  its  breath  allay  the  fev'rish  heat 
That  burnt  within.     Alas  !  the  gales  of  morn 
Reach  not  the  fever  of  a  wounded  heart ! 
How  shall  he  meet  his  mother's  eyo,  how  make 
His  secret  known,  and  from  that  voice  rever'd 
Obtain  forgiveness  I — p.  179. 

While  he  is  meditating  under  what  pretext 
to  introduce  himself,  the  good  Siverian  comes 
to  say,  that  his  lady  wishes  to  see  the  holy 
father  who  had  spoken  so  charitably  of  her 
unhappy  son. — The  succeeding  scene  is  very 
finely  conceived,  and  supported  with  great 
judgment  and  feeling. 

"  Count  Julian's  daughter  with  Rusilla  sate  ; 
Both  had  been  weeping,  both  were  pale,  but  calm. 
With  head  as  for  humility  abas'd 
Rod'rick  approach'd,  and  bending,  on  his  breast 
He  cross'd  his  humble  arms.     Rusilla  rose 
In  reverence  to  the  priestly  character, 
And  with  a  mournful  eye  regarding  him. 
Thus  she  began.     '  Good  Father,  1  have  heard 
From  my  old  faithful  servant  and  true  friend, 
Thou  didst  reprove  the  inconsiderate  tongue. 
That  in  the  anguish  of  its  spirit  pour'd 
A  curse  upon  my  poor  unhappy  child  ! 

0  Father  Maccabee,  this  is  a  hard  world, 
And  hasty  in  its  judgments  !     Time  has  been, 
When  not  a  tongue  within  the  Pyrenees 
Dar'd  whisper  in  dispraise  of  Rod'rick's  name. 
Now,  if  a  voice  be  rais'd  in  his  behalf, 

>Tis  noted  fdr  a  wonder ;  and  the  man 

Who  utters  the  strange  speech  shall  be  admir'd 

For  Buch  excess  of  Christian  charity. 

Thy  Christian  charity  hath  not  been  lost ;  .  . 

P'ather,  I  feel  its  virtue :  .  .  it  hath  been 

Balm  to  my  heart !  .  .  With  words  and  grateful 

All  that  is  left  me  now  for  gratitude,  .  .    [tears,  .  . 

1  thank  thee !  and  beseech  thee  in  thy  prayers 
That  thou  wilt  still  remember  Rod'rick's  name.' " 

pp.  180, 181. 


The  all-enduring  King  shudders  at  these 
w^ords  of  kindness  j — but  lepressing  his  emo- 
tion— 

"  '  O  venerable  Lady,  he  replied, 

If  aught  may  comfort  that  unhappy  soul 

It  must  be  thy  compassion,  and  thy  prayers. 

She  whom  he  most  hath  wrong'd,  she  who  alone 

On  earth  can  grant  forgiveness  for  his  crime 

She  hath  forgiven  him  !  and  thy  blessing  now 

Were  all  that  he  could  ask,  .  .  all  that  could  bring 

Profit  or  consolation  to  his  soul, 

If  he  hath  been,  as  sure  we  may  believe, 

A  penitent  sincere.'  " — p.  182. 

Florinda  then  asks  his  prayers  for  her  un- 
happy and  apostate  father ;  and  his  advice  af 
to  the  means  of  rejoining  him. 

"  While  thus  Florinda  spake,  the  dog  who  lay 
Before  Rusilla' s  feet,  eyeing  him  long 
And  wistfully,  had  recognis'd  at  length, 
Chang'd  as  he  was,  and  in  those  sordid  weeds, 
His  royal  master  !     And  he  rose  and  lick'd 
His  wither'd  hand  ;  and  earnestly  look'd  up 
With  eyes  whose  human  meaning  did  not  need 
The  aid  of  speech  ;  and  moan'd,  as  if  at  once 
To  court  and  chide  the  long- withheld  caress  ! 
A  feeling  uncommix'd  with  sense  of  guilt 
Or  shame,  yetpainfullest,  ihrill'd  through  the  King, 
But  he,  to  self-control  now  long  inured, 
Represt  his  rising  heart,"  &c. — p.  186. 

He  makes  a  short  and  pious  answer  to  the 
desolate  Florinda ; — and  then — 

"  Deliberately,  in  self-possession,  still. 
Himself  from  that  most  painful  interview 
Dispeeding,  he  withdrew.     The  watchful  dog 
FoUow'd  his  footsteps  close.     But  he  retir'd 
Into  the  thickest  grove  ;  there  giving  way 
To  his  o'erburthen'd  nature,  from  all  eyes 
Apart,  he  cast  himself  upon  the  ground. 
And  threw  his  arms  around  the  dog  !  and  cried. 
While  tears  stream'd  down,  '  Thou,  Theron,  then 

hast  known 
Thy  poor  lost  master, . .  Theron,  none  but  thou !'  " 

p.  187. 

The  Sixteenth  Book  contains  the  re-union 
of  Pelayo's  family  in  the  cave  of  Covadonga. 
His  morning  journey  to  the  place  of  this  glad 
meeting,  through  the  enchanting  scenery  of 
his  native  hills,  and  with  the  joyous  company 
of  self-approving  thoughts,  is  well  described. 

Arrived  at  last  upon  the  lonely  platform 
which  masks  the  cave  in  which  the  springs 
burst  out,  and  his  children  are  concealed,  he 
sounds  his  bugle  note ;  and  the  rock  gives  up 
its  inhabitants  !  There  is  something  anima- 
ting and  impressive,  but  withal  a  little  too 
classical  and  rapturous,  in  the  full-length  pic- 
ture of  this  delightful  scene. 

"  But  when  a  third  and  broader  blast 
Rung  in  the  echoing  archway,  ne'er  did  wand, 
With  magic  power  endued,  call  up  a  sight 
So  strange,  as  sure  in  that  wild  solitude 
It  seem'd  when  from  the  bowels  of  the  rock. 
The  mother  and  her  children  hasten'd  fort!  ' 
She  in  the  sober  charms  and  dignity 
Of  womanhood  mature,  nor  verging  yet 
Upon  decay  ;  in  gesture  like  a  queen. 
Such  inborn  and  nabitual  majesty 
Ennobled  all  her  steps  :  .  .  Favila  such 
In  form  and  stature,  as  the  Sea  Nymph's  son. 
When   that  wise  Centaur,  from  his  cave,   well- 
Beheld  the  boy  divine  his  growing  strength   [pleas'd 
Against  some  shaggy  lionet  essay  ! 
And  fixing  in  the  half-grown  mane  his  hands, 
Roll  with  him  in  fierce  dalliance  intertwin'd ! 


SOUTHEY'S  RODERICK. 


481 


But  like  a  creature  of  some  higher  sphere 

His  sister  came.     She  scarcely  touch'd  the  rock, 

So  light  was  Hcrmesind's  aerial  speed. 

Beauty  and  grace  and  innocence  in  her 

In  heavenly  union  shone.     One  who  had  held 

The  faith  of  elder  Greece,  would  sure  have  thought 

She  was  some  "lorious  nymph  of  seed  divine, 

Oread  or  Dryad,  of  Diana's  train 

The  youngest  and  the  loveliest  !   yea  she  seem'd 

Angel,  or  soul  beatified,  from  realms 

Of  bliss,  on  errand  of  parental  love 

To  earth  re-sent."— pp.  197,  198. 

"  Many  a  slow  century,  since  that  day,  hath  fill'd 

Its  course,  and  countless  multitudes  have  trod 

With  pilgrim  feet  that  consecrated  cave  ; 

Yet  not  in  all  those  ages,  amid  all 

The  untold  concourse,  hath  one  breast  been  swoln 

With  such  emotions  as  Pelayo  felt 

That  hour."— p.  201. 

The  Seventeenth  Book  brings  back  the 
Btory  to  Roderick ;  who,  with  feelings  more 
reconciled,  but  purposes  of  penitence  and 
mortification  as  deep  as  ever,  and  as  resolved, 
muses  by  the  side  of  the  stream,  on  past  and 
future  fortunes. 

"  Upon  a  smooth  grey  stone  sate  Rod' rick  there ; 
The  wind  above  him  stirr'd  the  hazel  boughs, 
And  murm'ring  at  his  feet  the  river  ran. 
He  sate  with  folded  arms  and  head  dechn'd 
Upon  his  breast,  feeding  on  bitter  thoughts. 
Till  Nature  gave  hihi  in  the  exhausted  sense 
Of  woe,  a  respite  something  like  repose  ! 
And  then  the  quiet  sound  of  gentle  winds 
And  waters  with  their  lulling  consonance 
Beguil'd  him  of  himself.     Of  all  within 
Oblivious  there  he  sate ;  sentient  alone 
Of  outward  nature,  .  .  of  the  whisp'ring  leaves 
That  sooth' d  his  ear,  .  .  the  genial  breath  of  heaven 
That  fann'd  his  cheek,  .  .  the  stream's  perpetual 

flow. 
That,  with  its  shadows  and  its  glancing  lights. 
Dimples  and  thread-like  motions  infinite. 
For  ever  varying  and  yet  still  the  same, 
Like  time  toward  eternity,  ran  by. 
Resting  his  head  upon  his  Master's  knees, 
Upon  the  bank  beside  him  Theron  lay." 

pp.  205,  206. 

In  this  quiet  mood,  he  is  accosted  by  Sive- 
rian,  who  entertains  nim  with  a  long  account 
of  Pelayo' s  belief  in  the  innocence,  or  com- 
parative innocence,  of  their  beloved  Roderick ; 
and  of  his  own  eager  and  anxious  surmises 
that  he  may  still  be  alive. 

The  Eighteenth  Book,  which  is  rather  long 
and  heavy,  contains  the  account  of  Pelayo's 
coronation.  The  best  part  of  it,  perhaps,  is 
the  short  sketch  of  his  lady's  affectionate 
exultation  in  his  glory.  When  she  saw  the 
preparations  that  announced  this  great  event — 


•"her  eyes 


Brighten'd.     The  quicken'd  action  of  the  blood 
Ting'd  with  a  deeper  hue  her  glowing  cheek  ;• 
And  on  her  lips  there  sate  a  smile,  which  spake 
The  honourable  pride  of  perfect  love ; 
Rejoicing,  for  her  husband's  sake,  to  skare 
The  lot  he  chose,  the  perils  he  defied, 
The  lofty  fortune  which  their  faith  foresaw." 

p.  218. 

Roderick  bears  a  solemn  part  in  the  lofty 
ceremonies  of  this  important  day ;  and,  with 
a  calm  and  resolute  heart,  beholds  the  alle- 
giance of  his  subjects  transferred  to  his  heroic 
kinsman. 

The  Nineteenth  Book  is  occupied  with  an 
Jiterview  between  Roderick  and  his  mother. 


who  has  at  last  recognised  him  ]  and  even 
while  she  approves  of  his  penitential  abandon- 
ment of  the  world,  tempts  him  with  bewitch- 
ing visions  of  recovered  fame  and  glory,  and 
of  atonement  made  to  Florinda,  by  placing 
her  in  the  rank  of  his  queen.  He  continues 
firm,  however,  in  his  lofty  purpose,  and  the 
pious  Princess  soon  acquiesces  in  those  pious 
resolutions ;  and,  engaging  to  keep  his  secret, 
gives  him  her  blessing,  and  retires. 

The  Twentieth  Book  conducts  us  to  the 
Moorish  cam.p  and  the  presence  of  Count 
Julian.  Orpas,  a  baser  apostate,  claims  the 
promised  hand  of  Florinda;  and  Julian  ap- 
peals to  the  Moorish  Prince,  whether  the 
law  of  Mahomet  admits  of  a  forced  marriage. 
The  Prince  attests  that  it  does  not ;  and  then 
Julian,  who  has  just  learned  that  his  daughter 
was  in  the  approaching  host  of  Pelayo,  ob- 
tains leave  to  despatch  a  messenger  to  invite 
her  to  his  arms. 

The  Twenty-first  Book  contains  the  meet- 
ing of  Julian  with  his  daughter  and  Roderick  ] 
under  w^hose  protection  she  comes  at  evening 
to  the  Moorish  camp,  and  finds  her  father  at 
his  ablutions  at  the  door  of  his  tent,  by  the 
side  of  a  clear  mountain  spring.  On  her  ap- 
proach, he  clasps  her  in  his  arms  with  over- 
flowing love. 

"  '  Thou  hast  not  then  forsaken  me,  my  child. 

Howe'er  the  inexorable  will  of  Fate 

May  in  the  world  which  is  to  come  divide 

Our  everlasting  destinies,  in  this 

Thou  wilt  not,  O  my  child,  abandon  me  !' 

And  then  with  deep  and  interrupted  voice, 

Nor  seeking  to  restrain  his  copious  tears, 

'  My  blessing  be  upon  thy  head  !'  he  cried, 

A  father's  blessing  !  though  all  faiths  were  false. 

It  should  not  lose  its  worth !  .  .  .  She  lock'd  hei 

Around  his  neck,  and  gazing  in  his  face         [hands 

Through  streaming  tears,  exclaim'd,  '  Oh  never 

more. 
Here  or  hereafter,  never  let  us  part !'  " — p.  258, 

He  is  at  first  oflfended  with  the  attendance 
and  priestly  habit  of  Roderick,  and  breaks 
out  into  some  infidel  taunts  upon  creeds  and 
churchmen ;  but  is  forced  at  length  to  honoui 
the  firmness,  the  humility,  and  candour  of 
this  devoted  Christian.  He  poses  him,  how- 
ever, in  the  course  of  their  discussion,  by 
rather  an  unlucky  question. 

*'  *  Thou  preachest  that  all  sins  may  be  effac'd  : 
Is  there  forgiveness,  Christian,  in  thy  creed     [thee, 
For  Rod'rick's  crime?  .  .  For  Rod'rick,  and  for 
Count  Julian!'  said  the  Goth ;  and  as  he  spake 
Trembled  through  every  fibre  of  his  frame, 
*  The  gate  of  Heaven  is  open  !'     Julian  threw 
His  wrathful  hand  aloft,  and  cried,  '  Away  ! 
Earth-  could  not  hold  us  both ;  nor  can  one  Heaven 
Contain  my  deadliest  enemy  and  me  !'  " — p.  269. 

This  ethical  dialogxie  is  full  of  lofty  senti- 
ment and  strong  images ;  but  is,  on  the  whole 
rather  tedious  and  heavy.  One  of  the  newest 
pictures  is  the  following ;  and  the  sweetest 
scene,  perhaps,  that  which  closes  the  book 
immediately  after: — 

"  '  Methinks  if  ye  would  know 
How  visitations  of  calamity 
Affect  the  pious  soul,  'tis  shown  ye  there  ' 
Look  yonder  at  that  cloud,  which  through  the  sk/ 
Sailing  alone,  doth  cross  in  her  career 
The  rolling  moon  !     I  watch' d  it  as  it  came 


43t 


POETRY. 


A  nddeem'd  the  deep  opaque  would  blot  her  beams  ; 
But,  melting  like  a  wreath  of  snow,  it  hangs 
In  folds  of  wavy  silver  round,  and  clothes 
The  orb  with  richer  beauties  than  her  own, 
Then  passing,  leaves  her  in  her  light  serene.' — 

"  Thus  having  said,  the  pious  suff'rer  sate. 
Beholding  with  nx'd  eyes  that  lovely  orb, 
Which  through  the  azure  depth  alone  pursues 
Her  course  appointed  ;  with  indiff'rent  beams 
Shining  upon  the  silent  hills  around, 
And  the  dark  tents  of  that  unholy  host, 
Who,  all  unconscious  of  impending  fate, 
Take  their  last  slumber  there.     The  camp  is  still ! 
The  fires  have  moulder'd ;  and  the  breeze  which 
The  soft  and  snowy  embers,  just  lays  bare     [stirs 
At  times  a  red  and  evanescent  light, 
Or  for  a  moment  wakes  a  feeble  flame. 
They  by  the  fountain  hear  the  stream  below, 
Whose  murmurs,  as  the  wind  arose  or  fell, 
Fuller  or  fainter  reach  the  ear  attun'd. 
And  now  the  nightingale,  not  distant  far, 
Began  her  solitary  song  ;  and  pour'd 
To  the  cold  moon  a  richer,  stronger  strain 
Than  that  with  which  the  lyric  lark  salutes 
The  new-born  day.    Her  deep  and  thrilling  song 
Seem'd  with  its  piercing  melody  to  reach 
The  soul ;  and  in  mysterious  unison 
Blend  with  all  thoughts  of  gentleness  and  love. 
Their  hearts  were  open  to  the  healing  power 
Of  nature  ;  and  the  splendour  of  the  night, 
The  flow  of  waters,  and  that  sweetest  lay 
Came  to  them  like  a  copious  evening  dew, 
Falling  on  vernal  herbs  which  thirst  for  rain." 

pp.  274—276. 

The  Twenty-second  Book  is  fuller  of  busi- 
ness than  of  poetry.  The  vindictive  Orpas 
persuades  the  Moorish  leader,  that  Julian 
meditates  a  defection  from  his  cause  :  and,  by 
working  on  his  suspicious  spirit,  obtains  his 
consent  to  his  assassination  on  the  first  con- 
venient opportunity. 

The  Twenty-third  Book  recounts  the  car- 
nage and  overthrow  of  the  Moors  in  the  Strait 
of  Covadonga.  Deceived  by  false  intelligence, 
and  drunk  with  deceitful  hope,  they  advance 
up  the  long  and  precipitous  defile,  along  the 
cliffs  and  ridges  of  which  Pelayo  had  not  only 
stationed  his  men  in  ambush,  but  had  piled 
huge  stones  and  trunks  of  trees,  ready  to  be 
pushed  over  upon  the  ranks  of  the  enemy  in  the 
lower  pass.  A  soft  summer  mist  hanging  upon 
the  side  of  the  cliffs  helps  to  conceal  these 
preparations ;  and  the  whole  line  of  the  Infidel 
18  irretrievably  engaged  in  the  gulf,  w^hen 
Adosinda  appears  on  a  rock  in  the  van,  and, 
with  her  proud  defiance,  gives  the  word,  which 
is  the  signal  for  the  assault.  The  whole  de- 
scription is,  as  usual,  a  little  overworked,  but 
is  unquestionably  striking  and  impressive. 

"  As  the  Moors 

Advanc'd,  the  Chieftain  in  the  van  was  seen. 
Known  by  his  arms,  and  from  the  crag  a  voice 
Pronounc'd  his  name, .  .  .  '  Alcahman,  hoa  I  look 
Alcahman  !'     As  the  floating  mist  drew  up      [up ! 
It  had  divided  there,  and  open'd  round 
The  Cross  ;  part  clinging  to  the  rock  beneath, 
Hov'ring  and  waving  part  in  fleecy  folds, 
A  canopy  of  silver.  Tight  condens'd 
To  shape  and  substance.     In  the  midst  there  stood 
A  female  form,  one  hand  upon  the  Cross, 
The  other  rais'd  in  menacing  act.     Below 
Loose  flow'd  her  raiment,  but  her  breast  was  arm'd. 
And  helmeted  her  head.     The  Moor  turn'd  pale. 
For  on  the  walls  of  Auria  he  had  seen 
That  well-known  figure,  and  had  well  believ'd 
She  rested  with  the  dead.    '  What,  hoa  !'  she  cried, 
Alcahman  !     In  the  name  of  all  who  fell 


At  Auria  in  the  massacre,  this  hour 

I  summon  thee  before  the  throne  of  God, 

To  answer  for  the  innocent  blood  !     This  hour  ! 

Moor,  Miscreant,  Murderer,Childof  Hell!  this  hoiB 

I  summon  thee  to  judgment !  ...  In  the  name 

Of  God  !  for  Spain  and  Vengeance. 

From  voice  to  voice  on  either  side  it  past 

With  rapid  repetition,  . .  '  In  the  nam'' 

Of  God  !  for  Spain  and  Vengeance  ?'  and  forti^ill 

On  either  side,  along  the  whole  defile, 

The  Asturians  shouting,  in  the  name  of  God, 

Set  the  whole  ruin  loose  ;  huge  trunks  and  stones, 

And  loosen'd  crags  !    Down,  down  they  roll'd  with 

rush. 
And  bound,  and  thund'ring  force.  Such  was  the  fall 
As  when  some  city  by  the  labounng  earth 
Heav'd  from  its  strong  foundations  is  cast  down, 
And  all  its  dwellings,  towers,  and  palaces, 
In  one  wide  desolation  prostrated. 
From  end  to  end  of  that  long  strait,  the  crash 
Was  heard  continuous,  and  commixt  with  sounds 
More  dreadful,  shrieks  of  horror  and  despair. 
And  death,  .  .  the  wild  and  agonising  cry 
Of  that  whole  host,  in  one  destruction  whelm'd." 

pp.  298,  299. 

The  Twenty-fourth  Book  is  full  of  tragical 
matter,  and  is  perhaps  the  most  interesting  of 
the  whole  piece.  A  Moor,  on  the  instigation 
of  Orpas  and  Abulcacem,  pierces  Julian  with 
a  mortal  wound ;  who  thereupon  exhorts  his 
captains,  already  disgusted  wnth  the  jealous 
tyranny  of  the  Infidel,  to  it^jo'm  the  standard 
and  the  faith  of  their  country ;  and  then  re- 
quests to  be  borne  into  a  neighbouring  church, 
where  Florinda  has  been  praying  for  his  con- 
version. 

"  They  rais'd  him  from  the  earth  ; 

He,  knitting  as  they  lifted  him  his  brow, 
Drew  in  through  open  lips  and  teeth  firm-clos'd 
His  painful  breath,  and  on  his  lance  laid  hand, 
Lest  its  long  shaft  should  shake  the  mortal  wound 
Gently  his  men  with  slow  and  steady  step 
Their  sufF'ring  burthen  bore  ;  and  in  the  Church, 
Before  the  altar,  laid  him  down,  his  head 
Upon  Florinda' s  knees." — pp.  307,  308. 

He  then,  on  the  solemn  adjuration  of  Ko- 
derick,  renounces  the  bloody  faith  to  which 
he  had  so  long  adhered ;  and  reverently  re- 
ceives at  his  hand  the  sacrament  of  reconcili- 
ation and  peace.  There  is  great  feeling  and 
energy  we  think  in  what  follows : — 

"  That  dread  office  done, 
Count  Julian  with  amazement  saw  the  Priest 
Kneel  down  before  him.     '  By  the  sacrament, 
Which  we  have  here  partaken  !'  Roderick  cried, 
*  In  this  most  awful  moment.     By  that  hope,  ,  . 
That  holy  faith  which  comforts  thee  in  death. 
Grant  thy  forgiveness,  Julian,  ere  thou  diest ! 
Behold  the  man  who  most  hath  injur  d  thee  ! 
Rod'rick!  the  wretched  Goth,  the  guiUy  cause 
Of  all  thy  guilt,  .  .  the  unworthy  instrument 
Of  thy  redemption,  .  .  kneels  before  thee  here, 
And  prays  to  be  forgiven  !' 

'  Roderick !'  exclaim'd 
The  dying  Count,  .  .  '  Roderick  !'  . .  and  from  the 
With  violent  effort,  half  he  rais'd  himself;      [floor. 
The  spear  hung  heavy  in  his  side  ;  and  pain 
And  weakness  overcame  him,  that  he  fell 
Back  on  his  daughter's  lap.  '  0  Death,'  cried  he, . 
Passing  his  hand  across  his  cold  damp  brow,  .  . 
'  Thou  tamest  the  strong  limb,  and  conquerest 
The  stubborn  heart !  But  yesterday  I  said 
One  Heaven  could  not  contain  mine  enemy 
And  me  ;  and  now  I  lift  my  dying  voice 
To  say,  Forgive  me.  Lord  !  as  I  forgive         [eyes 
Him  who  hath  done  the  wrong  I'  .  .  He  clos'd  his 
A  moment ;  then  with  sudden  impulse  cried, 


SOUTHEY'S  RODERICK. 


483 


Rod'rlck,  thy  wife  is  dead! — the  Church  hath 
power 
To  free  thee  from  thy  vows !     The  broken  heart 
Might  yet  be  heal'd,  the  wrong  redress'd,  the  throne 
Rebuilt  by  that  same  hand  which  puU'd  it  down  ! 
And  these  curst  Africans  ...  Oh  for  a  month 
Of  that  waste  Ufe  which  millions  misbestow !  . . '  " 

pp.  311,312. 

Returning  weakness  then  admonishes  him, 
however,  of  the  near  approach  of  death ;  and 
he  begs  the  friendly  hand  of  Roderick  to  cut 
short  his  pangs,  by  drawing  forth  the  weapon 
which  clogs  the  wound  in  his  side.  He  then 
gives  him  his  hand  in  kindness — blesses  and 
kisses  his  heroic  daughter,  and  expires.  The 
concluding  lines  are  full  of  force  and  tender- 
ness. 

"  When  from  her  father's  body  she  arose, 
Her  cheek  was  flush'd,  and  in  her  eyes  there  beam'd 
A  wilder  brightness.     On  the  Goth  she  gaz'd  ! 
While  underneath  the  emotions  of  that  hour 
Exhausted  life  gave  way  !     '  0  God  !'  she  said, 
Lifting  her  hands,  '  thou  hast  restor'd  me  all,  .  . 
All .  ,  in  one  hour !'  .  .  .  and  around  his  neck  she 
threw  [ven!' 

Her  arms  and  cried,  '  My  Roderick  !  mine  in  Hea- 
Groaning,  he  claspt  her  close  !  and  in  that  act 
And  agony  her  happy  spirit  fled !" — p.  313. 

The  Last  Book  describes  the  recognition 
and  exploits  of  Roderick  in  the  last  of  his  bat- 
tles. After  the  revolt  of  Julian's  army,  Orpas, 
bv  whose  counsels  it  had  been  chiefly  occa- 
sioned, is  sent  forward  by  the  Moorish  leader, 
to  try  to  win  them  back;  and  advances  in 
front  of  the  line,  demanding  a  parley,  mount- 
ed on  the  beautiful  Orelio,  the  famous  war 
horse  of  Roderick,  who,  roused  at  that  sight, 
oDtains  leave  from  Pelayo  to  give  the  renegade 
his  answer ;  and  after  pouring  out  upon  him 
some  words  of  abuse  and  scorn,  seizes  the 
reins  of  his  trusty  steed ;  and 

"  '  How  now,'  he  cried, 

Urelio  !  old  companion,  . .  my  good  horse  !'  .  . 
Off  with  this  recreant  burthen  !'  .  .  .  And  with  that 
He  rais'd  his  hand,  and  rear'd,  and  back'd  the  steed, 
To  that  remember'd  voice  and  arm  of  power 
Obedient.     Down  the  helpless  traitor  fell, 
Violently  thrown  ;  and  Roderick  over  him, 
Thrice  led,  with  just  and  unrelenting  hand, 
The  trampling  hoofs.     '  Go,  join  Witiza  now. 
Where  he  lies  howling,'  the  avenger  cried, 
'  And  tell  him  Roderick  sent  thee !'  " — pp.  318, 319. 

He  then  vaults  upon  the  noble  horse ;  and 
fitting  Count  Julian's  sword  to  his  grasp,  rushes 
in  the  van  of  the  Christian  army  into  the  thick 
array  of  the  Infidel, — where,  unarmed  as  he 
is,  and  clothed  in  his  penitential  robes  of 
waving  black,  he  scatters  death  and  terror 
around  him.  and  cuts  his  way  clean  through 
the  whole  nost  of  his  opponents.  He  there 
descries  the  army  of  Pelayo  advancing  to  co- 
operate; and  as  he  rides  up  to  them  with  his 
wonted  royal  air  and  gesture,  and  on  his  well- 
known  steed  of  royalty,  both  the  Kin^  and 
Siverian  are  instantaneously  struck  with  the 
apparition;  and  marvel  that  the  weeds  of 
penirence  should  so  long  have  concealed  their 
sovereign.  Roderick,  unconscious  of  this  re- 
cognition, briefly  informs  them  of  what  has 
befallen,  and  requests  the  honourable  rites  of 
Christian  sepulture  for  the  unfortunate  Julian 
and  hjs  daughter 

28 


"  '  In  this, — afiu  oil  things  else,'' — 
Pelayo  answer'd,  looking  wisttully 
Upon  the  Goth,  '  thy  pleasure  shall  be  done  !' 
Then  Rod' rick  saw  that  he  was  known — and  turn'd 
His  head  away  in  silence.     But  the  old  man 
Laid  hold  upon  his  bridle,  and  look'd  up 
In  his  master's  face — weeping  and  silently  ! 
Thereat  the  Goth  with  fervent  pressure  took 
His  hand,  and  bending  down  towards  him,  said, 
'  My  good  Siverian,  go  not  thou  this  day 
To  war  !  I  charge  thee  keep  thyself  from  harm  ! 
Thou  art  past  the  age  for  combats  ;  and  with  whom 
Hereafter  should  thy  mistress  talk  of  me. 
If  thou  wert  gone  ?'  "—p.  330. 

He  then  borrows  the  defensive  armour  of  this 
faithful  servant;  and  taking  a  touching  and 
afTectionate  leave  of  him,  vaults  again  on  the 
back  of  Orelio ;  and  placing  himself  without 
explanation  in  the  van  of  the  army,  leads  them 
on  to  the  instant  assault.  The  renegade  lead- 
ers fall  on  all  sides  beneath  his  resistless 
blows. 

"  And  in  the  heat  of  fight. 

Rejoicing  and  forgetful  of  all  else, 
Set  up  his  cry  as  he  was  wont  in  youth,  [well ! 

'  Rod'rick  the  Goth  !'  ...  his  war-cry,  known  so 
Pelayo  eagerly  took  up  the  word, 
.And  shouted  out  his  kinsman's  name  belov'd, 
"'  Rod'rick  the  Goth  !    Rod'rick  and  Victory  ! 
Rod'rick  and  Vengeance  !'     Odoar  gave  it  forth  ; 
Urban  repeated  it ;  and  through  his  ranks 
Count  Pedro  sent  the  cry.     Not  from  the  field 
Of  his  great  victory,  when  Witiza  fell, 
With  loudei;  acclamations  had  that  name 
Been  borne  abroad  upon  the  winds  of  heaven." 

— — "  O'er  the  field  it  spread, 
All  hearts  and  tongues  uniting  in  the  cry  ; 
Mountains,  and  rocUs,  and  vales  re-echo'd  round  ; 
And  he  rejoicing  in  his  strength  rode  on,     [smote,. 
Laying  on  the  Moors  with  that  good  sword  ;  and 
And  overthrew,  and  scatter'd,  and  destroy'd, 
And  trampled  down  !  and  stili  at  every  blow 
Exultingly  he  sent  the  war-cry  forth. 
'  Rod'rick  the  Goth  !  Rod'rick  and  Victory ! 
Rod'rick  and  Vengeance  !'  "—pp.  334,  335. 

The  carnage  at  length  is  over,  and  the  field 
is  won ! — ^but  where  is  he  to  whose  name  and 
example  the  victory  is  owing  ? 

"  Upon  the  banks 

Of  Sella  was  Orelio  found ;  his  legs 
And  flanks  incarnadin'd,  his  poitral  smear'd 
With  froth,  and  foam,  and  gore,  his  silver  mane 
Sprinkled  with  blood,  which  hung  on  every  hair, 
Aspers'd  like  dew-drops:  trembling  there  he  stood 
From  the  toil  of  battle  ;  and  at  times  sent  forth 
His  tremulous  voice  far-echoing  loud  and  shrill  ; 
A  frequent  anxious  cry,  with  which  he  seem'd 
To  call  the  master  whom  he  lov'd  so  well. 
And  who  had  thus  again  forsaken  him. 
Siverian's  helm  and  cuirass  on  the  grass 
Lay  near ;  and  Julian's  sword,  its  hilt  and  cham 
Clotted  with  blood  !  But  where  was  he  whose  hand 
Had  wielded  it  so  well  that  glorious  day?  .  .  • 
Days,  months,  and  years,  and  generations  pa?s'd, 
And  centuries  held  their  course,  before,  far  oflf 
Within  a  hermitage  near  Viseu's  walls, 
A  humble  Tomb  was  found,  which  bore  inscrib'd 
In  ancient  characters,  King  Rod'rick's  name  !" 

pp.  339,  340. 

These  copious  extracts  must  have  settled 
our  readers'  opinion  of  this  poem ;  and  though 
they  are  certainly  taken  from  the  better  parts 
of  it,  we  have  no  wish  to  disturb  the  forcible 
impression  which  they  must  have  been  the 
means  of  producing.  Its  chief  fault  undoubt- 
edly is  the  monotony  of  its  tragic  and  solemn 


4S4 


POETRY. 


tone — the  perpetual  gloom  with  which  all  its  j 
scenes  are  overcast — and  the  tediousness  with  ' 
which  some  of  them  are  developed.  There 
are  many  dull  passages,  in  short,  and  a  con- 
siderable quantity  of  heavy  reading — some 
silliness,  and  a  good  deal  of  affectation.  But 
the  beauties,  upon  the  whole,  preponderate ; — 
and  these,  we  hope,  speak  for  themselves  in 
the  passages  we  nave  already  extracted. 

The  versification  is  smooth  and  melodious, 
though  too  uniformly  drawn  out  into  long  and 
linked  sweetness.  The  diction  is  as  usual 
more  remarkable  for  copiousness  than  force ; — 
and  though  less  defaced  than  formerly  with 
phrases  of  affected  simplicity  and  infantine 


pathos,  is  still  too  much  speckled  with  strange 
words ;  which,  whether  they  are  old  or  new, 
are  not  English  at  the  present  day — and  we 
hope  never  will  become  so.  What  use  or  or- 
nament does  Mr.  Southey  expect  to  derive  for 
his  poetry  from  such  words  as  avid  and  aureate, 
and  auriphrygiate  ?  or  leman  and  weedery,  fre- 
quentage  and  youthhead,  and  twenty  more  as 
pedantic  and  affected "?  What  good  is  there 
either,  we  should  like  to  know,  in  talking  of 
"oaken  galilees,"  or  "incarnadined  poitrals," 
or  "all-able  Providence,"  and  such  other 
points  of  learning  1 — If  poetry  is  intended  for 
general  delight,  ought  not  its  language  to  be 
generally  intelligible  1 


{Wtctmbtv,  ISie.) 

Childe  Harold^  s  Pil^mage,  Canto  the  Third.    By  Lord  Byron.    8vo.  pp.  79.    London:  1816. 
The  Prisoner  of  Chillon,  and  other  Poems.  By  Lord  Byron.   8vo.  pp.  60.  London:  1816.* 


^  If  the  finest  poetry  be  that  which  leaves 
--*'  the  deepest  impression  on  the  minds  of  its 
readers — and  this  is  not  the  worst  test  of  its 
excellence — Lord  Byro%  vve  think,  must  be 
allowed  to  taFe  precedence  of  all  his  distin- 
guished contemporaries.  He  has  not  the  va- 
riety of  Scott — nor  the  delicacy  of  Campbell — 
nor  the  absolute  truth  of  Crabbe — nor  the 
polished  sparkling  of  Moore ;  but  in  force  of 
diction,  and  inextinguishable  energy  of  senti- 
ment, he  clearly  surpasses  them  all.  "'Words 
)  that  breathe,  and  thoughts  that  burn,"  are  not 
'  merely  the  ornaments,  but  the  common  staple 
of  his  poetry ;  and  he  is  not  inspired  or  im- 
pressive only  in  some  happy  passages,  but 
through  the  whole  body  and  tissue  of  his 
composition.  It  was  an  unavoidable  condition, 
perhaps,  of  this  higher  excellence,  that  his 
scene  should  be  narrow,  and  his  persons  few. 
To  compass  such  ends  as  he  had  in  view,  it 
was  necessary  to  reject  all  ordinary  agents, 
and  all  trivial  combinations.  He  could  not 
possibly  be  amusing,  or  ingenious,  or  playful ; 
or  hope  to  maintain  the  requisite  pitch  of  in- 
terest by  the  recitation  of  sprightly  adventures, 
or  the  opposition  of  common  characters.  To 
produce  great  effects,  in  short,  he  felt  thaf  it 
was  necessary  to  deal  only  with  the  greater 
passions — with  the  .exaltations  of  a  daring 
.fahcy,  and  the  errors  of  a  lofty  intellect — with 
the  pride,  the   terrors,  and  the  agonies  of 


/ 


*  I  have  already  said  so  much  of  Lord  Byron  with 
reference  to  his  Dramatic  productions,  that  I  cannot 
HOW  afford  to  republish  more  than  one  other  paper 
©n  the  subject  of  his  poetry  in  general :  And  I  se- 
lect this,  rather  because  it  refers  to  a  greater  variety 
of  these  compositions,  than  because  it  deals  with 
such  as  are  either  absolutely  the  best,  or  the  most 
characteristic  of  his  genius.  The  truth  is,  however, 
that  all  his  writings  are  characteristic;  and  lead, 
pretty  much  alike,  to  those  views  of  the  dark  and 
the  bright  parts  of  his  nature,  which  have  led  me,  I 
fear  (though  almosi  irresistibly)  into  observations 
more  personal  to  the  character  of  the  author,  than 
»ibould  generally  be  permitted  to  a  mere  literary 
Denser. 


strong  emotion — the  fire  and  air  alone  of  our 
human  elements. 

In  this  respect,  and  in  his  general  notion  of 
the  end  and  the  means  of  poetry,  we  have 
sometimes  thought  that  his  views  fell  more 
in  with  those  of  the  Lake  poets,  than  of  any 
other  existing  party  in  the  poetical  common- 
wealth :  And,  in  some  of  his  later  productions 
especially,  it  is  impossible  not  to  be  struck 
with  his  occasional  approaches  to  the  style 
and  manner  of  this  class  of  writers.  Lord 
Byron,  however,  it  should  be  observed,  like 
all  other  persons  of  a  quick  sense  of  beauty, 
and  sure  enough  of  their  own  originality  to 
be  in  no  fear  of  paltry  imputations,  is  a  great 
mimic  of  styles  and  maimers,  and  a  great 
borrower  of  external  character.  He  and  Scott, 
accordingly,  are  full  of  imitations  of  all  the 
writers  from  whom  they  have  ever  derived 
gratification ;  and  the  two  most  original  writers 
of  the  age  might  appear,  to  superficial  ob- 
servers, to  be  the  most  deeply  indebted  to 
their  predecessors.  In  this  particular  instance, 
we  have  no  fault  to  find  with  Lord  Byron : 
For  undoubtedly  the  finer  passages  of  Words- 
worth and  Southey  have  in  them  \yherewithal 
to  lend  an  impulse  to  the  utmost  ambition  of 
rival  genius ;  and  their  diction  and  manner  of 
writing  is  frequently  both  striking  and  original. 
But  we  must  say,  that  it  would  afford  us  still 
greater  pleasure  to  find  these  tuneful  gentle- 
men returning  the  compliment  which  Lord 
Byron  has  here  paid  to  their  talents;  and 
forming  themselves  on  the  model  rather  of 
his  imitations,  than  of  their  own  origiiials. — 
In  those  imitations  they  will  find  that,  though 
he  "is  eomotimes  abundantly  mystical,  he 
never,  or  at  least  very  rarely,  indulges  in  ab- 
solute nonsense — never  takes  his  lofty  flights 
upon  mean  or  ridiculous  occasions— -and, 
above  all,  never  dilutes  his  strong  concep- 
tions, and  magnificent  imaginations,  w^th  a 
flood  of  oppressive  verbosity.  On  the  con 
trary,  he  is,  of  all  living  writers,  the  most 
concise  and  condensed ;  and,  we  would  fain 


LORD  BYRON'S  POETRY. 


435 


A 


nope,  may  go  far,  by  his  example,  to  redeem 
ihe  great  reproach  of  our  modern  hterature — 
its  intolerable  prohxity  and  redundance.  In 
his  nervous  and  manly  lines,  we  find  no  elab- 
orate amplification  of  common  sentiments — 
no  ostentatious  polishing  of  pretty  expres- 
sions; and  we  really  think  that  the  brilliant 
success  which  has  rewarded  his  disdain  of 
those  paltry  artifices,  should  put  to  shame  for 
ever  that  puling  and  self-admiring  race,  who 
can  live  through  half  a  volume  on  the  stock 
of  a  single  thought,  and  expatiate  over  divers 
fair  quarto  pages  with  the  details  of  one  te- 
dious description.  In  Lord  Byron,  on  the  con- 
trary, we  have  a  perpetual  stream  of  thick- 
coming  fancies — an  eternal  spring  of  fresh- 
blown  images,  which  seem  called  into  exist- 
ence by  the  sudden  flash  of  those  glowing 
'tlioughts  and  overwhelming  emotions,  that 
-struggle  for  expression  through  the  whole  flow 
of  his  poetry — and  impart  to  a  diction  that  is 
often  abrupt  and  irregular,  a  force  and  a  charm 
which  frequently  realise  all  that  is  said  of  in- 
spiration. *^ 

With  all  these  undoub'ted  claims  to  our 
admiration,  however,  it  is  impossible  to  deny 
that  the  noble  author  before  us  has  still  some- 
thing to  learn,  and  a  good  deal  to  correct,  jle 
is  frequently  abrupt  and  careless,  and  some- 
times obscui'e.  There  are  marks,  occasion- 
ally, of  effort  and  straining  after  an  emphasis, 
wHich  is  generally  spontaneous;  and,  above 
ftll,  there  is  far  too  great  a  monotony  in  the 
tnbfal  colouring  of  his  pictures,  and  too  much 
^repetition  of  the  same  sentiments  and  maxims. 
(He  delights  too  exclusively  in  the  delineation 
|of  a  certain  morbid  exaltation  of  character  and 

s^    I  feeling — a  sort  of  demoniacal  sublimity,  not 
"  fTvithout  some  traits  of  the  mined  Archangel. 

"     iHe  is  haunted  almost  perpetually  with  the 
jfimage  of  a  being  feeding  and  fed  upon  by 
/violent  passions,  and  the  recollections  of  the 
Icatastrophes    they  have    occasioned:     And, 
\though  worn  out  by  their  past  indulgence, 
Vinable  to  sustain  the  burden  of  an  existence 
which  they  do  not  continue  to  animate : — full 
of  pride,  and  revenge,  and  obduracy — disdain- 
ing life  and  death,  and  mankind  and  himself 
— and  trampling,  in  his  scorn,  not  only  upon 
the  falsehood  and  formality  of  polished  life, 
but  upon  its  tame  virtues  and  slavish  devo- 
tion :  Yet  envying,  by  fits,  the  very  beings  he 
ndespises,  and  melting  into  mere  softness  and 
compassion,  when  the  helplessness  of  child- 
hood or  the  frailty  of  woman  make  an  appeal 
to  his  generosity.     Such  is  the  person  with 
whom  we  are  called  upon  almost  exclusively 
to  s)Tiipathise  in  all  the  greater  productions 
of  tHis  distinguished  writer : — In  Childe  Harold 
r — in  the  Corsair — in  Lara — in  the  Siege  of 
1  Corinth  —  in   Parisina,  and   in   most  of   the 
I  smaller  pieces. 

It  is  impossible  to  represent  such  a  charac- 
ter better  than  Lord  Byron  has  done  in  all 
these  productions — or  indeed  to  represent  any 


tive  in  its  relenting.  ^  In  point  nf  eifect,  we 

readily  admit,  that  no  one  character  can  be 

*Diore  poetical  or  impressive  :— But  it  is  really 

oo  much  to  find,  the  scene  perpetually  filled 


by  one  character — not  only  in  aTi  the  acts  of 
each  several  drama,  but  in  all  the  different 
dramas  of  the  series; — and,  grand  and  im- 
pressive as  it  is,  we  feel  at  last  that  these  very 
qualities  make  some  relief  more  indispensable, 
and  oppress  the  spirits  of  ordinary  mortals 
with  too  deep  an  impression  of  awe  and  re-^ 
pulsion.    There  is  too  much  guilt  in  short,  and  ) 
too  much  gloom,  in  the  leading  character : — ;,' 
and  though  it  be  a  fine  thing  to  gaze,  n'ow,> 
and  then,  on  stormy  seas,  and  thunder-shaken' 
mountains,  we  should  prefer  passing  our  days 
in  sheltered  valleys,  and  by  the  murmur  of 
calmer  waters. 

We  are  aware  that  these  metaphors  may  be 
turned  against  us — and  that,  without  meta- 
phor, it  may  be  said  that  men  do  not  pass 
their  days  in  reading  poetry — and  that,  as  they 
may  look  into  Lord  Byron  only  about  as  often 
as  they  look  abroad  upon  tempests,  they  have 
no  more  reason  to  complain  of  him  for  being 
grand  and  gloomy,  than  to  complain  of  the 
same  qualities  in  the  glaciers  and  volcanoes 
which  they  go  so  far  to  visit.  Painters,  too, 
it  may  be  said,  have  often  gained  great  repu- 
tation by  their  representations  of  tigers  and 
others  ferocious  animals,  or  of  caverns  and 
banditti — and  poets  should  be  allowed,  with- 
out reproach,  to  indulge  in  analogous  exer- 
cises. We  are  far  from  thinking  that  there  i« 
no  weight  in  these  considerations ;  and  feel 
how  plausibly  it  may  be  said,  that  we  have 
no  better  reason  for  a  great  part  of  our  com- 
plaint, than  that  an  author,  to  whom  we  are 
already  very  greatly  indebted,  has  chosen 
rather  to  please  himself,  than  us,  in  the  use 
he  makes  of  his  talents. 

This,  no  doubt,  seems  both  unreasonable 
and  ungrateful :  But  it  is  nevertheless  true, 
that  a  public  benefactor  becomes  a  debtor  to 
the  public :  and  is,  in  some  degree,  responsi- 
ble for  the  employment  of  those  gifts  which 
seem  to  be  conferred  upon  him,  not  merely 
for  his  own  delight,  but  for  the  delight  and 
improvement  of  his  fellows  through  all  gene- 
rations. Independent  of  this,  however,  we 
think  there  is  a  reply  to  the  apology.  A  great 
living  poet  is  not  like  a  distant  volcano,  or  an 
occasional  tempest.  He  is  a  volcano  in  the 
heart  of  our  land,  and  a  cloud  that  hangs  over 
our  dwellings ;  and  we  have  some  reason  to 
complain,  if,  instead  of  genial  warmth  and 
grateful  shade,  he  voluntarily  darkens  and 
inflames  our  atmosphere  with  perpetual  fiery 
explosions  and  pitchy  vapours.  Lord  Byron's 
poetry,  in  short,  is  too  attractive  and  too 
famous  to  lie  dormant  or  inoperative;  and, 
therefore,  if  it  produce  any  painful  or  perni 
cious  effects,  there  will  be  murmurs,  and 
ought  to  be  suggestions  of  alteration.  NowJ 
though  an  artist  may  draw  fighting  tigers  ana\ 
hungry  lions  in  as  lively  and  natural  away  as 
he  can,  without  giving  any  encouragement  to 
human  ferocity,  or  even  much  alarm  to  human  \ 
fear,  the  case  is  somewhat  different,  when  a  I 
poet  represents  men  with  tiger-like  disposi- 
tions : — and  yet  more  so,  when  he  exhausts 
the  resources  of  his  genius  to  make  this  terri- 
ble being  interesting  and  attractive,  and  lo 
represent  all  the  lofty  virtues  as  the  natural 


f 


436 


K)ETRY. 


,  allies  of  his  ferocity.  It  is  still  worse  when 
he  proceeds  to  show,  that  all  these  precious 
gifts  of  dauntless  courage,  strong  affection. 
\and  Jiigh  imagination,  are  not  only  akin  to 
guilt,  but  the  parents  of  misery ; — and  that 
those  only  have  any  chance  of  tranquillity  or 
happiness  in  this  world,  whom  it  is  the  object 
of  his  poetry  to  make  us  shun  and  despise. 

These,  it  appears  to  us,  are  not  merely 
errors  in  taste,  but  perversions  of  morality* 
and,  as  a  great  poet  is  necessarily  a  moral 
teacher,  and  gives  forth  his  ethicaL  lessons, 
fih  general  with  far  more  effect  and  authority 
Uhan  any  of  his  graver  brethren,  he  is  peculi- 
Varly  liable  to  the  censures  reserved  for  those 
who  turn  the  means  of  improvement  to  pur- 
poses of  corruption. 

It  may  no  doubt  be  said,  that  poetry  in  gene- 
ral tends  less  to  the  useful  than  the  splendid 
qualities  of  our  nature — that  a  character  po- 
etically good  has  long  been  distinguished  from 
one  that  is  morally  so— and  that,  ever  since 
the  time  of  Achilles,  our  sympathies,  on  such 
occasions,  have  been  chiefly  engrossed  by  per- 
sons whose  deportment  is  by  no  means  ex- 
emplary ;  and  who  in  many  points  approach 
to  the  temperament  of  Lord  Byron's  ideal 
hero.  .  Jhere  is  some  truth  in  this  suggestion 
also.  But  other  poets,  in  the  first  place,  do 
not  allow  their  favourites  so  outrageous  a  mo- 
nopoly of  the  glory  and  interest  of  the  piece 
—and  sin  less  therefore  against  the  laws 
either  of  poetical  or  distributive  justice.  In 
the  second  place,  their  heroes  are  not,  gene- 
rally, either  so  bad  or  so  good  as  Lord  Byron's 
— and  do  not  indeed  very  much  exceed  the 
standard  of  truth  and  nature,  in  either  of  the 
extremes.  His,  however,  are  as  monstrous 
and  unnatural  as  centaurs,  and  hippogrifTs — 
and  must  ever  figure  in  the  eye  of  sober  rea- 
son as  so  many  bright  and  hateful  impossi- 
bilities. But  the  most  important  distinctio'n 
is,  that  the  other  poets  who  deal  in  peccant 
'iieroes,  neither  feel  nor  express  that  ardent 
affection  for  them,  which  is  visible  in  the 
whole  of  this  author's  delineations ;  but  mere- 
ly make  use  of  them  as  necessary  agents  in 
the  extraordinary  adventures  they  have  to 
detail,  and  persons  whose  mingled  vices  and 
virtues  are  requisite  to  bring  about  the  catas- 
trophe of  their  story.  In  Lord  Byron,  how- 
ever, the  interest  of  the  story,  w^here  there 
happens  to  be  one,  which  is  not  always  the 
case,  is  uniformly  postponed  to  that  of  the 
character  itself — into  which  he  enters  so  deep- 
ly, and  with  so  extraordinary  a  fondness,  that 
lie  generally  contirmes  to  speak  in  its  lan- 
pnage,  after  it  has  been  dismissed  from  the 
stage ;  and  to  inculcate,  on  his  own  authority, 
the  same  sentiments  whi3h  had  been  pre- 
viously recommerided  by  its  example.  ,Wq 
do  not  consider  it/as  unfair,  therefore,  to  sav 
that  Lord  Byron  appears  to  us  to  be  the  zeal- 
ous apostle  of  a  certain  fierce  and  magnificent 
iiriisanthropy ;  wliich  has  already  saddened 
his  poetry  with  too  deep  a  shade,  and  not 
only  led  to  a  great  misapplication  of  great 
talents,  but  contributed  to  render  popular  some 
very  false  estimates  of  the  constituents  of  hu- 
man  happiness  and   merit.     It   is  irksome, 


however,  to  dwell  upon  observations  so  gene, 
ral — and  we  shall  probably  have  belter  meani 
of  illustrating  these  remarks,  if  they  are  really 
well  founded,  when  we  come  to  speak  of  the 
particular  publications  by  which  they  have 
now  been  suggested. 

We  had  the  good  fortune,  we  believe,  to  be 
among  the  first  who  proclaimed  the  rising  of 
a  new  luminary,  on  the  appearance  of  Childe 
Harold  on  the  poetical  horizon, — and  we  pur- 
sued his  course  with  due  attention  through 
several  of  the  constellations.  If  we  have 
lately  omitted  to  record  his  progress  with  the 
same  accuracy,  it  is  by  no  means  because  we 
have  regarded  it  with  more  indifference,  or 
supposed  that  it  would  be  less  interesting  to 
the  public — but  because  it  was  so  extremely 
conspicuous  as  no  longer  to  require  the  no- 
tices of  an  official  observer.  In  general,  we 
do  not  think  it  necessary,  nor  indeed  quite 
fair,  to  oppress  our  readers  with  an  account 
of  works,  which  are  as  well  known  to  them 
as  to  ourselves ;  or  with  a  repetition  of  sen- 
timents in  which  all  the  world  is  agreed. 
Wherever,  a  work,  therefore,  is  very  popular, 
and  where  the  general  opinion  of  its  merits 
appears  to  be  substantially  right,  we  think 
ourselves  at  liberty  to  leave  it  out  of  our 
chronicle,  without  incurring  the  censure  of 
neglect  or  inattention.  A  very  rigorous  ap- 
plication of  this  maxim  might  have  saved  Oui 
readers  the  trouble  of  reading  what  we  now 
write — and,  to  confess  the  truth,  we  write  it 
rather  to  gratify  ourselves,  than  with  the  hope 
of  giving  them  much  information.  At  the 
same  time,  some  short  notice  of  the  progress 
of  such  a  writer  ought,  perhaps,  to  appear  in 
his  contemporary  journals,  as  a  tribute  due 
to  his  eminence; — and  a  zealous  critic  can 
scarcely  set  about  examining  the  merits  of 
any  work,  or  the  nature  of  its  reception  by 
the  public,  without  speedily  discovering  very 
urgejit  cause  for  his  admonitions,  both  to  the 
author  and  his  admirers. 

Our  last  particular  account  was  of  the  Cor- 
sair ', — and  though  from  that  time  to  the  pub- 
lication of  the  pieces,  the  titles  of  which  we 
have  prefixed,  the  noble  author  has  produced 
as  much  poetry  as  would  have  made  the  for- 
tune of  any  other  person,  we  can  afford  to 
take  but  little  notice  of  those  intermediate 
performances;  which  have  already  passed 
their  ordeal  with  this  generation,  and  are 
fairly  committed  to  the  final  judgment  of  pos- 
terity. Some  slight  reference  to  them,  how- 
ever, may  be  proper,  both  to  mark  the  pro- 
gress of  the  author's  views,  and  the  history 
of  his  fame. 

Lara  was  obviously  the  sequel  of  the  Cor- 
sair— and  maintained,  in  general,  the  same 
tone  of  deep  interest,  and  lofty  feeling;— 
though  the  disappearance  of  Medora  from  the 
scene  deprives  it  of  the  enchanting  sweet- 
ness, by  which  its  terrors  were  there  redeemed, 
and  make  the  hero  on  the  whole  less  capti- 
vating. The  character  of  Lara,  too,  is  rather 
too  laboriously  finished,  and  his  nocturnal  en- 
counter with  the  apparition  is  worked  up  too 
ostentatiously.  There  is  infinite  beauty  in 
the  sketch  of  the  dark  page-  -and  in  many  of 


LORD  BYRON'S  POETRY. 


487 


the  moral  or  general  reflections  which  are 
interspersed  with  the  narrative.     The  death 
uf  Lara,  however,  is  by  far  the  finest  pas- 
sage in  the  poem,  and  is  fully  equal  to  any 
thing.else  which  the  author  has  ever  written. 
Though  it  is  not  under  our  immediate  cog- 
nisance, we  cannot  resist  the  temptation  of 
transcribing  the  greater  part  of  the  passage — 
/  in  which  the  physical  horror  of  the  event, 
though  described  with  a  terrible  force  and 
I  lidelity,  is  both  relieved  and  enhanced  by  the 
I  beautiful  pictures  of  mental  energy  and  re- 
i  deeming  affection  with  vs'hich  it  is  combined, 
i  Our  readers  will  recollect,  that  this  gloomy 
and  daring  chief  was  mortally  wounded  in 
battle,  and  led  out  of  it,  almost  insensible,  by 
that  sad  and  lovely  page,  whom  no  danger 
could  ever  separate  from  his  side.    On  his  re- 
treat, slaughter  and   desolation  falls  on  his 
disheartened  follov/ers;  and  the  poet  turns 
from, the  scene  of  disorder — 

"Beneath  a  lime,  remoter  from  the  scene, 

Where  but  for  him  that  strife  had  never  been, 

A  breathing  but  devoted  warrior  lay  : 

'Twas  Lara  bleeding  fast  from  life  away  ! 

His  follower  once,  and  now  his  only  guide, 

Kneels  Kaled  watchful  o'er  his  welling  side, 

And  with  his  scarf  would  staunch  the  tides  that  rush, 

With  each  convulsion,  in  a  blacker  gush  ; 

And  then,  as  his  faint  breathing  waxes  low, 

In  feebler,  not  less  fatal  tricklings  flow  : 

He  scarce  can  speak ;  but  motions  him  'tis  vain, 

And  merely  adds  another  throb  to  pain. 

He  clasps  the  hand  that  pang  which  wonld  assuage, 

And  sadly  smiles  his  thanks  to  that  dark  page 

Who  nothing  fears,  nor  feels,  nor  heeds,  nor  sees. 

Save  that  damp^brow  which  rests  upon  his  knees ; 

Save  that  pale  aspect,  where  the  eye,  though  dim, 

Held  all  the  light  that  shone  on  earth  for  him  ! 

"  The  foe  arrives,  who  long  had  search'd  the  field, 
Their  triumph  nought  till  Lara  too  should  yield ; 
They  would  remove  him  ;  but  they  see  'twere  vain, 
And  he  regards  them  with  a  calm  disdain, 
That  rose  to  reconcile  him  with  his  fate. 
And  that  escape  to  death  from  living  hate  : 
And  Otho  comes,  and  leaping  from  his  steed. 
Looks  on  the  bleeding  foe  that  made  him  bleed, 
And  questions  of  his  state  :  He  answers  not ; 
Scarce  glances  on  him  as  on  one  forgot, 
And  turns  to  Kaled : — each  remaining  word. 
They  understood  not,  if  distinctly  heard  ; 
His  dying  tones  are  in  that  other  tongue,  [&c. 

To  which  some  strange  remembrance  wildly  clung," 

Their  words  though  faint  were  many — from  the  tone 
Their  import  those  who  heard  could  judge  alone  ; 
From  this,  you  might  have  deem'd  young  Kaled's 

death 
More  near  than  Lara's,  by  his  voice  and  breath  ; 
So  sad,  so  deep,  and  hesitating  broke 
The  accents  his  scarce-moving  pale  lips  spoke; 
But  Lara's  voice  though  low,  at  first  was  clear 
And  calm,  till  murm'ring  death  gasp'd  hoarsely 
But  from  his  visage  little  could  we  guess,       [near: 
So  unrepentant,  dark,  and  passionless. 
Save  that  when  struggling  nearer  to  his  last. 
Upon  that  page  his  eye  was  kindly  cast ; 
And  once  as  Kaled's  answ'ring  accents  ceast. 
Rose  Lara's  hand,  and  p'/inted  to  the  East. — 

"But  gasping  heav'd  the  breath  that  Lara  drew. 
And  dull  the  film  along  his  dim  eye  grew ;       [o'er 
His  limbs  stretch'd  flutt'ring,  and  his  head  dropp'd 
The  weak,  yet  still  untiring  knee  that  bore ! 
He  press'd  the  hand  he  held  upon  his  heart — 
It  beats  no  more  !  but  Kaled  will  not  part 
VVith  the  cold  grasp  !  but  feels,  and  feels  in  vain, 
For  that  faint  throb  which  answers  not  again. 


'  It  beats  !'     Away,  thou  dreamer !  he  is  gone ! 
It  once  was  Lara  which  thou  look'st  upon. 

"  He  gaz'd,  as  if  not  yet  had  pass'd  away 
The  haughty  spirit  of  that  humble  clay  ; 
And  those  around  have  rous'd  him  (rom  his  trance 
But  cannot  tear  from  thence  his  fixed  glance  ; 
And  when,  in  raising  him  from  where  he  bore 
Within  his  arms  the  form  that  felt  no  more. 
He  saw  the  head  his  breast  would  still  sustain, 
Roll  down,  like  earth  to  earth,  upon  the  pkiiu  ! 
He  did  not  dash  himself  thereby ;  nor  tear 
The  glossy  tendrils  of  his  raven  hair. 
But  strove  to  stand  and  gaze  ;  but  reel'd  and  fell, 
Scarce  breathing  more  than  that  he  lov'd  so  well ! 
Than  that  He  lov'd  !     Oh  !  never  yet  beneath 
The  breast  oi'  Man  such  trusty  love  may  breathe  I 
That  trying  moment  hath  at  once  reveal'd 
The  secret,  long  and  yet  but  half-conceal'd  ; 
In  baring  to  revive  that  lifeless  breast, 
Its  grief  seem'd  ended,  but  the  sex  confest  ' 
And  life  return'd,  and  Kaled  felt  no  shame- 
What  now  to  her  was  Womanhood  or  Fame  ? 

We  must  stop  here ; — but  the  whole  sequel 
of  the  poem  is  written  with  equal  vigour  and 
feeling ;  and  may  be  put  in  competition  with 
any  thing  that  poelify  has  ever  produced,  in 
point  either  of  pathos  or  energy. 

The  Siege  of  Corinth  is  next  in  the  order 
of  time  •  and  though  written,  perhaps,  with 
too  visible  a  striving  after  effect,  and  not  very 
well  harmonised  in  all  its  parts,  we  cannot 
help  regarding  it  as  a  magnificent  composi- 
tion. There  is  less  misanthropy  in  it  than 
in  any  of  the  rest ;  and  the  interest  is  mado 
up  of  alternate  representations  of  soft  and. 
solemn  scenes  and  emotions — and  of  the  tu-j 
mult,  and  terrors,  and  intoxication  of  warj 
These  opposite  pictures  are  perhaps  too  vio- 
lently contrasted,  and,  in  some  parts,  too 
harshly  coloured  ',  but  they  are  in  general 
exquisitely  designed,  and  executed  with  the 
utmost  spirit  and  energy.  What,  for  in- 
stance, can  be  finer  than  the  following  night* 
piece?  The  renegade  had  left  his  tent  in 
moody  musing,  the  night  before  the  final 
assault  on  the  Christian  walls. 

'"Tis  midnight !   On  the  mountain's  brown 
The  cold,  round  moon  shines  deeply  down; 
Blue  roll  the  waters  ;  blue  the  sky 
Spreads  like  an  ocean  hung  on  high, 
Bespangled  with  those  isles  of  light, 
So  wildly,  spiritually  bright ; 
Who  ever  gaz'd  upon  them  shining. 
And  turn'd  to  earth  without  repining. 
Nor  wish'd  for  wings  to  flee  away. 
And  mix  with  their  eternal  ray  ? 
The  waves  on  either  shore  lay  there, 
Calm,  clear,  and  azure  as  the  air ; 
And  scarce  their  foam  the  pebbles  shook, 
But  murmur'd  meekly  as  the  brook. 
The  winds  were  pillow'd  on  the  waves ; 
The  banners  droop'd  along  their  staves. 
And,  as  they  fell  around  them  furlins:. 
Above  them  shone  the  crescent  curling ; 
And  that  deep  silence  was  unbroke. 
Save  where  the  watch  his  signal  spoke, 
Save  where  the  steed  neigh'doft  and  shrill, 
And  echo  answer'd  fi;om  the  hill. 
And  the  wide  hum  of  that  wild  host 
Rustled  like  leaves  from  coast  to  coast, 
As  rose  the  Muezzin's  voice  in  air 
In  midnight  call  to  wonted  prayer." — 

The  transition  to  the  bustle  and  fury  of  tn« 
morning  muster,  as  well  as  the  moving  picture 
of  the  barbaric  host,  is  eoually  admirable. 


438 


POETRY. 


"  The  night  is  past,  and  shines  the  sun 

As  if  thai  morn  were  a  jocund  one. 

Lightly  and  brightly  breaks  away 

The  Morning  from  her  mantle  grey, 

And  the  Noon  will  look  on  a  sultry  day  ! 

Hark  to  the  trump,  and  the  drum, 

And  the  mournful  sound  of  the  barb'rous  horn. 

And  the  flap  of  the  banners,  that  flit  as  they're 

borne, 
And  the  neigh  of  the  steed,  and  the  multitude's 

hum. 
And  the  clash,  and  the  shout,  '  They  come,  they 

come!' 
The  horsetails  are  pluck' d  from  the  ground,  and  the 

sword 
From  its  sheath !  and  they  form — and  but  wait  for 

the  word. 
The  steeds  are  all  bridled,  and  snort  to  the  rein ; 
Curv'd  is  each  neck,  and  flowing  each  mane  ; 
White  is  the  foam  of  their  champ  on  the  bit : 
The  spears  are  uplifted ;  the  matches  are  lit ; 
The  cannon  are  pointed,  and  ready  to  roar. 
And  crush  the  wall  they  have  crumbled  before  I 
Forms  in  his  phalanx  each  Janizar ; 
Alp  at  their  head  ;  his  right  arm  is  bare  ; 
So  is  the  blade  of  his  scimitar ! 
The  khan  and  the  pachas  are  all  at  their  post ; 
The  vizier  himself  at  the  head  of  the  host. 
When  the  culverin's  signal  is  fir'd,  then  on ! 
Leave  not  in  Corinth  a  living  one — 
A  priest  at  her  altars,  a  chief  in  her  halls, 
A  hearth  in  her  mansions,  a  stone  on  her  walls ! 
God  and  the  Prophet !— Alia  Hu  I 
Up  to  the  skies  with  that  wild  halloo  I 

"As  the  wolves,  that  headlong  go 
On  the  stately  buffalo, 
Though  with  fiery  eyes  and  angry  roar, 
And  hoofs  that  stamp,  and  horns  that  gore, 
He  tramples  on  earth,  or  tosses  on  high 
The  foremost,  who  rush  on  his  strength  but  to  die : 
Thus  against  the  wall  they  went. 
Thus  the  first  were  backward  bent  I 
Many  a  bosom,  sheath'd  in  brass, 
Sirew'd  the  earth  like  broken  glass, 
Shiver'd  by  the  shot,  that  tore 
The  ground  whereon  they  mov'd  no  more  : 
Even  as  they  fell,  in  files  they  lay. 
Like  the  mower's  grass  at  the  close  of  day, 
When  his  work  is  done  on  the  levell'd  plain ; 
Such  was  the  fall  of  the  foremost  slain  ! 
As  the  spring- tides,  with  heavy  plash, 
From  the  clifTs  invading  dash 
Huge  fragments,  sapp'd  by  the  ceaseless  flow, 
Till  while  and  thundering  down  they  go,— 
Like  the  avalanche's  snow 
On  the  Alpine  vales  below  ; 
Thus  at  length,  outbreath'd  and  worn, 
Corinth's  sons  were  downward  borne 
By  the  long,  and  oft  renew'd 
Charge  of  the  Moslem  multitude  ! 
In  firmness  they  stood,  and  in  masses  they  fell, 
Heap'd,  by  the  host  of  the  infidel. 
Hand  to  hand,  and  foot  to  foot : 
Nothing  there,  save  death,  was  mute  ; 
Stroke,  and  thrust,  and  flash,  and  cry 
For  quarter,  or  for  victory  ! 
But  the  rampart  is  won,  and  the  spoil  begun. 
And  all  but  the  after-carnage  done. 
Shriller  shrieks  now  mingling  come 
From  within  the  plunder'd  dome  : 
Hark  to  the  haste  of  flying  feet ! 
That  splash  in  the  blood  of  the  slippery  street !" 

Parisina  is  of  a  different  character.  There 
is  no  tumult  or  stir  in  this  piece.  It  is  all  sad- 
ness^ and  pity,  and  terror.  The  story  is  told 
in  half  a  sentence.  The  Prince  of  Este  has 
married  a  lady  who  was  originally  destined 
for  his  favourite  natural  son.  He  discovers  a 
criminal  attachment  between  them ;  and  puts 
thtt  issue  and  the  invader  of  his  bed  to  death, 


before  the  face  of  his  unhappy  paramoui 
There  is  too  much  of  horror,  perhaps,  in  th« 
circumstances;  but  the  writing  is  beautifui 
throughout ;  and  the  whole  wrapped  in  a  ricli 
and  redundant  veil  of  poetry,  where  every 
thing  breathes  the  pure  essence  of  genius  and 
sensibility.  The  opening  verses,  though  sctft 
and  voluptuous,  are  tinged  with  the  same 
shade  of  sorrow  which  gives  its  character  and 
harmony  to  the  whole  poem. 

"  It  is  the  hour  when  from  the  boughs, 
The  nightingale's  high  note  is  heard  ; 
It  is  the  hour  when  lovers'  vows 
Seem  sweet  in  every  whisper'd  word ; 
And  gentle  winds,  and  waters  near. 
Make  music  to  the  lonely  ear  ! 
Each  flower  the  dews  have  lightly  wet ; 
And  in  the  sky  the  stars  are  met. 
And  on  the  wave  is  deeper  blue. 
And  on  the  leaf  a  browner  hue. 
And  in  the  heaven  that  clear  obscure, 
So  softly  dark,  and  darkly  pure, 
Which  follows  the  decline  of  day, 
As  twilight  melts  beneath  the  moon  away. 
But  it  is  not  to  list  to  the  waterfall 
That  Parisina  leaves  her  hall,  &c. 

"  With  many  a  ling' ring  look  they  leave 
The  spot  of  guilty  gladness  past ! 
And  though  they  hope  and  vow,  they  grieve, 
As  if  that  parting  were  the  last. 
The  frequent  sigh — the  long  embrace — 
The  lip  that  there  would  cling  for  ever, 
While  gleams  on  Parisina's  iace 
The  Heaven  she  fears  will  not  forgive  her  ! 
As  if  each  calmly  conscious  star 
Beheld  her  frailty  from  afar." 

The  arraignment  and  condemnation  of  the 
guilty  pair,  with  the  bold,  high-toned,  and  yet 
temperate  defence  of  the  son,  are  managed 
with  admirable  talent ;  and  yet  are  less  touch- 
ing than  the  mute  despair  of  the  fallen  beauty, 
who  stands  in  speechless  agony  beside  him. 

"  Those  lids  o'er  which  the  violet  vein — 
Wandering,  leaves  a  tender  stain, 
Shining  through  the  smoothest  white 
That  e'er  did  softest  kiss  invite — 
Now  seem'd  with  hot  and  livid  glow 
To  press,  not  shade,  the  orbs  below  ; 
Which  glance  so  heavily,  and  fill, 
As  tear  on  tear  grows  gath'ring  still. — 

"  Nor  once  did  those  sweet  eyelids  close. 
Or  shade  the  glance  o'er  which  they  rose, 
But  round  their  orbs  of  deepest  blue 
The  circling  white  dilated  grew — 
And  there  with  glassy  gaze  she  stood 
As  ice  were  in  her  curdled  blood  ; 
But  every  now  and  then  a  tear 
So  large  and  slowly  gather'd,  slid 
From  the  long  dark  fringe  of  that  fair  lid, 
It  was  a  thing  to  see,  not  hear ! 
To  speak  she  thought— the  imperfect  note 
Was  chok'd  within  her  swelling  throat. 
Yet  seem'd  in  that  low  hollow  groan 
Her  whole  heart  gushing  in  the  tone. 
It  ceas'd — again  she  thought  to  speak 
Then  burst  her  voice  in  one  long  shriek, 
And  to  the  earth  she  fell,  like  stone 
Or  statue  from  its  base  o'erthrown." 

The  grand  part  of  this  poem,  however,  i"* 
that  which  describes  the  execution  of  the 
rival  son ;  and  in  which,  though  there  is  no 
pomp,  either  of  language  or  of  sentiment,  and 
every  thing,  on  the  contrary,  is  conceived  and 
expressed  with  studied  simplicity  and  direct- 
ness, there  is  a  spirit  of  pathos  and  poetry  t« 


LORD  BYRON'S  POETRY. 


43*} 


wliich  it  would  iiDt  be  easy  to  find  many  pa- 
•allels. 

The  Convent  bells  are  ringing ! 

But  mournfully  and  slow  ; 
In  the  grey  square  turret  swinging, 

With  a  deep  sound,  to  and  fro  ! 
Heavily  to  the  heart  they  go ! 

Hark  !  the  hymn  is  singing  ! — 
The  song  for  the  dead  below, 

Or  the  living  who  shortly  shall  be  so  ! 
For  a  departing  Being's  soul  [knoll : 

The   death-hymn  peals   and  the  hollow    bells 
He  is  near  his  mortal  goal ; 
Kneeling  at  the  Friar's  knee  ; 
Sad  to  hear — and  piteous  to  see ! — 
Kneeling  on  the  bare  cold  ground, 
With  the  block  before  and  the  guards  around — 
While  the  crowd  in  a  speechless  circle  gather 
To  see  the  Son  fall  by  the  doom  of  the  Father ! 

*'  It  is  a  lovely  hour  as  yet 
Before  the  summer  sun  shall  set. 
Which  rose  upon  that  heavy  day, 
And  mock'd  it  with  his  steadiest  ray ; 
And  his  evening  beams  are  shed 
Full  on  Hugo's  fated  head  ! 
As  his  last  confession  pouring 
To  the  monk,  his  doom  deploring 
In  penitential  holiness, 
He  bends  to  hear  his  accents  bliss 
With  absolution  such  as  may 
Wipe  our  mortal  stains  away ! 
That  high  sun  on  his  head  did  glisten 
As  he  there  did  bow  and  listen  ! 
And  the  rings  of  chesnut  hair 
Curled  half-down  his  neck  so  bare ; 
But  brighter  still  the  beam  was  thrown 
Upon  the  axe  which  near  him  shone 

With  a  clear  and  ghastly  glitter ! 

Oh  !  that  partmg  hour  was  bitter  ! 
Even  the  stern  stood  chill'd  with  awe  : 
Dark  the  crime,  and  just  the  law — 
Yet  they  shudder'd  as  they  saw. 

"  The  parting  prayers  arc  said  and  over 
Of  that  false  son — and  daring  lover  ! 
His  beads  and  sins  are  all  recounted  ; 
His  hours  to  their  last  minute  mounted — 
His  mantling  cloak  before  was  stripp'd. 
His  bright  brown  locks  must  now  be  chpp'd  ! 
'Tis  done — all  closely  are  they  shorn — 
The  vest  which  till  this  moment  worn — 

The  scarf  which  Parisina  gave — 
Must  not  adorn  him  to  the  grave. 
Even  that  must  now  be  thrown  aside. 
And  o'er  his  eyes  the  kerchief  tied ; 
But  no — that  last  indignity 
Shall  ne'er  approach  his  haughty  eye. 
'  No  ! — yours  my  forfeit  blood  and  breath — 
These  hands  are  chain'd — but  let  me  die 
At  least  with  an  unshackled  eye — 
Strike  !' — and,  as  the  word  he  said, 
Upon  the  block  he  bow'd  his  head  ; 
These  the  last  accents  Hugo  spoke  : 
'  Strike  !' — and  flashing  fell  the  stroke  ! — 
Roll'd  the  head — and,  gushing,  sunk 
Back  the  stain'd  and  heaving  trunk, 
In  the  dust, — which  each  deep  vein 
Slak'd  with  its  ensanguin'd  rain  ! 
His  eyes  and  lips  a  moment  quiver, 
Conv'uls'd  and  quick — then  fix  for  ever." 

Of  the  Hebrew  melodies — the  Ode  to  Na- 
po.eon,  and  some  other  smaller  pieces  that 
appeared  about  the  same  time,  we  shall  not 
now  stop  to  say  anything.  They  are  ob- 
viously inferior  to  the  works  we  have  been 
noticing,  and  are  about  to  notice,  both  in 
geneial  interest,  and  in  power  of  poetry — 
though  some  of  them,  and  the  Hebrew  melo- 
dies especially,  display  a  skill  in  versification, 
»nd  a  mastery  in  diction,  which  would  have 


raised  an  inferior  artist  to  t.ie  very  summit  of 
distinction. 

Of  the  verses  entitled,  "Fare  thee  well/' — 
and  some  others  of  a  similar  character,  we 
shall  say  nothing  but  that,  in  spite  of  their 
beauty,  it  is  painful  to  read  them — and  infi- 
nitely to  be  regretted  that  they  should  have 
been  given  to  the  public.  It  would  be  a  piece 
of  idle  affectation  to  consider  them  as  mere 
effusions  of  fancy,  or  to  pretend  ignorance  of 
the  subjects  to  which  they  relate— and  with 
the  knowledge  which  all  the  world  has  of 
these  subjects,  we  must  say,  that  not  even 
the  example  of  Lord  Byron,  nimself,  can  -per- 
suade us  that  they  are  fit  for  public  discussion. 
We  come,  therefore,  to  the  consideration  of 
the  noble  author's  most  recent  publications. 

The  most  considerable  of  these,  is  the  Third 
Canto  of  Childe  Harold;  a  work  which  has 
the  disadvantage  of  all  continuations,  in  ad- 
mitting of  little  absolute  novelty  in  the  plan 
of  the  work  or  the  cast  of  its  character,  and 
must,  besides,  remind  all  Lord  Byron's  readers 
of  the  extraordinary  effect  produced  by  the 
sudden  blazing  forth  of  his  genius,  upon  their 
first  introduction  to  that  title.  In  spite  of  all 
this,  however,  we  are  persuaded  that  this 
Third  Part  of  the  poem  will  not  be  pronounced 
inferior  to  either  of  the  former;  and,  we  think, 
will  probably  be  ranked  above  them  by  those 
who  have  been  most  delighted  with  the  whole. 
The  great  success  of  this  singular  production, 
indeed,  has  always  appeared  to  us  an  extraor- 
dinary proof  of  its  merits;  for,  with  all  its 
genius,  it  does  not  belong  to  a  sort  of  poetry' 
that  rises  easily  to  popularity. — It  has  no  story  ,  v 
or  action — very  little  variety  of  character — 
and  a  great  deal  of  reasoning  and  reflection 
of  no  very  attractive  tenor.  It  is  substantially 
a  contemplative  and  ethical  work,  diversified 
with  fine  description,  and  adorned  or  over- 
shaded  by  the  perpetual  presence  of  one  em-  .  ,, 
phatic  person,  who  is  sometimes  the  author,;  p^ 
and  sometimes  the  object,  of  the  reflections! 
on  which  the  interest  is  chiefly  rested.  It* 
required,  no  doubt,  great  force  of  writing,  and 
a  decided  tone  of  originality  to  recommend  a 
performance  of  this  sort  so  powerfully  as  this 
has  been  recommended  to  public  notice  and 
admiration — and  those  high  characteristics 
belong  perhaps  still  more  eminently  to  the 
part  that  is  now  before  us,  than  to  any  of  the 
former.  There  is  the  same  stern  and  lofty  [ 
disdain  of  mankind,  and  their  ordinary  pur- ' 
suits  and  enjoyments ;  with  the  same  bright 
gaze  on  nature,  and  the  same  magic  power 
of  giving  interest  and  effect  to  her  delinea- 
tions— but  mixed  up,  w^e  think,  with  deeper 
and  more  matured  reflections,  and  a  more  in- 
tense sensibility  to  all  that  is  grand  or  lovely 
in  the  external  world. — Harold,  in  short,  is 
somewhat  older  since  he  last  appeared  upon 
the  scene — and  while  the  vigour  of  his  intel- 
lect has  been  confirmed,  and  his  confidence 
in  his  own  opinions  increased,  his  mind  has 
also  become  more  sensitive;  and  his  misan- 
thropy, thus  softened  over  by  habits  of  calmer 
contemplation,  appears  less  active  and  impa- 
tient, even  although  more  deeply  rooted  than 


440 


POETRY. 


befoie.  Undoubtedly  the  finest  part?  of  the 
poem  before  us,  are  those  which  thus  embody 
the  Aveight  of  his  moral  sentiments;  or  dis- 
close the  lofty  SATTipathy  which  binds  the 
despiser  of  Man  to  the  glorious  aspects  of 
Nature.  It  is  in  these,  we  think,  that  the  great 
attractions  of  the  work  consist,  and  the  strength 
of  the  author's  genius  is  seen.  The  narrative 
and  mere  description  are  of  far  inferior  in- 
terest. With  reference  to  the  sentiments  and 
opinions,  however,  which  thus  give  its  dis- 
tinguishing character  to  the  piece,  we  must 
say,  that  it  seems  no  longer  possible  to  ascribe 
them  to  ;n3  ideal  person  whose  name  it  bears, 
or  to  any  other  than  the  author  himself. — 
Lord  Byron,  we  think,  has  formerly  complain- 
ed of  thosp  who  identified  him  with  his  hero, 
or  supposed  that  Harold  was  but  the  expositor 
of  his  own  feelings  and  opinions; — and  in 
noticing  the  former  portions  of  the  work,  we 
thought  it  unbecoming  to  give  any  counte- 
nance to  such  a  supposition. — In  this  last  part, 
how^ever.  it  is  really  impracticable  to  distin- 
guish them. — Not  only  do  the  author  and  his 
hero  travel  and  reflect  together, — but,in  truth, 
we  scarcely  ever  have  any  distinct  intimation 
to  which  of  them  the  sentiments  so  energeti- 
cally expressed  are  to  be  ascribed;  and  in 
those  which  are  unequivocally  given  as  those 
of  the  noble  author  himself,  there  is  the  very 
same  tone  of  misanthropy,  sadness,  and  scorn, 
which  we  were  formerly  willing  to  regard  as 
a  part  of  the  assumed  costume  of  the  Childe. 
We  are  far  from  supposing,  indeed,  that  Lord 
Byron  would  disavow  any  of  these  sentiments; 
and  though  there  are  some  which  we  must 
ever  think  it  most  unfortunate  to  entertain, 
and  oth.ers  which  it  appears  improper  to  have 
published;  the  greater  part  are  admirable,  and 
cannot  be  perused  without  emotion,  even  by 
those  to  whom  they  may  appear  erroneous. 

The  poem  opens  with  a  burst  of  grand  poe- 
tr)%  and  lofty  and  impetuous  feeling,  in  which 
the  author  speaks  undisguisedly  in  his  ow-n 
person. 

"  Once  more  upon  the  waters  I  yet  once  more  ! 
And  the  waves  bound  beneath  me,  as  a  steed 
That  knows  his  rider.     Welcome,  to  their  roar! 
Swift  be  their  guidance,  wheresoe'er  it  lead  ! 
Though  the  strain'd  mast  should  quiver  as  a  reed. 
And  the  rent  canvass  fluttering  strew  the  gale, 
Still  must  I  on  ;  for  I  am  as  a  weed. 
Flung  from  the  rock,  on  Ocean's  foam,  to  sail 

Where'er  the  surge  may   sweep,  the   tempest's 
breath  prevail. 

"  In  my  youth's  summer,  I  did  sing  of  One, 
The  wand'ring  outlaw  of  his  own  dark  mind; 
Again  I  seize  the  theme  then  but  begun. 
And  bear  it  with  me,  as  the  rushing  wind 
Bears  the  cloud  onwards.    In  that  tale  I  find 
The  furrows  of  long  thought,  and  dried-up  tears, 
Which,  ebbing,  leave  a  sterile  track  behind, 
O'er  which  all  heavily  the  journeying  years 

Plod  the  last  sands  of  life, — where  not  a  flower 
appears. 

Since  my  yoimg  days  of  passion — joy,  or  pain. 
Perchance  my  heart  and  harp  have  lost  a  string. 
And  both  may  jar.     It  may  be,  that  in  vain 
T  wouVl  essay,  as  I  have  sung  to  sing. 
Vet,  .hr  .igh  a  dreary  strain,  to  this  I  clin?  ; 
So  that  1.  wean  me  from  the  weary  dream 
Of  selfish  grief  or  gladness ! — so  it  fling 


Forge tfulness  around  me — it  shall  seem, 
To  me,    though   to  none   else,   a  not   ungratefii 
theme." 

After  a  good  deal  more  in  the  same  strain, 

he  proceeds, 

'•  Yet  must  I  think  less  wildly : — I  have  thought 
Too  long  and  darkly  ;  till  my  brain  became 
In  its  own  eddy  boiling  and  o'erwrought, 
A  whirling  gulf  of  phantasy  and  flame : 
And  thus,  untaught  in  youth  my  heart  to  tame, 
My  springs  of  life  were  poison'd." — 

"  Something  too  much  of  this  : — but  now  'tis  past 
And  the  spell  closes  with  its  silent  seal  I 
Long  absent  Harold  re-appears  at  last." 

The  character  and  feelings  of  this  unjoyous 
personage  are  then  depicted  with  great  force 
and  fondness ; — and  at  last  he  is  placed  upon 
the  plain  of  Waterloo. 

"  In  '  pride  of  place'  where  late  the  Eagle  flew, 
Then  tore  with  bloody  talon  the  rent  plain, 
Pierc'd  by  the  shaft  of  banded  nations  through!"— 

"  Fit  retribution  !     Gaul  may  champ  the  bit 
And  foam  in  fetters ; — but  is  Earth  more  free  ? 
Did  nations  combat  to  make  One  submit ; 
Or  leattue  to  teach  all  kings  true  sovereignty? 
What !  shall  reviving  Thraldom  again  be 
The  patch'd-up  idol  of  enlighten'd  days  ? 
Shall  we,  who  struck  the  Lion  down,  shall  we 
Pay  the  Wolf  homage  ?" 

"If  not,  o'er  one  fall'n  despot  boast  no  more  !" 

There  can  be  no  more  remarkable  proof  of 
the  greatness  of  Lord  Byron's  genius  than  the 
spirit  and  interest  he  has  contrived  to  com- 
municate to  his  picture  of  the  often-drawn  and 
difficult  scene  of  the  breaking  up  from  Brus- 
sels before  the  great  battle.  It  is  a  trite 
remark,  that  poets  generally  fail  in  the  repre- 
sentation of  great  events,  when  the  interest 
is  recent,  and  the  particulars  are  consequently 
clearly  and  commonly  known :  and  the  reason 
is  obvious:  For  as  it  is  the  object  of  poetry  to 
make  us  feel  for  distant  or  imaginary  occur- 
rences nearly  as  strongly  as  if  tliey  were  pre- 
sent and  real,  it  is  plain  that  there  is  no  scope 
for  her  enchantments,  where  the  impressive 
reality,  with  all  its  vast  preponderance  of  inter- 
est, is  already  before  us.  and  where  the  con- 
cern we  take  in  the  gazette  far  outgoes  any 
emotion  that  can  be  conjured  up  in  us  by  the 
help  of  fine  descriptions.  It  is  natural,  how- 
ever, for  the  sensitive  tr^be  of  poets,  to  mis- 
take the  common  interest  which  they  then 
share  wdth  the  unpoetical  part  of  their  coun- 
ttymen,  for  a  vocation  to  versify ;  and  so  they 
proceed  to  pour  out  the  lukewarm  distillations 
of  their  phantasies  upon  the  unchecked  effer- 
vescence of  public  feeling  I  All  our  bards, 
accordingly,  great  and  small,  and  of  all  sexes, 
ages,  and  professions,  from  Scott  and  Southey 
down  to  hundreds  without  names  or  additions, 
have  adventured  upon  this  theme — and  failed 
in  the  management  of  it '  And  while  they 
yielded  to  the  patriotic  impalse,  as  if  they  hacl 
all  caught  the  inspiring  summons — 

"  Let  (hose  rhyme  now  who  never  rhym'd  before. 
And  those  who  always   rhyme,  rhyme   now  the 
more — " 

The  result  has  been,  that  scarcely  a  line  to 
be  remembered  had  been  produced  on  a  sub- 


LORD  BYRON'S  POETRY. 


441 


ject  which  probably  was  thought,  of  itself,  a 
secure  passport  to  immortality.  It  required 
some  courage  to  venture  on  a  theme  beset 
with  so  many  dangers,  and  deformed  with  the 
wrecks  of  so  many  former  adventurers; — and 
a  theme,  too,  which,  in  its  general  conception, 
appeared  alien  to  the  prevailing  tone  of  Lord 
liyron's  poetry.  See,  however,  with  what 
easy  strength  he  enters  upon  it.  and  with  how 
much  grace  he  gradually  finds  his  way  back 
to  his  own  peculiar  vein  of  sentiment  and 
diction. 

"  There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night ; 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gather'd  then 
Her  beauty  and  her  chivalry  ;  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men, 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily  ;  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  look'd  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell ; 

But  hush  !  hark  !  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising 
kneli!" 

"  Ah  !  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
And  gath'ring  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blush'd  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness  ; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings  ;  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts ;  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might    be   repeated : — who  could 

guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes. 
Since  upon  nights  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could 

rise  ? 

"  And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste  :  the  steed, 
The  must'ring  squadron,  and  the  clatt'ring  car, 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war  ; 
And  the  deep  thunder,  peal  on  peal  afar; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Rous' d  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star. 

"  And  Ardennes  waves  above   them   her  green 
leaves. 
Dewy  with  Nature's  tear-drops,  as  they  pass  ! 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves. 
Over  the  unreturning  brave, — alas  I 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow 
In  its  next  verdure  !  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valour,  rolling  on  the  foe       [and  low," 

And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold 

After  some  brief  commemoration  of  the 
worth  and  valour  that  fell  in  that  bloody  field, 
the  author  turns  to  the  many  hopeless  mourn- 
ers that  survive  to  lament  their  extinction ;  the 
many  broken-hearted  families,  whose  incura- 
ble sorrow  is  enhanced  by  the  national  ex- 
ultation that  still  points,  w4ih  importunate  joy, 
to  the  scene  of  their  destruction.  There  is  a 
richness  and  energy  in  the  following  passage 
which  is  peculiar  to  Lord  Byron,  among  all 
modern  poets, — a  throng  of  glowing  images, 
poured  forth  at  once,  with  a  facility  and  pro- 
fusion which  must  appear  mere  wastefulness 
to  more  economical  writers,  and  a  certain 
negligence  and  harshness  of  diction,  which 
can  belong  only  to  an  author  who  is  oppressed 
with  the  exuberance  and  rapidity  of  nis  con- 
ceptions. 

"  The  Archangel's  trump,  not  Glory's,  must  awake 
Those  whom  they  thirst  for!  though  the  sound 

of  Fame 
May  for  a  moment  soothe,  it  cannot  slake 
The  fever  of  vain  longmg  ;  and  the  name 

So  honour'd  but  assumes  a  stronger,  bitterer  claim. 


"  They  mourn,  ])ut  smile  at  length  ;  and,  smiling 
The  tree  will  wither  long  before  it  fall ;     [mourn 
'I'he  hull  drives  on,  though  mast  and  sail  be  torn 
The  roof-tree  sinks,  but  moulders  on  the  hall 
In  massy  hoariness  ;  the  ruin'd  wall 
Stands  when  its  wind- worn  battlements  are  gon«; 
The  bars  survive  the  captive  they  enthral ; 
The  day  drags  through,  though  storms  keep  ou: 
the  sun  ; 

And  thus  the  heart  will  break,  yet  brokenly  live  on: 

'*  Even  as  a  broken  mirror,  which  the  glass 
In  every  fragment  multiplies;  and  makes 
A  thousand  images  of  one  that  was, 
The  same,  and  still  the  more,  the  more  it  breaks; 
And  thus  the  heart  will  do  which  not  forsakes. 
Living  in  shatter'd  guise,  and  still,  and  cold, 
And  bloodless,  with  its  sleepless  sorrow  aches. 
Yet  withers  on  till  all  without  is  old,       .    [told." 

Showing  no  visible  sign, — for  such  things  are  un 

There  is  next  an  apostrophe  to  Napoleon, 
graduating  into  a  series  of  general  reflections, 
expressed  with  infinite  beauty  and  earnest- 
ness, and  illustrated  by  another  cluster  of 
magical  images ; — but  breathing  the  very  es- 
sence of  misanthropical  disdain,  and  embody- 
ing opinions  which  we  conceive  not  to  be  less 
erroneous  than  revolting.  After  noticing  the 
strange  combination  of  grandeur  and  littleness 
which  seemed  to  form  the  character  of  that 
greatest  of  all  captains  and  conquerors,  the 
author  proceeds, 

'*  Yet  well  thy  soul  hath  brook'd  the  turning  tid^^ 
With  that  untaught  innate  philosophy. 
Which,  be  it  wisdom,  coldness,  or  deep  pride. 
Is  gall  and  wormwood  to  an  enemy. 
When  the  whole  host  of  hatred  stood  hard  by. 
To  watch  and  mock  thee  shrinking,  thou  riast 
With  a  sedate  and  all-enduring  eye  ; —      [smil'd 
When  fortune  fled  her  spoil'd  and  favourite  child. 

He  stood  unbow'd  beneath  the  ills  upon  him  pll'd. 

Sager  than  in  thy"  fortunes  :  For  in  them 
Ambition  steel'd  thee  on  too  far  to  show 
That  just  habitual  scorn  which  could  contemn 
Men  and  their  tiioughts.  'Twaswise  to  feel;  not  so 
To  wear  it  ever  on  thy  lip  and  brow, 
And  spurn  the  instruments  thou  wert  to  use 
Till  they  were  turn'd  unto  thine  overthrow: 
'Tis  but  a  worthless  world  to  win  or  lose  ! — 
So  hath  it  prov'd  to  thee,  and  all  such  lot  who  choose. 

But  quiet  to  quick  bosoms  is  a  hell. 
And  there  hath  been  thy  bane  !  There  is  a  fire 
And  motion  of  the  soul  which  will  not  dwell 
In  its  own  narrow  being,  but  aspire 
Beyond  the  fitting  medium  of  desire  ; 
And,  but  once  kindled,  quenchless  evermore, 
Preys  upon  high  adventure  ;  nor  can  tire 
Of  aught  but  rest ;  a  fever  at  the  core, 
Fatal  to  him  who  bears,  to  all  who  ever  bore. 

This  makes  the  madmen,  who  have  made  men 
By  their  contagion  ;  Conquerors  and  Kings,  [mad 
Founders  of  sects  and  systems, — to  whom  add 
Sophists,  Bards,  Statesmen,  all  unquiet  things. 
Which  stir  too  strongly  the  soul's  secret  springs, 
And  are  themselves  the  fools  to  those  they  fool ; 
Envied,  yet  how  unenviable  !  what  stings 
Are  theirs !  One  breast  laid  open  were  a  school 

Which  would  unteach  mankind  the  lust  to  shine  oi 
rule: 
Their  breath  is  agitation  ;  and  their  life, 
A  storm  whereon  they  ride,  to  sink  at  last ; 
And  yet  so  nurs'd  and  bigotted  to  strife 
That  should  their  days,  surviving  perils  past 
Melt  to  calm  twilight,  they  feel  overcast 
With  sorrow  and  supineness,  and  so  die  I 
Even  as  a  flame  unfed,  which  runs  to  waste 
With  its  own  flickering ;  or  a  sword  laid  by 

Which  eats  into  itself,  and  rusts  ingloriously. 


442 


POETRY. 


He  who  ascends  to  mountain-tops,  shall  find 
The  loftiest  peaks  most  wrapt  in  clouds  and  snow; 
He  who  surpasses  or  subdues  mankind, 
Must  look  down  on  the  hate  of  those  below. 
Though  high  above  the  sun  of  glory  glow. 
And  lar  beneath  the  earth  and  ocean  spread. 
Round  him  are  icy  rocks ;  and  loudly  blow 
Contending  tempests  on  his  naked  head,     [led." 
And  thus  reward  the  toils  which  to  those  summhs 

This  is  splendidly  written,  no  doubt — but 
we  trust  it  is  not  true ]  and  as  it  is  delivered 
with  much  more  than  poetical  earnestness, 
and  recurs,  indeed,  in  other  forms  in  various 
parts  of  the  volume,  we  must  really  be  allowed 
to  enter  our  dissent  somewhat  at  large.  With 
regard  to  conquerors,  we  wish  with  all  our 
hearts  that  the  case  were  as  the  noble  author 
represents  it :  but  we  greatly  fear  they  are 
neither  half  so  unhappy,  nor  half  so  much 
hated  as  they  should  be.  On  the  contrary,  it 
seems  plain  enough  that  they  are  very  com- 
monly idolised  and  admired,  even  by  those 
on  whom  they  trample ;  and  we  suspect, 
moreover,  that  in  general  they  actually  pass 
their  time  rather  agreeably,  and  derive  con- 
siderable satisfaction  from  the  ruin  and  deso- 
lation of  the  world.  From  Macedonia's  mad- 
man to  the  Swede — from  Nimrod  to  Bonaparte, 
the  hunters  of  men  have  pursued  their  sport 
with  as  much  gaiety,  and  as  little  remorse,  as 
the  hunters  of  other  animals — and  have  lived 
as  cheerily  in  their  days  of  action,  and  as 
comfortably  in  their  repose,  as  the  followers 
of  better  pursuits.  For  this,  and  for  the  fame 
which  they  have  generally  enjoyed,  they  are 
obviously  indebted  to  the  great  interests  con- 
nected with  their  employment,  and  the  men- 
tal excitement  which  belongs  to  its  hopes  and 
hazards.  It  would  be  strange,  therefore,  if 
the  other  active,  but  more  innocent  spirits, 
whom  Lord  Byron  has  here  placed  in  the 
same  predicament,  and  who  share  all  their 
sources  of  enjoyment,  without  the  guilt  and 
the  hardness  which  they  cannot  fail  of  con- 
tracting, should  be  more  miserable  or  more 
unfriended  than  those  splendid  curses  of  their 
kind: — And  it  would  be  'passing -strange,  and 
pitiful,  if  the  most  precious  gifts  of  Providence 
should  produce  only  unhappiness,  and  man- 
kind regard  with  hostihty  their  greatest  bene- 
factors. 

We  do  not  believe  in  any  such  prodigies. 
Great  vanity  and  ambition  may  indeed  lead 
to  feverish  and  restless  efforts — to  jealousies, 
to  hate,  and  to  mortification — but  these  are 
only  their  effects  when  united  to  inferior 
abilities.  It  is  not  those,  in  short,  who  ac- 
tually surpass  mankind,  that  are  unhappy; 
but  those  who  struggle  in  vain  to  surpass 
them :  And  this  moody  temper,  which  eats 
into  itself  from  within,  and  provokes  fair  and 
unfair  opposition  from  without,  is  generally 
the  result  of  pretensions  which  outgo  the 
merits  by  which  they  are  supported — and  dis- 
appointments, that  may  be  clearly  traced,  not 
to  the  excess  of  genius,  but  its  defect. 

It  will  be  found,  we  believe,  accordingly, 
that  the  master  spirits  of  their  age  have  al- 
ways escaped  the  unhappiness  which  is  here 
supposed  to  be  the  inevitable  lot  of  extraordi- 
nary talents ;  and  that  this  strange  tax  upon 


genius  has  only  beei.  levied  from  those  who 
held  the  secondary  shares  of  it.  Men  of  truly 
great  powers  of  mind  have  generally  been 
cheerful,  social,  and  indulgent;  while  a  ten- 
dency to  sentimental  whining,  or  fierce  mtol- 
erance,  may  be  ranked  among  the  sures 
symptoms  of  little  souls  and  inferior  intel 
lects.  In  the  whole  list  of  our  English  poets, 
we  can  only  remember  Shenstone  and  Savage 
— two,  certainly,  of  the  lowest — who  were 
querulous  and  discontented.  Cowley,  indeed, 
used  to  call  himself  melancholy ; — but  he  M-aa 
not  in  earnest ;  and,  at  any  rate,  was  full  of 
conceits  and  affectations ;  and  has  nothing  to 
make  us  proud  of  him.  Shakespeare,  Ihe 
greatest  of  them  all,  was  evidently  of  a  free 
and  joyous  temperament ; — and  so  was  Chau- 
cer, their  common  master.  The  same  dis- 
position appears  to  have  predominated  in 
Fletcher,  Jonson,  and  their  great  contempo- 
raries. The  genius  of  Milton  partook  some- 
thing of  the  austerity  of  the  party  to  which  he 
belonged,  and  of  the  controversies  in  which 
he  was  involved ;  but  even  when  fallen  on 
evil  days  and  evil  tongues,  bis  spirit  seems  to 
have  retained  its  serenity  as  well  as  its  dig- 
nity ;  and  in  his  private  life,  as  well  as  in  his 
poetry,  the  majesty  of  a  high  character  is 
tempered  with  great  sweetness,  genial  indul- 
gences, and  practical  wisdom.  In  the  suc- 
ceeding age  our  poets  were  but  too  g-ay  ;  and 
though  we  forbear  to  speak  of  living  authors, 
we  know  enough  of  them  to  say  with  confi- 
dence, that  to  be  miserable  or  to  be  hated  is 
not  now,  any  more  than  heretofore,  the  com- 
mon lot  of  those  who  excel. 

If  this,  however,  be  the  case  with  poets, 
confessedly  the  most  irritable  and  fantastic 
of  all  men  of  genius — and  of  poets,  too,  bred 
and  born  in  the  gloomy  climate  of  England, 
it  is  not  likely  that  those  who  have  surpassed 
their  fellows  in  other  ways,  or  in  other  regions, 
have  been  more  distinguished  for  unhappiness. 
Were  Socrates  and  Plato,  the  greatest  philoso- 
phers of  antiquity,  remarkable  for  unsocial 
or  gloomy  tempers  ? — was  Bacon,  the  greatest 
in  modern  times  ? — was  Sir  Thomas  More — 
or  Erasmus — or  Hume — or  Voltaire? — was 
Newton —  or  Fenelon  ? — was  Francis  I.,  or 
Henry  IV.,  the  paragon  of  kings  and  conquer- 
ors ? — was  Fox,  the  most  ardent,  and,  in  the 
vulgar  sense,  the  least  successful  of  states- 
men ?  These,  and  men  like  these,  are  un- 
doubtedly the  lights  and  the  boast  of  the 
world.  Yet  there  was  no  alloy  of  misan 
thropy  or  gloom  in  their  genius.  They  di  ■ 
not  disdain  the  men  they  had  surpassed  ;  aiiu 
neither  feared  nor  experienced  their  hostility. 
Some  detractors  they  might  have,  from  envy 
or  misapprehension ;  but,  beyond  all  doubt, 
the  prevailing  sentiments  in  respect  to  them 
have  always  iDeen  those  of  gratitude  and  ad- 
miration ;  and  the  error  of  public  judgment, 
where  it  has  erred,  has  much  oftener  been  to 
overrate  than  to  undervalue  the  merits  of 
those  who  had  claims  on  their  good  opinion. 
On  the  whole,  \\'e  are  far  from  thinking  thai 
eminent  men  are  actually  happier  than  those 
\vho  glide  through  life  in  peaceful  obscurity: 
But  it  is  their  eminence,  ard  the  consequencea 


LORD  BYRON'S  POETRY. 


of  It.  rather  than  the  mental  superiority  by 
w  hjch  it  is  obtained,  that  interferes  with  their 
enjoyment.  Distinction,  however  won,  usually 
leads  to  a  passion  for  more  distinction ;  and  is 
apt  to  engage  us  in  laborious  efforts  and  anx- 
ious undertakings :  and  those,  even  when  suc- 
cessful, seldom  repay,  in  our  judgment  at 
least,  the  ease,  the  leisure,  and  tranquillity, 
of  which  they  require  the  sacrifice :  but  it 
really  passes  our  imagination  to  conceive,  that 
the  very  highest  degrees  of  intellectual  vigour, 
or  fancy,  or  sensibility,  should  of  themselves 
be  productive  either  of  unhappiness  or  general 
dielike. 

Harold  and  his  poet  next  move  along  the 
lovely  banks  of  the  Rhine,  to  which,  and  all 
their  associated  emotions,  due  honour  is  paid 
in  various  powerful  stanzas.  We  pass  on, 
however,  to  the  still  more  attractive  scenes 
of  Switzerland.  The  opening  is  of  suitable 
grandeur. 

"  But  these  recede.     Above  me  are  the  Alps, 
The  palaces  of  Nature,  whose  vast  walls 
Have  pinnacled  in  clouds  their  snowy  scalps, 
And  throned  Eternity  in  icy  halls. 
Of  cold  subhniity,  where  forms  and  falls 
The  avalanche — the  thunderbolt  of  snow ! 
All  that  expands  the  spirit,  yet  appals, 
Gather  around  these  summits,  as  to  show 

How  Earth  may  pierce  to  Heaven,  yet  leave  vain 
man  below." 

On  this  magnificent  threshold,  the  poet 
pauses,  to  honour  the  patriot  field  of  Morat, 
and  the  shrine  of  the  priestess  of  Aventicura; 
and  then,  in  congratulating  himself  on  his 
solitude,  once  more  moralises  his  song  with 
something  of  an  apology  for  its  more  bitter 
misanthropies. 

"  To  fly  from,  need  not  be  to  hate  mankind; 
All  are  not  fit  with  them  to  stir  and  toil. 
Nor  is  it  discontent  to  keep  the  mind 
Deep  in  its  fountain,  lest  it  overboil 
In  the  hot  throng,"  &c, 

*'  The  race  of  life  becomes  a  hopeless  flight 
To  those  that  walk  in  darkness ;  on  the  sea, 
The  boldest  steer  but  where  their  ports  invite. 
But  there  are  wanderers  o'er  Eternity    [shall  be. 

Whose  bark  drives  on  and  on,  and  anchor'd  ne'er 
Is  it  not  better,  then,  to  be  alone, 
And  love  Earth  only  for  its  earthly  sake  ? 
By  the  blue  rushing  of  the  arrowy  Rhone, 
Or  the  pure  bosom  of  its  nursing  lake, 
Which  feeds  it  as  a  mother  who  doth  make 
A  fair  but  froward  infant  her  own  care, 
Kissing  its  cries  away  as  these  awake." 

The  cliffs  of  Meillerie.  and  the  groves 
of  Clarens  of  course,  conjure  up  the  shade 
of  Rousseau;  whom  he  characterises  very 
strongly,  but  charitably,  in  several  enchant- 
ing stanzas ; — one  or  two  of  which  we  shall 
cite  as  a  specimen  of  the  kindred  rapture 
with  which  the  Poet  here  honours  the  Apostle 
of  Love. 

"  His  love  was  pasfe'on's  essence  I     As  a  tree 
On  fire  by  lightning,  with  ethereal  flame 
Kindled  lie  was,  and  blasted  ;  for  to  be 
Thus,  and  enamour'd,  were  in  him  the  same. 
But  his  was  not  the  love  of  living  dame, 
Nor  of  the  dead  who  rise  upon  our  dreams, 
But  of  ideal  beautv  ;  which  became 
In  him  existence,  and  o'erflowing  teems  [seems. 
ong  his  burning  page,  distemper'd   though  it 


This  breath'd  itself  to  life   n  Julie,  ihi$ 
Invested  her  with  all  that's  wild  and  sweet,"  &c 

"Clarens!    sweet   Clarens,    birth-place  of  deep 

Love ! 
Thine  air  is  the    young    breath  of  passionate 

thought ! 
Thy  trees  take  root  in  Love  ;  the  snows  above 
The  very  Glaciers  have  his  colours  caught, 
And  sun-set  into  rose-hues  sees  them  wrought 
By  rays  which  sleep  there  lovingly  S  The  rocks, 
The  permanent  crags,  tell  here  of  Love ;  whc 

sought 
In  them  a  refuge  from  the  worldly  shocks, 
Which  stir  and  sting  the  soul  with  hope  that  woos, 

then  mocks. 

"  All  things  are  here  of  him  ;  from  the  black  pines, 
Which  are  his  shade  on  high,  and  the  loud  roar 
Of  torrents,  where  he  listeneth,  to  the  vines 
Which  slope  his  green  path  downward  to  the 

shore. 
Where  the  bow'd  waters  meet  him,  and  adore, 
Kissing  his  feet  with  murmurs ;  and  the  wood, 
The  covert  of  old  trees,  with  trunks  all  hoar, 
But  light  leaves,  young  as  joy,  stands  where  il 
stood. 

Offering  to  him  and  his,  a  populous  solitude." 

Our  readers  may  think,  perhaps,  that  there 
is  too  much  sentiment  and  reflection  in  these 
extracts;  and  w4sh  for  the  relief  of  a  little 
narrative  or  description :  but  the  truth  is,  that 
there  is  no  narrative  in  the  poem,  and  that  all 
the  descriptions  are  blended  with  the  expres- 
sion of  deep  emotion.  The  following  picture, 
however,  of  an  evening  calm  on  the  lake  ot 
Geneva,  we  think,  must  please  even  the  lov 
ers  of  pure  description — 

"  Clear,  placid  Leman  !  thy  contrasted  lake. 
With  the  wide  world  I  d^welt  in,  is  a  thing 
Which  warns  me,  with  its  stillness,  to  forsake 
Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 
This  quiet  sail  is  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  distraction  !     Once  I  lov'd 
Torn  ocean's  roar ;  but  thy  soft  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet,  as  if  a  sister's  voice  reprov'd, 

That  I  with  stern  delights  should  e'er  have  been 
8o  mov'd. 

"  It  is  the  hush  of  night ;  and  all  between 
Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear, 
Mellow'd  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen. 
Save  darken'd  Jura,  whose  capt  heights  appear 
Precipitously  steep  !  and  drawing  near, 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the  shore. 
Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood  ;  on  the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar,  [more  ! 

Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one   good-night  carol 

"At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the  brakes, 
Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is  still. 
There  seems  a  floating  whisper  on  the  hill ; 
But  that  is  fancy  ! — for  the  starlight  dews 
All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instil. 
Weeping  themselves  away,  till  they  infuse 
Deep  into  nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her  hues." 

The  following  sketch  of  a  Midsummer 
night's  thunder  storm  in  the  same  sublime 
region,  is  still  more  striking  and  original — 

"  The  sky  is  chang'd! — and  such  a  change  !     Oh 
night,  [strong ! 

And   storm,    and  darkness,    ye   are   wondrous 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman  !  Far  along. 
From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among 
Leaps  the  live  thunder !  Not  from  one  lone  cloud 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  foand  a  tongue, 
And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud. 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud , 


444 


POETRY. 


"  And  this  is  in  the  night : — Most  glorious  night ! 
Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber  !  let  me  be 
A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight, — 
A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee  ! 
How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a  phosphoric  sea  ! 
And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth  ! 
And  now  again  'tis  black, — and  now,  the  glee 
Of  the  loud  hills  shake  with  its  mountain-mirth." 

In  passing  Ferney  and  Lausanne,  there  is  a 
fine  account  of  Voltaire  and  Gibbon ;  but  we 
have  room  for  but  one  more  extract,  and  must 
take  it  from  the  characteristic  reflections  with 
which  the  piece  is  concluded.  These,  like 
most  of  the  preceding,  may  be  thought  to 
savour  too  much  of  egotism :  But  this  is  of 
the  essence  of  such  poetry ;  and  if  Lord  By- 
ron had  only  been  happier,  or  in  better  hu- 
mour with  the  world,  we  should  have  been 
delighted  with  the  confidence  he  has  here 
reposed  in  his  readers  : — as  it  is,  it  sounds  too 
like  the  last  disdainful  address  of  a  man  who 
is  about  to  quit  a  world  which  has  ceased  to 
have  any  attractions — like  the  resolute  speech 
of  Pierre — 

*'  For  this  vile  world  and  I  have  long  been  jangling, 
And  cannot  part  on  better  terms  than  now."— ^ 

The  reckoning,  however,  is  steadily  and 
sternly  made  ;  and  though  he  does  not  spare 
himself,  we  must  say  that  the  world  comes 
off  much  the  worst  in  the  comparison.  The 
passage  is  very  singular,  and  written  with 
much  force  and  dignity. 

"  Thus  far  I  have  proceeded  in  a  theme 
Renew'd  with  no  kind  auspices. — To  feel 
We  are  not  what  we  have  been,  and  to  deem 
We  are  not  what  we  should  be  ; — and  to  steel 
The  heart  against  itself;  and  to  conceal, 
With  a  proud  caution,  love,  or  hate,  or  aught, — 
Passion  or  feeling,  purpose,  grief  or  zeal, — 
Which  is  the  tyrant  spirit  of  our  thought, 

Is  a  stern  task  of  soul ! — No  matter ! — it  is  taught. 

•*  I  have  not  lov'd  the  world — nor  the  world  me  ! 
I  have  not  flatter'd  its  rank  breath;  nor  bow'd 
To  its  idolatries  a  patient  knee, — 
Nor  coin'd  my  cheek  to  smiles, — nor  cried  aloud 
In  worship  of  an  echo.     In  the  crowd 
They  could  not  deem  me  one  of  such ;  I  stood 
Among  them,  but  not  of  them,"  &c. 

*■  I  have  not  lov'd  the  world,  nor  the  world  me  * 
But  let  us  part  fair  foes ;  I  do  believe. 
Though  I  have  found  them  not,  that  there  maybe 
Words  which  are  things,  —hopes  which  will  not  de- 
And  virtues  which  are  merciful,  nor  weave  [ceive 
Snares  for  the  faiUng  !  I  would  also  deem 
O'er  others'  griefs  that  some  sincerely  grieve  ; 
That  two  or  one,  are  almost  what  they  seem, — 

That  goodness  is    no    name,  and    happiness    no 
dream." 

The  closing  stanzas  of  the  poem  are  ex- 
tremely beautiful ; — but  we  are  immoveable 
in  the  resolution,  that  no  statement  of  ours 
shall  ever  give  additional  publicity  to  the 
subjects  of  which  they  treat. 

We  come  now  to  "The  Prisoner  of  Chillon." 
It  is  very  sweet  and  touching — though  we 
can  afford  but  a  short  account  of  it.  Chillon 
is  a  ruined  castle  on  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  in 
the  dungeon  of  which  three  gallant  brothers 
were  confined,  each  chained  to  a  separate 
oillar,  till,  after  long  years  of  anguish,  the 
two  younger  died,  and  were  buried  under  the 
told  floor  of  the  prison.     The  eldest  was  at 


length  liberated,  when  worn  cot  with  age 
and  misery — and  is  supposed^  in  his  joyless 
liberty,  to  tell,  in  this  poem,  the  sad  story  of 
his  imprisonment.  The  picture  of  their  first 
feelings,  when  bound  apart  in  this  living 
tomb,  and  of  the  gradual  sinking  of  their 
cheery  fortitude,  is  full  of  pity  and  agony. 

'*  We  could  not  move  a  single  pace ; 

We  could  not  see  each  other's  face, 

But  with  that  pale  and  livid  hght 

I'hat  made  us  strangers  in  our  sight ; 

And  thus  together — yet  apart, 

Fetter'd  in  hand,  and  pin'd  in  heart  ; 

'Twas  still  some  solace  in  the  dearth 

Of  the  pure  elements  of  earth. 

To  hearken  to  each  other's  speech, 

And  each  turn  comforter  to  each, 

With  some  new  hope,  or  legend  old, 

Or  song  heroically  bold  ; 

But  even  these  at  length  grew  cold  ! 

Our  voices  took  a  dreary  tone, 

An  echo  of  the  dungeon-stone, 
A  grating  sound — not  full  and  free 
As  they  of  yore  were  wont  to  be  . 
It  might  be  fancy — but  to  nie 

They  never  sounded  like  our  own." 

The  return  to  the  condition  of  the  youngei 
brother,  the  blooming  Benjamin  of  thefamfiy, 
is  extremely  natural  and  affecting. 

"  I  was  the  eldest  of  the  three, 
And  to  uphold  and  cheer  the  rest, 
I  ought  to  do — and  did  my  best ; 
And  each  did  well  in  his  degree. 
The  youngest,  whom  my  father  lov'd. 
Because  our  mother's  brow  was  giv'n 
To  him — with  eyes  as  blue  as  heav'n, 
For  him  my  soul  was  sorely  mov'd  ; 
And  truly  might  it  be  distrest 
To  see  such  bird  in  such  a  nest ; 
For  he  was  beautiful  as  day — 
(When  day  was  beautiful  to  me 
As  to  young  eagles,  being  free) — 
And  thus  he  was  as  pure  and  bright, 
And  in  his  natural  spirit  gay, 
With  tears  for  nought  but  other's  ills  ; 
And  then  they  flow'd  like  mountain  rills. 

The  gentle  decay  and  gradual  extinction 
of  this  youngest  life,  is  the  most  tentit  r  and 
beautiful  passage  in  the  poem. 

"  But  he,  the  favorite  and  the  flow'r, 
Most  cherish'd  since  his  natal  hour, 
His  mother's  image  in  fair  face, 
The  infant  love  of  all  his  race. 
His  martyr'd  father's  dearest  thought, 
i1/y  latest  care,  for  whom  I  sought 
To  hoard  my  life,  that  his  might  be 
Less  wretched  now,  and  one  day  free  ' 
He,  too,  who  yet  had  held  untir'd 
A  spirit  natural  or  inspir'd — 
He,  too,  was  struck  !  and  day  by  day 
Was  wither'd  on  the  stalk  away. 
He  faded ;  and  so  calm  and  meek, 
So  softly  worn,  so  sweetly  weak, 
So  tearless,  yet  so  tender — kind. 
And  griev'd  for  those  he  left  behind  : 
With  all  the  while  a  cheek  whose  bloom 
Was  as  a  mockery  of  the  tomb, 
Whose  tints  as  gently  sunk  away 
As  a  departing  rainbow's  ray — 
An  eye  of  most  transparent  light. 
That  almost  made  the  dungeon  brig'jt, 
And  not  a  word  -^f  murmur  !     not 
A  groan  o'er  his  untimely  lot, — 
A  little  talk  of  better  days, 
A  little  hope  my  own  to  raise, 
For  I  was  sunk  in  silence — lost 
In  this  last  loss,  of  all  the  most; 


LORD  BYBON'S  POETRY. 


445 


And  then  .he  sighs  he  would  suppress 

Of  fainting  nature's  feebleness, 

More  slowly  drawn,  grew  less  and  less ! 

T  listen'd,  but  I  could  not  hear  I — 

I  call'd,  for  I  was  wild  with  fear ; 

1  call'd,  and  thought  I  heard  a  sound — 

I  burst  my  chain  with  one  strong  bound, 

And  rush'd  to  him  ! — I  found  him  not, 

1  only  stirr'd  in  this  black  spot, 

/  only  liv'd — /  only  drew 

Th'  accursed  breath  of  dungeon-dew," 

After  this  last  calamity,  he  is  allowed  to  be 
Kt  large  m  the  dungeon. 

"  And  it  was  liberty  to  stride 
Along  my  cell  from  side  to  side. 
And  up  and  down,  and  then  athwart, 
And  tread  it  over  every  part ; 
And  round  the  pillars  one  by  one. 
Returning  where  my  walk  begun, 
Avoiding  only,  as  I  trod, 
My  brothers'  graves  without  a  sod.' 

He  climbs  up  at  last  to  the  high  chink  that 
admitted  the  light  to  his  prison ;  and  looks 
out  once  more  on  the  long-remembered  face 
of  nature,  and  the  lofty  forms  of  the  eternal 
mountains. 

'*  I  saw  them — and  they  were  the  same. 
They  were  not  chang'd  like  me  in  frame  ; 
I  saw  their  thousand  years  of  snow 
On  hi^h — their  wide  long  lake  below, 
And  the  blue  Rhone  in  fullest  flow; 
I  heard  the  torrents  leap  and  gush 
O'er  channell'd  rock  and  broken  bush  ; 
I  saw  the  white-wall'd  distant  town, 
And  whiter  sails  go  skimming  down  ; 
And  then  there  was  a  little  isle. 
Which  in  my  very  face  did  smile, 

The  only  one  in  view  ; 
A  sm^U  green  isle  ;  it  seem'd  no  more, 
Scarce  broader  than  my  dungeon  floor. 
But  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees. 
And  o'er  it  blew  the  mountain  breeze, 
And  by  it  there  were  waters  flowing. 
And  on  it  there  were  young  flow'rs  growing, 

Of  gentle  breath  and  hue. 
The  fish  swam  by  the  castle  wall. 
And  they  seem'd  joyous,  each  and  all ; 
The  eagle  rode  the  rising  blast ; 
Methought  he  never  flew  so  fast 
As  then  to  me  he  seem'd  to  fly." 

The  rest  of  the  poems  in  this  little  volume, 
are  less  amiable — and  most  of  them,  we  fear, 
have  a  personal  and  not  very  charitable  ap- 
plication. One,  entitled  '•  Darkness,"  is  free 
at  least  from  this  imputation.  It  is  a  grand 
and  gloomy  sketch  of  the  supposed  conse- 
quences of  the  final  extinction  of  the  Sun  and 
the  Heavenly  bodies — executed,  undoubtedly, 
with  great  and  fearful  force — but  with  some- 
thing of  German  exaggeration,  and  a  fantas- 
tical selection  of  incidents.  The  very  con- 
ception is  terrible,  above  all  conception  of 
known  calamity — and  is  too  oppressive  to  the 
imagination,  to  be  contemplated  with  pleas- 
are,  even  in  the  faint  reflection  of  poetr}\ 

"  The  icy  earth 
Swung  blind  and  blackening  in  the  moonless  air." 

Cities  and  forests  are  burnt,  for  light  '-..-id 
warmth. 

"  The  brows  of  men  by  the  despairing  light 
Wore  an  unearthly  aspect,  as  by  fits 
The  flashes  fell  upon  them  !     Some  lay  down 
And  hid  their  eyes  and  wept ;  and  some  did  rest 
'Cheir  chins  upon  their  clenched  hands,  and  smil'd  ! 


I  And  others  hurried  to  and  fro,  and  fed 
Their  funeral  piles  with  fuel,  and  look'd  up 
With  mad  disquietude  on  the  dull  sky. 
The  pall  of  a  past  world  !  and  then  again 
With  curses  cast  them  down  upon  the  dust. 
And  gnash'd  their  teeth,  and  howl'd  I" 

Then  they  eat  each  other :  and  are  extin- 
guished ! 

" The  world  was  void. 

The  populous  and  the  powerful  was  a  lump, 
Seasonless,  herbless,  treeless,  manless,  lifeless — 
A  lump  of  death — a  chaos  of  hard  clay  ! 
The  rivers,  lakes,  and  ocean  all  stood  still. 
And  nothing  stirr'd  within  their  silent  depths  ; 
Ships  sailorless  lay  rotting  on  the  sea,         [dropp'd 
And  their  masts  fell  down  piecemeal :    As  they 
They  slept  on  the  abyss  without  a  surge — 
The  waves  were  dead  ;  the  tides  were  in  their  grave 
The  moon  their  mistress  had  expir'd  before  ; 
The  winds  were  wither'd  in  the  stagnant  air. 
And  the  clouds  perish'd  ;  Darkness  had  no  need 
Of  aid  from  them — She  was  the  universe." 

There  is  a  poem  entitled  ^'  The  Dream," 
full  of  living  pictures,  and  written  with  great 
beauty  and  genius — but  extremely  painful — 
and  abounding  with  mysteries  into  which  we 
have  no  desire  to  penetrate.  "The  Incant- 
ation" and  "Titan"  have  the  same  distressing 
character — though  without  the  sweetness  of 
the  other.  Some  stanzas  to  a  nameless  friend, 
are  in  a  tone  of  more  open  misanthj'opy.  This 
is  a  favourable  specimen  of  their  tone  and 
temper. 

"  Though  human,  thou  didst  not  deceive  me, 

Though  woman,  thou  didst  not  forsake, 
Though  lov'd,  thou  foreborest  to  grieve  me, 

Though  slinder'd,  thou  never  couldst  shake, — 
Though  trusted,  thou  didst  not  disclaim  me. 

Though  parted,  it  was  not  to  fly. 
Though  watchful,  'twas  not  to  defame  me. 

Nor  mute,  that  the  world  might  belie." 

Beautiful  as  this  poetry  is,  it  is  a  relief  at 
last  to  close  the  volume.  We  cannot  maintain 
our  accustomed  tone  of  levity,  or  even  speak 
like  calm  literary  judges,  in  the  midst  of  these 
agonising  traces  of  a  wounded  and  distempered 
spirit.  Even  our  admiration  is  at  last  swal- 
lowed up  in  a  most  painful  feeling  of  pity  and 
of  wonder.  It  is  impossible  to  mistake  these 
for  fictitious  sorrows,  conjui^ed  up  for  the  pur- 
pose of  poetical  effect.  There  is  a  dreadful 
tone  of  sincerity,  and  an  energy  that  cannot 
be  counterfeited,  in  the  expression  of  wretch- 
edness and  alienation  from  human  kind,  which 
occurs  in  every  page  of  this  publication ;  and 
as  the  author  has  at  last  spoken  out  in  his  own 
person,  and  unbosomed  his  griefs  a- great  deal 
too  freely  to  his  readers,  the  offence  now 
would  be  to  entertain  a  doubt  of  their  reality. 
We  certainly  have  no  hope  of  preaching  him 
into  philanthropy  and  cheerfulness  :  but  it  is 
impossible  not  to  mourn  over  such  a  catas- 
trophe of  such  a  mind )  or  to  see  the  prodigal 
gifts  of  Nature,  Fortune,  and  Fame,  thus 
turned  to  bitterness,  without  an  oppressive 
feeling  of  impatience,  mortification,  and  sur- 
J»rise.  W"here  there  are  such  elements,  how- 
ever, it  is  equally  impossible  to  despair  that 
they  may  yet  enter  into  happier  combination*, 
—or  not  to  hope  this  "  that  puissant  spirit" 

"yet  shall  reascend 
Self-rais'd,  and  repossess  its  native  seat." 


POETRf 


{IXovtmbtv,  1817.) 


Lalla  Rookh;  an  Oriental  Romance. 


406.:  London:  1817. 


There  is  a  great  deal  of  our  recent  poetry 
derived  from  the  East :  But  this  is  the  finest 
Orientalism  we  have  had  yet.  The  land  of 
the  Sun  has  never  shone  out  so  brightly  on  the 
children  of  the  North — ^nor  the  sweets  of  Asia 
been  poured  forth,  nor  her  gorgeousness  dis- 
played so  profusely  to  the  delighted  senses  of 
Europe.  The  beauteous  forms,  the  dazzling 
splendours,  the  breathing  odours  of  the  East, 
seem  at  last  to  have  found  a  kindred  poet  in 
that  green  isle  of  the  West,  whose  Genius 
has  long  been  suspected  to  be  derived  from  a 
warmer  clime,  and  now  wantons  and  luxuri- 
ates in  those  voluptuous  regions,  as  if  it  felt 
that  it  had  at  length  regained  its  native  ele- 
ment. It  is  amazing,  indeed,  how  much  at 
home  Mr.  Moore  seems  to  be  in  India,  Persia, 
and  Arabia;  and  how  purely  and  strictly 
Asiatic  all  the  colouring  and  imagery  of  his 
book  appears.  He  is  thoroughly  embued  with 
the  character  of  the  scenes  to  which  he  trans- 
ports us ;  and  yet  the  extent  of  his  knowledge 
is  less  wonderful  than  the  dexterity  and  ap- 
parent facility  with  which  he  has  turned  it  to 
account,  in  the  elucidation  and  embellishment 
of  his  poetry.  There  is  not,  in  the  volume 
now  before  us,  a  simile  or  description,  a  name, 
a  trait  of  history,  or  allusion  of  romance  which 
belongs  to  European  experience ;  or  does  not 
indicate  an  entire  familiarity  with  the  life,  the 
dead  nature,  and  the  learning  of  the  East. 
Nor  are  these  barbaric  ornaments  thinly  scat- 
tered to  make  up  a  show.  They  are  showered 
lavishly  over  all  the  work ;  and  form,  perhaps 
too  much,  the  staple  of  the  poetry — and  the 
riches  of  that  which  is  chiefly  distinguished 
for  its  richness. 

We  would  confine  this  remark,  however,  to 
the  descriptions  of  external  objects,  aixl  the 
allusions  to  literature  and  history — or  to  what 
may  be  termed  the  materiel  of  the  poetry  be- 
fore us.  The  Characters  and  Sentiments  are 
if  a  different  order.  They  cannot,  indeed,  be 
said  to  be  copies  of  European  nature ;  but  they 
are  still  less  like  that  of  any  other  region. 
They  are,  in  truth,  poetical  imaginations; — 
but  it  is  to  the  poetry  of  rational,  honourable, 
considerate,  and  humane  Europe,  that  they 
belong — and  not  to  the  childishness,  cruelty^ 
rmd  profligacy  of  Asia.  It  may  seem  a  harsh 
^nd  presumptuous  sentence,  to  some  of  our 
Cosmopolite  readers:  But  from  all  we  have 


By  Thomas  Moore.    4to.    pp 

stitution  of  genius.  While  it  is  more  splendi(^^ 
in  imagery— ^(and  for  the  most  part  in  very\ 
good  taste) — more  rich  in  sparkling  thoughts 
and  original  conceptions,  and  more  full  indeec' 
of  exquisite  pictures,  both  of  all  sorts  of  beau- 
ties and  virtues,  and  all  sorts  of  sufferings  and 
crimes,  than  any  other  poem  that  has  yet  come 
before  us ;  we  rather  think  we  speak  the  sense 
of  most  readers,  when  w^e  add,  that  the  effect 
of  the  whole  is  to  mingle  a  certain  feeling  of 
disappointment  with  that  of  admiration !  to 
excite  admiration  rather  than  any  warmer 
sentiment  of  delight — to  dazzle,  more  than  to 
enchant — and,  in  the  end,  more  frequently  to 
startle  the  fancy,  and  fatigue  the  attention,  by 
the  constant  succession  of  glittering  images 
and  high-strained  emotions,  than  to  maintain 
a  rising  interest,  or  win  a  growing  sympathy, 
by  a  less  profuse  or  more  systematic  display 
of  attractions.  -^ 

The  style  is,  on  the  whole,  rather  diffuse, 
and  too  unvaried  in  its  character.     But  its 


been  able  to  gather  from  history  or  recent  ob-^ 

servation,  we  should  be  inclined  to  say  thar-  meant  to  be  separately  beautiful- 
there  was  no  sound  sense,  firamess  of  purpose,f  suit  is  deformity  ! — where  there  i 
ur  principled  goodness,  except  among  the  na- 
tives of  Europe,  and  their  genuine  descendants* 
There  is  something  very  extraordinary,  we 
think,  in  the  work  before  us — and  something 
ivhich  indicates  in  the  author,  not  only  a  great 
exuberance  of  talent^  but  a  very  singrula^  con- 


greatest  fault,  in  our  eyes,  is  the  uniformity 
of  its  brilliancy — the  want  of  plainness,  sim- 
plicity, and  repose.  We  have  heard  it  observed 
by  some  very  zealous  admirers  of  Mr.  Moore's 
genius,  that  you  cannot  open  this  book  with- 
out finding  a  cluster  of  beauties  in  every  page. 
Now,  this  is  only  another  way  of  expressing 
what  we  think  its  greatest  defect.  No  work, 
consisting  of  many  pages,  should  have  detach- 
ed and  distinguishable  beauties  in  every  one 
of  them.  No  great  work,  indeed,  should  have 
many  beauties :  If  it  were  perfect,  it  w^ould 
have  but  one  ;  and  that  but  faintly  perceptible, 
except  on  a  view  of  the  whole.  Look,  for  ex- 
ample, at  what  is  perhaps  the  most  finished 
and  exquisite  production  of  human  art — the 
design  and  elevation  of  a  Grecian  temple,  in 
its  old  severe  simplicity.  What  penury  of 
ornament — what  rejection  of  beauties  of  de- 
tail ! — what  masses  of  plain  surface — what 
rigid  economical  limitation  to  the  useful  and 
the  necessary !  The  cottage  of  a  peasant  is 
scarcely  more  simple  in  its  structure,  and  has 
not  fewer  parts  that  are  superfluous.  Yet 
what  grandeur — what  elegance — what  grace 
and  completeness  in  the  effect !  The  whole  is 
beautiful — because  the  beauty  is  in  the  whole : 
But  there  is  little  merit  in  any  of  the  parts, 
except  that  of  fitness  and  careful  finishing. 
Contrast  this,  now,  with  a  Dutch  pleasure- 
house,  or  a   Chinese — where^  every  part   is 

-and  the  re- 
s  not  an  inch 
of  the' surface  tfiat  is  not  brilliant  with  varied 
colour,  and  rough  with  curves  and  angles,  - 
and  where  the  effect  of  the  whole  is  monstrous 
and  offensive.  We  are  as  far  as  possible  from 
meaning  to  insinuate  that  Mr.  Moore's  poetry 


is  of  this  description.     On  the  contrary,  we 


MOORE'S  LALLA  ROOKH. 


447 


think  his  ornaments  are,  for  the  most  part, 
truly  and  exquisitely  beautiful ;  and  the  gene- 
ral design  of  his  pieces  very  elegant  and  in- 
genious :  All  that  we  mean  to  say  is,  that 
there  is  too  much  ornament — too  many  insu- 
lated and  independent  beauties — and  that  the 
notice,  and  the  very  admiration  they  excite, 
hurt  the  interest  of  the  general  design ;  and 
not  only  withdraw  our  attention  too  importu- 
nately from  it,  but  at  last  weary  it  out  with 
i  their  perpetual  recurrence. 
It  seems  to  be  a  law  of  our  intellectual  con- 
stitution, that  the  powers  of  taste  cannot  be 
.  permanently  gratified,  except  by  some  sustain- 
^  I  ed  or  continuous  emotion ;  and  that  a  series, 
\  even  of  the  most  agreeable  excitements,  soon 
'  ceases,  if  broken  and  disconnected,  to  give  any 
pleasure.  No  conversation  fatigues  so  soon  as 
that  which  is  made  up  of  points  and  epigrams; 
and  the  accomplished  rhetorician,  who 


could  not  ope 


His  mouth,  but  out  there  flew  a  trope," 

must  have  been  a  most  intolerable  companion. 
There  are  some  things,  too,  that  seem  so  plainly 
intended  for  ornaments  and  seasonings  only, 
that  they  are  only  agreeable,  when  sprinkled  in 
moderation  over  a  plainer  medium.  No  one 
fwould  like  to  make  an  entire  meal  on  sauce  pi- 
Wanfc  ;  or  to  appear  in  a  dress  crusted  over  with 
diamonds  ',  or  to  pass  a  day  in  a  steam  of  rich 
/distilled  perfumes.  It  is  the  same  with  the 
■glittering  ornaments  of  poetry — with  splendid 
metaphors  and  ingenious  allusions,  and  all  the 
figures  of  speech  and  of  thought  that  consti- 
tute its  outward  pomp  and  glory.  Now,  Mr. 
Moore,  it  appears  to  us,  is  decidedly  too  lavish 
of  his  gems  and  sweets ; — -"he  labours  under  a 
plethora  of  wit  and  imagination — impairs  his 
credit  by  the  palpable  exuberance  of  his  pos- 
sessions, and  would  be  richer  with  half  his 
wealth.  His  works  are  not  only  of  costly  ma- 
terial and  graceful  design,  but  they  are  every- 
where glistening  with  small  beauties  and  tran- 
sitory inspirations — sudden  flashes  of  fancy, 
that  blaze  out  and  perish;  like  earth-born 
meteors  that  crackle  in  the  lower  sky,  and  un- 
seasonably divert  our  eyes  from  the  great  and 
lofty  bodies  which  pursue  their  harmonious 
courses  in  a  serener  region. 

We  have  spoken  of  these  as  faults  of  style : 

But  they  could  scarcely  have  existed  in  the 

style,  without  going  deeper ;  and  though  they 

first  strike  us  as  qualities  of  the  composition 

only,  we  find,  upon  a  little  reflection,  that  the 

I   same  general  character  belongs  to  the  fable, 

I    the  characters,  and  the  sentiments, — that  they 

all  sin  alike  in  the  excess  of  their  means  of 

attraction, — and   fail   to  interestj._chiefly  by 

being  too  interesting.    ' 

In  order  to  avoid  the  debasement  of  ordi- 

i  nary  or  familiar  life,  the  author  has  soared  to 

\a  region  beyond  the  comprehension  of  most 

\of  his  readers.    All  his  personages  are  so  very 

Ibeautiful,  and  brave,  and  agonising — so  totally 

\vrapt  up  in  the  exaltation  of  their  vehement 

emotions,  and  withal  so  lofty  in  rank,  and  so 

dumptuoiis  and  magnificent  in  all  that  relates 

to  their  external  condition,  that  the  herd  of 

ordinary  mortals  can  scarcely  venture  to  con- 


ceive of  their  proceedings,  or  to  sympathisa 
freely  with  their  fortunes.  Tne  disasters  to 
which  they  are  exposed,  and  the  designs  in 
which  they  are  engaged,  are  of  the  same  am 
bitious  and  exaggerated  character;  and  al] 
are  involved  in  so  much  pomp,  and  splendour/, 
and  luxury,  and  the  description  of  their  ex  j 
treme  grandeur  and  elegance  forms  so  con  ' 
siderable  a  part  of  the  whole  w^ork,  that  the* 
less  sublime  portion  of  the  species  can  with  i 
difficulty  presume  to  judge  of  them,  or  to  en- 
ter into  the  concernments  of  such  very  exqui- 
site persons.  The  incidents,  in  like  manner, 
are  so  prodigiously  moving,  so  excessively 
improbable,  and  so  terribly  critical,  that  we 
have  the  same  difficulty  of  raising  our  senti- 
ments to  the  proper  pitch  for  them; — and, 
finding  it  impossible  to  sympathise  as  we 
ought  to  do  with  such  portentous  occurrences, 
are  sometimes  tempted  to  withhold  our  sym- 
pathy altogether,  and  to  seek  for  its  objects 
among  more  familiar  adventures.  Scenes  of 
voluptuous  splendour  and  ecstasy  alternate 
suddenly  with  agonising  separations,  atrocious 
crimes,  and  tremendous  sufferings; — battles, 
incredibly  fierce  and  san^iinary,  follow  close 
on  entertainments  incredibly  sumptuous  and 
elegant ; — terrific  tempests  are  succeeded  by 
delicious  calms  at  sea :  and  the  land  scenes 
are  divided  between  horrible  chasms  and  pre- 
cipices, and  vales  and  gardens  rich  in  eternal 
blooms,  and  glittering  with  palaces  and  tern 
pies — while  the  interest  of  the  story  is  main- 
tained by  instruments  and  agents  of  no  less 
potency  than  insanity,  blasphemy,  poisonings, 
religious  hatred,  national  antipathy,  demoni- 
acal misanthropy,  and  devoted  love. 

We  are  aware  that,  in  objecting  to  a  work 
like  this,  that  it  is  made  up  of  such  materials^ 
we  may  seem  to  be  objecting  that  it  is  made 
of  the  elements  of  poetry, — since  it  is  no  doubt 
true,  that  it  is  by  the  use  of  such  materials 
that  poetry  is  substantially  distinguished  from 
prose,  and  that  it  is  to  them  it  is  indebted  for 
all  that  is  peculiar  in  the  delight  and  the  in- 
terest it  inspires :  and  it  may  seem  a  little 
unreasonable  to  complain  of  a  poet,  that  he 
treats  us  with  the  essence  of  poetry .  We  have ; 
already  hinted,  however,  that  it  is  not  advisa- 
ble to  live  entirely  on  essences ;  and  our  ob- 
jection goes  not  only  to  the  excessive  strength 
of  the  emotions  that  are  sought  to  be  raised, 
but  to  the  violence  of  their  transitions,  and  the 
want  of  continuity  in  the  train  of  feeling  that 
is  prodiKjed.  It  may  not  be  amiss,  however, 
to  add  a  word  or  two  more  of  explanation . 

In  the  first  place,  then,  if  we  consider  how 
the  fact  stands,  we  shall  find  that  all  the  great 
poets,  and,  in  an  especial  manner,  all  the 
poets' who  chain  down  the  attention  of  their 
readers,  and  maintain  a  growing  interest 
through  a  long  series  of  narrations,  have  been 
remarkable  for  the  occasional  familiarity,  and 
even  homeliness,  of  many  of  their  incidents, 
characters  and  sentiments.  This  is  the  dis- 
tinguishing feature  in  Homer,  Chaucer,  Ari 
osto,  Shakespeare,  Dryden,  Scott — and  will  be 
found  to  occur,  we  believe,  in  all  poetry  that 
has  been  long  and  extensively  popular ;  dt  that 
is  capable  of  pleasing  very  strongly,  or  stirring 


^ 


^ 


44S 


POETRY. 


very  deeply,  the  common  sensibilities  of  our 
nature.  We  need  scarcely  make  an  excep- 
tion for  the  lofty  Lyric,  which  is  so  far  from 
being  generally  attractive,  that  it  is  not  even 
intelligible,  except  to  a  studious  few — or  for 
those  solemn  and  devotional  strains  which  de- 
rive their  interest  from  a  still  higher  princi- 
ple :  But  in  all  narrative  poetry — in  all  long 
pieces  made  up  of  descriptions  and  adven- 
^     .  tures,  it  seems  hitherto  to  have  been  an  indis- 

r\  jpensable  condition  of  their  success,  that  most 
iof  the  persons  and  events  should  bear  a  con- 
isiderable  resemblance  to  those  which  we  meet 
I  with  in  ordinary  life ;  and,  though  more  ani- 
I  mated  and  important  than  to  be  of  daily  oc- 
:  currence,  should  not  be  immeasurably  exalted 
above  the  common  standard  of  human  fortune 
and  character. 

It  should  be  almost  enough  to  settle  the 
question,  that  such  is  the  fact — and  that  no 
J  narrative  poetry  has  ever  excited  a  great  in- 
terest, where  the  persons  were  too  much  puri- 
fied from  the  vulgar  infirmities  of  our  nature, 
or  the  incidents  too  thoroughly  purged  of  all 
that  is  ordinary  or  familiar.  But  the  slightest 
re'flection  upon  the  feelings  with  which  we 
read  such  poetry,  must  satisfy  us  as  io  the 
reason  of  our  disappointment.  It  may  be  told 
in  two  words.  Writings  of  this  kind  revolt  by 
their  improbability ;  and  fatigue,  by  offering 
no  points  upon  which  our  sympathies  can 
readily  attach. — Two  things  are  necessary  to 
give  a  fictitious  narrative  a  deep  and  com- 
manding interest;  first,  that  we  should  believe 
/  that  such  things  might  have  happened;  and 
/  'secondly,  that  they  might  have  happened  to 
y  (Ourselves,  or  to  such  persons  as  ourselves. 
\  But,  in  reading  the  ambitious  and  overwrought 
poetry  of  which  we  have  been  speaking,  we 
feel  perpetually,  that  there  could  have  been 
no  such  people,  and  no  such  occurrences  as 
we  are  there  called  upon  to  feel  for ;  and  that 
it  is  impossible  for  us,  at  all  events,  to  have 
much  concern  about  beings  whose  principles 
of  action  are  so  remote  from  our  own,  and  who 
are  placed  in  situations  to  which  we  have  never 
known  any  parallel.  It  is  no  doubt  true,  that 
all  stories  that  interest  us  must  represent  pas- 
sions of  a  higher  pitch,  and  events  of  a  more 
extraordinary  nature  than  occur  in  common 
life;  and  that  it  is  in  consequence  of  rising 
thus  sensibly  above  its  level,  that  they  become 
/Objects  of  interest  and  attention.  But,  in  order 
<  that  this  very  elevation  may  be  felt,  and  pro- 
duce its  effect,  the  story  must  itself,  in  other 
places,  give  us  the  known  and  ordinary  level, 
and,  by  a  thousand  adaptations  and  traits  of 
universal  nature,  make  us  feel,  that  the  char- 
/  acters  which  become  every  now  and  then  the 
/j  objects  of  our  intense  sympathy  and  admira- 
tion, in  great  emergencies,  and  under  the  in- 
fluence of  rare  but  conceivable  excitements, 
are,  after  all,  our  fellow  creatures — made  of 
the  same  flesh  and  blood  with  ourselves,  and 
acting,  and  acted  upon,  by  the  common  prin- 
ciples of  our  nature.  Without  this,  indeed, 
the  effect  of  their  -sufre rings  and  exploits 
7r:)iA  be  entirely  lost  upon  us ;  as  we  should 
be  witnout  any  scale  by  which  to  estimate  the 
magnitude  of  the  temptations  they  had  to  re- 


sist, or  the  energies  they  had  e.terted.     T« 
make  us  aware  of  the  altitude  of  a  mountain, 
it  is  absolutely  necessary  to  show  us  the  plain 
from  which  it  ascends.     If  we  are  allowed  to  ( 
see  nothing  but  the  table  land  at  the  top,  the 
effect  will  be  no.  greater  than  if  we  had  re- 
mained on  the  humble  level  of  the  shore — 
except  that  it  will  be  more  lonely,  bleak,  and 
inhospitable.     And   thus  it   is,  that   by  ex 
aggerating  the  heroic  qualities  of  heroes,  they 
become  as  uninteresting  as  if  they  had  nq 
such  quahties — that   by   striking  out   thosd 
weaknesses    and    vulgar    infirmities    whichj 
identify  them  with  ordinary  mortals,  they  not; 
only  cease  to  interest  ordiiiary  mortals,  but  even 
to  excite  their  admiration  or  surprise ;  and  ap-; 
pear  merely  as  strange  inconceivable  beings, 
in  whom  superhuman  energy  and  refinement 
are  no  more  to  be  wondered  at,  than  the  power; 
of  flying  in  an  eagle,  or  of  fasting  in  a  snake.; 
The  wise  ancient  who  observed,  that  bein^ 
a  man  himself,  he  could  not  but  take  an  inter// J 
est  in  every  thing  that  related  to  man — mighitA 
have  confirmed  his  character  for  wisdom,  by/" 
adding,  that  for  the  same  reason  he  could  take\ 
no  interest  in  any  thing  else.     There  is  nolh^f 
mg,  after  all,  that  we  ever  truly  care  for,  butl 
the  feelings  of  creatures  like  ourselves : — and! 
we  are  obliged  to  lend  them  to  the  flowers  f 
and  the  brooks  of  the  valley,  and  the  stars  and  I 
airs  of  heaven,  before  we  can  take  any  delight  \ 
in  them.     With  sentient  beings  the  case  isy 
more    obviously   the    same.      By  whatever\ 
names  we  may  call  them,  or  with  whatever  \ 
fantastic  attributes-we  may  please  to  invest  ; 
them,  still  we  comprehend,  and  concern  our-  / 
selves  about  them,  only  in  so  far  as  they  re- 
semble  ourselves.      All   the   deities  of  the; 
classic  mythology — and   all   the  devils  and ' 
angels  of  later  poets,  are  nothing  but  human  , 
creatures — or  at  least  only  interest  us  so  long  ' 
as  they  are  so.     Let  any  one  try  to  imagine 
what  kind  of  story  he  could  make  of  the  ad- 
ventures of  a  set  of  beings  who  differed  from 
our  own  species  in  any  of  its  general  attributes 
— who  were  incapable,  for  instance,  of  the   ■ 
debasing  feelings  of  fear,  pain,  or  anxiety —    ; 
and  he  will  find,  that  instead  of  becoming 
more  imposing  and  attractive  by  getting  rid 
of  those  infirmities,  they  become  utterly  in- 
significant, and  indeed  in  a  great  degree  in- 
conceivable.    Or,  to  come  a  little  closer  to 
the  matter  before  us,  and  not  to  go  beyond 
the  bounds  of  common  experience — Suppose 
a  tale,  founded  on  refined  notions  of  delicate 
love  and  punctilious  integrity,  to  be  told  to  a 
race  of  obscene,  brutal  and  plundering  savages 
— or,  even  within  the  limits  of  the  same  coun- 
try, if  a  poem,  turning  upon  the  jealousies  of 
court  intrigue,  the  pride  of  rank,  and  the  cabals 
of  sovereigns  and  statesmen,  were  put  inl^ 
the  hands  of  village  maidens  or  clownish  la- 
bourers, is  it  not  obvious  that  the  remoteneijs 
of  the  manners,  characters  and  feelings  froiti 
their  own,  would  first  surprise,  and  then  rel 
volt  them — and  that  the  moral,  intellectual 
and  adventitious  Superiority  of  the  personages^ 
concerned,  would,  instead  of  enhancing  thej 
interest,  entirely  destroy  it,  and  very  speedily! 
extinguish  all  sympathy  wi^h  their  passions,  \ 


MOORE'S  LALLA  ROOKH. 


449 


and  alt  curiosity  about  their  fate  ? 

gentlemen  and  ladies  are  to  a  ferocious  savage^ 

or  politicians  and  princesses  to  an  ordinary 

rustic,  the  exaggerated  persons  of  such  poetry 

as  we  are  now  considering,  are  to  the  ordinary 

/  readers  of  poetry.     They  do  not  believe  in 

I  the  possibility  of  their  existence,  or  of  their 

[  adventures.     They  do  not  comprehend  the 

^  principles  of    their  conduct;    and   have   no 

\  thorough  sympathy  with  the  feelings  that  are 

j ascribed  to  them. 

We  have  carried  this  speculation,  we  be- 
lieve, a  little  too  far — and,  with  reference  to 
the  volume  before  us,  it  would  be  more  cor- 
rect perhaps  to  say,  that  it  had  suggested  these 
observations,  than  that  they  are  strictly  ap- 
plicable to  it.  For  though  its  faults  are  cer- 
tainly of  the  kind  we  have  been  endeavouring 
to  describe,  it  would  be  quite  unjust  to  chaA 
acterise  it  by  its  faults — which  are  beyond  allj 
doubt  less  conspicuous  than  its  beauties..- 
There  is  not  only  a  richness  and  brilliancy' of 
diction  and  imagery  spread  over  the  whole 
work,  that  indicate  the  greatest  activity  and 
elegance  of  fancy  in  the  author;  but  it  is 
everywhere  pervaded,  still  more  strikingly, 
Dy  a  strain  of  tender  and  noble  feeling,  poured 
out  with  such  warnith  and  abundance,  as  to 
steal  insensibly  on  the  heart  of  the  reader, 
and  gradually  to  overflow  it  with  a  tide  of 
sympathetic  emotion.  There  are  passages 
indeed,  and  these  neither  few  nor  brief,  over 
which  the  very  Genius  of  Poetry  seems  to 
.have  breathed  his  richest  enchantment — 
where  the  melody  of  the  verse  and  the  beauty 
xii  the  images  conspire  so  harmoniously  with 
the  force  and  tenderness  of  the  emotion,  that 
the  whole  is  blended  into  one  deep  and  bright 
etreara  of  sweetness  and  feeling,  along  which 
the  spirit  of  the  reader  is  borne  passively 
^away,  through  long  reaches  of  delight.  Mr. 
Moore's  poetry,  indeed,  where  his  happiest 
veiii  is  opened,  realises  more  exactly  than  that 
of  any  other  writer,  the  splendid  account 
which  is  given  by  Comus  of  the  song  of 

"  His  mother  Circe,  and  the  Sirens  three, 
Amid  the  flowery-kirtled  Naiades, 
Who,  as  they  sung,  would  take  the  prison'd  soul, 
And  lap  it  in  Elysium  !" 

And  though  it  is  certainly  to  be  regretted 
that  he  should  so  often  have  broken  the  mea- 
sure with  more  frivolous  strains,  or  filled  up 
its  intervals  with  a  sort  of  brilliant  falsetto,  it 
should  never  be  forgotten,  that  his  excellences 
are  at  least  as  peculiar  to  himself  as  his  faults, 
and,  on  the  whole,  perhaps  more  characteristic 
of  his  genius. 

The  volume  before  us  contains  four  sepa- 
rate and  distinct  poems — connected,  however, 
and  held  together  '•  like  orient  pearls  at  ran- 
dom strung,"  by  the  slender  thread  of  a  slight 
prose  story,  on  which  they  are  all  suspended, 
and  to  the  simple  catastrophe  of  which  they 
in  some  measure  contribute.  This  airy  and 
elegant  legend  is  to  the  following  effect. 
Lalla  Rookh,  the  daughter  of  the  great  Au- 
rengzebe,  is  betrothed  to  the  young  king  of 
Bucharia;  and  sets  forth,  with  a  splendid 
train  of  Indian  and  Bucharian  attendants,  to 
29 


meet  her  enamoured  bridegroom  in  the  de- 
lightful valley  of  Cashmere.  The  progress 
of  this  gorgeous  cavalcade,  and  the  beauty 
of  the  country  which  it  traverses,  are  exhibit- 
ed with  great  richness  of  colouring  and  pic- 
turesque effect ;  though  in  this,  as  well  as  in 
the  other  parts  of  the  prose  narrative,  a  cer- 
tain tone  of  levity,  and  even  derision,  is  fre- 
quently assumed — not  very  much  in  keeping, 
we  think,  with  the  tender  and  tragic  strain  of 
poetry  of  which  it  is  the  accompaniment — 
certain  breakings  out,  in  short,  of  that  mock- 
ing European  wit,  which  has  made  itself 
merry  with  Asiatic  solemnity,  ever  since  the 
time  of  the  facetious  Count  Hamilton — but 
seems  a  little  out  of  place  in  a  miscellany, 
the  prevailing  character  of  which  is  of  so 
opposite  a  temper.  To  amuse  the  languor, 
or  divert  the  impatience  of  the  royal  bride,  in 
the  noon-tide  and  night-halts  of  her  luxurious 
progress,  a  young  Cashmerian  poet  had  been 
sent  by  the  gallantry  of  the  bridegroorri ;  and 
recites,  on  those  occasions,  the  several  poems 
that  form  the  bulk  of  the  volume  now  before 
us.  Such  is  the  witchery  of  his  voice  and 
look,  and  such  the  sympathetic  effect  of  the 
tender  tales  which  he  recounts,  that  the  poor 
princess,  as  was  naturally  to  be  expected, 
falls  desperately  in  love  with  him  before  the 
end  of  the  journey;  and  by  the  time  she 
enters  the  lovely  vale  of  Cashmere,  and  sees 
the  glittering  palaces  and  towers  prepared 
for  her  reception,  she  feels  that  she  vv'ould 
joyfully  forego  all  this  pomp  and  splendour, 
and  fly  to  the  desert  with  her  adored  Fera- 
morz.  The  youthful  bard,  however,  has  now 
disappeared  from  her  side;  and  she  is  sup- 
ported, with  fainting  heart  and  downcast 
eyes,  into  the  hated  presence  of  her  tyrant ! 
when  the  voice  of  Feramorz  himself  bids  her 
be  of  good  cheer — and,  looking  up,  she  sees  hei 
beloved  poet  in  the  Prince  himself !  who  had 
assumed  this  gallant  disgniise,  and  won  her 
young  affections,  without  deriving  any  aid 
from  his  rank  or  her  engagements. 

The  whole  story  is  very  sweetly  and  gaily 
told  ;  and  is  adorned  with  many  tender  as 
well  as  lively  passages — without  reckoning 
among  the  latter  the  occasional  criticisms  of 
the  omniscient  Fadladeen,  the  magnificent/ 
and  most  infallible  grand  chamberlain  of  the* 
Haram  —  whose  sayings  and  remarks,  we^ 
cannot  help  observing,  do  not  agree  very  well; 
with  the  character  which  is  assigned  him — '■ 
being  for  the  most  part  very  smart,  senten-j 
tious,  and  acute,  and  by  n6  means  solemn,! 
stupid,  and  pompous,  as  \vas  to  have  been 
expected.  Mr.  Moore's  genius,  however,  we 
suppose,  is  too  inveterately  lively,  to  make  it 
possible  for  him  even  to  counterfeit  dulness 
We  come  at  last,  however,  to  the  poetry. 

The  first  piebe,  which  is  entitled  "The 
Veiled  Prophet  of  Khorassan,"  is  the  longest, 
we  think,  and  certainly  not  the  best,  of  the 
series.  It  has  all  the  faults  which  we  have, 
somewhat  too  sweepingly,  imputed  to  the 
volume  at  large;  and  it  was  chiefly,  indeed, 
Avith  a  reference  to  it,  that  we  made  those 
introductory  remarks,  which  the  author  will 
probably  think  too  much  in  the  spirit  of  the 


450 


POETRY. 


sage  Chftinberlain.  The  story,  Avhich  is  not 
in  all  its  parts  ei  tiemely  intelligible,,  is 
founded  on  a  notice,  ni  D'Herbelot,  of  a  da- 
ring impostor  of  the  early  ages  of  Islamism, 
who  pretended  to  have  received  a  later  and 
more  authoritative  mission  than  that  of  the 
prophet,  and  to  be  destined  to  overturn  all 
tyrannies  and  superstitions  on  the  earth,  and 
to  rescue  all  souls  that  believed  in  him.  To 
shade  the  celestial  radiance  of  his  brow,  he 
always  wore  a  veil  of  silver  gauze,  and  was 
at  last  attacked  by  the  Caliph,  and  extermi- 
nated, with  all  his  adherents.  On  this  story, 
Mr.  Moore  has  engrafted  a  ronantic  and  not 
very  probable  tale  of  two  young  lovers,  Azim 
and  Zelica ;  the  former  of  whom  having  been 
supposed  to  perish  in  battle,  the  grief  of  the 
latter  unsettles  her  understanding;  and  her 
distempered  imagination  is  easily  inflamed 
by  the  mystic  promises  of  the  Veiled  Prophet, 
which  at  length  prevail  on  her  to  join  the 
troop  of  lovely  priestesses  who  earn  a  blissful 
immortality  in  another  world,  by  sharing  his 
embraces  upon  earth.  By  w^hat  artful  illu- 
sions the  poor  distracted  maid  was  thus  be- 
trayed to  her  ruin,  is  not  very  satisfactorily 
explained;  only  we  are  informed  that  she 
and  the  Veiled  Apostle  descended  into  a 
charnel-house,  and  took  a  mutual  oath,  and 
drank  blood  together,  in  pledge  of  their  eter- 
nal union.  At  length  Azim,  who  had  not 
been  slain,  but  made  captive  in  battle,  and 
had  wandered  in  Greece  till  he  had  imbibed 
the  love  of  liberty  that  inspired  her  famous 
heroes  of  old — hears  of  the  proud  promises 
&f  emancipation  which  Mokanna  (for  that 
was  the  prophet's  name^  had  held  out  to  all 
nations,  and  comes  to  be  enrolled  among  the 
champions  of  freedom  and  virtue.  On  the 
day  of  his  presentment,  he  is  introduced  into 
a  scene  of  voluptuous  splendour,  where  all  the 
seducive  influences  of  art  and  nature  are  in  vain 
exerted  to  divert  his  thoughts  from  the  love 
of  Zelica  and  of  liberty.  He  breaks  proudly 
away  from  these  soft  enchantments,  and  finds 
a  mournful  female  figure  before  him,  in  whom 
ne  almost  immediately  recog-nises  his  long- 
lost  and  ever-loved  Zelica.  The  first  moment 
of  their  meeting  is  ecstasy  on  both  sides ;  but 
the  unhappy  girl  soon  calls  to  mind  the  un- 
utterable condition  to  which  she  is  reduced — 
and,  in  agony,  reveals  to  him  the  sad  story  of 
her  derangement,  and  of  the  base  advantages 
that  had  been  taken  of  it.  Azim  at  first 
throws  her  from  him  in  abhorrence,  but  soon 
turns,  in  relenting  pity,  and  off'ers  at  last  to 
rescue  her  from  this-  seat  of  pollution.  She 
listens  with  eager  joy  to  his  proposal,  and  is 
about  to  fly  with  him  in  the  instant,  when 
the  dread  voice  of  Mokanna  thunders  in  her 
ear  her  oath  of  eternal  fidelity.  That  terrible 
sound  brings  back  her  frenzy.  She  throws 
her  lover  wildly  from  her,  and  vanishes  at 
once,  amidst  the  dazzling  lights  of  that  un- 
holy palaces  Azim  then  joins  the  approaching 
army  of  the  Caliph,  and  leads  on  his  forces 
against  the  impious  usurper.  Mokanna  per- 
forms prodigies  of  valour — but  is  always  borne 
back  by  the  superior  force  and  enthusiasm  of 
Azim :  and  after  a  long  course  of  horrors  and 


illusions,  he  poisons  the  remnant  of  his  ad« 
herents,  and  himself  plunges  into  a  bath,  of 
such  corrosive  quality,  as  instantly  to  extin- 
guish life,  and  dissolve  all  the  elements  of 
the  mortal  frame.  Zelica  then  covers  herself 
with  his  fatal  veil,  and  totters  out  to  the  ram- 
parts, w^here,  being  mistaken  for  Mokanna, 
she  rushes  upon  the  spear  of  her  Azim,  ana 
receives  his  forgiveness  in  death !  while  he 
survives,  to  pass  the  rest  of  his  life  in  contin- 
ual prayer  and  supplication  for  her  erring  spirit; 
and  dies  at  last  upon  her  grave,  in  the  full 
assurance  of  rejoining  her  in  purity  and  bliss. 
It  is  needless  to  enlarge  on  the  particular 
faults  of  this  story,  after  the  general  observa- 
tions we  hazarded  at  the  outset.  The  char-l 
acter  of  Mokanna,  as  well  as  his  power  and 
influence,  is  a  mere  distortion  and  extravar 
gance :  But  the  great  blemish  is  the  corrupt 
tion  of  Zelica;  and  the  insanity  so  gratuif  (^ 
tously  alleged  by  the  poet  in  excuse  of  it'. 
Nothing  less,  indeed,  could  in  any  way  ac- 
count for  such  a  catastrophe ;  and,  after  all, 
it  is  painful  and  offensive  to  the  imagination'. 
The  bridal  oath,  pledged  with  blood  among 
the  festering  bodies  of  the  dead,  is  one  of  the 
overstrained  theatrical  horrors  of  the  German 
school ;  and  a  great  deal  Ox"  the  theorising 
and  argumentation  which  is  intended  to  palli- 
ate or  conceal  those  defects,  is  obscure  and 
incomprehensible.  Rich  as  it  is,  in  short,  in 
fancy  and  expression,  and  powerful  in  some 
of  the  scenes  of  passion,  we  should  have  had 
great  doubts  of  the  success  of  this  volume,  if 
it  had  all  been  of  the  same  texture  with  the 
poem  of  which  we  are  now  speaking.  Yet, 
even  there,  there  is  a  charm,  almost  irresisti- 
ble, in  the  volume  of  sweet  sounds  and  beau- 
tiful images,  w^hich  are  heaped  together  with 
luxurious  profusion  in  the  general  texture  of 
the  style,  and  invest  even  the  absurdities  of 
the  story  with  the  graceful  amplitude  of  their 
rich  and  figured  veil.  What,  for  instance,  can 
be  sweeter  than  this  account  of  Azim's  entry 
into  this  earthly  paradise  of  temptations  ? 

"  Meanwhile,  through  vast  illuminated  halls, 
Silent  and  bright,  where  nothing  but  the  falls 
Of  fragrant  waters,  gushing  with  cool  sound 
From  many  a  jasper  fount,  is  heard  around. 
Young  Azim  roams  bewilder'd  ;  nor  can  guess 
What  means  this  maze  of  light  and  loneliness! 
Here,  the  way  leads,  o'er  tesselated  floors 
Or  mats  of  Cairo,  through  long  corridors, 
Where,  rang'd  in  cassolets  and  silver  urns. 
Sweet  wood  of  aloe  or  of  sandal  burns  ; 
And  here,  at  once,  the  glittering  saloon 
Bursts  on  his  sight,  boundless  and  bright  as  noon 
Where,  in  the  midst,  reflecting  back  the  rays 
In  broken  rainbows,  a  fresh  fountain  plays 
High  as  th'  enamell'd  cupola;  which  towers 
All  rich  with  Arabesques  of  gold  and  flowers : 
And  the  mosaic  floor  beneath  shines  through 
The  sprinkhng  of  that  fountain's  silvery  dew 
Like  the  wet,  glist'ning  shells,  of  ev'ry  dye ; 
That  on  the  margin  of  the  Red  Sea  lie. 

*'  Here  too  he  traces  the  kind  visitings 
Of  woman's  love,  in  those  fair,  living  things 
Of  land  and  wave,  whose  fate — in  bondage  thrown 
For  their  weak  loveliness — is  like  her  own  ! 
On  one  side  gleaming  with  a  sudden  grace 
Through  water,  brilliant  as  the  crystal  vase 
In  which  it  undulates,  small  fishes  shine. 
Like  golden  ingots  from  a  fairy  mine  ! — 


MOORE'S  LALLA  ROOKH. 


451 


While,  on  the  other,  lattic'd  lightly  in 
With  odorifrous  woods  of  Comorin, 
Each  briUiant  bird  that  wings  the  air  is  seen ; — 
Gay,  sparkling  loories,  such  as  gleam  between 
The  crimson  blossoms  of  the  coral  tree 
In  the  warm  isles  of  India's  sunny  sea  : 
Mecca's  blue  sacred  pigeon  ;  and  the  thrush 
Of  Hindostan,  whose  holy  warblings  gush, 
At  evening,  from  the  tall  pagoda's  top  ; — 
Those  golden  birds  that,  in  the  spice-time,  drop 
About  the  gardens,  drunk  with  that  sweet  food 
Whose   scent  hath  lur'd  them  o'er  the   summer 
And  those  that  under  Araby's  soft  sun      [flood ; — 
Build  their  high  nests  of  budding  cinnamon." 

pp.  53—56. 

The  warrior  youth  looks  round  at  first  with 
disdain  upon  those  seductions,  with  which  he 
supposes  the  sage  prophet  wishes  to  try  the 
firmness  of  his  votaries. 

"  While  thus  he  thinks,  still  nearer  on  the  breeze 

Come  those  delicious,  dream-like  harmonies. 

Each  note  of  which  but  adds  new,  downy  links 

To  the  soft  chain  in  which  his  spirit  sinks. 

He  turns  him  tow'rd  the  sound ;  and,  far  away 

Through  a  long  vista,  sparkling  with  the  play 

Of  countless  lamps — like  the  rich  track  which  Day 

Leaves  on  the  waters,  when  he  sinks  from  us  ; 

So  long  the  path,  its  light  so  tremulous  ; — 

He  sees  a  group  of  female  forms  advance, 

Some  chain'd  together  in  the  mazy  dance 

By  fetters,  forg'd  in  the  green  sunny  bowers, 

As  they  were  captives  to  the  King  of  Flowers,"  &c. 

"  Awhile  they  dance  before  him  ;  then  divide, 
Breaking,  hke  rosy  clouds  at  even-tide 
Around  the  rich  pavilion  of  the  sun — 
Till  silently  dispersing,  one  by  one. 
Through  many  a  path  that  from  the  chamber  leads 
To  gardens,  terraces,  and  moonlight  meads. 
Their  distant  laughter  comes  upon  the  wind, 
And  but  one  trembling  nymph  remains  behind, 
Beck'ninff  them  back  in  vain, — for  they  are  gone. 
And  she  is  left  in  all  that  light,  alone  ! 
No  veil  to  curtain  o'er  her  beauteous  brow, 
In  its  young  bashfulness  more  beauteous  now  ; 
But  a  light,  golden  chain- work  round  her  hair 
Such  as  the  maids  of  Yezd  and  Shiraz  wear, 
"While  her  left  hand,  as  shrinkingly  she  stood, 
Held  a  small  lute  of  gold  and  sandal  wood, 
Which,  once  or  twice,  she  touch'd  with  hurried 
Then  took  her  trembhng  fingers  off  again,   [strain, 
But  when  at  length  a  timid  glance  she  stole 
At  Azim,  the  sweet  gravity  of  soul 
She  saw  through  all  his  features,  calm'd  her  fear  ; 
And,  like  a  half-tam'd  antelope,  more  near. 
Though  shrinking  still,  she  came  ; — then  sat  her 
Upon  a  musnud's  edge,  and  bolder  grown,     [down 
In  the  pathetic  mode  of  Ispahan 
Touch'd  a  preluding  strain,  and  thus  began : — " 

The  following  picture  of  the  grand  arma- 
ment of  the  Caliph  shows  the  same  luxuri- 
ance of  diction  and  imagination,  directed  to 
different  objects : — 

"  Whose  are  the  gilded  tents  that  crowd  the  way. 
Where  all  was  waste  and  silent  yesterday? 
This  City  of  War  which,  in  a  few  short  hours, 
Hath  sprung  up  here,  as  if  the  rnagic  powers 
Of  Him  who,  in  the  twinkling  of  a  star. 
Built  the  high  pillar'd  halls  oi"  Chilminar, 
Had  conjur'd  up,  far  as  the  eye  can  see,     . 
This  world  of  tents  and  domes  and  sun-bright 

armory  ! — 
Princ^y  pavilions,  screen'd  by  many  a  fold 
Of  crimson  cloth,  and  topp'd  with  balls  of  gold  ; — 
Steeds,  with  their  housings  of  rich  silver  spun, 
Their  chains  and  poitrels  glitt'ring  in  the  sun  ; 
And  camels,  tufted  o'er  witii  Yemen's  shells. 
Shaking  in  every  breeze  their  light-ton'd  bells  ! 


'•  Ne'er  did  the  march  of  Mahaa'i  display 
Such  pomp  before  : — 'not  ev'n  when  on  his  way 
To  Mecca's  Temple,  when  both  land  and  sea ' 
Were  spoil'd  to  feed  the  Pilgrim's  luxury  ; 
When  round  him,  mid  the  burning  sands,  he  saw 
Fruits  of  the  North  in  icy  freshness  thaw. 
And  cool'd  his  thirsty  lip,  beneath  the  glow 
Of  Mecca's  sun,  with  urns  of  Persian  snow  : — 
Nor  e'er  did  armament  more  grand  than  that 
Pour  from  the  kingdoms  of  the  Caliphat. 
First,  in  the  van,  the  People  of  the  Rock, 
On  their  light  mountain  steeds,  of  royal  stock; 
Then,  Chieftains  of  Damascus,  proud  to  see 
The  flashing  of  their  swords'  rich  marquetry,"  (fee 

pp.  86—89. 

We  can  afford  room  now  only  for  the  con- 
clusion— the  last  words  of  the  dying  Zelica  j 
which  remind  us  of  those  of  Campbell's  Ger- 
trude— and  the  catastrophe  of  Azim,  which 
is  imaged  in  that  of  Southey's  Roderick. 

"  '  But  live,  my  Azim  ; — oh  !  to  call  thee  mine 

Thus  once  again  ! — my  Azim — dream  divine  ! 

Live,  if  thou  ever  lov'dst  me,  if  to  meet 

Thy  Zelica  hereafter  would  be  sweet. 

Oh  Hve  to  pray  for  her  ! — to  bend  the  knee 

Morning  and  night  before  that  Deity, 

To  whom  pure  lips  and  hearts  without  a  stain, 

As  thine  are,  Azim,  never  breath'd  in  vain — 

And  pray  that  He  may  pardon  her — may  take 

Compassion  on  her  soul  for  thy  dear  sake. 

And,  nought  rememb'ring  but  her  love  to  thee, 

Make  her  all  thine,  all  His,  eternally  ! 

Go  to  those  happy  fields  \yhere  first  we  twin'd 

Our  youthful  hearts  together — every  wind 

That  meets  thee  there,  fresh  from  the  well-known 

flowers. 
Will  bring  the  sweetness  of  those  innocent  hours 
Back  to  thy  soul,  and  thou  may'st  feel  again 
For  thy  poor  Zelica  as  thou  didst  then. 
So  shall  thy  orisons,  like  dew  that  flies 
To  heav'n  upon  the  morning's  sunshine,  rise 
With  all  love's  earliest  ardour  to  the  skies  !' 

Time  fleeted  !    Years  on  years  had  pass'd  away. 
And  few  of  those  who,  on  that  mournful  day 
Had  stood,  with  pity  in  their  eyes,  to  see 
The  maiden's  death,  and  the  youth's  agony, 
Were  living  still — when,  by  a  rustic  grave 
Beside  the  swift  Amoo's  transparent  wave, 
An  aged  man,  who  had  grown  aged  there 
By  one  lone  grave,  morning  and  night  in  prayer, 
For  the  last  time  knelt  down  !    And,  though  the 

shade 
Of  death  hung  dark'ning  over  him,  there  play'd 
A  gleam  of  rapture  on  his  eye  and  cheek. 
That  brighten'd  even  death — hke  the  last  streak 
Of  intense  glory  on  th'  horizon's  brim. 
When  night  o'er  all  the  rest  hangs  chill  and  dim  I— 
His  soul  had  seen  a  Vision,  while  he  slept ; 
She,  for  whose  spirit  he  had  pray'd  and  wept 
So  many  years,  had  come  to  him,  all  drest 
In  angel  smiles,  and  told  him  she  was  blest ! 
For  this  the  old  man  breath'd  his  thanks, — and 

died  !— 
And  there,  upon  the  banks  of  that  lov'd  tide, 
He  and  his  Zelica  sleep  side  by  side." 

pp.  121—123. 

The  next  piece,  which  is  entitled  "  Paradise 
and  the  Peri,"  has  none  of  the  faults  of  the 

E receding.  It  is  full  of  spirit,  elegance,  and 
eauty  ]  and,  though  slight  enough  in  its  struc- 
ture, breathes  throughout  a  most  pure  and 
engaging  morality.  It  is,  in  truth,  little  more 
than  amoral  apologue,  expanded  and  adorned 
by  the  exuberant  fancy  of  the  poet  who  recites 
it.  The  Peris  are  a  sort  of  half-fallen  female 
angels,  who  dwell  in  air,  and  live  on  perfumes ; 
and,  though  banished  for  a  time  from  Para- 


452 


POETRY. 


dise,  go  about  in  this  lower  world  doing  good. 
One  of  these — But  it  is  as  short,  and  much 
more  agreeable,  to  give  the  author's  own  in- 
troduction. 

"  One  morn  a  Peri  at  the  gate 
Of  Eden  stood,  disconsolate  ; 
And  as  she  listen'd  to  the  Springs 

Of  Life  within,  like  music  flowing ; 
And  caught  the  light  upon  her  wings ^ 

Through  the  half-open  portal  glowing  ! 
She  wept  to  think  her  recreant  race 
Should  e'er  have  lost  that  glorious  place  !" 

p.  133. 

The  Angel  of  the  Gate  sees  her  weeping, 
and — 

*'  *  Nymph  of  a  fair,  but  erring  line  !' 
Gently  he  said — '  One  hope  is  thine. 
'Tis  written  in  the  Book  of  Fate, 

The  Peri  yet  may  he  forgiven 
Who  brings  to  this  Eternal  Gate 

The  gift  that  is  most  dear  to  Heaven  ! 
Go,  seek  it,  and  redeem  thy  sin  ; — 
'Tis  sweet  to  let  the  Pardon'd  in  !'  " — p.  135. 

Full  of  hope  and  gratitude,  she  goes  eagerly 
m  search  of  this  precious  gift.  Her  first  quest 
is  on  the  plains  of  India — the  luxuriant  beauty 
of  which  is  put  in  fine  contrast  with  the  havoc 
and  carnage  which  the  march  of  a  bloody 
conqueror  had  then  spread  over  them.  The 
Peri  comes  to  witness  the  heroic  death  of  a 
youthful  patriot,  who  disdains  to  survive  the 
overthrow  of  his  country's  independence. — 
She  catches  the  last  drop  which  flow^s  from 
his  breaking  heart,  and  bears  that  to  heaven's 
gate,  as  the  acceptable  propitiation  that  was 
required.     For 

*'  *  Oh  !  if  there  be,  on  this  earthly  sphere, 
A  boon,  an  offering  Heaven  holds  dear, 
»Tis  the  last  libation  Liberty  draws 
From  the  heart  that  bleeds  and  breaks  m  her 
cause  !'  " — p.  140. 

The  angel  accepts  the  tribute  with  respect : 
But  the  crystal  bar  of  the  portal  does  not 
move  !  and  she  is  told  that  something  holier 
even  than  this,  will  be  required  as  the  price 
of  her  admission.  She  now  flies  to  the 
source  of  the  Nile,  and  makes  a  delightful  but 
pensive  survey  of  the  splendid  regions  which 
it  waters ;  till  she  finds  the  inhabitants  of  the 
lovely  gardens  of  Rosetta  dying  by  thousands 
of  the  plague — the  selfish  deserting  their 
friends  and  benefactors,  and  the  generous, 
when  struck  with  the  fatal  malady,  seeking 
some  solitude  where  they  may  die  without 
bringing  death  upon  others.  Among  the  lat- 
ter is  a  noble  youth,  who  consoles  himself,  in 
jlhe  hour  of  his  agony,  with  the  thought,  that 
his  beloved  and  betrothed  bride  is  safe  from 
this  mortal  visitation.  In  the  stillness  of  his 
midnight  retreat,  however,  he  hears  a  light 
step  approaching. 

'*  'Tis  she  ! — far  off,  througii  moonlight  dim, 

He  knew  his  own  betrothed  bride. 
She,  who  would  rather  die  with  him, 

Than  live  to  gain  the  world  beside  ! — 
Her  arms  are  round  her  lover  now  ! 

His  livid  cheek  to  hers  she  presses, 
And  dips,  to  bind  his  burning  brow, 

In  the  cold  lake  her  looseti'd  tresses, 
Ah  !  once  how  little  did  he  think 
An  hour  would  come,  when  he  should  shrin'nC 
With  horror  from  that  dear  embrace,"  &c. 


"  *  Oh  !  let  me  only  breathe  the  air, 

The  blessed  air,  that's  breath'd  by  tiee! 
And,  whether  on  its  wings  it  bear 

Healing  or  death,  'tis  sweet  to  me  ! 
There — drink  my  tears,  while  yet  they  fa?l 

Would  that  my  bosom's  blood  were  balai. 
And,  well  thou  know'st,  I'd  shed  it  all 

To  give  thy  brow  one  minute's  calm. 
Nay,  turn  not  from  me  that  dear  face — 

Am  I  not  thine — thy  own  lov'd  bride— 
The  one,  the  chosen  one,  whose  place, 

In  life  or  death,  is  by  thy  side ! 
When  the  stem  dies,  the  leaf  that  grew 
Out  of  its  heart  must  perish  too  ! 
Then  turn  to  me,  my  own  love  !  turn 
Before  hke  thee  I  fade  and  burn  ; 
Cling  to  these  yet  cool  lips,  and  share 
The  last  pure  life  that  Ungers  there  1' 
She  fails — she  sinks  ! — as  dies  the  lamp 
In  charnel  airs  or  cavern-damp, 
So  quickly  do  his  baleful  sighs 
Quench  all  the  sweet  light  of  her  eyes! 
One  struggle — and  his  pain  is  past — 

Her  lover  is  no  longer  living  I 
One  kiss  the  maiden  gives, — one  last, 

Long  kiss — which  she  expires  in  giving." 

pp.  146—148. 

The  gentle  Peri  bids  them  sleep  in  peace 
and  bears  again  to  the  gates  of  heaven  tha 
farewell  sign  of  pure,  self-sacrificing  love. 
The  worth  of  the  gift  is  again  admitted  by  the 
pitying  angel;  but  the  crystal  bar  still  re- 
mains immovable ;  and  she  is  sent  once  more 
to  seek  a  still  holier  offering.  In  passing  over 
the  romantic  vales  of  Syria,  she  sees  a  lovely 
child  at  play  among  dews  and  flowers,  and 
opposite  to  him  a  stern  wayfaring  man,  resting 
from  some  unhallowed  toil,  Math  the  stamp  of 
all  evil  passions  and  evil  deeds  on  his  face. 

"  But  bark  !  the  vesper-call  to  prayer. 

As  slow  the  orb  of  daylight  sets. 
Is  rising  sweetly  on  the  air. 

From  Syria's  thousand  minarets  ! 
The  boy  has  started  from  the  bed 
Of  flowers,  where  he  had  laid  his  head, 
And  down  upon  the  fragrant  sod 

Kneels,  with  his  forehead  to  the  south 
Lisping  th'  eternal  name  of  God 

From  purity's  own  cherub  mouth. 
And  looking,  while  his  hands  and  eyes 
Are  lifted  to  the  glowing  skies, 
Like  a  stray  babe  of  Paradise, 
Just  lighted  on  that  flowery  plain. 
And  seeking  for  its  home  again  ! 

'*  And  how  felt  he,  the  wretched  Man 
Reclining  there — while  mem'ry  ran 
O'er  many  a  year  of  guilt  and  strife  ? 
Flew  o'er  the  dark  flood  of  his  hfe. 
Nor  found  one  sunny  resting  place. 
Nor  brought  him  back  one  branch  of  grace ! 
'  There  was  a  time,'  he  said,  in  mild. 
Heart-humbled  tones — '  thou  blessed  child  ! 
When  young  and  haply  pure  as  thou, 
I  look'd  and  pray'd  Uke  thee !— but  now  !'— 
He  hung  his  head — each  nobler  aim 

And  hope  and  feeling,  which  had  slept 
From  boyhood's  hour,  that  instant  came 
Fresh  o'er  him,  and  he  wept — he  wept !" 

pp.  156,  157. 

This  tear  of  repentance  is  the  acceptable 
gift  for  the  Peri's  redemption.  The  ^tes  of 
heaven  fly  open,  and  she  rushes  into  the  joy 
of  immortality. 

"  The  Fire  Worshippers"  is  the  next  in  the 
series,  and  appears  to  us  to  be  indisputably 
the  finest  and  most  powerful.  With  all  the 
richness  and  beauty  of  diction  that  belong  Itf 


MOORE'S  LALLA  ROOKH. 


459 


the  best  parts  of  Mokanna,  it  has  a  far  more 
interesting  story  •  and  is  not  liable  to  any  of 
the  objections  we  have  been  obliged  to  bring 
against  the  contrivance  and  structure  of  that 
leading  poem.  The  outline  of  the  story  is 
short  and  simple. — Al  Hassan,  the  bigotted 
and  sanguinary  Emir  of  Persia,  had  long  waged 
a  furious  and  exterminating  war  against  the 
votaries  of  the  ancient  religion  of  the  land — 
the  worshippers  of  Mithra,  or  his  emblem, 
Fire — then  and  since  designated  by  the  name 
of  Ghebers.  The  superior  numbers  of  the 
invader  had  overcome  the  heroic  resistance 
of  the  patriots,  and  driven  them  to  take  refuge 
in  a  precipitous  peninsula,  cut  off  from  the 
land  by  what  was  understood  to  be  an  im- 
passable ravine,  and  exposing  nothing  but 
bare  rocks  to  the  sea.  In  this  fastness  the 
scanty  remnant  of  the  Ghebers  maintain  them- 
selves, under  the  command  of  their  dauntless 
leader,  Hafed,  who  is  still  enabled,  by  sudden 
and  daring  incursions,  to  harass  and  annoy 
their  enemy.  In  one  of  those  desperate  en- 
terprises, this  adventurous  leader  climbs  to 
the  summit  of  a  lofty  cliff,  near  the  Emir's 
palace,  where  a  small  pleasure-house  had 
been  built,  in  which  he  hoped  to  surprise  this 
bigotted  foe  of  his  country ;  but  found  only 
his  fair  daughter  Hinda,  the  loveliest  and  gen- 
tlest of  all  Arabian  maids — as  he  himself  ex- 
presses it. 

"  He  climb'd  the  gory  Vulture's  nest, 
And  found  a  trembling  Dove  within !" 

This  romantic  meeting  gives  rise  to  a  mu- 
tual passion — and  the  love  of  the  fair  Hinda 
is  inevitably  engaged,  before  she  knows  the 
name  or  quality  of  her  nightly  visitant.  In  the 
noble  heart  of  Hafed,  however,  love  was  but 
a  secondary  feeling,  to  devotion  to  the  free- 
dom and  the  faith  of  his  country.  His  little 
band  had  lately  suffered  further  reverses,  and 
saw  nothing  now  before  them  but  a  glorious 
self-sacrifice.  He  resolves,  therefore,  to  tear 
all  gentler  feelings  from  his  breast,  and  in  one 
last  interview  to  take  an  eternal  farewell  of 
the  maid  who  had  captivated  his  soul.  In  his 
melancholy  aspect  she  reads  at  once,  with  the 
instinctive  sagacity  of  love,  the  tidings  of  their 
approaching  separation ;  and  breaks  out  into 
the  following  sweet  and  girlish  repinings : — 

"  '  I  knew,  I  knew  it  cojdd  not  last — 
'Twas  bright,  'twas  heavenly — but  'tis  past ! 
Oh  !  ever  thus,  from  childhood's  hour, 

I've  seen  my  fondest  hopes  decay  ; 
I  never  lov'd  a  tree  or  flower, 

But  'twas  the  first  to  fade  away.  - 
I  never  nurs'd  a  dear  gazelle, 

To  glad  me  with  its  soft  black  eye, 
But  when  it  came  to  know  me  well, 

And  love  me,  it  was  sure  to  die  ! 
Now  too — the  joy  most  like  divine 

Of  all  I  ever  dreamt  or  knew, 
To  see  thee,  hear  thee,  call  thee  mine, — 

Oh  mis'ry  !  must  I  lose  that  too  ? 
Yet  go  ! — on  peril's  brink  we  meet ; — 

Those  frightful  rocks— 'Sat  treach'rous  sea — 
No,  never  come  agam — though  sweet. 

Though  heav'n,  it  may  be  death  to  thee.'  " 
pp.  187, 188. 

When  he  smiles  sternly  at  the  idea  of  dan- 
ger, she  urges  him  to  join  her  father's  forces, 


and  earn  her  hand  by  helping  him  to  root  out 
those  impious  Ghebers  whom  he  so  much  ab- 
hors. The  spirit  of  the  patriot  bursts  forth  at 
this ;  and,  without  revealing  his  name  or 
quality,  he  proudly  avows  and  justifies  the 
conduct  of  that  luckless  sect ;  and  then,  re- 
lenting, falls  into  a  gentler  and  more  pathetic 
strain. 

"  '  Oh !  had  we  never,  never  met ! 

Or  could  this  heart  e'en  now  forget ! 

How  link'd,  how  bless'd  we  might  have  been, 

Had  fate  not  frown'd  so  dark  between  ! 

Hadst  thou  been  born  a  Persian  maid  ; 

In  neighb'ring  valleys  had  we  dwelt. 
Through  the  same  fields  in  childhood  play'd, 

At  the  same  kindling  altar  knelt — 
Then,  then,  while  all  those  nameless  ties. 
In  which  the  charm  of  Country  lies. 
Had  round  our  hearts  been  hourly  spun, 
Till  Iran's  cause  and  thine  wereone  ; 
While  in  thy  lute's  awak'ning  sigh 
I  heard  the  voice  of  days  gone  by, 
And  saw  in  ev'ry  smile  of  thine 
Returning  hours  of  glory  shine  ! — 
While  the  wrong'd  Spirit  of  our  Land       [thee  !— 

Liv'd,  look'd,  and  spoke  her  wrongs  through 
God  I  who  could  then  this  sword  withstand  ? 

Its  very  flash  were  victory  ! 
But  now  !     Estrang'd,  divorc'd  for  ever, 
Far  as  the  grasp  of  Fate  can  sever ; 
Our  only  ties  what  love  has  wove — 

Faith,  friends,  and  country,  sunder'd  wide. 
And  then,  then  only,  true  to  love. 

When  false  to  all  that's  dear  beside  ! 
Thy  father  Iran's  deadliest  foe — 
Thyself,  perhaps,  ev'n  now — but  no — 
Hate  never  look'd  so  lovely  yet ! 

No  ! — sacred  to  thy  soul  will  be 
The  land  of  him  who  could  forget 

All  but  that  bleeding  land  for  thee ! 
When  other  eyes  shall  see,  unmov'd. 

Her  widows  mourn,  her  warriors  fall, 
Thou'lt  think  how  Avell  one  Gheber  lov'd, 

And  for  his  sake  thou'lt  weep  for  all !" 

pp.  193,  194. 

He  then  starts  desperately  away;  regains 
his  skiff  at  the  foot  of  the  precipice,  and 
leaves  her  in  agony  and  consternation.  The 
poet  now  proceeds  to  detail,  a  little  more  par- 
ticukrly,  the  history  of  hishero ;  and  recounts 
some  of  the  absurd  legends  and  miraculous 
attributes  with  which  the  fears  of  his  enemies 
had  invested  his  name. 

"  Such  were  the  tales,  that  won  belief, 

And  such  the  colouring  fancy  gave 
To  a  young,  warm,  and  dauntless  Chief,-*- 

One  who,  no  more  than  mortal  brave, 
Fought  for  the  land  his  soul  ador'd, 

For  happy  homes  and  altars  free  ; 
His  only  talisman,  the  sword, — 

His  only  spell-word,  Liberty  ! 
'Twas  not  for  him  to  crouch  the  knee 
Tamely  to  Moslem  tyranny  ; — 
'Twas  not  for  him,  whose  soul  was  cast 
In  the  bright  mould  of  ages  past, 
Whose  melancholy  spirit,  fed 
With  all  the  glories  of  the  dead  ; — 
'Twas  not  for  him,  to  swell  the  crowd 
Of  slavish  heads,  that  shrinking  bow'c 
Before  the  Moslem,  as  he  pass'd. 
Like  shrubs  beneath  the  poison-blast— 
No — far  he  fled — indignant  fled 

The  pageant  of  his  country's  shame 
While  every  tear  her  children  shed 

Fell  on  his  soul,  like  drops  of  flame; 
And,  as  a  lover  hails  the  dawn 

Of  a  first  smile,  so  vvelcom'd  b<i 


454 


POETRY. 


The  sparkle  of  the  first  sword  drawn 
Forvengeance  and  for  liberty  !" — pp.  206,  207. 

The  song  then  returns  to  Hinda — 

'*  Whose  life,  as  free  from  thought  as  sin, 
Slept  like  a  lake,  till  Love  threw  in 
His  talisman,  and  woke  the  tide, 
And  spread  its  trembUng  circles  wide. 
Once,  Emir!  thy  unheeding  child, 
Mid  all  this  havoc,  bloom'd  and  smil'd, — 
Tranquil  as  on  some  battle-plain 

The  Persian  hly  shines  and  towers, 
Before  the  combat's  reddening  stain 

Has  fall'n  upon  her  golden  flowers. 
Far  other  feelings  Love  has  brought — 
Her  soul  all  flame,  her  brow  all  sadness,"  &c. 

"Ah !  not  the  Love,  that  should  have  bless'd 
So  young,  so  innocent  a  breast ! 
Not  the  pure,  open,  prosp'rous  Love, 
That,  pledg'd  on  earth  and  seal'd  above, 
Grows  in  the  world's  approving  eyes, 

In  friendship's  smile,  and  home's  caress, 
Collecting  all  the  hearts  sweet  ties 
— Into  one  knot  of  happiness  I" — pp.  215 — 217. 

The  Emir  now  learns,  from  a  recreant  pri- 
soner, the  secret  of  the  pass  to  the  Gheber's 
retreat ;  and  when  he  sees  his  daughter  faint 
with  horror  at  his  eager  anticipation  of  their 
final  extirpation,  sends  her,  in  a  solitary  gal- 
ley, away  from  the  scene  of  vengeance,  to  the 
quiet  of  her  own  Arabian  home. 

And  does  the  long-left  home  she  seeks 

Light  up  no  gladness  on  her  cheeks? 

The  flowers  she  nurs'd — the  well-known  groves, 

Where  oft  in  -dreams  her  spirit  roves — 

Once  more  to  see  her  dear  gazelles 

Come  bounding  with  their  silver  bells  ; 

Her  birds'  new  plumage  to  behold. 

And  the  gay,  gleaming  fishes  count. 
She  left,  all  filleted  with  gold. 

Shooting  around  their  jasper  fount — 
Her  little  garden  mosque  to  see. 

And  once  again,  at  ev'ning  hour, 
To  tell  her  ruby  rosary. 

In  her  own  sweet  acacia  bower. — 
Can  these  delights,  that  wait  her  now, 
Call  up  no  sunshine  on  her  brow  ? 
No — silent,  from  her  train  apart — 
As  if  ev'n  now  she  felt  at  heart 
The  chill  of  her  approaching  doom — 
She  sits,  all  lovely  in  her  gloom 
As  a  pale  Angel  of  the  Grave." — pp.  227,  228. 

Her  vessel  is  first  assailed  by  a  violent 
tempest,  and,  in  the  height  of  its  fury,  by  a 
hostile  bark ;  and  her  senses  are  extinguished 
with  terror  in  the  midst  of  the  double  conflict. 
At  last,  both  are  appeased — and  her  recollec- 
tion is  slowly  restored.  The  following  pas- 
sage appears  to  us  extremely  beautiful  and 
characteristic : — 

How  calm,  how  beautiful  comes  on 
The  stilly  hour,  when  storms  are  gone  ; 
When  warring  winds  have  died  away. 
And  clouds,  beneath  the  glancing  ray. 
Melt  off,  and  leave  the  land  and  sea 
Sleeping  in  bright  tranquillity — 
Fresh  as  if  Day  again  were  born. 
Again  upon  the  lap  of  Morn  ! 

When,  'stead  of  one  unchanging  breeze, 
There  blow  a  thousand  gentle  airs, 
And  each  a  different  perfume  bears — 

As  if  the  loveliest  plants  and  trees 
Had  vassal  breezes  of  their  own 
To  watch  and  wait  on  them  alone, 
And  waft  no  other  breath  than  theirs  ! 


When  the  blue  waters  rise  and  fall. 

In  sleepy  sunshine  mantling  all ; 

And  ev'n  that  swell  the  tempest  leaves 

Is  like  the  full  and  silent  heaves 

Of  lover's  hearts,  when  newly  blest ; 

Too  newly  to  be  quite  at  rest ! — 

"  Such  was  the  golden  hour  that  broke 
Upon  the  world,  when  Hinda  woke 
From  her  long  trance ;  and  heard  around 
No  motion  but  the  water's  sound 
Rippling  against  the  vessel's  side. 
As  slow  it  mounted  o'er  the  tide. — 
But  where  is  she  ? — Her  eyes  are  dark, 
Are  wilder'd  still — is  this  the  bark, 
»The  same,  that  from  Harmozia's  bay 
Bore  her  at  morn — whose  bloody  way 
The  sea-dog  tracks  ? — No  ! — Strange  and  new 
Is  all  that  meets  her  wond'ring  view 
Upon  a  galliot's  deck  she  lies. 

Beneath  no  rich  pavilion's  shade. 
No  plumes  to  fan  her  sleeping  eyes. 

Nor  jasmin  on  her  pillow  laid. 
But  the  rude  litter,  roughly  spread 
With  war-cloaks,  is  her  homely  bed. 
And  shawl  and  sash,  on  javelins  hung, 
For  awning  o'er  her  head  areflung."-p.  233-236 

She  soon  discovers,  in  short,  that  she  is  a 
captive  in  the  hands  of  the  Ghebers !  and 
shrinks  with  horror,  when  she  finds  that  she 
is  to  be  carried  to  their  rocky  citadel,  and  to 
the  presence  of  the  terrible  Hafed.  The  gal- 
ley is  rowed  by  torchlight  through  frightful 
rocks  and  forming  tides,  into  a  black  abyss 
of  the  promontory,  where  her  eyes  are  ban- 
daged— and  she  is  borne  up  a  long  and  rugged 
ascent,  till  at  last  she  is  desired  to  look  up^ 
and  receive  her  doom  from  the  formidable 
chieftain.  Before  she  has  raised  her  eyes,  the 
w^ell  known  voice  of  her  lover  pronounces  her 
name ;  and  she  finds  herself  alone  in  the  arms 
of  her  adoring  Hafed  !  The  first  emotion  is 
ecstasy. — But  the  recollection  of  her  father's 
vow  and  means  of  vengeance  comes  like  a 
thundercloud  on  her  joy ; — she  tells  her  lovei 
of  the  treachery  by  which  he  has  been  sacri* 
ficed  ',  and  urges  him,  with  passionate  eager 
ness,  to  fly  with  her  to  some  place  of  safety. 

"  '  Hafed,  my  own  beloved  Lord,' 
She  kneehng  cries — '  first,  last  ador'd  ! 
If  in  that  soul  thou'st  ever  felt 

Half  what  thy  lips  impassion'd  swore, 
Here,  on  my  knees,  that  never  knelt 

To  any  but  their  God  before  ! 
I  pray  thee,  as  thou  lov'st  me,  fly — 
Now,  now — ere  yet  their  blades  are  nigh. 
Oh  haste  ! — the  bark  that  bore  me  hither 

Can  waft  us  o'er  yon  dark'ning  sea 
East — west — alas  !  I  care  not  whither, 

So  thou  art  safe, — and  I  with  thee  ! 
Go  where  we  will,  this  hand  in  thine. 

Those  eyes  before  me  beaming  thus, 
Through  good  and  ill,  through  storm  and  shinei 

The  world's  a  world  of  love  for  us  ! 
On  some  calm,  blessed  shore  we'll  dwell, 
Where  'tis  no  crime  to  love  too  well ! — 
Where  thus  to  worship  tenderly 
An  erring  child  of  light  like  thee 
Will  not  be  sin — or,  if  it  be. 
Where  we  may  weep  our  faults  away. 
Together  kneeling,  night  and  day, — 
Thou,  for  my  sake,  at  Alla's  shrme. 
And  I — at  any  god's,  for  thine  !' 
Wildly  these  passionate  words  she  spoke — 

Then  hung  her  head,  and  wept  for  shaftie  ; 
Sobbing,  as  if  a  heart-string  broke 
With  ev'ry  deep-heav'd  sob  that  came. 

pp.  261,262. 


MOORE'S  LALLA  ROOKH. 


485 


Hafed  is  mote  shocked  with  the  treachery 
lo  which  he  is  sacrificed  than  with  the  fate  to 
which  it  consigns  him : — One  moment  he 
gives  up  to  softness  and  pity — assures  Hinda, 
with  compassionate  equivocation,  that  they 
shall  soon  meet  on  some  more  peaceful  shore 
— places  her  sadly  in  a  litter,  and  sees  her 
borne  down  the  steep  to  the  galley  she  had 
lately  quitted,  and  to  which  she  still  expects 
that  he  is  to  follow  her.  He  then  assembles 
his  brave  and  devoted  companions — warns 
them  of  the  fate  that  is  approaching — and  ex- 
horts them  to  meet  the  host  of  the  invaders 
in  the  ravine,  and  sell  their  lives  dearly  to 
theij  steel.  After  a  fierce,  and  somewhat  too 
eanguinary  combat,  the  Ghebers  are  at  last 
borne  dowTti  by  numbers ;  and  Hafed  finds 
himself  left  alone,  with  one  brave  associate, 
mortally  wounded  like  himself.  They  make 
a  desperate  effort  to  reach  and  die  beside  the 
consecrated  fire  which  burns  for  ever  on  the 
s^immit  of  the  clifi^. 

*'  The  crags  are  red  they've  clamber'd  o'er, 
The  rock-weed's  dripping  with  their  gore — 
Thy  blade  too,  Hafed,  false  at  length, 
Now  breaks  beneath  thy  tott'ring  strength — 
Haste,  haste  ! — the  voices  of  the  Foe 
Come  near  and  nearer  from  below — 
One  effort  more — thank  Heav'n  !  'tis  past, 
They've  gain'd  the  topmost  steep  at  last, 
And  now  they  touch  the  temple's  walls, 

Now  Hafed  sees  the  Fire  divine — 
When,  lo  ! — his  weak,  worn  comrade  falls 
Dead,  on  the  threshold  of  the  Shrine. 

*  Alas  !  brave  soul,  too  quickly  fled  ! 

'  And  must  I  leave  thee  with'ring  here, 

*  The  sport  of  every  ruffian's  tread, 

'  The  mark  for  every  coward's  spear  ? 
'  No,  by  yon  altar's  sacred  beams  !' 
He  cries,  and,  with  a  strength  that  seems 
Not  of  this  world,  uplifts  the  frame 
Of  the  fall'n  chief,  and  tow'rds  the  flame 
Bears  him  along  ! — With  death-damp  hand 

The  corpse  upon  the  pyre  he  lays  ; 
Then  lights  the  consecrated  brand. 

And  fires  the  pile,  whose  sudden  blaze 
Like  lightning  bursts  o'er  Oman's  Sea  — 

*  Now  Freedom's  God  !  I  come  to  Thee  !' 
The  youth  exclaims,  and  with  a  smile 

Of  triumph,  vaulting  on  the  pile, 

In  that  last  effbrt,  ere  the  fires 

Have  harm'd  one  glorious  limb,  expires  !" 

pp.  278,  279. 

The  unfortunate  Hinda,  whose  galley  had 
been  detained  close  under  the  cliff  by  the 
noise  of  the  first  onset,  had  heard  with  agcny 
the  sounds  which  marked  the  progress  and 
catastrophe  of  the  fight,  and  is  at  last  a  spec- 
tatress of  the  lofty  fate  of  her  lover. 

"  But  see — what  moves  upon  the  height  ? 
Some  signal ! — 'tis  a  torch's  light. 

What  bodes  its  solitary  glare  ? 
In  gasping  silence  tow'rd  the  shrine 
All  eyes  are  turn'd — thine,  Hinda,  thine 
Fix  their  last  failing  life-beams  there  ! 
'Twas  but  a  moment — fierce  and  high 
The  death-pile  blaz'd  into  the  sky. 
And  far  away  o'er  the  rock  and  flood 

Its  melancholy  radiance  sent ; 
While  Hafed,  like  a  vision,  stood 
Reveal'd  before  the  burning  pyre  ! 
Tall,  shadowy,  like  a  Spirit  of  Fire 

Shrin'd  in  its  own  grand  element  I 
'  'Tis  he  !' — the  shudd'ring  maid  exclaims. 

But,  while  she  speaks,  he's  seen  no  ir^re  ! 


High  burst  in  air  the  fun'ral  flames, 

And  Iran's  hopes  and  hers  are  o'er  ! 
One  wild,  heart-broken  shriek  she  gave — 
Then  sprung,  as  if  to  reach  that  blaze, 
Where  still  she  fix'd  her  dying  gaze. 
And,  gazing,  sunk  into  the  wave  ! — 
Deep,  deep  ! — where  never  care  or  pain 
Shall  reach  her  innocent  heart  again  !" 

pp.  283,  284. 

This  sad  story  is  closed  by  a  sort  of  choral 
dirge,  of  great  elegance  and  beauty,  of  which 
we  can  only  afford  to  give  the  first  stanza. 

"  Farewell — farewell  to  thee,  Araby's  daughter' 
(Thus  warbled  a  Peri  beneath  the  dark  sea) 

No  pearl  ever  lay,  under  Oman's  green  water. 
More  pure  in  its  shell  than  thy  Spirit  in  thee.'' 

p.  284. 

The  general  tone  of  this  poem  is  certainly  ^ 
too  much  strained.  It  is  overwrought  through- 
out, and  is  too  entirely  made  up  of  agoniea 
and  raptures ; — but,  in  spite  of  all  this,  it  is  a  ' 
work  of  great  genius  and  beauty;  and  not 
only  delights  the  fancy  by  its  general  bril- 
liancy and  spirit,  but  moves  all  the  tender 
and  noble  feelings  with  a  deep  and  powerful 
agitation. 

The  last  piece,  entitled  "  The  Light  of  the 
Haram,"  is  the  gayest  of  the  whole  ',  and  ia 
of  a  very  slender  fabric  as  to  fable  or  inven- 
tion. In  truth,  it  has  scarcely  any  story  at 
all-  but  is  made  up  almost  entirely  of  beau- 
tiful songs  and  descriptions.  During  the  sum- 
mer months,  when  the  court  is  resident  in  the 
Vale  of  Cashmere,  there  is,  it  seems,  a  sort  of 
oriental  carnival,  called  the  Feast  of  Roses, 
during  which  every  body  is  bound  to  be  hap 
py  and  in  good  humour.  At  this  critical  pe- 
riod, the  Emperor  Selim  had  unfortunately  a 
little  love-quarrel  with  his  favourite  Sultana 
Nourmahal, — which  signifies,  it  seems,  the 
Light  of  the  Haram.  The  lady  is  rather  un- 
happy while  the  sullen  fit  is  on  her ;  and  ap- 
plies to  a  sort  of  enchantress,  who  invokes  a 
musical  spirit  to  teach  her  an  irresistible  song, 
which  she  sings  in  a  mask  to  the  offended 
monarch ;  and  when  his  heart  is  subdued  by 
its  sweetness,  throws  off  her  mask,  and  springs 
with  fonder  welcome  than  ever  into  his  re- 
pentant arms..  The  whole  piece  is  written  in 
a  kind  of  rapture, — as  if  the  author  had 
breathed  nothing  but  intoxicating  gas  during 
its  composition.  It  is  accordingly  quite  filled 
with  lively  images  and  splendid  expressions, 
and  all  sorts  of  beauties, — except  those  of  re- 
serve or  simplicity.  We  must  give  a  few 
specimens,  to  revive  the  spirits  of  our  readers 
after  the  tragic  catastrophe  of  Hafed  ;  and  we 
may  begin  with  this  portion  of  the  description 
of  the  Happy  Valley. 

"  Oh  !    to  see  it  by  moonlight, — when   mellowly 

shines 
The  light  o'er  its  palaces,  gardens  and  shrines  ; 
When  the  waterfalls  gleam  like  a  quick  fall  of  stars. 
And  the  nightingale's  hymn  from  the  Isleof  Chenarf 
Is  broken  by  laughs  and  light  echoes  of  feet, 
From  the  cool  shining  walks  where  the  young  pec 

pie  meet. — 
Or  at  morn,  when  the  magic  of  daylight  awakes 
A  new  wonder  each  minute,  as  slowly  it  breaks. 
Hills,  cupolas,  fountains,  call'd  forth  every  one 
Out  of  darkness,  as  they  were  just  born  of  the  b»*n 


456 


POETRY. 


When  the  Spirit  of  Fragrance  is  up  with  the  day, 
From  his  Haram  of  night-flowers  steaUng  away; 
And  the  wind,  full  of  wantonness,  woes  hke  a  lover 
The  young  aspen-trees  till  they  tremble  all  over. 
When  the  East  is  as  warm  as  the  light  of  first  hopes, 

And  Day,  with  his  banner  of  radiance  unfurl'd, 
ShiiiHS  in  through  the  mountainous  portal  that  opes, 

Sublime,  from  that  Valley  of  bliss  to  the  world!" 

p.  296. 

The  character  of  Nourmahal's  beauty  is 
much  in  the  same  taste  :  though  the  diction 
is  rather  more  loose  and  careless. 

"  There's  a  beauty,  for  ever  unchangingly  bright, 
Like  the  long   sunny  lapse  of  a  summers  day's 

light, 
Shining  on,  shining  on,  by  no  shadow  made  tender, 
Till  Love  falls  asleep  in  its  sameness  of  splendour. 
This  was  not  the  beauty — oh !  nothing  like  this. 
That  to  young  Nourmahal  gave  such  magic  of  bliss  ; 
But  that  loveliness,  ever  in  motion,  which  plays 
Like  the  light  upon  autumn's  soft  shadowy  days, 
Now  here  and  now  there,  giving  warmth'as  it  flies 
From  the  lips  to  the  cheek,  from  the  cheek  to  the 

eyes. 
Now  melting  in  mist  and  now  breaking  in  gleams, 
Like  the  glimpses  a  saint  has  of  Heav'n  in  his 

dreams  ! 
When  pensive,  it  seem'd  as  if  that  very  grace. 
That  charm  of  all  others,  was  born  with  her  face. 
Then  her  mirth — oh !  'twas  sportive  as  ever  took 

wing  [spring  ;— 

From  the  heart  with  a  burst,  like  the  wild-bird  in 
Illum'd  by  a  wit  that  would  fascinate  sages, 
Yet  playful  as  Peris  just  loos'd  from  their  cages. 
While  her  laugh,  full  of  life,  without  any  controul 
But  the  sweet  one  of  gracefulness,  rung  from  her 

soul ;  [cover, 

And  where  it  most  sparkl'd  no  glance  could  dis- 
In  lip,  cheek  or  eyes,  for  she  brighten'd  all  over, — 
Like  any  fair  lake  that  the  breeze  is  upon, 
When  it  breaks  into  dimples  and  laughs  in  the  sun." 

pp.  302,  303. 

We  can  give  but  a  little  morsel  of  the  en- 
chanting Song  of  the  Spirit  of  Music. 

•'  '  For  mine  is  the  lay  that  lightly  floats, 
And  mine  are  the  murm'ring  dying  notes. 
That  fall  as  soft  as  snow  on  the  sea. 
And  melt  in  the  heart  as  instantly  ! 
And  the  passionate  strain  that,  deeply  going, 

Refines  the  bosom  it  trembles  through. 
As  the  musk-wind,  over  the  water  blowing, 

Ruflles  the  wave,  but  sweetens  it  too  ! 

*  The  warrior's  heart,  when  touch'd  by  me, 
Can  as  downy  soft  and  as  yielding  be 
As  his  own  white  plume,  that  high  amid  death 
Through  the  field  has  shone — yet  moves  with  a 
And,  oh,  how  the  eyes  of  Beauty  glisten,     [breath. 

When  Music  has  reach'd  her  inward  soul. 
Like  the  silent  stars  that  wink  and  glisten, 

While  Heav'n's  eternal  melodies  roll ! '  " 

pp.  318,  319. 

Nourmahal  herself,  however,  in  her  Arabian 
iisguise,  sings  a  still  more  prevailing  ditty — 
•f  which  we  can  only  insert  a  few  stanzas. 

"  '  Fly  to  the  desert,  fly  with  me  ! 
Our  Arab  tents  are  rude  for  thee  ; 
But  oh  !  the  choice  what  heart  can  doubt 
Of  tents  with  love,  or  thrones  without? 

*  Our  rocks  are  rough  ;  but  smiling  there 
Th'  acacia  waves  her  y<»llow  hair, 
Lonely  and  sweet — nor  lov'd  the  less 
For  flow'ring  in  a  wilderness  ! 

'  Our  sands  are  bare  ;  but  down  their  slope 
The  silv'ry-footed  antelope 
i%s  gracefully  and  gaily  springs 
As  o'er  the  marble  courts  of  Kings. 


'  Then  come  !  thy  Arab  maid  will  be 
The  lov'd  and  lone  acacia-tree. 
The  antelope,  whose  feet  shall  bless 
With  their  light  sound  thy  loneliness  ' 

*  Come  !  if  the  love  thou  hast  for  me 
Is  pure  and  fresh  as  mine  for  thee, — 
Fresh  as  the  fountain  underground, 
Wher.  first  'tis  by  the  lapwing  found. 

'  But  if  for  me  thou  dost  forsake 
Some  other  maid, — and  rudely  break 
Her  worshipp'd  image  from  its  base, 
To  give  to  me  the  ruin'd  place : — 

'  Then,  fare  thee  well ! — I'd  rather  make 
My  bow'r  upon  some  icy  lake 
When  thawing  suns  begin  to  shine, 
Than  trust  to  love  so  false  as  thine  ! '  " 

This  strain,  and  the  sentiment  which  w 
embodies,  reminded  the  offended  monarch  of 
his  charming  Nourmahal  j  and  he  names  hei 
name  in  accents  of  tenderness  and  regret. 

'^The  mask  is  off— the  charm  is  wrought ' 
And  Selim  to  his  heart  has  caught, 
In  blushes  more  than  ever  bright. 
His  Nourmahal,  his  Haram's  Light !  " 

p.  334. 

We  have  now  said  enough,  and  shown 
enough,  of  this  book,  to  let  our  readers  un- 
derstand both  what  it  is,  and  what  we  think 
of  it.  Its  great  fault  certainly  is  its  excessive"''^ 
finery,  and  its  great  charm  the  inexhaustible 
copiousness  of  its  imagery — the  sweetness  and 
ease  of  its  diction — and  the  beauty  of  the  ob- 
jects and  sentiments  with  which  it  is  con- 
cerned. Its  finery,  it  should  also  be  observed, 
is  not  the  vulgar  ostentation  which  so  often 
disguises  poverty  or  meanness — but  the 
travagance  of  excessive  wealth.  We  have 
said  this,  however,  we  believe  before — and 
suspect  we  have  little  more  to  say. 

All  poets,  who  really  love  poetiy,  and  live 
in  a  poetical  age,  are  great  imitatoi\s ;  and 
the  character  of  their  writings  may  often  be 
as  correctly  ascertained  by  observing  whom 
they  imitate  and  whom  they  abstain  from 
imitating,  as  from  any  thing  else.  Mr. 
Moore,  in  the  volume  before  us,  reminds  us 
oftener  of  Mr.  Soulhey  and  Lord  Byron,  than 
of  any  other  of  his  contemporaries.  The  re 
semblance  is  sometimes  to  the  Roderick  of 
the  first-mentioned  author,  but  most  frequent 
ly  to  his  Kehama.  This  may  be  partly  owing 
to  the  nature  of  the  subject ;  but,  in  many 
passages,  the  coincidence  seems  to  be  more 
radical — and  to  indicate  a  considerable  con- 
formity, in  taste  and  habits  of  conception. 
Mr.  Southey's  tone,  indeed,  is  more  assum- 
ing, his  manner  more  solemn,  and  his  diction 
weaker.  Mr.  Moore  is  more  lively — hia 
figures  and  images  come  more  thickly ;  and 
his  language  is  at  once  more  familiar,  and 
more  strengthened  with  points  and  antitheses. 
In  other  respects,  the  descriptive  passages  in 
Kehama  bear  a  remarkable  affinity  to  many 
in  the  work  before  us— in  the  brightness  of 
the  colouring,  and  the  amplitude  and  beauty 
of  the  details.  It  is  in  his  descriptions  of  love, 
and  of  female  loveliness,  that  there  is  the 
strongest  resemblance  to  Lord  Byioii — at  least 
to  the  larger  poems  of  that  noble  author.  lu 
the  powerful  and   condensed   expression  of 


WORDSWORTH'S  EXCURSION. 


457 


wrong  emotion^  Mr.  Moore  seems  to  us  rather 
to  have  imitated  the  tone  of  his  Lordship's 
smaller  pieces — but  imitated  them  as  only  an 
original  genius  could  imitate — as  Lord  Byron 
himself  may  be  said,  in  his  later  pieces,  to 
have  imitated  those  of  an  earlier  date.  There 
is  less  to  remind  us  of  Scott  than  we  can  very 
well  account  for,  when  we  consider  the  great 
range  and  variety  of  that  most  fascinating  and 
powerful  writer;  and  we  must  say,  that  if 
Mr.  Moore  could  bring  the  resemblance  a 
little  closer,  and  exchange  a  portion  of  his  su- 
perfluous images  and  ecstasies  for  an  equiva- 
lent share  of  Mr.  Scott's  gift  of  interesting  and 
delighting  us  with  pictures  of  familiar  nature, 
and  of  the  spirit  and  energy  which  never  rises 
to  extravagance,  we  think  he  would  be  a 
g-ainer  by  the  exchange.  To  Mr.  Crabbe 
there  is  no  resemblance  at  all ;  and  we  only 
mention  his  name  to  observe,  that  he  and  Mr. 
Moore  seem  to  be  the  antipodies  of  our  present 
poetical  sphere ;  and  to  occupy  the  extreme 

Eoints  of  refinement  and  homeliness  that  can 
e  said  to  fall  within  the  legitimate  dominion 
of  poetry.  They  could  not  meet  in  the  mid- 
dle, we  are  aware,  without  changing  their  na- 
ture, and  losing  their  specific  character;  but 
each  might  approach  a  few  degrees,  we  think, 
with  great  mutual  advantage.  The  outposts 
of  all  empires  are  posts  of  peril: — though 
we  do  not  dispute  that  there  is  great  honour 
in  maintaininsr  them  with  success. 


There  is  one  otner  topic  upon  which  we  are 
not  quite  sure  we  should  say  any  thing.  On 
a  former  occasion,  we  reproved  Mr.  Mcore, 
perhaps  with  unnecessary  severity,  for  what 
appeared  to  us  the  licentiousness  of  some  of 
his  youthful  productions.  We  think  it  a  duty 
to  say,  that  he  has  long  ago  redeemed  that 
error;  and  that  in  all  his  latter  works  that 
have  come  under  our  observation,  he  appears 
as  the  eloquent  champion  of  purity,  fidelity, 
and  delicacy,  not  less  than  of  justice,  liberty, 
and  honour.  Like  most  other  poets,  indeed, 
he  speaks  much  of  beauty  and  love ;  and  we 
doubt  not  that  many  mature  virgins  and  care- 
ful matrons  may  think  his  lucubrations  on 
those  themes  too  rapturous  and  glowing  to  be 
safely  admitted  among  the  private  studies  of 
youth.  We  really  think,  however,  that  there 
IS  not  much  need  for  such  apprehensions: 
And,  at  all  events,  if  we  look  to  the  moral 
design  and  scope  of  the  works  themselves,  we 
can  see  no  reason  to  censure  the-author.  All 
his  favourites,  without  exception,  are  dutiful, 
I  faithful,  and  self-denying;  and  no  other  ex- 
ample is  ever  set  up  for  imitation.  There  is 
nothing  approaching  to  indelicacy  even  in  his 
description  of  the  seductions  by  which  they 
are  tried ;  and  they  who  object  to  his  enchant- 
ing pictures  of  the  beauty  and  pure  attach- 
ment df  the  more  prominent  characters  would 
find  fault,  we  suppose,  with  the  loveliness  and 
the  embraces  of  angels. 


The  Excursion;   being  a  Portion  of  the  Recluse,  a  Poem.      By  William  Wordsworth. 
4to.     pp.447.     London:  1814.* 

B  ^  This  will  nevei  do  !     It  bears  no  doubt.th£|  unfprtunatelynot  half  so  visibly  as  thatotfeii- 


authqr's  heart  and^^f 


*  I  have  spoken  in  many  places  rather  too  bit- 
terly and  confidently  of  the  faults  of  Mr.  Words- 
worth's poetry  :  And  forgetting  that,  even  on  my 
own  view  of  them,  they  were  but  fauifs  of  taste,  or 
venial  self-partiality,  have  sometimes  visited  them, 
I  fear,  with  an  asperity  which  should  be  reserved 
for  objects  of  Moral  reprobation.  If  I  were  now  to 
deal  with  the  whole  question  of  his  poetical  merits, 
though  my  judgment  might  not  be  substantially 
different,  I  hope  I  should  repress  the  greater  part 
of  these  vivacites  of  expression  :  And  indeed  so 
strong  has  been  my  feeling  in  this  way,  that,  con- 
sidering how  much  I  have  always  loved  many  of 
the  attributes  of  his  Genius,  and  how  entirely  I 
respect  his  Character,  it  did  at  first  occur  to  me 
whether  it  was  quite  fitting  that,  in  my  old  age  and 
his,  I  should  include  in  this  publication  any  of  those 
critiques  which  may  have  formerly  given  pain  or 
offence,  to  him  or  his  admirers.     But,  when  I  re 


peculiar   systerri.\  His  former  poems  were 

I  finally  resolved,  therefore,  to  reprint  my  revie\^ 
of  "  The  Excursion  ;"  which  contains  a  pretty  full 
view  of  my  griefs  and  charges  against  Mr.  Words 
worth  ;  set  forth  too,  I  believe,  in  a  more  temperate 
strain  than  most  of  my  other  inculpations, — and  of 
which  I  think  I  may  now  venture  to  say  farther 
that  if  the  faults  are  unsparingly  noted,  the  beauties 
are  not  penuriously  or  grudgingly  allowed  ;  but 
commended  to  the  admiration  of  the  reader  with  at 
least  as  much  heartiness  and  good-will. 

But  I  have  also  reprinted  a  short  paper  on  the 
same  author's  "  White  Doe  of  Rylstone," — in 
which  there  certainly  is  no  praise,  or  notice  of 
beauties,  to  set  against  the  very  unqualified  cen 
suras  of  which  it  is  wholly  made  up.  I  have  dono 
this,  however,  not  merely  because  I  adhere  to  these 


censures,  but  chiefly  because  it  seemed  necessary 

to  bring  me  fairly  to  issue  with  those  who  may  not 

concur  in  them.     I  can  easily  understand  that  many 

fleeted  that  the  mischief,  if  there  really  ever  was    whose  admiration  of  the  Excur.=?on,  or  the  Lyrical 

any,  was  long  ago  done,  and  that  I  still  retain,  in    Ballads,  rests  substantially  on  the  passages  which  I 


substance,  the  opinions  which  I  should  now  like 
to  have  seen  more  gently  expressed,  I  felt  that  to 
ornit  all  notice  of  them  on  the  present  occasion, 
might  be  held  to  import  a  retractation  which  I  am 
as  far  as  possible  from  intending  ;  or  even  be  rep- 
resented as  a  very  shabby  way  of  backing  out  of 
sentiments  which  should  either  be  manfully  per- 
sisted in,  or  openly  renounced,  and  abandoned  as 
untenable. 


too  should  join  in  admiring,  may  view  with  greater 
indulgence  than  I  can  do,  the  tedious  and  flat  pas 
sages  with  which  they  are  interspersed,  and  may 
consequently  think  my  censure  of  these  works  a 
great  deal  too  harsh  and  uncharitable.  Between 
such  persons  and  me,  therefore,  there  may  be  no 
radical  difference  of  opinion,  or  contrariety  as  to 
principles  of  judgment.  But  if  there  be  any  who 
actually  admire  this  White  Doe  of  Rylstone,  of 


458 


POETRY. 


intended  to  recommend  that  system,  and  to 
bespeak  favour  for  it  by  their  individual 
merit ; — but  this,  we  suspect,  must  be  recom- 
mended by  the  system — and  can  only  expect 
to  succeed  where  it  has  been  previously  estab- 
lished/ It  is  longer,  weaker,  and  tamer,  than 
any  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  other  productions  j 
with  less  boldness  of  originality,  and  less 
even  of  that  extreme  simplicity  and  lowliness 
of  tone  which  wavered  so  prettily,  hi  the 
Lyrical  Ballads,  between  silliness  and  pathos, 
''"'e  have  irmtations  of  Cowper,  and  even  of 
Milton  herefengrafted  on  the  natural  drawl  of 
the  Lakers — and  all  diluted  into  harmony  by 
that  profuse  and  irrepressible  wordiness  which 
deluges  all  the  blank  verse  of  this  school  of 
poetry,  and  lubricates  aiid  weakens  the  whole 
structure  of  their  st)dej.',[ 

Though  it  fairly  fills  four  hundred  and 
tw^enty  good  quarto  pages,  without  note,  vig- 
nette, or  any  sort  of  extraneous  assistance,  it 
is  stated  in.  ihe  titlg — withsoniethitiig  pLan 
imprudent  candour- — to  be  bXif^  a  portion"  of 
a  larger  work  ;  and  in^  the  preface,  -vrherg^an 
attempt  is  rattier  unsuccessfully  made  to  ex- 
plain the  whole  design,  it  is  still  more  rashly 
disclosed,  that  it  is  but  "  a  p(irl__o£jhs.,second 
part,  of  a  long  and  laborious  work'^ — w^ch 
is  i€Hconsist  of  three  parts  ! 

What  Mr.  Wordswortlrs  ideas  of  length  are, 
we  have  no  means  of  accurately  judging :  But 
we  cannot  help  suspecting  that  they  are  libe- 
ral, to  a  degree  that  will  alarm  the  weakness 
of  most  modern  readersA  As  far  as  we  can 
gather  from  the  preface,  the  entire  poem — 
or  one  of  them,  (for  we  really  are  not  sure 
whether  there  is  to  be  one  or  two,)  is  of  a 
biographical  nature ;  and  is  to  contain  the 
history  of  the  author's  mind,  and  of  the  origin 
and  progress  of  his  poetical  powers,  up  to  the 
period  when  they  were  sufficiently  matured 
to  qualify  him  for  the  great  work  on  which 
he  has  been  so  long  employed.  Now,  the 
quarto  before  us  contains  an  account  of  one 
of  his  youthful  rambles  in  the  vales  of  Cum- 
berland, and  occupies  precisely  the  period  of 
three  days !  So  that,  by  the  use  of  a  very 
powerful  calculus,  some  estimate  may  be 
formed  of  the  probable  extent  of  the  entire 
biography. 

This  small  specimen,  however,  and  the 
statements  with  which  it  is  prefaced,  have 
been  sufficient  to  set  our  minds  at  rest  in  one 
particular.    V.The  case  of  Mr.  Wordsworth, 


Peter  Bell.the  Wnggoner,  or  the  Lamentations  of 

Martha  Rafi,  or  the" Sonnets  on  the  Punishment  of    ,  ,  .„v,  *u„„  „..„  r.A  r.v.,.,.A^^*^,r  ^r.r.i.-^\.ir.A 

Death,  there  can  be  no  such  ambiguity,  or  niean^-h.^ch  they  are  soabunto^^^^ 


of  reconcilement.  Now  1  have  been  assured  not 
only  that  there  are  such  persons,  but  that  ahnost 
all  those  who  seek  to  e.xalt  Mr.  Wordsworth  as  the 
founder  of  a  new  school  of  poetry,  consider  these 
as  by  far  his  best  and  most  characteristic  produc- 
tions ;  and  would  at  once  reject  from  their  com- 
munion any  one  who  did  not  acknowledge  in  them 
the  traces  of  a  high  inspiration.  Now  I  wish  it  to 
be  understood,  that  when  I  speak  with  general 
intolerance  or  impatience  of  the  school  of  Mr. 
Wordsworth,  it  is  to  the  school  holding  these 
tenets,  and  applying  these  tests,  that  I  refer  :  and  I 
really  do  not  see  how  I  could  better  explain  the 
grounds  of  my  dissent  from  their  doctrines,  than 
l»y  republishing  my  remarks  on  this  "White  Doe." 


we  perceive,  is  now  manifestlj  nopeless ;  avM 
we  give  him  up  as  altogether  incurable,  and 
beyond  the  power  of  criticism.  JWe  cannox 
indeed  altogether  omit  taking  precautions 
now  and  then  against  the  spreading  of  the 
malady; — but  for  himself,  though  we  shall 
watch  the  progress  of  his  symptoms  as  a  mat- 
ter of  professional  curiosity  and  instruction, 
we  really  think  it  right  not  to  harass  him  any 
longer  with  nauseous  remedies, — but  rather 
to  throw  in  cordials  and  lenitives,  and  wait  in 
patience  for  the  natural  termination  of  the 
disorder.  In  order  to  justify  this  desertion 
of  our  patient,  however,  it  is  proper  to  state 
why  we  despair  of  the  success  of  a  more 
active  practice. 

A  man  who  has  been  for  Jwent^y^'ears  at 
woi:k..on^such  matt€JL.a&..is  now  before  us," 
and  who  comes  complacently  forward  with  a 
whole  quarto  of  it,  after-all-lhfi_adinonilio»e*-. 
he  haslxejcgiyed,  cannot  reasonably  be  ex- 
pected to  "change  his  hand,  or  check  his 
pride,*'  upon  the  suggestion  of  far  weightier 
monitors  than  we  can  pretend  to  be.  Invele-— 
rate  habit  must  now  have  given  a  kind  of 
sanctity  to  the  errors  of  early  taste;  and  the 
very  powers  of  which  we  lamenr*tne  perver- 
sion, have  probably  become  incapable  of  any 
other  application.  The  very  quantity,  too, 
that  he  has  written,  and  is  at  this  moment 
working  up  for  publication  upon  the  old  pat- 
tern, makes  it  almost  hopeless  to  look  for  any 
change  of  it.  All  this  is  so  much  capital 
already  sunk  in  the  concern;  which  must  be 
sacrificed  if  that  be  abandoned  ;  and  no  man 
likes  to  give  up  for  lost  the  time  and  talent 
and  labour  Vvhich  he  has  embodied  in  any 
permanent  production.  We  were  not  pre- 
viously aware  of  these  obstacles  to  Mr.  Words- 
worth's conversion  ;  and,  considering  the  pecu- 
liarities of  his  former  writings  merely  as  the 
result  of  certain  wanton  and  capricious  ex- 
pieriments  on  public  taste  and  indulgence, 
conceived  it  to  be  our  duty  to  discourage  their 
repetition  by  all  the  means  in  our  power. 
|\Ve  now  see  clearly,  however,  how  the  case 
f stands : — and,  c;Lakiiig,.up^_oiir-mind^s,  though 
with  the  most  sincere  pain  and  reluctance, 
to  consider  him  as  finally -lost  to  jhegood 
cause  of  poetry,  shall  endeavour  to  belhank- 
ful  for  the  occasional  gleams  of  tenderness 
and,  beauty  wHIch  the"  haturar'"force~6f~trTs 
imagination  and  affections  must  still  shed 
over  all  his  productions^ — and  to  which  we 
shall  ever  turn  with  delight,  in  spite  of  the 
affectation  and  mysticism  and  prolixity,  with 


("A       Long  hnbits  of  seclusion,  and  an  excessively 
ambition  of  originality,  can  alone  account  for^. 
the  disproportion  which  seems  to  exist  be^ 
tween  this  author's  _Jjjgte^-and  his  geniiifi^  or 
for  the  devotion  witnwhich  he  has  sacrificed 
so  many  precious  gifts  at  the  shrine  of  those 
paltry  idols  which  he  has  set  up  for  himself 
among  his  lakes. aiid  his  mountain&.r  Solitary 
musings,  amidst  such  scenes,  might  no  doubt 
be  expected  to  nurse  up  the  mind  to  the  ma 
jesty  of  poetical  conception, — (though 
remarkabk,  that  all  the  greate 
or  had  lived,  in  the  full  current 


tne  mina  to  tne  ma- 
ition, — (though  it"  ja^  .1 
greater  poets  liyeilj  i  \1 
urrent  ofsociety):— ;     \ 


WORDSWORTH'S  EXCURSION. 


459 


-|But   the  collision  of  equal   minds, — the   ad- 
I monition   of    prevailing  impressions — seems 
Vaecessary  to  reduce  its  iMsdundancies,  and  re- 
Vpress  that  tendency  to  extravagance  or  pueril- 
,  jity,  into  which  the  self-indulgence  and  self- 
ladmiration  of  genius  is  so  apt  to  be  betrayed, 
f whei.  it  is  allowed  to  wanton,  without  awe  or 
restraint,  in  the»triumph  and  delight  of  its 
own  intoxication}^  That  its  flight  should  be 
•graceful  and  glorious  in  the  eyes  of  men,  it 
seems  almost 'to  be  necessary  that  they  should 
be  mad  3  in  the  consciousness  that  men's  eyes 
are  to  behold  them, — and   that   the  inward 
transport  and  vigour  by  which  they  are  in- 
spired, should  be  tempered  by  an  occasional 
reference  to  what  will  be  thought  of  them  by 
those  ultimate  dispensers  of  glory.-t^SjThabit- 
["uaTand  general  knowledge  of  the  few  settled 
I   and  permanent  maxims,  which  form  the  canon 
f  of  general  taste  in  all  large  and  polished  so- 
cieties— a  certani  tact,  which  informs  us  at 
once  that  many  things,  which  we  still  love 
and  are  moved  by  in  secret,  must  necessarily 
be  despised  as  childish,  or  derided  as  absurd, 
in  all  such  societies — though  it  will  not  stand 
in  the  place  of  genius,  seems  necessary  to  the 
success  of  its  exertions ;  and  though  it  will 
never  enable  any  one  to  produce  the  higher 
beauties  of  art,  can  alone  secure  the  talent 
which  does  produce  them  from  errors  that 
must  render  it  useks^.    Tuj^e  who  have  most 
of  the  talent,  however,  commonly  acquire  this 
knowledge  with  the  greatest  facility ; — and  if 
Mr.  Wordsworth,  instead  of  confining  himself 
almost  entirely  to  the  society  of  the  dalesmen 
and  cottagers,  and  little  children,  who  form 
the  subjects  of  his  book,  had  condescended 
to  mingle  a  little  more  with  the  people  that 
were  to  read  and  judge  of  it,  we  cannot  help 
thinking   that  its  texture  might  have   been 
considerably  improved  :  At  least  it  appears  to 
us  to  be  absolutely  impossible,  that  any  one 
who  had  lived  or  mixed  familiarly  with  men 
of  literature  and  ordinary  judgment  in  poetry, 
(of  course  we  exclude  the  coadjutors  and  dis- 
ciples of  his  own  school.)  could  ever  have 
fallen  into  such  gross  faults,  or  so  long  mis- 
taken them  for  beauties. \JH is  first  essays  we 
looked  upon  in  a  gooodegree   as   poetical 
paradoxes, — maintained   experimentally,    in 
order  to  display  talent,  and  court  notoriety; — 
and  so  maintained,  with  no  more  serious  be- 
lief in  their  truth,  than  is  usually  generated 
■/by  an  ingenious  and  animated   defence   of 
'    Dther  paradoxes.     But  when  we  find  that  he 
has  been  for  twenty  years  exclusively  em- 
ployed upon  articles  of  this  very  fabric,  and 
that  he  has  still  enough  of  raw  material  on 
hand  to  keep  him  so  employed  for  twenty 
years  to  come,  we  cannot  refuse  him  the  jus- 
tice of  t^fiJieving  that  he  is  a  sincere  convert 
TBr^^llls  own  "system,  and  must  ascribe  the 
^^geculiarities  oT  his  composition,  not  to  any 
transient  affectation,  or  accidental  caprice  of 
imagination,  but   to   a  settled  perversijyo/ 
tastc^r  understanding,  which  M5' been  los- 
tci  '1,   if  not  altogether  create,-^  '^"  the  cir- 
cumstances to  which  we  have  alluaed. 
"^JThe  voIumebefore_us.  if  we  were  to  de- 
scribe  it  very'sEoftTy,  we  should  characterise 


^ 


as  5jJiis§.ue,ot  moral  and  devotional  ravings,  n: 
.>vhipli  innumerable  changes  'ai'"e' rung  upon  a^ 
few  very  simple  and  familiar  ideas: — But 
with  such  an  accornpaniment  oFT^ng  words. 
|on^^eutetui£S^«aind  unwieldy  pHrases-— ana 
siicn  aTubbub  of  strained  raptures  and  fan-  * 
tastical  sublirnities,  that  it  is  often  difficult  for " 
the  most  skilful  and  attentive  student  to  ob^ 
lain  a  glimpse  of  the  author's  meaning— -aiuT 
altogether  impossible  for  an  ordiiiary''reader 
to  conjecture  what  he  is  about.  Moral  a^^  re-  '^ 
Jigious  enthusiasrnj^thou^h_mKloubted]j^poe^ 
ical  ernotions^^'e  at  tHe  same  tmie~but  dan-_ 
gerous*  ins^|rers  of  poetry ;  "nothing  being  so  / 
apt  to  run  into  interminable  dulness  or  melli-  | 
fluous  extravagance,  without  giving  the  unfor-  ' 
tunate  author  the  slightest  intimation  of  his 
danger.  His  laudable  zeal  for  the  efficacy  of 
his  preachments,  he  very  naturally  mistakes 
for  the  ardour  of  poetical  inspiration ; — and, 
while  dealing  out  the  high  words  and  glow- 
ing phrases  which  are  so  readily  supplied  by 
themes  of  this  description,  can  scarcely  avoid 
believing  that  he  is  eminently  original  and 
impressive: — ;AJl_sort3jof_^commonplace  no-  , 
tions  and  expressions  are  sanctified  in  his  -"'' 
^yes,  by  the  sublime  ends  for  Mhich  they  are 
eniployed  ',  and  the  mystical  verbiage  of  the 
Slethodist  pulpit  is  repeated,  till  the  speaker 
entertains  no  doubt  that  he  is  the  chosen 
organ  of  divine  truth  and  persuasion.  But  if 
such  be  the  common  hazards  of  seeking  in- 
spiration from  those  potent  fountains,  it  mny 
easily  be  conceived  what  chance  Mr.  Words- 
worth had  of  escaping  their  enchantment, — 
with  his  natural  propensities  to  wordiness,  ^ 
, and, his  unluck}-  liat^it  of  debasTiig  paTffi&ai/^ 
wj|h  viilp-a.rlty.  The'fact  accordingly  is,  that 
iliJhis_^roduction  he  is  more  obscure  than  a 
Eifl^lariG  poet  of  ITie  seventeenth  century; 
jiSuL  more  y^i;^^p^p  ^*  than  /  even  himself  of 
yore  ;"  while  "tfe^wilfuln^ss  with  which  he 
persists  in  choosing~hIs  examples  of  intellec- 
tual dignity  and  tenderness  exclusively  from 
.the  lo\yest  ranks  of  society,.yviIIbe  sufficiently 
apparent,  from  the  circuitistance  of  his  having 
thought,  iit  to  make  his  chief  prolocutor  in  tliis 
poetical  dialogue,  and  chieXaclvocate  of  Prov- 
idence and  Virtue,  an  old  Scotch  Pedlar — re- 
t1ired"mdeed  from  business — but  still  rainbling 
about  in  his  former  tiaunts,  and  gossiping 
am»ng  his  old  customers, -without  his  pack 
on  his  shoulders.  Tiie  other  persons  of  the 
^rama  are,  a  retired  military  chaplain,  who 
has  grown  half  an  atheist  and  half  a  misan- 
thrope— the  wife  of  an  unprospereus  weaver 
— a  servant  girl  with  her  natural  child — a 
parish  pauper,  and  one  or  two  other  person- 
ages of  ^qual  rank  and  dignitj'-. 

Jhe  character  of  the  work  is  decidedly 
dida9ticj  and  rnore  than  nine  tenths  of  it  are 
o^pied  with  a  species  ofdialoo^ie,  or  rather 
a  "series  of  long  sermons  or  harangues  which 
pass  between  the  pedlar,  the  author,  the  old 
chaplain,  and  a  worthy  vicar.  Mho  entertains 
the  whole  party  at  dirmer_  on  the  last  day  of 
their  excursion.     The  incidents  which  occur 


in  the  course  of^t  are  as"l^v^an(I  trrflii;g  as 
can  well  be  iinagined"; — aniTuS^se'  wliich  the 
different   speakers  narrate  in  the  comse  ^t' 


460 


POETRY. 


their  discourses,  are  introduced  rather  to  il- 
(uiffaTo'lTieir  arguments' or' opirlionSj  than  for 
any  interest  they  are  supposed  to  possess  of 
their  own. — The  doctrine  wliich  the  \vork,.is 
iiitCTttted  to  enTorce~we'are 'By  no  means  cer- 
t^aiii  that  Ave  have  discovered.  irj.,.so  far  as, 
jj\;e  can  collect,  however,  it  seems  to  be  neither 

_more  nor  less  than  the  old  familiar  one,  that 
a  firm  belief  in  the  providence  of  a  wise  and" 
Wneficent  Being,  must  be  our  great  stay  and 
support  under  all  afflictions  and  perplexities 
upon  ear^h— and  that'there  are  indications  of 
his  po wev' and~ goodness  in  all  the  aspects  of. 
the  visible  universe,  whether  living  or  inani- 
mate— every  part  of  which  should  therefore 

-peTegarded  with  love  and  reverence,  as  ex- 
ponentsof  those  great  attribute^.  We  can 
testify,  at  least,  that  these  salutary  and  im- 

f)qrtant  truths  are  inculcated  at  far  greater 
engtli,  and  with  more  repetitions,  than  in  any 
Ten  volumes  of  sermons  that  we  ever  perused. 
It  is  also  maintained,  with  equal  conciseness 
and  originality,  that  there  is  frequently  much 
goad. .  s.ense,  as  well  as  much  enjoyment,  in 
the  humbler  conditions  of  life ;  and  that,  in 
spite  of  great  vices  and  abuses,  there  is  a  rea- 
sonable allowance  both  of  happiness  and  good- 
ness m  society  at  large.  If  there  be  any  deeper 
or  more  recondite  doctrines  in  Mr.  Words- 
worth's book,  w^e  must  confess  that  they  have 
escaped  us ; — ^and,  convinced  as  we  are  of  the 
truths  and  soundness  of  those  to  w^hich  "we" 
have^ alluded,  we  cannot  help  thinking  that 
they  might  have  been  better  enforced  with 
less  parade  and  prolixity.  jHis_  effusions, on 
what  may  be  called  the  physiognomy  of  ex- 
ternal nature,  or  its  moral  and  theological  ex- 
pression, are  eminently  fantastic^  obscure,  and 
affected. — It  is  quite  time,  however,  tliat  we 
should  give  the  reader  a  more  particular  ac- 
count of  this  singular  performance. 

It  opens  with  a  picture  of  the  author  toiling 
across  a  bare  common  in  a  hot  summer  day, 
and  reaching  at  last  a  ruined  hut  surrounded 
with  tall  trees,  where  he  meets  by  appoint- 
ment with  a  hale  old  man,  with  an  iron-point- 
ed staff  lying  beside  him.  Then  follows  a 
retrospective  account  of  their  first  acquaint- 
ance— formed,  it  seems,  when  the  author  was 
at  a  village  school ;  and  his  aged  friend  occu- 
pied "  one  room, — the  fifth  part  of  a  house" 
in  the  neighbourhood.  After  this,  we  have 
the  history  of  this  reverend  person  at  no  small 
length.  He  was  born,  we  are  happy  to  find, 
in  Scotland — among  the  hills  of  Athol ;  and 
his  mother,  after  his  father's  death,  married 
the  parish  schoolmaster — so  that  he  was 
taught  his  letters  betimes :  But  then,  as  it  is 
here  set  forth  with  much  solemnity, 

"  From  his  sixth  year,  the  boy  of  whom  I  speak, 
In  summer,  tended  cattle  on  the  hills !" 

And  again,  a  few  pages  after,  that  there  may 
06  no  risk  of  mistake  as  to  a  point  of  such  es- 
sential importance — 

"  From  early  childhood,  even,  as  hath  been  said, 
From  his  sixth  year,  he  had  been  sent  abroad, 
In  summer — to  tend  herds  !  Such  was  his  task  !" 

In  the  course  of  this  occupation  it  is  next 
recorded,  that  he  acquired  such  a  taste  for 


rural  scenery  and  open  air,  that  w  iien  he  w^aa 
sent  to  teach  a  school  in  a  neighbouring  vil- 
lage, he  found  it  "a  misery  to  him-"  an(^ 
determined  to  embrace  the  more  romantic  oc- 
cupation of  a  Pedlar — or,  as  Mr,  Wordsworth 
more  musically  expresses  it, 

"  A  vagrant  merchant,  bent  beneath  his  load  ;" 

-^and  in  the  course  of  hisjieregrinations  had 
acquired  a  very  large  acquamtance,  which, 
after  he  had  given  up  dealing,  he  frequently 
took  a  summer  ramble  to  visit. 

The  author,  on  coming  up  to  this  interest- 
ing personage,  finds  him  sitting  with  his  eyea 
half  shut ', — and,  not  being  quite  sure  whether 
he  is  asleep  or  awake,  stands  ■'  some  minutes' 
space"  in  silence  beside  him. — "At  length,'^ 
says  he,  with  his  own  delightful  simplicity — 

"  At  length  I  hail'd  him — seeing  that  his  hat 
Was  moist  with  water-drops,  as  if  the  brim 
Had  newly  scoop'd  a  running  stream  ! — 

'  'Tis,'  said  I,  '  a  burning  day  ! 

My  lips  are  parch'd  with  thirst ; — but  you,  I  guess, 
Have  somewhere  found  relief.'  " 

Upon  this,  the  benevolent  old  man  points 
him  out,  not  a  running  stream,  but  a  well  in 
a  corner,  to  which  the  author  repairs;  and, 
after  minutely  describing  its  situation,  beyond 
a  broken  wall,  and  between  two  alders  that 
"grew^  in  a  cold  damp  nook,"  he  thus  faith- 
fully chronicles  the  process  of  his  return  : — 

"  My  thirst  I  slak'd  ;  and  from  the  cheerless  spot 
Withdrawing,  straightway  to  the  shade  return'd, 
Where  sate  the  old  man  on  the  cottage  bench." 

The  Pedlar  then  gives  an  account  of  th 
last  inhabitants  of  the  deserted  cottage  beside 
tiiem.  These  were,  a  good  industriousiveaf  er 
and  his  wife  and  children.  They  were  very 
happy  for  a  while  ;  till  sickness  and  want  of 
work  came  upon  them ;  and  then  the  father 
enlisted  as  a  soldier,  and  the  w^fe  pined  in 
that  lonely  cottage — growing  every  year  more 
careless  and  desponding,  as  her  anxiety  and 
fears  for  her  absent  husband,  of  whom  no  ti- 
dings ever  reached  her,  accumulated.  Her 
children  died,  and  left  her  cheerless  and 
alone ;  and  at  last  she  died  also ;  and  the  cot- 
tage fell  to  decay.  We  must  say,  that  there  «*"! 
is  very  considerable  pathos  in  the  telling  of  \  f 
this  simple  story  f  ah(!*t1iat  they  who  can  get 
over  the  repugnance  excited  by  the  triteness 
01  Its  incidents,  and  the  lowness  of  its  objects,  i 
will  not  fail  to  be  struck  with  the  author's  V 
knowledge  of  the  human  heart,  and  the  power 
he  possesses  of  stirring  up  its  deepest  and 
gentlest  S}*mpathies.  His  prolixity,  indeed,  it 
iS^'Tiot  'SO  easy  to  get  over.  'Thtriittle  story- 
fills  about  twenty-five  quarto  pages;  ani! 
abounds,  of  course,  w-ith  pawjnsh  stuitiment^ 
and  details  of  preposterous  mm uTeness,  t\*lie]; 
the  tatr'tS'told,  the  tmvciters  take  their  stafi^s^' 
and  end  their  first  day's  journey,  without  fur- 
ther  adventure,  at  a  little  inn. 

The  Second  Book  sets  them  forward  betimes 
in  the  morning.  Thay  pass  by  a  Village 
Wake  ;  and  as  they  approach  a  more  solitary 
part  of  the  mountains,  the  old  man  tells  the 
author  that  he  is  taking  him  to  see  an  old 
friend  of  his,  who  had  formerly  been  chaplain 


WORDSWORTH'S  EXCURSION. 


46) 


10  a  Highland  regiment — had  lost  a  beloved 
wife — been  roused  from  his  dejection  by  the 
first  enthusiasm  of  the  French  Revolution — 
had  emigrated  on  its  miscarriage,  to  America 
— and  returned  disgusted  to  hide  himself  in 
the  retreat  to  which  they  were  now  ascending. 
That  retreat  is  then  most  tediously  described 
— a  smooth  green  valley  niThe ' heart  of  the 
mountain,  w^ithout  trees,  and  with  only  one 
dwelling.  Just  as  they  get  sight  of  it  from 
the  ridge  above,  they  see  a  funeral  train  pro- 
ceeding from  the  solitary  abode,  and  hurry  on 
with  some  apprehension  for  the  fate  of  the 
amiable  misanthrope — whom  they  find,  how- 
ever, in  very  tolerable  condition  at  the  door, 
and  learn  that  the  funeral  was  that  of  an  aged 
pauper  who  had  been  boarded  out  by  the 
parish  in  that  cheap  farm-house,  and  had  died 
in  consequence  of  long  exposure  to  heavy  rain. 
The  old  chaplain,  or,  as  Mr.  Wordsworth  is 
pleased  to  call  him,  the  Solitary,  tells  this 
dull  story  at  prodigious  length;  and  after 
giving  an  inflated  description  of  an  effect  of 
mountain  mists  in  the  evening  sun,  treats  his 
visitors  with  a  rustic  dinner — and  they  walk 
out  to  the  fields  at  the  close  of  the  second 
.book. 

The  Third  makes  no  progress  in  the  excur- 
sion. It  is  entirely  filled  with  moral  and  re- 
ligious conversation  and  debate,  and  with  a 
more  ample  detail  of  .the  Solitary's  past  life 
man  had  been  given  in  the  sketch  of  his 
friend.  The  conversation  is,  in  our  judgment, 
exceedingly  dull  and  mystical  j  and  the  Soli- 
lary's  confessions  insufferably  diffuse.  Yet 
there  is  occasionally  very  considerable  force 
of  writing  and  tend^ness  of  sentiment  in  this 
part  of  the  work.       ( 

The  Fourth  Books  is  also  filled  with  dia- 
logues, ethical,  and  theological ;  and,  with  thfe 
exception  of  some  brilliant  and  forcible  ex- 
pressions here  and  there,  consists  of  an^expo- 
sition  of  truisms,  more  cloudy,  woidy.  and 
inconceivably  prolix,  than  any  thing  we  ever 
met  with. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  Fifth  Book,  they 
leave  the  solitary  valley,  taking  its  pensive 
inhabitant  along  with  them,  and  stray  on  to 
where  the  landscape  sinks  down  into  milder 
features,  till  they  arrive  at  a  church,  which 
stands  on  a  moderate  elevation  in  the  centre 
of  a  wide  and  fertile  vale.  Here  they  medi- 
tate for  a  while  among  the  monuments,  till 
the  Vicar  comes  out  and  joins  them: — and 
recognising  the  Pedlar  for  an  old  acquaint- 
ance, mixes  graciously  in  the  conversation, 
which  proceeds  in  a  very  edifying  manner  till 
the  close  of  the  book. 

The  Sixth  contains  a  choice  obituary,  or 
characteristic  account  of  several  of  the  per- 
sons who  lie  buried  before  th[sgroup  of  moral- 
isers;— an  unsuccessful  loverpwho  had  foiaridf 
consolation  in  natural  history — a  miner,  who 
worked  on  for  twenty  years,  m  despite  of  uni- 
versal ridicule,  and  at  last  found  the  vein  he 
had  expected — two  political  enemies  recon- 
ciled in  old  age  to  each  other — an  old  female 
miser — a  seduced  damsel — and  two  widow- 
ers, one  who  had  devoted  himself  to  the  eda- 
jation  of  his  daughters,  and  one  avIio  /jad 


preferred  marryin^'  a  prudent  middle-aged 
woman  to  take  care  of  them. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  Eighth  Book,  the 
worthy  Vicar  expresses,  in  the  words  of  Mr. 
Wordsworth's  own  epitome,  "his  apprehen- 
sions that  he  had  detained  his  auditors  t(K) 
long — invites  them  to  his  house — Solitary,  dis- 
inclined to  comply,  rallies  the  Wanderer,  and 
somewhat  playfully  draws  a  comparison  be- 
tween his  itinerant  profession  and  that  of  a 
knight-errant — which  leads  to  the  Wanderer 
giving  an  account  of  changes  in  the  country, 
from  the  manufacturing  spirit — Its  favourable 
effects — The  other  side  of  the  picture,'^  &c. 
&c.  After  these  very  poetical  themes  are 
exhausted,  they  all  go  mto  the  house,  where 
they  are  introduced  to  the  Vicar's  wife  and 
daughter ;  and  while  they  sit  chatting  in  the 
parlour  over¥i  family  dinner,  his  son  and  one 
of  his  companions  come  in  with  a  fine  dish 
of  trouts  piled  on  a  blue  slate ;  and  after  being 
caressed  by  the  company,  are  sent  to  dinner 
in  the  nursery. — This  ends  the  eighth  book. 

The  Ninth  and  last  is  chiefly  occupied  with 
a  mystical  discourse  of  the  Pedlar ;  who  main- 
tains, that  the  whole  universe  is  animated  by 
an  active  principle,  the  noblest  seat  of  which 
is  in  the  human  soul;  and  moreover,  that  the 
final  end  of  old  age  is  to  train  and  enable  us 

"  To  hear  the  mighty  stream  of  Tendency 
Utterina:.  for  elevation  of  our  thought, 
A  clear  sonorous  voice,  inaudible 
To  the  vast  multitude  whose  doom  it  is 
To  run  the  giddy  round  of  vain  delight — " 

with  other  matters  as  Itiminous  and  emphatic 
The  hostess  at  length  breaks  off  the  harangue, 
by  proposing  that  they  should  all  make  a  little 
excursion  on  the  lake, — and  they  embark  ac- 
cordingly ;  and,  after  navigating  for  some  time 
along  its  shores,  and  drinking  tea  on  a  little 
island,  land  at  last  on  a  remote  promontory^ 
from  which  they  see  the  sun  go  down, — and 
listen  to  a  solemn  and  pious,  but  rather  long 
prayer  from  the  Vicar.  They  then  walk  back 
to  the  parsonage  door,  where  the  author  and 
his  friend  propose  to  spend  the  evening ; — but 
the  Solitary  prefers  walking  back  in  the  moon- 
shine to  his  own  valley,  after  promising  to 
take  another  ramble  with  them — 

"  If  time,  with  free  consent,  be  yours  to  give, 
And  season  favours." 

— And  here  the  publication  somewhat  abrupt- 
ly closes. 

Our  abstract  of  the  story  has  been  so  ex- 
tremely concise,  that  it  is  more  than  usually 
necessary  for  us  to  lay  some  specimens  of  the 
work  itself  before  our  readers.  Its^jgiarui. 
staple,  as  we  have  already  said,_consisTs'6f"a 
^^ifejlinystical  morality :  anAtWaiM-%Mr- 
aclfixistics  of  the^yle"are,  thaUUs^iQliz^and 
TeTy'frequently  unintelligible  :  and  though  we 
tire"  "ggliSilSre  that  no  great  gratification  is  to  be 
expected  from  the  exhibition  of  those  quali- 
ties, yet  it  is  necessary  to  give  our  readers  a 
taste  of  them,  both  to  justify  the  sentence  we 
have  passed,  and  to  satisfy  them  that  it  w^as 
really  beyond  our  power  to  present  them  with 
any  abstract  or  intelligible  account  of  those 
long  conversations  which  we  have  had  ec 


i%2 


POETKY. 


much  occasion  to  notice  in  our  brief  sketch 
of  its  contents.  We  need  give  ourselves  no 
trouble,  howeverj  to  select  passages  for  this 
purpose.  Here  is  the  first  that  presents  itself 
to  us  on  opening  the  volume ;  and  if  our  read- 
ers can  form  the  slightest  guess  at  its  mean- 
ing, we  must  give  them  credit  for  a  sagacity 
to  which  we  have  no  pretension. 

"  But,  by  the  storms  of  circjtmstance  unshaken, 
And  subject  neither  to  eclipse  or  wane, 
Duty  exists; — immutably  survive, 
For  our  support,  the  measures  and  the  forms. 
Which  an  abstract  Intelligence  supplies;      [not: 
Whose  kingdom  is,  where  Time  and  Space  are 
Of  other  converse,  which  mind,  soul,  and  heart, 
Do,  with  united  urgency,  require, 
What  more,  that  may  not  perish  ?" 

/        '*  'Tis,  by  comparison,  an  easy  task 
/     '^arth  to  despise  ;  but  to  converse  with  Heav'n, 
'      i'his  is  not  easy  : — to  relinquish  all 

Ve  have,  or  hope,  of  happiness  and  joy, — 
And  stand  in  freedom  loosen'd  from  this  world  ; 
X  deem  not  arduous ! — but  m\ist  needs  confess 
i'hat  'tis  a  'Aing  impossible  to  frame 
Conceptions,  equal  to  the  Soul's  desires." 

^pp.  144—147. 

This  is  a  fair  sample  of  tha|^rapturG;:s  mys- 
.icism  M'hich  eludes  &11.  comprehension,  and 
fills  tlie  despairing  reader  with  painful  giddi- 
ness and  terror^y  The  following,  which  we 
meet  with  on  the  very  next  page,  is  in  the 
same  general  strain : — though  the  first  part  of 
it  affords  a  good  specimen  of  th.e.  author's 
talent  for  enveloping  a  plain  an3  trite  obser- 
vation in  all  the  mock  majesty  of  solemn  ver- 
bosity. A  reader  of  plain  understanding,  we 
suspect,  could  hardly  recognise  the  familiar 
remark,  that  excessive  grief  for  our  departed 
friends  is  not  very  consistent  with  a  firm  be- 
lief in  their  immortal  felicity,  in  the  first 
twenty  lines  of  the  following  passage  : — In  the 
succeeding  lines  we  do  not  ourselves  pretend 
10  recognise  any  thing. 

•*  From  this  infirmity  of  mortal  kind 
Sorrow  proceeds,  which  else  were  not ; — at  least, 
If  Grief  be  something  hallow'd  and  ordain'd, 
If,  in  proportion,  it  be  just  and  meet. 
Through  this,  'tis  able  to  maintain  its  hold. 
In  that  excess  which  Conscience  disapproves. 
For  who  could  sink  and  settle  to  that  point 
Of  selfishness  ;  so  senseless  who  could  be 
In  framing  estimates  of  loss  and  gain. 
As  long  and  perseveringly  to  mourn 
For  any  object  of  his  love,  remov'd 
From  this  unstable  world,  if  he  could  fix 
A  satisfying  view  upon  that  state 
Of  pure,  imperishable  blessedness. 
Which  Reason  promises,  and  Holy  Writ 
Ensures  to  all  Believers  ? — Yet  mistrust 
Is  of  such  incapacity,  methinks, 
No  natural  branch ;  despondency  far  less. 
— And,  if  there  be  whose  tender  frames  have 

droop' d 
Ev'n  to  the  dust ;  apparently,  through  weight 
Of  anguish  unreliev'd,  and  lack  of  power 
An  agonising  sorrow  to  transrmite  ; 
Infer  not  hence  a  hope  from  those  withheld 
When  wanted  most ;  a  confidence  impair'd 
So  pitiably,  that,  having  ceas'd  to  see 
With  bodily  eyes,  they  are  borne  down  by  love 
Of  what  is  lost,  and  perish  through  regret ! 
Oh  !  no,  full  oft  the  innocent  Suff'rer  sees 
Too  clearly  ;  feels  to3  vividly  ;  and  longs 
To  realize  the  Vision  with  intense 
And  overconstant  yearning — There — there  lies 
The  excess,  by  which  the  balance  is  deslroy'd. 


Too,  too  contracted  are  these  walls  of  flesh, 

This  vital  warmth  too  cold,  these  visual  orbs, 

Though  inconceivably  endow'd,  too  dim 

For  any  passion  of  the  soul  that  leads 

To  ecstasy  !  and,  all  the  crooked  paths 

Of  time  and  change  disdaining,  takes  its  coursa 

Along  the  line  of  limitless  desires. 

I,  speaking  now  from  such  disorder  free. 

Nor  sleep,  nor  cravin";,  but  in  settled  peace, 

I  cannot  doubt  that  1  hey  whom  you  deplore 

Are  glorified."— pp.  148,  149. 

If  any  farther  specimen  be  wanted  of  the 
learned  author's  propensity  to  deal  out  the 
most  familiar  truths  as  the  oracles  of  his  own 
inspired  understanding,  the  following  wordy 
paraphrase  of  the  ordinary  remark,  that  the 
best  consolation  in  distress  is  to  be  found  in 
the  exercises  of  piety,  and  the  testimony  of  a 
good  conscience,  may  be  found  on  turning  the 
leaf. 

"  What  then  remains  ? — To  seek 
Those  helps,  for  his  occasions  ever  near, 
Who  lacks  not  will  to  use  them  ;  vows,  renew'd 
On  the  first  motion  of  a  holy  thought ; 
Vigils  of  contemplation  :  praise  ;  and  pray'r, 
A  Stream,  which,  from  the  fountain  of  the  heart 
IsBuing  .lowever  feebly,  no  where  flows 
Without  access  of  unexpected  strength. 
But,  above  all,  the  victory  is  most  sure 
For  Him  who,  seeking  faith  by  virtue,  strives 
To  yield -entire  submission  to  the  law 
Of  Conscience;  Conscience  reverenc'd  and  obey'd 
As  God's  most  intimate  Presence  in  the  soul. 
And  his 'most  perfect  Image  in  the  world." 

p.  151. 

We  have  kept  the  book  too  long  open,  how- 
ever, at  one  place,  and  shall  now  take  a  dip 
in  it  nearer  the  beginning.  The  following  ac- 
count of  the  Pedlar's  early  training,  and  lonely 
meditations  among  the  mountains,  is  a  good 
example  of  the  forced  and  affected  ecstasies 
ii>  which  this  authoi- abounds. 

"  Nor  did  he  fail, 

While  yet  a  Child,  with  a  Child's  eagerness 

Incessantly  to  turn  his  ear  and  eye 

On  all  things  which  the  moving  seasons  brought 

To  feed  such  appetite  :  nor  this  alone 

Appeas'd  his  yearning  : — in  the  after  day 

Of  Boyhood,  many  an  hour  in  caves  forlorn, 

And  'mid  the  hollow  depths  of  naked  crags, 

He  sate,  and  even  in  their  fix'd  Hneaments, 

Or  from  the  pow'r  of  a  peculiar  eye. 

Or  by  creative  feeling  overborne, 

Or  by  predominance  of  thought  oppress'd, 

Ev'n  in  their  fix'd  and  steady  lineaments 

He  trac'd  an  ebbing  and  a  flowing  mind. "-p.  11. 

We  should  like  extremely  to  know  what  if 
meant  by  tracing  an  ebbing  and  flowing  mind 
in  the  fixed  lineaments  of  naked  crags '? — ^but 
this  is  but  the  beginning  of  the  raving  fit. 

In  these  majestic  solitudes,  he  used  also  to 
read  his  Bible ; — and  we  are  told  that — 

"  There  did  he  see  the  writing  ! — All  things  there 
Breath'd  immortality,  revoiving  life 
A nd^  greatness  still  revolving;  infijiite! 
There  littleness  was  not;  the  least  of  things 
Seem'd  infinite ;  and  there  his  spirit  shap'd 
Her  prospects ;  nor  did  he  believe, — he  saw  ! 
What  wonder  if  his  being  thus  became 
Sublime  and  comprehensive  !     Low  desires, 
Low  thoughts  had  there  no  place ;  yet  was  hia 

heart 
Lowly ;  for  he  was  meek  in  gratitude.''-pp.  14, 15. 

^Vhal  foUows  about  nature,  triangles,  stars, 


WORDSWORTH'S  EXCURSION. 


46» 


ftnd  tne  laws  of  light,  is  still  more  incompre- 
hiwsiWe. 

"  Yet  still  uppermost 

Nature  was  at  his  heart,  as  if  he  felt, 
Though  yet  he  knew  not  how,  a  wasting  powr 
In  all  things  which  from  her  sweet  influence 
Might  tend  to  wean  him.    Therefore  with  her  hues, 
Her  forms,  and  with  the  spirit  of  her  forms, 
He  cloth'd  the  nakedness  of  austere  truth. 
While  yet  he  linger'd  in  the  rudiments 
Of  science,  and  among  her  simplest  laws, 
His  tria?igles — they  were  the  stars  of  heav'n, 
The  silent  stars  !     Oft  did  he  take  delight         , 
To  measure  th'  altitude  of  some  tall  crag 
Which  is  the  eagle's  birthplace,  or  some  peak 
Familiar  with  forgotten  years,  that  shows 
Inscrib'd,  as  with  the  silence  of  the  thought, 
Upon  its  bleak  and  visionary  sides  ; — 

■■  and  I  have  heard  him  say 
That  often,  failing  at  this  time  to  gain 
The  peace  requir'd,  Jie  scami'd  the  laws  of  light 
Amid  the  roar  of  torrents,  where  they  send 
From  hollow  clefts  up  to  the  clearer  air 
A  cloud  of  mist,  which  in  the  sunshine  frames 
A  lasting  tablet — for  the  observer's  eye  . 
Varying  its  rainbow  hues.     But  vainly  thus, 
And  vainly  by  all  other  means,  he  strove 
To  mitigate  the  fever  of  his  heart." — pp.  16 — 18. 

The  whole  book,  indeed,  is  full  of  such 
stuff.  The  following  is  the  author's  own 
sublime  aspiration  after  the  delight  of  be- 
coming a  Motiouy  or  a  Presence^  or  an  Energy 
among  multitudinous  streams. 

"  Oh  !  what  a  joy  it  were,  in  vig'rous  health. 
To  have  a  Body  (this  our  vital  Frame 
With  shrinking  sensibility  endu'd. 
And  all  the  nice  regards  of  flesh  and  blood) 
And  to  the  elements  surrender  it. 
As  if  it  were  a  Spirit  ! — How  divine 
The  liberty,  for  frail,  for  mortal  man. 
To  roam  at  large  among  unpeopled  glens 
And  mountainous  retirements,  only  trod 
By  devious  footsteps ;  regions  consecrate 
To  oldest  time  !  and,  reckless  of  the  storm 
That  keeps  the  raven  quiet  in  her  nest, 
Be  as  a  Presence  or  a  Motion  ! — one 
Among  the  many  there  ;  and,  while  the  Mists 
Flying,  and  rainy  Vapours,  call  out  Shapes 
And  Phantoms  from  the  crags  and  solid  earth 
As  fast  as  a  Musician  scatters  sounds 
Out  of  an  instrument;  and,  while  the  Streams— 
(As  at  a  first  creation  and  in  haste 
To  exercise  their  untried  faculties) 
Descending  from  the  regions  of  the  clouds. 
And  starting  from  the  hollows  of  the  earth 
.  More  multitudinous  every  moment — rend 
Their  way  before  them,  what  a  joy  to  roam 
Ari  equal  amo7ig  mightiest  Energies  ! 
And  haply  sometimes  with  articulate  voice. 
Amid  the  deaf  ning  tumult,  scarcely  heard 
By  him  that  utters  it,  exclaim  aloud 
Be  this  continu'd  so  from  day  to  day. 
Nor  let  it  have  an  end  from  month  to  month  !" 

pp.  164,  165. 

We  suppose  the  reader  is  now  satisfied 
with  Mr.  Wordsworth's  sublimities — which 
occupy  rather  more  than  half  the  volume  : — 
Of  his  tamer  and  more  creeping  prolixity,  we 
have  not  the  heart  to  load  him  with  many 
\^  specimens.  The  following  amplification  of 
the  vulgar  comparison  of  human  life  to  a 
stream,  has  the  merit  of  adding  much  ob- 
scurity to  wordiness;  at  least,  we  have  not 
ingenuity  enough  to  refer  the  conglobated 
bubbles  and  murmurs,  and  floating  islands, 
.o  their  Vital  prototypes. 


'     *  The  tenor 
Which  my  life  holds,  he  readily  may  conceive 
Whoe'er  hath  stood  to  watch  a  moiintrrtn  Brook 
In  some  still  passage  of  its  course,  and  seen. 
Within  the  depths  of  its  capacious  breast. 
Inverted  trees,  and  rocks,  and  azure  sky ; 
And,  on  its  glassy  surface,  specks  of  foam. 
And  conglobated  bubbles  undissolv'd, 
Numerous  as  stars  ;  that,  by  their  onward  lapse, 
Betray  to  sight  the  motion  of  the  stream, 
Else  imperceptible  ;  meanwhile,  is  heard 
Perchance  a  roar  or  murmur;  and  the  sound 
Though  soothing,  and  the  little  floating  isles 
Though  beautiful,  are  both  by  Nature  charg'd 
With  the  same  pensive  office  ;  and  make  known 
Through  what  perplexing  labyrinths,  abrupt 
Precipitations,  and  untoward  straits, 
The  earth-born  wanderer  hath  pass'd  ;  and  quickly, 
That  respite  o'er,  like  traverses  and  toils 
Must  be  again  encounter'd. — Such  a  stream 
Is  Human  Life."— pp.  139,  140. 

The  following,  however,  is  a  better  example 
of  the  useless  and  most  tedious  minuteness 
with  which  the  author  so  frequently  details 
circumstances  of  no  interest  in  themselves, — 
of  no  importance  to  the  story, — and  possess- 
ing rio  graphical  merit  whatsoever  as  pieces 
of  description.  On  their  approach  to  the  old 
chaplain's  cottage,  the  author  gets  before  litiH 
companion. 


when  behold 


An  object  thaf  entic'd  my  steps  aside ! 

It  was  an  Entry,  narrow  as  a  door ; 

A  passage  whose  brief  windings  open'd  out 

Into  a  platform  ;  that  lay,  sheepfold-wise, 

Enclos'd  between  a  single  mass  of  rock 

And  one  old  moss-grown  wall ; — a  cool  Recess, 

And  fanciful !  For,  where  the  rock  and  wall 

Met  in  an  angle,  hung  a  tiny  roof, 

Or  penthouse,  which  most  quaintly  had  been  franCd, 

By  thrusting  tv^o  rude  sticks  into  the  wall 

And  overlaying  them  with  mountain  sods  ! 

To  weather-fend  a  Httle  turf-built  seat 

Whereon  a  full-grown  man  might  rest,  nor  dread 

The  burning  sunshine,  or  a  transient  shower ; 

But  the  whole  plainly  wrought  by  Children's  hands  ! 

Whose  simple  skill  had  throng'd  the  grassy  floor 

With  work  of  frame  less  solid  ;  a  proud  show 

Of  baby-houses,  airiously  arranged  ! 

Nor  wanting  ornament  of  walks  between, 

With  mimic  trees  inserted  in  the  turf. 

And  gardens  interpos'd.    Pleased  with  the  sight, 

I  could  not  choose  but  beckon  to  my  CJuide, 

Who,  having  enter'd,  carelessly  look'd  round. 

And  now  would  have  pass'd  on  ;  when  I  exclaim'd, 

'  Lo !    what  is  here  ?'  and,  stooping  down,  drew 

A  Book,"  &c.— pp.  71,  72.  [forth 

And  this  book,  which  he 


found  to  be  a  work 


In  the  French  Tongue,  a  Novel  of  Voltaire," 

leads  to  no  incident  or  remark  of  any  value 
or  importance,  to  apologise  for  this  long  story 
of  its  finding.  There  is  no  beauty,  we  think, 
it  must  be  admitted,  in  these  passages ;  and 
so  little  either  of  interest  of  curiosity  in  the 
incidents  they  disclose,  that  we  can  scarcely 
conceive  that  any  man  to  whom  they  had  ac- 
tually occurred,  should  take  the  trouble  to 
recount  them  to  his  wife  and  children  by  his 
idle  fireside  : — but,  that  mari  or  child  should 
think  them  worth  writing  down  in  blank  verse, 
and  printing  in  magnificent  quarto,  we  should 
certainly  have  supposed  altogether  impossi 
ble,  had  it  not  been  for  the  ample  proofs  whicl; 
Mr.  Wordsworth  has  aflx)rded  to  the  contrary 


464 


POETRY. 


Sometimes  their  silliness  is  enhanced  by  a 
paltry  attenipt  at  effect  and  emphasis : — as  in 
the  following  accomit  of  that  very  touching 
and  extraordinary  occurrence  of  a  lamb  bleat- 
ing among  the  mountains.  The  poet  would 
actually  persuade  us  that  he  thought  the 
mountains  themselves  were  bleating; — and 
that  nothing  could  be  so  grand  or  impressive. 
'•List!"  cries  the  old  Pedlar,  suddenly  break- 
ing off  in  the  middle  of  one  of  his  daintiest 
ravines — 


List ! — I  heard, 


From  yon  huge  breast  of  rock,  a  solemn  hleat  ! 
Sent  forth  as  if  it  were  the  Mountain's  voice  ! 
As  if  the  visible  Mountain  made  the  cry  ! 
Again !' — The  effect  upon  the  soul  was  such 
As  he  express' d  ;  for,  from  the  Mountain's  heart 
The  solemn  hleat  appear'd  to  come  !     There  was 
No  other — and  the  region  all  around 
Stood  silent,  empty  ot  all  shape  of  life. 
— It  was  a  Za/«&-— left  somewhere  to  itself!" 

p.  159. 

What  we  have  now  quoted  will  give  the 
reader  a  notion  of  the  taste  and  spirit  in  which 
this  volume  is  composed  :  And  yet,  if  it  had 
not  contained  something  a  good  deal  better, 
we  do  not  know  how  we  should  have  been 
justified  in  troubling  him  with  any  account 
X'  «t)f  it.  But  the  truth  is,  that  Mr  ,Wordsworth, 
with  all  his  perversities,  is  a  person'oTgreat 
powers;  and  has  frequently  a  force  in  his 
moral  declamations,  and  a  tenderness  in  his 
pathetic  narratives,  which  neither  his  prolixity 
nor  his  affectation  can  altogether  deprive  of 
their  effect.  We  shall  venture  to  give  some 
--  extracts  from  the  simple  tale  of  the  Weaver's 
solitary  Cottage.  Its  heroine  is  the  deserted 
wife;  and  its  chief  interest  consists  in  the 
picture  of  her  despairing  despondence  and 
anxiety,  after  his  disappearance.  The  Pedlar, 
recurring  to  the  well  to  which  he  had  direct- 
ed his  companion,  observes. 


As  I  stoop'd  to  drink. 


Upon  the  slimy  foot-stone  I  espied 
The  useless  fragment  of  a  wooden  bowl, 
Green  with  the  moss  of  years ;  a  pensive  sight 
That  mov'd  my  heart  ! — recalling  former  days, 
When  I  could  never  pass  that  road  but  She 
Who  liv'd  within  these  walls,  at  my  approach, 
A  Daughter's  welcome  gave  me  ;  and  I  lov'd  her 
As  my  own  child  !     O  Sir !  the  good  die  first ! 
And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust 
Burn  to  the  socket." 

"  By  some  especial  care 

Her  temper  had  been  fram'd,  as  if  to  make 
A  Being — who  by  adding  love  to  peace 
Might  live  on  earth  a  life  of  happiness." 

pp.  27,  28. 

The  bliss  and  tranquillity  of  these  prosper- 
ous years  is  well  and  copiously  described ; — 
but  at  last  came  sickness,  and  want  of  em- 
ployment;— and  the  effect  on  the  kind- 
hearted  and  industrious  mechanic  is  strikingly 
delineated. 

"  At  his  door  he  stood. 

And  whistl'd  many  a  snatch  of  merry  tunes 
That  had  no  mirth  in  them  !  or  with  his  knife 
Carv'd  uncouth  figures  on  the  heads  of  sticks — 
Then,  not  less  idly,  sought,  through  every  nook 
In  house  or  garden,  any  casual  work 
Of  use  or  ornament."— 


"One  while  he  would  speak  lightly  of  his  Babes, 
And  with  a  cruel  tongue  :  at  other  limes 
He  toss'd  them  with  a  false  unnat'ral  joy : 
And  'twas  a  rueful  thing  to  see  the  looks 
Of  the  poor  innocent  children." — p.  31. 

At  last,  he  steals  from  his  cottage,  and  enJistfl 
as  a  soldier ;  and  when  the  benevolent  Pedlai 
comes,  in  hJs  rounds,  in  hope  of  a  cheerful 
w-elcome,  he  meets  with  a  scene  of  despair. 

"  Having  reach'd  the  door 

I  knock'd, — and,  when  I  enter'd  with  tlie  hope 
Of  usual  greeting,  Margaret  look'd  at  me 
A  Httle  while  ;  then  turn'd  her  head  away 
Speechless, — and  sitting  down  upon  a  chair 
Wept  bitterly  !  I  wist  not  what  to  do, 
Or  how  to  speak  to  her.     Poor  Wretch  !  at  last 
She  rose  from  off  her  seat,  and  then, — O  Sir  ! 
I  cannot  tell  how  she  pronounc'd  my  name. — 
With  fervent  love,  and  wiih  a  face  of  grief 
Unutterably  helpless!" — pp.  34,  35. 

Hope,  how^ever,  and  native  cheerfulness, 
were  not  yet  subdued ;  and  her  spirit  still  bore 
up  against  the  pressure  of  this  desertion. 

"  Long  we  had  not  talk'd 

Ere  we  built  up  a  pile  of  better  thoughts. 
And  with  a  brighter  eye  she  look'd  around 
As  if  she  had  been  shedding  tears  of  joy." 

"  We  parted. — 'Twas  the  time  of  early  spring; 
I  left  her  busy  with  her  garden  tools ; 
And  well  remember,  o'er  that  fence  she  look'd, 
And,  M'hile  I  paced  along  the  footway  path. 
Called  out,  and  sent  a  blessing  after  me. 
With  tender  cheerfulness  ;  and  with  a  voice 
That  seem'd  the  very  sound  of  happy  thoughts." 

pp.  36,  37 

The  gradual  sinking  of  the  spirit  under  the 
load  of  continued  anxiety,  and  the  destruc- 
tion of  all  the  finer  springs  of  the  soul  by  a 
course  of  unvarying  sadness,  are  very  feel- 
ingly represented  in  the  sequel  of  this  simple 
narrative. 

'*  I  journey'd  back  this  way 

Towards  the  wane  of  Summer ;  when  the  wheat 
Was  yellow  ;  and  the  soft  and  bladed  grass 
Springing  afresh  had  o'er  the  hay-field  spread 
Its  tender  verdure.     At  the  door  arriv'd, 
I  found  that  she  was  absent.     In  the  shade, 
Where  now  we  sit,  I  wahed  her  return. 
Her  Cottage,  then  a  cheerful  Object,  wore 
Its  customary  look, — only,  I  thought. 
The  honeysuckle,  crowding  round  the  porch, 
Hung  down  in  heavier  tufts:  and  that  bright  weed, 
The  yellow  stone-crop,  suffer'd  to  take  root 
Along  the  window's  edge,  profusely  grew, 
Blinding  the  lower  panes.     I  turn'd  aside,        , 
And  stroll'dinto  her  garden.     It  appear'd 
To  lag  behind  the  season,  and  had  lost 
Its  pride  of  neatness." — 

"  The  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west ;  and  now 
I  sate  with  sad  impatience.    From  within 
Her  solitary  Infant  cried  aloud  ; 
Then,  like  a  blast  that  dies  away  self-still'd. 
The  voice  was  silent." — pp.  37 — 39. 

The  desolate  woman  had  now  an  air  of  stiU 
and  listless,  though  patient ^orrow. 

"  Evermore 

Her  eyelids  droop'd,  her  eyes  were  downward  cast 
And,  when  she  at  her  table  gave  me  food. 
She  did  not  look  at  me  !     Her  voice  was  low, 
Her  body  was  subdu'd.    In  ev'ry  act 
Pertaining  to  her  house  affairs,  appear'd 
The  careless  stillness  of  a  thinking  mind 
Self-occupied  ;  to  which  all  outward  things 
Are  like  an  idle  matter.     Still  she  sigh'd, 


WORDSWORTH'S  EXCURSION. 


465 


But  yet  no  motion  of  the  breast  was  seen, 
No  heaving  of  the  heart.     While  by  the  fire 
We  sate  together,  sighs  came  on  my  ear, 
I  know  not  how,  and  hardly  whence  they  came. 

I  return'd, 

And  took  my  rounds  along  this  road  again. 
Ere  on  its  sunny  bank  the  primrose  flow'r 
Peep'd  forth,  to  give  an  earnest  of  the  Spring, 
I  found  her  sad  and  drooping  ;  she  had  learn' d 
No  tidings  of  her  Husband  ;  if  he  liv'd 
She  knew  not  that  he  lived  ;  if  he  were  dead 
She  knew  not  he  was  dead.    She  seem'd  the  same 
In  person  and  appearance  ;  but  her  House 
Bespake  a  sleepy  hand  of  negligence 

Her  Infant  Babe 

Had  from  its  Mother  caught  the  trick  of  grief, 
And  sigh'd  among  its  playthings  !" — pp.  41 — 43. 

Returning  seasons  only  deepened  this  gloom, 
and  confirmed  this  neglect.  Her  child  died; 
and  she  spent  her  weary  days  in  roaming 
over  the  country,  and  repeating  her  fond  and 
vain  inquiries  to  every  passer  by. 

'*  Meantime  her  House  by  frost,  and  thaw,  and  rain, 
Wassapp'd  ;  and  while  she  slept  the  nightly  damps 
Did  chill  her  breast  ;  and  in  the  stormy  day 
Her  tatter'd  clothes  were  ruffl'd  by  the  wind, 
Ev'n  at  the  side  of  her  own  fire.     Yet  still 
She  lov'd  this  wretched  spot ;  and  here,  my  Friend, 
In  sickness  she  remain'd  ;  and  here  she  died  ! 
Last  Human  Tenant  of  these  ruin'd  Walls." — p.  46.  ■ 

The  story  of  the  old  Chaplain,  though  a 
little  less  lowly,  is  of  the  same  mournful  cast, 
and  almost  equally  destitute  of  incidents; — 
for  Mr.  Wordsworth  delineates  only  feelings — 
and  all  liis  adventures  are  of  the  heart.  The 
narrative  which  is  given  by  the  sufferer  him- 
self is,  in  our  opinion,  the  most  spirited  and 
"n teres  ting  part  of  the  poem.  He  begins  thus, 
.in  I  addressing  himself,  after  a  long  pause, 
.G  his  ancient  countryman  and  friend  the 
Pedlar— 

"  You  never  saw,  your  eyes  did  never  look 

On  the  bright  Form  of  Her  whom  once  I  lov'd  ! — 

Her  silver  voice  was  heard  upon  the  earth, 

A  sound  unknown  to  you  ;  else,  honour'd  Friend, 

Your  heart  had  borne  a  pitiable  share 

Of  what  I  suffer'd,  when  I  wept  that  loss  ! 

And  suffer  now,  not  seldom,  from  the  thought 

That  I  remember  —  and  can  weep  no  more!" 

p.  117. 

/     The  following  account  of  his  marriage  and 
/  early  felicity  is  written  with  gieat  sweetness — 
[/     a  sweetness  like  that  of  Massinger,  in  his  softer 
and  more  mellifluous  passages. 

"  This  fair  B  ride- 
In  the  devotedness  of  youthful  love. 
Preferring  me  to  Parents,  and  the  choir 
Of  gay  companions,  to  the  natal  roof. 
And  all  known  places  and  familiar  sights, 
(Resign'd  with  sadness  gently  weighing  down 
Her  trembling  expectations,  but  no  more 
Than  did  to  her  due  honour,  and  to  me 
Yielded,  that  day,  a  confidence  sublime 
In  what  I  had  to  build  upon) — this  Bride, 
Young,  modest,  meek,  and  beautiful,  I  led 
To  a  low  Cottage  in  a  sunny  Bay, 
Where  the  salt  sea  innocuously  breaks, 
And  the  sea  breeze  as  innocently  breathes. 
On  Devon's  leafy  shores  ; — a  shelter'd  Hold, 
In  a  soft  chme,  encouraging  the  soil 
To  a  luxuriant  bounty  I — As  our  steps 
Approach  the  embower'd  Abode,  our  chosen  Seat, 
See,  rooted  in  the  earth,  its  kindly  bed. 
The  unendanger'dMyrtle.deck'd  with  flowers, '&c. 
30 


' ' — Wild  were  our  walks  upon  those  lonely  Downs 

Whence,  unmolested  Wanderers,  we  beheld 

The  shining  Giver  of  the  Day  diffuse 

His  brightness,  o'er  a  tract  of  sea  and  land 

Gay  as  our  spirits,  free  as  our  desires, 

As  our  enjoyments  boundless. — From  these  Heights 

We  dropp'd,  at  pleasure,  into  sylvan  Combs ; 

Where  arbours  of  impenetrable  shade, 

And  mossy  seats  detain'd  us,  side  by  side. 

With  hearts  at  ease,  and  knowledge  in  our  hearts 

*  That  all  the  grove  and  all  the  day  was  ours.'  " 

pp.  118— 120. 

There,  seven  years  of  unmolested  happiness 
were  blessed  with  two  lovely  children. 

'  *  And  on  these  pillars  rested,  as  on  air, 
Our  solitude." 

Suddenly  a  contagious  malady  swept  off  both 
the  infants. 

"  Calm  as  a  frozen  Lake  when  ruthless  Winds 
Blow  fiercely,  agitating  earth  and  sky. 
The  Mother  now  remain'd." 

"  Yet,  stealing  slow. 

Dimness  o'er  this  clear  Luminary  crept 

Insensibly  ! — The  immortal  and  divine 

Yielded  to  mortal  reflux,  her  pure  Glory, 

As  from  the  pinnacle  of  worldly  state 

Wretched  Ambition  drops  astounded,  fell 

Into  a  gulf  obscure  of  silent  grief. 

And  keen  heart-anguish — of  itself  asham'd, 

Yet  obstinately  cherishing  itself: 

And,  so  consum'd,  She  melted  from  my  arms  i 

And  left  me,  on  this  earth,  disconsolate." 

pp.  125,  12fi. 

The  agony  of  mind  into  which  the  sur 
vivor  was  thrown,  is  described  with  a  power 
ful  eloquence ;  as  well  as  the  doubts  and  dis- 
tracting fears  which  the  sceptical  speculatione 
of  his  careless  days  had  raised  in  his  spirit. 
There  is  something  peculiarly  grand  and  ter- 
rible to  our  feelings  in  the  imagery  of  the5»s 
three  lines — 

"  By  pain  of  heart,  now  check'd,  and  now  impell'd, 
The  Intellectual  Power,  through  words  and  things, 
Went  sounding  on, — a  dim  and  perilous  way  !" 

At  last  he  is  roused  from  this  dejected  mood, 
by  the  glorious  promises  which  seemed  held 
out  to  human  nature  by  the  first  dawn  of  the 
French  Revolution ; — and  it  indicates  a  fine 
perception  of  the*  secret  springs  of  character 
arid  emotion,  to  choose  a  being  so  circum- 
stanced as  the  most  ardent  votary  of  that  far- 
spread  enthusiasm. 

"  Thus  was  I  reconverted  to  the  world  ! 
Society  became  my  glitt'ring  Bride, 
And  airy  hopes  my  Children  ! — If  busy  Men 
In  sober  conclave  met,  to  weave  a  web 
Of  amity,  whose  living  threads  should  stretch 
Beyond  the  seas,  and  to  the  farthest  pole, 
There  did  I  sit,  assisting.     If,  with  noise 
And  acclamation,  crowds  in  open  air 
Express'd  the  tumr.:'.  of  their  minds,  my  voice 
There  mingled,  heard  or  not.    The  powers  of  song 
I  left  not  uninvok'd;  and,  in  still  groves, 
Where  mild  Enthusiasts  tun'd  a  pensive  lay 
Of  thanks  and  expectation,  in  accord 
With  their  belief,  I  sang  Saturnian  Rule 
Return'd, — a  progeny  of  golden  years 
Permitted  to  descend,  and  bless  mankind  !'" 

pp. 128,  12y 

On  the  disappearance  of  that  bright  vision, 
he  was  inclined  to  take  part  with  the  despe- 
rate party  who  still  aimed  at  establishing 


466 


POETRY. 


universal  regeneration,  though  by  more  ques- 
tionable instruments  than  they  had  originally 
assumed.  But  the  military  despotism  which 
ensued  soon  closed  the  scene  against  all  such 
exertions;  and,  disgusted  with  men  and 
Europe,  he  sought  for  shelter  in  the  wilds  of 
America.  In  the  calm  of  the  voyage,  Memory 
and  Conscience  awoke  him  to  a  sense  of  his 
misery. 

"  Feebly  must  They  have  felt 

Who,  in  old  time,  attir'd  with  snakes  and  whips 
The  vengeful  Furies.     Beautiful  regards 
Were  turn'd  on  me — the  face  of  her  I  lov'd  ! 
The  Wife  and  Mother,  pitifully  fixing 
Tender  reproaches,  insupportable!" — pp.  133,  134. 

ointment,  and  ultimate  seclusion  in 


His  disapp 

England,  have  been  already  sufficiently  de- 
tailed. 

We  must  trespass  upon  our  readers  with 
the  fragments  of  yet  another  story.  It  is  that 
of  a  simple,  seduced,  and  deserted  girl,  told 
with  great  sweetness,  pathos,  and  indulgence, 
by  the  Vicar  of  the  parish,  by  the  side  of  her 
untimely  grave.  Looking  down  on  the  turf, 
he  says — 

"  As,  on  a  sunny  bank,  a  tender  Lamb, 
Lurks  in  safe  shelter,  from  the  winds  of  March 
Screen'd  by  its  Parent,  so  that  little  mound 
Lies  guarded  by  its  neighbour.     The  small  heap 
Speaks  for  itself; — an  Infant  there  doth  rest ; 
The  shelt'ring  Hillock  is  the  Mother's  grave  ! — 
There,  by  her  innocent  Baby's  precious  grave, 
Yea,  doubtless,  on  the  turf  that  roofs  her  own. 
The  Mother  oft  was  seen  to  stand,  or  kneel. 
In  the  broad  day,  a  weeping  Magdalene. 
Now  she  is  not !     The  swelling  turf  reports 
Of  the  fresh  show'r,  but  of  poor  Ellen's  tears 
Is  silent ;  nor  is  any  vestige  left 
Upon  the  pathway  of  her  mournful  tread  ; 
Nor  of  that  pace  with  which  she  once  had  mov'd 
In  virgin  fearlessness — a  step  that  seem'd 
Caught  from  the  pressure  of  elastic  turf 
Upon  the  mountains  wet  with  morning  dew. 
In  the  prime  hour  of  sweetest  scents  and  airs." 

pp.  285—287. 

Her  virgin  graces  and  gentleness  are  then 
very  beautifully  described,  and  her  seduction 
and  lonely  anguish  passed  over  very  tenderly. 

"  '  Ah  why,'  said  Ellen,  sighing  to  herself, 

'  Why  do  not  words,  and  kiss,  and  solemn  pledge  ; 

And  nature  that  is  kind  in  Woman's  breast, 

And  reason  that  in  Man  is  kind  and  good. 

And  fear  of  Him  who  is  a  righteous  Judge, 

Why  do  not  these  prevail  for  human  life, 

To  keep  two  hearts  togetherj  that  began 

Their  spring-time  with  one  love,  and  that  have  need 

Of  mutual  pity  and  forgiveness,  sweet 

To  grant,  or  be  receiv'd  ?'  "—p.  289. 

"  A  kindlier  passion  open'd  on  her  soul 

When  that  poor  Child  was  born.     Upon  its  face 

She  look'd  as  on  a  pure  and  spotless  gift 

Of  unexpected  promise,  where  a  grief 

Or  dread  was  all  that  had  been  thought  of. 

- — '  Till  this  hour,' 
Thus  in  her  Mother's  hearing  Ellen  spake, 
'  There  was  a  stony  region  in  my  heart ! 
But  He  at  whose  command  the  parched  rock 
Was  smitten,  and  pour'd  forth  a  quenching  stream, 
Hath  soften'd  that  obduracy,  and  made 
Unlook'd-for  gladness  in  the  desert  place, 
To  save  the  perishing  ;  and,  henceforth.  I  look 
Upon  the  light  with  cheerfulness,  for  thee 
My  Infant !  and  for  that  good  Mother  dear, 
Wno  bore  me, — and  ha  a  pray'd  for  me  in  vain  ! — 


Yet  not  in  vam,  it  shall  not  be  in  vain.'  [food 

— Through  four  months'  space  the  Infant  drew  its 
From  the  maternal  breast.     Then  scruples  rose  ; 
Thoughts,  which  the  rich  are  free  from,  came  and 

cross' d 
The  sweet  affection.    She  no  more  could  be^ 
By  her  offence  to  lay  a  twofold  weight 
On  a  kind  parent,  willing  to  forget 
Their  slender  means  !     So,  to  that  parent's  care 
Trusting  her  child,  she  left  their  common  home, 
And  with  contented  spirit  undertook 
A  Foster-Mother's  office."— pp.  291—293. 

Here  the  parents  of  her  new  nursling  soon 
forbade  her  all  intercourse  with  her  own  most 
precious  child  ; — and  a  sudden  malady  carried 
it  off,  in  this  period  of  forced  desertion. 

*'  Once,  only  once. 

She  saw  it  in  that  mortal  malady  : 

And,  on  the  burial  day,  could  scarcely  gain 

Permission  to  attend  its  obsequies  ! 

She  reach'd  the  house — last  of  the  fun'ral  train; 

And  some  One,  as  she  enter'd,  having  chanc'd 

To  urge  unthinkingly  their  prompt  departure, 

'  Nay,'  said  she,  with  commanding  look,  a  spirit 

Of  anger  never  seen  in  her  before, 

'  Nay  ye  must  wait  my  time  1'  and  down  she  sate, 

And  by  the  unclos'd  coffin  kept  her  seat ; 

Weeping  and  looking,  looking  on  and  weeping 

Upon  the  last  sweet  slumber  of  her  Child  ! 

Until  at  length  her  soul  was  satisfied. 

You  see  the  Infant's  Grave ! — and  to  this  Spot, 
The  Mother,  oft  as  she  was  sent  abroad. 
And  whatsoe'er  the  errand,  urg'd  her  steps  : 
Hither  she  came  ;  and  here  she  stood,  or  knelt, 
In  the  broad  day — a  rueful  Magdalene  !" — p.  294. 

Overwhelmed  with  this  calamity,  she  was  at 
last  obhged  to  leave  her  service. 

"But  the  green  stalk  of  Ellen's  life  was  snapp'd. 
And  the  flower  droop' d  ;  as  every  eye  might  see.* 

"  Her  fond  maternal  Heart  had  built  a  Nest 
In  blindness  all  too  near  the  river's  edge  ; 
That  Work  a  summer  flood  with  hasty  swell 
Had  swept  away  !  and  now  her  spirit  long'd 
For  its  last  flight  to  Heaven's  security." 

"  —  Meek  Saint!   through  patience  glorified  on 

earth  ! 
In  whom,  as  by  her  lonely  hearth  she  sate, 
The  ghastly  face  of  cold  decay  put  on 
A  sun-Uke  beauty,  and  appear'd  divine  ; 
So,  through  the  cloud  of  death,  her  Spirit  pass'd 
Into  that  pure  and  unknown  world  of  love. 
Where  injury  cannot  come  : — and  here  is  laid 
The  mortal  Body  by  her  Infant's  side  !" 

pp.  296,  297. 

These  passages,  we  think,  are  among  the 
most  touching  with'which  the  volume  presenti 
us ;  thougKi  there  are  many  in  a  more  lofty 
and  impassioned  style.  The  following  com- 
memoration of  a  beautiful  and  glorious  youth, 
the  love  and  the  pride  of  the  humble  valley, 
is  full  of  warmth  and  j)oetry. 

"  The  mountain  Ash, 

Deck'd  with  autumnal  berries  that  outshine 
Spring's  richest  blossoms,  yields  a  splendid  show 
Amid  the  leafy  woods ;  and  yc  have  seen, 
By  a  brook  side  or  solitary  tarn, 
How  she  her  station  doth  adorn, — the  pool 
Glows  at  her  feet,  and  all  the  gloomy  rocks 
Are  brighten'd  round  her !     In  his  native  Vale 
Such  and  so  glorious  did  this  Youth  appear ; 
A  sight  that  kindled  pleasure  in  all  hearts, 
By  his  ingenuous  beauty,  by  the  gleam 
Of  his  fair  eyes,  by  his  capacious  brow, 
By  all  the  graces  with  which  nature's  hand 
Had  bounteously  array'd  him.    As  old  Bardc 


WORDSWORTH'S  EXCURSION. 


461 


Tell  in  their  idle  songs  of  wand'ring  Gods, 

Pan  or  Apollo,  veil'd  in  human  form  ; 

Yet,  like  the  sweet-breath'd  violet  of  the  shade, 

Discover'd  in  their  own  despite,  to  sense 

Of  Mortals,  (if  such  fables  without  blame 

May  find  chance-mention  on  this  sacred  ground,) 

So,  through  a  simple  rustic  garb's  disguise, 

In  him  reveal'd  a  Scholar's  genius  shone  ! 

And  so,  not  wholly  hidden  from  men's  sight, 

In  him  the  spirit  of  a  Hero  walk'd 

Our  unpretending  valley  !" — pp.  342,  343. 

This  is  lofty  and  energetic ; — but  Mr. 
Wordsworth  desceffdK,  "W^'e  cannot  think  very 
gracefnllyj  when  he  proceeds  to  describe  how 
the  quoit  whizzed  when  his  arm  launched  it 
— and  how  the  football  mounted  as  high  as  a 
lark,  at  the  touch  of  his  toe  _; — -neither  is  it 
a  suitable  catastrophej  for  one  so"  nobly  en- 
dowed^ to  catch  cold  by  standing  too  long  in 
the  river  washing  sheep,  and  die  of  spasms 
in  consequence. 

■  The  general  reflections  on  the  indiscrimi- 
nating  rapacity  of  death,  though,  by  no  means 
original  in  themselves,  and  expressed  \\\{\i 
ItJtrtJiOtd^a  rivalry  of  the  seven  ages  of  Shake- 
speare, have  yet  a  character  of  vigour  and 
truth  about  them  thareriliitres  them  to  notice. 

"  This  file  of  Infants  ;  some  that  never  breathed, 
And  the  besprinkl'd  Nursling,  unrequir'd 
Till  he  begins  to  smile  upon  the  breast 
That  feeds  him  ;  and  the  tott'ring  Little-one 
Taken  from  air  and  sunshine,  when  the  rose 
Of  Infancy  first  blooms  upon  his  cheek  ;       [Youth 
The   thinking,    thoughtless   Schoolboy ;    the  bold 
Of  soul  impetuous;  and  the  bashful  Maid 
Smitten  while  all  the  promises  of  life 
Are  op'ning  round  her  ;  those  of  middle  age, 
Cast  down  while  confident  in  strength  they  stand, 
Like  pillars  fix'd  more  firmly,  as  might  seem, 
And  more  secure,  by  very  weight  of  all 
That,  for  support,  rests  on  them ;  the  decay'd 
And  burthensome  ;  and,  lastly,  that  poor  few 
Whose  light  of  reason  is  with  a^e  extinct ; 
The  hopeful  and  the  hopeless,  first  and  last, 
The  earliest  summon'd  and  the  longest  spar'd, 
Are  here  deposhed ;  with  tribute  paid 
Various,  but  unto  each  some  tribute  paid  ; 
As  if,  amid  these  peaceful  hills  and  groves, 
Society  were  touch'd  with  kind  concern. 
And  gentle  "Nature  griev'd  that  One  should  die !" 

pp.  244,  245. 

There  is  a  lively  and  impressive  appeal  on 
the  injury  done  to  the  health,  happiness,  and 
morality  of  the  lower  orders,  by  the  unceas- 
ing and  premature  labours  of  our  crowded 
manufactories.  The  description  of  night-work- 
ing is  ^picturesque.  In  lonely  and  romantic 
regions,  he  says,  when  silence  and  darkness 
incline  all  to  repose — 

*'  An  unnatural  hght 

Prepar'd  for  never-resting  Labouf's  eyes. 

Breaks  from  a  many-window'd  Fabric  huge; 

And  at  the  appointed  hour  a  Bell  is  heard — 

Of  harsher  import  than  the  Curfew-knoll 

That  spake  the  Norman  Conqueror's  stern  behest. 

A  local  summons  to  unceasing  toil ! 

Disi^org'd  are  now  the  Ministers  of  day ; 

And,  as  they  issue  from  the  illumin'd  Pile, 

A  fresh  Band  meets  them,  at  the  crowded  door, — 

And  in   the   Courts  ; — and   where  the  rumbling 

That  turns  the  multitude  of  dizzy  wheels,    [Stream, 

Glares,  like  a  troubrd  Spirit,  in  its  bed 

Among  the  rocks  below.     Men,  Maidens,  Youths, 

Mother  and  httle  Children,  Boys  and  Girls, 

Enter,  and  each  the  wonted  task  resumes 

Within  thig  Temple — where  is  offer'd  up 


To  Gain — the  rnaster  Idol  of  the  Rtalm, 
Perpetual  sacrifice." — p,  367. 

The  effects  on  the  ordinary  life  of  the  pool 
are  delineated  in  graver  colours. 

' '  Domestic  bliss, 

(Or  call  it  comfort,  by  a  humbler  name,) 
How  art  thou  blighted  for  the  poor  Man's  heart! 
Lo  !  in  such  neighbourhood,  from  morn  to  eve, 
The  Habitations  empty  !  or  perchance 
The  Mother  left  alone, — no  helping  hand 
To  rock  the  cradle  of  her  peevish  babe  ; 
No  daughters  round  her,  busy  at  the  wheel, 
Or  in  despatch  of  each  day's  little  growth 
Of  household  occupation  ;  no  nice  arts 
Of  needle-work  ;  no  bustle  at  the  fire. 
Where  once  the  dinner  was  prepared  with  pride ; 
Nothing  to  speed  the  day  or  cheer  the  mind  ; 
Nothing  to  praise,  to  teach,  or  to  command  ! 
— The  leather,  if  perchance  he  still  retain 
His  old  employments,  goes  to  field  or  wood. 
No  longer  led  or  followed  by  his  Sons  ; 
Idlers  perchance  they  were, — but  in  his  sight ; 
Breathing  fresh  air,  and  treading  the  green  earth ; 
Till  their  short  holiday  of  childhood  ceas'd, 
Ne'er  to  return !     That  birth-right  now  is  lost." 

pp.  371,  372. 

The  dissertation  is  closed  with  an  ardent 
hope,  that  the  farther  improvement  and  the 
universal  diffusion  of  these  arts  may  take 
away  the  temptation  for  us  to  embark  so 
largely  in  their  cilltivation ;  and  that  we  may 
once  more  hold  out  inducements  for  the  re- 
turn of  old  manners  and  domestic  charities. 

"  Learning,  though  late,  that  all  true  glory  rests. 

All  praise,  all  safety,  and  all  happiness. 

Upon  the  Moral  laAV.     Egyptian  Thebes  ; 

Tyre  by  the  margin  of  the  sounding  waves  ; 

Palmyra,  central  in  the  Desert,  fell  I 

And  the  Arts  died  by  which  they  had  been  raised. 

— Call  Archimedes  from  his  buried  Tomb 

Upon  the  plain  of  vanish'd  Syracuse, 

And  feelingly  the  Sage  shall  make  report 

How  insecure,  how  baseless  in  itself. 

Is  that  Philosophy,  whose  sway  is  fram'd 

For  mere  material  instruments ; — How  weak 

Those  Arts,  and  high  Inventions,  if  unpropp'd 

By  Virtue."— p.  369. 

There  is  also  a  very  animated  exhortation 
to  the  more  general  diffusion  of  education 
among  the  lower  orders :  and  a  glowing  and 
eloquent  asserticm  of  their  capacity  for  all  vir- 
tues and  enjoyments. 

"  Believe  it  not ! 

The  primal  Duties  shine  aloft — like  stars  ; 
The  Charities  that  soothe,  and  heal,  and  bless, 
Are  scatter'd  at  the  feet  of  Man — Hke  flow'rs. 
The  gen'rous  inclination,  the  just  rule. 
Kind  wishes,  and  good  actions,  and  pure  thoughts- 
No  mystery  is  here  ;  no  special  boon 
For  high  and  not  for  low,  for  proudly  grac'd. 
And  not  for  meek  of  heart.     The  smoke  ascends 
To  heav'n  as  lightly  from  the  Cottage  hearth 
As  from  the  hailghty  palace." — p.  398. 

The  blessings  and  the  necessities  that  novf 
render  this  a  peculiar  duty  in  the  rulers  of 
this  empire,  are  urged  in  a  still  loftier  tone. 

"  Look  !  and  behold,  from  Calpe's  sunburnt  chfTa 
To  the  flat  margin  of  the  Baltic  acu, 
Long-reverenc'd  Titles  cast  away  as  weeds , 
Laws  overturn'd, — and  Territory  spUt; 
Like  fields  of  ice  rent  by  the  polar  wind. 
And  forc'd  to  join  in  less  obnoxious  shapes, 
Which,  ere  they  gain  consistence,  by  a  gust 
Of  the  same  breath  are  shatter'd  and  destroy'd. 
Meantime,  the  Sov'reignty  of  these  fair  Isles 


468 


POETRY. 


Remains  entire  and  indivisible  ; 

And,  if  that  ignorance  were  removM,  which  acta 

Within  the  compass  of  their  sev'ral  shores 

To  breed  commotion  and  disquietude, 

Each  might  preserve  the  beautiful  repose 

Of  heav'nly  bodies  shining  in  their  spheres. 

—The  discipline  of  slavery  is  unknown 

Amongst  us, — hence  the  more  do  we  require 

The  discipline  of  virtue  ;  order  else 

Cannot  subsist,  nor  confidence,  nor  peace." 

pp.  402,  403. 

There  is  a  good  deal  of  fine  description  in 
the  course  of  this  work:*Biit  we  haV6^  left 
ourselves  no  room  for  any  specimen.  The 
following  few  lines,  however,  are  a  fine  epit- 
ome of  a  lake  voyage  : — 

"  Right  across  the  Lake 

Our  pinnace  moves :  then,  coasting  creek  and  bay, 
Glades  we  behold — and  into  thickets  peep — 
Where  crouch  the  spotted  deer ;  of  raise  our  eyes 
To  shaggy  steeps  on  which  the  careless  goat 
Browsed  by  the  side  of  dashing  waterfalls." — p.  412. 

We  add,  also,  the  following  more  elaborate 
and  fantastic  picture — which,  however,  is  not 
without  its  beauty : — 

'*  Then  having  reach'd  a  bridge,  that  overarch'd 
The  hasty  rivulet  where  it  lay  becalm'd 
In  a  deep  pool,  by  happy  chance  we  saw 
A  twofold  Image.     On  a  grassy  bank 
A  snow-white  Ram,  and  in  the  crystal  flood 
Another  and  the  same  !     Most  beautiful, 
On  the  green  turf,  with  his  imperial  front 
Shaggy  and  bold,  and  wreathed  horns  superb, 
The  breathing  creature  stood!  as  beautiful, 
Beneath  him,  show'd  his  shadowy  Counterpart. 
Each  had  his  glowing  mountains,  each  his  sky, 
And  each  seem'd  centre  of  his  own  fair  world : 
Antipodes  unconscious  of  each  other. 
Yet,  in  partition,  with  their  several  spheres. 
Blended  in  perfect  stillness  to  our  sight !" — p.  407. 

Besides  those  more  extended  passages  of 

interest  or  beauty,  which  we  have  quoted, 

and  omitted  to  quote,  there  are  scattered  up 

and  down  the  book,  and  in  the  midst  of  its 

most  repulsive  portions,  a  very  great  number 

ofjingle  lines  and  images,  that  sparkle  like 

i  gems  in  the  desert,  and  startle  us  with  an  in- 

I  timation  of  the  great  poetic  powers  that  lie 

i  buried  in  the  rubbish  that  has  been  heaped 

*  around  them.     It  is  difficult  to  pick  up  these, 

after  we  have  once  passed  them  by ;  but  we 

shall  endeavour  to  light  upon  one  or  two.   The 

beneficial  effect  of  intervals  of  relaxation  and 

pastime  on  youthful  minds,  is  finely  expressed, 

we  think,  in  a  single  line,  when  it  is  said  to 

be — 

"  Like  vernal  ground  to  Sabbath  Bunshine  left." 

The  following  image  of  the  bursting  fortht  " 
of  a  mountain -spring,  seems  to  us  also  to  bp 
conceived  with  great  elegance  and  beauty. 

"  And  a  few  steps  may  bring  us  to  the  spot. 
Where  haply  crown'd  with  flow'rets  and  greeh 

herbs. 
The  Mountain  Infant  to  the  Sun  comes  forth, 
Like  human  light  from  darkness !" 

The  ameliorating  elfects  of  song  and  musi 
on  the  minds  which  most  delight  in  them,  ar^ 
likewise  very  poetically  expressed.  | 

"  And  when  the  stream  » 

Which  orerflow'd  the  soul  was  pass'd  away, 

A  consciouspess  remained  that  it  had  left,  / 


Deposited  upon  the  silent  shore 

Of  Memory,  images  and  precious  thoughis, 

That  shall  not  die,  and  cannot  be  destroy'd." 

Nor  is  any  thing  more  elegant  than  the 
representation  of  the  graceful  tran^tullity  oc- 
casionally put  on  by  one  of  the  author'* 
favourites;  who,  .hough  gay  and  airy,  in 
general — 

"  Was  graceful,  when  it  pleas'd  him,  smooth  and 

still 
As  the  mute  Swan  that  floats  adown  the  stream, 
Or  on  the  waters  of  th'  unruffled  lake 
Anchors  her  placid  beauty.     Not  a  leaf 
That  flutters  on  the  bough  more  light  than  he, 
And  not  a  flow'r  that  droops  in  the  green  shade 
More  willingly  reserv'd." 

Nor  are  there  wanting  morsels  of  a  sterner 
and  more  majestic  beauty  ]  as  when,  assuming 
the  weightier  diction  of  Cowper,  he  says,  in 
language  which  the  hearts  of  all  readers  of 
modern  history  must  have  responded — 

■"  Earth  is  sick. 

And  Heav'n  is  weary  of  the  hollow  words 

Which  States  and  Kingdom  utter  when  they  speak 

Of  Truth  and  Justice." 

These  examples,  we  perceive,  are  not  very 
well  chosen — but  we  have  not  leisure  to  im- 
prove the  selection  j  and,  such  as  they  are, 
they  may  serve  to  give  the  reader  a  notion  of 
the  sort  of  merit  which  we  meant  to  illustrate 
by  their  citation.     When  we  look  back  to 
them,  indeed,  and  to  the  other  passages  which  / 
we  have  now  extracted,  we  feel  half  inclined  ( 
to   rescind   the   severe   sentence   which  we    1 
passed  on  the  work  at  the  beginning : — But  / 
when  we  look  into  the  work  itself,  we  perceive^ 
that  it  cannot  be  rescinded.     Nobody  can  be 
more  disposed  to  do  justice  to  the  great  powers 
of  Mr.  Wordsworth  than  we  are ;  and,  from 
the  first  time  that  he  came  before  us,  down 
to  the  present  moment,  we  have  uniformly 
testified  in  their  favour,  and  assigned  indeed 
our  high  sense  of  their  value  as  the  chief 
ground  of  the  bitterness  with  which  we  re- 
sented their  perversion.      That  perversion, 

however,  is  now  far  more  visible  than  their 

original  dignity;  and  while  we  collect  the 
fragments,  it  is  impossible  not  to  mourn  ovei    ( 
the  ruins  from  which  we  are  condemned  to    ^ 
pick  them.     If  any  one  should  doubt  of  th^^ 
existence  of  such  a  perversion,  or  be  disposed 
to  dispute  about  the  instances  we  have  hastily 
brought  forward,  we  would  just  beg  leavejto 
refer  him  to  the  general  plan  and  character  of 
the  poem  now  before  us.     ^^'  "'      '  '  ^^^Lil- 
Word.'^miAtilna.Yajnaxlfi.bJfitog^^  ud.- 

ated^pe^r?    What  but  the  mo^i  uiciciU'- 
•alfectation,  of  provoking  perversity  of  tasi> 
could  induce  any  one  to  place'his  chosen -ad 
vocate  of  wisdom  and  virtue  in  so  absurd  andj 
fantastic  a  condition?    Did  Mr.  W^ordsworthl 
really  imagine,  that  his  favourite  doctrines^ 
were  likely  to  gain  any  thing  in  point  of  eff'ect 
or  authority  by  being  put  into  the  mouth  of  a 
person  accustomed  to  higgle  about  tape,  or 
brass  sleeve-buttons  ?    Or  is  it  not  plain  that, 
independent  of  the  ridicule  and  disgust  whroh  \ 
such  a  personification  must  excite  in  many  of  / 
his  readers,  its  adoption    exposes   his  work; 
throughout  to  the  charge  of  revolting^incpn- 


WORDSWORTH'S  WHITE  DOE. 


469 


J^ift  ahsi]rr]''ty  'n  this  case,  we  think,  is 
palpable  and  glaring :  but  itTS  exactly  of  the 
same  nature  wirhjthat  which  infects  the  Avfible 
luiBstance  oTIIJ^e  worR— a"f^^^  ambition 

or  one  sentiment  of  which  he  makes  him  thsi^of  singularity  engi-afted  oii"  an  unlucky  predi-' 
organ,  that  has  the  most  remote  reference  tq,  lection  fgr^ittli^iiis;  and  an  affected  passion 


gniily,  apftl  utter  disregard  of  probability  or 
■UcUimJL  iJOl',  JiAer  he" has  thus  wilfully  de- 
"DSsecI  his  moral  teacher  by  a  low  occupation, 
is  there  one  word  that  he  puts  into  his  mouth. 


for  simplicity  and   humble 'life,  most   avik-^^ 
Wctrdtiy. .  combined  with  a'  taste^or'TinyijUcar'*** 
refinernents,  and  all  the  gorgeouene^s-of-ob-   w*^ 
scure  phraseology.     His  taste  for  simplici:y 
is  evinced  by  sprinkling  up  and  down  his  in- 
terminable declamations  a  few  descriptions 
of  baby-houses,  and   of  old   hats  with  wet 


that  occupation?  Is  'there  any  thing  in  his. 
learned^  abstract^  and  logical  h'arangues,  that 
savours  of  the  calling  that  is  ascribed  to  him? 
Are  any  of  their  materials  such  as  a  pedlar 
could  p'ossibly  have  dealt  in?  Are  the  man- 
ners,'the  diction,  the  sentiments,  in  any,  the 
very  smallest  degree,  accommodated  to  a  per- 
son in  that  condition?  or  are  they  not  eminently  |  brims ;  and  his  amiable  partiality  for  humble 
and  conspicuously  such  as  could  not  by  possi-  |  life,  by  assuring  us  that  a  wordy  rhetorician, 
bility  belong  to  it?  A  man  who  went  about ;  who  talks  about  Thebes,  and  allegorizes  all 
selling  flannel  and  pocket-handkerchiefs  in  '  the  heathen  mythology,  was  once  a  pedlar— 
this  lofty  diction,  M'ould  soon  frighten  away !  and  making  him  break  in  upon  his  magnifi- 
all  his  customers ;  and  would  infallibly  pass  cent  orations  with  two  or  three  awkward  no- 
either  for  a  madman,  or  for  some  learned  and  I  tices  of  something  that  he  had  seen  when 
affected  gentleman,  who,  in  a  frolic,  had  taken  ;  selling  winter  raiment  about  the  country — or 
up  a  character  which  he  was  peculiarly  ill !  of  the  changes  in  the  state  of  society,  which 
qualified  for  supporting.  '  I  had  almost  annihilated  his  former  calling. 


(©itofacr,  1S15.) 


The  White  Doe  of  Rylstone ;  or  the  Fate  of  the  Nortons :  a  Poem.    By  William  Words- 
worth.    4to.  pp.  162.     London:  1815. 


j  This,  we  think,  has  the  merit  of  being  the 
I  very  worst  poem  we  ever  saw  imprinted  in  a 
/  quarto  volume  }  and  though  it  was  scarcely  to 
'  be  expected,  we  confess,  that  Mr.  Words- 
worth, with  all  his  ambition,  should  so  soon 
have  attained  to  that  distinction,  the  wonder 
may  perhaps  be  diminished  when  we  state, 
that  it  seems  to  us  to  consist  of  a  happy  union 
i  of  all  the  faults,  without  any  of  the  beauties, 
i  which  belong  to  his  school  of  poetry.  It  is 
just  such  a  work,  in  short,  as  some  wicked 
enemy  of  that  school  might  be  supposed  to 
have  devised,  on  purpose  to  make  it  ridicu- 
lous ;  and  when  we  first  took  it  up,  we  could 
not  help  suspecting  that  some  ill-natured 
critic  had  actually  taken  this  harsh  method 
of  instructing  Mr.  Wordsworth,  by  example, 
in  the  nature  of  those  errors,  against  which 
our  precepts  had  been  so  often  directed  in 
vain.  We  had  not  gone  far,  however,  till  we 
felt  intimately  that  nothing  in  the  nature  of  a 
joke  could  be  so  in  supportably  dull ; — and 
that  this  must  be  the  work  of  one  who  earn- 
estly believed  it  to  be  a  pattern  of  pathetic 
simplicity,  and  gave  it  out  as  such  to  the  ad- 
miration of  all  intelligent  readers.  In  this 
point  of  view,  the  work  may  be  regarded  as 
*  curious  at  least,  if  not  in  some  degree  inter- 
esting ;  and,  at  all  events,  it  must  be  instruc- 
tive to  be  made  aware  of  the  excesses  into 
which  superior  understandings  may  be  be- 
trayed, by  long  self-indulgence,  and  the 
strange  extravagances  into  which  they  may 
run,  when  under  the  influence  of  that  intoxi- 
cation which  is  produced  by  unrestrained 
admiration  of  themselves.  This  poetical  in- 
toxication, indeed,  to  pijrsue  the  figure  a  httle 


farther,  seems  capable  of  assuming  as  many 
forms  as  the  vulgar  one  which  arises  from 
wine ;  and  it  appears  to  require  as  delicate 
a  management  to  make  a  man  a  good  poet 
by  the  help  of  the  one,  as  to  make  him  a 
good  companion  by  means  of  the  other.  In 
both  cases,  a  little  mistake  as  to  the  dose  or 
the  quality  of  the  inspiring  fluid  may  make 
him  absolutely  outrageous,  or  lull  him  over 
into  the  most  profound  stupidity,  instead  of 
brightening  up  the  hidden  stores  of  his  genius : 
and  truly  we  are  concerned  to  say,  that  Mr. 
Wordsworth  seems  hitherto  to  have  been 
unlucky  in  the  choice  of  his  liquor — or  of  his 
bottle-holder.  In  some  of  his  odes  and  ethic 
exhortations,  he  was  exposed  to  the  public  in 
a  state  of  incoherent  rapture  and  glorious 
delirium,  to  w^hich  we  think  we  have  seen  a 
parallel  among  the  humbler  lovers  of  jollity. 
In  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  he  was  exhibited,  on 
the  whole,  in  a  vein  of  very  pretty  deliration  j  ^ 
but  in  the  poem  before  us,  he  appears  in  ai^ 
state  of  low  and  maudlin  imbecility,  which  Jr 
would  not  have  misbecome  Master  Silence  y 
himself,  in  the  close  of  a  social  day.  Whether  /^ 
this  unhappy  result  is  to  be  ascribed  to  any 
adulteration  of  his  Castalian  cups,  or  to  the 
unlucky  choice  of  his  company  over  them,  we 
cannot  presume  to  say.  It  may  be  that  he 
has  dashed  his  Hippocrene  with  too  large  an 
infusion  of  lake  water,  or  assisted  its  opera- 
tion too  exclusively  by  the  study  of  the  ancient 
historical  ballads  of  "the  north  countrie.'*  £ 
That  there  are  palpable  imitations  of  the  style  \ 
and  manner  of  those  venerable  compositions 
i  In  the  work  before  us,  is  indeed  undeniable  ; 
I  put  it  unfortunately  haiipens,  mat  whUe  th« 


t70 


POETRY. 


i 


f 


hobbling  versiiicationj  the  mean  diction,  and 
flat  stupidity  of  these  models  are  very  exactly 
copied,  and  even  improved  upon,  in  this  imi- 
tation, their  rude  energy,  manly  simplicity, 
and  oceasional  felicity  of  expression,  hare 
totally  disappeared  ;  and,  instead  of  them,  a 
large  allowance  of  the  author's  own  metaphy- 
sical sensibility,  and  mystical  wD'rdin^SS^ts 
~^'{ofced  TiVto' an  unnatural  combination  witTi' the 
borrowed  beauties  which  have  just  been  men- 
tioned. 

The  story  of  the  poem,  though  not  capable 
of  furnishing  out  matter  for  a  quarto  volume, 
might  yet  have  made  an  interesting  ballad ; 
and,  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Scott  or  Lord  Byron, 
would  probably  have  supplied  many  images 
to  be  loved,  and  descriptions  to  be  remem- 
bered. The  incidents  arise  out  of  the  short- 
lived Catholic  insurrection  of  the  Northern 
counties,  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  which  was 
supposed  to  be  connected  with  the  project  of 
marrv'ing  the  Queen  of  Scots  to  the  Duke  of 
Norfolk  ;  and  terminated  in  the  ruin  of  the 
Earls  of  Northumberland  and  Westmoreland, 
by  whom  it  was  chiefly  abetted.  Among  the 
victims  of  this  rash  enterprise  was  Richard 
Norton  of  Rylstone,  who  comes  to  the  array 
with  a  splendid  banner,  at  the  head  of  eight 
tall^ons,  but  against  the  will  and  advice  of  a 
ninth,  who,  though  he  refused  to  join  the  host, 
yet  follows  unarmed  in  its  rear,  out  of  anxiety 
for  the  fate  of  his  family;  and,  when  the 
father  and  his  gallant  progeny  are  made 
prisoners,  and  led  to  execution  at  York,  re- 
covers the  fatal  banner,  and  is  slain  by  a 
party  of  the  Queen's  horse  near  Bolton  Priory, 
in  which  place  he  had  been  ordered  to  de- 
posit it  by  the  dying  voice  of  his  father.  The 
stately  halls  and  pleasant  bowers  of  Rylstone 
are  then  wasted,  and  fall  into  desolation ; 
while  the  heroic  daughter,  and  only  survivor 
of  the  house,  is  sheltered  among  its  faithful 
retainers,  and  wanders  about  for  many  years 
in  its  neighbourhood,  accompanied  by  a  beau- 
tiful white  doe,  which  had  formerly  been  a 
pet  in  the  family ;  and  continues,  long  after 
the  death  of  this  sad  survivor,  to  repair 
every  Sunday  to  the  churchyard  of  Bolton 
Priory,  and  there  to  feed  and  wander  among 
the  graves,  to  the  wonder  and  delight  of  the 
rustic  congregation  that  came  there  to  wor- 
ship. 

This,  we  think,  is  a  pretty  subject  for  a 
ballad  ;  and,  in  the  author's  better  day,  m-ght 
have  made  a  lyrical  one  of  considerable  inter- 
est. Let  us  see,  however,  how  he  deals  with 
it,  since  he  has  bethought  him  of  pubhshing 
in  quarto. 

The  First  Canto  merely  contains  the  de- 
scription of  the  Doe  coming  into  the  church- 
yard on  Sunday,  and  of  the  congregation 
wondering  at  her.  She  is  described  as  being 
as  white  as  a  lily — or  the  moon — or  a  ship  in 
the  sunshine  ;  and  this  is  the  style  in  which 
,Mr.  Wordsworthjnarvels  and  moralises  about 
Uer  through  ten  quarfd'jJages. 

What  harmonious,  pensive  changes, 
Wait  upon  her  as  she  ranees 
Round  and  through  this  Pile  of  Stale, 
'Overthrown  and  desolate !" 


"  The  presence  of  this  wand'ring  Doe 
Fills  many  a  damp  obscure  recess 
With  lustre  of  a  saintly  show  ; 
And,  re-appearing,  she  no  less 
To  the  open  day  gives  blessedness." 

The  mothers  point  out  this  pretty  creature 
to  their  children  ;  and  tell  them  in.  sweet  nur 
sery  phrases — 


"  Now  you  have  seen  the  famous  Doe  ! 
From  Rylstone  she  hath  found  her  way 
Over  the  hills  this  Sabbath-day  ; 
Her  work,  whate'er  it  be,  is  done, 
And  she  will  depart  when  we  are  gone. 

The  poet  knows  why  she  comes  there,  and 
thinks  the  people  may  know  it  too  :  But  some 
of  them  think  she  is  a  new  incarnation  of 
some  of  the  illustrious  dead  that  lie  buried 
around  them;  and  one,  who  it  seems  is  an 
Oxford  scholar,  conjectures  that  she  may  be 
the  fairy  who  instructed  Lord  Cliflbrd  in 
astrology"!  an  ingenious  fancy,  which  the 
poet  thus  gently  reproveth — 

"  Ah,  pensive  scholar  !  think  not  so! 
But  look  again  at  the  radiant  Doe !" 

And  then  closes  the  Canto  with  this  natural 
and  luminous  apostrophe  to  hisjiarp7  "' 

"  But,  harp  !  tTiy  mUrrmrrs  may  not  cease, — 
Thou  hast  breeze-like  visitings  ; 
For  a  Spirit  with  angel- wings 
Hath  touch'd  thee,  and  a  Spirit's  hand : 
A  voice  is  with  us — a  command 
To  chant,  in  strains  of  heavenly  glory, 
A  tale  of  tears,  a  mortal  story  I" 

The  Second  Canto  is  more  full  of  business ; 
and  affords  us  more  insight  into  the  author's 
manner  of  conducting  a  story.  The  opening, 
however,  M'hich  goes  back  to  the  bright  and 
original  conception  of  the  harp,  is  not  quitiB . 
60  intelligible  as  might  have  been  desired. 

"  The  Harp  iTTlowTriTess  otey'd : 
And  first  we  sang  of  the  green-wood  shade  ;, 
And  a  solitary  Maid  ! 
Beginning,  where  the  song  must  end, 
With  her,  and  with  her  sylvan  Friend ; 
The  friend,  who  stood  before  her  sight, 
Her  only  unextinguish'd  light, — 
Her  last  companion  in  a  dearth 
Of  love,  upon  a  hopeless  earth." 

This  solitary  maid,  we  are  then  told,  had 
wrought,  at  the  request  of  her  father,  "an 
unblessed  work" — 

"  A  Banner — one  that  did  fulfil 
Too  perfectly  his  headstrong  will : 
For  on  this  Banner  had  her  hand 
Embroider'd  (such  was  the  command) 
The  Sacred  Cross  ;  and  figur'd  there 
The  five  dear  wounds  our  Lord  did  bear." 

The  song  then  proceeds  to  describe  the 
rising  of  Northumberland  and  Westmoreland; 
ia„the  following  lofty  and  spirited  strains :--  \ 

"  Two  earls  fast  leagu'Xin  discontent. 
Who  gave  their  wishes  open  vent ; 
And  boldly  urg'd  a  general  plea, 
The  rites  of  ancient  piety 
To  be  by  force  of  arms  renew'd  ; 
Glad  prospect  for  the  multitude ! 
And  that  same  Banner,  on  whose  breast 
The  blameless  Lady  had  exprest, 
Memorials  chosen  to  give  life. 
And  sunshine  to  a  dangerous  strife ; 
This  Banner,"  A-c 


WORDSWORTH'S  WHITE  DOE. 


4?1 


The  poet,  however,  puts  out  all  his  strength 
in  the  dehortation  which  he  makes  Francis 
Norton  address  to  his  father,  when  the  prepa- 
rations are  completed,  and  the  household  is 
ready  to  take  the  field. 

"  Francis  Norton  said, 

'  O  Father  !  rise  not  in  this  fray — 

The  hairs  are  white  upon  your  head ; 

Dear  Father,  hear  me  when  I  say 

It  is  for  you  too  late  a  day  I 

Bethink  you  of  your  own  good  name ; 

A  just  and  gracious  queen  have  we, 

A  pure  rehgion,  and  the  claim 

Of  peace  on  our  humanity. 

'Tis  meet  that  I  endure  your  scorn, — 

I  am  your  son,  your  eldest  born  ; 

The  Banner  touch  not,  stay  your  hand, — 

This  multitude  of  men  disband. 

And  hve  at  home  in  blissful  ease.'  " 

The  warlike  father  makes  no  answer  to  this 
exquisite  address,  but  turns  in  silent  scorn  to 
the  banner, 

"  And  his  wet  eyes  are  glorified  ;" 

and  forthwith  he  marches  out,  at  the  head  of 
his  sons  and  retainers. 

Francis  is  very  sad  when  thus  left  alone  in 
the  mansion — and  still  worse  when  he  sees 
his  sister  sitting  under  a  tree  near  the  door. 
However,  though  "he  cannot  choose  but 
shrink  and  sigh,"  he  goes  up  to  her  and  says, 

'*  '  Gone  are  they, — they  have  their  desire  ; 
And  I  with  thee  one  hour  will  stay, 
To  give  thee  comfort  if  I  may,' 

He  paused,  her  silence  to  partake. 
And  long  it  was  before  he  spake  : 
Then,  all  at  onc&,'his  thoughts  turii'd  round, 
And  fervent  words  a  passage  found. 

'  Gone  are  they,  bravely,  though  misled, 
With  a  dear  Father  at  their  head ! 
The  Sons  obey  a  natural  lord ; 
The  Father  had  given  solemn  word 
To  noble  Percy, — and  a  force 
Still  stronger  bends  him  to  his  course. 
This  said,  our  tears  to-day  may  fall* 
As  at  an  innocent  funeral. 
In  deep  and  awful  channel  runs 
This  sympathy  of  Sire  and  Sons  ; 
Untried  our  Brothers  were  belov'd. 
And  now  their  faithfulness  is  prov'd  ; 
For  faithful  we  must  call  them,  bearing 
That  soul  of  conscientious  daring.'  " 

After  a  great  deal  more,  as  touching  and 
sensible,  he  applies  himself  more  directly  to 
the  unhappy  case  of  his  hearer — whom  he 
thus  judiciously  comforts  and  flatters : 

"  Hope  nothing,  if  I  thus  may  speak 
To  thee  a  woman,  and  thence  weak ; 
Hope  nothing,  I  repeat ;  for  we 
Are  doon^'d  to  perish  utterly  ; 
'Tis  meet  that  thou  with  me  divide 
The  thought  while  I  am  by  thy  side. 
Acknowledging  a  grace  in  this, 
A  comfort  in  the  dark  abyss  : 
But  look  not  for  me  when  I  am  gone, 
And  be  no  farther  wrought  upon. 
Farewell  all  wishes,  all  debate. 
All  prayers  for  this  cause,  or  for  that ! 
Weep,  if  that  aid  thee  ;  but  depend 
Upon  no  help  of  outward  friend  ; 
Espouse  thy  doom  at  once,  and  cleave 
To  fortitude  without  reprieve.'''' 

It  is  impossible,  however,  to  go  regularly  on 
with  this  goodly  matter. — The  Third  Canto 
brings  the  Nortons  and  their  banner  to  the 


head  quarters  of  the  insurgent  Earls ;  and  de- 
scribes the  first  exploits  of  those  conscientioui 
warriors;  who  took  possession  of  the  Cathe 
dral  of  Durham, 

"  Sang  Mass, — and  tore  the  book  of  Prayer,- 
And  trod  the  Bible  beneath  their  feet." 

Elated  by  this  triumph,  they  turn  to  the 
south. 

"  To  London  were  the  Chieftains  bent: 
But  what  avails  the  bold  intent  ? 
A  Royal  army  is  gone  forth 
To  quell  the  Rising  of  the  North  ; 
They  march  with  Dudley  at  their  head, 
And  in  seven  days'  space,  will  to  York  be  led  !— 
And  Neville  was  opprest  with  fear ; 
For,  though  he  bore  a  valiant  name, 
His  heart  was  of  a  timid  frame." 

So  they  agree  to  march  back  again ;  at  which 
old  Norton  is  sorely  afilicted — and  Francis 
takes  the  opportnity  to  renew  his  dehortations 
— but  is  again  repulsed  with  scorn,  and  falls 
back  to  his  station  in  the  rear. 

The  Fourth  Canto  shows  Emily  walking  by 
the  fish  ponds  and  arbours  of  Ryl  stone,  iii  a 
fine  moonshiny  night,  with  her  favourite  white 
Doe  not  far  oft\ 

"  Yet  the  meek  Creature  was  not  free, 
Erewhile,  from  some  'perplexity: 
For  thrice  hath  she  approach'd,  this  day# 
The  thought-bewilder'd  Emily." 

However,  they  are  tolerably  reconciled  that 
evening;  and  by  and  by,  just  a  few  minutes 
after  nine,  an  old  retainer  of  the  house  comes 
to  comfort  her,  and  is  sent  to  follow  the  host 
and  bring  back  tidings  of  their  success. — The 
worthy  yeoman  sets  out  with  great  alacrity; 
but  not  having  much  hope,  it  would  appear, 
of  the  cause,  says  to  himself  as  he  goes, 

Grant  that  the  moon  which  shines  this  night, 


May  guide  them  in  a  prudent  flight 


-p.  75. 


Things  however  had  already  come  to  a  still 
worse  issue — as  the  poet  very  briefly  and  in- 
geniously intimates  in  the  following  fine  lines  : 

"  Their  flight  the  fair  moon  may  not  see  ; 
For,  from  mid-heaven,  already  she 
Hath  witness'd  their  captivity  !"" — p.  75. 

They  had  made  a  rash  assault,  it  seems,  on 
Barnard  Castle,  and  had  been  all  'made  prison- 
ers, and  forwarded  to  York  for  trial. 

The  Fifth  Canto  shows  us  Emily  watching 
on  a  commanding  height  for  the  return  of  her 
faithful  messenger;  who  accordingly  arrives 
forthwith,  and  tells,  'as  gently  as  could  be,' 
the  unhappy  catastrophe  which  he  had  come 
soon  enough  to  witness.  The  only  comfort  he 
can  offer  is,  that  Francis  is  still  alive. 

"  To  take  his  life  they  have  not  dar'd. 
On  him  and  on  his  high  endeavour 
The  hght  of  praise  shall  ghine  for  ever ! 
Nor  did  he  (such  Heaven's  will)  in  vain 
His  solitary  course  maintain  ; 
Nor  vainly  struggled  in  the  might 
Of  duty  seeing  with  clear  sight." — p  85. 

He  then  tells  how  the  father  and  his  eight 
sons  were  led  out  to  execution ;  and  how 
Francis,  at  his  father's  request,  took  then 
banner,  and  promised  to  bring  it  back  to  Bol 
ton  Piiory. 


472 


POETRY. 


) 


The  Sixth  Canto  opens  with  the  homeward 
pilgrimage  of  this  unhappy  youth }  and  there 
is  something  so  truly  forlorn  and  tragical  in 
his  situation,  that  we  should  really  have 
thought  it  diihcult  to  have  given  an  account 
of  it  without  exciting  some  degree  of  interest 
or  emotion^  Mr.  Wordsworth,  however,  re- 
serves all  Kls  pathos  for  describing  the  white- 
ness of  the  pet  doe,  and  disserting  about  her 
perplexities,  and  her  high  communion,  and 
participation  of  Heaven's  grace; — and  deals 
m  this  sort  with  the  orphan  son,  turning  from 
the  bloody  scaffold  of  all  his  line,  with  their 
luckless  banner  in  his  hand. 

"  He  look'd  about  like  one  betray'd  ; 
What  hath  he  done  ?  what  promise  made  ? 
Oh  weak,  weak  moment !  to  what  end 
Can  such  a  vain  oblation  tend, 
And  he  the  Bearer  ? — Can  he  go 
Carrying  this  instrument  of  woe, 
And  find,  find  any  where,  a  right 
To  excuse  him  in  his  Country's  sight? 
No,  will  not  all  Men  deem  the  change 
A  downward  course  ?  perverse  and  strange  ? 
Here  is  it, — but  how,  when  ?  must  she. 
The  unoffending  Emily 
Again  this  piteous  object  see  ? 

Such  conflict  long  did  he  maintain 
Within  himself,  and  found  no  rest ; 
Calm  liberty  he  could  not  gain  ; 
And  yet  the  service  was  unblest. 
His  own  life  into  danger  brought 
By  this  sad  burden — even  that  thought 
Rais'd  self- suspicion,  which  was  strong, 
Swaying  the  brave  Man  to  his  wrong : 
And  how,  unless  it  were  the  sense 
Of  all-disposing  Providence, 
Its  will  intelligibly  shown, 
Finds  he  the  Banner  in  his  hand. 
Without  a  thought  to  such  intent  ?" 

pp.  99,  100. 

His  death  is  not  much  less  pathetic.  A 
troop  of  the  Queen's  horse  surround  him,  and 
reproach  him.  we  must  confess  w^ith  some 
plausibility,  with  having  kept  his  hands  un- 
armed, only  from  dread  of  death  and  forfeit- 
ure, while  he  was  all  the  while  a  traitor  in 
his  heart.  The  sage  Francis  answers  the 
insolent  troopers  as  follows : — 

"  *  I  am  no  traitor,'  Francis  said, 

'  Though  this  unhappy  freight  I  bear ; 
It  weakens  me  ;  my  heart  hath  bled 
Till  it  is  weak — but  you  beware. 
Nor  do  a  suffering  Spirit  wrong. 
Whose  self-reproaches  are  too  strong  !" 

p.  103. 

This  virtuous  and  reasonable  person,  how- 
ever, has  ill  luck  in  all  his  dissuasories ;  for 
one  of  the  horsemen  puts  a  pike  into  him 
without  more  ado — and 

'•  There  did  he  lie  of  breath  forsaken  !" 

And  after  some  time  the  neighbouring  peas- 
«nis  take  him  up,  and  bury  him  in  the  church- 
yard of  Bolton  Priory. 

The  Seventh  and  last  Canto  contains  the 
aistory  of  the  desolated  Emily  and  her  faith- 


ful doe;  but  so  very  discreetly  and  cautiously 
written.<that  we  \yill  engage  that  the  most 
tender-nearted  read&t,sliall  peruse  it  without 
the  least  risk  of  any  excessive  emotion .  The 
poor  lady  runs  about  indeed  for  some  years  in 
a  very  disconsolate  way,  in  a  worsted  gow 
and  flannel  nightcap :  But  at  last  the  old  white 
doe  finds  her  out,  and  takes  again  to  following 
her — whereupon  Mr.  Wordsworth  breaks  out 
into  this  fine  and  natural  rapture. 

"  Oh,  moment  ever  blest !     O  Pair  ! 
Belov'd  of  Heaven,  Heaven's  choicest  care ! 
This  was  for  you  a  precious  greeting, — 
For  both  a  bounteous,  fruitful  meeting. 
Join'd  are  they  ;  and  the  sylvan  Doe 
Can  she  depart  ?  can  she  forego 
The  Lady,  once  her  playful  Peer? 

"  That  day,  the  first  of  a  reunion 
Which  was  to  teem  with  high  communion, 
That  day  of  balmy  April  weather, 
They  tarried  in  the  wood  together." 

pp.  117,  118. 

What  follows  is  not  quite  so  intelligible. 

"  When  Emily  by  morning  light 
Went  forth,  the  Doe  was  there  in  sight. 
She  shrunk  : — with  one  frail  shock  of  pain, 
Received  and  followed  by  a  prayer, 
Did  she  behold — saw  once  again  ; 
Shun  will  she  not,  she  feels,  will  bear ; — 
But  wheresoever  she  look'd  round 
All  now  was  trouble-haunted  ground." — p.ll9. 

It  certainly  is  not  easy  to  guess  what  could 
be  in  the  mind  of  the  author,  when  he  penned 
these  four  last  inconceivable  lines;  but  we 
are  willing  to  infer  that  the  lady's  loneliness 
was  cheered  by  this  mute  associate ;  and  that 
the  doe,  in  return,  found  a  certain  comfort  in 
the  lady's  company — 

**  Communication,  hke  the  ray 
Of  a  new  morning,  to  the  nature 
And  prospects  of  the  inferior  Creature  !" 

p.  126. 

In  due  time  the  poor  lady  dies,  and  is 
buried  beside  her  mother ;  and  the  doe  con- 
tinues to  haunt  the  places  which  they  had 
frequented  together,  and  especially  to  come 
and  pasture  every  Sunday  upon  the  fine  grass 
in  Bolton  churchyard,  the  gate  of  which  is 
never  opened  but  on  occasion  of  the  weekly 
service. — In  consequence  of  all  which,  we  are 
assured  by  Mr.  Wordsworth,  that  she  'is  ap- 
proved by  Earth  and  Sky,  in  their  benignity;' 
and  moreover,  that  the  old  Priory  itself  takes 
her  for  a  daughter  of  the  Eternal  Prime — 
which  we  have  no  doubt  is  a  very  great  com- 
pliment, though  we  have  not  the  good  luck  tn 
understafrd  ^hat  it  ihearnsr      '""—"- 

"  And  aye,  methinks,  this  hoary  Pile, 
Subdued  by  outrage  and  decay, 
Jjooks  down  upon  her  with  a  smile, 
A  gracious  smile,  that  seems  to  say, 
'  Thou,  thou  art  not  a  Child  of  Time, 
But  Daughter  of  the  Eternal  Prime  !    * 


'D 


HEMANS'  POEMS. 


473 


(®€tober,  1829.; 


1.  Records  of  Women:   with  other  Poems.     By  Felicia  Hemans.     2d  Edition.     12ma 

pp.323.     Edinburgh:  1828. 

2    The  Forest  Sanctuary:   with  other  Poems.     By  Felicia  Hemans.     2d  Edition,   with 
Additions.     12mo.  pp.  325.     Edinburgh:  1829. 


Women,  we  fear,  cannot  do  every  thing; 
nor  even  every  thing  they  attempt.  But  what 
they  can  do,  they  do,  for  the  most  part,  excel- 
lently— and  much  more  frequently  with  an 
absolute  and  perfect  success,  than  the  aspir- 
ants of  our  rougher  and  more  ambitious  sex. 
They  cannot,  we  think,  represent  naturally  the 
fierce  and  sullen  passions  of  men — nor  their 
coarser  vices — nor  even  scenes  of  actual  busi- 
ness or  contention — nor  the  mixed  motives, 
and  strong  and  faulty  characters,  by  which 
affairs  of  moment  are  usually  conducted  on 
the  great  theatre  of  the  world.  For  much 
of  this  they  are  disqualified  by  the  delicacy 
of  their  training  and  habits,  and  the  still  more 
disabling  delicacy  which  pervades  their  con- 
ceptions and  feelings ;  and  from  much  they 
are  excluded  by  their  necessary  inexperience 
of  the  realities  they  might  wish  to  describe — 
by  their  substantial  and  incurable  ignorance 
of  business — of  the  way  in  which  serious 
affairs  are  actually  managed — and  the  true 
nature  of  the  agents  and  impulses  that  give 
movement  and  direction  to  the  stronger  cur- 
rents of  ordinary  life.  Perhaps  they  are  also 
incapable  of  long  moral  or  political  investiga- 
tions, where  many  complex  and  indeterminate 
elements  are  to  be  taken  into  account,  and  a 
variety  of  opposite  probabilities  to  be  weighed 
before  coming  to  a  conclusion.  They  are 
generally  too  impatient  to  get  at  the  ultimate 
results,  to  go  well  through  with  such  discus- 
sions ;  and  either  stop  short  at  some  imper- 
fect view  of  the  truth,  or  turn  aside  to  repose 
in  the  shade  of  some  plausible  error.  This, 
however,  we  are  persuaded,  arises  entirely 
from  their  being  seldom  set  on  such  tedious 
tasks.  Their  proper  and  natural  business  is 
the  practical  regulation  of  private  life,  in  all 
its  bearings,  affections,  and  concerns ;  and  the 
questions  with  which  they  have  to  deal  in 
that  most  important  department,  though  often 
of  the  utmost  difficulty  and  nicety,  involve, 
for  the  most  part,  but  few  elements ;  and  may 
generally  be  better  described  as  delicate  than 
intricate ; — requiring  for  their  solution  rather 
a  quick  tact  and  fine  perception,  than  a  pa- 
tient or  laborious  examination.  For  the  same 
reason,  they  rarely  succeed  in  long  works, 
even  on  subjects  the  best  suited  to  their  ge- 
nius ;  their  natural  training  rendering  them 
equally  averse  to  long  doubt  and  Ibng  labour. 

For  all  other  intellectual  efforts,  however, 
either  of  the  understanding  or  the  fancy,  and 
requiring  a  thorough  knowledge  either  of 
man's  strength  or  his  weakness,  we  appre- 
hend them  to  be,  in  all  respects,  as  well  quali- 
fied as  theii  brethren  of  the  stronger  sex: 


While,  in  their  perceptions  of  grace,  propri- 
ety, ridicule — their  power  of  detecting  arti- 
fice, hypocrisy,  and  affectation — the  force  and 
promptitude  of  their  sympathy,  and  their  ca- 
pacity of  noble  and  devoted  attachment,  and 
of  the  efforts  and  sacrifices  it  may  require, 
they  are,  beyond  all  doubt,  our  Superiors. 

Their  business  being,  as  we  have  said,  with 
actual  or  social  life,  and  the  colours  it  receives 
from  the  conduct  and  dispositions  of  individ- 
uals, they  unconsciously  acquire,  at  a  very 
early  age,  the  finest  perception  of  character 
and  manners,  and  are  almost  as  soon  instinct- 
ively schooled  in  the  deep  and  more  danger- 
ous learning  of  feeling  and  emotion ;  while 
the  very  minuteness  with  which  they  make 
and  meditate  on  these  interesting  observa- 
tions, and  the  finer  shades  and  variations  of 
sentiment  which  are  thus  treasured  and  re- 
corded, trains  their  whole  faculties  to  a  nicety 
and  precision  of  operation,  which  often  dis- 
closes itself  to  advantage  in  their  application 
to  studies  of  a  different  character.  When 
women,  accordingly,  have  turned  their  minds 
— as  they  have  done  but  too  seldom — to  the 
exposition  or  arrangement  of  any  branch  of 
knowledge,  they  have  commonly  exhibited, 
we  think,  a  more  beautiful  accuracy,  and  a 
more  uniform  and  complete  justness  of  think 
ing,  than  their  less  discriminating  brethren. 
There  is  a  finish  and  completeness,  in  short, 
about  every  thing  they  put  out  of  their  hands, 
which  indicates  not  only  an  inherent  taste  for 
elegance  and  neatness,  but  a  habit  of  nice 
observation,  and  singular  exactness  of  judg- 
ment. 

It  has  been  so  little  the  fashion,  at  any 
time,  to  encourage  women  to  write  for  publi 
cation,  that  it  is  more  difficult  than  it  should 
be,  to  prove  these  truths  by  examples.  Yet 
there  are  enough,  within  the  reach  of  a  very 
careless  and  superficial  glance  over  the  open 
field  of  literature,  to  enable  us  to  explain,  at 
least,  and  illustrate,  if  not  entirely  to  verify, 
our  assertions.  No  Man,  we  will  venture  to 
say,  could  have  written  the  Letters  of  Madame 
de  Sevigne,  or  the  Novels  of  Miss  Austin,  or 
the  Hymns  and  Early  Lessons  of  Mrs.  Bar- 
bauld,  or  the  Conversations  of  Mrs.  Marcet. 
Those  performances,  too,  are  not  only  essen- 
tially and  intensely  feminine  ;  but  they  are, 
in  our  judgment,  decidedly  more  perfect  than 
any  masculine  productions  with  which  they 
can  be  brought  into  comparison.  They  ac- 
complish more  completely  all  the  ends  at 
which  they  aim ;  and  are  worked  out  with  a 
gracefulness  and  felicity  of  execution  which 
excludes  all  idea  of  failure,  and  entirely  sutia- 


474 


POETRV. 


fies  the  expectations  they  may  have  raised. 
We  might  easily  have  added  to  these  in- 
Btances.  There  are  many  parts  of  Miss  Edge- 
worth's  earher  stories,  and  of  Miss  Mitford's 
sketches  and  descriptions,  and  not  a  Httle  of 
Mrs.  Opie's,  that  exhibit  the  same  fine  and 
penetrating  spirit  of  observation,  the  same 
softness  and  dehcacy  of  hand,  and  unerring 
truth  of  delineation,  to  which  we  have  allud- 
ed as  characterising  the  purer  specimens  of 
female  art.  The  same  distinguishing  traits  of 
woman^s  spirit  are  visible  through  the  grief 
and  piety  of  Lady  Russel,  and  the  gaiety,  the 
spite,  and  the  venturesomeness  of  Lady  Mary 
Wortley.  We  have  not  as  yet  much  female 
poetry ;  but  there  is  a  truly  feminine  tender- 
ness, purity,  and  elegance,  in  the  Psyche  of 
Mrs.  Tighe,  and  in  some  of  the  smaller  pieces 
of  Lady  Craven.  On  some  of  the  works  of 
Madame  de  Stael — her  Corinne  especially — 
there  is  a  still  deeper  stamp  of  the  genius  of 
her  sex.  Her  pictures  of  its  boundless  de- 
votedness— ^its  depth  and  capacity  of  suffering 
— its  high  aspirations — its  painful  irritability, 
and  inextinguishable  thirst  for  emotion,  are 
powerful  specimens  of  that  morbid  anatomy 
of  the  heart,  which  no  hand  but  that  of  a  wo- 
man's was  fine  enough  to  have  laid  open,  or 
skilful  enough  to  have  recommended  to  our 
sympathy  and  love.  There  is  the  same  ex- 
quisite and  inimitable  delicacy,  if  not  the 
same  pOwer,  in  many  of  the  happier  passages 
of  Madame  de  Souza  and  Madame  Cottin — to 
say  nothing  of  the  more  lively  and  yet  melan- 
choly records  of  Madame  de  Stael,  during  her 
long  penance  in  the  court  of  the  Duchesse  de 
Maine. 

But  we  are  preluding  too  largely ;  and  must 
come  at  once  to  the  point,  to  which  the  very 
heading  of  this  article  has  already  admonish- 
ed the  most  careless  of  our  readers  that  we 
are  tending.  We  think  the  poetry  of  Mrs. 
Hemans  a  fine  exemplification  of  Female 
Poetry — and  we  think  it  has  much  of  the  per- 
fection which  we  have  ventured  to  ascribe  to 
the  happier  productions  of  female  genius. 

It  may  not  be  the  best  imaginable  poetry, 
and  may  not  indicate  the  very  highest  or  most 
commanding  genius ;  but  it  embraces  a  great 
deal  of  that  which  gives  the  very  best  poetry 
its  chief  power  of  pleasing ;  and  would  strike 
us,  perhaps,  as  more  impassioned  and  exalt- 
ed, if  it  were  not  regulated  and  harmonised 
by  the  most  beautiful  taste.  It  is  singularly 
sweet,  elegant,  and  tender — touching,  per- 
haps, and  contemplative,  rather  than  vehe- 
ment and  overpowering ;  and  not  only  finished 
throughout  with  an  exquisite  delicacy,  and 
even  severity  of  execution,  but  informed  with 
a  purity  and  loftiness  of  feeling,  and  a  certain 
sober  and  humble  tone  of  indulgence  and 
piety,  which  must  satisfy  all  judgments,  and 
allay  the  apprehensions  of  those  who  are  most 
afraid  of  the  passionate  exaggerations  of  poetry. 
The  diction  is  always  beautiful,  harmonious, 
and  free  —and  the  themes,  though  of  great 
variety,  uniformly  treated  with  a  grace,  orig- 
inality and  judgment,  which  mark  the  same 
master  hand.  These  themes  she  has  occa- 
•ionally  borrowed,  with  the  peculiar  imagery 


that  belongs  to  them,  from  the  legends  of  dif- 
ferent  nations,  and  the  most  opposite  states  of 
society  ]  and  has  contrived  to  re  '.ain  much  of 
what  is  interesting  and  peculiar  in  each  of  them, 
without  adopting,  along  with  it,  any  of  the 
revolting  or  extravagant  excesses  which  may 
characterise  the  taste  or  manners  of  the  people 
or  the  age  from  which  it  has  been  derived. 
She  has  transfused  into  her  German  or  Scan- 
dinavian legends  the  imaginative  and  daring 
tone  of  the  originals,  without  the  mystical 
exaggerations  of  the  one,  or  the  painful  fierce- 
ness and  coarseness  of  the  other — she  has 
preserved  the  clearness  and  elegance  of  the 
French,  without  their  coldness  or  affectation 
— and  the  tenderness  and  simplicity  of  the 
early  Italians,  without  their  diffuseness  or 
langour.  Though  occasionally  expatiating, 
somewhat  fondly  and  at  large,  among  the 
sweets  of  her  own  planting,  there  is,  on  the 
Avhole,  a  great  condensation  and  brevity  in 
most  of  her  pieces,  and,  almost  without  ex- 
ception, a  most  judicious  and  vigorous  con- 
clusion. The  great  merit,  however,  of  her 
poetry,  is  undoubtedly  in  its  tenderness  and 
its  beautiful  imagery.  The  first  requires  no 
explanation ;  but  we  must  be  allowed  to  add 
a  word  as  to  the  peculiar  charm  and  character 
of  the  latter. 

/  It  has  always  been  our  opinion,  that  the 
'very  essence  of  poetry — apart  from  the  pathos, 
the  wit,  or  the  brilliant  description  w^hich 
may  be  embodied  in  it,  but  may  exist  equally 
in  prose — consists  in  the  fine  perception  and  '\ 
vivid  expression  of  that  subtle  and  mysterious  ^ 
Analogy  which  exists  between  the  physical 
and  the  moral  world — which  makes  outward  ' 
things  and  qualities  the  natural  types  and  em-  • 
blems  of  inward  gifts  and  emotions,  or  leads 
us  to  ascribe  life  and  sentiment  to  every  thing 
that  interests  us  in  the  aspects  of  external  / 
nature.  The  feeling  of  this  analogy,  obscure 
and  inexplicable  as  the  theory  of  it  maybe,  is 
so  deep  and  universal  in  our  nature,  that  it 
has  stamped  itself  on  the  ordinary  language 
of  men  of  every  kindred  and  speech:  and 
that  to  such  an  extent,  that  one  half  of  the 
epithets  by  which  we  familiarly  designate 
moral  and  physical  qualities,  are  in  reality  so 
many  metaphors,  borrowed  reciprocally,  upon 
this  analogy,  from  those  opposite  forms  of 
existence.  The  very  familiarity,  however,  of 
the  expression,  in  these  instances,  takes  away 
its  poetical  effect — and  indeed,  in  substance, 
its  metaphorical  character.  The  original  sense 
of  the  word  is  entirely  forgotten  in  the  deriva- 
tive one  to  which  it  has  succeeded;  and  it 
requires  some  etymological  recollection  to 
convince  us  that  it  was  originally  nothing  else 
than  a  typical  or  analogical  illustration.  Thus 
we  talk  of  a  sparkling  wit,  and  a  furious  blast 
—a  weighty  argument,  and  a  gentle  stream 
— without  being  at  all  aware  that  we  are 
speaking  in  the  language  of  poetry,  and  trans- 
ferring qualities  from  one  extremity  of  the 
sphere  of  being  to  another.  In  these  cases, 
accordingly,  the  metaphor,  by  ceasing  to  be 
felt,  in  reality  ceases  to  exist,  and  the  analogy 
being  no  longer  intimated,  of  course  can  pro- 
duce no  effect.   But  whenever  it  is  intimated, 


HEMANS'  POEMS. 


475 


A 


It.  does  produce  an  effect ',  and  that  effect  we 

Ihink  IS  poetry. 

It  has  substantially  two  functions,  and  ope- 
rates in  two  directions.  In  the  Jirst  place, 
iwnen  material  qualities  are  ascribed  to  mind, 
ik  strikes  vividly  out,  and  brings  at  once  be- 
Ifore  us,  the  conception  of  an  inward  feeling 
or  emotion,  which  it  might  otherwise  have 
.been  difficult  to  convey,  by  the  presentment 
jof  some  bodily  form  or  quality,  which  is  in- 
^Btantly  felt  to  be  its  true  representative,  and 
enables  us  to  fix  and  comprehend  it  with  a  force 
and  clearness  not  otherwise  attainable ;  and, 
in  the  second  place,  it  vivifies  dead  and  inani- 
mate matter  with  the  attributes  of  living  and 
sentient  mind,  and  fills  the  whole  visible 
universe  around  us  with  objects  of  interest 
and  sympathy,  by  tinting  them  with  the  hues 
of  life,  and  associating  them  with  our  own 
passions  and  affections.  This  magical  opera- 
tion the  poet  too  performs,  for  the  most  part, 
I  in  one  of  two  ways — either  by  the  direct 
\  agency  of  similies  and  metaphors,  more  or 
'less  condensed  or  developed,  or  by  the  mere 
!  graceful  presentment  of  such  visible  objects 
\  on  the  scene  of  his  passionate  dialogues  or 
I  adventures,  as  partake  of  the  character  of 
1  the  emotion  he  wishes  to  excite,  and  thus 
form  an  appropriate  accompaniment  or  pre- 
paration for  its  direct  indulgence  or  display. 
The  former  of  those  methods  has  perhaps 
been  most  frequently  employed,  and  certainly 
has  most  attracted  attention.  But  the  latter, 
though  less  obtrusive,  and  perhaps  less  fre- 
quently resorted  to  of  set  purpose,  is,  we  are 
inclined  to  think,  the  most  natural  and  effica- 
cious of  the  two ;  and  it  is  often  adopted,  we 
believe  unconsciously,  by  poets  of  the  highest 
^  order ; — the  predominant  emotion  of  their 
minds  overflowing  spontaneously  on  all  the 
objects  which  present  themselves  to  their 
fancy,  and  calhng  out  from  them,  and  colour- 
ing with  their  own  hues,  those  that  are  natu- 
rally emblematic  of  its  character,  and  in  ac- 
;ordance  with  its  general  expression .  It  would 
be  easy  to  show  how  habitually  this  is  done, 
by  Shakespeare  and  Milton  especially,  and 
how  much  many  of  their  finest  passages  are 
indebted,  both  for  force  and  richness  of  effect, 
to  this  general  and  diffusive  harmony  of  the 
external  character  of  their  scenes  with  the 
passions  of  their  living  agents — this  harmonis- 
mg  ar.i  aporopriate  glow  with  which  they 
kindie  '.ne  "whole  surrounding  atmosphere, 
and  bring  aJ  that  strikes  the  sense  into  unison 
with  all  that  touches  the  heart. 
--^But  it  is  more  to  our  present  purpose  to 
say,  that  we  think  the  fair  writer  before  us  is 
eminently  a  mistress  of  this  poetical  secret ; 
and,  in  truth,  it  was  solely  for  the  purpose  of 
illustrating  this  great  charm  and  excellence 
in  her  imagery,  that  we  have  ventured  upon 
this  little  dissertation.  Almost  all  her  poems 
are  rich  with  fine  descriptions,  and  studded 
over  with  images  of  visible  beauty.  But  these 
are  never  idle  ornaments :  all  her  pomps  have 
a  meaning;  and  her  flowers  and  her  gems  are 
arranged,  as  they  are  said  to  be  among  Eastern 
lovers,  so  as  to  speak  the  language  of  truth 
and  of  passion.     This  is  peculiarly  remark- 


able in  some  little  pieces,  which  seem  at  firs: 
sight  to  be  purely  descriptive — but  are  soon 
found  to  tell  upon  the  heart,  with  a  deep 
moral  and  pathetic  impression.  But  it  is  in 
truth  nearly  as  conspicuous  in  the  greater  part 
of  her  productions ;  where  we  scarcely  meet 
with  any  striking  sentiment  that  is  not  ushered 
in  by  some  such  symphony  of  external  na- 
ture— and'scarcely  a  lovely  picture  that  does 
not  serve  as  an  appropriate  foreground  to 
some  deep  or  lofty  emotion.  We  may  illus- 
trate this  proposition,  we  think,  by  opening 
either  of  these  little  volumes  at  random,  ana 
taking  what  they  first  present  to  us. — The 
following  exquisite  lines,  for  example,  on  a 
Palm-tree  in  an  English  garden : 

"  It  wav'd  not  thro'  an  Eastern  sky,' 
Beside  a  fount  of  Araby  ; 
It  was  not  fann'd  by  southern  breeze 
In  some  green  isle  of  Indian  seas, 
Nor  did  its  graceful  shadow  sleep 
O'er  stream  of  Afric,  lone  and  deep. 

"  But  far  the  exil'd  Palm-tree  grew 
'Midst  foUage  of  no  kindred  hue; 
Thro'  the  laburnum's  dropping  gold 
Rose  fhe  light  shaft  of  orient  mould, 
And  Europe's  violets,  faintly  sweet, 
Purpled  the  moss-beds  at  his  feet. 

"  There  came  an  eve  of  festal  hours — 
Rich  music  fiU'd  that  garden's  bowers  : 
liamps,  that  from  flowering  branches  hung. 
On  sparks  of  dew  soft  colours  flung, 
And  bright  forms  glanc'd — a  fairy  show 
Under  the  blossoms,  to  and  fro. 

"  But  one,  a  lone  one,  'midst  the  throng 
Seem'd  reckless  all  of  dance  or  song^  • 
He  was  a  youth  of  dusky  mien. 
Whereon  the  Indian  sun  had  been — 
Of  crested  brow,  and  long  black  hair— 
A  stranger,  hke  the  Palm-tree,  there  ! 

"  And  slowly,  sadly  mov'd  his  plumes, 
Glittering  athwart  the  leafy  glooms: 
He  pass'd  the  pale  green  oUves  by. 
Nor  won  the  chesnut  flowers  his  eye ; 
But,  when  to  that  sole  Palm  he  came. 
Then  shot  a  rapture  through  his  frame' 

"  To  him,  to  him  its  rustUng  spoke  ! 
The  silence  of  his  soul  it  broke  ! 
It  whisper' d  of  his  own  bright  isle, 
That  lit  the  ocean  with  a  smile  ; 
Aye,  to  his  ear  that  native  tone 
Had  something  of  the  sea- wave's  moan  i 

"  His  mother's  cabin  home,  that  lay 
Where  feathery  cocoas  fring'd  the  bay  ; 
The  dashing  of  his  brethren's  oar  ; 
The  conch-note  heard  along  the  shore  ; — 
All  thro'  his  wakening  bosom  swept ; 
He  clasp'd  his  country's  Tree — and  wept ! 

"  Oh!  scorn  him  not! — The  strength,  whereby 
The  patriot  girds  himself  to  die, 
Th'  unconquerable  power,  which  fills 
The  freeman  battling  on  his  hills — 
These  have  one  fountain,  deep  and  clear, — 
The  same'whence  gush'd  that  child-hke  tear !" 

The  following,  which  the  author  has  named. 
"  Graves  of  a  Household,"  has  rather  less  of 
external  scenery,  but  serves,  like  the  others, 
to  show  how  well  the  graphic  and  pathetic 
may  be  made  to  set  off  each  other : 

*'  They  grew  in  beauty,  side  by  side. 
They  fill'd  one  home  with  glee  , 
Their  graves  are  sever'd,  far  and  wide 
By  mount,  and  stream,  and  sea  ! 


476 


POETRTT. 


"  The  same  fond  mother  bent  at  night 
O'er  each  fair  sleeping  brow  ; 
She  had  each  folded  flower  in  sight, — 
Where  are  those  dreamers  now  ? 
"  One,  midst  the  forests  of  the  West, 
By  a  dark  stream  is  laid, — 
The  Indian  knows  his  place  of  rest, 
Far  in  the  cedar  shade. 
"  The  sea,  the  blue  lone  sea,  hath  one ! 
He  lies  where  pearls  lie  deep : 
He  was  the  lov'd  of  all,  yet  none 
O'er  his  low  bed  may  weep. 
**  One  sleeps  where  southern  vines  are  drest 
Above  the  noble  slain  : 
He  wrapt  his  colours  round  his  breast, 
On  a  blood-red  field  of  Spain. 
"  And  one — o'er  her  the  myrtle  showers 
Its  leaves,  by  soft  winds  fann'd  ; 
She  faded  'midst  Italian  flowers, — 
The  last  of  that  bright  band  ! 
"  And  parted  thus  they  rest,  who  play'd 
Beneath  the  same  green  tree  ! 
Whose  voices  mingled  as  they  pray'd 
Around  one  parent  knee ! 
"  They  that  with  smiles  lit  up  the  hall. 
And  cheer'd  with  song  the  hearth, — 
Alas  !  for  Love,  if  ihou  wert  all, 
And  nought  beyond,  oh  earth  !" 

We  have  taken  these  pieces  chiefiy  on  ac- 
count of  their  shortness :  But  it  vrould  not  be 
fair  to  Mrs.  Hemans  not  to  present  our  readers 
with  one  longer  specimen — and  to  give  a  por- 
tion of  her  graceful  narrative  along  with  her 
pathetic  descriptions.  This  story  of  "Ths 
Lady  of  the  Castle,"  is  told,  we  think,  with 
great  force  and  sweetness : — 

'  Thou  seest  her  pictur'd  with  her  shining  hair, 
(Fam'd  were  those  tresses  in  Proven§al  song) 
Half  braided,  half  o'er  cheek  and  bosom  fair 
Let  loose,  and  pouring  sunny  waves  along 
Her  gorgeous  vest.     A  child's  right  hand  is  roving 
'Midst  the  rich  curls,  and,  oh  !  how  meekly  loving 
Its  earnest  looks  are  lifted  to  the  face. 
Which  bends  to  meet  its  hp  in  laughing  grace  ! 
Yet  that  bright  lady's  eye  methinks  hath  less 
Of  deep,  and  still,  and  pensive  tenderness. 
Than  might  beseem  a  mother's :  On  her  brow 

Something  too  much  there  sits  of  native  scorn. 
And  her  smile  kindles  with  a  conscious  glow,   [tell 
— These  may  be  dreams  !     But  how  shall  Woman 
Of  woman's  shame,  and  not  with  tears? — She  fell! 
That  mother  left  that  child  ! — went  hurrying  by 
Its  cradle — haply  not  without  a  sigh  ; 
Haply  one  moment  o'er  its  rest  serene 
She  hung — But  no  !  it  could  not  thus  have  been. 
For  she  went  on  ! — forsook  her  home,  her  hearth. 
All  pure  afiection,  all  sweet  household  mirth, 
To  live  a  gaudy  and  dishonour'd  thing, 
Sharing  in  guilt  the  splendours  of  a  king. 

"  Her  lord,  in  very  weariness  of  life. 
Girt  on  his  sword  for  scenes  of  distant  strife  ; 
He  reck'd  no  more  of  Glory  : — Grief  and  shame 
Crush'd  out  his  fiery  nature,  and  his  name 
Died  silently.    A  shadow  o'er  his  halls 
Crept  year  by  year ;  the  minstrel  pass'd  their  walls ; 
The  warder's  horn  hung  mute  :  —  Meantime  the 

child, 
On  whose  first  flow'ring  thoughts  no  parent  smil'd, 
A  gentle  girl,  and  yet  deep-hearted,  grew 
Into  sad  youth :  for  well,  too  well  she  knew 
Her  mother's  tale  !     Its  memory  made  the  sky 
Seem  all  too  joyous  for  her  shrinking  eye  ; 
Check'd  on  her  lip  the  flow  of  song,  which  fain 
Would  there  have  linger'd ;  flush'd  her  check  to 
If  met  by  sudden  glance  ;  and  gave  a  tone      [pain, 
Of  sorrow   as  for  something  lovely  gone. 
Even  to  the  spring's  nlad  voice.    Her  own  was  low 
A.nd  plaintive  ' — Oh '  there  lie  such  depth  of  woes 


In  a  ji^T^g  Dngnted  spirit !     Manho(>d  reari 

A  haughty  brow ;  and  Age  has  done  with  tear* ; 

But  Youth  bows  down  to  mis'ry,  in  amaze 

At  the  dark  cloud  o'ermantling  its  fresh  dajs,— 

And  thus  it  was  with  her.     A  mournful  sight 

In  one  so  fair — for  she  indeed  was  fair — 
Not  with  her  mother's  dazzling  eyes  of  light. 

Hers  were  more  shadowy,  full  of  thought  and 
pray'r ; 
And  with  long  lashes  o'er  a  white-rose  cheek. 
Drooping  in  gloom,  yet  tender  still  and  meek. 

"  One  sunny  morn. 

With  alms  before  her  castle  gate  she  stood, 
'Midst  peasant-groups  ;  when,  breathless  and  o'er- 
worn. 

And  shrouded  in  long  robes  of  widowhood, 
A  stranger  through  them  broke : — The  orphan  maid 
With  her  sweet  voice,  and  profier'd  hand  of  aid, 
Turn'd  to  give  welcome  :  But  a  wild  sad  look 
Met  hers  ;  a  gaze  that  all  her  spirit  shook  ; 
And  that  pale  woman,  suddenly  subdued 
By  some  strong  passion  in  its  gushing  mood, 
Knelt  at  her  feet,  and  bath'd  them  with  such  tears 
As  rain  the  hoarded  agonies  of  years  [press'd 

From  the  heart's  urn ;  and  with  her  white  lipg 
The  ground  they  trode  ;  then,  burying  in  her  vest 
Her  brow's  deep  flush,  sobb'd  out  —  'Oh!  un- 

defil'd ! 
I  am  thy  Mother — spurn  me  not,  my  child  !' 

"  Isaure  had  pray'd  for  that  lost  mother  ;  wept 
O'er  her  stain'd  memory,  while  the  happy  slept 
In  the  hush'd  midnight ;  stood  with  mournful  gaze 
Before  yon  picture's  smile  of  other  days. 
But  never  breath'd  in  human  ear  the  name 
Which  weigh'd  her  being  to  the  earth  with  shame. 
What  marvel  if  the  anguish,  the  surprise. 
The  dark  remembrances,  the  alter'd  guise, 
Awhile  o'erpower'd  her  ? — from  the  weeper's  touch 
She  shrank  !— -'Twas  but  a  moment — yet  too  much 
For  that  all-humbled  one  ;  its  mortal  stroke 
Came  down  like  lightning,  and  her  full  heart  broke 
At  once  in  silence.     Heavily  and  prone 
She  sank,  while,  o'er  her  castle's  threshold-stone, 
Those  long  fair  tresses — they  still  brightly  wore 
Their  early  pride,  though  bound  with  pearls  no 

more — 
Bursting  their  fillet,  in  sad  beauty  roll'd, 
And  swept  the  dust  with  coils  of  wavy  gold. 

"Her  child  bent  o'er  her — call'd  her — 'Twaa 
too  late — ■ 
Dead  lay  the  wanderer  at  her  own  proud  gate  ! 
The  joy  of  courts,  the  star  of  knight  and  bard, — 
How  didst  thou  fall,  O  bright-hair'd  Ermengarde  !" 

The  following  sketch  of  "  Joan  of  Arc  in 
Rheims,"  is  in  a  loftier  and  more  ambitious 
vein  ;  but  sustained  with  equal  grace,  and  as 
touching  in  its  solemn  tenderness.  We  can 
afford  to  extract  but  a  part  of  it : — 

— —  "  Within,  the  light, 

Through   the  rich  gloom  of  pictur'd  windows 
flowing. 
Tinged  with  soft  awfulness  a  stately  sight, 

The  chivalry  of  France,  their  proud  heads  bowing 
In  martial  vassalage  ! — while  'midst  the  ring, 
And  shadow'd  by  ancestral  tombs,  a  king 
Received  his  birthright's  crown.  For  this,  the  hymn 

Swell'd  out  like  rushing  waters,  and  the  day 
With  the  sweet  censer's  misty  breath  grew  dim. 

As  through  long  aisles  it  floated,  o'er  th'  array 
Of  arms  and  sweeping  stoles.     But  who,  alone 
And  unapproach'd,  beside  the  altar  stone,         [ing, 
With  the  white  banner,  forth  like  sunshine  stream* 
And  the  gold  helm,  through  clouds  of  fragrance 

gloaming, 
Silent  and  radiant  stood  ? — The  helm  was  rais'd, 
And  the  fair  face  reveal'd,  that  upward  gaz'd. 

Intensely  worshipping  ; — a  still,  clear  face, 
Youthful  but  brightly  solemn  ! — Woman's  cheek 
And  brow  were  there,  in  deep  devotion  meek- 

Yet  glorified  with  inspiration's  trace ! 


HEMANS'  POEMS. 


471 


"A  triumpliant  sirain, 

ti  proud  rich  stream  of  warlike  melodies, 

Gush'd  through  the  portals  of  the  antique  fane. 
And  forth  she  came." 

"  The  shouts  that  fill'd 
The  hollow  heaven  tempestuously,  were  still'd 
One  moment  ;  and  in  that  brief  pause,  the  tone, 
As  of  a  breeze  that  o'er  her  home  had  blown, 
Sank  on  the  bright  maid's  heart !—' Joanne!' — 
Who  spoke  ? 

Like  those  whose  childhood  with  her  childhood 
grew 
Under  one  roof? — '  Joanne !' — that  murmur  broke 

With  sounds  of  weeping  forth ! — She  turn'd — 
she  knew 
Beside  her,  mark'd  from  all  the  thousands  there, 
In  the  calm  beauty  of  hi*  silver  hair, 
The  stately  shepherd  !  and  the  youth,  whose  joy 
From  his  dark  eye  flash'd  proudly ;  and  the  boy, 
The  youngest-born,  that  ever  lov'd  her  best ! 
'  Father  !    and  ye  my  brothers  !' — On  the  breast 
Of  that  grey  sire  she  sank — and  swiftly  back, 
Even  in  an  instant,  to  the  native  track  [more  ! 

Her  free  thoughts  flow'd. — She  saw  the  pomp  no 
The  plumes,  the  banners  I — To  her  cabin  door, 
And  to  the  Fairy's  Fountain  in  the  glade, 
Where  her  young  sisters  by  her  side  had  play'd, 
And  to  the  hamlet's  chapel,  where  it  rose 
Hallowing  the  forest  into  deep  repose, 
Her  spirit  turn'd. — The  very  wood-note,  sung 

In  early  spring-time  by  the  bird,  whwh  dwelt 
Where  o'er  her  lather's  roof  the  beech-leaves  hung, 

Was  in  her  heart ;  a  music  heard  and  felt, 
Winning  her  back  to  nature  ! — She  unbound 

The  helm  of  many  battles  from  her  head. 
And,  with  her   bright  locks  bow'd  to  sweep  the 
ground, 

Lifting  her  voice  up,  wept  for  joy,  and  said, — 
'  Bless  me,  my  father,  bless  me  !  and  with  thee, 
To  the  still  cabin  and  the  beechen-tree. 
Let  me  return  !'  " 

There  are  several  strains  of  a  more  passioi> 
ate  character ;  especially  in.  the  two  poetical 
epistles  from  Lady  Arabella  Stuart  and  Pro- 

{)erzia  Rossi.  We  shall  venture  to  give  a  few 
ines  from  the  former.  The  Lady  Arabella 
was  of  royal  descent ;  and  having  excited  the 
fears  of  our  pusillanimous  James  by  a  secret 
union  with  the  Lord  Seymour,  was  detained 
in  a  cruel  captivity,  by  that  heartless  monarch, 
till  the  close  of  her  life — during  which  she  is 
supposed  to  have  indited  this  letter  to  her 
lover  from  her  prison  house : — 

"  My  friend,  my  friend  !  where  art  thou  ?  Day  by 

day, 

Gliding,  like  some  dark  mournful  stream,  away. 

My  silent  youth  flows  from  me  !    Spring,  the  while. 

Comes,  and  rains  beauty  on  the  kindling  boughs 

Round  halL  and  hamlet :  Summer,  with  her  smile, 

Fills  the  green  forest ; — young  hearts   breathe 

their  vows ; 
Brothers,  long  parted,  meet;  fair  children  rise 
Round  the  glad  board :  Hope  laughs  from  loving 

eyes. 

"  Ye  are  from  dingle  and  fresh  glade,  ye  flowers  I 
By  some  kind  hand  to  cheer  my  dungeon  sent ; 
O'er  you  the  oak  shed  down  the  summer  showers. 
And  the  lark's  nest  was  where  your  bright  cups 
bent, 
Quivering  to  breeze  and  rain-drop,  like  the  sheen 
Of  twilight  stars.    On  you  Heaven's  eye  hath  been. 
Through  the  leaves  pouring  its  dark  sultry  blue 
Into  your  glowing  hearts  ;  the  bee  to  you 
Hath  murmur'd,  and  the  rill. — My  soul  grows  faint 
Wuh  passionate  yearning,  as  its  quick  dreams  paint 
Your  naunts  by  dell  ana  stream, — the  green,  the 

free, 
I'he  full  of  all  sweet  sound, — the  shut  from  me  ! 


"  There  went  a  swift  bird  singing  past  my  cell— 
O  Love  and  Freedom  !  ye  are  lovely  things  ! 

With  you  the  peasant  on  the  hills  may  dwell. 
And  by  the  streams  ;  But  I — the  blood  of  kings. 

A  proud  unmingling  river,  through  my  veins 

Flows  in  lone  brightness, — and  its  gifts  are  chains ! 

— Kings  I — I  had  silent  visions  of  deep  bliss. 

Leaving  their  thrones  far  distant !  and  for  this 

I  am  cast  under  their  triumphal  car, 

An  insect  to  be  crush'd  ! 

"  Thou  hast  forsaken  me  !  I  feel,  I  know  ! 
There  would  be  rescue  if  this  were  not  so. 
Thou'rt  at  the  chase,  thou'rt  at  the  festive  board, 
Thou'rt  where  the  red  wine  free  and  high  is  pour'd, 
Thou'rt  where  the  dancers  meet ! — a  magic  glass 
Is  set  within  my  soul,  and  proud  shapes  pass, 
Flushing  it  o'er  with  pomp  from  bower  and  hall ! 
I  see  one  shadow,  stateliest  there  of  all, — 
Thhie! — What  dost  Thou  amidst  the  bright  and  fair, 
Whisp'ring  light  words,  and  mocking  my  despair  ?" 

The  following,  though  it  has  no  very  distinct 
object  or  moral,  breathes,  we  think,  the  very 
spirit  of  poetry,  in  its  bright  and  vague  pic- 
turings,  and  is  well  entitled  to  the  name  it 
bears — "  An  Hour  of  Romance  :" — 

"  There  were  thick  leaves  above  me  and  around. 

And  low  sweet  sighs,  like  those  of  childhood's 
Amidst  their  dimness,  and  a  fitful  sound        [sleep, 

As  of  soft  showers  on  water  !  Dark  and  deep 
Lay  the  oak  shadows  o'er  the  turf,  so  still 
They  seem'd  but  pictur'd  glooms:  a  hidden  rill 
Made  music,  such  as  haunts  us  in  a  dream. 
Under  the  fern-tnfts :  and  a  tender  gleam 
Of  soft  green  light,  as  by  the  glow-worm  shed. 

Came  pouring  thro'  the  woven  beech-boughi 
And  steep'd  the  magic  page  wherein  I  read   [down. 

Of  royal  chivalry  and  old  renown  ; 
A  tale  of  Palestine. — Meanwhile  the  bee 

Swept  past  me  with  a  tone  of  summer  hours, 

A  drowsy  bugle,  wafting  thoughts  of  flowers. 
Blue  skies  and  amber  sunshine  :  brightly  fren, 
On  filmy  wings  the  purple  dragon-fly 
Shot  glancing  like  a  fairy  javelin  by  ; 
And  a  sweet  voice  of  sorrow  told  the  dell 

Where  sat  the  lone  wood-pigeon  : 

But  ere  long, 
All  sense  of  these  things  faded,  as  the  spell 
Breathing  from  that  high  gorgeous  tale  grew  strong 

On  my  chain'd  soul! — 'Twas  not  the  leaves  I 
A  Syrian  wind  the  Lion-banner  stirr'd,  [heard— 
Thro'  its  proud,  floating  folds!  —  'twas  not  the 

Singing  in  secret  thro'  its  grassy  glen ; —    [brook, 

A  wild  shrill  trumpet  of  the  Saracen 
Peal'd  from  the  desert's  lonely  heart,  and  shook 
The  burning  air  ! — Like  clouds  when  winds  are 
O'er  ghtt'ring  sands  flew  steeds  of  Araby ;       [high. 
And  tents  rose  up,  and  sudden  lance  and  spear 
Flash'd  where  a  fountain's  diamond  wave  lay  clear, 
Shadow'd  by  graceful  palm-trees !  Then  the  shout 
Of  merry  England's  joy  swell'd  freely  out. 
Sent  thro'  an  Eastern  heaven,  whose  glorious  hue 
Made  shields  dark  mirrors  to  its  depth  of  blue! 
And  harps  were  there ; — I  heard  their  sounding 

strings. 
As  the  waste  echo'd  to  the  mirth  of  kings. — 
The  bright  masque  faded  ! — Unto  life's  worn  track. 
What  call'd  me  from  its  flood  of  glory  back  ? 
A  voice  of  happy  childhood ! — and  they  pass'd. 
Banner,  and  harp,  and  Paynim  trumpet's  blast 
Yet  might  I  scarce  bewail  the  splendours  gone, 
My  heart  so  leap'd  to  that  sweet  laughter's  tone." 

There  is  great  sweetness  in  the  following 
portion  of  a  little  poem  on  a  "  GirPs  Schoul;"-  • 

"  Oh  !  joyous  creatures  !  that  will  sink  to  rest, 
Lightly,  when  those  pure  orisons  are  done. 
As  birds  with  slumber's  honey-dew  opprest, 
'Midst  the  dim  folded  leaves,  at  set  of  sun- 


178 


POETRY 


Yet  in  those  flute-like  voices,  mingling  low, 
Is  Woman's  tenderness — how  soon  her  woe  ! 

■'  Her  look  is  on  you — silent  tears  to  weep,  [hour  ; 

And  patient  smiles  to  wear,  through  suff'ring's 
And  sumless  riches,  from  affection's  deep, 

To  pour  on  broken  reeds — a  wasted  show'r ! 
And  to  make  idols, — and  to  find  them  clay, 
And  to  bewail  that  worship  ! — therefore  pray  ! 

Her  lot  is  on  you !  to  be  found  untir'd. 
Watching  the  stars  out  by  the  bed  of  pain, 

With  a  pale  cheek,  and  yet  a  brow  inspir'd. 
And  a  true  heart  of  hope,  though  hope  be  vain ; 

Meekly  to  bear  with  wrong,  to  cheer  decay, 

And,  oh  !    to  Love  through  all  things ! — there- 
fore pray  I" 

There  is  a  fine  and  stately  solemnity-;  too, 
in  these  lines  on  "  The  Lost  Pleiad :" — 

"  Hath  the  night  lost  a  gem,  the  regal  night  ? 
She  wears  her  crown  of  old  magnificence, 
Though  thou  art  exiled  thence — '^ 
No  desert  seems  to  part  those  urns  of  light, 
'Midst  the  far  depths  of  purple  gloom  intense. 

"  They  rise  in  joy,  the  starry  myriads,  burning — 
The  shepherd  greets  them  on  his  mountains 
And  from  the  silvery  sea  [free  ; 

To  them  the  sailor's  wakeful  eye  is  turning — 
Unchang'd  they  rise  ;  they  have  not  mourn'd 
for  thee ! 

"  Couldst  thou  be  shaken  from  thy  radiant  place, 
E'en  as  a  dew-drop  from  the  myrtle  spray, 
Swept  by  the  wind  away  ? 
Wert  thou  not  peopled  by  some  glorious  race  ? 
And  was  there  power  to  smite  them  with  decay? 

V*  Then  who  shall  talk  of  thrones,  of  sceptres  riv'n  ? 
Bow'd  be  our  hearts  to  think  on  what  we  are  ! 
When  from  its  height  afar 
A  World  sinks  thus — and  yon  majestic  heav'n 
Shines  not  the  less  for  that  one  vanish' d  star !" 

The  following,  on  "  The  Dying  Improvisa- 
tDre,"  have  a  rich  lyrical  cadence,  and  glow 
if  deep  feeling : — 

"  Never,  oh  !  never  more, 
On  thy  Rome's  purple  heaven  mine  eye  shall  dwell, 
Or  watch  the  bright  waves  melt  along  thy  shore — 
My  Italy,  farewell! 

"  Alas  ! — thy  hills  among. 
Had  I  but  left  a  memory  of  my  name. 
Of  love  and  grief  one  deep,  true,  fervent  song. 
Unto  immortal  fame ! 

"  But  like  a  lute's  brief  tone, 
Like  a  rose-odour  on  the  breezes  cast. 
Like  a  swift  flush  of  dayspring,  seen  and  gone. 
So  hath  my  spirit  pass'd  I 

"  Yet,  yet  remember  me  I 
Friends !  that  upon  its  murmurs  oft  have  hung. 
When  from  my  bosom,  joyously  and  free. 
The  fiery  fountain  sprung  ! 

"  Under  the  dark  rich  blue 
Of  midnight  heav'ns,  and  on  the  star-lit  sea, 
And  when  woods  kindle  into  spring's  first  hue. 
Sweet  friends !  remember  me ! 

**  And  in  the  marble  halls. 
Where  life's  full  glow  the  dreams  of  beauty  wear. 
And  poet-thoughts  embodied  light  the  walls, 
Let  me  be  with  you  there  ! 

"  Fain  would  I  bind,  for  you, 
My  memory  with  all  glorious  things  to  dwell ; 
Fain  bid  all  lovely  sounds  my  name  renew — 
Sweet  friends  !  bright  land  !  farewell  I" 

But  we  must  stop  here.  There  would  be 
ao  end  of  our  extracts,  if  we  were  to  yield  to 


the  temptation  of  noting  down  every  beautiful 
passage  which  arrests  us  in  turning  over  the 
leaves  of  the  volumes  before  us.  We  ought 
to  recollect,  too,  that  there  are  few  to  whom 
our  pages  are  likely  to  come,  who  are  not 
already  familiar  with  their  beauties ;  and,  in 
fact,  we  have  made  these  extracts,  less  with 
the  presumptuous  belief  that  we  are  intro- 
ducing Mrs.  Hemans  for  the  first  time  to  the 
knowledge  or  admiration  of  our  readers,  than 
from  a  desire  of  illustrating,  by  means  of 
them,  that  sing-ular  felicity  in  the  choice  and 
employment  of  her  imagery,  of  which  we 
have  alread)^  spoken  so  much  at  large  ', — that 
fine  accord  she  has  established  between  the 
world  of  sense  and  of  soul — that  delicate 
blending  of  our  deep  inward  emotions  with 
their  splendid  symbols  and  emblems  without. 

We  have  seen  too  much  of  the  perishable 
nature  of  modern  literary  fame,  to  venture  to 
predict  to  Mrs.  Hemans  that  hers  will  be  im- 
mortal, or  even  of  very  long  duration.  Since 
the  beginning  of  our  critical  career  we  have 
seen  a  vast  deal  of  beautiful  poetry  pass  into 
oblivion,  in  spite  of  our  feeble  efforts  to  recall 
or  retain  it  in  remembrance.  The  tuneful 
quartos  of  Southey  are  already  little  better 
than  lumber:  —  and  the  rich  melodies  of 
Keats  and  Shelley, — and  the  fantastical  em- 
phasis of  Wordsworth, — and  the  plebeian 
pathos  of  Crabbe,  are  melting  fast  from  the 
field  of  our  vision.  The  novels  of  Scott  have 
put  out  his  poetry.  Even  the  splendid  strains 
of  Moore  are  fading  into  distance  and  dim- 
ness, except  where  they  have  been  married 
to  immortal  music;  and  the  blazing  star  of 
Byron  himself  is  receding  from  its  place  of 
pride.  We  need  say  nothing  of  Milman,  and 
Croly,  and  Atherstone,  and  Hood,  and  a  legion 
of  others,  who,  with  no  ordinary  gifts  of  taste 
and  fancy,  have  not  so  properly  survived  their 
fame,  as  been  excluded  by  some  hard  fatality, 
from  what  seemed  their  just  inheritance.  The 
two  who  have  the  longest  withstood  this'rapid 
withering  of  the  laurel,  and  with  the  least 
marks  of  decay  on  their  branches,  are  Rogers 
and  Campbell ;  neither  of  them,  it  may  be  re- 
marked, voluminous  writers,  and  both  dis- 
tinguished rather  for  the  fine  taste  and  con- 
summate elegance  of  their  writings,  than  for 
that  fiery  passion,  and  disdainful  vehemence, 
which  seemed  for  a  time  to  be  so  much  more 
in  favour  with  the  public. 

If  taste  and  elegance,  however,  be  titles  to 
enduring  fame,  we  might  venture  securely  to 
promise  that  rich  boon  to  the  author  before 
us;  who  adds  to  those  great  merits  a  tender- 
ness and  loftiness  of  feeling,  and  an  ethereal 
purity  of  sentiment,  which  could  only  ema- 
nate from  the  soul  of  a  woman.  She  must 
beware,  however,  of  becoming  too  volumin- 
ous 5  and  must  not  venture  again  on  anything 
so  long  as  the  "Forest  Sanctuary."  But,  if 
the  next  generation  inherits  our  taste  for  short 
poems,  we  are  persuaded  it  will  not  readily 
allow  her  to  be  forgotten.  For  we  do  not 
hesitate  to  say,  that  she  is,  beyond  all  com- 
parison, the  moat  touching  and  accomplished 
writer  of  occasional  verses  that  our  iiteratura 
has  yet  to  boast  of 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE  MINI), 
METAPHYSICS,  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


1  AM  aware  that  the  title  prefixed  to  this  head  or  Division  of  the  present  publication,  ia 
not  likely  to  attract  many  readers;  and,  for  this  reason,  I  have  put  much  less  under  it,  than 
Tinder  any  of  the  other  divisions.  But,  having  been  at  one  time  more  addicted  to  the  studies 
to  which  it  relates  than  to  any  other — and  still  confessing  to  a  certain  partiality  for  them — I 
could  not  think  of  letting  this  collection  of  old  speculations  go  forth  to  the  world,  without  some 
specimen  of  those  which  once  found  so  much  favour  in  my  eyes. 

I  will  confess,  too,  that  I  am  not  unwilling  to  have  it  known  that,  so  long  ago  as  1804,  I 
adventured  to  break  a  spear^and  I  trust  not  quite  ingloriously)  in  these  perilous  lists,  with  two 
such  redoubted  champions  as  Jeremy  Bentham  and  Dugald  Stewart,  then  in  the  maturity  of 
their  fame ;  and  also  to  assail,  with  equal  gallantry,  what  appeared  to  me  the  opposite  errors 
of  the  two  great  Dogmatical  schools  of  Priestley  and  of  Reid. 

I  will  venture  also  to  add,  that  on  looking  back  on  what  I  have  now  reprinted  of  these 
early  lucubrations,  I  cannot  help  indulging  a  fond,  though  probably  delusive  expectation,  that 
the  brief  and  familiar  exposition  I  have  there  attempted,  both  of  the  fallacy  of  the  Materialist 
theory,  and  of  the  very  moderate  practical  value  that  can  be  assigned  to  Metaphysical  dis- 
cussions generally,  and  especially  of  the  real  shallowness  and  utter  insignificance  of  the 
thorough-going  Scepticism  (even  if  unanswerable)  to  which  they  have  been  supposed  iv>  lead 
may  be  found  neither  so  tedious,  nor  so  devoid  of  interest  even  to  the  general  reader,  as  the 
mere  announcement  of  the  subjects  might  lead  him  to  apprehend. 


(2lpril,  1804.) 

Iraites  de  Legislation,  Civile  et  Penale ;  precedes  de  Principes  Generaux  de  Legislation,  et  d'une 
Vue  dhtn  Corps  complet  de  Droit ;  termines  par  un  Essai  sur  Vinfiuence  des  Terns  et  des 
Lieux  relativement  aux  Lois.  Par  M.  Jeremie  Bentham,  Jurisconsulte  Anglois.  Publics 
en  Fran9ois  par  M.  Dumont  de  Geneve,  d'apres  les  Manuscrits  confies  par  I'Auteur.  8vo. 
3  tom.     Paris,  an  X.     1802. 

The  title-page  of  this  work  exhibits  a  curi- 
ous instance  of  the  division  of  labour ;  and  of 
the  combinations  that  hold  together  the  lite- 
rary commonwealth  of  Europe.  A  living 
author  consents  to  give  his  productions  to  the 
world  in  the  language  of  a  foreign  editor  ]  and 
the  speculations  of  an  English  philosopher  are 
published  at  Paris,  under  the  direction  of  a 
redacteur  from  Geneva.  This  arrangement  is 
not  the  most  obvious  or  natural  in  the  world ; 
nor  is  it  very  flattering  to  the  literature  of  this 
country ;  but  we  have  no  doubt  that  it  was 
adopted  for  sufficient  reasons. 

It  is  now  about  fifteen  years  since  Mr. 
Bentham  first  announced  to  the  world  his  de- 
sign of  composing  a  great  work  on  the  Prin- 
ciples of  morals  and  legislation.  The  specimen 
which  he  then  gave  of  his  plan,  and  of  his 
Abilities,  was  calculated,  we  think,  to  excite 
considerable  expectation,  and  considerable 
alarm,  in  the  reading  part  of  the  community. 


While  the  author  displayed,  in  many  places, 
great  originality  and  accuracy  of  thinking,  and 
gave  proofs  throughout  of  a  very  uncommon 
degree  of  courage,  acuteness,  and  impartiality, 
it  v/as  easy  to  perceive  that  he  was  encum- 
bered with  the  magnitude  of  his  subject,  and 
that  his  habits  of  discussion  were  but  ill 
adapted  to  render  it  popular  with  the  greater 
part  of  his  readers.  Though  fully  possessed 
of  his  subject,  he  scarcely  ever  appeared  to 
be  properly  the  master  of  it ;  and  seemed  evi- 
dently to  move  in  his  new  career  with  great 
anxiety  and  great  exertion.  In  the  subordi- 
nate details  of  his  work,  he  is  often  extremely 
ingenious,  clear,  and  satisfactory;  but  in  the 
grouping  and  distribution  of  its  several  parts, 
he  is  apparently  irresolute  or  capricious;  and 
has  multiplied  and  distinguished  them  by  such 
a  profusion  of  divisions  and  subdivisions,  thai 
the  understanding  is  nearly  as  much  bewil« 
dered  from  the  excessive  'labour  ana  com« 

479 


480 


METAPHYSICS  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


plexity  of  the  arrangement,  as  it  could  have 
been  from  its  absolute  omission.  In  following 
out  the  discussions  into  which  he  is  tempted 
by  every  incidental  suggestion,  he  is  so  anxi- 
ous to  fix  a  precise  and  appropriate  principle 
of  judgment,  that  he  not  only  loses  sight  of 
the  general  scope  of  his  performance,  but 
pushes  his  metaphysical  analysis  to  a  degree 
of  subtlety  and  minuteness  that  must  prove 
repulsive  to  the  greater  part  of  his  readers.  In 
the  extent  and  the  fineness  of  those  specula- 
tions, he  sometimes  appears  to  lose  all  recol- 
lection of  his  subject,  and  often  seems  to  have 
^  tasked  his  ingenuity  to  weave  snares  for  his 
understanding. 

The  powers  and  the  peculiarities  which 
were  t^ius  indicated  by  the  preliminary  trea- 
tise, were  certainly  such  as  to  justify  some 
solicitude  as  to  the  execution  of  the  principal 
work.  While  it  was  clear  that  it  would  be 
well  worth  reading,  it  was  doubtful  if  it  would 
be  very  fit  for  being  read :  and  while  it  was 
certain  that  it  would  contain  many  admirable 
remarks,  and  much  original  reasoning,  there 
was  room  for  apprehending  that  the  author's 
love  of  method  and  metaphysics  might  place 
his  discoveries  beyond  the  reach  of  ordinary 
students,  and  repel  the  curiosity  which  the 
importance  of  the  subject  w^as  so  likely  to  ex- 
cite. Actuated  probably,  in  part,  by  the  con- 
sciousness of  those  propensities  (which  nearly 
disqualified  him  from  being  the  editor  of  his 
own  speculations),  and  still  too  busily  occu- 
pied with  the  prosecution  of  his  great  work 
to  attend  to  the  nice  finishing  of  its  parts,  Mr. 
Bentham,  about  six  years  ago,  put  into  the 
hands  of  M.  Dumont  a  large  collection  of 
manuscripts,  containing  the  greater  part  of 
the  reasonings  and  observations  w^hich  he 
proposed  to  embody  into  his  projected  sys- 
tem. These  materials,  M.  Dumont  assures 
us,  though  neither  arranged  nor  completed, 
were  rather  redundant  than  defective  in  quan- 
tity ;  and  left  nothing  to  the  redacteur,  but  the 
occasional  labour  of  selection,  arrangement, 
and  compression.  This  task  he  has  performed, 
as  to  a  considerable  part  of  the  papers  entrust- 
ed to  him,  in  the  work  now  before  us;  and 
has  certainly  given  a  very  fair  specimen  both 
of  the  merit  of  the  original  speculations,  and 
of  his  own  powers  of  expression  and  distribu- 
tion. There  are  some  passages,  perhaps,  into 
which  a  degree  of  levity  has  been  introduced 
that  does  not  harmonise  with  the  general  tone 
of  the  composition ;  and  others  in  which  we 
miss  something  of  that  richness  of  illustration 
and  homely  vigour  of  reasoning  which  de- 
lighted us  in  Mr.  Bentham's  original  publica- 
tions ;  but,  in  point  of  neatness  and  perspicuity, 
conciseness  and  precision,  we  have  no  sort  of 
doubt  that  M.  Dumont  has  been  of  the  most 
essential  service  to  his  principal ;  and  are  in- 
clined to  suspect  that,  without  this  assistance, 
we  should  never  have  been  able  to  give  any 
account  of  his  labours.* 
The  principle  upon  which  the  whole  of  Mr. 

*  A  considerable  portion  of  the  original  paper 
fs  he:e  omitted;  and  those  parts  only  retained, 
which  relate  to  the  general  principle  and  scope  of 
the  Bystenm. 


Bentham's  system  depends  is,  that  Utility. 
and  utility  alone,  is  the  criterion  of  right  ana 
wrong,  and  ought  to  be  the  sole  object  of  the 
legislator.  This  principle,  he  admits,  has 
often  beejj  suggested,  and  is  familiarly  recur- 
red to  both  in  action  and  deliberation  ;  but  ha 
maintains  that  it  has  never  been  followed  out 
with  sufficient  steadiness  and  resolution,  and 
that  the  necessity  of  assuming  it  as  the  exclu- 
sive test  of  our  proceedings  has  never  been 
sufficiently  understood.  There  are  two  prin- 
ciples, he  alleges,  that  have  been  admitted  to 
a  share  of  that  moral  authority  which  belongs 
of  right  to  utility  alone,  and  have  exercised  a 
control  over  the  condudt  and  opinions  of  so- 
ciety, by  w^hich  legislators  have  been  very 
frequently  misled.  One  of  these  he  denomi- 
nates the  Ascetic  principle^  or  that  which  en- 
joins the  mortification  of  the  senses  as  a  duty, 
and  proscribes  their  gratification  as  a  sin  ;  and 
the  other,  which  has  had  a  much  more  exten- 
sive influence,  he  calls  the  principle  of  Sym- 
pathy or  Antipathy ;  under  which  name  he 
comprehends  all  those  systems  which  place 
the  basis  of  morality  in  the  indications  of  a 
moral  Sense,  or  in  the  maxims  of  a  rule  of 
Right ;  or  which,  under  any  other  form  of  ex- 
pression, decide  upon  the  propriety  of  human 
actions  by  any  reference  to  internal  feelings, 
and  not  solely  on  a  consideration  of  their  con- 
sequences. 

As  utility  is  thus  assumed  as  the  test  and 
standard  of  action  and  approbation,  and  as  it 
consists  in  procuring  pleasure  and  avoiding 
pain,  Mr.  Bentham  has  thought  it  necessary, 
in  this  place,  to  introduce  a  catalogue  of  all 
the  pleasures  and  pains  of  which  he  conceives 
man  to  be  susceptible ;  since  these,  he  alleges, 
are  the  elements  of  that  moral  calculation  in 
which  the  wisdom  and  the  duty  of  legislators 
and  individuals  must  ultimately  be  found  to 
consist.  The  simple  pleasures  of  which  man 
is  susceptible  are  fourteen,  it  seems,  in  num- 
ber; and  are  thus  enumerated — 1.  pleasures 
of  sense:  2.  of  wealth:  3.  of  dexterity :  4.  of 
good  character :  5.  of  friendship:  6.  of  power: 
7.  of  piety:  8.  of  benevolence  :  9.  of  malevo- 
lence :  10.  of  memory:  11.  of  imagination  : 
12.  of  hope:  13.  of  association":  14.  of  relief 
from  pain.  The  pains,  our  readers  will  be 
happy  to  hear,  are  only  eleven ;  and  are  al- 
most exactly  the  counterpart  of  the  pleasures 
that  have  now  been  enumerated.  The  con- 
struction of  these  catalogues,  M.  Dumont  con- 
siders as  by  far  the  greatest  improvement  that 
has  yet  been  made  in  the  philosophy  of  hu- 
man nature  ! 

It  is  chiefly  by  the  fear  of  pain  that  men 
are  regulated  in  the  choice  of  their  deliberate 
actions;  and  Mr.  Bentham  finds  that  pain 
may  be  attached  to  particular  actions  in  four 
difl'erent  ways:  1.  by  nature:  2.  by  public 
opinion:  S.by  positive  enactment :  and  4.  by 
the  doctrines  of  religion.  Our  institutions  will 
be  perfect  when  all  these  different  sanctions 
are  in  harmony  with  each  other. 

But  the  most  difficult  part  of  our  author's 
task  remains.  In  order  to  make  any  lise  of 
those  "elements  of  moral  arithmetic."  which 
are  constituted,  by  tlie  lists  of  our  pleasures 


BENTHAM  ON  LEGISLATION. 


481 


and  pains,  it  was  evidently  necessary  to  as- 
certain their  relative  Value^ — to  enable  him  to 
proceed  in  his  legislative  calculations  with  any 
degree  of  assurance.  Under  this  head,  how- 
ever, we  are  only  told  that  the  value  of  a 
pleasure  or  a  pain,  considered  in  itself,  de- 
pends, 1.  upon  its  intensity,  2.  upon  its  prox- 
imity, 3.  upon  its  duration,  and  4.  upon  its 
certainty;  and  that,  considered  with  a  view 
to  its  consequences,  its  value  is  further  affect- 
ed, 1.  by  its  fecundity,  i.  e.  its  tendency  to 
produce  other  pleasures  or  pains;  2.  by  its 
purity,  i.  e.  its  being  unmixed  with  other  sen- 
sations; and,  3.  by  the  number  of  persons  to 
whom  it  may  extend.  These  considerations, 
however,  the  author  justly  admits  to  be  still 
inadequate  for  his  purpose;  for,  by  what 
mei.ns  is  the  Intensity  of  any  pain  or  pleasure 
to  be  measured,  and  how,  without  a  knowledge 
of  this,  are  we  to  proportion  punishments  to 
temptations,  or  adjust  the  measures  of  recom- 
pense or  indemnification  ?  To  solve  this  pro- 
blem, Mr.  Bentham  seems  to  have  thought  it 
sufficient  to  recur  to  his  favourite  system  of 
Enumeration ;  and  to  have  held  nothing  else 
necessary  than  to  make  out  a  fair  catalogue 
of  '-the  circumstances  by  which  the  sensi- 
bility is  affected."  These  he  divides  into  two 
branches — the  primary  and  the  secondary. 
The  first  he  determines  to  be  exactly  fifteen, 
viz.  temperament — health — strength — bodily 
imperfection — intelligence  —  strength  of  un- 
derstanding—  fortitude  —  perseverance — dis- 
positions— notions  of  honour  —  notions  of  reli- 
gion— sympathies — antipathies  —  folly  or  de- 
rangement— fortune.  The  secondary  are  only 
nine,  viz.  sex — age — rank — education  —  pro- 
fession— climate — creed — government  —  re- 
ligious creed.  By  carefully  attending  to  these 
twenty-four  circumstances,  Mr.  Bentham  is  of 
opinion  that  we  may  be  able  to  estimate  the 
value  of  any  particular  pleasure  or  pain  to  an 
mdividual,  with  sufficient  exactness;  and  to 
judge  of  the  comparative  magnitude  of  crimes, 
and  of  the  proportionate  amount  of  pains  and 
compensations. 

Now  the  first  remark  that  suggests  itself  is, 
that  if  there  is  little  that  is  false  or  pernicious 
in  this  system,  there  is  little  that  is  either  new 
or  important.  That  laws  were  made  to  pro- 
mote the  general  welfare  of  society,  and  that 
nothing  should  be  enacted  which  has  a  differ- 
ent tendency,  are  truths  that  can  scarcely 
claim  the  merit  of  novelty,  or  mark  an  epocn 
by  the  date  of  their  promulgation ;  and  we 
have  not  yet  been  able  to  discover  that  the 
vast  technical  apparatus  here  provided  by  Mr. 
Bentham  can  be  of  the  smallest  service  in 
improving  their  practical  application. 

The  basis  of  the  whole  system  is  the  undi- 
vided sovereignty  of  the  principle  of  Utility, 
and  the  necessity  which  there  is  for  recurring 
strictly  to  it  in  every  question  of  legislation. 
Moral  feelings,  it  is  admitted,  will  frequently 
be  found  to  coincide  with  it ;  but  they  are  on 
no  account  to  be  trusted  to,  till  this  coinci- 
dence has  been  verified.  They  are  no  better, 
in  short,  than  sjinpathies  and  antipathies, 
mere  private  and  unaccountable  feelings,  that 
may  vary  in  the  case  of  every  individual ; 
31 


and  therefore  can  affoid  no  fixed  standard  for 
general  approbation  or  enjoyment.  Now  we 
cannot  help  thinking,  that  this  fundamentai 
proposition  is  very  defective,  both  in  logical 
consistency,  and  in  substantial  truth.  In  the 
first  place,  it  seems  very  obvious  that  the 
principle  of  utility  is  liable  to  the  very  same 
objections,  on  the  force  of  which  the  authority 
of  moral  impressions  has  been  so  positively 
denied.  For  how  shall  utility  itself  be  recog- 
nised, but  by  a  feeling  exactly  similar  to  thai 
which  is  stigmatised  as  capricious  and  unac 
countable  ?  How  are  pleasures  and  pains,  ana 
the  degrees  and  relative  magnitude  of  plea- 
sures and  pains,  to  be  distinguished,  but  hi 
the  feeling  and  experience  of  every  individual  ^ 
And  what  greater  certainty  can  there  be  in 
the  accuracy  of  such  determinations,  than  in 
the  results  of  other  feelings  no  less  general 
and  distinguishable  1  If  right  and  wrong,  in 
short,  be  not  precisely  the  same  to  every  in 
dividual,  neither  are  pleasure  and  pain;  and 
if  there  be  despotism  and  absurdity  in  impos- 
ing upon  another,  one's  own  impressions  oi 
wisdom  and  propriety,  it  cannot  be  just  and 
reasonable  to  erect  a  standard  of  enjoyment, 
and  a  consequent  rale  of  conduct,  upon  the 
narrow  basis  of  our  own  measure  of  sensibility. 
It  is  evident,  therefore,  that  by  assuming  the 
principle  of  utility,  we  do  not  get  rid  of  the 
risk  of  variable  feeling ;  and  that  we  are  still 
liable  to  all  the  uncertainty  that  may  be  pro- 
duced by  this  cause,  under  the  influence  of 
any  other  principle. 

The  truth  is,  however,  that  this  uncertainty 
is  in  all  cases  of  a  very  limited  nature  ;  and 
that  the  common  impressions  of  morality,  the 
vulgar  distinctions  of  right  and  wrong,  virtue 
and  vice,  are  perfectly  sufficient  to  direct  the 
conduct  of  the  individua],  and  the  judgment 
of  the  legislator,  for  all  useful  purposes,  with- 
out any  reference  to  the  nature  or  origin  oi 
those  distinctions.  In  many  respects,  indeed, 
we  conceive  them  to  be  much  fitter  for  this 
purpose  than  Mr.  Bentham' s  oracles  of  utility. 
In  the  first  place,  it  is  necessary  to  observe, 
that  it  is  a  very  gross  and  unpardonable  mis- 
take to  represent  the  notions  of  right  ana 
wrong,  which  are  here  in  question,  as  depend- 
ing altogether  upon  the  private  and  capricious 
feelings  of  an  individual.  Certainly  no  map 
was  ever  so  arrog-ant  or  so  foolish,  as  tc  insist 
upon  establishing  his  own  individual  persua- 
sion as  an  infallible  test  of  duty  and  wisdom 
for  all  the  rest  of  the  world.  The  moral  feel- 
ings, of  which  Mr.  Bentham  would  make  so 
small  account,  are  the  feelings  which  obser- 
vation has  taught  us  to  impute  to  all  men-, 
those  in  which,  under  every  variety  of  cir 
cumstances,  they  are  found  pretty  constantly 
to  agree,  and  as  to  which  the  uniformity  oi 
their  conclusions  may  be  reasoned  and  reck- 
oned upon,  with  almost  as  much  security  as 
in  the  case  of  their  external  perceptions 
The  existence  of  such  feelings,  and  the  uni 
formity  with  which  they  are  excited  in  ah 
men  on  the  same  occasions,  are  facts,  in  .short, 
that  admit  of  no  dispute  ;  afid,  in  point  of  cer- 
tainty and  precision,  are  exactly  on  a  footing 
with  those  perceptions  of  utility  that  can  only 


482 


METAPHYSICS  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


be  relied  on  aiier  they  also  have  been  verified 
by  a  similar  process  of  observation.  Now, 
we  are  inclined  to  tliink,  in  opposition  to  Mr. 
Bentham,  mac  a  legislator  will  proceed  more 
safely  by  following  the  indications  of  those 
moral  distinctions  as  to  which  all  men  are 
agreed,  tnan  by  setting  them  altogether  at 
defiance,  and  attending  exclusively  to  those 
perceptions  of  utility  which,  after  all,  he  must 
collect  from  the  same  general  agreement. 

It  is  now,  we  believe,  universally  admitted, 
that  nothmg  can  be  generally  the  object  of 
moral  approbation,  which  does  not  tend,  upon 
the  whole,  to  the  good  of  mankind  ]  and  we 
are  not  e^en  disposed  to  dispute  with  Mr. 
Bentham,  that  the  true  source  of  this  moral 
approbation  is  in  all  cases  a  perception  or  ex- 
perience of  what  may  be  called  utility  in  the 
action  or  object  which  excites  it.  The  dif- 
ference between  us,  however,  is  considerable ; 
and  it  is  precisely  this — Mr.  Bentham  main- 
tains, that  in  all  cases  we  ought  to  disregard 
the  presumptions  arising  from  moral  approba- 
tion, and.  by  a  resolute  and  scrupulous  analy- 
sis, to  get  at  the  actual,  naked  utility  upon 
which  it  is  founded ;  and  then,  by  the  appli- 
cation of  his  new  moral  arithmetic,  to  deter- 
mine its  quantity,  its  composition,  and  its 
value  j  and,  according  to  the  result  of  this  in- 
vestigation, to  regulate  our  moral  approbation 
for  the  luture.  We,  on  the  other  hand,  are 
inclined  to  hold,  that  those  feelings,  where 
they  are  uniform  and  decided,  are  by  far  the 
surest  tests  of  the  quantity  and  value  of  the 
utility  by  which  they  are  suggested ;  and  that 
if  we  discredit  their  report,  and  attempt  to  as- 
certain this  value  by  any  formal  process  of  cal- 
culation or  analysis,  we  desert  a  safe  and  natu- 
ral standard,  in  pursuit  of  one  for  the  construc- 
tion of  which  we  neither  have,  nor  ever  can 
have,  any  rules  or  materials.  A  very  few  ob- 
servations, we  trust,  will  set  this  in  a  clear  light. 

The  amount,  degree,  or  intensity  of  any 
pleasure  or  pain,  is  ascertained  by  feeling; 
and  not  determined  by  reason  or  reflection. 
These  feelings  however  are  transitory  in  their 
own  nature,  and,  when  they  occur  separately, 
and,  as  it  were,  individually,  are  not  easily 
recalled  with  such  precision  as  to  enable  us, 
upon  recollection,  to  adjust  their  relative  val- 
ues. But  when  they  present  themselves  in 
combinations,  or  in  rapid  succession,  their 
relative  magnitude  or  intensity  is  generally 
perceived  by  the  mind  without  any  exertion, 
and  rather  by  a  sort  of  immediate  feeling, 
than  in  consequence  of  any  intentional  com- 
parison :  And  when  a  particular  combination 
or  succession  of  such  feelings  is  repeatedly  or 
frequently  suggested  to  the  memory,  the  rela- 
tive value  of  all  its  parts  is  perceived  with 
j^reat  readiness  and  rapidity,  and  the  general 
lesult  is  fixed  in  the  mind,  without  our  being 
conscious  of  any  act  of  reflection.  In  this 
\/ay,  moral  maxims  and  impressions  arise  in 
ihe  minds  of  all  men,  from  an  instinctive  and 
involuntary  valuation  of  the  good  and  the  evil 
which  tney  have  perceived  to  be  connected 
wfth  certain  actions  or  habits  j  and  those  im- 
pressions may  safely  be  taken  for  the  just  re- 
mit of  that  valuation,  which  we  may  after- 


wards attempt,  unsuccessfully,  though  wifUi 
great  labour,  to  repeat.  They  may  be  coni- 
pared,  on  this  view  of  the  matter,  to  tho»,o 
acquired  perceptions  of  sight  by  which  the  eye 
is  enabled  to  judge  of  distances ;  of  the  pro- 
cess of  acquiring  which  we  are  equally  un- 
conscious, and  yet  by  which  it  is  certain  that 
we  are  much  more  safely  and  commodionsly 
guided,  within  the  range  of  our  ordinary  occu- 
pations, than  we  ever  could  be  by  any  formal 
scientific  calculations,  founded  on  the  faint- 
ness  of  the  colouring,  and  the  magnitude  of  the 
angle  of  Vision,  compared  with  the  average 
tangible  bulk  of  the  kind  of  object  in  question. 

The  comparative  value  of  such  good  and 
evil,  we  have  already  observed,  can  obviously 
be  determined  by  feeling  alone ;  so  that  the 
interference  of  technical  and  elaborate  reason- 
ing, though  it  may  well  be  supposed  to  disturb 
those  perceptions  upon  the  accuracy  of  which 
the  determination  must  depend,  cannot  in  any 
case  be  of  the  smallest  assistance.  Where 
the  preponderance  of  good  or  evil  is  distinctly 
felt  by  all  persons  to  whom  a  certain  combi- 
nation of  feelings  has  been  thus  suggested, 
we  have  all  the  evidence  for  the  reality  of 
this  preponderance  that  the  nature  of  the 
subject  will  admit ;  and  must  try  in  vain  to 
traverse  that  judgment,  by  any  subsequent 
exertion  of  a  faculty  that  has  no  jurisdiction 
in  the  cause.  The  established  rules  and  im- 
pressions of  morality,  therefore,  we  consider 
as  the  grand  recorded  result  of  an  infinite 
multitude  of  experiments  upon  human  feeling 
and  fortune,  under  every  variety  of  circum- 
stances; and  as  affording,  therefore,  by  far 
the  nearest  approximation  to  a  just  standard 
of  the  good  and  the  evil  that  human  conduct 
is  concerned  with,  which  the  nature  of  our 
faculties  will  allow.  In  endeavouring  to  cor- 
rect or  amend  this  general  verdict  of  mankind, 
in  any  particular  instance,  we  not  only  substi- 
tute our  own  individual  feelings  for  that  large 
average  which  is  implied  in  those  moral  im- 
pressions, which  are  universally  prevalent, 
but  obviously  run  the  risk  of  omitting  or  mis- 
taking some  of  the  most  important  elements 
of  the  calculation.  Every  one  at  all  ac- 
customed to  reflect  upon  the  operations  of 
his  mind,  must  be  conscious  how  difficult  it 
is  to  retrace  exactly  those  trains  of  thought 
which  pass  through  the  understanding  almost 
without  giving  us  any  intimation  of  their  ex- 
istence, and  how  impossible  it  frequently  is 
to  repeat  any  process  of  thought,  when  we 
purpose  to  make  it  the  subject  of  observation. 
The  reason  of  this  is,  that  our  feelings  are  not 
in  their  natural  state  when  we  would  thus 
make  them  the  objects  of  study  or  analysis ; 
and  their  force  and  direction  are  far  better 
estimated,  therefore,  from  the  traces  which 
they  leave  in  their  spontaneous  visitations, 
than  from  any  forced  revocation  of  them  for 
the  purpose  of  being  measured  or  compared. 
When  the  object  itself  is  inaccessible,  it  is 
wisest  to  compute  its  magnitude  from  its 
shadow ;  where  the  cause  cannot  be  directly 
examined,  its  qualities  are  most  securely  in- 
ferred from  its  effects. 

One  of  the  most  obvious  consequences  of 


BENTHAM  ON  LEGISLATION. 


483 


riisregarding  the  general  impressions  of  mo- 
rality, and  determining  every  individual  ques- 
tion upon  a  rigorous  estimate  of  the  utility  it 
might  appear  to  involve,  would  be,  to  give  an 
additional  force  to  the  causes  by  which  our 
judgments  are  most  apt  to  be  perverted,  and 
entirely  to  abrogate  the  authority  of  those 
General  rules  by  which  alone  men  are  com- 
monly enabled  to  judge  of  their  own  conduct 
with  any  tolerable  impartiality.  If  we  were 
to  dismiss  altogether  from  our  consideration 
those  authoritative  maxims,  which  have  been 
sanctioned  by  the  general  approbation  of  man- 
kind, and  to  regulate  our  conduct  entirely  by 
a  view  of  the  good  and  the  evil  that  promises 
to  be  the  consequence  of  every  particular 
action,  there  is  reason  to  fear,  not  only  that 
inclination  might  occasionally  slip  a  false 
weight  into  the  scale,  but  that  many  of  the 
most  important  consequences  of  our  actions 
might  be  overlooked.  Those  actions  are  bad, 
according  to  Mr.  Bentham,  that  produce  more 
evil  than  good :  But  actions  are  performed  by 
individuals ;  and  all  the  good  may  be  to  the 
individual,  and  all  the  evil  to  the  community. 
There  are  innumerable  cases,  in  which  the 
advantages  to  be  gained  by  the  commission 
of  a  crime  are  incalculably  greater  (looking 
only  to  this  world)  than  the  evils  to  w^hich  it 
may  expose  the  criminal.  This  holds  in  al- 
most every  instance  where  unlawful  passions 
may  be  gratified  with  very  little  risk  of  de- 
tection. A  mere  calculation  of  utilities  would 
never  prevent  such  actions;  and  the  truth 
undoubtedly  is,  that  the  greater  part  of  men 
are  only  withheld  from  committing  them  by 
those  general  impressions  of  morality,  which 
it  is  the  object  of  Mr.  Bentham's  system  to 
supersede.  Even  admitting,  what  might  well 
be  denied,  that,  in  all  cases,  the  utility  of  the 
individual  is  inseparably  connected  with  that 
of  society,  it  will  not  be  disputed,  at  least, 
that  this  connection  is  of  a  nature  not  very 
striking  or  obvious,  and  that  it  may  frequently 
be  overlooked  by  an  individual  deliberating 
on  the  consequences  of  his  projected  actions. 
It  is  in  aid  of  this  oversight,  of  this  omission, 
of  this  partiality,  that  we  refer  to  the  General 
rules  of  morality;  rules,  which  have  been 
suggested  by  a  larger  observation,  and  a  longer 
experience,  than  any  individual  can  dream  of 
pretending  to,  and  which  have  been  accom- 
modated, by  the  joint  action  of  our  sjinpathies 
with  delinquents  and  with  sufferers,  to  the 
actual  condition  of  human  fortitude  and  in- 
firmity. If  they  be  founded  on  utility,  it  is 
on  an  utility  that  cannot  always  be  discovered ; 
and  that  can  never  be  correctly  estimated,  in 
deliberating  upon  a  particular  measure,  or 
with  a  view  to  a  specific  course  of  conduct : 
It  is  on  an  utility  that  does  not  discover  itself 
till  it  is  accumulated  ;  and  only  becomes  ap- 
parent after  a  large  collection  of  examples 
have  been  embodied  in  proof  of  it.  Such 
summaries  of  utility,  such  records  of  uniform 
observation,  we  conceive  to  be  the  General 
rules  of  Morality,  by  which,  and  by  which 
alone,  legislators  or  individuals  can  be  safely 
directed  in  determining  on  the  propriety  of 
uny  course  of  conduct.     They  are  observa- 


tions taken  in  the  calm,  by  which  we  musi 
be  guided  in  the  darkness  and  the  tenor  of 
the  tempest ;  they  are  beacons  and  strongholds 
erected  in  the  day  of  peace,  round  which  we 
must  rally,  and  to  which  we  must  betake  our- 
selves, in  the  hour  of  contest  and  alarm. 

For  these  reasons,  and  for  others  wnicn  our 
limits  will  not  now  permit  us  to  hint  at,  we 
are  of  opinion,  that  the  old  established  mo- 
rality of  mankind  ought  upon  no  account  to 
give  place  to  a  bold  and  rigid  investigation 
into  the  utility  of  any  particular  act,  or  any 
course  of  action  that  may  be  made  the  sub- 
ject of  deliberation  ;  and  that  the  safest  and 
the  shortest  way  to  the  good  which  we  all 
desire,  is  the  beaten  highway  of  morality, 
which  was  formed  at  first  by  the  experience 
of  good  and  of  evil. 

But  our  objections  do  not  apply  merely  to 
the  foundation  of  Mr.  Bentham's  new  systeir 
of  morality  :  We  think  the  plan  and  execu- 
tion of  the  superstructure  itself  defective  in 
many  particulars.  Even  if  we  could  be  per- 
suaded that  it  would  be  wiser  in  general  to 
follow  the  dictates  of  utility  than  the  impres- 
sions of  moral  duty,  we  should  still  say  that 
the  system  contained  in  these  volumes  does 
not  enable  us  to  adopt  that  substitute :  and 
that  it  really  presents  us  with  no  means  of 
measuring  or  comparing  utilities.  After  pe- 
rusing M.  Dumont's  eloquent  observations  on 
the  incalculable  benefits  which  his  author's 
discoveries  were  to  confer  on  the  science  of 
legislation,  and  on  the  genius  and  good  fortune 
by  which  he  had  been  enabled  to  reduce 
morality  to  the  precision  of  a  science,  by  fix- 
ing a  precise  standard  for  the  good  and  evil 
of  our  lives,  we  proceeded  with  the  perusal 
of  Mr.  Bentham's  endless  tables  and  divisions, 
with  a  mixture  of  impatience,  expectation, 
and  disappointment.  Now  that  we  have  fin- 
ished our  task,  the  latter  sentiment  alone 
remains:  for  we  perceive  very  clearly  that 
M.  Dumont's  zeal  and  partiality  have  imposed 
upon  his  natural  sagacity,  and  that  Mr.  Ben- 
tham has  just  left  the  science  of  morality  in 
the  same  imperfect  condition  in  which  it  was 
left  by  his  predecessors.  The  whole  of  Mr. 
Bentham's  catalogues  and  distinctions  tend 
merely  to  point  out  the  Number  of  the  causes 
that  produce  our  happiness  oi  misery,  but  by 
no  means  to  ascertain  their  relative  Magnitude 
or  force  ;  and  the  only  effect  of  their  introduc- 
tion into  the  science  of  morality  seems  to  be, 
to  embarrass  a  popular  subject  with  a  technical 
nomenclature,  and  to  perplex  familiar  truths 
with  an  unnecessary  intricacy  of  arrangement. 

Of  the  justice  of  this  remark  any  one  may 
satisfy  himself,  by  turning  back  to  the  tables 
and  classifications  which  we  have  exhibited 
in  the  former  part  of  this  analysis,  and  trying 
if  he  can  find  there  any  rules  for  estimating 
the  comparative  value  of  pleasures  and  pains, 
that  are  not  perfectly  familiar  to  the  most  un- 
instructed  of  the  species.  In  the  table  of 
simple  pleasures,  for  instance,  what  satisfac 
tion  can  it  afford  to  find  the  pleasure  of  riches 
set  down  as  a  distinct  genus  from  the  pleasure 
of  power,  and  the  pleasure  of  the  senses — 
unless  some  scale  were  annexed  bv  which  the 


484 


METAPHYSICS  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


respective  value  of  these  several  pleasures 
might  be  ascertained  1  If  a  man  is  balancing 
between  the  pain  of  privation  and  the  pain 
of  shame,  how  is  he  relieved  by  merely  find- 
ing these  arranged  under  separate  titles  ?  or, 
in  either  case,  will  it  give  him  any  informa- 
tion, to  be  told  that  the  value  of  a  pain  or 
pleasure  depends  upon  its  intensity,  its  dura- 
tion, or  its  certainty  ?  If  a  legislator  is  desi- 
rous to  learn  what  degree  of  punishment  is 
suitable  to  a  particular  offence,  will  he  be 
greatly  edified  to  read  that  the  same  punish- 
ment may  be  more  or  less  severe  according 
to  the  temperament,  the  intelligence,  the 
rank,  or  the  fortune  of  the  delinquent ;  and 
that  the  circumstances  that  influence  sensi- 
bility, though  commonly  reckoned  to  be  only 
nine,  may  fairly  be  set  down  at  fifteen  ?  Is 
there  any  thing,  in  short,  in  this  whole  book, 
that  realises  the  triumphant  Introduction  of 
the  editor,  or  that  can  enable  us  in  any  one 
instance  to  decide  upon  the  relative  magnitude 
of  an  evil,  otherwise  than  by  a  reference  to 
the  common  feelings  of  mankind  1  It  is  true, 
we  are  perfectly  persuaded,  that  by  the  help 
of  these  feelings,  we  can  form  a  pretty  correct 
judgment  in  most  cases  that  occur ;  but  Mr. 
Bentham  is  not  persuaded  of  this ;  and  insists 
upon  our  renouncing  all  faith  in  so  incorrect 
a  standard,  while  he  promises  to  furnish  us 
with  another  that  is  liable  to  no  sort  of  inac- 
curacy. This  promise  we  do  not  think  he  has 
in  any  degree  fulfilled  ;  because  he  has  given 
us  no  rule  by  which  the  intensity  of  any  pain 
or  pleasure  can  be  determined ;  and  furnish- 
ed us  with  no  instrument  by  which  we  may 
take  the  altitude  of  enjoyment,  or  fathom  the 
depths  of  pain.  It  is  no  apology  for  having 
made  this  promise,  that  its  fulfilment  was 
evidently  impossible. 

In  multiplying  these  distinctions  and  divi- 
sions which  form  the  basis  of  his  system,  Mr. 
Bentham  appears  to  us  to  bear  less  resem- 
blance to  a  philosopher  of  the  present  times, 
than  to  one  of  the  old  scholastic  doctors,  who 
substituted  classification  for  reasoning,  and 
looked  upon  the  ten  categories  as  the  most 
useful  of  all  human  inventions.  Their  dis- 
tinctions were  generally  real,  as  well  as  his, 
and  could  not  have  been  made  without  the 
misapplication  of  much  labour  and  ingenuity : 
But  it  is  now  generally  admitted  that  they  are 
of  no  use  whatever,  either  for  the  promotion 
of  truth,  or  the  detection  of  error  j  and  that 
they  only  serve  to  point  out  differences  that 
cannot  be  overlooked,  or  need  not  be  remem- 
bered. There  are  many  differences  and  many 
points  of  resemblance  in  all  actions,  and  in 
all  substances,  that  are  absolutely  indifferent 
in  any  serious  reasoning  that  may  be  entered 
into  with  regard  to  them ;  and  though  much 
industry  and  much  acuteness  maybe  display- 
ed m  finding  them  out,  the  discovery  is  just 
as  unprofitable  to  science,  as  the  enumeration 
of  the  adverbs  in  the  creed,  or  the  dissyllables 
in  the  decalogue,  would  be  to  theology.  The 
trreater  number  of  Mr.  Bentham's  distinctions, 
however,  are  liable  to  objection,  because  they 
state,  under  an  intricate  and  technical  arrange- 
ment, those  facts  and  circumstances  only  that 


are  necessarily  famiiliar  to  all  mankind,  and 
cannot  possibly  be  forgotten  on  any  occasion 
where  it  is  of  importance  to  remember  them 
If  bad  laws  have  been  enacted,  it  certainly  is 
not  from  having  forgotten  that  the  good  of 
society  is  the  ultimate  object  of  all  law,  or 
that  it  is  absurd  to  repress  one  evil  by  the 
creation  of  a  greater.  Legislators  have  often 
bewildered  themselves  in  the  choice  of  means; 
but  they  have  never  so  grossly  mistaken  the 
ends  of  their  institution,  as  to  need  to  be  re- 
minded of  these  obvious  and  elementary 
truths. 

If  there  be  any  part  of  Mr.  Bentham's  clas- 
sification that  might  be  supposed  to  assist  ua 
in  appreciating  the  comparative  value  of 
pleasures  and  pains,  it  must  certainly  be  his 
enumeration  of  the  circumstances  that  affect 
the  sensibility  of  individuals.  Even  if  this 
table  were  to  fulfil  all  that  it  promises,  how- 
ever, it  would  still  leave  the  system  funda- 
mentally deficient,  as  it  does  not  enable  us  to 
compare  the  relative  amount  of  any  two  plea- 
sures or  pains,  to  individuals  in  the  same  cir- 
cumstances. In  its  particular  application, 
however,  it  is  truly  no  less  defective;  for 
though  we  are  told  that  temperament,  intelli- 
gence, &c.  should  vary  the  degree  of  punish- 
ment or  reward,  we  are  not  told  to  what  extent, 
or  in  what  proportions,  it  should  be  varied  by 
these  circumstances.  Till  this  be  done,  how- 
ever, it  is  evident  that  the  elements  of  Mr. 
Bentham's  moral  arithmetic  have  no  determi- 
nate value;  and  that  it  would  be  perfectly 
impossible  to  work  any  practical  problem  in 
legislation  by  the  help  of  them.  It  is  scarcely 
necessary  to  add,  that  even  if  this  were  ac- 
complished, and  the  cognisance  of  all  these 
particulars  distinctly  enjoined  by  the  law,  the 
only  effect  would  be,  to  introduce  a  puerile 
and  fantastic  complexity  into  our  systems  of 
jurisprudence,  and  to  encumber  judicial  pro- 
cedure with  a  multitude  of  frivolous  or  im- 
practicable observances.  The  circumstances, 
in  consideration  of  which  Mr.  Bentham  would 
have  the  laws  vary  the  punishment,  are  so 
numerous  and  so  indefinite,  that  it  would  re- 
quire a  vast  deal  more  labour  to  ascertain 
their  existence  in  any  particular  case,  than  to 
establish  the  principal  offence.  The  first  is 
Temperament ;  and  in  a  case  of  flogging,  we 
suppose  Mr.  Bentham  would  remit  a  few 
lashes  to  a  sanguine  and  irritable  delinquent, 
and  lay  a  few  additional  stripes  on  a  phleg- 
matic or  pituitous  one.  But  how  is  the  tem- 
perament to  be  given  in  evidence  ?  or  are  the 
judges  to  aggravate  or  alleviate  a  punishment 
upon  a  mere  inspection  of  the  prisoner's  com- 
plexion. Another  circumstance  that  should 
affect  the  pain,  is  the  offender's  firmness  of 
mind ;  and  another  his  strength  of  nnderstand- 
ing.  How  is  a  court  to  take  cognisance  of 
these  qualities  ?  or  in  what  degree  are  they  to 
affect  their  proceedings  ?  If  we  are  to  admit 
such  considerations  into  our  law  at  all,  they 
ought  to  be  carried  a  great  deal  farther  than 
Mr.  Bentham  has  indicated  ;  and  it  should  be 
expressed  in  the  statutes,  what  alleviation  of 
punishment  should  be  awarded  to  a  culprit 
on  account  of  his  wife's  pregnancy,  or  the 


BENTHAM  ON  LEGISLATION. 


485 


colour  of  his  children's  hair.  We  cannot  help 
thinking  that  the  undistinguishinggrossness  of 
our  actual  practice  is  better  than  such  foppery. 
We  fix  a  punishment  which  is  calculated  for 
the  common,  average  condition  of  those  to 
whom  it  is  to  be  applied ;  and,  in  almost  all 
cases,  we  leave  with  the  judge  a  discretionary 
power  of  accommodating  it  to  any  peculiarities 
that  may  seem  to  require  an  exception.  After 
all,  this  is  the  most  plausible  part  of  Mr.  Ben- 
tham's  arrangements. 

In  what  he  has  said  of  the  false  notions 
which  legislators  have  frequently  followed  in 
preference  to  the  polar  light  of  utility,  we 
think  we  discover  a  good  deal  of  inaccuracy, 
and  some  little  want  of  candour.  Mr.  Ben- 
tham  must  certainly  be  conscious  that  no  one 
ever  pretended  that  the  mere  antiquity  of  a 
law  was  a  sufficient  reason  for  retaining  it,  in 
spite  of  its  evident  inutility :  But  when  the 
utility  of  parting  with  it  is  doubtful,  its  an- 
tiquity may  fairly  be  urged  as  affording  a  pre- 
sumption in  its  favour,  and  as  a  reason  for 
being  cautious  at  least  in  the  removal  of  what 
must  be  incorporated  with  so  many  other  in- 
stitutions. We  plead  the  antiquity  of  our 
Constitution  as  an  additional  reason  for  not 
yielding  it  up  to  innovators  :  but  nobody  ever 
thought,  we  believe,  of  advancing  this  plea  in 
support  of  the  statutes  against  Witchcraft.  In 
the  same  way,  w^e  think,  there  is  more  wit 
than  reason  in  ascribing  the  errors  of  many 
legislators  to  their  being  misled  by  a  metaphor. 
The  metaphor,  we  are  inclined  to  think,  has 
generally  arisen  from  the  principle  or  practice 
to  which  Mr.  Bentham  would  give  effect  in- 
dependent of  it.  The  law  of  England  respects 
the  sanctity  of  a  free  citizen's  dwelling  so 
much,  as  to  yield  it  some  privilege  ;  and  there- 
fore an  Englishman's  house  is  called  his  Castle. 
The  piety  or  superstition  of  some  nations  has 
determined  that  a  criminal  cannot  be  arrested 
in  a  place  of  worship.  This  is  the  whole  fact ; 
the  usage-  is  neither  explained  nor  convicted 
of  absurdity,  by  saying  that  such  people  call 
a  church  the  House  of  God .  If  it  were  the 
house  of  God,  does  Mr.  Bentham  conceive 
that  it  ought  to  be  a  sanctuary  for  criminals  1 
In  what  is  said  of  the  Fictions  of  law,  there 
is  much  of  the  same  misapprehension.  Men 
neither  are,  nor  ever  were,  misguided  by 
Ihese  fictions;  but  the  fictions  are  nierely  cer- 
tain quaint  and  striking  methods  of  expressing 
a  rale  that  has  been  adopted  in  an  apprehen- 
sion of  its  utility.  To  deter  men  from  com- 
mitting treason,  their  offspring  is  associated 
to  a  certain  extent  in  their  punishment.  The 
motive  and  object  of  this  law  is  plain  enough ; 
and  calling  the  effect  "Corruption  of  blood," 
will  neither  aggravate  nor  hide  its  injustice. 
When  it  is  said  that  the  heir  is  the  same  per- 
son with  the  deceased,  it  is  but  a  pithy  way 
of  intimating  that  he  is  bound  in  all  the  obli- 
gations, and  entitled  to  all  the  rights  of  his 
predecessor.  That  the  King  never  dies,  is 
only  another  phrase  for  expressing  that  the 
office  is  never  vacant ;  and  that  he  is  every 
where,  is  true,  if  it  be  lawful  to  say  that  a 
person  can  act  by  deputy.  In  all  these  ob- 
•ervations,  and  in  many  that  are  scattered 


through  the  subsequent  part  of  his  book,  Mr. 
Bentham  seems  to  forget  that  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  common  sense  in  the  world  ;  and  to 
take  it  for  granted,  that  if  there  be  an  opening 
in  the  letter  of  the  law  for  folly,  misapprehen- 
sion, or  abuse,  its  ministers  will  eagerly  take 
advantage  of  it,  and  throw  the  whole  frame  of 
society  into  disorder  and  wretchedness.  A 
very  slight  observation  of  the  actual  business 
of  life  might  have  taught  him,  that  expediency 
may,  for  the  most  part,  be  readily  and  cer- 
tainly discovered  by  those  who  are  interested 
in  finding  it  ]  and  that  in  a  certain  stage  of 
civilisation  there  is  generated  such  a  quantity 
of  intelligence  and  good  sense,  as  to  disarm 
absurd  institutions  of  their  power  to  do  mis- 
chief, and  to  administer  defective  laws  into  a 
system  of  practical  equity.  This  indeed  is 
the  grand  corrective  which  remedies  all  the 
errors  of  legislators,  and  retrenches  all  that  is 
pernicious  in  prejudice.  It  makes  us  inde- 
pendent of  technical  systems,  and  indifferent 
to  speculative  irregularities ;  and  he  who  could 
increase  its  quantity,  o  confirm  its  power, 
would  do  more  service  to  mankind  than  ali 
the  philosophers  that  ever  speculated  on  the 
means  of  their  reformation. 

In  the  following  chapter  we  meet  with  a 
perplexity  which,  though  very  ingeniously 
produced,  appears  to  us  to  be  wholly  gratui- 
tous. Mr.  Bentham  for  a  long  time  can  see 
no  distinction  between  Civil  and  Criminal 
jurisprudence ;  and  insists  upon  it,  that  rights 
and  crimes  necessarily  and  virtually  imply 
each  other.  If  I  have  a  right  to  get  your 
horse,  it  is  only  because  it  would  be  a  crime 
for  you  to  keep  him  from  me  ;  and  if  it  be  a 
crime  for  me  to  take  your  horse,  it  is  only  be- 
cause you  have  a  right  to  keep  him.  This 
we  think  is  very  pretty  reasoning:  But  the 
distinction  between  the  civil  and  the  criminal 
law  is  not  the  less  substantial  and  apparent. 
The  civil  law  is  that  which  directs  and  en- 
joins— the  criminal  law  is  that  which  Punishes. 
This  is  enough  for  the  legislator ;  and  for  those 
who  are  to  obey  him.  It  is  a  curious  inquiry, 
no  doubt,  how  far  all  rights  may  be  considered 
as  the  counterpart  of  crimes;  and  whether 
every  regulation  of  the  civil  code  necessarily 
implies  a  delict  in  the  event  of  its  violation. 
On  this  head  there  is  room  for  a  good  deal  of 
speculation ;  but  in  our  opinion  Mr.  Bentham 
pushes  the  principle  much  too  far.  There 
seems  to  be  nothing  gained,  for  instance, 
either  in  the  way  of  clearness  or  consistency^ 
by  arranging  under  the  head  of  criminal  law, 
those  cases  of  refusal  to  fulfil  contracts,  or  to 
perform  obligations,  for  which  no  other  pun- 
ishment is  or  ought  to  be  provided,  but  a  com- 
pulsory fulfilment  or  performance.  This  is 
merely  following  out  the  injunction  of  the 
civil  code,  and  cannot,  either  in  law  or  in  logic, 
be  correctly  regarded  as  a  punishment.  The 
proper  practical  test  of  a  crime,  is  where,  over 
and  above  the  restitution  of  the  violated  right 
[where  that  is  possible),  the  violator  is  sub- 
jected to  a  direct  pain,  in  order  to  -leter  from 
the  repetition  of  such  offences. 

In  passing  to  the  code  of  criminj?!  law,  Mi. 
Bentham  does  not  forget  the  neccK'ntv  of  claas^ 


486 


METAPHYSICS  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


ifying  and  dividing.  Delicts,  according  to 
him,  are  either,  1.  Private,  or  against  one  or 
a  few  individuals ;  2.  Reflective,  or  against  the 
delinquent  himself;  3.  Semipublic,  or  against 
some  particular  class  or  description  of  per- 
sons ;  and,  finally,  Public,  or  against  the  whole 
community.  Private  delicts,  again,  relate 
either  to  the  person,  the  property,  the  repu- 
tation or  the  condition ;  and  they  are  distrib- 
uted into  complex  and  simple,  principal  and 
accessory,  positive  and  negative,  &c.  &c.  The 
chief  evil  of  a  crime  is  the  alarm  which  it 
excites  in  the  community;  and  the  degree  of 
this  alarm,  Mr.  Bentham  assumes,  depends 
upon  eight  circumstances,  the  particular  situa- 
tion of  the  delinquent,  his  motives,  his  noto- 
riety, his  character,  the  difficulties  or  facihties 
of  the  attempt,  &c.  But  here  again,  we  see 
no  sense  in  the  enumeration ;  the  plain  fact 
being,  that  the  alarm  is  increased  by  every 
thing  which  renders  it  probable  that  such  acts 
may  be  frequently  repeated.  In  one  case,  and 
one  of  considerable  atrocity,  there  is  no  alarm 
at  all ;  because  the  only  beings  who  can  be 
affected  by  it,  are  incapable  of  fear  or  suspi- 
cion— this  is  the  case  of  infanticide :  and  Mr. 
Bentham  ingeniously  observes,  that  it  is  pro- 
bably owing  to  this  circumstance  that  the 
laws  of  many  nations  have  been  so  extremely 
indiff'erent  on  that  subject.  In  modern  Eu- 
rope, however,  he  conceives  that  they  are 
barbarously  severe.  In  the  case  of  certain 
crimes  against  the  community,  such  as  mis- 
government  of  all  kinds,  the  danger  again  is 
always  infinitely  greater  than  the  alarm. 

The  remedies  which  law  has  provided 
against  the  mischief  of  crimes,  Mr.  Bentham 
says,  are  of  four  orders ;  preventive — repres- 
sive— compensatory — or  simply  penal.  Upon 
the  subject  of  compensation  or  satisfaction, 
Mr.  Bentham  is  most  copious  and  most  origi- 
nal; and  under  the  title  of  satisfaction  in 
honour,  he  presents  us  with  a  very  calm, 
acute,  and  judicious  inquiry  into  the  effects 
of  duelling ;  which  he  represents  as  the  only 
remedy  which  the  impolicy  or  impotence  of 
our  legislators  has  left  for  such  offences.  We 
do  not  think,  however,  that  the  same  good 
sense  prevails  in  what  he  subjoins,  as  to  the 
means  that  might  be  employed  to  punish  in- 
sults and  attacks  upon  the  honour  of  individu- 
als.   According  to  the  enormity  of  the  offence, 


he  is  for  making  the  delinquent  prcinoonce  a 
discourse  of  humiliation,  either  standing,  or  on 
his  knees,  before  the  offended  party,  and 
clothed  in  emblematical  robes,  with  a  masV 
of  a  characteristic  nature  on  his  head,  &t 
There  possibly  may  be  countries  where  suci 
contrivances  might  answer;  but,  with  us, 
they  would  not  only  be  ineffectual,  but  ridic- 
ulous. 

In  the  choice  of  punishments,  Mr.  Bentham 
wishes  legislators  to  recollect,  that  punish- 
ment is  itself  an  evil ;  and  that  it  consists  of 
five  parts ; — the  evil  of  restraint — the  evil  of 
suffering — the  evil  of  apprehension — the  evil 
of  groundless  persecution — and  the  evils  that 
extend  to  the  innocent  connections  of  the  de- 
linquent. For  these  reasons,  he  is  anxious  that 
no  punishment  should  be  inflicted  without  a 
real  cause,  or  without  being  likely  to  influence 
the  will;  or  where  other  remedies  might 
have  been  employed ;  or  in  cases  where  the 
crime  produces  less  evil  than  the  punishment. 
These  admonitions  are  all  very  proper,  and, 
we  dare  say,  sincere;  but  we  cannot  think 
that  they  are  in  any  way  recommended  by 
their  novelty. 

In  the  section  upon  the  indirect  means  of 
preventing  crimes,  there  is  a  great  deal  of 
genius  and  strong  reasoning;  though  there 
are  many  things  set  down  in  too  rash  and  per- 
emptory a  manner,  and  some  that  are  sup- 
ported with  a  degree  of  flippancy  not  very 
suitable  to  the  occasion.  The  five  main  sources 
of  offence  he  thinks  are,  want  of  occupation, 
the  angry  passions,  the  passion  of  the  sexes, 
the  love  of  intoxication,  and  the  love  of  gain. 
As  society  advances,  all  these  lose  a  good 
deal  of  their  mischievous  tendency,  excepting 
the  last ;  against  which,  of  course,  the  legisla- 
ture should  be  more  vigilant  than  ever.  In 
the  gradual  predominance  of  the  avaricious 
passions  over  all  the  rest,  however,  Mr.  Ben- 
tham sees  many  topics  of  consolation;  and 
concludes  this  part  of  his  work  with  declar- 
ing, that  it  should  be  the  great  object  of  the 
criminal  law  to  reduce  all  offences  to  that 
species  which  can  be  completely  atoned  for 
and  repaired  by  payment  of  a  sum  of  money. 
It  is  a  part  of  his  system,  which  we  have  for- 
gotten to  mention,  that  persons  so  injured 
should  in  all  cases  be  entitled  to  reparation 
out  of  the  public  purse. 


(lanttars,  1804.) 

Account  of  the  Life  and  Writings  of  Thomas  Reid,  D.  D.  F.  R.  S.,  Edinburgh,  late  Professor  of 
Moral  Philosophy  in  the  University  of  Glasgow.  By  Dugald  Stewart,  F.  R.  S.  Edinburgh : 
Read  at  different  Meetings  of  the  Royal  Society  of  Edinburgh.  8vo.  pp.  225.  Edinburgh 
and  London:   1803. 


Although  it  is  impossible  to  entertain 
jl^eater  respect  for  any  names  than  we  do  for 
those  that  are  united  m  the  title  of  this  work, 
wp  mus*  be  permitted  to  say,  that  there  are 
many  thn)gs  with  which  we  cannot  agree, 
both  in  the  system  of  Dr.  Reid,  and  in  Mr. 


Stewart's  elucidation  and  defence  of  it.  That 
elucidation  begins,  indeed,  with  a  remark, 
which  we  are  not  at  all  disposed  to  contro- 
vert ;  that  the  distinguishing  feature  of  Dr. 
Reid's  philosophy  is  the  systematical  steadi- 
ness with  which  ne  has  adhered  to  the  course 


STEWART'S  LIFE  OF  REID. 


487 


ot  correct  observjition,  and  the  admirable  self- 
command  by  which  he  has  confined  himself 
lo  the  clear  statement  of  the  facts  he  has  col- 
lected :  But  tl\en  Mr.  Stewart  immediately 
follows  up  this  observation  with  a  warm  en- 
comium on  the  inductive  philosophy  of  Lord 
Bacon,  and  a  copious  and  eloquent  exposition 
i>f  the  vast  advantage  that  may  be  expected 
from  applying  to  the  science  of  Mind  those 
Bound  rules  of  experimental  philosophy  that 
have  undoubtedly  guided  us  to  all  the  splen- 
did improvements  in  modern  physics.  From 
the  time  indeed  that  Mr.  Hume  published  his 
treatise  of  human  nature,  down  to  the  latest 
speculations  of  Condorcet  and  Mr.  Stewart 
himself,  we  have  observed  this  to  be  a  favour- 
ite topic  with  all  metaphysical  writers ;  and 
that  those  who  have  differed  in  almost  every 
thing  else,  have  agreed  in  magnifying  the  im- 
portance of  such  inquiries,  and  in  predicting 
the  approach  of  some  striking  improvement  in 
the  manner  of  conducting  them. 

Now,  in  these  speculations  we  cannot  help 
suspecting  that  those  philosophers  have  been 
misled  in  a  considerable  degree  by  a  false 
analogy ;  and  that  their  zeal  for  the  promotion 
of  their  favourite  studies  has  led  them  to  form 
expectations  somewhat  sanguine  and  extrava- 
gant, both  as  to  their  substantial  utihty  and 
as  to  the  possibility  of  their  ultimate  improve- 
ment. In  reality,  it  does  not  appear  to  us 
fliat  any  great  advancement  in  the  knowledge 
"f  the  operations  of  mind  is  to  be  expected 
Irom  any  improvement  in  the  plan  of  investi- 
gation; or  that  the  condition  of  mankind  is 
likely  to  derive  any  great  benefit  from  the 
cultivation  of  this  interesting  but  abstracted 
study. 

Inductive  philosophy,  or  that  which  pro- 
ceeds upon  the  careful  observation  of  facts, 
may  be  applied  to  two  different  classes  of 
phenomena.  The  first  are  those  that  can  be 
made  the  subject  of  proper  Experiment: 
where  the  substances  are  actually  in  our 
pov/er,  and  the  judgment  and  artifice  of  the 
inquirer  can  be  effectually  employed  to  ar- 
range and  combine  them  in  such  a  way  as  to 
disclose  their  most  hidden  properties  and  re- 
lations. The  other  class  of  phenomena  are 
those  that  occur  in  substances  that  are  placed 
altogether  beyond  our  reach ;  the  order  and 
succession  of  which  we  are  generally  unable 
to  control ;  and  as  to  which  we  can  do  little 
more  than  collect  and  record  the  laws  by 
which  they  appear  to  be  governed.  Those 
substances  are  not  the  subject  of  Experiment, 
but  of  Observation;  and  the  knowledge  we 
may  obtain,  by  carefully  watching  their  varia- 
tions, is  of  a  kind  that  does  not  directly  in- 
crease the  power  which  we  might  otherwise 
have  had  over  them.  It  seems  evident,  how- 
3ver,  that  it  is  principally  in  the  former  of 
ihese  departments,  or  the  strict  experimental 
philosophy,  that  those  splendid  improvements 
nave  been  made,  which  have  erected  so  vast 
a  trophy  to  the  prospective  genius  of  Bacon. 
The  astronomy  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton  is  no  ex- 
ception to  this  general  remark  :  All  that  mere 
Observation  could  do  to  determine  the  move- 
ments of  the  heavenly  bodies,  had  been  ac- 


complished by  the  sta?. -gazers  who  preceded 
him;  and  the  law  of  gravitation,  which  h6 
afterwards  applied  to  the  planetary  system, 
was  first  calculated  and  ascertained  by  experi- 
ments performed  upon  substances  which  were 
entirely  at  his  disposal. 

It  will  scarcely  be  denied,  either,  that  it  is 
almost  exclusively  to  this  department  of  pro 
per  Experiment,  that  Lord  Bacon  has  directed 
the  attention  of  his  followers.  His  funda- 
mental maxim  is,  that  knowledge  is  power; 
and  the  great  problem  which  he  constantly 
aims  at  resolving  is,  in  what  manner  the  na- 
ture of  any  substance  or  quality  may,  by  ex- 
periment, be  so  detected  and  ascertained  as 
to  enable  us  to  manage  it  at  our  pleasure 
The  greater  part  of  the  Novum  Organum  ac 
cordingly  is  taken  up  with  rules  and  examples 
for  contriving  and  conducting  experiments; 
and  the  chief  advantage  which  he  seems  to 
have  expected  from  the  progress  of  those  in- 
quiries, appears  to  be  centered  in  the  enlarge 
ment  of  man's  dominion  over  the  materia, 
universe  which  he  inhabits.  To  the  mere 
Observer,  therefore,  his  laws  of  philosophising, 
except  where  they  are  prohibitory  laws,  have 
but  little  application  ;  and  to  such  an  inquirer, 
the  rewards  of  his  philosophy  scarcely  appear 
to  have  been  promised.  It  is  evident  indeed 
that  no  dii'ect  utility  can  result  from  the  most 
accurate  observation  of  occurrences  which  we 
cannot  control ;  and  that  for  the  uses  to  which 
such  observations  may  afterwards  be  turned, 
we  are  indebted  not  so  much  to  the  observer, 
as  to  the  person  who  discovered  the  applica- 
tion. It  also  appears  to  be  pretty  evident 
that  in  the  art  of  observation  itself,  no  very 
great  or  fundamental  improvement  can  be 
expected.  Vigilance  and  attention  are  all  that 
can  ever  be  required  in  an  observer;  and 
though  a  talent  for  methodical  arrangement 
may  facilitate  to  others  the  study  of  the  facts 
that  have  been  collected,  it  does  not  appear 
how  our  actual  knowledge  of  those  facts  can 
be  increased  by  any  new  method  of  describing 
them.  Facts  that  we  are  unable  to  modify  or 
direct,  in  short,  can  only  be  the  objects  of  ob- 
servation; and  observation  can  only  inform 
us  that  they  exist,  and  that  their  succession 
appears  to  be  governed  by  certain  general 
laws. 

In  the  proper  Experimental  philosophy, 
every  acquisition  of  knowledge  is  an  increase 
of  power;  because  the  knowledge  is  neces- 
sarily derived  from  some  intentional  disposi- 
tion of  materials  which  w^e  may  always  com- 
mand in  the  same  manner.  In  the  philoso- 
phy of  observation,  it  is  merely  a  gratification 
of  our  curiosity.  By  experiment,  too.  we 
generally  acquire  a  pretty  correct  knowledge 
of  the  causes  of  the  phenomena  w^e  produce ; 
as  we  ourselves  have  distributed  and  arranged 
the  circumstances  upon  which  they  depend ; 
while,  in  matters  of  mere  observation,  the 
assignment  of  causes  must  always  be  in  a 
good  degree  conjectural,  inasmuch  as  we  have 
no  means  of  separating  the  preceding  pheno- 
mena, or  deciding  otherwise  than  by  analogy, 
to  which  of  them  the  succeeding  event  is  t* 
be  attributed. 


488 


METAPHYSICS  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


Now,  it  appears  to  us  to  be  pretty  evident 
that  the  phenomena  of  the  Human  Mind  are 
almost  all  of  the  latter  description.  We  feel, 
and  perceive,  aiy'  remember,  without  any 
purpose  or  contrivance  of  ours,  and  have  evi- 
dently no  power  over  the  mechanism  by  which 
those  functions  are  performed.  We  may  ob- 
serve and  distinguish  those  operations  of 
mind,  indeed,  with  more  or  less  attention  or 
exactness;  but  we  cannot  subject  them  to 
experiment,  or  alter  their  nature  by  any  pro- 
cess of  investigation.  We  cannot  decompose 
cur  perceptions  in  a  crucible,  nor  divide  our 
sensations  with  a  prism';  nor  can  we,  by  art 
and  contrivance,  produce  any  combination  of 
thoughts  or  emotions,  besides  those  with  which 
all  men  have  been  provided  by  nature.  No 
metaphysician  expects  by  analysis  to  discover 
a  new  power,  or  to  excite  a  new  sensation  in 
the  mind,  as  a  chemist  discovers  a  new  earth 
or  a  new  metal ;  nor  can  he  hope,  by  any 
process  of  synthesis,  to  exhibit  a  mental  com- 
bination different  from  any  that  nature  has 
produced  in  the  minds  of  other  persons.  The 
science  of  metaphysics,  therefore,  depends 
upon  observation,  and  not  upon  experiment : 
And  all  reasonings  upon  mind  proceed  ac- 
cordingly upon  a  reference  to  that  general 
observation  which  all  men  are  supposed  to 
have  made,  and  not  to  any  particular  experi- 
ments, which  are  known  only  to  the  inventor. 
— The  province  of  philosophy  in  this  depart- 
ment, therefore,  is  the  province  of  observation 
i»nly ;  and  in  this  department  the  greater  part 
of  that  code  of  laws  which  Bacon  has  pro- 
vided for  the  regulation  of  experimental  in- 
duction is  plainly  without  authority.  In  meta- 
physics, certainly,  knowledge  is  not  power; 
and  instead  of  producing  new  phenomena  to 
elucidate  the  old,  by  well-contrived  and  well- 
conducted  experiments,  the  most  diligent  in- 
quirer can  do  no  more  than  register  and  arrange 
the  appearances,  which  he  can  neither  account 
for  nor  control. 

But  though  our  power  can  in  no  case  be 
directly  increased  by  the  most  vigilant  and 
correct  observation  alone,  our  knowledge  may 
often  be  very  greatly  extended  by  it.  In  the 
science  of  mind,  however,  we  are  inclined  to 
suspect  that  this  is  not  the  case.  From  the 
very  nature  of  the  subject,  it  seems  necessa- 
rily to  follow,  that  all  men  must  be  practically 
familiar  with  all  the  functions  and  qualities 
of  their  minds ;  and  with  almost  all  the  laws 
by  which  they  appear  to  be  governed.  Every 
one  knows  exactly  what  it  is  to  perceive  and 
to  feel,  to  remember,  imagine,  and  believe ; 
and  though  he  may  not  always  apply  the 
words  that  denote  these  operations  with  per- 
fect propriety,  it  is  not  possible  to  suppose  that 
any  one  is  ignorant  of  the  things.  Even  those 
laws  of  thought,  or  connections  of  mental 
operation,  that  are  not  so  commonly  stated  in 
words,  appear  to  be  universally  known ;  and 
are  found  to  regulate  the  practice  of  those 
who  never  thought  of  enouncing  them  in  pre- 
eise  or  abstract  propositions.  A  man  who 
never  heard  it  asserted  that  memory  depends 
upon  attention,  yet  attends  with  uncommon 
rare  *r.  any  thing  that  he  wishes  to  remember ; 


and  accounts  for  his  forge tfulness,  by  acknow 
ledging  that  he  had  paid  no  attention.  A 
groom,  who  never  heard  of  the  association  of 
ideas,  feeds  the  young  war-horse  to  the  sound 
of  a  drum;  and  the  unphilosophical  artists 
who  tame  elephants  and  train  dancing  dogs, 
proceed  upon  the  same  obvious  and  adm.itted 
principle.  The  truth  is,  that  as  we  only  know 
the  existence  of  mind  by  the  exercise  of  its 
functions  according  to  certain  laws,  it  is  im- 
possible that  any  one  should  ever  discover  or 
bring  to  light  any  functions  or  any  laws  of 
which  men  would  admit  the  existence,  unless 
they  were  previously  convinced  of  their  oper- 
ation on  themselves.  A  philosopher  may  be 
the  first  to  state  these  laws,  and  to  describe 
their  operation  distinctly  in  words ;  but  men 
must  be  already  familiarly  acquainted  with 
them  in  reality,  before  they  can  assent  to  the 
justice  of  his  descriptions. 

For  these  reasons,  we  cannot  help  thinking 
that  the  labours  of  the  metaphysician,  instead 
of  being  assimilated  to  those  of  the  chemist 
or  experimental  philosopher,  might,  wnth  less 
impropriety,  be  compared  to  those  of  the  gram- 
marian who  arranges  into  technical  order  the 
words  of  a  language  which  is  spoken  famil- 
iarly by  all  his  readers ;  or  of  the  artist  who  ex- 
hibits to  them  a  correct  map  of  a  district  with 
every  part  of  which  they  were  previously 
acquainted.  We  acquire  a  perfect  knowledge 
of  our  own  minds  without  study  or  exertion, 
just  as  we  acquire  a  perfect  knowledge  of  our 
native  language  or  our  native  parish;  yet  we 
cannot,  without  much  study  and  reflection, 
compose  a  grammar  of  the  one,  or  a  map  of 
the  other.  To  arrange  in  correct  order  all  the 
particulars  of  our  practical  knowledge,  and  to 
set  down,  without  omission  and  without  dis- 
tortion, every  thing  that  we  actually  know 
upon  a  subject,  requires  a  power  of  abstrac- 
tion, recollection,  and  disposition,  that  falls  to 
the  lot  of  but  few.  In  the  scieiice  of  mind, 
perhaps,  more  of  those  qualities  are  required 
than  in  any  other ;  but  it  is  not  the  less  true 
of  this,  than  of  all  the  rest,  that  the  materials 
of  the  description  must  always  be  derived 
from  a  previous  acquaintance  with  the  sub- 
ject— that  nothing  can  be  set  down  technically 
that  was  not  practically  known — and  that  nc 
substantial  addition  is  made  to  our  knowledge 
by  a  scientific  distribution  of  its  particulars. 
After  such  a  systematic  arrangement  has  been 
introduced,  and  a  correct  nomenclature  ap- 
plied, we  may  indeed  conceive  more  clearly, 
and  will  certainly  describe  more  justly,  the 
riature  and  extent  of  our  information ;  but  our 
information  itself  is  not  really  increased,  and 
the  consciousness  by  which  we  are  supplied 
with  all  the  materials  of  our  reflections,  does 
not  become  more  productive,  by  this  dispo- 
sition of  its  contributions. 

But  though  we  have  been  induced  in  this 
way  to  express  our  scepticism,  both  as  to  the 
probable  improvement  and  practical  utility 
of  metaphysical  speculations,  we  would  by 
no  means  be  understood  as  having  asserted 
that  these  studies  are  absolutely  without 
interest  or  importance.  With  regard  to  Per- 
ception, indeed,  and  some  of  the  other  primarj^ 


STEWART'S  LIFE  OF  REID. 


4Si 


functions  of  mind,  it  seems  now  to  be  admit- 
ted, that  philosophy  can  be  of  no  use  to  us, 
and  that  the  profoundest  reasonings  lead  us 
back  to  the  creed,  and  the  ignorance,  of  the 
vulgar.  As  to  the  laws  of  Association,  how- 
ever, the  case  is  somewhat  different.  In- 
stances of  the  application  of  such  laws  are 
indeed  familiar  to  every  one,  and  there  are 
few  who  do  not  of  themselves  arrive  at  some 
imperfect  conception  of  their  general  limits 
and  application :  But  that  they  are  sooner 
learned,  and  may  be  more  steadily  and  ex- 
tensively apphed,  when  our  observations  are 
assisted  by  the  lessons  of  a  judicious  instruc- 
tor, seems  scarcely  to  admit  of  doubt ;  and 
though  there  are  no  errors  of  opinion  perhaps 
that  may  not  be  corrected  without  the  help 
of  metaphysical  principles,  it  cannot  be  dis- 
puted, that  an  habitual  acquaintance  with 
those  principles  leads  us  more  directly  to  the 
source  of  such  errors,  and  enables  us  more 
readily  to  explain  and  correct  some  of  the 
most  formidable  aberrations  of  the  human 
understanding.  After  all,  perhaps,  the  chief 
value  of  such  speculations  will  be  found  to 
consist  in  the  wholesome  exercise  which 
they  afford  to  the  faculties,  and  the  delight 
which  is  produced  by  the  consciousness  of 
intellectual  exertion.  Upon  this  subject,  we 
gladly  borrow  from  Mr.  Stewart  the  following 
admirable  quotations : — 

"  An  author  well  qualified  to  iudge,  from  his 
own  experience,  of  whatever  conduces  to  invigo- 
rate or  to  embellish  the  understanding,  has  beauti- 
fully remarked,  that,  '  by  turning  the  soul  inward 
on  itself,  its  forces  are  concentrated,  and  are  fitted 
for  stronger  and  bolder  flights  of  science  ;  and  that, 
in  such  pursuits,  whether  we  take,  or  whether  we 
lose  the  game,  the  Chase  is  certainly  of  service.' 
In  this  respect,  the  philosophy  of  the  mind  (abstract- 
ing entirely  from  that  pre-eminence  which  belongs 
to  it  in  consequence  of  its  practical  applications) 
may  claim  a  distinguished  rank  among  those  pre- 
paratory disciplines,  which  another  writer  of  equal 
talents  has  happily  compared  to  '  the  crops  which 
ar€  raised,  not  for  the  sake  of  the  harvest,  but  to 
be  ploughed  in  as  a  dressing  to  the  land.'  " 

pp.  166,  167. 

In  following  out  his  observations  on  the 
scope  and  spirit  of  Dr.  Reid's  philosophy,  Mr. 
Stewart  does  not  present  his  readers  with  any 
general  outline  or  summary  of  the  peculiar 
doctrines  by  w^hich  it  is  principally  distin- 
guished. This  part  of  the  book  indeed  ap- 
pears to  be  addressed  almost  exclusively  to 
those  who  are  in  some  degree  initiated  in  the 
studies  of  which  it  treats,  and  consists  of  a 
vindication  of  Dr.  Reid's  philosophy  from  the 
most  important  objections  that  had  been  made 
to  it  by  his  antagonists.  The  first  is  proposed 
by  the  materialist,  and  is  directed  against  the 
gratuitous  assumption  of  the  existence  of 
mind.  To  this  Mr.  Stewart  answers  with 
irresistible  force,  that  the  philosophy  of  Dr. 
Reid  has  in  reality  no  concern  with  the  theo- 
ries that  may  be  formed  as  to  the  causes  of 
our  mental  operations,  but  is  entirely  confined 
to  the  investigation  of  those  phenomena  which 
are  known  to  us  by  internal  consciousness, 
and  not  by  external  perception.  On  the 
theory  of  Materialism  itself,  he  makes  some 
admirable  obseiTations :   and,  after  having 


stated  the  perceptible  improvement  that  has 
lately  taken  place  in  the  method  of  consider- 
ing those  intellectual  phenomena,  he  con- 
cludes with  the  following  judicious  and  elo- 
quent observations : — 

"  The  authors  who  form  the  most  conspicuous 
exceptions  to  this  gradual  progress,  consist  chiefly 
of  men,  whose  errors  may  be  easily  accounted  for, 
by  the  prejudices  connected  with  their  circumscribed 
habits  of  observation  and  inquiry; — of  Physiolo- 
gists, accustomed  to  attend  to  that  part  alone  of  the 
human  frame,  which  the  knife  of  the  Anatomist 
can  lay  open  ;  or  of  Chemists,  who  enter  on  the 
analysis  of  Thought,  fresh  from  the  decompositions 
of  the  laboratory  ;  carrying  into  the  Theory  of  Mind 
itself  (what  Bacon  expressly  calls)  '  the  smoke  and 
tarnish  of  the  furnace.'  Of  the  value  of  such  pur- 
suits, none  can  think  more  highly  than  myself;  but 
I  must  be  allowed  to  observe,  that  the  most  dis- 
tincruished  pre-eminence  in  them  does  not  neces- 
sarily imply  a  capacity  of  collected  and  abstracted 
reflection  ;  or  an  understanding  superior  to  the  pre- 
judices of  early  association,  and  the  illusions  of 
popular  language.  I  will  not  go  so  far  as  Cicero, 
when  he  ascribes  to  those  who  possess  these  ad- 
vantages, a  more  than  ordinary  vigour  of  intellect : 
*  DIasni  est  i7ige7iii  revocare  mentem  a  sen$ibus,  et 
cogitationem  a  consueludine  abducere.^  1  would 
only  claim  for  them,  the  merit  of  patient  and  cau- 
tious research  ;  and  would  exact  from  their  an- 
tagonists the  same  qualifications." — pp.  110,  111. 

The  second  great  objection  that  has  been 
made  to  the  doctrines  of  Dr.  Reid,  is,  that 
they  tend  to  damp  the  ardour  of  philosophical 
curiosity,  by  stating  as  ultimate  facts  many 
phenomena  which  might  be  resolved  into, 
simpler  principles ;  and  perplex  the  science 
of  mind  with  an  unnecessary  multitude  of 
internal  and  unaccountable  properties.  As 
to  the  first  of  these  objections,  we  agree  en- 
tirely with  Mr.  Stewart.  It  is  certainly  bet- 
ter to  damp  the  ardour  of  philosophers,  by 
exposing  their  errors  and  convincing  them  of 
their  ignorance,  than  to  gratify  it  by  sub- 
scribing to  their  blunders.  It  is  one  step  to- 
wards a  true  explanation  of  any  phenomenon, 
to  expose  the  fallacy  of  an  erroneous  one ; 
and  though  the  contemplation  of  such  errors 
may  render  us  more  diffident  of  our  own  suc- 
cess, it  will  probably  teach  us  some  lessoni 
that  are  far  from  diminishing  our  chance  of 
obtaining  it.  But  to  the  charge  of  multiply- 
ing unnecessarily  the  original  and  instinctive 
principles  of  our  nature,  Mr.  Stewart,  we 
tjiink,  has  not  made  by  any  means  so  satis 
factory  an  answer.  The  greater  part  of  what 
he  says  indeed  upon  this  subject,  is  rather  an 
apology  for  Dr.  Reid,  than  a  complete  justifi 
cation  of  him.  In  his  classification  of  th<; 
active  powers,  he  admits  that  Dr.  Reid  has 
multiplied,  without  necessity,  the  number  of 
our  original  affections ;  and  that,  in  the  other 
parts  of  his  doctrine,  he  has  manifested  a 
leaning  to  the  same  extreme.  It  would  have 
been  better  if  he  had  rested  the  defence  of 
his  author  upon  those  concessions ;  and  upon 
the  general  reasoning  with  w^hich  they  are 
very  skilfully  associated,  to  prove  the  supe- 
rior safety  and  prudence  of  a  tardiness  to 
generalise  and  assimilate  :  For,  with  all  our 
deference  for  the  talents  of  the  author,  we 
find  it  impossible  to  agree  with  him  in  those 
particular  instances  in  which  he  has  endeav 


490 


METAPHYSICS  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


oiired  to  expose  the  injustice  of  the  accusa- 
tion. After  all  that  Mr.  Stewart  has  said,  we 
can  still  see  no  reason  for  admitting  a  prin- 
ciple of  credulity,  or  a  principle  of  veracity, 
in  human  nature ;  nor  can  we  discover  any 
sort  of  evidence  for  the  existence  of  an  in- 
stinctive power  of  interpreting  natural  signs. 

Dr.  Reid's  only  reason  for  maintaining  that 
the  belief  we  commonly  give  to  the  testimo- 
ny of  others  is  not  derived  from  reasoning 
and  experience,  is,  that  this  credulity  is  more 
apparent  and  excessive  in  children,  than  in 
those  whose  experience  and  reason  is  mature. 
Now,  to  this  it  seems  obvious  to  answer,  that 
the  experience  of  children,  though  not  exten- 
sive, is  almost  always  entirely  uniform  in  fa- 
vour of  the  veracity  of  those  about  them. 
There  can  scarcely  be  any  temptation  to  utter 
serious  falsehood  to  an  infant;  and  even  if 
that  should  happen,  they  have  seldom  such  a 
degree  of  memory  or  attention  as  w^ould  be 
necessary  for  its  detection.  In  all  cases,  be- 
sides, it  is  admitted  that  children  learn  the 
general  rule,  before  they  begin  to  attend  to 
the  exceptions ;  and  it  will  not  be  denied  that 
the  general  rule  is,  that  there  is  a  connection 
between  the  assertions  of  mankind  and  the 
realities  of  w^hich  they  are  speaking.  False- 
hood is  like  those  irregularities  in  the  con- 
struction of  a  language,  which  children  always 
overlook  for  the  sake  of  the  general  analogy. 

The  principle  of  veracity  is  in  the  same 
situation.  Men  speak  and  assert,  in  order  to 
accomplish  some  purpose :  But  if  they  did  not 
generally  speak  truth,  their  assertions  would 
answer  no  purpose  at  all — not  even  that  of 
deception.  To  speak  falsehood,  too.  even  if 
we  could  suppose  it  to  be  done  without  a 
motive,  requires  a  certain  exercise  of  imagi- 
nation and  of  the  inventive  faculties,  which  is 
not  without  labour :  While  truth  is  suggested 
spontaneously — not  by  the  principle  of  veraci- 
ty, but  by  our  consciousness  and  memory. 
Even  if  we  were  not  rational  creatures,  there- 
fore, but  spoke  merely  as  a  consequence  of 
tur  sensations,  we  would  speak  truth  much 
oftener  than  falsehood ;  but  being  rational,  and 
addressing  ourselves  to  other  beings  with  a 
view  of  influencing  their  conduct  or  opinions, 
it  follows,  as  a  matter  of  necessity,  that  we 
must  almost  always  speak  truth:  Even  the 
principle  of  credulity  would  not  otherwise  be 
sufficient  to  render  it  worth  while  for  us  to 
speak  at  all. 

With  regard  to  the  principle  by  which  we 
are  enabled  to  interpret  the  natural  signs  of 
the  passions,  and  of  other  connected  events, 
we  cannot  help  entertaining  a  similar  scepti- 
cism. There  is  no  evidence,  we  think,  for  the 
existence  of  such  a  principle;  and  all  the 
phenomena  may  be  solved  with  the  help  of 
memory  and  the  association  of  ideas.  The 
"  inductive  principle"  is  very  nearly  in  the 
same  predicament ;  though  the  full  discussion 
of  the  argument  that  might  be  maintained 
upon  that  subject  would  occupy  more  room 
than  we  can  now  spare. 

After  some  very  excellent  observations  on 
the  nature  and  the  functions  of  instinct,  Mr. 
Stewart  proceeds  to  consider,  as  the  last  great 


objection  to  Dr.  Reid's  piAilosophy,.the  allegen 
tendency  of  his  doctrines  on  the  subject  of 
common  sense,  to  sanction  an  appeal  from  the 
decisions  of  the  learned  to  the  voice  of  tlio 
multitude.  Mr.  Stewart,  with  great  candour, 
admits  that  the  phrase  was  unluckily  chosen ; 
and  that  it  has  not  always  been  employed  with 
perfect  accuracy,  either  by  Dr.  Reid  or  his 
followers :  But  he  maintains,  that  the  greater 
part  of  the  truths  which  Dr.  Reid  has  referred 
to  this  authority,  are  in  reality  originally  and 
unaccountably  impressed  on  the  human  un- 
derstanding, and  are  necessarily  implied  in 
the  greater  part  of  its  operations.  These,  he 
says,  may  be  better  denominated,  -'•  Funda- 
mental law^s  of  belief;"  and  he  exemplifies 
them  by  such  propositions  as  the  following: 
"I  am  the  same  person  to-day  that  I  was 
yesterday. — The  material  world  has  a  real 
existence. — The  future  course  of  nature  will 
resemble  the  past."  We  shall  have  occasion 
immediately  to  offer  a  few  observations  on 
some  of  those  propositions. 

With  these  observations  Mr.  Stewart  con- 
cludes his  defence  of  Dr.  Reid's  philosophy  : 
but  we  cannot  help  thinking  that  there  was 
room  for  a  farther  vindication,  and  that  some 
objections  may  be  stated  to  the  system  in 
question,  as  formidable  as  any  of  those  which 
Mr.  Stewart  has  endeavoured  to  obviate.  We 
shall  allude  very  shortly  to  those  that  appear 
the  most  obvious  and  important.  Dr.  Reid's 
great  achievement  was  undoubtedly  the  sub- 
version of  the  Ideal  system,  or  the  confutation 
of  that  hypothesis  which  represents  the  im- 
mediate objects  of  the  mind  in  perception,  as 
certain  linages  or  pictures  of  external  objects 
conveyed  by  the  senses  to  the  sensorium. 
This  part  of  his  task,  it  is  now  generally  ad- 
mitted that  he  has  performed  with  exemplary 
diligence  and  complete  success :  But  we  are 
by  no  means  so  entirely  satisfied  with  the 
uses  he  has  attempted  to  make  of  his  victory. 
After  considering  the  subject  with  some  atten- 
tion, we  must  confess  that  we  have  not  been 
able  to  perceive  how  the  destruction  of  the 
Ideal  theory  can  be  held  as  a  demonstration 
of  the  real  existence  of  matter,  or  a  confuta- 
tion of  the  most  ingenious  reasonings  which 
have  brought  into  question  the  popular  faith 
upon  this  subject.  The  theory  of  images  and 
pictures,  in  fact,  was  in  its  original  state  more 
closely  connected  with  the  supposition  of  a 
real  material  prototype,  than  the  theory  of 
direct  perception;  and  the  sceptical  doubts 
that  have  since  been  suggested,  appear  to  us 
to  be  by  no  means  exclusively  applicable  to 
the  former  hypothesis.  He  who  believes  that 
certain  forms  or  images  are  actually  transmit- 
ted through  the  organs  of  sense  to  the  mind, 
must  believe,  at  least,  in  the  reality  of  the 
organs  and  the  images,  and  probably  in  their 
origin  from  real  external  existences.  He  who 
is  contented  with  stating  that  he  is  conscious 
of  certain  sensations  and  perceptions,  by  no 
means  assumes  the  independent  existence  ot 
"matter,  and  gives  a  safer  account  of  the  pne- 
nomena  than  the  idealist. 

Dr.  Reid's  sole  argument  for  the  real  exist- 
ence of  a  material  wor]:'   is  founded  on  the 


STEWART'S  LIFE  OF  REID. 


491 


irreststible  heUef  of  it  that  is  implied  in  Per- 
ception and  Memory;  a  belief,  the  founda- 
tions of  which,  he  seems  to  think,  it  would 
be  something  more  than  absurd  to  call  in 
question.  Now  the  reality  of  this  general 
persuasion  or  belief,  no  one  ever  attempted  to 
deny.  The  question  is  only  about  its  justness 
or  truth.  It  is  conceivable,  certainly,  in  every 
case,  that  our  belief  should  be  erroneous; 
and  there  can  be  nothing  absurd  in  suggesting 
•  reasons  for  doubting  of  its  conformity  with 
truth.  The  obstinacy  of  our  behef,  in  this 
instance,  and  its  constant  recurrence,  even 
after  all  our  endeavours  to  familiarise  our- 
eelves  with  the  objections  that  have  been 
made  to  it,  are  not  absolutely  without  parallel 
in  the  history  of  the  human  faculties.  All 
children  beheve  that  the  earth  is  at  rest :  and 
that  the  sun  and  fixed  stars  perform  a  diurnal 
revolution  round  it.  They  also  believe  that 
the  place  which  they  occupy  on  the  surface 
is  absolutely  the  uppermost,  and  that  the  in- 
habitants of  the  opposite  surface  must  be 
suspended  in  an  inverted  position.  Now  of 
this  universal,  practical,  and  irresistible  belief, 
all  persons  of  education  are  easily  disabused 
in  speculation,  though  it  influences  their  ordi- 
nary language,  and  continues,  in  fact,  to  be 
the  habitual  impression  of  their  minds.  In 
the  same  way,  a  Berkleian  might  admit  the 
constant  recurrence  of  the  illusions  of  sense, 
although  his  speculative  reason  were  suffi- 
ciently convinced  of  their  fallacy. 

The  phenomena  of  Dreaming  and  of  De- 
lirium, however,  appear  to  afford  a  sort  of 
experimentum  crucis,  to  demonstrate  that  a 
real  external  existence  is  not  necessary  to 
produce  sensation  and  perception  in  the  hu- 
man mind.  Is  it  utterly  absurd  and  ridiculous 
to  maintain,  that  all  the  objects  of  our  thoughts 
maybe  '-'such  stuff' as  dreams  are  made  of?" 
or  that  the  uniformity  of  Nature  gives  us  some 
reason  to  presume  that  the  perceptions  of  ma- 
j  niacs  and  of  rational  men  are  manufactured, 
I  like  their  organs,  out  of  the  same  materials  ? 
'  There  is  a  species  of  insanity  known  among 
medical  men  by  the  epithet  notional,  in  which, 
as  well  as  in  delirium  tremens,  there  is  fre- 
quently no  general  depravation  of  the  reason- 
ing and  judging  faculties,  but  where  the 
disease  consists  entirely  in  the  patient  mis- 
taking the  objects  of  his  thought  or  imagina- 
tion for  real  and  present  existences.  The 
error  of  his  perceptions,  in  such  cases,  is  only 
detected  by  comparing  them  with  the  per- 
ceptions of  other  people;  and  it  is  evident 
that  he  has  just  the  same-  reason  to  impute 
error  to  them,  as  they  can  have  individually 
for  imputing  it  to  him.  The  majority,  indeed, 
necessarily  carries  the  point,  as  to  all  practi- 
cal consequences :  But  is  there  any  absurdity 
in  alleging  that  we  can  have  no  absolute  or 
infallible  assurance  of  that  as  to  which  the 
internal  conviction  of  an  individual  must  be 
supported,  and  may  he  overruled  by  the  testi- 
mony of  his  fellow-creatures'? 

Dr.  Reid  has  himself  admitted  that  "we 
might  probably  have  been  so  made,  as  to  have 
all  the  perceptions  and  sensations  which  we 
now  have,  without  any  impression   on  our 


bodily  organs  at  all."  But  it  is  surely  aUo« 
gether  as  reasonable  to  say,  that  we  mighl 
have  had  all  those  perceptions,  without  the 
aid  or  intervention  of  any  material  existence 
at  all.  Those  perceptions,  too,  might  still  have 
been  accompanied  wath  a  belief  that  would 
not  have  been  less  universal  or  irresistible  foi 
being  utterly  without  a  foundation  in  reality. 
In  short,  our  perceptions  can  never  afford  any 
complete  or  irrefragable  proof  of  the  real  ex- 
istence of  external  things ;  because  it  is  easj 
to  conceive  that  w-e  might  have  such  percep 
tions  without  them.  We  do  not  know^  there 
fore,  with  certainty,  that  our  perceptions  are 
ever  produced  by  external  objects ;  and  in  the 
cases  to  which  we  have  just  alluded,  we  ac- 
tually find  perception  and  its  concomitant  be 
lief,  where  we  do  know  with  certainty  that  it 
is  not  produced  by  any  external  existence. 

It  has  been  said,  however,  that  we  have  the 
same  evidence  for  the  existence  of  the  mate- 
rial world,  as  for  that  of  our  own  thoughts  or 
conceptions ; — as  we  have  no  reason  for  be 
lieving  in  the  latter,  but  that  we  cannot  help 
it ;  which  is  equally  true  of  the  former.  Now, 
this  appears  to  us  to  be  very  inaccurately  ar- 
gued. Whatever  we  doubt,  and  whatever  we 
prove,  we  must  plainly  begin  with  consciousness. 
That  alone  is  certain — all  the  rest  is  inference. 
Does  Dr.  Reid  mean  to  assert,  that  our  per- 
ception of  external  objects  is  not  a  necessary 
preliminary  to  any  proof  of  their  reality,  or 
that  our  belief  in  their  reality  is  not  founded 
upon  our  consciousness  of  perceiving  them  1  It 
is  only  our  perceptions,  then,  and  not  the  ex- 
istence of  their  objects,  which  we  cannot  help 
believing;  and  it  would  be  nearly  as  reason- 
able to  say  that  we  must  take  all  our  dreams 
for  realities,  because  we  cannot  doubt  that  we 
dream,  as  it  is  to  assert  that  we  have  the  same 
evidence  for  the  existence  of  an  external 
world,  as  for  the  existence  of  the  sensations 
by  which  it  is  suggested  to  our  minds. 

We  dare  not  now  venture  farther  into  this 
subject ;  yet  we  cannot  abandon  it  without  ob- 
serving, that  the  question  is  entirely  a  matter 
of  philosophical  and  abstract  speculation,  and 
that  by  far  the  most  reprehensible  passages 
in  Dr.  Reid's  writings,  are  those  in  Avhich  he 
has  represented  it  as  otherwise.  When  we 
consider,  indeed,  the  exemplary  candour,  and 
temper,  and  modesty,  with  which  this  excel- 
lent man  has  conducted  the  whole  of  his 
speculations,  we  cannot  help  wondering  that 
he  should  ever  have  forgotten  himself  so  far 
as  to  descend  to  the  vulgar  raillery  which  he 
has  addressed,  instead  of  argument,  to  the 
abettors  of  the  Berkleian  hypothesis.  The 
old  joke,  of  the  sceptical  philosophers  running 
their  noses  against  posts,  tumbling  into  ken- 
nels, and  being  sent  to  madhouses,  is  repeated 
at  least  ten  times  in  different  parts  of  Dr. 
Reid's  publications,  and  really  seems  to  have 
been  considered  as  an  objection  not  less  forci- 
ble than  facetious.  Yet  Dr.  Reid  surely  could 
not  be  ignorant  that  those  who  have  questioned 
the  reality  of  a  material  universe,  never  af- 
fected to  have  perceptions,  ideas,  and  sensa- 
tions, of  a  different  nature  from  other  people. 
The  debate  was  merely  about  the  origin  of 


492 


METAPHYSICS  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


these  sensations ;  and  could  not  possibly  affect 
the  conduct  or  feelings  of  the  individual.  The 
sceptic,  therefore,  who  has  been  taught  by 
experience  that  certain  perceptions  are  con- 
nected with  unpleasant  sensations,  will  avoid 
the  occasions  of  them  as  carefully  as  those 
who  look  upon  the  object  of  their  perceptions 
as  external  realities.  Notions  and  sensations 
he  cannot  deny  to  exist;  aud  this  limited 
feith  will  regulate  his  coniuct  exactly  in  the 
same  manner  as  the  more  extensive  creed  of 
his  antagonists.  We  are  persuaded  that  Mr. 
Stewart  v/ould  reject  the  aid  of  such  an  argu- 
ment for  he  existence  of  an  external  world. 

The  length  to  which  these  observations 
have  expended,  deters  us  from  prosecuting 
any  farther  our  remarks  on  Dr.  Reid's  philoso- 
phy. The  other  points  in  which  it  appears  to 
as  that  he  has  left  his  system  vulnerable  are, 
his  explanation  of  our  idea  of  cause  and  effect, 
md  his  speculations  on  the  question  of  liberty 


and  necessity.  In  the  former,  we  cannot  helj 
thinking  that  he  has  dogma{;ised,  with  a  de- 
gree of  confidence  which  is  scarcely  justified 
by  the  cogency  of  his  arguments ;  and  has 
endeavoured  to  draw  ridicule  on  the  reasoning 
of  his  antagonists,  by  illustrations  that  are  ut- 
terly inapplicable.  In  the  latter,  also,  he  haa 
made  something  more  than  a  just  use  of  the 
prejudices  of  men  and  the  ambiguity  of  lan- 
guage ,'  and  has  more  than  once  been  guilty, 
if  we  be  not  mistaken,  of  what,  in  a  less 
respectable  author,  we  should  not  have  scru- 
pled to  call  the  most  palpable  sophistry.  We 
are  glad  that  our  duty  does  not  require  us  to 
enter  into  the  discussion  of  tliis  very  per- 
plexing controversy ;  though  we  may  be  per- 
mitted to  remark,  that  it  is  somewhat  extra- 
ordinary to  find  the  dependence  of  human 
actions  on  Motives  so  positively  denied  by 
those  very  philosophers  Avith  whom  the  doc- 
trine of  Causation  is  of  such  high  authority. 


(©ttobcr,  1806.) 

Memoirs  of  Dr.  Joseph  Priestley,  to  the  year  1795,  written  by  himself:  With  a  Continuation  to 
the  time  of  his  decease,  by  his  Son  Joseph  Priestley ;  and  Observations  on  his  Writings.  By 
Thomas  Cooper,  President  Judge  of  the  Fourth  District  of  Pennsylvania,  and  the  Reverecd 
William  Chrisj-ie.     8vo.  pp.  481.     London :  1805. 


Dr.  Priestley  has  written  more,  we  be- 
lieve, and  on  a  greater  variety  of  subjects, 
than  any  other  English  author ;  and  probably 
believed,  as  his  friend  Mr.  Cooper  appears  to 
do  at  this  moment,  that  his  several  publica- 
tions were  destined  to  make  an  asra  in  the 
respective  branches  of  speculation  to  which 
they  bore  reference.  We  are  not  exactly  of 
that  opinion :  But  we  think  Dr.  Priestley  a 
person  of  no  common  magnitude  in  the  his- 
tory of  English  literature  •  and  have  perused 
this  miscellaneous  volume  with  more  interest 
than  we  have  usually  found  in  publications 
of  the  same  description.  The  memoirs  are 
written  with  great  conciseness  and  simplicity, 
and  present  a  very  singular  picture  of  that  in- 
defatigable activity,  that  bigotted  vanity,  that 
precipitation,  cheerfulness,  and  sincerity, 
which  made  up  the  character  of  this  restless 
philosopher.  The  observations  annexed  by 
Mr.  Cooper  are  the  work,  we  think,  of  a  pow- 
erful, presumptuous,  and  most  untractable 
understanding.  They  are  written  in  a  defy- 
ing, dogmatical,  unaccommodating  style :  with 
much  force  of  reasoning,  in  many  places,  but 
often  with  great  rashness  and  arrogance;  and 
occasionally  with  a  cant  of  philosophism,  and 
a  tang  of  party  politics,  which  communicate 
an  air  of  vulgarity  to  the  whole  work,  and  ir- 
resistibly excite  a  smile  at  the  expense  of  this 
magnanimous  despiser  of  all  sorts  of  prejudice 
and  bigotry.* 

*  I  omit  now  a  very  considerable  portion  of  this 
review,  containing  a  pretty  full  account  of  Dr. 
Priestley's  life  and  conversation,  and  of  his  various 
publications  on  subjects  of  theology,  natural  philoso- 
phy, and  chemistry  ;  retainine:  only  the  following 
examination  of  his  doctrine  of  Materialism. 


In  the  Second  part  of  his  book,  Mr.  Cooper 
professes  to  estimate  the  Metaphysical  wri- 
tings of  Dr.  Priestley,  and  delivers  a  long  and 
very  zealous  defence  of  the  doctrines  of  Ma- 
terialism, and  of  the  Necessity  of  human  ac- 
tions. A  good  deal  of  learning  and  a  good 
deal  of  talent  are  shown  in  this  production  : 
But  we  believe  that  most  of  our  readers  will 
be  surprised  to  find  that  Mr.  Cooper  con- 
siders both  these  questions  as  having  been 
finally  set  at  rest  by  the  disquisitions  of  hia 
learned  friend ! 

"  Indeed,"  he  observes,  "  those  questions  must 
now  be  considered  as  settled  ;  for  those  who  can 
resist  Collins'  philosophical  inquiry,  the  section  of 
Dr.  Hartley  on  the  mechanism  of  the  mind,  and 
the  review  of  the  subject  taken  by  Dr.  Priestley 
and  his  opponents,  are  not  to  be  reasoned  with. 
Interest  reipubliccB  ut  denique  sit  finis  litium,  is  a 
maxim  of  technical  law.  It  will  apply  equally  to 
the  republic  of  letters;  and  the  time  seems  to  have 
arrived,  when  the  separate  existence  of  the  human 
Soul,  the  freedom  of  the  Will,  and  the  eternal 
duration  of  Future  punishment,  like  the  doctrines 
of  the  Trinity  !  and  Transubstantiation,  may  be 
regarded  as  no  longer  entitled  to  public  discus- 
sion."— p.  335. 

The  advocates  of  Necessity,  we  know,  have 
long  been  pretty  much  of  this  opinion ;  and 
we  have  no  inclination  to  disturb  them  at 
present  with  any  renewal  of  the  controversy : 
But  we  really  did  not  know  that  the  advo. 
cates  of  Materialism  laid  claim  to  the  same 
triumph;  and  certainly  find  some  difficulty  in 
admitting  that  all  who  believe  in  the  existence 
of  mind  are  unfit  to  be  reasoned  with.  To  us, 
indeed,  it  has  always  appeared  that  it  was 
much  easier  to  prove  the  existence  of  mind, 
than  the  existence  of  matter ;  and  with  what* 


PRIESTLEY'S  MEMOIRS. 


499 


ever  contempt  Mr,  Cooper  and  his  friends  may 
regaru  us,  we  must  be  permitted  to  say  a  word 
or  two  in  defence  of  the  vulgar  opinion. 

The  sum  of  the  argument  against  the  exist- 
ence of  mind,  in  case  any  of  our  readers 
should  be  ignorant  of  it,  is  shortly  as  follows. 
The  phenomena  of  thinking,  or  perception, 
are  always  found  connected  with  a  .certain 
mass  of  org-anised  matter,  and  have  never 
been  known  to  exist  in  a  separate  or  detached 
state.  It  seems  natural,  therefore,  to  consider 
them  as  qualities  of  that  substance  :  Nor  is  it 
any  objection  to  say,  that  the  quality  of  think- 
ing has  no  sort  of  resemblance  or  affinity  to 
any  of  the  other  qualities  with  w^hich  we 
knoiv  matter  to  be  endowed.  This  is  equally 
true  of  all  the  primary  qualities  of  matter, 
when  compared  with  each  other.  Solidity, 
for  instance,  bears  no  sort  of  resemblance  or 
affinity  to  extension ;  nor  is  there  any  other 
reason  for  our  considering  them  as  qualities 
of  the  same  substance,  but  that  they  are  al- 
ways found  in  conjunction — that  they  occupy 
the  same  portion  of  space,  and  present  them- 
selves together,  on  all  occasions,  to  our  obser- 
vation. Now,  this  may  be  said,  with  equal 
force,  of  the  quality  of  thinking.  It  is  al- 
ways found  in  conjunction  with  a  certain  mass 
of  solid  and  extended  matter— it  inhabits  the 
same  portion  of  space,  and  presents  itself  in- 
variably along  with  those  other  qualities  the 
assemblage  of  which  makes  up  our  idea  of 
organised  matter.  Whatever  substratum  can 
support  and  unite  the  qualities  of  solidity  and 
extension_,  may  therefore  support  the  quality 
of  thinking  also ;  and  it  is  eminently  unphilo- 
sophical  to  suppose,  that  it  inheres  in  a  sepa- 
rate substance  to  which  we  should  give  the 
appellation  of  Mind.  All  the  phenomena  of 
thought,  it  is  said,  may  be  resolved  by  the 
assistance  of  Dr.  Hartley,  into  perception  and 
association.  Now^,  perception  is  evidently 
produced  by  certain  mechanical  impulses 
upon  the  nerves,  transmitted  to  the  brain, 
and  can  therefore  be  directly  proved  to  be 
merely  a  peculiar  species  of  motion  j  and  as- 
sociation is  something  very  like  the  vibration 
of  musical  cords  in  juxtaposition,  and  is  strictly 
within  the  analogy  of  material  movement. 

In  answering  this  argument,  we  will  fairly 
confess  that  we  have  no  distinct  idea  of  Sub- 
stance ;  and  that  we  are  perfectly  aware 
that  it  is  impossible  to  combine  three  propo- 
sitions upon  the  subject,  without  involving  a 
contradiction.  All  that  we  know  of  substance, 
are  its  qualities ;  yet  qualities  must  belong  to 
something — and  of  that  something  to  which 
they  belong,  and  by  which  they  are  united, 

••e  neither  know  anything  nor  can  form  any 
conception.  We  cannot  help  believing  that  it 
exists ;  but  we  have  no  distinct  notion  as  to 
the  mode  of  its  existence. 

Admitting  this,  therefore,  in  the  first  place, 
we  may  perhaps  be  permitted  to  observe,  that 
it  seems  a  little  disorderly  and  unphilosophi- 
cal,  to  class  perception  among  the  qualities 
of  matter,  when  it  is  obvious,  that  it  is  by 
means  of  perception  alone  that  we  get  any 
notion  of  matter  or  its  qualities  ;  and  that  it 
is  possible,  with  perfect  consistency,  to  main- 


tain the  existence  of  our  perceptions,  and  to 
deny  that  of  matter  altogether.  The  othei 
qualities  of  matter  are  perceived  by  us ;  but 
perception  cannot  be  perceived:  And  all  we 
know^  about  it  is,  that  it  is  that  by  which  we 
perceive  every  thing  else.  It  certainly  does 
sound  somewhat  absurd  and  unintelligible, 
therefore,  to  say,  that  perception  is  that 
quality  of  matter  by  which  it  becomes  con 
scious  of  its  own  existence,  and  acquainted 
with  its  other  qualities :  Since  it  is  plain  that 
this  is  not  a  quality,  but  a  knowdedge  of  quaU- 
ties;  and  ihat  the  percipient  must  necessarily 
be  distinct  from  that  which  is  perceived.  We 
must  always  begin  with  perception  ;  and  the 
followers  of  Berkeley  will  tell  us,  that  we 
must  end  there  also.  At  all  events,  it  certainly 
never  entered  into  the  head  of  any  plain  man 
to  conceive  that  the  faculty  of  perception  was 
itself  one  of  the  qualities  with  which  that 
faculty  made  him  acquainted  :  or  that  it  could 
possibly  belong  to  a  substance,  which  his 
earliest  intimations  and  most  indestructible 
impressions  taught  him  to  regard  as  some- 
thing external  and  separate.* 

This,  then,  is  the  first  objection  to  the  doc- 
trine of  Materialism,  —  that  it  makes  the 
faculty  of  perception  a  quality  of  the  thing 
perceived  ;  and  converts,  in  a  way  that  must 
at  first  sight  appear  absurd  to  all  mankind, 
our  knowledge  of  the  qualities  of  matter  into 
another  quality  of  the  same  substance.  The 
truth  is,  however,  that  it  is  a  gross  and  un- 
warrantable abuse  of  language,  to  call  percep- 
tion a  quality  at  all.  It  is  an  act  or  an  event — 
a  fact  or  a  phenomenon — of  which  the  percipi- 
ent is  conscious :  but  it  cannot  be  intelligibly 
conceived  as  a  quality ;  and,  least  of  all,  as  a 
quahty  of  that  substance  which  is  known  to 
us  as  solid  and  extended.  1st,  All  the  qualities 
of  matter,  it  has  been  already  stated,  are  per- 
ceived by  the  senses :  but  the  sensation  itself 
cannot  be  so  perceived ;  nor  is  it  possible  to  call 
it  an  object  of  sense,  without  the  grossest  per- 
version of  langxiage.  2dly,  All  the  qualities 
of  matter  have  a  direct  reference  to  Space  or 
extension ;  and  are  conceived,  in  some  mea- 
sure, as  attributes  or  qualities  of  the  space 
within  which  they  exist.  When  we  say  that 
a  particular  body  is  solid,  we  mean  merely 
that  a  certain  portion  of  space  is  impenetra- 
ble:  when  we  say  that  it  is  coloured,  w^e 


*  We  are  not  very  partial  to  the  practice  of  quo- 
ting poetry  in  illustration  of  metaphysics ;  but  the 
following  lines  seem  to  express  so  forcibly  the  uni- 
versal and  natnral  impression  of  mankind  on  this 
subject,  that  we  cannot  help  offering  them  to  the 
consideration  of  the  reader. 
"  Am  I  but  what  I  seem,  mere  flesh  and  blood  ? 
A  branching  channel,  and  a  mazy  flood  ? 
The  purple  stream,  that  through  my  vessels  glides. 
Dull  and  unconscious  flows  like  common  tides. 
The  pipes,  through  which  the  circling  juices  stray, 
Are  not  that  thinking  I,  no  more  than  they. 
This  frame,  compacted  with  transcendent  skill, 
Of  moving  joints,  obedient  to  my  will, 
Nurs'd  from  the  fruitful  glebe  hke  yonder  tree, 
Waxes  and  wastes  :   I  call  it  mine,  not  me. 
New  matter  still  the  mould'ring  mass  sustains  ; 
The  mansion  chang'd,  the  tenant  still  remains, 
And,  from  ihe  fleeting  stream  repair'd  by  foo<l, 
Distinct,  as  is  the  swimmer  from  the  flood." 
2R 


494 


METAPHYSICS  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


mean  that  the  same  portion  of  space  appears 
of  one  hue, — and  so  of  the  other  qualities: 
but  sensation  or  thought  is  never  conceived 
so  to  occupy  space,  or  to  characterise  it ;  nor 
can  those  faculties  be  at  all  conceived  as 
being  merely  definite  portions  of  space,  en- 
dued with  perceptible  properties.  In  the  third 
place,  all  the  primary  qualities  of  matter  are 
mseparable  from  it,  and  enter  necessarily  into 
its  conception  and  definition.  All  matter 
must  necessarily  be  conceived  as  extended, 
solid,  and  figured :  and  also  as  universally 
capable  of  all  the  secondary  qualities.  It  is 
obvious,  however,  that  thought  or  sensation 
is  not  an  inseparable  attribute  of  matter ;  as 
by  far  the  greater  part  of  matter  is  entirely 
destitute  of  it ;  and  it  is  found  in  connection 
only  \vith  those  parts  which  w^e  term  organ- 
ised; and  \dth  those,  only  while  they  are 
in  a  certain  state,  which  we  call  alive.  If 
it  be  said,  however,  that  thought  may  re- 
semble those  accidental  qualities  of  matter, 
such  as  heat  or  colour,  which  are  not  insepa- 
rable or  permanent;  then  w^e  reply,  that 
neither  of  these  things  can,  in  strictness,  be 
termed  qualities  of  matter,  more  than  thought 
or  sensation  :.  They  are  themselves  substan- 
ces, or  matter  possessed  of  inseparable  and 
peculiar  qualities,  as  well  as  those  which 
address  themselves  to  the  other  senses.  Light 
is  a  material  substance,  from  which  the 
quality  of  colour  is  inseparable ;  and  heat  is 
a  material  substance,  which  has  universally 
the  quality  of  exciting  the  sensation  of 
warmth:  and  both  address  themselves  to, 
and  are  distinctly  perceived  through,  our 
senses.  If  thought  be  allowed  to  be  a  sub- 
stance in  this  sense,  it  w411  remain  to  show 
that  it  also  is  material ;  by  being  referable  to 
space,  capable  of  subsisting  in  every  sort  of 
body,  of  being  perceived  by  the  senses,  of 
being  transferred  from  one  body  to  another, 
and  liable  to  attraction,  repulsion,  condensa- 
tion, or  reflection — like  heat  or  light. 

It  is  to  be  remarked  also,  that  w^herever 
any  proper  qicality,  primary  or  secondary,  can 
be  ascribed  generally  to  any  perceptible  body 
or  mass  of  matter,  that  quality  must  exist  and 
be  recognised  in  every  part  of  it.  If  the  whole 
of  any  such  body  is  hard,  or  coloured,  or 
weighty,  or  hot,  or  cold,  every  part  of  it, 
whether  merely  considered  and  examined  as 
separable,  or  actually  separated  and  detached, 
must  be  hard,  coloured,  and  weighty  also: 
these  qualities  being  truly  conditions,  and,  in 
fact,  the  only  real  proofs  of  the  material  ex- 
istence of  such  a  body,  and  of  all  the  parts  of 
it.  But  though  thought  or  volition  may  be 
said  to  have  their  residence  somewhere  w^ith- 
in  a  human  body,  they  certainly  are  not  quali- 
ties of  its  material  mass,  in  this  sense ;  or  to 
the  effect  of  being  sensibly  present  in  every 
part  or  portion  of  it !  We  never,  at  least, 
have  happened  to  hear  it  surmised  tliat  there 
is  thought  in  the  elbow-joint,  or  volition  in 
the  nail  of  the  great  toe ;  and  if  it  be  said 
that  these  phenomena  are  results  only  of  the 
tving  organisation  as  a  whole,  it  seems  to  us 
that  this  is  a  substantial  abandonment  of  the 
wliole  ar2"ument.  and  an  admission  that  thev 


are  not  qualities  of  matter  (for  results  an4 
qualities  belong  not  to  the  same  category),  but 
mere  facts  or  phenomena  of  a  totally  different 
description,  for  the  pioduction  of  which  the 
apparatus  of  some  such  organisation  may,  for 
the  time,  be  necessary. 

But  the  material  thing  is,  that  it  is  not  to 
the  whole  mass  of  our  bodies,  or  their  living 
organisation  in  general,  that  these  phenomena 
are  said  by  Dr.  Priestley  and  his  disciples  to 
belong,  as  proper  qualities.  On  the  contrary, 
they  distinctly  admit  that  they  are  not  qualities 
of  that  physical  mass  generally,  nor  even  of 
those  finer  parts  of  it  which  constitute  our 
organs  of  sense.  They  admit  that  the  eye 
and  the  ear  act  the  parts  merely  ef  optical  or 
acoustic  instruments;  and  are  only  useful  in 
transmitting  impulses  (or,  it  may  be,  fine  sub- 
stances) to  the  nervous  part  of  the  brain :  of 
which  alone,  therefore,  and  indeed  only  of  its 
minute  and  invisible  portions,  these  singular 
phenomena  are  alleged  to  be  proper  physical 
qualities !  It  is  difficult,  w^e  think,  to  make 
the  absurdity  of  such  a  doctrine  more  appa- 
rent than  by  this  plain  statement  of  its  import 
and  amount.  The  only  ground,  it  must  always 
be  recollected,  for  holding  that  mind  and  all 
its  phenomena  are  mere  qualities  of  matter^  is 
the  broad  and  popular  one,  that  we  always 
find  them  connected  with  a  certain  visible 
mass  of  organised  matter,  called  a  living  body: 
But  when  it  is  admitted  that  they  are  not 
qualities  of  this  mass  generally,  or  even  of 
any  part  of  it  ivhich  is  visible  or  perceptible 
by  our  senses,  the  allegation  of  their  being 
mere  material  qualities  of  a  part  of  the  brain, 
must  appear  not  merely  gratuitous,  but  incon- 
sistent and  absolutely  absurd.  If  the  eye 
and  the  ear,  with  their  delicate  structures 
and  fine  sensibility,  are  but  vehicles  and  ap- 
paratus, why  should  the  attenuated  and  un- 
known tissues  of  the  cerebral  nerves  be  sup- 
posed to  be  any  thing  else  1  or  why  should 
the  resulting  sensations,  to  which  both  are 
apparently  ministrant,  and  no  more  than  min- 
istrant,  and  w^hich  have  no  conceivable  re- 
semblance or  analogy  to  any  attribute  of  mat- 
ter, but  put  on  the  list  of  the  physical  qualities 
of  the  latter — which  is  of  itself  too  slight  and 
subtle  to  enable  us  to  say  what  are  its  com- 
mon physical  qualities'?  But  we  have  yet 
another  consideration  to  suggest,  before  final- 
ly closing  this  discussion. 

It  probably  has  not  escaped  observation, 
that  throughout  the  preceding  argument,  we 
have  allow^ed  the  advocates  for  Materialism 
to  assume  that  what  (to  oblige  them)  we  have 
called  thought  or  perception  geneially,  was 
one  uniform  and  identical  thing;  to  which, 
therefore,  the  appellation  of  a  quality  might 
possibly  be  given,  without  manifest  and  pal- 
pable absurdity.  But  in  reality  there  is  no 
ground,  or  even  room,  for  claiming  such  an 
allowance.  The  acts  or  functions  which  ive 
ascribe  to  mind,  are  at  all  events  not  one,  but 
many  and  diverse.  Perception  no  doubt  is 
one  of  them — but  it  is  not  identical  with  sen- 
sation ;  and  still  less  with  memory  or  imagi- 
nation, or  volition, — or  with  love,  anger,  fear, 
deliberation,  or  hatred.    Each  of  these,  on  the 


PRIESTLEY'S  MEMOIRS. 


49; 


Feontrary,  is  a  separate  and  distinguishable 
|act,  function,  or  phenomenon,  of  the  existence 
of  which  we  become  aware,  not  through  per- 
ception, or  the  external  senses  at  all,  but 
through  consciousness  or  reflection  alone :  and 
none  of  them  (with  the  single  exception,  per- 
haps, of  perception)  have  any  necessary  or 
natural  reference  to  any  external  or  material 
existence  whatever.  It  is  not  disputed,  how- 
ever, that  it  is  only  by  perception  and  the 
senses,  that  we  can  gain  any  knowledge  of 
matter;  and,  consequently,  whatever  we  come 
to  know  by  consciousness  only,  cannot  pos- 
sibly belong  to  that  category,  or  be  either  ma- 
terial or  external.  But  we  are  not  aware  that 
any  materialist  has  ever  gone  the  length  of 
directly  maintaining  that  volition  for  example, 
or  memory,  or  anger,  or  fear,  or  any  other 
such  affection,  were  proper  material  qualities 
of  our  bodily  frames,  or  could  be  perceived 
and  recognised  as  such,  by  the  agency  of 
the  external  senses ',  in  the  same  way  as  the 
weight,  heat,  colour,  or  elasticity  which  may 
belong  to  these  frames.  But  if  they  are  not 
each  of  them  capable  of  being  so  perceived, 
as  separate  physical  qualities,  it  is  plain  that 
nothing  can  be  gained  in  argument,  by  affect- 
ing to  disregard  their  palpable  diversity,  and 
seeking  to  class  them  all  under  one  vague 
name,  of  thought  or  perception.  Even  w^ith 
that  advantage,  we  have  seen  that  the  doc- 
trine, of  perception  or  thought  being  a  mere 
quality  of  matter,  is  not  only  untenable,  but 
truly  self-contradictory  and  unintelligible. 
But  when  the  number  and  diversity  of  the 
phenomena  necessarily  covered  by  that  gene- 
ral appellation  is  considered,  along  with  the 
fact  that  most  of  them  have  no  reference  to 
matter,  and  do  in  no  way  imply  its  existence, 
the  absurdity  of  representing  them  as  so 
many  of  its  distinct  perceptible  qualities, 
must  be  too  apparent,  we  think,  to  admit  of 
any  serious  defence. 

The  sum  of  the  whole  then  is,  that  all  the 
knowledge  which  we  gain  only  by  Perception 
and  the  use  of  our  external  Senses,  is  know- 
ledge of  Matter,  and  its  qualities  and  attri- 
butes alone ;  and  all  which  we  gain  only  by 
Consciousness  and  Reflection  on  our  own  in- 
ward feelings,  is  necessarily  knowledge  of 
Mind,  and  its  states,  attributes,  and  functions. 
This  in  fact  is  the  whole  basis,  and  rationale 
of  the  distinction  between  mind  and  matter: 
and,  consequently,  unless  it  can  be  shown 
that  love,  anger,  and  sorrow,  as  well  as  memo- 
ry and  volition,  are  direct  objects  of  sense  or 
external  perception,  like  heat  and  colour,  or 
figure  and  solidity,  there  must  be  an  end,  we 
think,  of  all  question  as  to  their  being  ma- 
terial qualities. 

But,  though  the  very  basis  and  foundation 
of  the  argument  for  Materialism  is  placed 
Upon  the  assumption,  that-  thought  and  per- 
ception are  qualities  of  our  bodies,  it  is  re- 
markable that  Dr.  Priestley,  and  the  other 
champions  of  that  doctrine,  do  ultimately  give 
up  that  point  altogether,  and  maintain,  that 
thought  is  nothing  else  than  Mc  tion  !  Now, 
this,  we  cannot  help  thinking,  was  very  im- 
politic and  injudicious  in  these  learned  per- 


sons :  For,  so  long  as  ihey  tituck  to  the  genes* 
ral  assertion,  that  thought "^might,  in  some  way 
or  other,  be  represented  as  a  quality  of  mat- 
ter,— although  it  was  not  perceived  by  the 
senses,  and  bore  no  analogy  to  any  of  its  othei 
qualities, — and  talked  about  the  inherent  ca- 
pacity of  substance,  to  support  all  sorts  of 
qualities;  although  their  doctrine  might  elude 
our  comprehension,  and  revolt  all  our  habits 
of  thinking, — still  it  might  be  diflicult  to 
demonstrate  its  fallacy;  and  a  certain  per- 
plexing argumentation  might  be  maintained, 
by  a  person  well  acquainted  with  the  use, 
and  abuse,  of  words :  But  when  they  cast 
away  the  protection  of  this  most  convenient 
obscurity,  and,  instead  of  saying  that  they 
do  not  know  what  thought  is,  have  the  cour- 
age to  refer  it  to  the  known  category  of  Mo- 
tion, they  evidently  subject  their  theory  to  the 
test  of  rational  examination,  and  furnish  ua 
^vith  a  criterion  by  which  its  truth  may  be 
easily  determined. 

We  shall  not  be  so  rash  as  to  attempt  any 
definition  of  motion ;  but  we  believe  we  may 
take  it  for  granted,  that  our  readers  know 
pretty  well  what  it  is.  At  all  events,  it  is  not 
a  quality  of  matter.  It  is  an  act,  a  phenome- 
non, or  a  fact : — but  it  makes  no  part  of  the 
description  or  conception  of  matter;  though 
it  can  only  exist  with  reference  to  that  sub- 
stance. Let  any  man  ask  himself,  however, 
whether  the  motion  of  matter  bears  any  sort 
of  resemblance  to  thought  or  sensation;  or 
whether  it  be  even  conceivable  that  these 
should  be  one  and  the  same  thing  1 — But,  »t  is 
said,  we  find  sensation  always  produced  by 
motion ;  and  as  we  can  discover  nothing  else 
in  conjunction  with  it,  we  are  justified  in  as- 
cribing it  to  motion.  But  this,  we  beg  kave 
to  say,  is  not  the  question.  It  is  not  neces- 
sary to  inquire,  whether  motion  may  produce 
sensation  or  not,  but  whether  sensation  he  mo- 
tion, and  nothing  else'?  It  seems  pretty  evi- 
dent, to  be  sure,  that  motion  can  never  pro- 
duce any  thing  but  motion  or  impulse ;  and 
that  it  is  at  least  as  inconceivable  that  it  should 
ever  produce  sensation  in  matter,  as  that  it 
should  produce  a  separate  substance,  called 
mind.  But  this,  we  repeat,  is  not  the  ques- 
tion with  the  materialists.  Their  proposition 
is,  not  that  motion  produces  sensation — which 
might  be  as  well  in  the  mind  as  in  the  body; 
but,  that  sensation  is  motion;  and  that  all  the 
phenomena  of  thoughf  and  perception  are  in- 
telligibly accounted  for  by  saying,  that  they 
are  certain  little  shakings  in  tKe  pulpy  part  of 
the  brain. 

There  are  certain  propositions  which  it  la 
difiicult  to  confute,  only  because  it  is  impos- 
sible to  comprehend  them :  and  this,  the  sub- 
stantive article  in  the  creed  of  Materialism, 
really  seems  to  be  of  this  description.  To  say 
that  thought  is  motion,  is  as  unintelligible  to 
us,  as  to  say  that  it  is  space,  or  time,  or  pro- 
portion. 

There  may  be  little  shakings  in  the  brain, 
for  any  thing  we  know,  and  there  may  even 
be  shakings  of  a  different  kind,  accompanying 
every  act  of  thought  or  perception ; — but,  thai 
the  shakings  themselves  are  the  thought  01 


496 


METAPHYSICS  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


perception,  we  are  so  far  from  admitting,  that 
we  find  it  absolutely  impossible  to  compre- 
hend what  is  meant  by  the  assertion.  The 
shakings  are  certain  throbbings,  vibrations,  or 
stirrings,  in  a  whitish,  half-fluid  substance 
like  custard,  which  we  might  see  perhaps,  or 
feel,  if  we  had  eyes  and  fingers  sufficiently 
small  or  fine  for  the  office.  But  what  should 
we  see  or  feel,  upon  the  supposition  that  we 
could  detect,  by  our  senses,  every  thing  that 
actually  took  place  in  the  brain  ?  We  should 
see  the  particles  of  this  substance  change  their 
place  a  little,  move  a  little  up  or  down,  to  the 
right  or  to  the  left,  round  about,  or  zig-za^,  or 
in  some  other  course  or  direction.  This  is 
all  that  we  could  see,  if  Hartley's  conjecture 
were  proved  by  actual  observation  ]  because 
this  is  all  that  exists  in  motion, — according  to 
our  conception  of  it  ]  and  all  that  we  mean, 
when  we  say  that  there  is  motion  in  any  sub- 
stance. Is  it  intelligible,  then,  to  say,  that 
this  motion,  the  whole  of  which  we  see  and 
comprehend,  is  thought  and  feeling? — and 
that  thought  and  feeling  will  exist  wherever 
we  can  excite  a  similar  motion  in  a  similar 
substance  ? — In  our  humble  apprehension,  the 
proposition  is  not  so  much  false,  as  utterly 
uimieaning  and  incomprehensible.  That  sen- 
sation may  follow  motion  in  the  brain,  or  may 
even  be  produced  by  it,  is  conceivable  at 
least,  and  may  be  affirmed  w^ith  perfect  pre- 
cision and  consistency;  but  that  the  motion  is 
itself  sensation,  and  that  the  proper  and  com- 
plete definition  of  thought  and  feeling  is,  that 
they  are  certain  vibrations  in  the  brain,  is  a 
doctrine,  we  think,  that  can  only  be  wondered 
at;  and  that  must  be  comprehended  before  it 
be  answered. 

No  advocate  for  the  existence  of  mind,  ever 
thought  it  necessary  to  deny  that  there  was  a 
certain  bodily  apparatus  necessary  to  thought 
and  sensation  in  man — and  that,  on  many  oc- 
casions, the  sensation  was  preceded  or  intro- 
duced by  certain  impulses  and  corresponding 
movements  of  this  material  machinery : — w^e 
cannot  see  without  eyes  and  light,  nor  think 
without  living  bodies.  All  that  they  maintaui 
is,  that  these  impulses  and  movements  are 
not  feelings  or  thought,  but  merely  the  occa- 
sions of  feeling  and  thought ;  and  that  it  is 
impossible  for  them  to  confound  the  material 
motions  which  precede  those  sensations,  with 
the  sensations  themselves,  which  have  no 
conceivable  affinity  with  matter. 

The  theory  of  Materialism,  then,  appears  to 
us  to  be  altogether  unintelligible  and  absurd ; 
and,  without  recurring  to  the  reasoning  of  the 


Berkeleians,  it  seems  quite  enough  to  detci 
mine  us  to  reject  it.  that  it  confounds  the  acl 
of  perception  with  tne  qualities  perceived,  an;: 
classes  among  the  objects  of  perception,  tne 
faculty  by  which  these  objects  are  introduced 
to  our  knowledge, — and  which  faculty  must 
be  exercised,  before  we  can  attain  to  any  con- 
ception, either  of  matter  or  its  qualities. 

We  do  not  pretend  to  have  looked-  through 
the  whole  controversy  which  Dr.  Priestley's 
publications  on  this  subject  appears  to  have 
excited  :  But  notbjng  certainly  has  struck  us 
with  more  astonishment,  than  the  zeal  with 
which  he  maintains  that  this  doctrine,  and 
that  of  Necessity,  taken  together,  aff'ord  the 
greatest  support  to  the  cause  of  religion  and 
morality !  We  are  a  little  puzzled,  indeed,  to 
discover  what  use,  or  what  room,  there  can  be 
for  a  God  at  all,  upon  this  hypothesis  of  Ma- 
terialism ;  as  well  as  to  imagine  what  species 
of  being  the  God  of  the  materialist  must  be. 
If  the  mere  organisation  of  matter  produces 
reason,  memory,  imagination,  and  all  the 
other  attributes  of  mind, — and  if  these  differ- 
ent phenomena  be  the  necessary  result  of  cer- 
tain motions  impressed  upon  matter ;  then 
there  is  no  need  for  any  other  reason  or  en- 
ergy in  the  universe  :  and  things  may  be  ad- 
ministered very  comfortably,  by  the  intellect 
spontaneously  evolved  in  the  different  combi- 
nations of  matter.  But  if  Dr.  Priestley  will 
have  a  superfluous  Deity  notwithstanding,  we 
may  ask  what  sort  of  a  Deity  he  can  expect  I 
He  denies  the  existence  of  mind  or  spirit  al- 
together; so  that  his  Deity  must  be  material ; 
and  his  wisdom,  power,  and  goodness  must 
be  the  necessary  result  of  a  certain  organisa- 
tion. But  how  can  a  material  deity  be  im- 
mortal 1  How  could  he  have  been  formed  ? 
Or  why  should  there  not  be  more, — formed 
by  himself,  or  by  his  creator  1  We  will  not 
affirm  that  Dr.  Priestley  has  not  attempted  to 
answer  these  questions ;  but  we  will  take  it 
upon  us  to  say,  that  he  cannot  have  answered 
them  in  a  satisfactory  manner.  As  to  his 
paradoxical  doctrines,  with  regard  to  th-e  na- 
tural mortality  of  man,  and  the  incompre- 
hensible gift  of  immortality  conferred  on  a 
material  structure  which  visibly  moulders  and 
is  dissolved,  w^e  shall  only  say  that  it  exceeda 
in  absurdity  any  of  the  dogmas  of  the  Catho- 
lics ;  and  can  only  be  exceeded  by  his  own 
supposition,  that  our  Saviour,  being  only  a 
man,  and  yet  destined  to  live  to  the  day  of 
judgment,  is  still  alive  in  his  original  human 
body  upon  earth,  and  is  really  the  Wander.'ng 
Jew  of  vulgar  superstition  ! 


(October,  1805.) 

Academical  Questions.  By  the  Right  Honourable  William  Drummond,  K.  C,  F.  R.  S..  F.  R.  S.  E 
Author  of  a  Translation  of  Persius.  Vol.  I.  4to.  pp.  412.  Cadell  and  Davies.  London:  1805 


We  do  not  know  very  well  what  to  say  of 
this  very  learned  publication.  J'o  some  read- 
ers it  will  probably  be  enough  to  announce, 


that  it  is  occupied  with  Metaphysical  specu 
lations.  To  others,  it  may  convey  a  more 
precise  idea  of  its  character,  to  be  told,  that 


DRUMMOND'S  ACADEJMICAL  QUESTIONS. 


497 


Itiough  it  gavb  I  violent  headache,  in  less  than 
an  hour,  to  the  most  intrepid  logician  of  our 
fraternity,  he  could  not  help  reading  on  till  he 
came  to  the  end  of  the  volume.* 

Mr.  Drummond  begins  with  the  doctrine 
of  Locke ;  and  exposes,  we  think,  very  suc- 
cessfully, the  futility  of  that  celebrated  au- 
thor's definition  of  Substance,  as  "o?ie  knows 
not  what'^  support  of  such  qualities  as  are  ca- 
pable of  producing  simple  ideas  in  us.  This 
notion  of  substance  he  then  shows  to  be  de- 
rived from  the  old  Platonic  doctrine  of  the 
primary  matter,  or  vTirj,  to  which  the  same 
objections  are  applicable. 

Having  thus  discarded  Substance  in  general 
from  the  list  of  existences,  Mr.  Drummond 
proceeds  to  do  as  much  for  the  particular  sub- 
stance called  Matter,  and  all  its  qualities.  In 
this  chapter,  accordingly,  he  avows  himself 
to  be  a  determined  Idealist ',  and  it  is  the  scope 
of  his  whole  argument  to  prove,  that  what  \ye 
call  qualities  in  external  substances,  are  in 
fact  nothing  more  than  sensations  in  our  own 
minds;  and  that  ^vhat  have  been  termed  pri- 
mary qualities,  are  in  this  respect  entirely 
upon  a  footing  with  those  which  are  called 
secondary.  His  reasoning  upon  this  subject 
coincides  very  nearly  wnth  that  of  Bishop 
Berkeley ;  of  whom,  indeed,  he  says,  that  if 
his  arguments  be  not  really  conclusive,  it  is 
certainly  to  be  lamented  that  they  should  have 
been  so  imperfectly  answered. 

To  us,  we  will  qonfess,  it  does  not  seem  of 
very  great  consequence  to  determine  whether 
there  be  any  room  for  a  distinction  between 
the  primary  and  secondary  qualities  of  matter ; 
for  though  w^e  are  rather  inclined  to  hold  that 
Dr.  Reid's  observations  have  established  its 
possibility,  w^e  cannot  help  saying,  that  it  is  a 
,  distinction  w^hich  does  not  touch  at  all  upon 
the  fundamental  question,  as  to  the  evidence 
which  ^ve  have,  by  our  senses,  for  the  exist- 
ence of  a  material  world.  Dr.  Reid  and  his 
followers  contend  as  strenuously  for  the  real 
existence  of  those  material  qualities  w^hich 
>  produce  in  us  the  sensations  of  heat,  or  of 
I  colour,  as  of  those  which  give  us  intimations 
of  solidity,  figure,  or  extension.  We  know  a 
little  more,  indeed,  according  to  them,  about 
the  one  sort  of  qualities  than  the  other;  but 
the  evidence  we  have  for  their  existence  is 
exactly  the  same  in  both  cases;  nor  is  it  more 
a  law  of  our  nature,  that  the  sensation  of  re- 
sistance should  suggest  to  us  the  definable 
quality  of  solidity  in  an  external  object,  than 
that  the  sensation  of  heat  should  suggest  to 
ns,  that  quality  in  an  external  object,  which 
we  cannot  define  otherwise  than  as  the  external 
cause  of  this  sensation. 

Mr.  Drummond,  we  think,  has  not  attended 
■nfficiently  to  this  part  of  his  antagonist's  po- 
sition ;  ana  after  assuming,  somewhat  too  pre- 

*  For  the  reasons  stated  in  the  note  prefixed  to 
this  division  of  the  book,  I  refrain  from  reprinting 
the  greater  part  of  this  review  ;  and  give  only  that 
part  of  it  which  is  connected  with  the  speculations 
in  the  preceding  articles,  and  bears  upon  the  ques- 
tion of  the  existence  of  an  external  world,  and  the 
faith  to  be  given  to  the  intimations  of  our  senses, 
and  other  internal  convictions. 
82 


cipitately,  that  secondary  qualities  are  uni- 
versally admitted  to  have  no  existence  but  in 
the  mind  of  him  who  perceives  them,  proceeds, 
with  an  air  of  triumph  that  is  at  all  events 
premature,  to  demonstrate,  that  there  is  noth- 
ing in  the  case  of  primary  qualities  by  which 
they  can  be  distinguished  in  this  respect  from 
the  secondary.  The  fact  unquestionably  is, 
that  Dr.  Reid  and  his  followers  assert  the  posi- 
tive and  independent  existence  of  secondary, 
as  well  as  of  primary  qualities  in  matter ;  ana 
that  there  is,  upon  their  hypothesis,  exactly  the 
same  evidence  for  the  one  as  for  the  other. 
The  general  problem.^  as  to  the  probable  exist- 
erjce  of  matter — unquestionably  the  most  fun- 
damental and  momentous  in  the  whole  science 
of  metaphysics — may  be  fairly  and  intelligibly 
stated  in  a  very  few  words. 

Bishop  Berkeley,  and  after  him  Mr.  Drum- 
mond, have  observed,  that  by  our  senses,  we 
can  have  nothing  but  sensations;  and  that 
sensations,  being  affections  of  mind,  cannot 
possibly  bear  any  resemblance  to  matter,  or 
any  of  its  qualities ;  and  hence  they  infer,  that 
we  cannot  possibly  have  any  evidence  for  the 
existence  of  matter ;  and  that  what  we  term 
our  perception  of  its  qualities,  is  in  fact  noth- 
ing else  than  a  sensation  in  our  own  minds. 
Dr.  Reid,  on  the  other  hand,  distinctly  admit 
ting  that  the  primary  functions  of  our  senses 
is  to  make  us  conscious  of  certain  sensations, 
which  can  have  no  sort  of  resemblance  or  af- 
finity to  the  qualities  of  matter,  has  asserted 
it  as  a  fact  admitting  of  no  dispute,  but  recog- 
nised by  every  human  creature,  that  these 
sensations  necessarily  suggest  to  us  the  notion 
of  certain  external  existences,  endowed  with 
particular  definable  qualities ;  and  that  thes'e 
perceptions,  by  w^hich  our  sensations  are  ac- 
companied, are  easily  and  clearly  distinguish- 
able from  the  sensations  themselves,  and 
cannot  be  confounded  with  them,  without  tho 
most  wilful  perversity.  Perception,  again,  he 
holds,  necessarily  implies  the  existence  of  the 
object  perceived ;  and  the  reality  of  a  material 
world  is  thus  as  clearly  deduced  from  the 
exercise  of  this  faculty,  as  the  reality  of  our 
own  existence  can  be  from  our  consciousness, 
or  other  sensations.  It  appears,  therefore', 
that  there  are  two  questions  to  be  considered 
in  determining  on  the  merits  of  this  contro- 
versy. First,  whether  there  be  any  room  foi 
a  distinction  between  sensation  and  percep- 
tion ;  and,  secondly,  if  w^e  shall  allow  such  a 
distinction,  whether  perception  does  neces- 
sarily imply  the  real  and  external  existence 
of  the  objects  perceived. 

If  by  perception,  indeed,  we  understand,  as 
Dr.  Reid  appears  to  have  done,  the  immediate 
and  positive  discovery  of  external  existences, 
it  is  evident  that  the  mere  assumption  of  this 
faculty  puts  an  end  to  the  whole  question ; 
since  it  necessarily  takes  those  existences  for 
granted,  and,  upon  that  hypothesis,  defines 
the  faculty  in  question  to  be  that  by  which 
we  discover  their  qualities.  This,  however, 
it  is  plain,  is  not  reasoning,  but  assertion  ;  and 
it  is  not  the  mere  assertion  of  a  fact,  whicii 
in  these  subjects  is  the  w^hole  perhaps  of  our 
legitimate  philosophy,  but  of  something  whicl- 


498 


METAPHYSICS  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


may  or  may  not  be  inferred  from  the  fact,  ac- 
cording to  the  views  of  the  inquirer.  The 
inquiry  is  an  inquiry  into  the  functions  and 
operations  of  mind;  and  all  that  can  possibly 
be  stated  as  fact  on  such  an  occasion,  must  re- 
late to  the  state  and  affections  of  mind  only : 
But  to  assume  the  existence  of  a  material 
world,  in  order  after^vards  to  define  one  func- 
tion of  mind  to  be  that  by  which  it  discovers 
material  qualities,  is  evidently  blending  hy- 
pothesis in  the  statement,  and  prejudging  the 
controversy  by  assumption.  The  fact  itself, 
we  really  conceive  not  to  be  liable  to  any  kind 
of  doubt  or  dispute ;  and  yet  the  statement  of 
it,  obvious  as  it  is,  seems  calculated  to  retrench 
a  good  deal  from  each  of  the  opposite  asser- 
tions. The  fact;  if  we  be  not  greatly  mis- 
taken, is  confessedly  as  follows. 

We  have  occasionally  certain  sensations 
which  we  call  heat,  pain,  resistance,  &c. 
These  feelings,  of  course,  belong  only  to  the 
mind,  of  which  they  are  peculiar  affections; 
and  both  parties  are  agreed-  in  asserting,  that 
the}-  have  no  resemblance,  or  necessary  refer- 
ence, to  any  thing  external.  Dr.  Reid  has 
made  this  indeed  the  very  ground- work  of  his 
reasonings  on  the  subject  of  perception ;  and 
it  will  not  probably  be  called  in  question  by 
his  antagonists,  who  go  the  length  of  inferring 
from  it,  that  nothing  but  mind  can  be  con- 
ceived to  have  an  existence  in  nature.  This, 
then,  is  one  fact  which  we  may  safely  assume 
as  quite  certain  and  indisputable,  viz.  that 
our  sensations  are  affections  of  the  mind,  and 
have  no  necessary  reference  to  any  other  ex- 
istence. But  there  is  another  fact  at  least  as 
obvious  and  indisputable,  which  the  one  party 
s^ems  disposed  to  overlook,  and  the  other  to 
invest  with  undue  authority,  in  the  discussion. 
This  second  fact  is,  that  some  of  the  sensations 
in  question  are  uniformly  and  irresistibly  ac- 
companied by  the  apprehension  and  belief  of 
certain  external  existences,  distinguished  by 
peculiar  qualities.  The  fact  certainly  admits 
of  no  dispute  ;  and,  accordingly,  the  philoso- 
phers who  first  attempted  to  prove  that  this 
belief  was  without  foundation,  have  uniformly 
claimed  the  merit  of  disabusing  mankind  of  a 
natural  and  universal  illusion.  Now  this  ap- 
prehension and  belief  of  external  existences, 
is  in  itself  as  much  an  affection  of  mind,  as 
the  sensations  by  which  it  is  accompanied ; 
and  those  vvho  deny  the  distinction  between 
perception  and  sensation,  mi^ht  be  justified 
perhaps  in  asserting,  that  it  is  only  a  sensa- 
tion of  another  kind  :  at  the  same  time,  as  the 
essence  of  it  consists  in  the  apprehension  of 
an  independent  existence,  there  can  be  no 
harm  in  distinguishing  it,  by  a  separate  appel- 
lation, from  those  sensations  which  centre  in 
the  sentient  being,  and  suggest  to  him  no  idea 
of  any  other  existence.  It  is  in  this  sense 
alone,  it  appears  to  us,  that  perception  can  be 
understood  in  strict  philosophical  language. 
It  means  no  more  than  that  affection  of  the 
mind  which  consists  in  an  apprehension  and 
belief  in  the  existence  of  external  objects.        | 

Now  in  this  sense  of  the  word,  there  can  | 
be  no  doubt  that  there  is  a  real  distinction  j 
betweon  mere  sensation  and  perception ;  in- 1 


asmuch  as  there  is  a  distinction  between  ons 
feelings  of  pain,  resistance,  &c.,  and  our  con 
ception  and  belief  of  real  external  existences: 
But  they  differ  merely  as  one  affection  of 
mind  may  differ  from  another;  and  it  is  plainly 
unwarrantable  to  assume  the  real  existence 
of  external  objects  as  a  part  of  the  statement 
of  a  purely  intellectual  phenomenon.  After 
allowing  the  reality  of  this  distinction,  there 
is  still  room  therefore  for  considering  the 
second  question  to  w^hich  we  alluded  in  the 
outset,  viz.  Whether  perception  does  neces- 
sarily hnply  the  existence  of  external  ob- 
jects. 

Upon  this  subject,  we  entertain  an  opinion 
which  will  not  give  satisfaction,  we  are  afi-aid, 
to  either  of  the  contending  parties.  We  think 
that  the  existence  of  external  objects  is  not 
necessarily  implied  in  the  phenomena  of  per- 
ception ;  but  we  think  that  there  is  no  com- 
plete proof  of  their  nonexistence;  and  that 
philosophy,  instead  of  being  benefited,  would 
be  subjected  to  needless  embarrassments,  by 
the  absolute  assumption  of  the  ideal  theory. 

The  reality  of  external  existences  is  not 
necessarily  implied  in  the  phenomena  of  per- 
ception :  because  we  can  easily  imagine  that 
our  impressions  and  conceptions  might  have 
been  exactly  as  they  are.  although  matter  had 
never  been  created.  Belief,  we  familiarly 
know,  to  be  no  infallible  criterion  of  actual 
existence ;  and  it  is  impossible  to  doubt,  that 
w^e  might. have  been  so  framed  as  to  receive 
all  the  impressions  which  we  now  ascribe  to 
the  agency  of  external  objects,  from  the  me- 
chanism of  our  own  minds,  or  the  particular 
volition  of  the  Deity.  The  phenomena  of 
dreaming,  and  of  some  species  of  madness, 
seem  to  form  experimental  proofs  of  the  pos- 
sibility we  have  now  slated ;  and  demonstrate, 
in  our  apprehension,  that  perception,  as  we 
have  defined  it,  {i.  e.  an  apprehension  and  be- 
lief of  external  existences.)  does  not  necessa- 
rily imply  the  independent  reality  of  its  ob- 
jects. Nor  is  it  less  absurd  to  say  that  we 
have  the  same  evidence  for  the  existence  of 
external  objects  that  we  have  for  the  exist- 
ence of  our  own  sensations:  For  it  is  quite 
plain,  that  our  belief  in  the  former  is  founded 
altogether  on  our  consciousness  of  the  latter; 
and  that  the  evidence  of  this  belief  is  conse- 
quently of  a  secondary  nature.  We  cannot 
doubt  of  the  existence  of  our  sensations, 
without  being  guilty  of  the  grossest  conti-a- 
diction ;  but  we  may  doubt  of  the  existence 
of  the  material  world,  without  any  contradic- 
tion at  all.  If  we  annihilate  our  sensations, 
we  annihilate  ourselves ;  and,  of  course,  leave 
no  being  to  doubt  or  to  reason.  If  we  anni- 
hilate the  external  world,  we  still  leave  entire 
all  those  sensations  and  perceptions  which  a 
different  hypothesis  would  refer  to  its  myste- 
rious agency  on  our  minds. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  certainly  going  too 
far  to  assert,  that  the  nonexistence  of  mattei 
is  proved  by  such  evidence  as  necessarily  to 
command  our  assent :  Since  it  evidently  im- 
plies no  contradiction  to  suppose,  that  such  a 
thing  as  matter  may  exist,  and  that  an  omnip* 
otent  being  might  make  us  capable  of  dia 


DRUMMOND'S  ACADEMICAL  QUESTIONS. 


49« 


cohering  its  qualities.  The  instinctive  and 
insurmountable  belief  that  we  have  of  its 
existence,  certainly  is  not  to  be  surrendered, 
merely  because  it  is  possible  to  suppose  it 
erroneous  j  or  difficult  to  comprehend  how  a 
material  and  immaterial  substance  can  act 
upon  each  other.  The  evidence  of  this  uni- 
versal and  irresistible  belief,  in  short,  is  not 
to  be  altogether  disregarded ;  and,  unless  it 
can  be  shown  that  it  leads  to  actual  contra- 
dictions and  absurdities,  the  utmost  length 
that  philosophy  can  warrantably  go,  is  to  con- 
clude that  it  may  be  delusive;  but  that  it 
may  also  be  true. 

The  rigorous  maxim,  of  giving  no  faith  to 
any  thing  short  of  direct  and  immediate  con- 
sciousness, seems  more  calculated,  we  think, 
to  pei'plex  than  to  simplify  our  philosophy, 
and  will  run  us  up,  in  two  vast  strides,  to  the 
very  brink  of  absolute  annihilation.  We  deny 
the  existence  of  the  material  world,  because 
we  have  not  for  it  the  primary  evidence  of 
consciousness ;  and  because  the  clear  concep- 
tion and  indestructible  belief  we  have  of  it, 
may  be  fallacious,  for  any  thing  we  can  prove 
to  the  contrary.  This  conclusion  annihilates 
at  once  all  external  objects;  and,  among 
them,  our  own  bodies,  and  the  bodies  ajul 
minds  of  all  other  men  ;  for  it  is  quite  evident 
that  we  can  have  no  evidence  of  the  exist- 
ence of  other  minds,  except  through  the  me- 
diation of  the  matter  they  are  supposed  to 
animate;  and  if  matter  be  nothing  more  than 
an  affection  of  our  own  minds,  there  is  an  end 
to  the  existence  of  every  other.  This  first  step, 
therefore,  reduces  the  whole  universe  to  the 
mmd  of  the  individual  reasoner;  and  leaves 
no  existence  in  nature,  but  one  mindy  with  its 
compliment  of  sensations  and  ideas.  The 
second  step  goes  still  farther ;  and  no  one  can 
hesitate  to  take  it.  who  has  ventured  deliber- 
ately on  the  first."  If  our  senses  may  deceive 
us,  so  may  our  memory: — if  we  will  not  be- 
lieve in  the  existence  of  matter,  because  it  is 
not  vouched  by  internal  consciousness,  and 
because  it  is  conceivable  that  it  should  not 
exist,  we  cannot  consistently  believe  in  the 
reality  of  any  past  impression :  for  which,  in 
like  manner,  we  cannot  have  the  direct  evi- 
dence of  consciousness,  and  of  which  our 
present  recollection  may  possibly  be  falla- 
cious. Even  upon  the  vulgar  hypothesis,  we 
know  that  memory  is  much  more  deceitful 
than  perception ;  and  there  is  still  greater 
hazard  in  assuming  the  reality  of  any  past 
existence  from  our  present  recollection  of  it, 
than  in  relying  on  the  reality  of  a  present 
existence  from  our  immediate  perception.  If 
we  discredit  our  memory.,  however,  and  deny 
all  existence  of  which  we  have  not  a  present 
consciousness  or  sensation,  it  is  evident  that 
we  must  annihilate  our  own  personal  identity, 
and  refuse  to  believe  that  we  had  thought  or 
sensation  at  any  previous  moment.  There 
can  be  no  reasoning,  therefore,  nor  know-* 
»edge.  nor  opinion ;  and  we  must  end  by  vir- 
tually annihilating  ourselves,  and  denying 
that  any  thing  whatsoever  exists  in  nature, 
but  the  present  solitary  and  momentary  im- 
pression. 


This  is  the  legitimate  and  inevitable  ter 
mination  of  that  determined  scepticism  which 
refuses  to  believe  any  thing  without  the  high- 
est of  all  evidence,  and  chooses  to  conclude 
positively  that  every  thing  is  not,  which  may 
possibly  be  conceived  not  to  be.  The  process 
of  reasoning  which  it  implies,  is  neither  long 
nor  intricate ;  and  its  conclusion  would  be 
undeniably  just,  if  every  thing  was  necessarily 
true  which  could  be  asserted  without  a  con- 
tradiction. It  is  perfectly  true,  that  we  are 
absolutely  sure  of  nothing  but  what  we  feel  at 
the  present  moment ;  and  that  it  is  possible 
to  distinguish  between  the  evidence  we  have 
for  the  existence  of  the  present  impression, 
and  the  evidence  of  any  other  existence.  The 
first  alone  is  complete  and  unquestionable ; 
we  may  hesitate  about  all  the  rest  without 
any  absolute  contradiction.  But  the  distinc- 
tion, we  apprehend,  is  in  itself  of  as  little  use 
in  philosophy,  as  in  ordinary  life  ;  and  the  ab- 
solute and  positive  denial  of  all  existence, 
except  that  of  our  immediate  sensation,  alto- 
gether rash  and  unwarranted.  The  objects 
of  our  perception  and  of  our  recollection,  cer- 
tainly may  exist,  although  we  cannot  demon 
strate  that  they  must ;  and  when  in  spite  of 
all  our  abstractions,  we  find  that  we  must 
come  back,  and  not  only  reason  with  our  fel- 
low creatures  as  separate  existences,  but  en- 
gage daily  in  speculations  about  the  qualities 
and  properties  of  matter,  it  must  appear,  at 
least,  an  unprofitable  refinement  which  would 
lead  us  to  dwell  much  on  the  possibility  of 
their  nonexistence.  There  is  no  sceptic,  pro- 
bably, who  woukl  be  bold  enough  to  maintain, 
that  this  single  doctrine  of  the  nonexistence 
of  any  thing  but  our  present  impressions, 
would  constitute  a  just  or  useful  system  of 
logic  and  moral  philosophy;  and  if,  after 
flourishing  with  it  as  an  unfruitful  paradox  in 
the  outset,  we  are  obliged  to  recur  to  the  or- 
dinary course  of  observation  and  conjecture 
as  to  the  nature  of  our  faculties,  it  may  be 
doubted  whether  any  real  benefit  has  been 
derived  from  its  promulg-ation,  or  whether  the 
hypothesis  can  be  received  into  any  sober 
system  of  philosophy.  To  deny  the  existence 
of  matter  and  of  mind,  indeed,  is  not  to  phi- 
losophise, but  to  destroy  the  materials  of  phi- 
losophy. It  requires  no  extraordinary  in- 
genuity or  power  of  reasoning  to  perceive  the 
grounds  upon  which  their  existence  may  be 
doubte^  ;  but  we  acknowledge  that  we  cannot 
see  how  it  can  be  said  to  have  been  disproved  ; 
and  think  we  perceive  very  clearly,  that  phi- 
losophy will  neither  be  simplified  nor  abridged 
by  refusing  to  take  it  for  granted. 

Upon  the  whole,  then,  we  are  inclined  to 
think,  that  the  conception  and  belief  which 
we  have  of  material  objects  (which  is  what 
we  mean  by  the  perception  of  them)  does  not 
amount  to  a  complete  proof  of  their  existence, 
but  renders  it  sufficiently  probable  :  that  the 
superior  and  complete  assurance  we  have  of 
the  existence  of  our  present  sensations,  does 
by  no  means  entitle  us  positively  to  deny  the 
reality  of  every  other  existence  ;  and  that  as 
this  speculative  scepticism  neither  renders  Uff 
independent  of  the  ordinary  modes  of  investi* 


500 


METAPHYSICS  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


gatiorij  nor  assists  \is  materially  in  the  use  of 
them,  it  is  inexpedient  to  dwell  long  upon  it 
in  the  course  of  our  philosophical  inquiries; 
and  much  more  advisable  to  proceed  upon 
the  supposition  that  the  real  condition  of  things 
.  is  conformable  to  our  natural  apprehensions. 

The  little  sketch  we  have  now  ventured  to 
offer  of  the  abstract,  or  thorough-going  phi- 
losophy of  scepticism,  will  render  it  unneces- 
sary for  us  to  follow  our  author  minutely 
through  the  different  branches  of  this  inquiry. 
Overlooking,  or  at  least  undervaluing  the  in- 
disputable fact,  that  our  sensations  are  uni- 
formly accompanied  with  a  distinct  apprehen- 
sion, and  firm  belief  in  the  existence  of  real 
external  objects,  he  endeavours  to  prove,  that 
the  qualities  which  we  ascribe  to  them  are  in 
reality  nothing  more  than  names  for  our  pecu- 
liar sensations;  and  maintains  accordingly, 
that  because  men  differ  in  their  opinions  of 
the  same  object,  it  is  impossible  to  suppose 
that  they  actually  perceive  any  real  object  at 
all ;  as  a  real  existence  must  always  appear 
the  same  to  those  who  actually  perceive  it. 

His  illustrations  are  of  this  nature.  Water, 
which  feels  tepid  to  a  Laplander,  would  appear 
cold  to  a  native  of  Sumatra :  But  the  same 
water  cannot  be  both  hot  and  cold :  therefore 
it  is  to  be  inferred  that  neither  of  them  is 
affected  by  any  real  quality  in  the  external 
body,  but  that  each  describes  merely  his 
own  sensations.  Now,  the  conclusion  here  is 
plainly  altogether  unwarranted  by  the  fact; 
since  it  is  quite  certain  that  both  the  persons 
in  question  perceive  the  same  quality  in  the 
water,  though  they  are  affected  by  it  in  a  dif- 
ferent manner.  The  solution  of  the  w^hole 
puzzle  is,  that  heat  and  cold  are  not  different 
qualities ;  but  different  degrees  of  the  same 
quality,  and  probably  exist  only  relatively  to 
each  other.  If  the  water  is  of  a  higher  tem- 
perature than  the  air,  or  the  body  of  the 
person  vrho  touches  it,  he  wall  call  it  warm ; 
if  of  a  lower  temperature,  he  will  call  it  cold. 
But  this  does  not  prove  by  any  means,  that 
the  difference  between  two  distinct  tempera- 
tures is  ideal,  or  that  it  is  not  ahvays  perceived 
by  all  individuals  in  the  very  same  way.  If 
Mr.  Drummond  could  find  out  a  person  who 
not  only  thought  the  water  cold  which  other 
people  called  warm,  but  also  thought  that 
warm  which  they  perceived  to  be  cold,  he 
might  have  some  foundation  for  his  inference ; 
but  while  all  mankind  agree  that  ice  is  cold, 
and  steam  hot,  and  concur  indeed  most  exactly 
in  their  judgments  of  the  comparative  heat  of 
all  external  bodies,  it  is  plainly  a  mere  quib- 
ble on  the  convertible  nature  of  these  quali- 
ties, to  call  in  question  the  identity  of  their 
perceptions,  because  they  make  the  variable 
standard  of  their  own  temperature  the  rule 
for  denominating  other  bodies  hot  or  cold. 

In  the  same  way,  Mr.  Drummond  goes  on 
to  say,  one  man  calls  the  flavour  of  assafcetida 
nauseous,  and  another  thinks  it  agreeable  ; — 
one  nation  delights  in  a  species  of  food  which 
to  its  neighbours  appears  disgusting.  How, 
then,  can  we  suppose  that  they  perceive  the 
fiame  real  qualities,  when  their  judgments  in 
regard  to  them  are  so  diametrically  opposite  1 


Now,  nothing,  we  conceive,  is  more  obvioni 
than  the  fallacy  of  this  reasoning.  The  h^ 
king,  or  disliking,  of  men  to  a  particular  object, 
has  nothing  to  do  with  the  perception  of  ita 
external  qualities;  and  they  may  differ  en- 
tirely as  to  their  opinion  of  its  agrecablcness, 
though  they  concur  perfectly  as  to  the  de- 
scription of  all  its  properties.  One  man  may 
admire  a  tall  woman,  and  another  a  short  one ; 
but  it  would  be  rather  rash  to  infer,  that  they 
did  not  agree  in  recognising  a  difference  in 
stature,  or  that  they  had  no  uniform  ideas  of 
magnitude  in  general.  In  the  same  way,  one 
person  may  have  an  antipathy  to  salt,  and 
another  a  liking  for  it ;  but  they  both  perceive 
it  to  be  salt,  and  both  agree  in  describing  it 
by  that  appellation.  To  give  any  degree  of 
plausibility  to  Mr.  Drummond's  inferences,  it 
would  be  necessary  for  him  to  show  that  some 
men  thought  brandy  and  Cayenne  pepper  in 
sipid  and  tasteless,  and  objected  at  the  samo 
time  to  milk  and  spring  water  as  excessively 
acrid  and  pungent. 

In  the  concluding  part  of  his  book,  Mr. 
Drummond  undertakes  nothing  less  than  a 
defence  of  the  theory  of  Ideas,  against  the 
arguments  of  Dr.  Reid.  This  is  a  bold  at- 
tempt; but,  we  are  inclined  to  think,  not  a 
successful  one.  Mr.  Drummond  begins  with 
the  old  axiom,  that  nothing  can  act  but  where 
it  is ;  and  infers,  that  as  real  material  objects 
cannot  penetrate  to  the  seat  of  the  soul,  that 
sentient  principle  can  only  perceive  certain 
images  or  ideas  of  them ;  against  the  assump° 
tion  of  w^hich  he  conceives  there  can  be  no 
considerable  obstacle.  Now,  it  is  needless, 
we  think,  to  investigate  the  legitimacy  of  this 
reasoning  very  narrowly,  because  the  founda- 
tion, w^e  are  persuaded,  is  unsound.  The 
axiom,  we  believe,  is  now  admitted  to  be 
fallacious  (in  the  sense  at  least  here  assigned 
to  it)  by  all  who  have  recently  paid  any  atten- 
tion to  the  subject.  But  what  does  Mr.  Drum- 
mond understand  exactly  by  ideas'^  Does  he 
mean  certain  films,  shadows,  or  simulacra, 
proceeding  from  real  external  existences,  and 
passing  through  real  external  organs  to  the 
local  habitation  of  the  souH  If  he  means 
this,  then  he  admits  the  existence  of  a  ma- 
terial world,  as  clearly  as  Dr.  Reid  does; 
and  subjects  himself  to  all  the  ridicule  which 
he  has  himself  so  justly  bestowed  upon  the 
hypothesis  of  animal  spirits,  or  any  other 
supposition,  which  explains  the  intercourse 
between  mind  and  matter,  by  imagining  some 
matter,  of  so  fine  a  nature  as  almost  to  gra- 
duate into  mind !  If,  on  the  other  hand,  by 
ideas,  Mr.  Drummond  really  means  nothing 
but  sensations  and  perceptions  (as  we  have 
already  explained  that  word),  it  is  quite  ob- 
vious that  Dr.  Reid  has  never  called  their 
existence  in  question ;  and  the  whole  debate 
comes  back  to  the  presumptions  for  the  exist- 
ence of  an  external  world ;  or  the  reasonable- 
ness of  trusting  to  that  indestructible  belief 
which  certainly  accompanies  those  sensations, 
as  evidence  of  their  having  certain  external 
causes.  We  cannot  help  doubting,  whether 
Mr.  Drummond  has  clearly  stated  to  himself, 
in  which  of  these  two  senses  he  proposes  t» 


FORBES'  LIFE  OF  DR.  BEATTIE. 


601 


defend  the  doctrine  of  ideas.  The  doctrine 
of  IMAGES  proceeding  from  actual  external 
existences,  is  the  only  one  in  behalf  of  which 
he  can  claim  the  support  of  the  ancient  phi- 
losophers ;  and  it  is  to  it  he  seems  to  allude, 
in  several  of  the  remarks  which  he  makes  on 
the  illusions  of  sight.  On  the  other  supposi- 
tion, however,  he  has  no  occasion  to  dispute 
vvitn  Dr.  Reid  about  the  existence  of  ideas ;  for 
the  Doctor  assuredly  did  not  deny  that  we 
had  sensations  and  perceptions,  notions,  re- 
collections, and  all  the  other  affections  of 
mind  to  which  the  word  idea  may  be  applied, 
in  that  other  sense  of  it.  There  can  be  no 
question  upon  that  supposition,  but  about  the 
origin  of  these  ideas — which  belongs  to 
another  chapter. 

Mr.  Drummond  seems  to  la)'  the  whole 
stress  of  his  argument  upon  a  position  of 
Hume's,  which  he  applies  himself  to  vindicate 
from  the  objections  which  Dr.  Reid  has  urged 
against  it.  ''  The  table  which  I  see,"  says 
Dr.  Hume,  "  diminishes  as  I  remove  from  it ; 
but  the  real  table  suffers  no  alteration: — it 
could  be  nothing  but  its  image,  therefore, 
which  was  present  to  my  mind."  Now  this 
statement,  we  think,  admits  pretty  explicitly, 
that  there  is  a  real  table,  the  image  of  which 
IS  presented  to  the  mind :  but,  at  all  events, 
we  conceive  that  the  phenomenon  may  be 
easily  reconciled  wnth  the  supposition  of  its 
real  existence.  Dr.  Reid's  error,  if  there  be 
one,  seems  to  consist  in  his  having  asserted 
positively,  and  without  any  qualification,  that 
it  is  the  real  table  which  we  perceive,  when 
our  eyes  are  turned  towards  it.  When  the 
matter  however  is  considered  very  strictly,  it 
will  be  found  that  by  the  sense  of  seeing  we 
can  perceive  nothing  but  light,  variously  ar- 
ranged and  diversified ;  and  that,  w^hen  we 
look  tov/ards  a  table,  we  do  not  actually  see 
the  table  itself,  but  only  the  rays  of  light 
which  are  reflected  from  it  to  the  eye.  Inde- 
pendently of  the  co-operation  of  our  other 
senses,  it  seems  generally  to  be  admitted,  that 
we  should  perceive  nothing  by  seeing  but  an 
assemblage  of  colours,  divided  by  different 
lines ;  and  our  only  visual  notion  of  the  table 
(however  real  it  might  be)  would,  therefore, 
be  that  of  a  definite  portion  of  light,  distin- 


guished by  its  colour,  from  the  other  poriiont 
that  were  perceived  at  the  same  time.  I* 
seems  equally  impossible  to  dispute,  however, 
that  we  should  receive  from  this  irapressiop 
the  belief  and  conception  of  an  external  ex- 
istence, and  that  we  should  have  the  very 
same  evidence  for  its  reality,  as  for  that  of  the 
objects  of  our  other  senses.  But  if  the  exter- 
nal existence  of  light  be  admitted,  a  very 
slight  attention  to  its  laws  and  properties,  will 
show  its  appearances  must  vary,  according  ta 
our  distance  from  the  solid  objects  which  emit 
it.  We  perceive  the  form  of  bodies  by  sight_; 
in  short,  very  nearly  as  a  blind  man  perceives 
them,  by  tracing  their  extremities  with  his 
stick  :  It  is  only  the  light  in  one  case,  and  the 
stick  in  the  other,  that  is  properly  felt  or  per- 
ceived ',  but  the  real  form  of  the  object  is 
indicated,  in  both  cases,  by  the  state  and  dis- 
position of  the  medium  which  connects  it  with 
our  sensations.  It  is  by  intimations  formerly 
received  from  the  sense  of  Touch,  no  doubt, 
that  we  ultimately  discover  that  the  rays  of 
light  which  strike  our  eyes  with  the  impres- 
sions of  form  and  colour,  proceed  from  distant 
objects,  w^hich  are  solid  and  extended  in  three 
dimensions ',  and  it  is  only  by  recollecting 
what  we  have  learned  from  this  sense,  that 
we  are  enabled  to  conceive  them  as  endued 
wnth  these  qualities.  By  the  eye  itself  w^e 
do  not  perceive  these  qualities :  nor.  in  strict- 
ness of  speech,  do  we  perceive,  by  this  sense, 
any  qualities  whatever  of  the  reflecting  ob- 
ject ;  v/e  perceive  merely  the  light  which  it 
reflects;  distinguished  by  its  colour  from  the 
other  light  that  falls  on  the  eye  along  with  it, 
and  assuming  a  new  form  and  extension,  ac- 
cording as  the  distance  or  position  of  the  body 
is  varied  in  reg-ard  to  us.  These  variations 
are  clearly  explained  by  the  known  properties 
of  light,  as  ascertained  by  experiment;  and 
evidently  afford  no  ground  for  supposing  any 
alteration  in  the  object  which  emits  it,  or  for 
throwing  any  doubts  upon  the  real  existence 
of  such  an  object.  Because  the  divergence 
of  the  rays  of  light  varies  with  the  distance 
between  their  origin  and  the  eye,  is  there  the 
slightest  reason  for  pretending,  that  the  mag- 
nitude of  the  object  from  which  they  proceed 
must  be  held  to  have  varied  also  ? 


^^fxM,  1807.) 

An  account  of  the  Life  and  Writings  of  James  Beattie,  LL.  D.  late  Professor  of  Moral  Philcso^ 
phy  and  Losic  in  the  Marischaf  College  and  University  of  Aberdeen :  including  many  of  his 
original  Letters.  By  Sir  W.  Forbes  of  Pitsligo,  Baronet,  one  of  the  Executors  of  Dr. 
Beattie.     2  vols.     4to.     pp.840.     Edinburgh  and  London :  1806. 


Dr.  Beattie's  great  w^ork,  and  that  which 
was  undoubtedly  the  first  foundation  of  his  ce- 
lebrity, is  the  "Essay  on  the  Nature  and 
[mmutability  of  Truth ;"  on  which  such  un- 

*  The  greater  part  of  this  article  also  is  withheld 
from  the  present  reprint,  for  the  reasons  formerly 
stated  ;  and  only  those  parts  given  which  bear  upon 
points  of  metaphysics. 


measured  praises  are  bestowed,  both  by  his 
present  biographer,  and  by  all  the  author's 
male  and  female  correspondents,  that  it  is 
with  difficulty  we  can  believe  that  theyaie 
speaking  of  the  performance  w^hich  we  have 
just  been  wearying  ourselves  with  looking 
over.  That  the  author's  intentions  were  good, 
and  his  convictions  sincere,  we  entertain  noi 


502 


METAPHYSICS  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


the  least  doubt;  but  that  the  merits  of  his 
book  have  been  prodigiously  overrated,  we 
think,  is  equally  undeniable.  It  contains  ab- 
solutely nothing,  in  the  nature  of  argument, 
that  had  not  been  previously  stated  by  Dr. 
Reid  in  his  "Inquiry  into  the  Human  Mind;" 
and,  in  our  opinion,  in  a  much  clearer  and 
more  unexceptionable  form.  As  to  the  merits 
of  that  philosophy,  we  have  already  taken 
9ccasion,  in  more  places  than  one,  to  submit 
our  opinion  to  the  judgment  of  our  readers ; 
and,  after  having  settled  our  accounts  with 
Mr.  Stewart  and  Dr.  Reid,  we  really  do  not 
think  it  worth  while  to  enter  the  lists  again 
with  Dr.  Beattie.  Whatever  may  be  the  ex- 
cellence of  the  commcn-sense  school  of  phi- 
losophy, he  certainly  has  no  claim  to  the 
honours  of  a  founder.  He  invented  none  of 
it ;  and  it  is  very  doubtful  with  us,  whether 
he  ever  rightly  understood  the  principles  upon 
which  it  depends.  It  is  unquestionable,  at 
least,  that  he  has  exposed  it  to  considerable 
disadvantage,  and  embarrassed  its  more  en- 
lightened supporters,  by  the  misplaced  con- 
fidence with  which  he  has  urged  some 
propositions,  and  the  fallacious  and  fantastic 
illustrations  by  which  he  has  aimed  at  recom- 
mending many  others. 

His  confidence  and  his  inaccuracy,  however, 
might  have  been  easily  forgiven.  Every  one 
has  not  the  capacity  of  writing  philosophically: 
But  every  one  may  at  least  be  temperate  and 
candid ;  and  Dr.  Beattie's  book  is  still  more 
remarkable  for  being  abusive  and  acrimonious, 
ihan  for  its  defects  in  argument  or  originality. 
There  are  no  subjects,  however,  in  the  wide 
field  of  human  speculation,  upon  which  such 
vehemence  appears  more  groundless  and  un- 
accountable, than  the  greater  part  of  those 
which  have  served  Dr.  Beattie  for  topics  of 
declamation  or  invective. 

His  first  great  battle  is  about  the  real  exist- 
ence of  external  objects.  The  sceptics  say, 
that  perception  is  merely  an  act  or  afiection 
of  the  mind,  and  consequently  might  exist 
without  any  external  cause.  It  is  a  sensation 
or  affection  of  the  mind,  to  be  sure,  which 
consists  in  the  apprehension  and  belief  of  such 
external  existences :  But  being  in  itself  a  phe- 
nomenon purely  mental,  it  is  a  mere  supposition 
or  conjecture  to  hold  that  there  are  any  such 
existences,  by  whose  operation  it  is  produced. 
It  is  impossible,  therefore,  to  bring  any  evi- 
dence for  the  existence  of  material  objects ; 
and  the  belief  which  is  admitted  to  be  in- 
separable from  the  act  of  perception,  can 
never  be  received  as  such  evidence.  The 
whole  question  is  about  the  grounds  of  this 
belief,  and  not  about  its  existence ;  and  the 
phenomena  of  dreaming  and  madness  prove 
experimentally,  that  perception,  as  character- 
ised by  belief,  may  exist  where  there  is  no 
external  object.  Dr.  Beattie  answers,  after 
Dr.  Reid,  that  the  mere  existence  of  this  in- 
stinctive and  indestructible  belief  in  the  re- 
ality of  external  objects,  is  a  complete  and 
sufficient  proof  of  their  reality;  that  nature 
meant  us  to  be  satisfied  with  it;  and  that  we 
cannot  call  it  in  question,  without  running  into 
the  greatest  absurdity. 


This  is  the  whole  dispute;  and  a  pretil 
correct  summary  of  the  argument  upon  botr. 
sides  of  the  question.  But  is  there  any  thing 
here  that  could  justify  the  calling  of  names, 
or  the  violation  of  decorum  among  the  dis- 
putants 1  The  question  is,  of  all  other  ques- 
tions that  can  be  suggested,  the  most  purely 
and  entirely  speculative,  and  obviously  dis- 
connected from  any  practical  or  moral  con- 
sequences. After  what  Berkeley  has  written 
on  the  subject,  it  must  be  a  gross  and  wilful 
fallacy  to  pretend  that  the  conduct  of  men  can 
be  in  the  smallest  degree  aflected  by  the 
opinions  they  entertain  about  the  existence 
or  nonexistence  of  matter.  The  system 
which  maintains  the  latter,  leaves  all  our  sen- 
sations and  perceptions  unimpaired  and  en- 
tire ;  and  as  it  is  by  these,  and  by  these  only, 
that  our  conduct  can  ever  be  guided,  it  is 
evident  that  it  can  never  'be  altered  by  the 
adoption  of  that  system.  The  whole  dispute 
is  about  the  cause  or  origin  of  our  perceptions ; 
which  the  one  party  ascribes  to  the  action  of 
external  bodies,  and  the  other  to  the  inward 
development  of  some  mental  energy.  It  is  a 
question  of  pure  curiosity;  it  never  can  be 
decided ;  and  as  its  decision  is  perfectly  in- 
different and  immaterial  to  any  practical  pur- 
pose, so,  it  might  have  been  expected  that 
the  discussion  should  be  conducted  without 
virulence  or  abuse. 

The  next  grand  dispute  is  about  the  evi- 
dence of  Memory.  The  sceptics  will  have 
it,  that  we  are  sure  of  nothing  but  our  present 
sensations;  and  that,  though  these  are  some- 
times characterised  by  an  impression  and 
belief  that  other  sensations  did  formerly  exist, 
w^e  can  have  no  evidence  of  the  justice  of  this 
belief,  nor  any  certainty  that  this  illusive  con- 
ception of  former  sensation,  which  we  call 
memory,  may  not  be  an  original  affection  of 
our  minds.  The  orthodox  philosophers,  on 
the  other  hand,  maintain,  that  the  instinctive 
reliance  we  have  on  memory  is  complete  and 
satisfactory  proof  of  its  accuracy;  that  it  is 
absurd  to  ask  for  the  grounds  of  this  belief; 
and  that  we  cannot  call  it  in  question  without 
manifest  inconsistency.  The  same  observa- 
tions which  were  made  on  the  argument  for 
the  existence  of  matter,  apply  also  to  this  con- 
troversy. It  is  purely  speculative,  and  with- 
out application  to  any  practical  conclusion. 
The  sceptics  do  not  deny  that  they  remember 
like  other  people,  and,  consequently,  that  they 
have  an  indestructible  belief  in  past  events  or 
existences.  All  the  question  is  about  the  origin, 
or  the  justice  of  this  belief; — whether  it  arise 
from  such  events  having  actually  happened 
before,  or  from  some  original  affection  of  the 
mind,  which  is  attended  with  that  impression. 

The  argument,  as  commonly  stated  by  the 
sceptics,  leads  only  to  a  negative  or  sceptical 
conclusion.  It  amounts  only  to  this,  that  the 
present  sensation,  which  we  call  memory, 
affords  no  conclusive  evidence  of  past  existence 
and  that  For  any  thing  that  can  be  proved  to 
the  contrary,  nothing  of  what  we  remember 
may  have  existed.  We  think  this  undeniably 
true ;  and  so  we  believe  did  Dr.  Beattie.  Ha 
thought  it  also  very  useless ;  and  there,  too> 


FORBES-  LIFE  OF  DR.  BEATTIE. 


603 


wo  agree  with  him  :  But  he  thought  it  very 
wicked  and  very  despicably  silly;  and  there 
we  cannot  agree  with  him  at  all.  It  is  a  very 
pretty  and  ingenious  puzzle, — affords  a  very 
useful  mortification  to  human  reason, — and 
leads  us  to  that  state  of  philosophical  wonder 
and  perplexity  in  which  we  feel  our  own 
helplessness,  and  in  which  we  ought  to  feel 
the  impropriety  of  all  dogmatism  or  arrogance 
in  reasonmg  upon  such  subjects.  This  is  the 
only 'use  and  the  only  meaning  of  such  scep- 
tical speculations.  It  is  altogether  unfair, 
and  indeed  absurd,  to  suppose  that  their 
authors  could  ever  mean  positively  to  main- 
tain that  we  should  try  to  get  the  better  of 
any  reliance  on  our  memories,  or  that  they 
themselves  really  doubted  more  than  other 
people  as  to  the  past  reality  of  the  things 
they  remembered.  The  very  arguments  they 
use,  indeed,  to  show  that  the  evidence  of 
memory  may  be  fallacious,  prove,  completely, 
that,  in  point  of  fact,  they  relied  as  implicitly 
as  their  antagonists  on  the  accutacy  of  that 
faculty.  If  they  were  not  sure  that  they  re- 
collected the  premises  of  their  own  reason- 
ings, it  is  evidently  impossible  that  they 
should  ever  have  come  to  any  conclusion. 
If  they  did  not  believe  that  they  had  seen  the 
books  they  answered,  it  is  impossible  they 
should  have  set  about  answering  them. 

The  trath  is,  however,  that  all  men  have  a 
practical  and  irresistible  belief  both  in  the 
existence  of  matter,  and  in  the  accuracy  of 
memory ;  and  that  no  sceptical  writer  ever 
meant  or  expected  to  destroy  this  practical 
belief  in  other  persons.  All  that  they  aimed 
at  was  to  show  their  own  ingenuity,  and  the 
narrow  limits  of  the  human  understanding ; — 
to  point  out  a  curious  distinction  between  the 
evidence  of  immediate  consciousness,  and 
that  of  perception  of  memory, — and  to  show 
that  there  was  a  kind  of  logical  or  argumen- 
tative possibility,  that  the  objects  of  the  latter 
faculties  might  have  no  existence.  There 
:iever  was  any  danger  of  their  persuading 
men  to  distrust  their  senses  or  their  memory; 
nor  can  they  be  rationally  suspected  of  such 
an  intention.  On  the  contrary,  they  neces- 
sarily took  for  granted  the  instinctive  and  in- 
destructible belief  for  which  they  found  it  so 
difficult  to  account.  Their  whole  reasonings 
consist  of  an  attempt  to  explain  that  admitted 
fact,  and  to  ascertain  the  grounds  upon  which 
that  belief  depends.  In  the  end,  they  agree 
with  their  adversaries  that  those  grounds  can- 
not be  ascertained  :  and  the  only  difference 
between  them  is,  that  the  adversary  main- 
tains that  they  need  no  explanation ;  while  the 
sceptic  insists  that  the  want  of  it  still  leaves 
a  possibility  that  the  belief  may  be  fallacious ; 
and  at  any  rate  establishes  a  distinction,  in 
degree,  between  the  primary  evidence  of  con- 
sciousness, which  it  is  impossible  to  distrust 
without  a  contradiction,  and  the  secondary  evi- 
dence of  perception  and  memory,  which  may 
be  clearly  conceived  to  be  erroneous. 

To  this  extent,  we  are  clearly  of  opinion 
that  the  sceptics  are  right;  and  though  the 
value  of  the  discovery  certainly  is  as  small  as 
possible,  we  are  just  as  well  satisfied  that  its 


consequences  are  perfectly  harmless.  Theil 
reasonings  are  about  as  ingenious  and  as  inno 
cent  as  some  of  those  which  have  been  em- 
ployed to  establish  certain  strange  paradoxea 
as  to  the  nature  of  motion,  or  the  infinite  divis- 
ibility of  matter.  The  argument  is  perfectly 
logical  and  unanswerable  ;  and  yet  no  man  in 
his  senses  can  practically  admit  the  conclu- 
sion. Thus,  it  maybe  strictly  demonstrated, 
that  the  swiftest  moving  body  can  never  over- 
take the  slowest  w^hich  is  before  it  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  motion ;  or,  in  the  words 
of  the  original  problem,  that  the  svrift-footed 
Achilles  could  never  overtake  a  snail  that  had 
a  few  yards  the  start  of  him.  The  reasoning 
upon  which  this  valuable  proposition  is  found- 
ed, does  not  admit,  we  believe,  of  any  direct 
confutation  ;  and  yet  there  are  few,  we  sup- 
pose, who,  upon  the  faith  of  it,  would  take  abet 
as  to  the  result  of  such  a  race.  The  sceptical 
reasonings  as  to  the  mind  lead  to  no  other 
practical  conclusion ;  and  may  be  answered 
or  acquiesced  in  with  the  same  good  nature. 

Such,  however,  are  the  chief  topics  which 
Dr.  Beattie  has  discussed  in  this  Essay,  with 
a  vehemence  of  temper,  and  an  impotence 
of  reasoning,  equally  surprising  and  humilia- 
ting to  the  cause  of  philosophy.  The  subjects 
we  have  mentioned  occupy  the  greater  part 
of  the  work,  and  are  indeed  almost  the  only 
ones  to  which  its  title  at  all  applies.  Yet  we 
think  it  must  be  already  apparent,  that  there 
is  nothing  whatever  in  the  doctrines  he  op- 
poses, to  call  down  his  indignation,  or  to  jus- 
tify his  abuse.  That  there  are  other  doctrines 
in  some  of  the  books  which  he  has  aimed  at 
confuting,  which  would  justify  the  most  zeal- 
ous opposition  of  every  friend  to  religion,  we 
readily  admit ;  but  these  have  no  necessary 
dependence  on  the  general  speculative  scep- 
ticism to  which  we  have  now  been  alluding, 
and  will  be  best  refuted  by  those  who  lay  all 
that  general  reasoning  entirely  out  of  con- 
sideration. Mr.  Hume's  theory  of  morals, 
which,  when  rightly  understood,  we  conceive 
to  be  both  salutary  and  true,  certainly  has  no 
connection  with  his  doctrine  of  ideas  and  im- 
pressions; and  the  great  question  of  liberty 
and  necessity,  which  Dr.  Beattie  has  settled, 
by  mistaking,  throughout,  the  power  of  doing 
what  we  will,  for  the  power  of  willing  with- 
out motives,  evidently  depends  upon  consider- 
ations altogether  apart  from  the  nature  and 
immutability  of  truth.  It  has  always  appeared 
to  us,  indeed,  that  too  much  importance  has 
been  attached  to  Theories  of  morals,  ana  to 
speculations  on  the  sources  of  approbation. 
Our  feelings  of  approbation  and  disapproba- 
tion, and  the  moral  distinctions  which  are 
raised  upon  them,  are  Facts  which  no  theory 
can  alter,  aUhough  it  may  fail  to  explain. 
While  these  facts  remain,  they  must  regulate 
the  conduct,  and  affect  the  happiness  of  man- 
kind, whether  they  are  well  or  ill  accounted 
for  by  the  theories  of  philosophers.  It  is  the 
same  nearly  with  regard  to  the  controversy 
about  cause  and  effect.  It  does  not  appeal  to 
us,  however,  that  Mr.  Hume  ever  meant  \c 
deny  the  existence  of  such  a  relation,  or  cf 
the  relative  idea  of  power.     He  has  merpU 


504 


METAPHYSICS  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


given  a  new  theory  as  to  its  genealogy  or 
descent;  and  detected  some  very  gross  inac- 
curacies in  the  opinions  and  reasonings  which 
were  formerly  prevalent  on  the  subject. 

If  Dr.  Beattie  had  been  able  to  refute  these 
doctrines,  we  cannot  help  thinking  that  he 
would  have  done  it  with  more  temper  and 
moderation ',  and  disdained  to  court  popularity 
by  so  much  fulsome  cant  about  common  sense, 
virtue,  and  religion,  and  his  contempt  and 
abhorrence  for  infidels,  sophists,  and  meta- 
physicians ',  by  such  babyish  interjections,  as 
'•fyoniti  fy  on  it!" — such  triumphant  ex- 
clamations, as,  "  say,  ye  candid  and  intelli- 
gent!"— or  such  terrific  addresses,  as,  "ye 
traitors  to  human  kind  !  ye  murderers  of  the 
human  soul !" — "  vain  hypocrites  !  perfidious 
profligates !"  and  a  variety  of  other  embellish- 
ments, as  dignified  as  original  in  a  philosophi- 
cal and  argumentative  treatise.  The  truth  is, 
that  the  Essay  acquired  its  popularity,  partly 
from  the  indifference  and  dislike  which  has 
long  prevailed  in  England,  as  to  the  meta- 
physical inquiries  which  were  there  made  the 
subject  of  abuse ;  partly  from  the  perpetual 
appeal  which  it  affects  to  make  from  philoso- 
phical subtlety  to  common  sense ;  and  partly 
irom  the  accidental  circumstances  of  the  au- 
Uior.    It  was  a  great  matter  for  the  orthodox 


scholars  of  the  south,  who  knew  little  of  meta 
physics  themselves,  to  get  a  Scotch  professoi 
of  philosophy  to  take  up  the  gauntlet  in  then 
behalf.     The  contempt  with  which  he  chose 
!  to  speak  of  his  antagonists  was  the  very  tone 
which  they  wished  to  be  adopted ;  and,  some 
of  them,  imposed  on  by  the  confidence  of  his 
;  maimer,   and   some   resolved   to  give   it  all 
I  chances  of  imposing  on  others,  they  joined  in 
I  one  clamour  of  approbation,  and  proclaimed  a 
j  triumph  for  a  mere  rash  skirmisher,  while  the 
!  leader  of  the  battle  was  still  doubtful  of  the 
I  victory.     The  book,  thus  dandled  into  popu- 
I  larity  by  bishops  and  good  ladies,  contained 
many  pieces  of  nursery  eloquence,  and  much 
'  innocent  pleasantry:  it  was  not  fatiguing  to 
I  the  understanding;  and  read  less  heavily,  on 
I  the  whole,  than  most  of  the  Sunday  library. 
j  In  consequence  of  all  these  recommendations, 
it  ran  through  various  editions,  and  found  its 
way  into  most  well-regulated  families ;  and, 
though  made  up  ot  such  stuff,  as  Ave  really 
believe  no  grown  man  who  had  ever  thought 
of  the  subject  could  possibly  go  through  with- 
out nausea  and  compassion,  still  retains  its 
place  among  the  meritorious  performances, 
by  which  youthful  minds  are  to  be  purified 
and  invigorated.    We  shall  hear  no  more  of  it, 
however,  among  those  who  have  left  college. 


(l^ovtmbtv,  ISIO.) 

Philosophical  Essays.   By  Dugald  Stewart,  Esq.,  F.  R.  S.    Edinburgh,  Emeritus  Professor  of 
Moral  Philosophy  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  &c.  &c.  4to.  pp.  590.  Edinburgh:  1810 


The  studies  to  which  Mr.  Stewart  has  de- 
voted himself,  have  Jately  fallen  out  of  favour 
with  the  English  public ;  and  the  Mi.ion  which 
once  placed  the  name  of  Loc£e  immediately 
under  those  of  Shakespeare  and  of  Newton, 
and  has  since  repaid  the  metaphysical  labours 
x>f  Berkeley  and  of  Hume  with  such  just  ce- 
lebrity, seems  now  to  be  almost  without  zeal 
or  curiosity  as  to  the  progress  of  the  Philoso- 
phy of  Mind.  .  .- 
'*  T^e  causes  of  this  distaste  it  would  be  cu- 
rious, and  probably  not  uninstructive,  to  inves- 
tigate :  but  the  inquiry  would  be  laborious, 
and  perhaps  not  very  satisfactory.  It  is  easy, 
indeed,  to  say,  that  the  age  has  become  fri- 
volous and  impatient  of  labour ;  and  has  aban- 
doned this,  along  with  all  other  good  learning, 
and  every  pursuit  that  requires  concentration 
of  thought,  and  does  not  lead  to  immediate 
distinction.  This  is  satire,  and  not  reason- 
ing; and,  were  it  even  a  fair  statement  of  the 
fact,  such  a  revolution  in  the  intellectual 
habits  and  character  of  a  nation,  is  itself  a 
phenomenon  to  be  accounted  for, — and  not  to 
be  accounted  for  upon  light  or  shallow  con- 
siderations. To  us,  the  phenomenon,  in  so 
far  as  we  are  inclined  to  admit  its  existence, 
has  always  appeared  to  arise  from  the  great 
multiplication  of  the  branches  of  liberal  study, 
and  from  the  more  extensive  diff'usion  of 
knowledge  among  the  body  of  the  people, — 


and  to  constitute,  in  this  way,  a  signal  ex- 
ample of  that  compensation,  by  which  the  good 
and  evil  in  our  lot  is  constantly  equalised,  oi 
reduced  at  least  to  no  very  variable  standard. 
The  progress  of  knowledge  has  given  biith, 
of  late  years,  to  so  many  arts  and  sciences,  that 
a  man  of  liberal  curiosity  finds  both  sufficient 
occupation  for  his  time,  and  sufficient  exercise 
to  his  understanding,  in  acquiring  a  superficial 
knowledge  of  such  as  are  most  inviting  and 
most  popular;  and,  consequently,  has  much 
less  leisure,  and  less  inducement  than  formerly, 
to  dedicate  himself  to  those  abstract  studies 
which  call  for  more  patient  and  persevering 
attention.  In  older  times,  a  man  had  nothing 
for  it,  but  either  to  be  absolutely  ignorant  and 
idle,  or  to  take  seriously  to  theology  and  the 
school  logic.  When  things  grew  a  little  bet- 
ter, the  classics  and  mathematics  filled  up  the 
measure  of  general  education  and  private 
study;  and,  in  the  most  splendid  periods  of 
English  philosophy,  had  received  little  ad- 
dition, but  from  these  investigations  into  our 
intellectual  and  moral  nature.  Some  few  in- 
dividuals might  attend  to  other  things ;  but  a 
knowledge  of  these  was  all  that  was  roj^uired 
of  men  of  good  education  ;  and  was  held  ac- 
complishment enough  to  entitle  them  t3  the 
rank  of  scholars  and  philosophers.  Now-a- 
days,  however,  the  necessary  qualificaticm  ia 
prodigiously  raised, — at   least  in   denomina* 


STEWART'S  PHILOSOPHICAL  ESSAYS. 


50» 


tion ;  ana  a  man  can  scarcely  pass  current  in 
the  informed  circles  of  society,  without  know- 
mg  something  of  political  economy,  chemistry, 
mineralogy,  geology,  and  etymology, — having 
a  small  notion  of  painting,  sculpture,  and  ar- 
chitecture, with  some  sort  of  taste  for  the 
picturesque, — and  a  smattering  of  German 
and  Spanish  literature,  and  even  some  idea 
of  Indian,  Sanscrit,  and  Chinese  learning  and 
history, — over  and  above  some  little  know- 
ledge of  trade  and  agriculture ;  with  a  reason- 
able acquaintance  with  what  is  called  the  phi- 
losophy of  politics,  and  a  far  more  extensive 
knowledge  of  existing  parties,  factions,  and 
eminent  individuals,  both  literary  and  politi- 
cal, at  home  and  abroad,  than  ever  were  re- 
quired in  any  earlier  period  of  society.  The 
dissipation  of  time  and  of  attention  occasion- 
ed by  these  multifarious  occupations,  is,  of 
course,  very  unfavourable  to  the  pursuit  of 
any  abstract  or  continued  study ;  and  even  if 
a  man  could,  for  himself,  be  content  to  remain 
ignorant  of  many  things,  in  order  to  obtain  a 
profound  knowledge  of  a  few,  it  would  be 
difficult  for  him,  in  the  present  state  of  the 
world,  to  resist  the  impulse  and  the  seduc- 
tions that  assail  him  from  without.  Various 
and  superficial  knowledge  is  now  not  only  so 
common,  that  the  want  of  it  is  felt  as  a  dis- 
j>Tace ;  but  the  facilities  of  acquiring  it  are  so 
great,  that  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  defend 
ourselves  against  its  intrusion.  So  many  easy 
and  pleasant  elementary  books, — such  tempt- 
ing summaries,  abstracts,  and  tables, — such 
beautiful  engravings,  and  ingenious  charts, 
and  coups-d' (lH  of  information, — so  many  mu- 
seums, exhibitions,  and  collections,  meet  us  at 
every  corner, — and  so  much  amusing  and  pro- 
voking talk  in  every  party,  that  a  taste^  for 
miscellaneous  and  imperfect  information  is 
formed,  almost  before  we  are  aware ;  and  our 
time  and  curiosity  irrevocably  devoted  to  a 
sort  of  Encyclopedical  trifling. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  misfortune  is,  that 
there  is  no  popular  nor  royal  road  to  the  pro- 
founder  and  more  abstract  truths  of  philoso- 
phy; and  that  these  are  apt,  accordingly,  to 
fall  into  discredit  or  neglect,  at  a  period  when 
it  is  labour  enough  for  most  men  to  keep  them- 
selves up  to  the  level  of  that  great  tide  of 
popular  information,  which  has  been  rising, 
with  such  unexampled  rapidity,  for  the  last 
forty  years. 

Such,  we  think,  are  the  most  general  and 
uncontrollable  causes  which  have  recently 
depressed  all  the  sciences  requiring  deep 
thought  and  solitary  application,  far  below  the 
level  of  their  actual  importance ;  and  pro- 
duced the  singular  appearance  of  a  partial 
falling  off  in  intellectual  enterprise  and  vigour, 
in  an  age  distinguished,  perhaps,  above  all 
others,  for  the  rapid  development  of  the  hu- 
man faculties.  The  effect  we  had  formerly 
occasion  to  observe,  when  treating  of  the  sin- 
gular decay  of  Mathematical  science  in  Eng- 
land; and  so  powerful  and  extensive  is  the 
operation  of  the  cause,  that,  even  in  the  intel- 
lectual city  which  we  inhabit,  we  have  known 
instances  of  persons  of  good  capacity  who 
had  never  found  leisure  to  go  beyond  the  first 


elements  of  mathematical  learnmg ,  and  wer« 
even  suspected  of  having  fallen  into  several 
heresies  in  metaphysics,  merely  from  want 
of  time  to  get  regularly  at  the  truth ! 

If  the  philosophy  of  mind  has  really  suffered 
more,  from  this  universal  hurry,  than  all  her 
sister  sciences  of  the  same  serious  complex- 
ion, we  should  be  inclined  to  ascribe  this  mis- 
fortune, partly  to  the  very  excellence  of  what 
has  been  already  achieved  by  her  votaries, 
and  partly  to  the  very  severe  treatment  which 
their  predecessors  have  received  at  their  hands. 
Almost  all  the  great  practical  maxims  of  this 
mistress  of  human  life,  such  as  the  use  of  the 
principle  of  Association  in  education,  and  tho 
generation  and  consequences  of  Habits  in  all 
periods  of  life,  have  been  lately  illustrated  in 
the  most  popular  and  satisfactory  manner ; 
and  rendered  so  clear  and  familiar,  as  rules 
of  practical  utility,  that  few  persons  think  it 
necessary  to  examine  into  the  details  of  that 
fine  philosophy  by  which  they  may  have  been 
first  suggested,  or  brought  into  notice.  There 
is  nothing  that  strikes  one  as  very  important 
to  be  known  upon  these  subjects,  which  may 
not  now  be  established  in  a  more  vulgar  and 
empirical  manner, — or  which  requires,  in 
order  to  be  understood,  that  the  whole  pro- 
cess of  a  scientific  investigation  should  be 
gone  over.  By  most  persons,  therefore,  the 
labour  of  such  an  investigation  will  be  de- 
clined; and  the  practical  benefits  applied- 
with  ungrateful  indifference  to  the  sources 
frcfm  which  they  were  derived.  Of  those, 
again,  whom  curiosity  might  still  tempt  to 
look  a  little  closer  upon  this  great  field  of 
wonders,  no  small  part  are  dismayed  at  th(5 
scene  of  ruin  which  it  exhibits.  The  destruc 
tion  of  ancient  errors,  has  hitherto  constituted 
so  very  large  a  part  of  the  task  of  modern 
philosophers,  that  they  may  be  said  to  have 
been  employed  rather  in  throwing  down,  than 
in  building  up,  and  have  as  yet  established 
very  little  but  the  fallacy  of  all  former  phi- 
losophy. Now,  they  who  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  admire  that  ancient  philosophy,  can 
not  be  supposed  to  be  much  delighted  with 
its  demolition ;  and,  at  all  events,  are  natu- 
rally discouraged  from  again  attaching  them- 
selves to  a  system,  which  they  may  soon  have 
the  mortification  of  seeing  subverted  in  its 
turn.  In  their  minds,  therefore,  the  opening 
of  such  a  course  of  study  is  apt  only  to  breed 
a  general  distrust  of  philosophy,  and  to  rivet 
a  conviction  of  its  extreme  and  irremediable 
uncertainty :  while  those  who  had  previously 
been  indifferent  to  the  systems  of  error,  are 
displeased  with  the  labour  of  a  needless  ref- 
utation ;  and  disappointed  to  find,  that,  aftei 
a  long  course  of  inquiry,  they  are  brought 
back  to  that  very  state  of  ignorance  from 
which  they  had  expected  it  would  relie-ve 
them. 

If  anything  could  counteract  the  effect  of 
these  and  some  other  causes,  and  revive  ir. 
England  that  taste  for  abstract  speculation  foi 
which  it  was  once  so  distinguished,  we  should 
have  expected  this  to  be  accomplished  by  the 
publications  of  the  author  before  us. — The 
great  celebrity  of  his  name,  and  the  uniform 


506 


METAPHYSICS  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


clearness,  simplicity,  and  good  sense  of  his 
statements,  might  indeed  have  failed  to  attract 
those  whom  similar  merits  could  no  longer 
tempt  to  look  into  the  pages  of  Locke  or  of 
Berkeley.  But  the  singular  eloquence  with 
which  Mr.  Stewart  has  contrived  to  adorn  the 
most  unpromising  parts  of  his  subject, — the 
rich  lights  which  his  imagination  has  every 
where  thrown  in,  with  such  inimitable  judg- 
ment and  effect, — the  warm  glow  of  moral 
enthusiasm  which  he  has  spread  over  the 
whole  of  his  composition, — and  the  tone  of 
mildness,  dignity,  and  animation  which  he 
}ias  uniformly  sustained,  in  controversy,  as 
well  as  in  instruction ;  are  merits  which  w^e 
do  not  remember  to  have  seen  united  in  any- 
other  philosophical  writer ;  and  which  might 
have  recommended  to  general  notice,  topics 
far  less  engaging  than  those  on  which  they 
were  employed.  His  former  work,  on  the 
Philosophy  of  the  Human  Mind,  has  accord- 
ingly been  more  read  than  any  other  modern 
book  on  such  subjects;  and  the  volume  be- 
fore us,  we  think,  is  calculated  to  be  still  more 
popular.* 

But  it  is  in  the  second  part  of  the  Prelimi- 
nary Dissertation  that  we  take  the  chief  in- 
terest— as  Mr.  Stewart  has  there  taken  occa- 
sion to  make  a  formal  reply  to  some  of  our 
hasty  speculations,  and  has  done  us  the  honour 
of  embodying  several  of  our  transitory  pages 
in  this  enduring  volume.  If  we  were  at 
liberty  to  yield  to  the  common  weaknesses 
of  authors,  we  should  probably  be  tempted  to 
defend  ourselves  in  a  long  dissertation  ',  but 
we  know  too  well  what  is  due  to  our  readers 
and  to  the  public,  to  think  of  engaging  any 
considerable  share  of  their  attention  with  a 
controversy  which  may  be  considered  in  some 
measure  as  personal  to  ourselves;  and  there- 
fore, however  honourable  we  think  it,  to  be 
thus  singled  out  for  equal  combat  by  such  an 
antagonist,  we  shall  put  what  we  have  to  say 
within  the  shortest  possible  compass. 

The  observations  to  which  Mr.  Stewart  has 
here  condescended  to  reply,  occur  in  an  early 
number  of  our  publication,  and  w-ere  intended 
to  show,  that  as  mind  was  not  the  proper  sub- 
'ject  of  Experiment,  but  of  Observation,  so, 
there  could  be  no  very  close  analogy  between 
the  rules  of  metaphysical  investigation,  and 
the  most  approved  methods  of  inquiry  as  to 
those  physical  substances  which  are  subject 
to  our  disposal  and  control ; — that  as  all  the 
facts  with  regard  to  mind  must  be  derived 
from  previous  and  universal  Consciousness,  it 
was  diflicut  to  see  how  any  arrangement  of 
them  could  add  to  our  substantial  knowledge ; 
and  that  there  was,  therefore,  no  reason  either 
to  expect  Discoveries  in  this  branch  of  science, 
or  to  look  to  it  for  any  real  augmentation  of 
our  Power. 

With  regard  to  Perception  and  the  other 
primary  functions  of  mind,  it  was  observed, 
that  this  doctrine  seemed  to  hold  without  any 
limitation  J  and  as  to  the  Associating  princi- 

*  A  portion  of  the  original  article,  containing  a 
general  view  of  ilie  subject  of  these  Essays,  is  here 
omitted,  for  the  reasons  stated  at  the  head  of  this 
division. 


pie,  while  it  was  admitted  that  the  case  waa 
somewhat  different,  it  was  observed,  that  aJ 
men  were  in  reality  aware  of  its  existence, 
and  acted  upon  it  on  all  important  occasions, 
though  they  might  never  have  made  its  laws 
a  subject  of  reflection,  nor  ever  stated  its 
general  phenomena  in  the  form  of  an  abstract 
proposition. 

To  all  this  Mr.  Stewart  proceeds  to  answer, 
by  observing,  that  the  distinction  between  ex- 
periment and  observation  is  really  of  no  im- 
portance w^hatever,  in  reference  to  this  argu- 
ment ;  because  the  facts  disclosed  by  experi- 
ment are  merely  phenomena  that  are  observed^ 
and  the  inferences  and  generalisations  that 
are  deduced  from  the  observation  of  spon- 
taneous phenomena,  are  just  of  the  same  sort 
with  those  that  are  inferred  from  experiment, 
and  afford  equally  certain  grounds  of  conclu- 
sion, provided  they  be  sufficiently  numerous 
and  consistent.  The  justice  of  the  last  pro- 
position, we  do  not  mean  to  dispute;  and 
assuredly,  if  any  thing  inconsistent  with  it  is 
to  be  found  in  our  former  speculations,  it  must 
have  arisen  from  that  haste  and  inadvertence 
which,  we  make  no  doubt,  have  often  betray- 
ed us  into  still  greater  errors.  But  it  is  very 
far  from  following  from  this,  that  there  is  not 
a  material  difference  between  experiment  and 
observation ;  or  that  the  philosophy  of  mind 
in  not  necessarily  restrained  within  very  nar- 
row limits,  in  consequence  of  that  distinction. 
Substances  which  are  in  our  power,  are  the 
objects  .of  experiment;  those  which  are  not 
in  our  power,  of  observation  only.  With  re- 
gard to  the  former,  it  is  obvious,  that,  by  well- 
contrived  experiments,  we  may  discover  many 
things  that  could  never  be  disclosed  by  any 
length  of  observation.  With  regard  to  the 
latter,  an  attentive  observer  may,  indeed,  see 
more  in  them  than  strikes  the  eye  of  a  care- 
less spectator :  But  he  can  see  nothing  that 
may  not  be  seen  by  every  body;  and,  in  cases 
where  the  appearances  are  very  few,  or  very 
interesting,  the  chance  is,  that  he  does  see 
nothing  more — and  that  all  that  is  left  to  phi- 
losophy is,  to  distinguish  them  into  classes, 
and  to  fit  them  with  appropriate  appellations'. 
Now,  Mind,  we  humbly  conceive,  considered 
as  a  subject  of  investigation,  is  the  subject  of 
observation  only ;  and  is  known  nearly  as  well 
by  all  men,  as  by  those  who  have  most  dili- 
gently studied  its  phenomena.  '-We  cannot 
decompose  our  sensationii,'^  we  formerly  ob- 
served, "  in  a  crucible,  nor  divide  our  percep- 
tions with  a  prism."  The  metaphor  was  some- 
thing violent;  but,  the  meaning  obviously 
was,  that  we  cannot  subject  those  faculties 
to  any  analogous  processes ;  nor  discover  more 
of  their  nature  than  consciousness  has  taught 
all  the  beings  who  possess  them.  Is  it  a 
satisfactory  answer,  then,  for  Mr.  Stewart,  to 
say,  that  we  may  analyse  them  by  reflection 
and  attention,  and  other  instruments  better 
suited  than  prisms  or  crucibles  to  the  intel- 
lectual laboratory  which  furnishes  their  ma- 
terials? Our  reply  is,  that  we  cannot  analyse 
them  at  all ;  and  can  never  know  more  of  them 
than  has  always  been  known  to  all  to  whom 
they  had  been  imparted ;  and  that,  for  this 


STEWART'S  PHILOSOPHICAL  ESSAYS. 


50) 


pjain  reason,  that  the  truth  of  every  thing  that 
18  said  with  regard  to  the  mind,  can  be  deter- 
mnied  by  an  appeal  to  consciousness  alone, 
and  would  not  be  even  intelligible,  if  it  in- 
formed men  of  any  thing  that  they  did  not 
previously  feel  to  be  true. 

With  regard  to  the  actual  experiments  to 
which  Mr.  Stewart  alludes,  as  having  helped 
to  explain  the  means  by  which  the  eye  judges 
of  distances  and  magnitudes,  these,  we  must 
observe,  are,  according  to  our  conception,  very 
clearly  experiments,  not  upon  mind,  but  upon 
matter  ;  and  are  only  entitled  to  that  name  at 
all,  in  so  far  as  they  are  carried  on  by  means 
of  the  power  we  possess  of  disposing  certain 
pieces  of  matter  in  certain  masses  and  inter- 
vals. Strictly  considered,  they  are  optical 
expei  iments  on  the  effects  produced  by  dis- 
tance on  the  light  reflected  from  known 
bodies ;  and  are  nearly  akin  to  experiments 
on  the  effects  produced  on  such  reflected  rays 
by  the  interposition  of  media  of  different  re- 
fracting powers,  whether  in  the  shape  of 
prisms,  or  in  any  other  shape.  At  all  events, 
they  certainly  are  nat  investigations  carried 
on  solely  by  attending  to  the  subjects  of  our 
Consciousness;  which  is  Mr.  Stewart's  own 
definition  of  the  business  of  the  philosophy 
of  mind. 

^  In  answer  to  our  remark,  that  ^-'no  meta- 
physician expects,  by  analysis,  to  discover  a 
new  power,  or  to  excite  a  new  sensation  in 
the  mind,  as  the  chemist  discovers  a  new  earth 
or  a  new  metal,"  Mr.  Stewart  is  pleased  to 
observe — 

"  That  it  is  no  more  applicable  to  the  anatomy 
of  the  mind,  than  to  the  anatomy  of  the  body. 
After  all  the  researches  of  physiologists  on  this  last 
subject,  both  in  the  way  of.  observation  and  of  ex- 
periment, no  discovery  has  yet  been  made  of  a  new 
organ,  either  of  power  or  of  pleasure,  or  even  of 
the  means  of  adding  a  cubit  to  the  human  stature ; 
but  it  does  not  therefore  follow  that  these  researches 
are  useless.  By  enlarging  his  knowledge  of  his 
own  internal  structure,  they  increase  the  power  of 
man,  in  that  way  in  which  alone  they  profess  to 
increase  it.  They  furnish  him  with  resources  for 
remedying  many  of  the  accidents  to  which  his 
health  and  his  life  are  liable  ;  for  recovering,  in  some 
cases,  those  active  powers  which  disease  has  de- 
stroyed or  impaired  ;  and,  in  others,  by  giving  sight 
to  the  blind,  and  hearing  to  the  deaf,  for  awakening 

?ovvers  of  perception  which  were  dormant  before, 
for  must  we  overlook  what  they  have  contributed, 
in  conjunction  with  the  arts  of  the  optician  and  of 
the^ mechanist,  to  extend  the  sphere  ol^  those  senses, 
and  to  prolong  their  duration." — Frelhn.  Diss.  pp. 
slvi,  xlvii. 

Now,  ingenious  and  elegant  as  this  parallel 
nmst  be  admitted  to  be,  we  cannot  help  re- 
garding it  as  utterly  fallacious — for  this  sim- 
ple reason — that  the  business  of  anatomy  is 
to  lay  open,  with  the  knife,  the  secrets  of  that 
internal  structure,  which  could  never  other- 
wise be  apparent  to  the  keenest  eye ;  while 
the  metaphy-sical  inquire,  can  disclose  nothing 
of  which  all  his  pupils  are  not  previously 
aware.  There  is  no  opaque  skin,  in  short,  on 
the  mind,  to  conceal  its  interior  mechanism ; 
nor  does  the  metaphysician,  when  he  appeals 
to  the  consciousness  of  all  thinking  beings 
for  the  truth  of  his  classifications,  perform 
any  thing  at  all  analogous  to  the  dfssector, 


when  he  removes  those  outer  integuments, 
and  reveals  the  wonders  of  the  inward  organi- 
sation of  our  frame.  His  statements  do  not 
receive  their  proof  from  the  previous,  though 
perhaps  undigested  knowledge  of  his  hearers, 
but  from  the  actual  revelation  which  he  makea 
to  their  senses ;  and  his  services  would  evi- 
dently be  more  akin  to  those  of  the  metaphy- 
sician, if,  instead  of  actually  disclosing  what 
w^as  not  previously  known,  or  suspected  to 
exist,  he  had  only  Hrawn  the  attention  of  an 
incurious  generation  to  the  fact  that  they  had 
each  ten  fingers  and  ten  toes,  or  that  most  of 
them  had  thirty-two  teeth,  distinguishable 
into  masticators  and  incisors. 

When,  from  these,  and  some  other  consid- 
erations, we  had  ventured  to  infer,  that  the 
knowledge  derived  from  mere  observation 
could  scarcely  make  any  addition  to  our 
power,  Mr.  Stewart  refers  triumphantly  to  the 
instance  of  astronomy ;  and,  taking  it  almost 
for  granted,  that  all  the  discoveries  in  that 
science  have  been  made  by  observation  alone, 
directs  the  attention  of  his  readers  to  the  in- 
numerable applications  which  may  be  made 
of  it,  to  purposes  of  unquestioned  utility. 

"  In  compensation,"  he  observes,  "for  the  in- 
ability  of  the  astronomer  to  control  those  move- 
ments of  which  he  studies  the  laws,  he  may  boast, 
as  I  already  hinted,  of  the  immense  accession  of  a 
more  useful  power  which  his  discoveries  have  added 
to  the  human  race,  on  the  surface  of  their  own 
planet.  It  would  be  endless  to  enumerate  all  the 
practical  uses  to  which  his  labours  are  subservient. 
It  is  sufficient  for  me  to  repeat  an  old,  but  very 
striking  reflection,  that  the  only  accurate  knowledge 
which  Man  yet  possesses  of  the  surface  of  the  earth, 
has  been  derived  from  the  previous  knowledge  he 
had  acquired  of  the  phenomena  of  the  stars.  Is  it 
possible  to  produce  a  more  apposite,  or  a  more  un- 
deniable proof  of  the  universality  of  IBacon's  maxim, 
that  ^knowledge  is  power, ^  than  a  fact  which  de- 
monstrates the  essential  aid  which  man  has  derived, 
in  asserting  his  dominion  over  this  lower  world, 
from  a  branch  of  science  which  seems,  at  first  view, 
fitted  only  to  gratify  a  speculative  curiosity  ;  and 
which,  in  its  infancy,  served  to  amuse  the  leisure 
of  the  Chaldean  shepherd?" — Prelim.  Diss.  pp. 
xxxviii,  xxxix. 

To  this  we  have  to  answer,  in  the  first  place, 
that  astronomical  science  has  not  been  per- 
fected by  observation  alone  ;  but  that  all  the 
elements  which  have  imparted  to  it  the  cer- 
tainty, the  simplicity,  and  the  sublimity  which 
it  actually  possesses,  have  been  derived  from 
experiments  made  upon  substances  in  the 
power  of  their  contrivers  : — from  experiment* 
performed  \\i\h  small  pieces  of  niatter,  on 
the  laws  of  projectile  motion — the  velocities 
of  falling  bodies — and  on  centrifugal  and  cen- 
tripetal forces.  The  knowledge  of  those  laws, 
like  all  other  valuable  knowledge,  was  ob- 
tained by  experiment  only;  and  their  appli- 
cation to  the  movements  of  the  heavenly 
bodies  was  one  of  those  splendid  generalisa- 
tions, which  derive  their  chief  merit  from 
those  inherent  imperfections  of  observation  by 
which  th'ey  were  rendered  necessary. 

But,  in  the  second  place,  we  must  observe, 
that  even  holding  astronomy  to  be  a  science 
of  mere  observation,  the  power  which  Mr, 
Stewart  says  we  have  obtained  by  means  of 
it,  is  confessedly  a  power,  not  over  the  sub 


SOS 


METAPHYSICS  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


Btauces  with  which  that  science  is  conversant ; 
but  over  other  substances  which  stand  in  some 
relation  to  them ;  and  to  which,  accordingly, 
that  science  is  capable  of  being  applied.  It 
is  over  the  earth  and  the  ocean  that  we  have 
extended  our  dominion  by  means  of  our  know- 
ledge of  the  stars.  Now,  applying  this  case 
to  that  of  the  philosophy  of  Mind,  and  as- 
suming, as  we  seem  here  entitled  to  assume, 
that  it  has  invested  us  with  no  new  power 
over  mind  itself, — what,  we  would  ask,  are 
the  other  objects  over  which  our  power  is  in- 
creased by  means  of  our  knowledge  of  mind? 
Is  there  any  other  substance  to  which  that 
knowledge  can  possibly  be  applied  1  Is  there 
any  thing  else  that  we  either  know  better,  or 
can  dispose  of  more  effectually  in  consequence 
of  our  observations  on  our  own  intellectual 
constitution'?  It  is  evident,  we  humbly  con- 
ceive, that  these  questions  must  be  answered 
in  the  negative.  The  most  precise  knowledge 
which  the  metaphysician  can  acquire  by  re- 
flecting on  the  subjects  of  his  consciousness, 
can  give  him  no  new  power  over  the  mind  in 
which  he  discovers  those  subjects ;  and  it  is 
almost  a  self-evident  proposition,  that  the 
most  accurate  knowledge  of  the  subjects  of 
consciousness  can  give  him  no  power  over 
any  thing  but  mind. 

There  is  one  other  little  point  connected 
with  this  argument,  which  we  wish  to  settle 
with  Mr.  Stewart.  In  speaking  of  the  useful 
applications  that  may  be  ultimately  made  of 
the  knowledge  derived  from  observation,  we 
had  said,  that  for  the  power  or  the  benefit  so 
obtained,  mankind  were  indebted — not  to  the 
observer,  but  to  him  M'ho  suggested  the  ap- 
plication. Mr.  Stewart  admits  the  truth  of 
this — but  adds,  that  the  case  is  exactly  the 
same  with  the  knowledge  derived  from  ex- 
periment : — and  that  the  mere  empiric  is  on  a 
footing  with  the  mere  observer.  Now,  we  do 
not  think  the  cases  exactly  the  same ; — and 
it  is  in  their  difference  that  we  conceive  the 
great  disadvantage  of  observation  to  consist. 
Whoever  makes  an  experiment,  must  have 
the  power  at  least  to  repeat  that  experiment 
— and,  in  almost  every  case,  to  repeat  it  with 
some  variation  of  circumstances.  Here,  there- 
fore, is  one  power  necessarily  ascertained  and 
established,  and  an  invitation  held  out  to  in- 
crease that  power,  by  tracing  it  through  all 
the  stages  and  degrees  of  its  existence :  while 
he  who  merely  observes  a  phenomenon  over 
which  he  has  no  control,  neither  exercises  any 
power,  nor  holds  out  the  piospect  of  acquir- 
ing any  power,  either  over  the  subject  of  his 
observation,  or  over  any  other  substance.  He 
who  first  ascertained,  by  experiment,  the  ex- 
pansive force  of  steam,  and  its  destruction  by 
cold — or  the  identity  of  lightning  and  elec- 
tricity, and  the  consequent  use  of  the  con- 
ducting rod,  plainly  bestowed,  in  that  instant, 
a  great  power  upon  mankind,  of  which  it  was 
next  to  impossible  that  some  important  appli- 
cation should  not  be  speedily  made.  But  he 
who  first  observed  the  periodical  immersions 
and  emersions  of  the  satellites  of  Jupiter,  cer- 
tainly neither  acquired  nor  bestowed  any 
power  in  the  first   instance;   and  seems  to 


have  been  but  a  remote  and  casual  auxiliarj 
lO  him  whose  genius  afterwards  found  the 
means  of  employing  those  phenomena  to 
guide  him  through  the  trackless  waters  of 
the  ocean. — Epxeriment.  therefore,  necessari- 
ly  implies  power :  and,  by  suggesting  analo- 
gous experiments,  leads  naturally  to  the  in- 
terminable expansion  of  inquiry  and  of  know- 
ledge : — but  observation,  for  the  most  part, 
centres  in  itself,  and  tends  rather  to  gratify 
and  allay  our  curiosity,  than  to  rouse  or  in- 
flame it. 

After  having  thus  attemped  to  prove  that 
experiment  has  no  prerogative  above  mere  ob- 
servation, Mr.  Stewart  thinks  it  worth  while 
to  recur  ag-ain  to  the  assertion,  that  the  phi- 
losophy of  mind  does  admit  of  experiments ; 
and,  after  remarking,  rather  rashly,  that 
"  the  whole  of  a  philosopher's  life,  if  he 
spends  it  to  any  purpose,  is  one  continued  se- 
ries of  experiments  on  his  own  faculties  and 
powers,"  he  goes  on  to  state,  that 

" hardly  any  experiment  can  be  imagined, 

which  has  not  already  been  tried  by  the  hand  of 
Nature  ;  displaying,  in  the  infinite  varieties  of  hu- 
man genius  and  pursuits,  the  astonishingly  diversi- 
fied effects,  resuhing  from  the  possible  combina- 
tions, of  those  elementary  faculties  and  principles, 
of  which  every  man  is  conscious  in  himself.  Savage 
society,  and  all  the  different  modes  of  civilization ; 
— the  different  callings  and  professions  of  individu- 
als, whether  liberal  or  mechanical ;  the  prejudiced 
clown  ; — the  factitious  man  of  fashion  ; — the  vary- 
ing phases  of  character  from  infancy  to  old  age  ; — 
the  prodigies  effected  by  human  art  in  all  the 
objects  around  us; — laws, —  government, —  com- 
merce,— religion: — but  above  all,  the  records  of 
thought,  preserved  in  those  volumes  which  fill  our 
libraries ;  what  are  they  but  experiments,  by  which 
Nature  illustrates,  for  our  instruction,  on  her  own 
grand  scale,  the  varied  range  of  man's  intellectual 
faculties,  and  the  omnipotence  of  education  in 
fashioning  his  mind?" — Prel.  Diss.  pp.  xlv,  xlvi. 

If  experiment  be  rightly  defined  the  inten- 
tional arrangement  of  substances  in  our  power, 
for  the  purpose  of  observing  the  result,  then 
these  are  not  experiments;  and  neither  im- 
ply, nor  tend  to  bestow,  that  power  which 
enters  into  the  conception  of  all  experiment. 
But  the  argument;  in  our  apprehension,  is 
chargeable  with  a  still  more  radical  fallacy. 
The  philosophy  of  mind  is  distinctly  defined, 
by  Mr.  Stewart  himself,  to  be  that  which  is 
employed  "  on  phenomena  of  which  we  are 
conscious;"  its  peculiar  object  and  aim  is 
stated  to  be,  "to  ascertain  the  laws  of  our 
constitution,  in  so  far  as  they  can  be  ascer- 
tained, by  attention  to  the  subjects  of  our 
consciousness;"  and,  in  a  great  variety  of  pas- 
sages, it  is  explained,  that  the  powers  by 
which  all  this  is  to  be  effected,  are,  reflection 
upon  our  mental  operations,  and  the  faculty 
of  calm  and  patient  attention  to  the  sensatiouiS 
of  which  we  are  conscious.  But,  if  this  be 
the  proper  province  and  object  of  the  philoso- 
phy of  mind,  what  benefit  is  the  student  to 
receive  from  observing  the  various  effects  of 
manners  and  situation,  in  imparting  a  pecu- 
liar colour  or  bias  to  the  character  of  the  sav* 
age  and  the  citizen,  "  the  prejudiced  clown, 
and  factitious  man  of  fashion'?"  The  obser- 
vation of  such  varieties  is,  no  doubt,  a  very 


STEWART'S  PHILOSOPHICAL  ESSAYS. 


009 


rurious  and  a  very  interesting  occupation ; — 
but  we  humbly  conceive  it  to  form  no  part,  or, 
at  least,  a  very  small  and  inconsiderable  part, 
of  the  occupation  of  a  student  of  philosophy. 
It  is  an  occupation  which  can  only  be  elfec- 
tually  pursued,  in  the  world,  by  travelling,  and 
intercourse  with  society;  and,  at  all  events, 
by  vigilant  observation  of  what  is  shown  to 
us.  by  our  senses,  of  the  proceedings  of  our 
fellow-men.  The  philosophy  of  mind,  how- 
ever, is  to  be  cultivated  in  solitude  and  silence 
— by  calm  reflection  on  our  own  mental  ex- 
periences, and  patient  attention  to  the  sub- 
jects of  our  own  consciousness.  But  can  we 
ever  be  conscious  of  those  varieties  of  temper 
and  character  ihat  distinguish  the  different 
conditions  of  human  life  1 — or,  even  independ- 
ent of  Mr.  Stewart's  definition — is  it  reconcila- 
ble to  common  usage  or  general  understand- 
ing, to  call  our  attention  to  such  particulars 
the  study  of  the  philosophy  of  mind '? — Is  it 
not,  on  the  contrary,  universally  understood 
lo  be  the  peculiar  and  limited  province  of 
that  philosophy,  to  explain  the  nature  and 
distinctions  of  those  primary  functions  of  the 
mind,  which  are  possessed  in  common  by 
men  of  all  vocations  and  all  conditions  ? — to 
treat,  in  short,  of  perception,  and  attention, 
and  memory,  and  imagination,  and  volition, 
and  judgment,  and  all  the  other  powers  or 
faculties  into  w^hich  our  intellectual  nature 
may  be  distinguished  1 — Is  it  not  with  these, 
that  Hobbes,  and  Locke,  and  Berkeley,  and 
Reid.  and  all  the  other  philosophers  who  have 
reasoned  or  philosophised  about  mind,  have 
been  occupied  ? — or,  Avhat  share  of  Mr.  Stew^- 
art's  own  invaluable  publications  is  devoted 
to  those  slighter  shades  of  individual  charac- 
ter, to  which  alone  his  supposed  experiments 
have  any  reference  ]  The  philosophy  of  the 
human  mind,  w^e  conceive,  is  conversant  only 
with  what  is  common  to  all  human  beings — 
and  wdth  those  faculties  of  which  every  indi- 
vidual of  the  species  is  equally  conscious : 
and  though  it  may  occasionally  borrow  illus- 
trations, or  even  derive  some  reflected  light 
from  the  contemplation  of  those  slighter  va- 
rieties that  distinguish  one  individual  from 
another,  this  evidently  forms  no  part  of  the 
study  of  the  subjects  of  our  consciousness, 
and  can  never  be  permitted  to  rank  as  a  le- 
gitimate part  of  that  philosophy. 

This  exhausts  almost  all  that  we  have  to 
say  in  defence  of  our  supposed  heresies  as  to 
the  importance  and  practical  value  of  the 
philosophy  of  mind,  considered  with  refer- 
ence to  the  primary  and  more  elementary 
facuhies  of  man.  With  regard  to  the  Asso- 
ciating principle,  w^e  have  still  a  word  or  two 
to  add.  In  our  original  observations  we  ad- 
mitted, that  this  principle  seemed  to  stand  in 
a  situation  somewhat  different  from  the  sim- 
pler phenomena  of  the  mind — and  that  the 
elucidations  which  Philosophy  had  furnished 
with  regard  to  its  operations,  were  not  so 
easily  recognised  as  previously  impressed  on 
our  consciousness,  as  most  of  her  revelations. 
We  allowed,  therefore,  that  some  utility  might 
be  derived  from  the  clear  exposition  of  this 
more  complicated  part  of  our  mental  organi- 


sation, in  respect  both  to  the  certainty  and  tha 
extent  of  its  application:  at  the  same  time 
that  we  felt  our.selves  constrained  to  add,  that, 
even  as  to  this  habit  of  the  mind.  Philosophy 
could  lay  no  claim  to  the  honours  of  a  dis- 
covery;  since  the  principle  was  undoubtedly 
familiar  to  the  feelings  of  all  men,  and  was 
acted  upon,  with  unvarying  sagacity,  in  almosi 
every  case  where  it  could  be  employed  with 
advantage ;  though  by  persons  who  had  nevei 
thought  of  emboilying  it  in  a  maxim,  or  at- 
tending to  it  as  a  law  of  general  application. 
The  whole  scheme  of  education,  it  was  ob- 
.served,  has  been  founded  on  this  principle, 
in  every  age  of  the  world.  "  The  groom,"  it 
was  added,  "  who  never  heard  of  ideas  or  as- 
sociations, feeds  the  young  war-horse  to  the 
sound  of  the  trumpet ;  and  the  unphilosophi- 
cal  artists  who  tame  elephants,  or  train  dan- 
cing dogs,  proceed  on  the  same  obvious  and 
familiar  principle." 

As  this  part  of  our  speculations  has  in- 
curred more  of  Mr.  Stewart's  disapprobation 
than  any  thing  which  we  have  hitherto  at- 
tempted to  defend,  we  think  ourselves  called 
upon  to  state  the  substance  of  his  objections, 
in  his  own  eloquent  and  impressive  words. 
After  quoting  the  sentence  we  have  already 
transcribed,,  he  proceeds : — 

"  This  argument,  I  suspect,  leads  a  little  too  far 
for  the  purpose  of  its  author;  inasmuch  as  it  con- 
cludes siill  more  forcibly  (in  consequence  of  the 
great  famiharity  of  the  subject)  against  Physics, 
strictly  so  called,  than  against  the  Science  of  Mind. 
The  savage,  who  never  heard  of  the  accelerating 
force  of  gravity,  yet  knows  hovi^  to  add  to  the  mo- 
mentum of  his  missile  weapons,  by  gaining  an  emi- 
nence ;  though  a  stranger  to  Newton's  third  law  of 
motion,  he  applies  it  to  its  practical  use,  when  he 
sets  his  canoe  afloat,  by  pushing  with  a  pole  against 
the  shore :  in  the  use  of  his  sling,  he  illustrates, 
with  equal  success,  the  doctrine  of  centrifugal 
forces,  as  he  exemplifies  (without  any  knowledge 
of  the  experiments  of  Robins)  the  principle  of  the 
rifle-barrel,  in  feathering  his  arrow.  The  same 
groom  who,  "in  feeding  his  young  war-horse  to 
the  sound  of  the  drum,"  has  nothing  to  learn  from 
Locke  or  from  Hume  concerning  the  laws  of  asso- 
ciation, might  boast,  with  far  greater  reason,  that, 
without  having  looked  into  Borelli,  he  can  train  that 
animal  to  his  various  paces  ;  and  that,  when  ho 
exercises  him  with  the  lo7ige,  he  exhibits  an  ex- 
perimental illustration  of  the  centrifugal  force,  and 
of  the  centre  of  gravity,  which  was  known  in  the 
riding-school  long  before  their  theories  were  un- 
folded in  the  Principia  of  Newton.  Even  the  ope- 
rations of  the  animal  which  is  the  subject  of  his 
discipline,  seem  to  involve  an  acquaintance  with  the 
same  physical  laws,  when  we  attend  to  the  rnathe- 
matical  accuracy  with  which  he  adapts  the  obliquity 
of  his  body  to  the  rate  of  his  circular  speed.  In 
both  cases  (in  that  of  the  man  as  well  as  of  the 
brute)  this  practical  knowledge  is  obtruded  on  the 
organs  of  external  sense  by  the  hand  of  Nature 
herself:  But  it  is  not  on  that  account  the  less  useful 
to  evolve  the  general  theorems  which  are  thus  em- 
bodied with  their  particular  applications  ;  and  to 
combine  them  in  a  systematical  and  scientific  form, 
for  our  own  instruction  and  that  of  others.  Does 
it  detract  from  the  value  of  the  theory  of  pneuma 
tics  to  remark,  that  the  same  effects  of  a  vacuum, 
and  of  the  elasticity  and  pressure  of  the  air,  which 
afford  an  explanation  of  its  most  curious  pheno* 
mena,  are  recognized  in  an  instinctive  process 
coeval  wiih  the  first  breath  which  we  draw ;  and 
exemplified  in  the  mouth  of  every  babe  and  suck 
ling  ?"— JPreZ.  Diss,  p  Ix.  Ixi. 


510 


METAPHYSICS  AND  JUEISPRUDENCE. 


Now,  without  recurring  to  what  we  have 
ah-eady  said  as  to  the  total  absence  of  power 
in  all  cases  of  mere  observation,  we  shall 
merely  request  our  readers  to  consider,  what 
is  the  circumstance  that  bestows  a  value,  an 
importance,  or  an  utility,  upon  the  discovery 
and  statement  of  those  general  laws,  which 
are  admitted,  in  the  passage  now  quoted,  to 
have  been  previously  exemplified  in  practice. 
Is  it  any  thing  else,  than  their  capacity  of  a 
more  extensive  application? — the  possibility 
or  facility  of  employing  them  to  accomplish 
many  things  to  which  they  had  not  been  pre- 
viously thought  applicable  1  If  Newton's  third 
law  of  motion  could  never  have  been  em- 
ployed for  any  other  purpose  than  to  set  afloat 
the  canoe  of  the  savage — or  if  the  discovery 
of  the  pressure  of  the  atmosphere  had  led  to 
nothing  more  than  an  explanation  of  the 
operation  of  sucking — would  there  have  been 
any  thing  gained  by  stating  that  law,  or  that 
discovery,  in  general  and  abstract  terms?- 
Would  there  have  been  any  utility,  any  dignity 
or  real  advancement  of  knowledge,  in  the  mere 
technical  arrangement  of  these  limited  and  fa- 
miliar phenomena  under  a  new  classification  ? 

There  can  be  but  one  answer  to  these  in- 
terrogatories. But  we  humbly  conceive,  that 
all  the  laws  of  mental  operation  \vhich  phi- 
losophy may  collect  and  digest,  are  exactly 
in  this  last  predicament.  They  have  no  ap- 
plication to  any  other  phenomena  than  the 
particular  ones  by  which  they  are  suggested — 
and  which  they  were  familiarly  employed  to 
produce.  They  are  not  capable  of  being  ex- 
tended to  any  other  cases;  and  all  that  is 
gained  by  their  digestion  into  a  system,  is  a 
more  precise  and  methodical  enumeration  of 
truths  that  were  always  notorious. 

From  the  experience  and  consciousness  of 
all  men,  in  all  ages,  we  learn  that,  when  two 
or  more  objects  are  frequently  presented  to- 
gether, the  mind  passes  spontaneously  from 
one  to  the  other,  and  invests  both  with  some- 
thing of  the  colouring  which  belongs  to  the 
most  important.  This  is  the  law  of  associa- 
tion ;  which  is  known  to  every  savage,  and 
to  every  clown,  in  a  thousand  familiar  in- 
stances :  and,  with  regard  to  its  capacity  of 
useful  application,  it  seems  to  be  admitted, 
that  it  has  been  known  and  acted  upon  by 
parents,  pedagogues,  priests,  and  legislators,  in 
all  ages  of  the  world;  and  has  even  been  em- 
pToyea,  as  an  obvious  and  easy  instrument,  by 
such  humble  judges  of  intellectual  resources, 
as  common  horse-jockies  and  bear-dancers. 

If  this  pririciple,  then,  was  always  knoAvn, 
and  regularly  employed  wherever  any  advan- 
tage could  be  expected  from  its  employment, 
what  reason  have  we  to  imagine,  that  any 
substantial  benefit  is  to  be  derived  from  its 
scientific  investigation,  or  any  important  uses 
hereafter  discovered  for  it,  in  consequence 
merely  of  investing  it  with  a  precise  name, 
and  stating,  under  one  general  theorem,  the 
common  law  of  its  operation  ?  If  such  per- 
sons as  grooms  and  masters  of  menageries 
have  been  guided,  by  their  low  intellects  and 
sordid  motives,  to  its  skilful  application  as  a 
means  of  directing  even  the  lower  animals, 


is  it  to  be  believed,  that  there  can  be  many 
occasions  for  its  employm.ent  in  the  govern- 
ment of  the  human  mind,  of  which  men 
have  never  yet  had  the  sense  to  bethink 
themselves  ?  Or,  can  it  he  seriously  main- 
tained, that  it  is  capable  of  applications  as 
much  more  extensive  and  important  than 
those  which  have  been  vulgarly  made  in  past 
ages,  as  are  the  uses  of  Newton's  third  law 
of  motion,  compared  with  the  operation  of 
the  savage  in  pushing  his  canoe  from  th4 
shore  ?  If  Mr.  Stewart  really  entertained  any 
such  opinion  as  this,  it  was  incumbent  upon 
kim  to  have  indicated,  in  a  general  way,  the 
departments  in  which  he  conceived  that  these 
great  discoveries  were  to  be  made ;  and  to 
have  pointed  out  some,  at  least,  of  the  new 
applications,  on  the  assumption  of  which 
alone  he  could  justify  so  ambitious  a  paral- 
lel.* Instead  of  this,  however,  we  do  not 
find  that  he  has  contemplated  any  other 
spheres  for  the  application  of  this  principle, 
than  those  which  have  been  so  long  conceded 
to  it — the  formation  of  taste,  and  the  conduct 
of  education  :  and,  with  regard  to  the  last  and 
most  important  of  these,  he  has  himself  re- 
corded an  admission,  which  to  us,  we  will 
confess,  appears  a  full  justification  of  all  that 
we  have  now  been  advancing,  and  a  suffi- 
cient answer  to  the  positions  we  have  been 
endeavouring  to  combat.  "In  so  far,"  Mr. 
Stewart  observes,  "  as  education  is  eff'ectual 
and  salutary,  it  is  founded  on  those  princi- 
ples of  our  nature  which  have  forced  them- 
selves upon  general  observation^  in  conse- 
quence of  the  experience  of  ages."  That 
the  principle  of  association  is  to  be  reckoned 
in  the  number  of  these,  Mr.  Stewart  certainly 
will  not  deny  ]  and  our  proposition  is,  that  all 
the  principles  of  our  nature  which  aie  ca- 
pable of  any  useful  application,  have  thus 
"forced  themselves  on  general  observation  " 
many  centuries  ago,  and  can  now  receive 
little  more  than  a  technical  nomenclature  and 
description  from  the  best  efforts  of  philosophy. 
The  sentiments  to  which  we  have  ventured 
to  give  expression  in  these  and  our  former 
hasty  observations,  were  suggested  to  us,  we 
will  confess,  in  a  great  degree,  by  the  striking 
contrast  between  the  wonders  which  have 
been  wrought  by  the  cultivation  of  modem 
Physics,  and  the  absolute  nothingness  of  the 
effects  that  have  hitherto  been  produced  by 
the  labours  of  the  philosophers  of  mind.  We 
have  only  to  mention  the  names  of  Astrono- 
my, Chemistry,  Mechanics,  Optics,  and  Navi- 
gation ; — nay,  we  have  only  to  look  around  us, 
in  public  or  in  private, — to  cast  a  glance  on 
the  machines  and  manufactures,  the  ships, 
observatories,  steam  engines,  and  elaborato- 
ries,  by  which  we  are  perpetually  surrounded, 
to  turn  our  eyes  on  the  most  common 


*  Upwards  of  thirty  years  ha\'e  now  clapspd 
since  this  was  written  ;  during  which  a  taste  for 
metaphysical  inquiry  has  revived  in  France,  and 
been  greatly  encouraged  in  Germany.  Yet  I  am 
not  aware  to  what  useful  appUcations  of  the  science 
its  votaries  can  yet  point ;  or  what  practical  improve- 
ment or  increase  of  human  power  they  can  trace  t« 
its  cultivation. 


STEWART'S  PHILOSOPHICAL  ESSAYS. 


511 


articles  of  our  dress  and  furniture, — on  the 
mirrors,  engravings,  books,  lire-arms,  watches, 
barometers,  thunder-rods  and  opera-glasses, 
that  present  themselves  in  our  ordinary  dwell- 
ings, to  feel  how  vast  a  progress  has  been 
made  in  exploring  and  subduing  the  physical 
elements  of  nature,  and  how  stupendous  an 
increase  the  power  of  man  has  received,  by 
the  experimental  investigation  of  her  laws. 
Now  is  any  thing  in  this  astonishing  survey 
more  remarkable,  than  the  feeling  with  which 
it  is  always  accompanied,  that  what  we  have 
hitherto  done  in  any  of  these  departments  is 
but  a  small  part  of  what  we  are  yet  destined 
to  accomplish ;  and  that  the  inquiries  which 
have  led  us  so  far,  will  infallibly  carry  us  still 
farther.  When  we  ask,  however,  for  the  tro- 
phies of  the  philosophy  of  mind,  or  inquire  for 
the  vestiges  of  her  progress  in  the  more  plastic 
and  susceptible  elements  of  human  genius 
and  character,  we  are  answered  only  by  in- 
genuous silence,  or  vague  anticipations — and 
find  nothing  but  a  blank  in  the  record  of  her 
actual  achievements.  The  knowledge  and 
the  power  of  man  over  inanimate  nature  has 
been  increased  tenfold  in  the  course  of  the 
last  two  £jenturies.  The  knowledge  and  the 
power  of  man  over  the  mind  of  man  remains 
almost  exactly  where  it  was  at  the  first  de- 
velopment of  his  faculties.  The  natural  phi- 
losophy of  antiquity  is  mere  childishness  and 
dotage,  and  their  physical  inquirers  are  mere 
pigmies  and  drivellers,  compared  with  their 
successors  in  the  present  age  ;  but  their  logi- 
cians, and  metaphysicians,  and  moralists,  and, 
what  is  of  infinitely"  more  consequence,  the 
practical  maxims  and  the  actual  effects  result- 
ing from  their  philosophy  of  mind,  are  very 
nearly  on  a  level  with  the  philosophy  of  the 
present  day.  The  end  and  aim  of  all  that 
philosophy  is  to  make  education  rational  and 
effective,  and  to  train  men  to  such  sagacity 
and  force  of  judgment,  as  to  induce  them  to 
cast  off  the  bondage  of  prejudices,  and  to  fol- 
low happiness  and  virtue  w4th  assured  and 
steady  steps.  We  do  not  know,  however, 
what  modern  work  contains  juster,  or  more 
profound  views  on  the  subject  of  education, 
than  may  be  collected  from  the  writings  of 
Xenophon  and  Quintilian,  Polybius,  Plutarch, 
and  Cicero  :  and,  as  to  that  sagacity  and  just- 
ness of  thinking,  which,  after  all,  is  the  fruit 
by  which  this  tree  of  knowledge  must  be  ulti- 
mately known,  we  are  not  aware  of  many 
modern  performances  that  exemplify  it  in  a 
stronger  degree,  than  many  parts  of  the  his- 
tories of  Tacitus  and  Thucydides,  or  the  Satires 
and  Epistles  of  Horace.  In  the  conduct  of 
business  and  affairs,  we  shall  find  Pericles, 
and  Caesar,  and  Cicero,  but  little  inferior  to  the 
philosophical  politicians  of  the  present  day; 
and,  for  lofty  and  solid  principles  of  practi- 
cal ethics,  we  might  safely  match  Epictetus 
and  Antoninus  (without  mentioning  Aristotle, 
Plato,  Plutarch,  Xenophon,  or  Polybius,)  with 
most  of  our  modern  speculators. 

Where,  then,  it  may  be  asked,  are  the  per- 
formances of  this  philosophy,  which  makes 
suchlaige  promises  ?  or,  what  are  the  grounds 
upo2i  which  we  should  expect  to  see  so  much 


accomplished,  by  an  instrument  which  has 
hitherto  eff'ected  so  little '?  It  is  in  vain  for 
Mr.  Stewart  to  say,  that  the  science  is  yet  but 
in  its  infancy,  and  that  it  will  bear  its  fruit  in 
due  season.  The  truth  is,  that  it  has,  of  ne- 
cessity, been  more  constantly  and  diligently 
cultivated  than  any  other.  It  has  alwaya 
been  the  first  object  with  men  of  talent  and 
good  aff'ections,  to  influence  and  to  form  the 
minds  of  others,  and  to  train  their  own  to  the 
highest  pitch  of  vigour  and  perfection :  and 
accordingly,  it  is  admitted  by  IVIr.  Stewart, 
that  the  most  important  principles  of  this  phi 
losophy  have  been  long  ago  "forced  upon 
general  observation"  by  the  feelings  and  ex- 
perience of  past  ages.  Independently,  how- 
ever, of  this,  the  years  that  have  passed  since 
Hobbes,  and  Locke,  and  Malebranche.  and 
Leibnitz  drew  the  attention  of  Europe  to  this 
study,  and  the  very  extraordinary  genius  am' 
talents  of  those  who  have  since  addicted  them 
selves  to  it.  are  far  more  than  enough  to  have 
brought  it,  if  not  to  perfection,  at  least  to  such 
a  degree  of  excellence,  as  no  longer  to  leave 
it  a  matter  of  dispute,  whether  it  was  really 
destined  to  add  to  our  knowledge  and  our 
power,  or  to  produce  any  sensible  effects  upo" 
the  happiness  and  condition  of  mankin( 
That  society  has  made  great  advances  in  com 
fort  and  intelligence,  during  that  period,  is 
indisputable  ]  but  we  do  not  find  that  Mr. 
Stewart  himself  imputes  any  great  part  of  this 
improvement  to  our  increased  knowledge  of 
our  mental  constitution  ]  and  indeed  it  is  quite 
obvious,  that  it  is  an  effect  resulting  from  the 
increase  of  political  freedom — the  influences 
of  reforined  Christianity  —  the  invention  of 
printing — and  that  improvement  and  multipli- 
cation of  the  mechanical  arts,  that  have  ren- 
dered the  body  of  the  people  far  more  busy, 
wealthy,  inventive  and  independent,  than  they 
ever  were  in  any  former  period  of  society. 

To  us,  therefore,  it  certainly  does  appear, 
that  the  lofty  estimate  which  Mr.  Stewart  has 
again  made  of  the  'practical  importance  of  his 
favourite  studies,  is  one  of  those  splendid  vi- 
sions by  which  men  of  genius  have  been  so 
often  misled,  in  the  enthusiastic  pursuit  of 
science  and  of  virtue.  That  these  studies  are 
of  a  very  dignified  and  interesting  nature,  we 
admit  most  cheerfully; — that  they  exercise 
and  delight  the  understanding,  by  reasonings 
and  inquiries,  at  once  subtle,  cautious,  and 
profound,  and  either  gratify  or  exalt  a  keen 
and  aspiring  curiosity,  must  be  acknowledged 
by  all  who  have  been  initiated  into  their  ele- 
ments. Those  who  have  had  the  good  fortune 
to  be  so  initiated  by  the  writings  of  Mr.  Stew- 
art, will  be  delighted  to  add,  that  they  are 
blended  with  so  many  lessons  of  gentle  and  of 
ennobling  virtue — so  many  striking  precepts 
and  bright  examples  of  liberality,  high-minded- 
ness,  and  pure  taste — as  to  be  calculated,  in  an 
eminent  degree,  to  make  men  love  goodness 
and  aspire  to  elegance,  and  to  improve  at  onc(3 
the  understanding,  the  imagination,  and  tho 
heart.   But  this  must  be  the  limit  of  our  praise. 

The  sequel  of  this  article  is  not  now  re- 
printed, for  the  reasons  already  stated. 


NOVELS,  TALES, 


AND 


PROSE  ¥ORKS  OF  FICTIO^\ 


As  I  perceive  1  have,  in  some  of  the  following  papers,  made  a  sort  of  apology  for  tseek 
mg  to  direct  the  attention  of  my  readers  to  things  so  insignificant  as  Novels,  it  may  be  worth 
while  to  inform  the  present  generation  that,  in  my  youth,  writings  of  this  sort  w^ere  rated 
very  low  with  us — scarcely  allowed  indeed  to  pass  as  part  of  a  nation's  permanent  literature 
— and  generally  deemed  altogether  unworthy  of  any  grave  critical  notice.  Nor,  in  truth— 
in  spite  of  Cervantes  and  Le  Sage — and  Marivaux,  Rousseau,  and  Voltaire  abroad — and  even 
our  own  Richardson  and  Fielding  at  home — would  it  have  been  easy  to  controvert  that  opin- 
ion, in  our  England,  at  the  time  :  For  certainly  a  greater  mass  of  trash  and  rubbish  never 
disgraced  the  press  of  any  country,  than  the  ordinary  Novels  that  filled  and  supported  our 
circulating  libraries,  down  nearly  to  the  time  of  Miss  Edgeworth's  first  appearance.  There 
had  been,  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  to  be  sure,  before ;  and  Miss  Burney's  Evelina  and  Cecilia 
— and  Mackenzie's  Man  of  Feeling,  and  some  bolder  and  more  varied  fictions  of  the  Misses 
Lee.  But  the  staple  of  our  Novel  market  was,  beyond  imagination,  despicable  :  and  had 
consequently  sunk  and  degraded  the  whole  department  of  literature,  of  which  it  had  usurped 
the  name. 

All  this,  however,  has  since  been  signally,  and  happily,  changed ;  and  that  rabble  rout 
of  abominations  driven  from  our  confines  for  ever.  The  Novels  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  are,  beyond 
all  question,  the  most  remarkable  productions  of  the  present  age  ;  and  have  made  a  sensa- 
tion, and  produced  an  efiect.  all  over  Europe,  to  which  nothing  parallel  can  be  mentioned 
C since  the  days  of  Rousseau  and  Voltaire ;  while,  in  our  own  country,  they  have  attained  a 
place,  inferior  only  to  that  which  must  be  filled  for  ever  by  the  unapproachable  glory  of 
Shakespeare.  With  the  help,  no  doubt,  of  their  political  revolutions,  they  have  produced, 
in  France,  Victor  Hugo,  Balsac,  Paul  de  Cocq,  &c.,  the  promessi  sposi  in  Italy — and  Cooper, 
at  least,  in  America. — In  England,  also,  they  have  had  imitators  enough ;  in  the  persons  of 
Mr.  James,  Mr.  Lover,  and  others.  But  the  works  most  akin  to  them  in  excellence  have 
rather,  I  think,  been  related  as  collaterals  than  as  descendants.  Miss  Edgeworth,  indeed, 
stands  more  in  the  line  of  their  ancestry  j  and  I  take  Miss  Austen  and  Sir  E.  L.  Bulwer  to 
be  as  intrinsically  original ; — as  well  as  the  great  German  writers,  Goethe,  Tick,  Jean  Paul, 
Richter,  &c.  Among  them,  however,  the  honour  of  this  branch  of  literature  has  at  any  rate 
been  splendidly  redeemed ; — and  now  bids  fair  to  maintain  its  place,  at  the  head  of  all  that 
is  graceful  and  instructive  in  the  productions  of  modern  genius. 


(Inla,  1809.) 

f 

Tdes  of  Fashionable  Life.    By  Miss  Edgeworth,  Author  of  "Practical  Education," 
"Belinda,"  "Castle  Rackrent,"  &c.     12mo.     3  vols.    London:  1809. 

If  it  were  possible  for  reviewers  to  Envy  [  anyother  writer,  male  or  female,  of  her  gene- 
the  authors  who  are  brought  before  them  for  i  ra]^Ri[^"Other  arts  and  sciences  have  their 
judgment,  we  rather  think  we  should  be  fuse,  no  doubt ;  and,  Heaven  knows,  they  have 
tempted  to  envy  Miss  Edgeworth;  —  not,  |  their  reward  and  their  fame.  But  the  great 
however,  so  much  for  her  .matchless  powers  |  art  is  the  art  of  living;  and  the  chief  S(5ience 
of  probable  invention — her  never-failing  good  |  the  science  of  being  liappy.  Where  there  is 
sense  ani  cKeerfuln'ess-^ndr  her  fine  discrimi-  j  an _  absolute  deficiency  of  good  sense,  these,, 
nation  fA  characters  —  as  for  the  .ij.t'li<^htful  carmot  indeed  be  taught;  and,  with  an  extra- 
ponscicusness  of  havinir  done  more  good  than  i  ordinary  share  of  it,  they  may  be  acquired 
512 


MISS  EDGEWOPvTH'S  TALES  OF  FASHIONABLE  LIFE. 


&23 


without  an  instructor :  but  the  most  common 
case  is,  to  be  capable  of  learning;  and  yet  to 
require  teaching;  and  a  far  greater  part  of 
the  misery  which  exists  in  society  arises  from 
ignorance,  than  either  from  vice  or  from  inca- 
pacity. 

Miss  Edgeworth .  is  the  great  modern  mis- 
tre55';lT[''this  school  of  true  philosophy;  and 
Has  eclipsed,  we  think,  the  fame  of  all  her 
predecessors.  By  her  many  eAcelieat  tjacts 
on  education,  she  has  conferred.a  benefit  on 
the  Whole  mass  of  the  population;  and  dis- 
cltargtHl.  with  exemplary  patience  as  well  as 
extraordinary  judgment,  a  task  which  super- 
ficial spirits  may  perhaps  mistake  for  an  hum- 
ble and  easy  one.  By  her  Popular  Tales,  she 
has  rendered  an  invaluable  service  to  the 
middling  and  lower  orders  of  the  people  ;  and 
byJier_Noy£JLs.  and  by  the  volumes  before  us, 
Easlnacte  a  great  and  meritorious  effort  to 
]}XQli^ote  the  happiness  and  respectability  of 
the  hj^j^r  classes.  On  a  former  occasion  we 
BeTieve  we  hinted  to  her,  that  these  would 
probably  be  the  least  successful  of  all  her 
labours ;  and  that  it  was  doubtful  whether 
she  could  be  justified  for  bestowing  so  much 
of  her  time  on  the  case  of  a  few  persons,  who 
scarcely  deserved  to  be  cured,  and  were 
scarcely  capable  of  being  corrected.  The 
foolish  and  unhappy  part  of  the  fashionable 
world,  for  the  most  part,  "  is  not  fit  to  bear 
itself  convinced.-'  It  is  too  vain,  too  busy, 
and  too  dissipated  to  listen  to,  or  remember 
any  thing  that  is  said  to  it.  Every  thing  seri- 
or..=  it  repels,  by  "its  dear  wit  and  gay  rheto- 
ric ;"  and  against  every  thing  poignant,  it 
seeks  shelter  in  the  impenetmble  armour  of 
its  conjunct  audacity. 

**  Laugh'd  at,  it  laughs  again  ; — and,  stricken  hard, 
Turns  to  the  stroke  its  adamantine  scales. 
That  fear  no  discipline  of  human  hands." 

A  book,  on  the  other  hand,  and  especially  a 

^witt^^E^^papttlaxliQakf  is  still  a  thing  of  con- 
sequence, to  such  of  the  middling  classes  of 
society  as  are  in  the  habit  of  reading.     Hie^ 

^^|2£uaJaautit^.atuLtliink  of  it ;  and  as  they 
ocjcasio^iajlj^  jnake  themselves  ridiculous  by 
cbpymg  the  manners  it  displays,  so  they  are 
SpTfo'^'e  lllfipYessed  with  the  great  lessons  it 

"jfiiay^be  caiculated  to  teach^jiud^Qii  the  whole, 
receive  it  into  considerable  authority  among 

lEe' regulators  of  their  live.s  and  opinions. — 
But  a  fashionable  person  has  scarcely  any 
leisure  to  read ;  and  none  to  think  of  what  he 

\  has  been  reading.  It  would  be  a  derogation 
from  his  dignity  to  speak  of  a  book  in  any 
terms  but  those  of  frivolous  derision ;  and  a 
strange  desertion  of  his  own  superiority,  to 
allow  himself  to  receive,  from  its  perusal,  any 
impressions  which  could  at  all  affect  his  con- 
duct or  opinions. 

But  though,  for  these  reasons,  we  continue 
to  think  that  Miss  Edgeworth's  fashionable 
patients  will  do  less  credit  to  her  prescriptions 
than  the  more  numerous  classes  to  whom 
they  might  have  been  directed,  we  admit 
that  her  plan  of  treatment  is  in  the  highest 
degree  judidious,  and  her  conception  of  the 
disorder  most  luminous  and  orecise. 
33 


There  are  two  great  sources  of  unhappiness 
to  those  v.hom  ibrlune  and  nature  seem  to 
have  placed  above  the  reach  of  ordinary 
miseries.  The  one  is  cnmii — that  stagnation 
of  life  and  feeling  which  results  from  the  ab- 
sence of  all  motives  to  exertion ;  and  by 
which  the  justice  of  providence  has  so  fully 
compensated  the  partiality  of  fortune,  that  it 
may  be  fairly  doubted  whether,  upon  the 
whole,  the  race  of  beggars  is  not  happier 
than  the  race  of  lords;  and  whether  those 
vulgar  wants  that  are  sometimes  so  importu- 
nate, are  not,  in  this  world,  the  chief  ministers 
of  enjoyment.  This  is  a  plague  that  infects 
all  indolent  persons  who  can  live  on  in  the 
rank  in  which  they  were  born,  without  the 
necessity  of  working:  but,  in  a  free  country, 
it  rarely  occurs  in  any  great  degree  of  viru- 
lence, except  among  those  who  are  already 
at  the  summit  of  human  felicity.  Below  this, 
there  is  room  for  ambition,  and  envy,  and 
emulation,  and  all  the  feverish  movements  r-f 
aspiring  vanity  and  unresting  selfishness, 
which  act  as  prophylactics  against  this  more 
darjk  and  deadly  distemper.  It  is  the  canker 
which  corrodes  the  full-blown  flower  of  hu- 
man felicity — the  pestilence  which  smites  at 
the  bright  hour  of  noon. 

The  other  curse  of  the  happy,  has  a  range 
more  wide  and  indiscriminate.  It,  too,  tor- 
tures only  the  comparatively  rich  and  for- 
tunate; but  is  most  active  among  the  least 
distinguished  ;  and  abates  in  malignity  as  we 
ascend  to  the  lofty  regions  of  pure  ennui. 
This  is  the  desire  of  being  fashionable ; — the 
restless  and  insatiable  passion  to  pass  for 
creatures  a  little  more  distinguished  than  we 
really  are — with  the  mortification  of  frequent 
failure,  and  the  humiliating  consciousness  of 
being  perpetually  exposed  to  it.  Among  those 
who  are  secure  of  "  meat,  clothes,  and  fire," 
and  are  thus  above  the  chief  physical  evils 
of  existence,  we  do  believe  that  this  is  a  more 
prolific  source  of  unhappiness,  than  guilt,  dis- 
ease, or  wounded  affection;  and  that  more 
positive  misery  is  created,  and  more  true  en- 
jojinent  excluded,  by  the  eternal  fretting 
and  straining  of  this  pitiful  ambition,  than  by 
all  the  ravages  of  passion,  the  desolations  of 
war,  or  the  accidents  of  mortality.  This  may 
appear  a  strong  statement ;  but  we  make  it 
deliberately,  and  are  deeply  convinced  of  its 
truth.  The  wretchedness  which  it  produces 
may  not  be  so  intense;  but  it  is  of  much 
longer  duration,  and  spreads  over  a  far  wider 
circle.  It  is  quite  dreadful,  indeed,  to  think 
what  a  sweep  this  pest  has  taken  arilong  the 
comforts  of  our  prosperous  population.  To  ' 
be  thought  fashloi.able — that  is,  to  be  though 
more  opulent  and  tasteful,  and  on  a  footing 
of  intimacy  with  a  greater  number  of  distin 
guished  persons  than  they  really  are,  is  the 
great  and  laborious  pursuit  of  four  families 
out  of  five,  the  members  of  which  are  ex 
empted  from  the  necessity  of  daily  industry 
In  this  pursuit,  their  time,  spirits,  and  talents 
are  wasted ;  their  tempers,  soured ;  their  affec- 
tions palsied ;  and  their  natural  manners  an(/ 
dispositions  altogether  sophisticated  and  lost. 

These  are  the  giant  curses  of  fashionable 


514 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


life,  and  Miss  Ecljeworth  has  accordingly 
dedicated  her  two  h'st  tales  to  the  delinea- 
tion of  their  symptoms.  The  history  of  •'■  Lord 
Glenthorn"  is  a  fine  picture  of  ennui — that  of 
''Almeria"  an  instructive  representation  of 
the  miseries  of  aspirations  after  fashion.  We 
do  n.ot  know  whether  it  was  a  part  of  the  fair 
wriier's  design  to  represent  these  maladies  as 
absolutely  incurable,  without  a  change  of 
condition ;  but  the  fact  is,  that  in  spite  of  the 
best  dispositions  and  capacities,  and  the  most 
powerful  inducements  to  action,  the  hero  of 
ennui  makes  no  advances  towards  amend- 
ment, till  he  is  deprived  of  his  title  and  estate ! 
and  the  victim  of  fashion  is  left,  at  the  end  of 
the  tale,  pursuing  her  weary  career,  w^ith  fa- 
ding hopes  and  wasted  spirits,  but  with  in- 
creased anxiety  and  perseverance.  XliSJSlPJi^) 
use  of  these  narratives,  therefore,  must  consist, 
.mJ3Jeariiing.,u3  against  the  first  approaches  of 
evils  which  can  never  afterwards  be  resisted.. 
These  are  the  great  twin  scourges  of  the 
prosperous :  But  there  are  other  maladies,  of 
no  slight  malignity,  to  which  they  are  pecu- 
liarly liable.  One  of  these,  arising  mainly 
from  want  of  more  worthy  occupation,  is  that 
perpetual  use  of  stratagem  and  contrivance — 
that  little,  artful  diplomacy  of  private  life,  by 
which  the  simplest  and  most  natural  transac- 
tions are  rendered  complicated  and  difficult, 
and  the  common  business  of  existence  made 
to  depend  on  the  success  of  plots  and  counter- 
plots. By  the  incessant  practice  of  this  petty 
policy,  a  habit  of  duplicity  and  anxiety  is  in- 
fallibly generated,  which  is  equally  fatal  to 
integrity  and  enjoyment.  We  gradually  come 
to  look  on  others  with  tWe  distrust  which  we 
are  conscious  of  deserving;  and  are  insensibly 
formed  to  sentiments  of  the  most  unamiable 
selfishness  and  suspicion.  It  is  needless  to 
say,  that  all  these  elaborate  artifices  are  worse 
than  useless  to  the  person  who  employs  them ; 
and  that  the  ingenious  plotter  is  almost  always 
baffled  and  exposed  by  the  downright  honesty 
of  some  undesigning  competitor.  Miss  Edge- 
worth,  ill  her  tale  of  '•  Manoeuvring,"  has  given 
a  very  complete  and  most  entertaining  repre- 
sentation of  '•  the  by-paths  and  indirect  crook'd 
ways,"  by  which  these  artful  and  inefficient 
people  generally  make  their  way  to  disap- 
pointment. In  the  tale,  entitled  "  Madame  de 
Fleury,"  she  has  given  some  useful  examples 
of  the  ways  in  which  the  rich  may  most  ef- 
fectually do  good  -to  the  poor — an  operation 
which,  we  really  believe,  fails  more  frequently 
from  want  of  skill  than  of  inclination :  And,  in 
''  The  Dun,"  she  has  drawn  a  touching  and 
most  impressive  picture  of  the  wretchedness 
which  the  poor  so  frequently  suffer,  from  the 
unfeeling  thoughtlessness  which  withholds 
from  them  the  scanty  earnings  of  their  labour. 
Of  these  tales,  "  Ennui "  is  the  best  and  the 
most  entertaining — though  the  leadini;  char- 
acter is  somewhat  caricatured,  and  the  de- 
nouement is  brought  about  by  a  discovery 
which  shocks  by  its  needless  improbability. 
Lord  Glenthorn  is  bred  up,  by  a  false  and  in- 
dulgent guardian,  as  the  heir  to  an  immense 
English  and  Irish  estate ;  and,  long  before  he 
>a  of  ago,  exhausts  almost  all  the  reso'irces  by 


which  life  can  be  made  tolerable  to  those  wh* 
have  nothing  to  wish  for.  Born  on  the  very 
pinnacle  of  human  fortune,  ''he  had  nothing 
to  do  but  to  sit  still  and  enjoy  the  barrenness 
of  the  prospect."  He  tries  travelling,  gaming, 
gluttony,  hunting,  pugilism,  and  coach-driv- 
ing ;  but  is  so  pressed  down  with  the  load  of 
life,  as  to  be  repeatedly  on  the  eve  of  suicide. 
He  passes  over  to  Ireland,  where  he  receives 
a  temporary  relief,  from  the  rebellion — and 
from  falling  in  love  with  a  lady  of  high  char- 
acter and  accomplishments ;  but  the  effect  of 
these  stimulants  is  speedily  expended,  and 
he  is  in  danger  of  falling  into  a  confirmed 
lethargy,  when  it  is  fortunately  discovered 
that  he  has  been  changed  at  nurse  !  and  that, 
instead  of  being  a  peer  of  boundless  fortune, 
he  is  the  son  of  a  cottager  who  lives  on  pota- 
toes. With  great  magnanimity,  he  instantly 
gives  up  the  fortune  to  the  rightful  owner, 
who  has  been  bred  a  blacksmith,  and  takes 
to  the  study  of  the  law.  At  the  commence- 
ment of  this  arduous  career,  he  fortunately 
falls  in  love,  for  the  second  time,  with  the 
lady  entitled,  after  the  death  of  the  black- 
smith, to  succeed  to  his  former  estate.  Pover- 
ty and  Jove  now  supply  him  with  irresistible 
motives  for  exertion.  He  rises  in  his  profes- 
sion 5  marries  the  lady  of  his  heart ;  and  in 
due  time  returns,  an  altered  man,  to  the  pos- 
session of  his  former  affluence. 

Such  is  the  naked  outline  of  a  story,  more 
rich  in  character,  incident,  and  reflection,  than  '• 
any  English  narrative  \vhich  we  can  now  call 
to  remenibrance : — as  rapid  and  various  aa 
the  best  tales  of  Voltaire,  and  as  full  of  prac- 
tical good  sense  and  moral  pathetic  as  any  of 
the  other  tales  of  Miss  Edgeworth.  The  Irish 
characters  are^  inimitable  ; — not  the  coarse  ca- 
ricatures of  niodern  playwrights — but  drawii 
with  a  spirit,  a  delicacy,  and  a  precision,  to.. 
which  we  do  not  know  if  there  be  any  para}-' 
lei  among  national  delineations.  As  these  are 
tales  of  fashionable  life,  we  shall  present  our 
readers,  in  the  first  place,  with  some  traits  of 
an  Irish  lady  of  rank.  Lady  Geraldine — the 
enchantress  whose  powerful  magic  almost 
raised  the  hero  of  en.nui  from  his  leaden  slum- 
bers is  represented  with  such  exquisite  liveli- 
ness and  completeness  of  effect,  that  the  ^ 
reader  can  scarcely  help  imagining  that  he 
has  formerly  been  acquainted  with  the  origi- 
nal. Every  one,  at  least  we  conceive,  must 
have  known  somebody,  the  recollection  of 
whom  must  convince  him  that  the  following 
description  is  as  true  nature  as  it  is  creditable 
to  art : — 

"  As  Lady  Geraldine  entered,  I  gave  one  involun- 
tary glance  of  curiosity.  I  saw  a  tall,  finely-shaped 
woman,  with  the  commanding  air  of  a  person  of 
rank :  she  moved  well ;  not  with  feminine  timidity, 
yet  with  ease,  promptitude,  and  decision.  She  had 
fine  eyes,  and  a  fine  complexion,  yet  no  regularity 
of  feature.  The  only  thing  that  strack  me  as  really 
extraordinary,  was  her  indifference  when  I  was  in- 
troduced to  her.  Every  body  had  seemed  extremely 
desirous  that  I  should  see  her  ladyship,  and  that 
her  ladyship  should  see  me  ;  and  I  was  rather  sur- 
prised by  her  unconcerned  air.  This  piqued  mo. 
and  fixed  my  attention.  She  turned  from  me,  and 
began  to  converse  with  others.  Her  voice  waa 
agreeable,  though  rather  loud :  she  did  not  speak 


MISS  EDGEWORTH'S  TALES  OF  FASHIONABLE  LIFE. 


51fi 


witn  the  Irish  accent ;  but,  when  I  listened  m'a- 
hcioiisly,  I  detected  certain  Hibernian  inflexions — 
nothing  of  the  vulgar  Irish  idiom,  but  something 
that  was  more  interrogative,  more  exclamatory,  ana 
perhaps  more  rhetorical,  than  the  common  language 
of  English  ladies,  accompanied  with  infinitely  more 
animation  of  countenance  and  demonstrative  ges- 
ture. This  appeared  to  me  pecuhar  and  unusual,  but 
not  affected.  She  was  uncommonly  eloquent ;  and 
yet,  without  action,  her  words  were  not  sufficiently 
rapid  to  express  her  ideas.  Her  manner  appeared 
foreign,  yet  it  was  not  quite  French.  If  I  had 
been  obliged  to  decide,  I  should,  however,  have 
pronounced  it  rather  more  French  than  English, 
'^'o  determine  which  it  was,  or  whether  I  had  ever 
seen  any  thing  similar,  I  stood  considering  her  lady- 
eliip  with  more  attention  than  I  had  ever  bestowed 
on  any  other  woman.  The  words  slrikin^— fasci- 
nating— bewitching,  occurred  to  me  as  I  looked  at 
her  and  heard  her  speak.  I  resolved  to  turn  my 
eyes  away,  and  shut  my  ears  ;  for  I  was  positively 
determined  not  to  Hke  her ;  I  dreaded  so  much  the 
idea  of  a  second  Hymen.  I  retreated  to  the  farthest 
window,  and  looked  out  very  soberly  upon  a  dirty 
fish-pond. 

"  If  she  had  treated  me  with  tolerable  civility  at 
first,  I  never  should  have  thought  about  her.  High- 
born and  high-bred,  she  seemed  to  consider  more 
what  she  should  think  of  others,  than  what  others 
thought  of  her.  Frank,  candid,  and  affable,  yet 
opinionated,  insolent,  and  an  egotist:  her  candour 
and  affability  appeared  the  effect  of  a  naturally  good 
temper ;  her  insolence  and  egotism  only  that  of  a 
spoiled  child.  She  seemed  to  talk  of  herself  purely 
to  oblige  others,  as  the  most  interesting  possible 
topic  of  conversation ;  for  such  it  had  always  been 
to  her  fond  mother,  who  idolized  her  ladyship  as  an 
only  daughter,  and  the  representative  of  an  ancient 
house.  Confident  of  her  talents,  conscious  of  her 
charms,  and  secure  of  her  station,  Lady  Geraldine 
gave  free  scope  to  her  high  spirits,  her  fancy,  and 
Her  turn  for  ridicule.  She  looked,  spoke,  and  acted, 
like  a  person  privileged  to  think,  say,  and  do,  what 
she  pleased.  Her  raillery,  hke  the  raillery  of  princes, 
was  without  fear  of  retort.  She  was  not  ill-natured, 
yet  careless  to  whom  she  gave  offence,  provided 
she  produced  amusement;  and  in  this  she  seldom 
failed  ;  for,  in  her  conversation,  there  was  much  of 
the  raciness  of  Irish  wit,  and  the  oddity  of  Irish 
humour.  The  singularity  that  struck  me  most 
about  her  ladyship  was  her  indifference  to  flattery. 
She  certainly  preferred  frolic.  Miss  Bland  was  her 
humble  companion ;  Miss  Tracey  her  hiitt.  It  was 
one  of  Lady  Geraldine's  delights,  to  humour  Miss 
Tracey's  rage  for  imitating  the  fashions  of  fine 
people.  '  Now  you  shall  see  Miss  Tracey  appear 
at  the  ball  to-morrow,  in  every  thing  that  I  have 
sworn  to  her  is  fashionable.  Nor  have  I  cheated 
her  in  a  single  article  :  but  the  tout  ensemble  I  leave 
to  her  better  judgment ;  and  you  shall  see  her,  I 
trust,  a  perfect  monster,  formed  of  every  creature's 
best :  Lady  Kilrush's  feathers,  Mrs.  Moore's  v,ig, 
Mrs.  O'Connor's  gown,  Mrs.  Leighton's  sleeves, 
and  all  the  necklaces  of  a]j  the  Miss  Ormsbys. 
She  has  no  taste,  no  judgment ;  none  at  all,  poor 
thing  ;  but  she  can  imitate  as  well  as  those  Chinese 
painters,  who,  in  their  drawings,  give  you  the  flower 
of  one  plant  stuck  on  the  stalk  of  another,  and  gar- 
nished with  the  leaves  of  a  third.'  " — i.  130—139. 

This  favourite  character  is  afterwards  ex- 
hibited in  a  great  variety  of  dramatic  contrasts. 
For  example : — 

"  Lord  Craiglethorpe  was,  as  Miss  Tracey  had 
described  him,  very  stiff,  cold,  and  high.  His  man- 
ners were  in  the  extreme  of  English  reserve ;  and 
his  ill-bred  show  of  contempt  for  the  Irish  was  suf- 
ficient provocation  and  justification  of  Lady  Geral- 
dine's ridicule.  He  was  much  in  awe  of  his  fair 
and  witty  cousin :  and  she  could  easily  put  him  out 
of  countenance,  for  he  was,  in  his  way,  extremely 
bashful.     Once,  when  he  was  out  of  the  room,  Lady 


Geraldine  exclaimed,  '  That  cousin  Craiglethorpe 
of  mine  is  scarcely  an  agreeable  man  :  The  awk- 
wardness of  mauvaise-ho7it  might  be  pitied  and  par- 
doned, even  in  a  nobleman,'  continued  her  ladyship, 
'if  it  really  proceeded  from  humiUty;  but  here, 
when  I  know  it  is  connected  with  secret  and  inordi- 
nate arrogance,  'tis  past  all  endurance.  As  the 
Frenchman  said  of  the  Englishman,  for  whom  even 
his  politeness  could  not  find  another  compliment, 
"  II  faut  avouer  que  ce  Monsieur  a  un  grand  talent 
pour  le  silence  ;" — he  holds  his  tongue  till  people 
actually  believe  that  he  has  something  to  say — a 
mistake  they  could  never  fall  into  if  he  would  but 
speak. — It  is  not  timidity  ;  it  is  all  pride.  I  would 
pardon  his  dulness,  and  even  his  ignorance  ;  for  one, 
as  you  say,  might  be  the  fault  of  his  nature,  and  the 
other  of  his  education  :  but  his  self-sufficiency  is  his 
own  fault ;  and  that  I  will  not,  and  cannot  pardon. 
Somebody  says,  that  nature  may  make  a  fool,  but 
a  coxcomb  is  always  of  his  own  making.  Now, 
my  cousin — (as  he  is  my  cousin,  I  may  say  what  I 
please  of  him.) — my  cousin  Craiglethorpe  is  a 
solemn  coxcomb,  who  thinks,  because  his  vanity  is 
not  talkative  and  sociable,  that  it's  not  vanity. 
What  a  mistake  !'  "— i.  146—148. 

These  other  traits  of  her  character  are  given, 
on  different  occasions,  by  Lord  Glenthorn  :— 

"At  first  I  had  thought  her  merely  superficial, 
and  intent  solely  upon  her  own  amusement ;  but  I 
soon  found  that  she  had  a  taste  for  literature  beyond 
what  could  have  been  expected  in  one  who  Uved  so 
dissipated  a  life  ;  a  depth  of  reflection  that  seemed 
inconsistent  with  the  rapidity  with  which  she 
thought ;  and,  above  all,  a  degree  of  generous  in- 
dignation against  meanness  and  vice,  which  seemed 
incompatible  with  the  selfish  character  of  a  fine 
lady ;  and  w'hich  appeared  quite  incomprehensible  to 
the  imitating  tribe  of  her  fashionable  companions." 

i.  174. 

"  Lady  Geraldine  was  superior  to  manoeuvring 
httle  arts,  and  petty  stratagems,  to  attract  attention. 
She  would  not  stoop,  even  to  conquer.  From  gen- 
tlemen she  seemed  to  expect  attention  as  her  right, 
as  the  right  of  her  sex  ;  not  to  beg,  or  accept  of  i* 
as  a  favour :  if  it  were  not  paid,  she  deemed  the  gen  ■ 
tleman  degraded,  not  herself.  Far  from  being 
mortified  by  any  preference  shown  to  other  ladies, 
her  countenance  betrayed  only  a  sarcastic  sort  ot 
pity  for  the  bad  taste  of  the  men,  or  an  absolute  in 
difference  and  look  of  haughty  absence.  I  saw  ihat 
she  beheld  with  disdain  the  paltry  competitions  of 
the  young  ladies  her  companions:  as  her  compan- 
ions^ indeed,  she  hardly  seemed  to  consider  them  ; 
she  tolerated  their  foibles,  forgave  their  envy,  and 
never  exerted  any  superiority,  except  to  show  hei 
contempt  of  vice  and  meanness." — i.  198,  199. 

This  may  suffice  as  a  specimen  of  the  high 
life  of  the  piece;  which  is  more  original  and 
characteristic  than  that  of  Belinda — and  alto- 
gether as  lively  and  natural.  For  the  low  life, 
we  do  not  know  if  we  could  extract  a  more 
felicitous  specimen  than  the  follc>\ing  de- 
scription of  the  equipage  in  which  1  ,ord  Glen- 
thorn's  English  and  French  servaiit  were  com- 
pelled to  follow  their  master  in  liiiJand. 

"  From  the  inn  yard  came  a  hackney  chaise,  ir: 
a  most  deplorably  crazy  state ;  ihe  body  mounted 
up  to  a  prodigious  height,  on  unbending  springs, 
nodding  forwards,  one  dcor  swinging  open,  three 
blinds  up,  because  they  could  not  be  let  down, 
the  perch  lied  in  two  places,  the  iron  of  the  wheels 
half  off,  half  loose,  wooden  pegs  for  linch-pins,  and 
ropes  for  harness.  The  horses  were  worthy  of  the 
harness;  wretched  iittie  dog-tiied  creatures,  that 
looked  as  if  they  tiad  been  driven  to  the  last  gasp, 
and  as  if  theyhnd  never  been  rubbed  down  in  their 
lives  ;  their  bones  starting  through  their  skin  ;  one 
lame,  the  other  bhnd;  one  whh  a  raw  back,  the 


516 


WORKS' OF  FICTION. 


other  with  a  availed  breast ;  one  with  iris  neck  poking 
down  over  his  collar,  and  the  other  with  his  head 
dragged  forward  by  a  bit  of  a  broken  bridle,  held  at 
arms'  lengih  by  a  man  dressed  like  a  mad  beggar, 
in  half  a  hat,  and  half  a  wig,  both  awry  in  opposite 
directions  ;  a  long  tattered  coat,  tied  round  his  waist 
by  a  hay-rope  ;  the  jagged  rents  in  the  skirts  of  this 
coat  showing  his  bare  legs,  marbled  of  many  co- 
lours ;  while  something  like  stockings  hung  loose 
about  his  ankles.  The  noises  he  made,  by  way  of 
threatening  or  encouraging  his  steeds,  I  pretend 
sot  to  describe.  In  an  indignant  voice  I  called  to 
the  landlord — '  I  hope  these  are  not  the  horses — I 
hope  .this  is  not  the  chaise,  intended  for  my  ser- 
vants.' The  innkeeper,  and  the  pauper  who  was 
preparing  to  officiate  as  postilion,  both  in  the  same 
iaistant  exclaimed — *  Sorrow  better  chaise  in  the 
county!'  'Sorrow!^  said  I — what  do  you  mean 
by  sorrow?'  '  That  there's  no  better,  plase  your 
honour,  can  be  seen.  We  have  two  more  to  be 
Bure — but  one  has  no  top,  and  the  other  no  bottom. 
Any  way,  there's  no  better  can  be  seen  than  this 
same.'  'And  these  horses!'  cried  I — '  why  this 
horse  is  so  lame  he  can  hardly  stand.'  '  Oh,  plase 
your  honour,  tho'  he  can't  stand,  he'll  go  fast 
enough.  He  has  a  great  deal  of  the  rogue  in  him, 
plase  your  honour.  He's  always  that  way  at  first 
setting  out.'  *  And  that  wretched  animal  with  the 
galled  breast !'  '  He's  all  the  better  for  it,  when 
once  he  warms  ;  it's  he  that  will  go  with  the  speed 
of  light,  plase  your  honour.  Sure,  is  not  he  Knocke- 
croghery  ?  and  didn't  I  give  fifteen  guineas  for  him, 
barring  the  luckpenny,  at  the  fair  of  Knockecrog- 
hery,  and  he  rising  four  year  old  at  the  same  time? ' 
"  Then  seizing  his  whip  and  reins  in  one  hand, 
he  clawed  up  his  stockings  with  the  other  :  so  with 
one  easy  step  he  got  into  his  place,  and  seated  him- 
self, coachman-like,  upon  a  well-worn  bar  of  wood, 
that  served  as  a  coach-box.  '  Throw  me  the  loan 
of  a  trusty,  Bartly,  for  a  cushion,'  said  he.  A 
frieze  coat  was  thrown  up  over  the  horse's  heads. 
Paddy  caught  it.  '  Where  are  you,  Hosey  !'  cried 
he  to  a  lad  in  charge  of  the  leaders.  '  Sure  I'm 
only  rowling  a  wisp  of  straw  on  my  leg,'  repHed 
Hosey.  '  Throw  me  up,'  added  this  paragon  of 
postiHons,  turning  to  one  of  the  crowd  of  idle  by- 
standers. '  Arrah,  push  me  up,  can't  ye  ?' — A 
man  took  hold  of  his  knee,  and  threw  him  upon  the 
horse.  He  was  in  his  seat  in  a  trice.  Then  cling- 
ing by  the  mane  of  his  horse,  he  scrambled  for  the 
bridle  which  was  under  the  other  horse's  feet, 
reached  it,  and,  well  satisfied  with  himself,  looked 
round  at  Paddy,  who  looked  back  to  the  chaise- 
door  at  my  angry  servants,  '  secure  in  the  last  event 
of  things.'  In  vain  the  Englishman,  in  monotonous 
anger,  and  the  Frenchman  in  every  note  of  the 

famut,  abused  Paddy.  Necessity  and  wit  were  on 
'addy's  side.  He  parried  all  that  was  said  against 
his  chaise,  his  horses,  himself,  and  his  country, 
with  invincible  comic  dexterity ;  till  at  last,  both 
his  adversaries,  dumb-founded,  clambered  into  the 
vehicle,  where  they  were  instantly  shut  up  in  straw 
and  darkness.  Paddy,  in  a  triumphant  tone,  called 
to  my  postilions,  bidding  them  '  get  on,  and  not  be 
stopping  the  way  any  longer.'  " — i.  64,  65. 

By  and  by  the  wheel  horse  stopped  short, 
and  began  to  kick  furiously. 

"  '  Never  fear,'  reiterated  Paddy.  *  I'll  engage 
I'll  be  up  wid  him.  Now  for  it,  Knockecroghery  ! 
Oh  the  rogue,  he  thinks  he  has  me  at  a  non-plush; 
but  I'll  show  him  the  differ.^ 

"  After  this  brag  of  war,  Paddy  whipped,  Knock- 
ecroghery kicked,  and  Paddy,  seemingly  uncon- 
scious of  danger,  sat  within  reach  of  the  kicking 
horse,  twitchinoj  up  first  one  of  his  legs,  then  the 
other,  and  shifting  as  the  animal  aimed  his  hoofs, 
escaping  every  time  as  it  were  by  miracle.  With  a 
mixture  of  temerity  and  presence  of  mind,  which 
made  us  alternately  look  upon  him  as  a  madman 
and  a  hero,  he  gloried  in  the  danger,  secure  of  suc- 
eM8,  and  of  the  sympathy  of  the  spectators. 


"  '  Ah  !  didn't  I  compass  him  cleverly  then  ?  Oh 
the  villain,  to  be  browbating  me  !  I'm  too  cute  for 
him  yet.  See,  there,  now,  he's  come  too;  and  I'll 
be  his  bail  he'll  go  asy  enough  wid  me.  Ogh  !  he 
has  a  fine  spirit  of  his  own ;  but  it's  I  that  can 
match  him.  'Twould  be  a  poor  case  if  a  man  like 
me  couldn't  match  a  horse  any  way,  let  alone  a 
mare,  which  this  is,  or  it  never  would  be  so  vi- 
cious.' "— i.  68,  69. 

The  most  delectable  personage,  however, 
in  the  whole  tale,  is  the  ancient  Irish  nurse 
Ellinor.  The  devoted  affection,  infantine  sim-' 
plicity,  and  strange  pathetic  eloquence  of  this 
half-savage,  kind-hearted  creature,  afford  Mis^  [ 
Edgeworth  occasion  for  many  most  original 
and  characteristic  representations.  We  shall! 
scarcely  prepossess  our  English  readers  in 
her  favour,  by  giving  the  description  of  her 
cottage. 

"  It  was  a  wretched  looking,  low,  mud- walled 
cabin.  At  one  end  it  was  propped  by  a  buttress  of 
loose  stones,  upon  which  stood  a  goat  reared  on  his 
hind  legs,  to  browse  on  the  grass  that  grew  on  the 
housetop.  A  dunghill  was  before  the  only  window, 
at  the  other  end  of  the  house,  and  close  to  the  door 
was  a  puddle  of  the  dirtiest  of  dirty  water,  in  which 
ducks  were  dabbhng.  At  my  approach,  there  came 
out  of  the  cabin  a  pig,  a  calf,  a  lamb,  a  kid,  and  two 
geese,  all  with  their  legs  tied ;  followed  by  cocks, 
hens,  chickens,  a  dog,  a  cat,  a  kitten,  a  beggar- 
man,  a  beggar-woman,  with  a  pipe  in  her  mouth  ; 
children  innumerable,  and  a  stout  girl,  with  a  pitch- 
fork in  her  hand ;  altogether  more  than  I,  looking 
down  upon  the  roof  as  I  sat  on  horseback,  and 
measuring  the  superficies  with  my  eye,  could  have 
possibly  supposed  the  mansion  capable  of  containing. 
I  asked  if  EUinor  O'Donoghoe  was  at  home ;  but 
the  dog  barked,  the  geese  cackled,  the  turkeys 
gobbled,  and  the  beggars  begged  with  on©  aeccr'd, 
so  loudly,  that  there  was  no  chance  of  my  being 
heard.  When  the  girl  had  at  last  succeeded  in  ap- 
peasing them  all  with  her  pitchfork,  she  answered, 
that  Ellinor  O'Donoghoe  was  at  home,  but  that  she 
was  out  with  the  potatoes ;  and  she  ran  to  fetch  her, 
after  calling  to  the  boys,  who  was  within  in  the  room 
smoTiing,  to  come  out  to  his  honour.  As  soon  as 
ihey  had  crouched  under  the  door,  and  were  able 
to  stand  upright,  they  welcomed  me  with  a  very 
good  grace,  and  were  proud  to  see  me  in  the  king- 
dom. I  asked  if  they  were  all  EUinor's  sons.  'All 
entirely,'  was  the  first  answer.  '  Not  one  but  one,' 
was  the  second  answer.  The  third  made  the  other 
two  inteUigible.  '  Plase  your  Honour,  we  are  all 
her  sons-in-law,  except  myself,  who  am  her  lawful 
son.'  '  Then  you  are  my  foster  brother  ?'  '  No, 
plase  your  Honour,  it's  not  me,  but  my  brother, 
and  he's  not  in  it.'  '  Not  in  it  V  '  No,  plase  your 
Honour ;  becaase  he's  in  the  forge  up  ahove.  Sure 
he's  the  blacksmith,  my  lard.  *  And  what  are  you  ?' 
'  I'm  Ody,  plase  your  honour ;'  the  short  for  Owen," 
&c.— i.  94—96.  • 

It  is  impossible,  however,  for  us  to  select 
any  thing  that  could  give  our  readers  even  a 
vague  idea  of  the  interest,  both  serious  and 
comic,  that  is  produced  by  this  original  char 
acter,  without  quoting  more  of  the  story  than 
we  can  now  make  room  for.  We  cannot 
leave  it,  however,  without  making  our  ac- 
knowledgments to  Miss  Edgeworth  for  the 
handsome  way  in  which  she  has  treated  our 
country,  and  for  the  judgment  as  well  as 
liberality  she  has  shown  in  the  character  of 
Mr.  Macleod,  the  proud,  sagacious,  friendly, 
and  reserved  agent  of  her  hero.  There  is  in- 
finite merit  and  powers  of  observation  even  in 
her  short  sketch  of  his  exterior. 


MTSS  EDGEWORTH'S  TALES  OF  FASHIONABLE  LIFE. 


517 


•'  fie  wa?  a  hard-featured,  strong  built,  perpen- 
dicul  ir  mail  uitli  a  remarkable  quietness  of  deport- 
ment:  he  spuke  with  deliberate  distinctness,  in  an 
accent  sli^jriiily  Scotch;  and,  in  speaking,  he  made 
use  ot  no  geyiiculaiion,  but  held  himself  surprisingly 
still.  No  part  of  him  but  his  eyes,  moved  ;  and 
they  had  an  expression  of  slow,  but  determined 
good  set»se.  He  was  sparing  of  his  words  ;  but  the 
tew  that  he  used  said  much,  and  went  directly  to 
the  point." — i.  82. 

But  we  must  now  take  an  abiupt  and  reluct- 
ant leave  of  Miss  Edgeworlh.  Thinking  as 
we  do,  that  her  writings  are.  beyond  all  com- 
parison;  the  most  useful  of  any  that  have  come 
before  us  since  the  commencement  of  our 
critical  career,  it  would  be  a  point  of  conscience 
with  us  to  give  them  all  the  notoriety  that  they 
can  derive  from  our  recommendation,  even  if 
their  execution  were  in  some  measure  liable 
to  objection.  In  our  opinion,  however,  they 
are  as  entertaining  as  they  are  instrmiLu^a' 
and  the  genius,  ancTwit,  and  imagination  they 
display,  are  at  least  as  remarkable  as  the  just 
Qess  of  the  sentiments  they  so  powerfully  in 


cnlcate.  To  some  readers  they  may  seem  to 
want  the  fairy  colouring  of  high  fancy  and  ro- 
mantic tenderness;  and  it  is  very  true  that 
they  are  not  poetical  love  tales,  any  more  than 
they  are  anecdotes  of  scandal.  We  have 
great  respect  for  the  admirers  of  Rousseau  and 
Peti-arca;  and  we  have  no  doubt  that  Miss 
Edgeworth  has  great  respect  for  them ; — but 
the  u'orldi  both  high  and  low,  which  she  is 
labouring  to  mend,  have  no  sympathy  with 
this  respect.  They  laugh  at  these  things,  and 
do  not  understand  them;  and  therefore,  the 
solid  sense  which  she  presses  perhaps  rather 
too  closely  upon  them,  though  it  admits  of  re- 
lief from  wit  and  tlirect  pathos,  really  could 
not  be  combined  with  the  more  luxuriant  or- 
naments of  an  ardent  and  tender  imagination. 
We  say  this  merely  to  obviate  the  only  objec- 
tion which  we  think  can  be  made  to  the  exe- 
cution of  these  stories:  and  to  justify  our 
decided  opinion,  that  they  are  actually  as 
•perfect  as  it  was  possible  to  make  them  with 
safety  to  the  great  object  of  the  author. 


Tales    of  Fashionable   Life. 


"Belinda,"  "Castle  Rackrent, 


^  TjgE.  writijo^ 
singular  an  nnjon  of  sober  sense  and   inex- 
Ranstible  invention— so  minute  a  knowledge 
of  all  that  dislingmshes  manners,  or  touches 

;  ofrtappTiVess  in  every  conilition  of  human  for- 
fuhe^— and  so  just  an  estimate  both  of  the  real 
gOtirces  of  enjoyment,  and  of  the  illusions  by 
which  they  are  obstructed,  that  it  cannot  be 
thought  wonderful  that  we  should  separate 
her  from  the  ordinary  manufacturers  of  novels, 
and  speak  of  her  Tales  as  vjcorjks  of  more  se- 
rious  impytance  than  much  of  the  true  history 
andsole^^  philosophy  that  come  daily  uiuler 
our  inspection.  The  great  business  of  life, 
an^  t)^e  p^jecljof  all  arts  and  acquisitions,  is 
undoubtedly  to_J)^  happy ;  and  though  our 
success  m  tHrs  grand  endeavour  depends,  in 
some  degree,  upon   external   circumstances, 

^overTvhicK  we  have  no  control^  and  still  more 
on  tem.per  and  dispositions,  which  can  only  be. 
jcontrolled  by  gradual  £ftid  systematic  exertion, 
a  very  great  deal  depends  also  upon  creeds 

~^!rnT~bjoTfi7d7Vs,  which  may  be  efTectually  and 

"jgven  siiJcrenly  rectified,  by  a  few  hints  from 
authority  that  cannot  be  questioned,  or  a  few 
ill;j3tratiqns  so  fair  and  striking,  as  neither  to 
be  misapplied  nor  neglected.  We  are  all^  no 
4ouBt,^foi-med,  in  a  great  degreeTby^tRe  cTr- 
cumstancesih  which  we  are  placed,  and  the 
beings  by  whom  we  are  surrounded  ;  but  still 
we  have  all  theories  of  happiness — notions  of 
ambition,  and  opinions  as  to  the  siimmiim  bo- 
num  of  our  own — more  or  less  developed,  and 
more  or  less  original,  according  to  our  situa- 
tion and  character — but  influencing  our  con- 
duct and  feelings  at  every  moment  of  our 
hves.  and  leading  us  on  to  disappointment, 


(iJuln,  1S12.) 

By   Miss    Edgeworth,  Author  of   "Practical    Education," 
"  &c.     3  vols.     12mo.  pp.  1450.    Johnson.    London:  1812. 


and  away  from  real  gratification,  as  powerfully 
as  mere  ignorance  or  passion.  It  is  to  the 
correction  of  those  erroneous  theoiTe^  that 
Miss  Edaeworth  has  applied  herself  in  that 
series '^oT  moral  fictions,  the  last  portion  of 
wKich  has  recently  come  to  our  hands;  and 
mwhicL  we  think,  s^he  has  combined  more 
solid  Instruction  with  more  universal  enter- 
tainment, and  given  more  practical  lessons  of 
wisdom,  with  less  tediousness  and  less  pre- 
tension, than  any  other  writer  with  whom  Ave 
are  acquainted. 

When  we  reviewed  the  first  part  of  these 
Tales  which  are  devoted  to  the  delineation 
of  fashionable  life,  we  ventured  to  express  a 
doubt,  whether  the  author  was  justifiable  for 
expending  so  large  a  quantity  of  her  moral 
medicines  on  so  small  a  body  of  patients — 
and  upon  patients  too  whom  she  had  every 
reason  to  fear  would  turn  out  incurable.  Up- 
on reflection,  however,  we  are  now  inclined 
to  recall  this  sentiment.  The  vices  and  illu- 
sions of  fashionable  life  are,  for  the  most  part,  ,  . 
merely  the  vices  and  illusions  of  human  nature  fH 
— presented  sometimes  in  their  most  con-  ' 
spicuous,  and  almost  always  in  only  their 
most  seductive  form  ; — and  even  where  they 
are  not  merely  fostered  and  embellished,  but 
actually  generated  only  in  that  exalted  region, 
it  is  very  well  known  that  they  "'  drop  upon 
the  place  beneath,"  and  are  speedily  propa- 
gated and  diffused  into  the  world  below.  To 
expose  them,  therefore,  in  this  their  original 
and  proudest  sphere,  is  not  only  to  purify  the 
stream  at  its  source,  but  to  counteract  their 
pernicious  influence  precisely  where  it  is 
most  formidable  and  extensive.     I'o  point  out 


518 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


the  miseries  of  those  infinite  and  laborious 
pursuits  in  which  persons  who  pretend  to 
be  fasionable  consume  their  days,  would  be 
but  an  unprofitable  task  j  while  nobody  could 
be  found  who  would  admit  that  they  belong- 
ed to  the  class  of  pretenders;  and  all  that 
remained  therefore  was  to  show,  that  the 
pursuits  themselves  w-ere  preposterous ;  and 
indicted  the  same  miseries  upon  the  unques- 
tioned leaders  of  fashioUj  as  upon  the  hum- 
blest of  their  followers.  For  this  task,  too, 
Miss  Edgeworth  possessed  certain  advantages 
of  which  it  would  have  been  equally  unnatu- 
ral and  unfortunate  for  her  readers,  if  she  had 
not  sought  to  avail  herself. 

We  have  said,  that  the  hints  by  which  we 
may  be  enabled  to  correct  those  errors  of 
opinion  which  so  frequently  derange  the  whole 
scheme  of  life,  must  be  given  by  one  whose 
authority  is  not  liable  to  dispute.  Persons  of 
fashion,  therefore,  and  pretenders  to  fashion, 
will  never  derive  any  considerable  benefit 
from  all  the  edifying  essays  and  apologues 
that  superannuated  governesses  and  precep- 
tors may  indite  for  their  reformation ; — ^nor 
from  the  volumes  of  sermons  which  leamed 
divines  may  put  forth  for  the  amendment  of 
the  age ; — nor  the  ingenious  discourses  which 
philosophers  may  publish,  from  the  love  of 
fame,  money,  or  mankind.  Their  feeling  as 
to  all  such  monitors  is,  that  they  know  nothing 
at  all  about  the  matter,  and  have  nothing  to 
do  with  personages  so  much  above  them ; — 
and  so  they  laugh  at  their  prosing  and  pre- 
sumption— and  throw  them  aside,  with  a  min- 
gled sense  of  contempt  and  indignation.  Now, 
Miss  Edgeworth  happens  fortunately  to  be 
bom  in  the  condition  of  a  lady — familiar  from 
early  life  with  the  polite  world,  and  liable  to 
no  suspicion  of  having  become  an  author  from 
any  other  motives  than  those  she  has  been 
pleased  to  assign. 

But  it  is  by  no  means  enough  that  we  should 
be  on  a  footing,  in  point  of  rank,  with  those 
to  whom  we  are  moved  to  address  our  instruc- 
tions. It  is  necessary  that  we  should  also 
have  some  relish  for  the  pleasures  we  accuse 
them  of  overrating,  and  some  pretensions  to 
the  glory  we  ask  them  to  despise.  If  a  man, 
without  stomach  or  palate,  takes  it  into  his 
head  to  lecture  against  the  pleasures  of  the 
table — or  an  old  maid  against  flirtation — or  a 
miser  against  extravagance,  they  may  say  as 
many  wise  and  just  things  as  they  please — 
but  they  may  be  sure  thai  they  will  either  be 
laughed  at,  or  not  listened  to ;  and  that  all 
their  dissuasives  will  be  set  down  to  the  score 
of  mere  ignorance  or  envy.  In  the  same  way, 
a  man  or  woman  who  is  obviously  without 
talents  to  shine  or  please  in  fashionable  life, 
may  utter  any  quantity  of  striking  truths  afe 
to  its  folly  or  unsatisfactoriness,  without  ever 
commanding  the  attention  of  one  of  "its  vota- 
ries. The  inference  is  so  ready,  and  so  con- 
solatory— that  all  those  wise  reflections  are 
the  fruit  of  disappointment  and  mortification 
— ^that  they  want  to  reduce  all  the  world  to 
their  own  dull  level — and  to  deprive  others 
of  gratifications  which  they  are  themselves 
iocapable  of  tasting.     The  judgment  of  Miss 


Edgeworth,  however,  we  think,  is  not  in  any 
very  imminent  danger  of  being  disabled  bj 
this  ingenious  imputation ;  since,  if  we  wera 
to  select  any  one  of  the  traits  that  are  mdi* 
cated  by  her  writings  as  peculiarly  charac- 
teristic, and  peculiarly  entitled  to  praise,  we 
should  specify  the  singular  force  of  judgment 
and  self-denial,  which  has  enabled  her  to  re- 
sist the  temptation  of  being  the  most  brilliant 
and  fashionable  writer  of  her  day,  in  order  to 
be  the  most  useful  and  instructive. 

The  writer  who  conceived  the  characters, 
and  reported  the  conversations  of  Lady  Dela- 
cour — Lady  Geraldine — and  Lady  E^shibrt 
(to  take  but  these  three  out  of  her  copious 
dramatis  persona),  certainly  need  not  be  afraid 
of  being  excelled  by  any  of  her  contempora- 
ries, in  that  faithful  but  flattering  representa-1 
tion  of  the  spoken  language  of  persons  of  wit 
and  politeness  of  the  present  day — in  that 
light  and  graceful  tone  of  raillery  and  argu- 
ment— and  in  that  gift  of  sportive  but  cutting 
medisctnce,  which  is  sure  of  success  in  those 
circles,  where  success  is  supposed  to  be  most 
difiicult,  and  most  desirable.  With  the  con- 
sciousness of  such  rare  qualifications,  we  do 
think  it  required  no  ordinary  degree  of  forti- 
tude to  withstand  the  temptation  of  being  the 
flattering  delineator  of  fashionable  manners^ 
instead  of  their  enlightened  corrector ;  and  to 
prefer  the  chance  of  amending  the  age  iix 
which  she  lived,  to  the  certainty  of  enjoying 
its  applauses.  Miss  Edgeworth,  however,  is 
entitled  to  the  praise  of  This  magnanimity : — \ 
For  not  only  has  she  abstained  from  dressing 
any  of  her  favourites  in  this  ghttering  drapery, 
but  she  has  uniformly  exhibited  it  in  such  a 
way  as  to  mark  its  subordination  to  the  natural 
graces  it  is  sometimes  allowed  to  eclipse,  and 
to  point  out  the  defects  it  still  more  frequently 
conceals.  It  is  a  very  rare  talent,  certainly, 
to  be  able  to  delineate  both  solid  virtues  and 
captivating  accomplishments  with  the  same 
force  and  fidelity; — but  it  is  a  still  rarer  ex- 
ercise of  that  talent,  to  render  the  former  both 
more  amiable  and  more  attractive  than  the  lat- 
ter— and,  without  depriving  wit  and  vivacity 
of  any  of  their  advantages,  to  win  not  only 
our  aflfections,  but  our  admiration  away  from 
them,  to  the  less  dazzling  quahties  of  the  heart 
and  the  understanding.  By  what  resources 
l^Iiss  Edgeworth  is  enabled  to  perform  this 
feat,  we  leave  our  readers  to  discover,  from 
the  perusal  of  her  writings ; — of  which  it  is 
our  present  business  to  present  them  ^v-ith  a 
slender  account,  and  a  scanty  sample. 

These  three  new  volumes  contain  but  three 
stories ; — the  first  filling  exactly  a  volume,  the 
second  half  a  volume,  and  the  last  no  less 
than  a  volume  and  a  half.  The  first,  which 
is  entitled  "Vivian,"  is  intended  to  show  not 
only  into  what  absurdities,  but  into  what  guilt 
and  wretchedness,  a  person,  otherways  esti- 
mable, may  be  brought  by  that  '•'  infirmity  of 
purpose"  which  renders  him  incapable  of 
resisting  the  solicitations  of  others, — of  saying 
Noj  in  short,  on  proper  occasions.  The  moral, 
perhaps,  is  brought  a  httle  too  constantly  for- 
ward •  and  a  little  more  exaggeration  is  ad- 
mitted into  the  construction  of  the  story,  thar, 


MISS  EDGEW0RTH1S  lAi.ES  OF  FASHIONABLE  LIFE. 


5»9 


ftliss  Edgeworth  generally  employs ; — ^but  it 
is  full  of  characters  and  incidents  and  good 
sense,  like  all  her  other  productions.* 

But  we  pass  at  once  to  the  last,  the  longest, 
and  by  far  the  most  interesting  of  these  tales. 
It  is  entitled,  "The  Absentee;"  and  is  in- 
tended to  expose  the  folly  and  misery  of  re- 
nouncing the  respectable  character  of  country 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  to  push,  through  in- 
tolerable expense,  and  more  intolerable  scorn, 
into  the  outer  circles  of  fashion  in  London. 
That  the  case  may  be  sufficiently  striking, 
Miss  Edgeworth  has  taken  her  example  in  an 
Irish  family,  of  large  fortune,  and  consider- 
able rank  in  the  peerage ;  and  has  enriched 
her  main  story  with  a  greater  variety  of  col- 
lateral incidents  and  characters,  than  in  any 
of  her  other  productions. 

Lord  and  Lady  Clonbrony  are  the  absentees ; 
— and  they  are  so,  because  Lady  Clonbrony 
is  smitten  with  the  ambition  of  making  a 
figure  in  the  fashionable  circles  of  London  j — 
where  her  very  eagerness  obstructs  her  suc- 
cess; and  her  inward  shame,  and  afiected 
contempt  for  her  native  country,  only  make 
her  national  accent,  and  all  her  other  nation- 
alities more  remarkable.  She  has  a  niece, 
however,  a  IVIiss  Grace  Nugent,  who  is  full 
of  gentleness,  and  talent,  and  love  for  Ireland 
— and  a  son,  Lord  Colambre,  who,  though 
educated  in  England,  has  very  much  of  his 
cousin's  propensities.  The  first  part  of  the 
story  represents  the  various  mortifications  and 
repulses  which  Lady  Clonbrony  encounters, 
in  her  grand  attempt  to  be  very  fashionable 
ia  London — ^the  embarrassments,  and  gradual 
declension  into  low  company,  of  Lord  Clon- 
brony— their  plots  to  marry  Lord  Colambre  to 
an  heiress — and  the  growth  of  his  attachment 
to  ^liss  Nugent,  who  cordially  shares  both  in 
his  regret  for  the  ridicule  which  his  mother  is 
at  so  much  expeilse  to  excite,  and  his  wish  to 
snatch  her  from  a  career  at  once  so  inglorious 
and  so  full  of  peril.  Partly  to  avoid  his  moth- 
er's importunities  about  the  heiress,  and  partly 
to  escape  from  the  fascinations  of  Miss  Nugent 
whose  want  of  fortune  and  high  sense  of  duty 
seem  to  forbid  all  hopes  of  their  anion,  he  sets 
:ut  on  a  visit  to  Ireland;  where  the  chief  in- 
terest of  the  story  begins.  There  are  here 
many  admirable  delineations  of  Irish  charac- 
ter, in  both  extremes  of  life ;  and  a  very  natu- 
ral development  of  all  its  most  remarkable 
features.  At  first,  his  Lordship  is  very  nearly 
entangled  in  the  spells  of  Lady  Dashfort  anil 
her  daughter ;  and  is  led  by  their  arts  to  form 
rather  an  unfavourable  opinion  of  his  country- 
men. An  accidental  circumstance,  however, 
disclosing  the  artful  and  unprincipled  charac- 
ter of  these  fair  ladies,  he  breaks  from  his 
bondage,  and  travels  incog,  to  his  father's  two 
estates  of  Colambre  and  Clonbrony; — the 
one  flourishing  under  the  management  of  a 
conscientious  and  active  agent;  the  other 
going  to  ruin  under  the  dominion  of  an  un- 
principled oppressor.  In  both  places,  he  sees 
a  great  deal  of  the  native  politeness,  native 


*  I  now  omit  the  original  account  of  th*!  two  first 
tales  ;  and  give  only  what  relates  to  the  last. — and 
tctosi  interesting,  and  characteristic 


wit,  and  kind-heartedness  of  the  lower  Irish ; 
and  makes  an  acquaintance  at  the  latter  with 
one  group  of  Catholic  cottagers,  more  inter- 
esting, and  more  beautifully  painted,  in  the 
simple  colouring  of  nature,  than  all  the  Arca^ 
dians  of  pastoral  or  romance.  After  detecting 
the  frauds  and  villany  of  the  tyrannical  agent, 
he  hurries  back  to  London,  to  tell  his  story  to 
his  father ;  and  arrives  just  in  time  to  hinder 
him  from  being  irretrievably  entangled  in  his 
snares.  He  and  Miss  Nugent  now  make  joint 
suit  to  Lady  Clonbrony  to  retire  for  a  while 
to  Ireland, — an  application  in  which  they  are 
powerfully  seconded  by  the  terrors  of  an  exe- 
cution in  the  house ;  *  and  at  last  enabled  to 
succeed,  by  a  solemn  promise  that  the  yellow 
damask  furniture  of  the  great  drawing-room 
shall  be  burnt  on  the  very  day  of  their  arrival. 
In  the  mean  time.  Lord  Colambre,  whose 
wider  survey  of  the  female  world  had  finally 
determined  him  to  seek  happiness  with  Grace 
Nugent,  even  with  an  humble  fortune,  sufiers 
great  agony,  from  a  discovery  maliciously 
made  by  Lady  Dashfort,  of  a  stain  on  her 
mother's  reputation ;  which  he  is  enabled  at 
length  to  remove,  and  at  the  same  time  to  re- 
cover a  splendid  inheritance,  which  had  been 
long  withheld  by  its  prevalence,  from  the  wo- 
man of  his  choice.  This  last  event,  of  course, 
reconciles  all  parties  to  the  match ;  and  they 
all  set  out,  in  bliss  and  harmony,  to  the  para- 
dise regained,  of  Clonbrony; — ^their  arrival 
and  reception  at  which  is  inimitably  described 
in  a  letter  from  one  of  their  postihons,  with 
which  the  tale  is  concluded. 

In  this  very  brief  abstract  we  have  left  out 
an  infinite  multitude  of  the  characters  and 
occurrences,  from  the  variety  and  profusion 
of  which  the  story  derives  its  principal  attrac 
tion ;  and  have  only  attempted  indeed  to  give 
such  a  general  notice  of  the  relations  and 
proceedings  of  the  chief  agents,  as  to  render 
the  few  extracts  we  propose  to  make  intelli- 
gible. The  contrivance  of  the  story  indeed  is 
so  good,  and  the  different  parts  of  it  so  con- 
cisely represented,  that  we  could  not  give  an 
adequate  epitome  of  it  in  much  less  compass 
than  the  original.  We  can  venture  on  nothing, 
therefore,  but  a  few  detached  specimens: 
And  we  take  the  first  from  a  class  of  society, 
which  we  should  scarcely  have  thought  char- 
acteristic of  the  country  in  question :  we  mean 
the  Fine  ladies  of  the  Plebeian  order,  who 
dash  more  extravagantly,  it  seems,  in  Dublin, 
than  any  other  place  in  this  free  and  com- 
mercial- empire.  Lord  Colambre  had  the 
good  fortune  to  form  an  acquaintance  with 
one  of  these,  the  spouse  of  a  rich  grocer, 
who  invited  him  to  dine  with  her  at  h^r  villa, 
on  his  way  back  from  the  county  of  Wick- 
low.  The  description,  though  of  a  different 
character  from  most  of  3\3Liss  Edgeworth's 
deUneations,  is  so  picturesque  and  Iivel5\  that 
we  cannot  help  thinking  it  must  have  been 
taken  from  the  life.  We  are  tempted,  therrt. 
fore,  to  give  it  at  full  length. 

"  After  a  charming  tour  in  the  coanty  of  Wick 
low,  where  the  beauty  of  the  natural  scenery,  and 
the  taste  with  which  those  natural  beauties  bvn 
been  cuhivated,  &r  surpassed  the  sanguine  eximcj. 


S20 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


ntions  Lord  Colamb?e  had  formed,  his  Lordship 
and  his  companions  arrived  at  Tusculum  ;  where 
lie  found  Mrs.  Raffarty,  and  Miss  JuUana  O'Leary, 
— very  elegant — with  a  large  party  of  the  ladies  and 
gentlemen  of  Bray  assembled  in  a  drawing-room, 
fine  with  bad  pictures  and  gaudy  gilding  ;  the  win- 
dows were  all  shut,  and  the  company  were  playing 
cards,  with  all  their  might.  This  was  the  fashion 
of  I  he  neighbourhood.  In  compliment  to  Lord 
Colambre  and  the  officers,  the  ladies  left  the  card- 
tables  ;  and  Mrs.  Raffarty,  observing  that  his  Lord- 
ship seemed  partial  to  walking,  took  him  out,  as 
she  said,  '  to  do  the  honours  of  nature  and  art.' 

"  The  dinner  had  two  great  faults — profusion  and 
pretension.  There  was,  in  fact  ten  times  more  on 
the  table  than  was  necessary  ;  and  the  entertain- 
ment was  far  above  the  circumstances  of  the  person 
by  whom  it  was  given:  for  instance,  the  dish  of 
fish  at  the  head  of  the  table  had  been  brought  across 
the  island  from  Sligo,  and  had  cost  five  guineas  ; 
as  the  lady  of  the  house  failed  not  to  make  known. 
But,  after  all,  things  were  not  of  a  piece :  there 
was  a  disparity  between  the  entertainment  and  the 
attendants  ;  there  was  no  proportion  or  fitness  of 
things.  A  painful  endeavour  at  what  could  not  be 
attained,  and  a  toiling  in  vain  to  conceal  and  repair 
deficiencies  and  blunders.  Had  the  mistress  of  the 
house  been  quiet ;  had  she,  as  Mrs.  Broadhurst 
would  say,  but  let  things  alone.  let  things  take  their 
course ;  all  would  have  passed  off  with  well-bred 
people  :  but  she  was  incessantly  apologising,  and 
fussing  and  fretting  inwardly  and  outwardly,  and 
directing  and  caUing  to  her  servants — striving  to 
make  a  butler  who  was  deaf,  and  a  boy  who  was 
hair-brained,  do  the  business  of  five  accomplished 
footmen  of  parts  and  figure.  Mrs.  Raffarty  called 
'  Larry  !  Larry  !  My  Lord's  plate  there  ! — James ! 
bread,  to  Captain  Bowles! — James!  port  wine,  to 
the  Major. — James  !  James  Kenny  !  James  !'  And 
panting  James  toiled  after  her  in  vain.  At  length 
one  course  was  fairly  got  through  ;  and  after  ii  tor- 
turing half- hour,  the  second  course  appeared,  and 
James  Kenny  was  intent  upon  one  thing,  and  Lar- 
ry upon  another,  so  that  the  wine  sauce  for  the  hare 
was  spilt  by  their  collision  ;  but  what  was  worse, 
there  seemed  Httle  chance  that  the  whole  of  this 
second  course  should  ever  be  placed  altogether 
rightly  upon  the  table.  Mrs.  Raffarty  cleared  her 
throat  and  nodded,  and  pointed,  and  sighed,  and 
set  Larry  after  Kenny,  and  Kenny  after  Larry  ;  for 
What  one  did,  the  other  undid  ;  but  at  last,  the 
lady's  anger  kindled,  and  she  spoke  ! — '  Kenny  ! 
James  Kenny,  set  the  sea-cale  at  this  corner,  and 
put  down  the  grass,  cross-corners  ;  and  match  your 
maccaroni  yonder  with  them  puddens,  set — Ogh  ! 
James  !  the  pyramid  in  the  middle  can't  ye.'  The 
pyramid  in  changing  places  was  overturned.  Then 
it  was,  that  the  mistress  of  the  feast,  falling  back 
in  her  seat,  and  hfting  up  her  hands  and  eyes  in 
despair,  ejaculated:  '  Oh,  James  !  James  !' — The 
pyramid  was  raised  by  the  assistance  of  the  mili- 
tary engineers,  and  stood  trembling  again  on  its 
base  ;  but  the  lady's  temper  could  not  be  so  easily 
restored  to  its  equilibrium." — pp.  25 — 28. 

We  hurry  forward  now  to  the  cottage  scene 
at  Clonbrony;  which  has  made  us  almost 
equally  in  love  with  the  Irish,  and  with  the 
writer  who  has  painted  them  with  such  truth, 
pathos,  and  simplicity.  An  ingenious  and 
good-natured  postboy  overturns  his  Lordship 
in  the  nijght,  a  few  miles  from  Clonbrony; 
and  then  says, 

"  '  If  your  honour  will  lend  me  your  hand  till  I 
pull  you  up  the  back  of  the  ditch,  the  horses  will 
stand  while" we  go.  I'll  find  you  as  pretty  a  lodging 
for  the  night,  with  a  widow  of  a  brother  of  my  shis- 
ter's  husband  that  was,  as  ever  you  slept  in  your  life ; 
and  your  honour  will  be,  no  compare,  snugger  than 
the  inn  at  Clonbrony,  which  has  no  roof,  the  devil 


a  stick.  But  where  will  I  get  your  honour's  hand  I 
for  it's  coming  on  so  dark,  I  can't  see  rightly.- 
There  !  you're  up  now  safe.  Yonder  candle's  the 
house.'  '  Well,  go  and  ask  whether  they  can  give 
us  a  night's  lodging.'  '  Is  it  ask  ?  When  I  see  the 
light ! — Sure  they'd  be  proud  to  give  the  traveller 
all  the  beds  in  the  house,  let  alone  one.  Take  care 
of  the  potatoe  furrows,  that's  all,  and  follow  me 
straight.  I'll  go  on  to  meet  the  dog,  who  knows 
me,  and  might  be  strange  to  your  honour.' 

"  *  Kindly  welcome  I'  were  the  first  words  Lord 
Colambre  heard  when  he  approached  the  cottage  ; 
and  *  kindly  welcome'  was  in  the  sound  of  the 
voice,  and  in  the  countenance  of  the  old  woman, 
who  came  out  shading  her  rush  candle  from  the 
wind,  and  holding  it  so  as  to  light  the  path.  When 
he  entered  the  cottage,  he  saw  a  cheerful  fire  and  a 
neat  pretty  young  woman  making  it  blaze  :  she 
curtsied,  put  her  spinning  wheel  out  of  the  way, 
set  a  stool  by  the  fire  for  the  stranger  ;  and  repeat- 
ing in  a  very  low  tone  of  voice,  '  Kindly  welcome, 
sir,'  retired.  *  Put  down  some  eggs,  dear,  there's 
plenty  in  the  bowl,'  said  the  old  woman,  calling  to 
her  ;  '  I'll  do  the  bacon.  Was  not  we  lucky  to  be 
up  ? — The  boy's  gone  to  bed,  but  waken  him,'  said 
she,  turning  to  the  postilion  ;  '  and  he  will  help  you 
with  the  chay,  and  put  your  horses  in  the  bier  for 
the  night.'" 

"  No:  Larry  chose  to  go  on  to  Clonbrony  with 
the  horses,  that  he  might  get  the  chaise  mended 
betimes  for  his  honour.  The  table  was  set ;  clean 
trenchers,  hot  potatoes,  milk,  eggs,  bacon,  and 
'  kindly  welcome  to  all.'  '  Set  the  salt,  dear  ;  and 
the  butter,  love;  where's  your  head,  Grace,  dear?' 
'Grace!'  repeated  Lord  Colambre,  looking  up; 
and  to  apologise  for  his  involuntary  exclamation  he 
added,  '  Is  Grace  a  common  name  in  Ireland  ?'  '  I 
can't  say,  plase  your  honour,  but  it  was  give  her  by 
Lady  Clonbrony,  from  a  niece  of  her  own  that  was 
her  foster-sister,  God  bless  her ;  and  a  very  kind 
lady  she  was  to  us  and  to  all  when  she  was  living  in 
it ;  but  those  times  are  gone  past,'  said  the  old 
woman,  with  a  sigh.  The  young  woman  sighed 
too ;  and  sitting  down  by  the  fire,  began  to  count 
the  notches  in  a  httle  bit  of  stick,  which  she  held  in 
her  hand;  and  after  she  had  counted  them,  sighed 
again.  *  But  don't  be  sighing,  Grace,  now,'  said 
the  old  woman  ;  '  sighs  is  bad  sauce  for  the  travel- 
ler's supper  ;  and  we  won't  be  troubling  him  with 
more,'  added  she,  turning  to  Lord  Colambre,  with 
a  smile — '  Is  your  egg  done  to  your  liking  ?'  '  Per- 
fectly, thank  you.'  '  Then  I  wish  it  was  a  chicken 
for  your  sake,  which  it  should  have  been,  and  roast 
too,  had  we  time.  I  wish  I  could  see  you  eat  an- 
other egg.'  No  more,  thank  you,  my  good  lady ; 
I  never  ate  a  better  supper,  nor  received  a  more 
hospitable  welcome.*  '  O,  the  welcome  is  all  we 
have  to  offer.' 

"  '  May  I  ask  what  that  is  ?'  said  Lord  Colambre, 
looking  at  the  notched  stick,  which  the  young  wo- 
man held  in  her  hand,  and  on  which  her  eyes  were 
still  fixed.  '  It's  a  tally,  plase  your  honour. — O 
you're  a  foreigner — It's  the  way  the  labourer  keeps 
the  account  of  the  day's  work  with  the  overseer. 
And  there's  been  a  mistake,  and  is  a  dispute  here 
between  our  boy  and  the  overseer ;  and  she  was 
counting  the  boy's  tally,  that's  in  bed,  tired,  for  in 
troth  he's  over-worked.'  '  Would  you  want  any 
thing  more  from  me,  mother,'  said  the  girl,  rising 
and  turning  her  head  away.  '  No,  child  ;  get  away, 
for  your  heart's  full'  She  went  instantly.  *  Is 
the  boy  her  brother?'  said  Lord  Colambre.  '  No: 
he's  her  bachelor,'  said  the  old  woman,  lowering 
her  voice.  '  Her  bachelor?'  '  That  is,  her  sweet- 
heart :  for  she  is  not  my  daughter,  though  you  heard 
her  call  me  mother.  The  boy's  my  son  ;  but  I  am 
afeard  they  must  give  it  up ;  for  they're  too  poor, 
and  the  times  is  hard — and  the  agent's  harder  than 
the  times  !  There's  two  of  them,  the  under  and 
the  upper ;  and  they  grind  the  substance  of  one 
between  them,  and  then  blow  one  away  like  chaff: 
but  we'll  not  be  talking  of  that,  to  spoil  your  hoa* 


MISS  EDGEWORTH'S  TALES  OF  FASHIONABLE  LIFE. 


j21 


onr  s  night's  rest.  The  room's  ready,  and  here's 
the  rush  hght.'  She  showed  him  into  a  very  small, 
but  neat  room.  '  What  a  comfortable  looking  bed,' 
said  Lord  Colambre,  '  Ah,  these  red  check  cur- 
lains,'  said  she,  letting  them  down  ;  '  these  have 
lasted  well ;  they  were  give  me  by  a  good  friend 
now  far  away,  over  the  seas,  my  Lady  Clonbrony  ; 
and  made  by  the  prettiest  hands  ever  you  see,  her 
neice's.Miss  Grace  Nugent's,  and  shea  little  child 
that  time  ;  sweet  love  !  all  gone  !'  The  old  woman 
wiped  a  tear  from  her  eye,  and  Lord  Colambre  did 
what  he  could  to  appear  indifferent.  She  set  down 
the  candle  and  left  the  room  ;  Lord  Colambre  went 
to  bed.  but  he  lay  awake,  '  revolving  sweet  and 
bitter  thoughts.' 

"  The  kettle  was  on  the  fire,  tea  things  set, 
every  thing  prepared  for  her  guest,  by  the  hospita- 
ble hostess,  who,  thinking  the  gentleman  would 
take  tea  to  his  breakfast,  had  sent  ofT  a  gossoon  by 
the  first  light  to  Clonbrony,  for  an  ounce  of  tea,  a 
quarter  of  sugar,  and  a  loaf  of  white  bread  ;  and 
there  w^as  on  the  little  table  good  cream,  milk, 
butter,  eggs — all  the  promise  of  an  excellent  break- 
fast. It  was  afresh  morning,  and  there  was  a  plea- 
sant fire  on  the  hearth  neatly  swept  up.  The  old 
woman  was  sitting  in  her  chimney  corner,  behind  a 
little  skreen  of  white-washed  wall,  bu'lt  out  into 
the  room,  for  the  purpose  of  keeping  those  who  sat 
at  the  fire  from  the  blast  of  the  door.  There  was  a 
loop-hole  in  this  wall,  to  let  the  light  in,  just  at  the 
height  of  a  person's  head,  who  was  sitting  near  the 
cliimney.  The  rays  of  the  morning  sun  now  came 
through  it,  shining  across  the  face  of  the  old  woman, 
as  she  sat  knitting  ;  Lord  Colambre  thouglit  he  had 
seldom  seen  a  more  agreeable  countenance ;  intelli- 
gent eyes,  benevolent  smile,  a  natural  expression 
of  cheerfulness,  subdued  by  age  and  misfortune. 
'  A  good  morrow  to  you  kindly,  sir,  and  I  hope 
you  got  the  night  well  ? — A  fine  day  for  us  this 
Sunday  morning ;  my  Grace  is  gone  to  early  prayers, 
80  your  honour  will  be  content  with  an  old  woman 
to  make  your  breakfast. — O,  let  me  put  in  plenty, 
or  it  will  never  be  good  ;  and  if  your  honour  takes 
stirabout,  an  old  hand  will  engage  to  make  that  to 
your  liking  any  way,  for  by  great  happiness  we  have 
what  will  just  answer  for  you,  of  the  nicest  meal 
the  miller  made  my  Grace  a  compliment  of,  last 
time  she  went  to  the  mill.'  " — pp.  171 — 179. 

In  the  course  of  conversation,  she  informs 
her  guest  of  the  precarious  tenure  on  which 
she  held  the  little  possession  that  formed  her 
only  means  of  subsistence. 

"  '  The  good  lord  himself  granted  us  the  lose  ; 
\he  life's  dropped,  and  the  years  is  out :  but  we 
had  a  promise  of  renewal  in  writing  from  the  land- 
lord.— God  bless  him  !  if  he  was  not  away,  he'd 
oe  a  good  gentleman,  and  we'd  be  happy  and  safe.' 
*  But  if  you  have  a  promise  in  writing  of  a  renewal, 
Burely,  you  are  safe,  whether  your  landlord  is  absent 
or  present.' — '  Ah,  no  !  that  makes  a  great  difer, 
when  there's  no  eye  or  hand  over  the  agent. — Yet, 
indeed,  there,'  added  she,  after  a  pause,  'as  you 
say,  I  think  we  are  safe  ;  for  we  have  that  memo- 
randum in  writing,  with  a  pencil,  under  his  own 
band,  on  the  back  of  the  lose,  to  me,  by  the  same 
token  when  my  good  lord  had  his  foot  on  the  step 
of  the  coach,  going  away  ;  and  I'll  never  forget 
ihe  smile  of  her  that  got  that  good  turn  done  for 
me,  Miss  Grace.  And  just  when  she  was  going  to 
England  and  London,  and  young  as  she  was,  to 
have  the  thought  to  stop  arid  turn  to  (he  likes  of 
me  !  O,  then,  if  you  could  see  her,  and  know  her 
as  I  did  !  That  was  the  comforting  angel  upon 
•earth — look  and  voice,  and  heart  and  all !  O,  that 
she  was  here  present,  this  minute  ! — But  did  you 
Bcald  yourself?'  said  the  widow  to  Lord  Colambre. 
— '  Sure,  you  must  have  scalded  yourself;  for  you 
poured  the  kettle  straight  over  your  hand,  and  it 
boiling  !  O  deear  !  to  think  of  so  young  a  gentle- 
uian's  hand  shaking  so  like  mv  own.    Luckily,  to 


prevent  her  pursuing  her  observations  r"r(im  the  hand 
to  the  face,  \\\  zh  might  have  betraved  mure  than 
Lord  Colambrv.  A'ished  she  should  know,  her  own 
Grace  came  in  at  this  instant — '  There,  it's  tor  you 
safe,  mother  dear — the  lose!'  said  Grace,  throwing 
a  packet  into  her  lap.  The  old  woman  lilted  up  her 
hands  to  heaven  with  the  lease  between  them — 
'  Thanks  be  to  Heaven  1'  Grace  passed  on,  and 
sunk  down  on  the  first  seat  she  could  reach.  Her 
face  flushed,  and,  looking  much  fatigued,  she  loos- 
ened the  strings  of  her  bonnet  and  cloak. — '  Then, 
I'm  tired  !'  but  recollecting  herself,  she  rose,  and 
curtsied  to  the  gentleman. — '  What  tired  ye,  dear  V 
— '  Why,  after  prayers,  we  had  to  go — for  the  agent 
was  not  at  prayers,  nor  at  home  for  us,  when  we 
called — we  had  to  go  all  the  way  up  to  the  castle  ; 
and  there  by  great  good  luck,  we  found  Mr.  Nick 
Garraghty  himself,  come  from  Dubhn,  and  the  lose 
in  his  hands ;  and  he  sealed  it  up  that  way,  and^ 
handed  it  to  me  very  civil.  I  never  saw  him  so' 
good  —  though  he  ofiered  me  a  glass  of  spirits, 
which  was  not  manners  to  a  decent  young  woman, 
in  a  morning — as  Brian  noticed  after.' — '  But  why 
didn't  Brian  come  home  all  the  way  with  you, 
Grace  ?' — '  He  would  have  seen  me  home,'  said 
Grace,  '  only  that  he  went  up  a  piece  of  the  moun- 
tain for  some  stones  or  ore  for  the  gentleman,— for 
he  had  the  manners  to  think  of  him  this  morning, 
though  shame  for  me,  I  had  not,  when  I  came  in, 
or  I  would  not  have  told  you  all  this,  and  he  himself 
by.  See,  there  he  is,  mother.' — Brian  came  in  very 
hot,  out  of  breath,  with  his  hat  full  of  stones.  'Good 
morrow  to  your  honour.  I  was  in  bed  last  night ; 
and  sorry  they  did  not  call  me  up  to  be  of  sarvice. 
Larry  was  telling  us,  this  morning,  your  honour's 
from  Wales,  and  looking  for  mines  in  Ireland,  and 
I  heard  talk  that  there  was  one  on  our  mountain — 
may  be,  you'd  be  curious  to  see.;  and  so,  I  brought 
the  best  I  could,  but  I'm  no  judge.'  " 

Vol.  vi.  pp.  182—188. 

A  scene  of  villainy  now  begins  to  disclose 
itself,  as  the  experienced  reader  muet  have 
anticipated.  The  pencil  writing  is  rubbed 
out :  but  the  agent  promises,  that  if  they  pay 
up  their  arrears,  and  be  handsome,  with  their 
sealing  money  and  glove  money,  &c.  he  will 
grant  a  renewal.  To  obtain  the  rent,  the 
widow  is  obliged  to  sell  her  cow. — But  she 
shall  tell  her  story  in  her  own  words. 

"  '  Well,  still  it  was  but  paper  we  got  for  the  cow ; 
then  that  must  be  gold  before  the  agent  would  take, 
or  touch  it — so  I  was  laying  out  to  sell  the  dresser, 
and  had  taken  the  plates  and  cups,  and  little  things 
off  it,  and  my  boy  was  lifting  it  out  with  Andy  the 
carpenter,  that  was  agreeing  for  it,  when  in  comes 
Grace,  all  rosy,  and  out  of  breath — it's  a  wonder  I 
minded  her  run  out,  and  not  missed  her — Mother, 
says  she,  here's  the  gold  for  you,  don't  be  stirring 
your  dresser. — And  where's  your  own  gown  and 
cloak,  Grace  ?  says  I.  But,  I  beg  your  pardon, 
sir;  may  be  I'm  tiring  you  V — Lord  Colambre  en- 
couraged her  to  go  on. — '  Where's  your  gown  and 
cloak,  Grace,  says  I.' — '  Gone,'  says  she.  '  The 
cloak  was  too  warm  and  heavy,  and  I  don't  doubt, 
mother,  but  it  was  that  helped  to  make  me  faint 
this  morning.  And  as  to  the  gown,  sure  I've  a 
very  nice  one  here,  that  you  spun  for  me  yourself 
mother  ;  and  that  I  prize  above  all  the  gowns  that 
ever  came  out  of  a  loom  ;  and  that  Brian  said  be- 
came  me  to  his  fancy  above  any  gown  ever  he  see 
me  wear,  and  w^hat  could  I  wish  for  more.' — Now, 
I'd  a  mind  to  scold  her  for  going  to  sell  the  gown 
unknown's!  to  me  ;  but  I  don't  know  how  it  was, 
I  couldn't  scold  her  just  then, — so  kissed  her,  and 
Brian  the  same ;  and  that  was  what  no  man  evei 
did  before. — And  she  had  a  mind  to  be  angry  with 
him,  but  could  not,  nor  ought  not,  says  I ;  for  he's 
as  good  as  your  husband  now,  Grace  ;  and  no  man 
can  part  yees  now,  says  I,  putting  their  hands  to- 


522 


WORKS  OF  FICTION, 


gether. — Well,  I  never  saw  her  look  so  pretty  ;  nor 
there  was  not  a  happier  boy  that  minute  on  God's 
earth  than  my  son,  nor  a  happier  mother  than  my- 
self;  and  I  thanked  God  that  he  had  given  them  to 
me  ;  and  down  they  both  fell  on  their  knees  for  my 
blessing,  little  worth  as  it  was;  and  my  heart's 
blessing  they  had,  and  T  laid  my  hands  upon  them. 
'It's  the  priest  you  must  get  to  do  this  for  you  to- 
morrow, says  I.'  " — Vol,  vi.  pp.  205 — 207. 

Next  morning  they  go  up  in  high  spirits  to 
the  castle,  where  the  villanous  agent  denies 
his  promise  ;  and  is  laughing  at  their  despair, 
when  Lord  Colambre  is  fortunately  identified 
by  Mrs.  Raffarty,  who  turns  out  to  be  a  sister 
of  the  said  agent,  and,  like  "a  god  in  epic 
poetry,  turns  agony  into  triumph ! 

We  can  make  room  for  no  more  now,  but 
the  epistle  of  Larry  Brady,  the  good-natured 
postboy,  to  his  brother,  giving  an  account  of 
the  return  of  the  family  to  Clonbrony.  If 
Miss  Edgeworth  had  never  written  any  other 
thing,  this  one  letter  must  have  placed  her 
at  the  very  top  of  our  scale,  as  an  observer  of 
character,  and  a  mistress  in  the  simple  pa- 
thetic. We  give  the  greater  part  of  this  ex- 
traordinary production. 

"  My  dear  brother, — Yours  of  the  16th,  enclo- 
sing the  five  pound  note  for  my  father,  came  safe 
to  hand  Monday  last ;  and,  with  his  thanks  and 
blessing  to  you,  he  commends  it  to  you  herewith 
enclosed  back  again,  on  account  of  his  being  in  no 
immediate  necessity,  nor  likelihood  to  want  in  fu- 
ture, as  you  shall  hear  forthwith  ;  but  wants  you 
over,  with  all  speed,  and  the  note  will  answer  for 
travelling  charges  ;  for  we  can't  enjoy  the  luck  it 
has  pleased  God  to  give  us,  without  yees:  put  the 
rest  in  your  pocket,  and  read  it  when  you've  time. 

"Now,  cock  up  your  ears,  Pat!  for  the  great 
news  is  coming,  and  the  good.  The  master's  come 
home — long  life  to  him  ! — and  family  come  home 
yesterday,  all  entirely  I  The  ould  lord  and  the 
young  lord,  (ay  there's  the  man,  Paddy  !)  and  my 
lady,  and  Miss  Nugent.  And  I  driv  Miss  Nugent's 
njaid,  that  maid  that  was,  and  another;  so  I  had 
the  luck  to  be  in  it  alone  wid'em,  and  see  all,  from 
first  to  last.  And  first,  I  must  tell  you,  my  young 
Lord  Colambre  remembered  and  noticed  me  the 
minute  he  lit  at  our  inn,  and  condescended  to 
beckon  at  me  out  of  the  yard  to  him,  and  axed  me — 
'  Friend  Larry,'  says  he,  'did  you  keep  your  pro- 
mise ?' '  My  oath  again  the  whiskey  is  it  ?'  says 

I.  'My  Lord,  I  surely  did,'  said  I;  which  was 
true,  as  all  the  country  knows  I  never  tasted  a  drop 
since.  And  I'm  proud  to  see  your  honour,  my 
lord,  as  good  as  your  word  too,  and  back  again 
among  us.  So  then  there  was  a  call  for  the  horses  ; 
and  no  more  at  that  time  passed  betwix'  my  young 
.ord  and  me,  but  that  he  pointed  me  out  to  "the  oidd 
one,  as  I  went  ofl^.  I  noticed  and  thanked  him  for 
it  in  my  heart,  though  I  did  not  know  all  the  good 
was  to  come  of  it.  Well  no  more  of  myself;  for 
the  present. 

"  Ogh,  it's  I  driv  'em  well;  and  we  all  got  to 
the  great  gate  of  the  park  before  sunset,  and  as 
fine  an  evening  as  ever  you  see ;  with  the  sun 
shining  on  the  tops  of  the  trees,  as  the  ladies  no- 
ticed the  leaves  changed,  but  not  dropped,  though 
BO  late  in  the  season.  I  believe  the  leaves  knew 
what  they  were  about,  and  kept  on,  on  purpose  to 
welcome  them  ;  and  the  birds  were  singing;  and  I 
stopped  whistling,  that  they  might  hear  them  :  but 
sorrow  bit  could  they  hear  when  they  got  to  the 
park  gate,  for  there  was  such  a  crowd,  and  such  a 
shout,  as  you  never  see — and  they  had  the  horses 
off  every  carriage  entirely,  and  drew  'em  home,  with 
blessings,  through  the  park.  And,  God  bless  'em, 
wher^  they  got  out,  they  didn't  go  shut  themselves 
ap  in  the  great  drawing-room,  but  went  straight  out 
to  the  tirrasa,  to  satisfy  the  eyes  and  hearts  that; 


followed  them.  My  lady  laning  on  my  young  lordj 
and  Miss  Grace  Nugent  that  was,  the  beautilullest 
angel  that  ever  you  set  eyes  on,  with  the  finest 
complexion  and  sweetest  of  smiles,  laning  upon 
the  old  lord's  arm,  who  had  his  hat  off,  bowing  to 
all,  and  noticing  the  old  tenants  as  he  passed  by 
name.  O ,  there  was  great  gladness,  and  tears  in  the 
midst ;  for  joy  I  could  scarcely  keep  from  myself. 

"  Afier  a  turn  or  two  upon  the  firrass,  my  Lord 
Colambre  quit  his  mother's  arm  for  a  minute,  and 
he  come  to  the  edge  of  the  slope,  and  looked  down 
and  through  all  the  crowd  for  some  one.  '  Is  it  the 
widow  O'Neill,  my  lord?'  says  I;  'she's  yonder, 
with  the  spectacles  on  her  nose,  betwixt  her  son 
and  daughter,  as  usual.'  Then  my  lord  beckoned, 
and  they  did  not  know  which  of  the  tree  would  stir  ; 
and  then  he  gave  tree  beckons  with  his  own  finger, 
and  they  all  tree  came  fast  enough  to  the  bottom  of 
the  slope,  forenent  my  lord  ;  and  he  went  down 
and  helped  the  widow  up,  (O,  he's  the  true  jantle- 
man,j  and  brought  'em  all  ^reeupon  the  fiVrass,  to 
my  lady  and  Miss  Nugent ;  and  I  was  up  close 
after,  that  I  might  hear,  which  wasn't  manners, 
but  I  couldn't  help  it!  So  what  he  said  I  don't 
well  know,  for  I  could  not  get  near  enough  after 
all.  But  I  saw  my  lady  smile  very  kind,  and  take 
the  widow  O'Neill  by  the  hand,  and  then  my  Lord 
Colambre  produced  Grace  to  Miss  Nugent,  and 
there  was  the  word  namesake,  and  something  about 
a  check  curtains  ;  but  whatever  it  was,  they  was  all 
greatly  pleased:  then  my  Lord  Colambre  turned 
and  looked  for  Brian,  who  had  fell  back,  and  toojk 
him  with  some  commendation  to  my  lord  his  father. 
And  my  lord  the  master  said,  which  I  didn't  know 
till  after,  that  they  should  have  their  house  and  farm 
at  the  ould  rent ;  and  at  the  surprise,  the  widow 
dropped  down  dead  ;  and  there  was  a  cry  as  for  ten 
herri7igs.  '  Be  qu'ite,'  says  I,  '  she's  only  kilt  for 
joy;'  and  I  went  and  lift  her  up,  for  her  son  had 
no  more  strength  that  minute  than  the  child  new 
born ;  and  Grace  trembled  like  a  leaf,  as  white  as 
the  sheet,  but  not  long,  for  the  mother  came  to,  and 
was  as  well  as  ever  wheti  I  brought  some  water, 
which  Miss  Nugent  handed  to  her  with  her  own 
hand. 

"  '  That  was  always  pretty  and  good,'  said  the 
widow,  laying  her  hand  upon  Miss  Nugent,  '  and 
kind  and  good  to  me  and  mine.  That  minute  there 
was  music  from  below.  The  blind  harper,  O'Neill, 
with  his  harp,  that  struck  up  '  Gracey  Nugent !' 
And  that  finished,  and  my  Lord  Colambre  smiling 
with  the  tears  standing  in  his  eyes  too,  and  the  ouM 
lord  quite  wiping  his,  1  ran  to  the  /«rrass  brink  to 
bid  O'Neill  play  it  again  ;  but  as  I  run,  I  thought 
I  heard  a  voice  call  Larry. 

"  '  Who  calls  Larry  ?"'  says  I.  'My  Lord  Co- 
lambre calls  you,  Larry,'  says  all  at  once  ;  and  four 
takes  me  by  the  shoulders,  and  spins  me  round. 
'There's  my  young  lord  calling  you,  Larry — run 
for  your  life.'  So  I  run  back  for  my  life,  and  walk- 
ed respectful,  with  my  hat  in  my  hand,  when  I  got 
near.  '  Put  on  your  hat,  my  father  desires  it,' 
says  my  Lord  Colambre.  The  ould  lord  made  a 
sisrn  to  that  purpose,  but  was  too  full  to  speak. 
'  Where's  your  father?'  continues  my  young  lord. 
— '  He's  very  ould,  my  lord,'  says  I. — '  I  didn't  ax 
you  how  ould  he  was,'  says  he  ;  '  but  where  is  he  ?' 
— '  He's  behind  the  crowd  below  ;  on  account  of 
his  infirmities  he  couldn't  walk  so  fast  as  the  rest, 
my  lord,'  says  I ;  '  but  his  heart  is  with  you,  if  not 
his  body.' — 'I  must  have  his  body  too:  so  bring 
him  bodily  before  us ;  and  this  shall  be  your  war 
rant  for  so*  doing,'  said  my  lord,  joking.  For  he 
knows  the  nalur  of  us,  Paddy,  and  how  we  love  a 
ioke  in  our  hearts,  as  well  as  if  he  had  lived  all  his 
life  in  Ireland  ;  and  by  the  same  token  will,  for  that 
rason,  do  what  he  pleases  with  us,  and  more  may 
be  than  a  man  twice  as  good,  that  never  would 
smile  on  us. 

"  But  I'm  telling  you  of  my  father.  '  I've  a 
warrant  for  you,  father,'  says  I ;  '  and  must  have 
yon  bodily  before  the  justice,  and  my  lord  chief 
justice.'     So  he  chanced  colour  a  bit  at  first :  but 


WAVERLEY. 


B2a 


he  saw  me  smile.  *  Ana  I've  done  no  sin,'  said  he  ; 
'  and,  Larry,  you  may  lead  me  now,  as  you  led  me 
all  my  lite.' — And  up  the  slope  he  went  with  me,  as 
iight  as  fifteen  ;  and  when  we  got  up,  my  Lord  Clon- 
brony  said,  '  I  am  sorry  an  old  tenant,  and  a  good 
old  tenant,  as  I  hear  you  were,  should  have  been 
turned  out  of  your  farm.' — '  Don't  fret,  it's  no  great 
matter,  my  lord,'  said  my  father.  '  I  shall  be  soon 
out  of  the  way  ;  but  if  you  would  be  so  kind  to 
speak  a  word  for  my  boy  here,  and  that  I  could  af- 
ford, while  the  life  is  in  me,  to  bring  my  other  boy 
back  out  of  banishment — ' 

"'Then,'  says  my  Lord  Clonbrony,  'I'll  give 
you  and  your  sons  three  lives,  or  thirty-one  years, 
from  this  day,  of  your  former  farm.  Return  to  it 
yrhen  you  please.'  *  And,'  added  my  Lord  Co- 
lambrs,  '  the  fiaggers,  I  hope,  will  soon  be  banish- 
ed.' O,  how  could  I  thank  him-:-not  a  word  could 
I  proffer — but  I  know  I  clasped  my  two  hands  and 
prayed  for  him  inwardly.  And  my  father  was 
dropping  down  on  his  knees,  but  the  master  would 
not  let  him  ;  and  obsarved,  that  posture  should  only 
be  for  his  God  !  And,  sure  enough,  in  that  posture, 
when  he  was  out  of  sight,  we  did  pray  for  him  that 
night,  and  will  all  our  days. 

"  But  before  we  quit  his  presence,  he  call  me 
back,  and  bid  me  write  to  my  brother,  and  bring 
you  back,  if  you've  no  objections  to  your  own 
country. — So  come,  my  dear  Pat,  and  make  no 
delay,  for  joy's  not  joy  complete  till  you're  in  it — 
my  father  sends  his  blessing,  and  Peggy  het  love. 
The  family  entirely  is  to  settle  for  good  in  Ireland  ; 
and  there  was  in  the  castle  yard  last  night  a  bonfire 
made  bv  my  lord's  orders  of  "the  ould  yellow  da- 
mask iurniiure,  to  plase  my  lady,  my  lord  says. 


And  the  drawing-rooms,  the  butler  was  telling  me, 
is  new  hung  ;  and  the  chairs,  with  velvet,  as  white 
as  snow,  and  shaded  over  with  natural  flowers,  by 
Miss  Nugent. — Oh  !  how  I  hope  what  I  guess  will 
come  true,  and  I've  rason  to  believe  it  will,  for  I 
dream't  in  my  bed  last  night,  it  did.  But  keep 
yourself  to  yourself — that  Miss  Nugent  (who  is  no 
more  Miss  Nugent,  they  say,  but  Miss  Reynolds, 
and  has  a  new-fo\ind  grandfather,  and  is  a  big 
heiress,  which  she  did  not  want  in  my  eyes,  nor  in 
my  young  lord's,)  I've  a  notion,  will  be  sometime,, 
and  may  be  sooner  than  is  expected,  my  Lady  Vis- 
countess Colambre — so  haste  to  the  wedding  !  And 
there's  another  thing  :  they  say  the  rich  ould  grand- 
father's coming  over ; — and  another  thing,  Pat,  you 
would  not  be  out  of  the  fashion.  And  you  see  it's 
growing  the  fashion,  not  to  be  an  Afc^niee  !'' 

If  there  be  any  of  our  readef?%ho  is  not 
moved  with  delight  and  admiraabn  in  the 
I  perusal  of  this  letter,  we  must  s^j  that  we 
'  have  but  a  pocr  opinion  either  of  his  taste  or 
1  his  moral  sensibility ;  and  shall  think  all  the 
:  better  of  ourselves,  in  future,  for  appearing 
i  tedious  in  his  eyes.  For  our  own  parts,  w&"* 
'  do  not  know  whether  we  envy  the  author 
;  most,  for  the  rare  talent  she  has  shown  in 
i  this  description,  or  for  the  experience  by  which 
j  its  materials  have  been  supplied.  She  not 
only  makes  us  know  and  love  the  Irish  natiorp 
I  far  better  than  any  other  writer,  but  seems  to 
j  us  more  qualified  than  most  others  to  promote 
1  the  knowledge  and  the  love  of  mankind. 


(33'ot)ember,  1814. ) 

Waverly,  or  'Tis  Sixty  Years  Since.    In  three  Tolumes  12mo.    pp.  1112.     Third  Edition. 

Edinburgh:  1814.*      •  • 


J/r  is  wonderful  what  p;enius  and  adhereppe 

■j-  J^nj^rmlivr^^^l  _£in^.  in    Kpifp   nf    nlj  ^jjsnrlvari- 

^tages.   Herejs,  a  thing  obviously  very  hastily, 
and^  m^lpairy  places,  somel>vhat  unskilfully 

*  I  have  been  a  good  deal  at  a  loss  what  to  do  with 
hese  famous  novels  of  Sir  Waller.  On  the  one 
hand,  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  let  this  collection 
go  forth,  without  some  notice  of  works  which,  for 
many  years  together,  had  occupied  and  delighted 
me  more  than  any  thing  else  that  ever  came  under 
my  critical  survey:  While,  on  the  other,  I  could 
not  but  feel  that  it  would  be  absurd,  and  in  some 
sense  almost  dishonest,  to  fill  these  pages  with  long 
citations  from  books  which,  for  the  last  twenty-five 
years,  have  been  in  the  hands  of  at  least  fifty  times 
as  many  readers  as  are  ever  likely  to  look  into  this 
publication — and  are  still  as  familiar  to  the  genera- 
tion which  has  last  come  into  existence,  as  to  those 
who  can  yet  remember  the  sensation  produced  by 
their  first  appearance.  In  point  of  fact  I  was  in- 
formed, but  the  other  day,  by  Mr.  Caddell,  that  he 
had  actually  sold  not  less  than  sixti/  thousand 
volumes  of  these  extraordinary  productions,  in  the 
course  of  the  preceding  year !  and  that  t"he  demand 
for  them,  instead  of  slackening — had  been  for  some 
lime  sensibly  on  the  increase.  In  these  circum- 
stances 1  think  I  may  sa.e.j  assume  that  their  con- 
tents are  still  so  perfectly  known  as  not  to  require 
any  citations  to  introduce  such  of  the  remarks  orig- 
inally made  on  them  as  I  may  now  wish  to  repeat. 
And  I  have  therefore  come  to  the  determination  of 
omitting  almost  all  the  quotations,  and  most  of  the 
^^  detailed  abstracts  which  appeared  in  the  original 


written— composed,  one  half  of  it,  in  a  dia4 
lect  unmtelligible  to  four-fifths  of  the  reading 
population  of  the  country — relating  to  a  period 
too  recent. Jo,  be  romantjc,  and  too  far  gone  by 

reviews  ;  and  to  retain  only  the  general  criticism, 
and  character,  or  estimate  of  each  performance — 
together  with  such  incidental  observations  as  may 
have  been  suggested  by  the  tenor  or  success  of 
these  wonderful  productions.  By  this  course,  no 
doubt,  a  sad  shrinking  will  be  effected  in  the  primi- 
tive dimensions  of  the  articles  which  are  here  re- 
produced ;  and  may  probably  give  to  what  is  re- 
tained  something  of  a  naked  and  jejune  appear- 
ance. If  it  should  be  so,  I  can  only  say  that  I  do 
not  see  how  I  could  have  helped  it :  and  after  all  it 
may  not  be  altogether  without  interest  to  see,  from 
a  contemporary  record,  what  were  the  first  impres- 
sions produced  by  the  appearance  of  this  new  lu- 
minary on  our  horizon  ;  while  the  secret  of  the 
authorship  was  yet  undivulged,  and  before  the  rapid 
accumulation  of  its  glories  had  forced  on  the  dullest 
spectator  a  sense  of  its  magnitude  and  power.  I 
may  venture  perhaps  also  to  add,  that  some  of  the 
general  speculations  of  which  these  reviews  sug- 
gested the  occasion,  may  probably  be  found  as  well 
worth  preserving  as  most  of  those  which  have  been 
elsewhere  embodied  in  this  experimental,  and  some- 
what hazardous,  publication. 

Though  living  in  familiar  intercourse  with  Sir 
Walter,  1  need  scarcely  say  that  I  was  not  m  tne 
secret  of  his  authorship ;  and  in  truth  had  lui 
assurance  of  the  fact,  till  the  time  c"  Its  promol* 
gatios. 


524 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


Jobfi-fenijliaj:::trand  published,  moreover,  in  a 
quarter  of  the  island  where  materials  and 
talents  for  novel-writing  have  been  supposed 
to  be  equally  wanting  :,And  yet^  by  the  mere 

^  Jprce  and  truth  and  vivacity  "of  its  colouring, 
already  casting  the  whole  tribe  of  ordinary  no-' 
V^sintb  the  shade,  and  taking  its  place  rather 
with  the  most  popular  of  our  modern  poems, 
than  with  the  rubbish  of  provincial  romances. 
The  secret  of  this  success,  we  take  it,  is 
jmerelyUiat  the  author  is  a  man  of  Genius; 

■^ancTlliairE05is;  notwithstanding,  liai_vffie 
enough  to  be  tjrue  to  Nature  throughoutfland 
toZc.Qjitent  Himself,  even  in  the  marvellous 
|)arts  of  his  story,  with  copying  from  actual 
existgncesj  rather  than  from  the  phantasms 
of  his  own  imagination.     The  charm  which 

"this  'comniunicates  to  all  works  that  deal  in 
the  representation  of  human  actions  and  char- 
acf^^  IS  more  readily  felt  than  understood; 
an'3"operates  with  unfailing  efficacy  even  upon 
those  who  have  no  acquaintance  with  the 
originals  from  whirh  thp!  picture  Jias  been  bor- 
rowe^j    It  requires  no  ordinary  talent,  indeed, 

Yd  choose  such  realities  as  may  outshine  the 
bright  imaginations  of  the  inventive,  and  so  to 
combine  them  as  to  produce  the  most  advan- 
tageous effect ;  but  when  this  is  once  accom- 
plished, the  result  is  sure  to  be  something 
more  firm,  impressive,  and  engaging,  than  can 
ever  be  produced  by  mere  fiction. 

The  object  of  |h.e  "w^^^^k  before  us,  was  evi- 
dently to  presfent  a  faithful  and  animated  pic- 
ture of  the  manners  and  state  of  society  that 
prevailed  in  this  northern  part  of  the  island,  in 
tT|e  earlier  part  of  Jast  century;  and  the  au- 
thor has  judiQiously  fixed  upon  the  era  of  the 

""Rebellion  in  1745,  not  only  as  enriching  his 
pages  with  the  interest  inseparably  attached 
to  the  narration  of  such  occurrences,  but  as 
affording  a  fair  opportunity  for  bringing  out  all 
the  contrasted  principles  and  habits  which 
distinguished  the  different  classes  of  persons 
who  then  divided  the  country,  and  formed 
among  them  the  basis  of  almost  all  that  was 
peculiar  in  the  national  character.  That  un- 
fortunate contention  brought  conspicuously  to 
light,  and,  for  the  last  time,  the  fading  image 
of  feudal  chivalry  in  the  mountains,  and  vul- 
gar fanaticism  in  the  plains ;  and  startled  the 
more  polished  parts  of  the  land  with  the  wild 
but  brilliant  picture  of  the  devoted  valour,  in- 
corruptible fidelity,  patriarchal  brotherhood, 
and  savage  habits  of  the  Celtic  Clans,  on  the 
one  hand, — and  the  dark,  intractable,  and  do- 
mineering bigotry  of  the  Covenanters  on  the 
other.  Both  aspects  of  society  had  indeed 
been  formerly  prevalent  in  other  parts  of  the 
country, — but  had  there  been  so  long  super- 
seded by  more  peaceable  habits,  and  milder 
manners,  that  their  vestiges  were  almost  ef- 
faced, and  their  very  memory  nearly  extin- 
guished. The  feudal  principalities  had  been 
destroyed  in  the  South,  for  near  three  hundred 
years,  -and  the  dominion  of  the  Puritans  from 
the  time  of  the  Restoration.  When  the  glens, 
and  banded  clans,  of  the  central  Highlands', 
therefore,  were  opened  up  to  the  gaze  of  the 
English,  in  the  course  of  that  insurrection,  it 
Beemed  as  if  they  were  carried  back  to  the 


days  of  the  Heptarchy ; — and  w^hen  they  saw 
the  array  of  the  West  country  Whigs,  they 
might  imagine  themselves  transported  1o  the 
age  of  Cromwell.  The  effect,  indeed,  is  al- 
most as  startling  at  the  present  moment ;  and 
one  great  source  of  the  interest  which  the 
volumes  before  us  undoubtedly  possess,  is  to 
be  sought  in  the  surprise  that  is  excited  by 
discovering,  that  in  our  own  country,  and  al- 
most in  our  own  age,  manners  and  characters 
existed,  and  were  conspicuous,  which  we  had 
been  accustomed  to  consider  as  belonging  to 
remote  antiquity,  or  extravagant  romance. 

Xh£jia5ua;a^iiip,h,thexHe^ 

ed  must  satisfy  every  reader,  we  think,  Ky  an* 
mward  tact  and  conviction,  that  the^deljnga^^ 
tion  has  been  made  from  actual  exp^erienco 
and  observation  :j^;;;3e^ai:ience-aiid  o!bservali(3ii 
-£mpl(iyJ2£t^f^^#^ps,  pnl^,  on  a  few  surviving" 
jelics.  aiid  speoimena  ol,w|iat  was  JamTIiar  a" 
lit  tie .  earlier^T-hut,  generalised  from  in  stance's 
sufficiently jiumerousand..£;.omplete,,  to  war;;^ 
~rant  all  that^ay  Kave.bftfiiL-a^ 
traji,; — And,  indeed,  the  existing  records  and 
vestiges  of  the  more  extraordinary  parts  of 
the  representation  are  still  sufficiently  abund- 
ant, to  satisfy  all  who  have  the  means  of  con- 
sulting them,  as  to  the  perfect  accuracy  of  the 
picture.  The  great  traits  of  Clannish  depend- 
ence, pride,  and  fidelity,  may  still  be  detected 
in  many  districts  of  the  Highlands,  though 
they  do  not  now  adhere  to  the  chieftains  when 
they  mingle  in  general  society ;  and  the  ex- 
isting contentions  of  Burghers  and  Antiburgh- 
ers,  and  Cameronians,  though  shrunk  into 
comparative  insignificance,  and  left,  indeed^ 
without  protection  to  the  ridicule  of  the  pro- 
fane, may  still  be  referred  to,  as  complete 
verifications  of  all  that  is  here  stated  about 
Gifted  Gilfillan,  or  Ebenezer  Cruickshank. 
The  traits  of  Scottish  national  character  in  the 
lower  ranks,  can  still  less  be  regarded  as  an- 
tiquated or  traditional ;  nor  is  there  any  thing 
in  the  whole  compass  of  the  work  which 
gives  us  a  stronger  impression  of  the  nice  ob- 
servation and  graphical  talent  of  the  author, 
than  the  extraordinary  fidelity  and  felicity 
with  which  all  the  inferior  agents  in  the  story 
are  represented.  No  one  who  has  not  livea 
extensively  among  the  lower  orders  of  all  de- 
scriptions, and  made  himself  familiar  with 
their  various  tempers  and  dialects,  can  per- 
ceive the  full  merit  of  those  rapid,  and  char- 
9«teis^jfe^chgs;  but  it  requires  only  a 
.gaDjeiaLkaQwIeoffe  of  human  nature,  to  fee!* 


H 


that  they  must  be  faithful  copies  from  know^ 
original^ •  and  to  be  aware  of  the  extraordi-' 
riaiyfacility  and  flexibility  of  hand  which  has 
touched,  for  instance,  with  such  discriminat- 
ing shades,  the  various  gradations  of  the  Celtic 
character,  from  the  savage  imperturbability 
of  Dugald  Mahony,  who  stalks  grimly  about 
with  his  battle-axe  on  his  shoulder,  without 
speaking  a  word  to  any  one, — to  the  lively  un- 
principled activity  of  Galium  Beg, — the  coarse 
unreflecting  hardihood  and  heroism  of  Evan 
Maccombich, — and  the  pride,  gallantry,  ele- 
gance, and  ambition  of  Fergus  himself.  In 
the  lower  class  of  the  Lowland  characters, 
again,  the  vulgarity  of  Mrs.  Flockhart  and  oi 


WAVERLEY. 


520 


Lieutenant  Jinker  is  perfectly  distinct  and 
original ; — as*  well  as  the  puritanism  of  Gilfil- 
lan  and  Cmickshank — the  atrocity  of  Mrs. 
Mucklewrath  —  and  the  slow  solemnity  of 
Alexander  Saunderson.  The  Baron  of  Brad- 
wardine,  and  Baillie  Macwheeble,  are  oatitfa- 
tures  no  doubt,  after  the  fashion  of  the  carica- 
y^[Tes  in  the  novels  of  Smollet, — or  pictures,  at 
the  best,  of  indhjdnals  who  must  always  have 
tJ6^' M lilqiie, and  extraordinary  :  but  almost 
all  tlie  other  personages  in  the  history  are  fair 
Tepresei I tati vg s_p f  classes  tliat  are  still  exlst- 
IngTor'rnaylGe  remembered  at  least  to  have 
"SffSfTsted,  by  many  whose  recollections  do  not 
extend  quite  so  far  back  as  to  the  year  1745. 
Waverley  is  the  representative  of  an  old  and 
opulent  Jacobite  family  in  the  centre  of  Eng- 
land— educated  at  home  in  an  irregular  man- 
ner, and  living,  till  the  age  of  majority,  mostly 
in  the  retirement  of  his  paternal  mansion — 
where  he  reads  poetry,  feeds  his  fancy  with 
romantic  musings,  and  acquires  amiable  dis- 
positions, and  something  of  a  contemplative, 
passive,  and  undecided  character.  All  the 
English  adherents  of  the  abdicated  family 
having  renounced  any  serious  hopes  of  their 
cause  long  before  the  year  1-745.  the  guardians 
of  young  Waverley  were  induced,  in  that  cele- 
brated year,  to  allow  him  to  enter  into  the 
army,  as  the  nation  was  then  engaged  in  for- 
eign war — and  a  passion  for  military  glory  had 
always  been  characteristic  of  his  line.  He  ob- 
tains a  commission,  accordingly,  in  a  regiment 
of  horse,  then  stationed  in  Scotland,  and 
proceeds  forthwith  to  head-quarters.  Cosmo 
Com^Tie  Bradwardine,  Esq.,  of  Tully-Veolan 
in  Perthshire,  had  been  an  ancient  friend  of 
tlie  house  of  Waverley,  and  had  been  enabled, 
by  their  good  offices,  to  get  over  a  very  awk- 
ward rencontre  with  the  King's  Attorney- 
General  soon  after  the  year  1715.  The  young 
heir  was  accordingly  furnished  with  creden- 
tials to  this  faithful  ally ;  and  took  an  early 
opportunity  of  paying  his  respects  at  the  an- 
cient mansion  of  Tully-Veolan.  The  house 
and  its  inhabitants,  and  their  way  of  life,  are 
admirably  described.  The  Baron  himself 
had  been  bred  a  lawyer ;  and  was,  by  choice, 
a  diligent  reader  of  the  Latin  classics.  His 
profession,  however,  was  that  of  arms;  and 
having  served  several  campaigns  on  the  Con- 
iment,  he  had  superadded,  to  the  pedantry 
and  jargon  of  his  forensic  and  academical 
studies,  the  technical  slang  of  a  German  mar- 
tinet—and a  sprinkling  of  the  coxcombry  of  a 
Frenc.i  mousquetaire.  He  was,  moreover, 
prodigiously  proud  of  his  ancestry;  and,  with 
ail  his  peculiarities,  which,  to  say  the  tnith, 
are  rather  more  than  can  be  decently  accu- 
mulated in  one  character,  was  a  most  nonour- 
able,  valiant,  and  friendly  person.  He  had 
one  fair  daughter,  and  no  more — who  was 
gentle,  feminine,  and  affectionate.  Waverley, 
though  struck  at  first  with  the  strange  man- 
ners of  this  northern  baron,  is  at  length  do- 
mesticated in  the  family ;  and  is  led,  by  curi- 
osity, to  pay  a  visit  to  the  cave  of  a  famous 
Highland  robber  or  freebooter,  from  which  he 
19  conducted  to  the  castle  of  a  neighbouring 
chieftain,  and  sees  the  Highland  life  in  all  its 


barbarous  but  captivating  characters.  This 
chief  is  Fergus  Vich  Ian  Vohr — a  gallant  and 
ambitious  youth,  zealously  attached  to  the 
cause  of  the  exiled  family,  and  busy,  at  the 
moment,  in  fomenting  the  insurrection,  bj 
which  his  sanguine  spirit  never  doubted  that 
their  restoration  was  to  be  effected.  He  has 
a  sister  still  more  enthusiastically  devoted  to 
the  same  cause — recently  returned  from  a  re- 
sidence at  the  Court  of  France,  and  dazzling 
the  romantic  imagination  of  Waverley  not  less 
by  the  exaltation  of  her  sentiments,  than  his 
eyes  by  her  elegance  and  beauty.  While  he 
lingers  in  this  perilous  retreat,  he  is  suddenly 
deprived  of  his  commission,  in  consequence 
of  some  misunderstandings  and  misrepresen- 
tations which  it  is  unnecessary  to  detail ;  and 
in  the  first  heat  of  his  indignation,  is  almost 
tempted  to  throw  himself  into  the  array  of 
the  Children  of  Ivor,  and  join  the  insurgents, 
whose  designs  are  no  longer  seriously  disguis- 
ed from  him.  He  takes,  however,  the  more 
prudent  resolution  of  returning,  in  the  first 
place,  to  his  family ;  but  is  stopped,  on  the 
borders  of  the  Highlands,  by  the  magistracy, 
whom  rumours  of  coming  events  had  made 
more  than  usually  suspicious,  and  forwarded 
as  a  prisoner  to  Stirling.  On  the  march  he  is 
rescued  by  a  band  of  unknown  Higldanders, 
who  ultimately  convey  him  in  safety  to  Edin- 
burgh, and  deposit  him  in  the  hands  of  his 
friend  Fergus  Mac-Ivor,  who  was  mounting 
guard  with  his  Highlanders  at  the  ancient  pal- 
ace of  Holyrood,  where  the  Royal  Adventurer 
was  then  actually  holding  his  court.  A  com- 
bination of  temptations  far  too  powerful  for 
such  a  temper,  now  beset  Waverley;  and, 
inflamed  at  once  by  the  ill-usage  he  thought 
he  had  received  from  the  government — the 
recollection  of  his  hereditary  predilections- 
his  friendship  and  admiration  of  Fergus^hia 
love  for  his  sister — and  the  graceful  conde- 
scension and  personal  solicitations  of  the  un- 
fortunate Prince, — he  rashly  vows  to  unite  his 
fortunes  with  theirs,  and  enters  as  a  volunteei 
in  the  ranks  of  the  Children  of  Ivor. 

During  his  attendance  at  the  court  of  Holy- 
rood,  his  passion  for  the  magnanimous  Flora 
is  gradually  abated  by  her  continued  indiffer- 
ence, and  too  entire  devotion  to  the  public 
cause ;  and  his  affections  gradually  decline 
upon  Miss  Bradwardine,  who  has  leisure  for 
less  important  concernments.  He  accom- 
panies the  Adventurer's  army,  and  signalises 
himself  in  the  battle  of  Preston,— \yhere  he 
has  the  good  fortune  to  save  the  life  of  an 
English  officer,  who  turns  out  to  be  an  ulti- 
mate friend  of  his  family,  and  remonstrates 
with  him  with  considerable  effect  on  the  rash 
step  he  has  taken.  It  is  now  impossible, 
however,  he  thinks,  to  recede  with  honour; 
and  he  pursues  the  disastrous  career  of  the 
invaders  into  England — during  which  he 
quarrels  with,  and  is  again  reconciled  to  Fer- 
gus— till  he  is  finally  separated  from  his  corps 
in  the  confusion  and  darkness  of  the  night- 
skirmish  at  Clifton — and,  after  lurking  foi 
some  time  in  concealment,  finds  his  way  ta 
London,  where  he  is  protected  by  the  grate 
ful  friend  whose  life  he  had  saved  at  Preston. 


526 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


and  sent  back  to  Scotland  till  some  arrange- 
ments could  be  made  about  his  pardon.  Here 
he  learns  the  final  discomfiture  of  his  former 
associates — is  fortunate  enough  to  obtain  both 
his  own  pardon,  and  that  of  old  Bradwardine 
— and;  after  making  sure  of  his  interest  in  the 
heart  of  the  young  lady,  at  last  bethinks  him 
of  going  to  give  an  account  of  himself  to  his 
family  at  Waverley-Honour. — In  his  way,  he 
attends  the  assizes  at  Carlisle,  where  all  his 
efforts  are  ineffectual  to  avert  the  fate  of  his 
gallant  friend  Fergus — whose  heroic  demean- 
our in  that  last  extremity,  is  depicted  with 
great  feeling ; — has  a  last  interview  with  the 
desolated  Flora — obtains  the  consent  of  his 
friends  to  his  marriage  with  Miss  Bradwar- 
dine— ^puts  the  old  Baron  in  possession  of  his 
forfeited  manor,  and.  m  due  time,  carries  his 
blooming  bride  to  the  peaceful  shades  of  his 
own  paternal  abode. 

Such  is  the  outline  of  the  story : — although 
it  is  broken  and  diversified  with  so  many  sub- 
ordinate incidents,  that  what  we  have  now 
given,  wall  afford  but  a  very  inadequate  idea 
even  of  the  narrative  part  of  the  performance. 
Though  that  narrative  is  always  lively  and 
easy,  the  great  charm  of  the  work  consists, 
undoubtedly,  in  the  characters  and  descrip- 
tions— though  we  can  scarcely  venture  to  pre- 
sent our  readers  with  more  than  a  single 
specimen ;  and  we  select,  as  one  of  the  most 
characteristic,  the  account  of  Waverley's  night 
visit  to  the  cave  of  the  Highland  freebooter. 

*'  In  a  short  time,  he  found  himself  on  the  banks 
of  a  large  river  or  lake,  where  his  conductor  gave 
him  to  understand  they  must  sit  down  for  a  little 
while.  The  moon,  which  now  began  to  rise, 
showed  obscurely  the  expanse  of  water  which 
spread  before  them,  and  the  shapeless  and  indistinct 
forms  of  mountains,  with  which  it  seemed  to  be 
surrounded.  The  cool,  and  yet  mild  air  of  the  sum- 
mer night,  refreshed  Waverley  after  his  rapid  and 
toilsome  walk ;  and  the  perfume  which  it  wafted 
from  the  birch  trees,  bathed  in  the  evening  dew, 
was  exquisitely  fragrant. 

"  He  had  now  time  to  give  himself  up  to  the  full 
romance  of  his  situation.  Here  he  sat  on  the  banks 
of  an  unknown  lake,  under  the  guidance  of  a  wild 
native,  whose  language  was  unknown  to  him,  on  a 
visit  to  the  den  of  some  renowned  outlaw,  a  second 
Robin  Hood  perhaps,  or  Adam  o'  Gordon,  and  that 
at  deep  midnight,  through  scenes  of  difficulty  and 
toil,  separated  from  his  attendant,  and  left  by  his 
guide. 

"  While  wrapt  in  these  dreams  of  imagination, 
his  companion  gently  touched  him,  and  pointing  in 
a  direction  nearly  straight  across  the  lake,  said, 
*  Yen's  ta  cove.'  A  small  point  of  light  was  seen 
to  twinkle  in  the  direction  in  which  he  pointed,  and, 
gradually  increasing  in  size  and  lustre,  seemed  to 
flicker  like  a  meteor  upon  the  verge  of  the  horizon. 
While  Edward  watched  this  phenomenon,  the  dis- 
tant dash  of  oars  was  heard.  The  measured  splash 
arrived  near  and  more  near ;  and  presently  a  loud 
whistle  was  heard  in  the  same  direction.  His 
friend  with  the  lattle-axe  immediately  whistled 
crear  and  shrill,  in  reply  to  the  signal ;  and  a  boat, 
manned  with  four  or  five  Highlanders,  pushed  for 
a  little  inlet,  near  which  Edward  was  seated.  He 
advanced  to  meet  them  with  his  attendant ;  was 
immediately  assisted  into  the  boat  by  the  officious 
attention  of  two  stout  mountaineers ;  and  had  no 
sooner  seated  himself,  than  they  resumed  their 
oars,  ana  began  to  row  across  the  lake  with  great 
rapidity. 


"The  party  preserved  silence,  interrupted  only 
by  the  monotonous  and  murmured  chant  of  a  Gaelic 
song,  sung  in  a  kind  of  low  recitative  by  the  steers- 
man, and  by  the  dash  of  the  oars,  which  the  notes 
seemed  to  regulate,  as  they  dipped  to  them  in  ca 
dence.  The  light,  which  they  now  approached 
more  nearly,  assumed  a  broader,  redder,  and  more 
irregular  splendour.  It  appeared  plainly  to  be  a 
large  fire  ;  but  whether  kindled  upon  an  island  or 
the  mainland,  Edward  could  not  determine.  As  he 
saw  it,  the  red  glaring  orb  seemed  to  rest  on  the 
very  surface  of  the  lake  itself,  and  resembled  the 
fier^  vehicle  in  which  the  Evil  Genius  of  an  oriental 
tale  traverses  land  and  sea.  They  approached 
nearer;  and  the  light  of  the  fire  sufficed  to  show 
that  it  was  kindled  at  the  bottom  of  a  huge  dark  crag 
or  rock,  rising  abruptly  from  the  very  edge  of  the 
water ;  its  front,  changed  by  the  reflection  to  dusky 
red,  formed  a  strange  and  even  awful  contrast  to 
the  banks  around,  which  were  from  time  to  time 
faintly  and  partially  enlightened  by  pallid  moonlight. 

"  The  boat  now  neared  the  shore,  and  Edward 
could  discover  that  this  large  fire  was  kindled  in 
the  jaws  of  a  lofty  cavern,  into  which  an  inlet  from 
the  lake  seemed  to  advance  ;  and  he  conjectured, 
which  was  indeed  true,  that  the  fire  had  been  kin- 
dled as  a  beacon  to  the  boatmen  on  their  return. 
They  rowed  right  for  the  mouth  of  the  cave  ;  and 
then  shipping  their  oars,  permitted  the  boat  to  enter 
with  the  impulse  which  it  had  received.  The  skiff 
passed  the  Uttle  point,  or  platform  of  reckon  which 
the  fire  was  blazing,  and  running  about  two  boats' 
length  farther,  stopped  where  the  cavern,  for  it  was 
already  arched  overhead,  ascended  from  the  water 
by  five  or  six  broad  ledges  of  rock,  so  easy  and 
regular  that  they  might  be  termed  natural  steps. 
At  this  moment,  a  quantity  of  water  was  suddenly 
flung  upon  the  fire,  which  sunk  with  a  hissing  noise, 
and  with  it  disappeared  the  light  it  had  hitherto  af- 
forded.  Four  or  five  active  arms  lifted  Waverlsy 
out  of  the  boat,  placed  him  on  his  feet,  and  almost 
carried  him  into  the  recesses  of  the  cave.  He  made 
a  few  paces  in  darkness,  guided  in  this  manner ;  and 
advancing  towards  a  hum  of  voices,  which  seemed 
to  sound  from  the  centre  of  the  rock,  at  an  acute 
turn  Donald  Bean  Lean  and  his  whole  establish- 
ment were  before  his  eyes. 

"  The  interior  of  the  cave,  which  here  rose  very 
high,  was  illuminated  by  torches  made  of  pine-tree, 
which  emitted  a  bright  and  bickering  light,  attended 
by  a  strong,  though  not  unpleasant  odour.  Their 
Hght  was  assisted  by  the  red  glare  of  a  large  char- 
coal fire,  round  which  were  seated  five  or  six  armed 
Highlanders,  while  others  were  indistinctly  seen 
couched  on  their  plaids,  in  the  more  remote  recesses 
of  the  cavern.  In  one  large  aperture,  which  the 
robber  facetiously  called  fiis  spence  (or  pantry), 
there  hung  by  the  heels  the  carcases  of  a  sheep  or 
ewe,  and  two  cows,  lately  slaughtered. 

"  Being  placed  at  a  convenient  distance  from  the 
charcoal  fire,  the  heat  of  which  the  season  rendered 
oppressive,  a  strapping  Highland  damsel  placed  be- 
fore Waverley,  Evan,  and  Donald  Bean,  three 
cogues,  or  wooden  vessels,  composed  of  staves  and 
hoops,  containing  imrigh,  a  sort  of  strong  soup 
made  out  of  a  particular  part  of  the  inside  of  the 
beeves.  After  this  refreshment,  which,  though 
coarse,  fatigue  and  Imnger  rendered  palatable 
steaks,  roasted  on  the  coals,  were  supplied  in  hbe- 
ral  abundance,  and  disappeared  before  Evan  Dhu 
and  their  host  with  a  promptitude  that  seemed  like 
magic,  and  astonished  Waverley,  who  was  much 
puzzled  to  reconcile  their  voracity  with  what  he  had 
heard  of  the  abstemiousness  of  the  Highlanders.— 
A  heath  pallet,  with  the  flowers  stuck  uppermost 
had  been  prepared  for  him  in  a  recess  of  the  cave 
and  here,  covered  with  such  spare  plaids  as  couU. 
be  mustered,  he  lay  for  some  time  watching  the 
motions  of  the  other  inhabitants  of  the  cavern. 
Small  parties  of  two  or  three  entered  or  left  the 
place  without  any  other  ceremony  than  a  few  worda 
in  Gaelic  to  the  principal  outlav/,  and  when  he  Cell 


WAVERLEY 


527 


asieep,  to  a  tall  Highlander  who  acted  as  his  lieuten- 
arii,  and  seemed  to  keep  watch  during  his  repose. 
I'hose  who  entered,  seemed  to  have  returned  from 
Bonie  excursion,  of  which  they  reported  the  success, 
and  went  without  farther  ceremony  to  the  larder, 
where  cutting  with  their  dirks  their  rations  from 
the  carcases  which  were  there  suspended,  they  pro- 
ceeded to  broil  and  eat  them  at  their  own  time  and 
leisure. 

"  At  length  the  fluctuating  groupes  began  to 
swim  before  the  eyes  of  our  hero  as  they  gradually 
closed ;  nor  did  hb  reopen  them  till  the  morning 
6un  was  high  on  the  lake  without,  though  there  was 
but  a  faint  and  glimmering  twilight  in  the  recesses 
of  Uaimh  an  Ri,  or  the  King's  cavern,  as  the  abode 
of  Donald  Bean  Lean,  was  proudly  denominated. 

"  When  Edward  had  collected  his  scattered  recol- 
lection, he  was  surprised  to  observe  the  cavern  to- 
tally deserted.  Having  arisen  and  put  his  dress  in 
some  order,  he  looked  njore  accurately  around  him, 
but  all  was  still  solitary.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the 
decayed  brands  of  the  fire,  now  sunk  into  grey 
ashes,  and  the  remnants  of  the  festival,  consisting 
of  bones  half  burned  and  half  gnawed,  and  an  empty 
keg  or  two,  there  remained  no  traces  of  Donald  and 
his  band. 

"Near  to  the  mouth  of  the  cave  he  heard  the 
notes  of  a  lively  Gaelic  song,  guided  by  which,  in 
a  sunny  recess,  shaded  by  a  glittering  birch  tree, 
and  carpetted  with  a  bank  of  firm  white  sand,  he 
found  the  damsel  of  the  cavern,  whose  lay  had 
already  reached  him,  busy  to  the  best  of  her  power, 
in  arranging  to  advantage  a  morning  repast  of  milk, 
eggs,  barley  bread,  fresh  butter,  and  honeycomb. 
I'he  poor  girl  had  made  a  circuit  of  four  miles  that 
morning  in  search  of  the  eggs,  of  the  meal  which 
baked  her  cakes,  and  of  the  other  materials  of  the 
breakfast,  being  all  delicacies  which  she  had  to  beg 
or  borrow  from  distant  cottao:ers.  The  followers 
of  Donald  Bean  Lean  used  little  food  except  the 
flesh  of  the  animals  which  they  drove  away  from 
the  Lowlands;  bread  itself  was  a  delicacy  seldom 
thought  of,  because  hard  to  be  obtained;  and  all 
the  domestic  accommodations  of  milk,  poultry,  but- 
ter, &c.  were  out  of  the  question  in  this  Scythian 
camp.  Yet  it  must  not  be  omitted,  that  although 
Alice  had  occupied  a  part  of  the  morning  in  provi- 
ding those  accommodations  for  her  guest  which  the 
cavern  did  not  afford,  she  had  secured  time  also  to 
arrange  her  own  person  in  her  best  trim.  Her 
finery  was  very  simple.  A  short  russet-coloured 
jacket,  and  a  petticoat  of  scanty  longitude,  was  her 
whole  dress;  but  these  were  clean,  and  neatly  ar- 
ranged. A  piece  of  scarlet  embroidered  cloth,  called 
the  snood,  confined  her  hair,  which  fell  over  it  in  a 
profusion  of  rich  dark  curls.  The  scarlet  plaid, 
which  formed  part  of  her  dress,  was  laid  aside,  that 
it  might  not  impede  her  activity  in  attending  the 
stranger.  I  should  forget  Alice's  proudest  orna- 
ment were  I  to  omit  mentioning  a  pair  of  gold  ear- 
rings, and  a  golden  rosary  which  her  father,  (for 
she  was  the  daughter  of  Donald  Bean  Lean)  had 
brought  from  France — the  plunder  probably  of  some 
battle  or  storm. 

"Her  form,  though  rather  large  for  her  years, 
was  very  well  proportioned,  and  her  demeanour 
had  a  natural  and  rustic  grace,  with  nothing  of  the 
sheepishness  of  an  ordinary  peasant.  The  smiles, 
displaying  a  row  of  teeth  of  exquisite  whiteness,  and 
the  laughing  eyes,  with  which,  in  dumb-show,  she 
gave  Waverley  that  morning  greeting  which  she 
wanted  English  words  to  express,  might  have  been 
interpreted  by  a  coxcomb,  or  perhaps  a  young 
Boldier,  who,  v/ithout  being  such,  was  conscious  of 
ft  handsome  pe'-son,  as  meant  to  convey  more  than 
the  courtesy  of  a  hostess.  Nor  do  I  take  it  upon 
me  to  say,  that  the  little  wild  mountaineer  would 
have  welcomed  any  staid  old  gentleman  advanced 
in  life,  the  Baron  of  Bradvvardine,  for  example, 
with  the  cheerful  pain^  which  she  bestowed  upon 
Edward's  accommodation.  She  seemed  eager  to 
place  him  by  the  meal  which  she  had  so  sedulous- 


ly arranged,  and  to  which  she  now  added  a  fevi 
bunches  of  cranberries,  gathered  in  an  adjacent  mo 
rass.  Having  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  him 
seated  at  breakfast,  she  placed  herself  demurely 
upon  a  stone  at  a  few  yards'  distance,  and  appeared 
to  watch  with  great  complacency  for  some  oppor 
tunity  of  serving  him. 

"Meanwhile  Alice  had  made  up  in  a  small  has 
ket  what  she  thought  worth  removing,  and  flinging 
her  plaid  around  her,  she  advanced  up  to  Edward, 
and,  with  the  utmost  simplicity,  taking  hold  of  his 
hand,  offered  her  cheek  to  his  salute,  dropping,  at 
the  same  time,  her  little  courtesy.  Evan,  whowas 
esteemed  a  wag  among  the  mountain  fair,  advanced, 
as  if  to  secure  a  similar  favour  ;  but  Alice,  snatch- 
ing up  her  basket,  escaped  up  the  rocky  bank  as 
fleetly  as  a  deer,  and,  turning  round  and  laughing, 
called  something  out  to  him  in  Gaelic,  which  & 
answered  in  the  same  tone  and  language  ;  ther 
waving  her  hand  to  Edward,  she  resumed  her  road, 
and  was  soon  lost  among  the  thickets,  though  they 
continued  for  some  time  to  hear  her  lively  carol,  as 
she  proceeded  gaily  on  her  solitary  journey."  — 
Vol.  i.  pp.  240—270. 

The  gay  scenes  of  the  Adventurer's  court 
— the  breaking  up  of  his  army  from  Edin- 
burgh— the  battle  of  Preston — and  the  whole 
process  of  his  disastrous  advance  and  retreat 
from  the  English  provinces,  are  given  with 
the  greatest  brilliancy  and  effect — as  well  as 
the  scenes  of  internal  disorder  and  rising  dis- 
union that  prevail  in  his  scanty  army — the 
quarrel  with  Fergus — and  the  mystical  visions 
by  which  that  devoted  chieftain  foresees  his 
disastrous  fate.  T};e,low_er_scenes  again  withj 
Mrs.  Flockhart,  Mrs.  Nosebag,  Callum-BegJ 
and  the  Cumberland  peasants,  though  to  some' 
fastidious  readers  they  may  appear  coarse  andj 
disgusting,  ar£__paiiLted  _with  a  force  and  a! 
.truth.J.Q^natuxg,  which  equally  bespeak  thej 
powers  of  the  artist,  and  are  incomparably 
superior  to  any  thing  of  the  sort  which  has 
been  offered  to  the  pubhc  for  the  last  "  sixty 
years."  There  are  also  various  copies  of 
verses  scattered  through  the  work,  which 
indicate  poetical  talents  of  no  ordinary  de- 
scription— though  bearing,  perhaps  still  more 
distinctly  than  th'^  prose,  the  traces, of  consid-,, 
^  ,eraJWe.^9j:eles<!ii 'r-s  and  haste. 

Tlie"vorst  part  of  the  book  by  far  is  that 
portion  of  the  first  volume  which  contains  the 
history  of  the  hero's  residence  in  England — 
and  next  to  it  is  the  laborious,  tardy,  and  ob- 
scure explanation  of  some  puzzling  occur- 
rences in  the  story,  which  the  reader  would, 
in  general,  be  much  better  pleased  to  be  per- 
mitted to  forget — and  which  are  neither  well 
explained  after  all,  nor  at  all  worth  explaining. 

There  has  been  much  speculation,  at  least 
in  this  quarter  of  the  island,  about  the  author- 
ship of  this  singular  performance — and  cer- 
tainly it  is  not  easy  to  conjecture  why  it  is 
still  anonymous. — Judging  by  internal  evi- 
dence, to  which  alone  we  pretend  to  have 
access,  we  should  not  scraple.to  ascribe  it  to 
the  highest  of  those  authors  to  whom  it  has 
been  assigned  by  the  sagacious  conjectures 
of  the  public ; — and  this  at  least  we  will  ven- 
ture to  say,  that  if  it  be  indeed  the  work  of 
an  author  hitherto  unknowm,  Mr.  Scott  would 
do  well  to  look  to  his  laurels,  and  to  rouse 
himself  for  a  sturdier  competition  than  any 
he  has  yet  had  to  encounter  ! 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


(iHai-il),  1817.) 

Tales  of  My  Landlord,  collected  and  arranged  hy  Jedediah  Cleishbotham,  Schoohnaster  and 
Parish  Clerk  of  the  Parish  of  Gandercleugh.    4  vols.     12mo.     Edinburgh:  1816. 


This,  we  thiiik,  is  beyond  all  question  a 
new  coinage  from  the  mint  which  produced 
Waverley,  GuyMannering,  and  the  Antiquary: 
— For  though  it  does  not  bear  the  legend  and 
superscription  of  the  Master  on  the  face  of 
the  pieces,  there  is  no  mistaking  either  the 
quality  of  the  metal  or  the  execution  of  the 
die — and  even  the  private  mark,  we  doul 
not,  may  be  seen  plain  enough,  by  those  who 
know  how  to  look  for  it.  It  is  quite  impos- 
sible to  read  ten  pages  of  this  work,  in  short, 
without  feeling  that  it  belongs  to  the  same 
school  with  those  very  remarkable  produc- 
tions ;  and  no  one  who  has  any  knowledge  of 
nature,  or  of  art,  will  ever  doubt  that  it  is  an 
original.  The  very  identity  of  the  leading 
characters  in  the  whole  set  of  stories,  is  a 
stronger  proof,  perhaps,  that  those  of  the  last 
series  are  not  copied  from  the  former,  than 
even  the  freshness  and  freedom  of  the  drape- 
ries with  which  they  are  now  invested — or 
the  ease  and  spirit  of  the  new  groups  into 
which  they  are  here  combined.  No  imitator 
would  have  ventured  so  near  his  originals, 
and  yet  come  off  so  entirely  clear  of  them: 
And  we  are  only  the  more  assured  that  the 
old  acquaintances  we  continually  recognise  in 
these  volumes,  are  really  the  persons  they 
pretend  to  be,  and  no  false  mimics,  that  we 
recollect  so  perfectly  to  have  seen  them  be- 
fore,— or  at  least  to  have  been  familiar  with 
some  of  their  near  relations  ! 
■  We  have  often  been  astonished  at  the 
quantity  of  talent — of  invention,  observation, 
and  knowledge  of  character,  as  well  as  of 
spirited  and  graceful  composition,  that  may 
I  be  found  in  those  works  of  fiction  in  our  lan- 
guage, which  are  generally  regarded  as 
among  the  lower  productions  of  our  litera- 
ture,— upon  which  no  great  pains  is  under- 
stood to  be  bestowed,  and  which  are  seldom 
regarded  as  titles  to  a  permanent  reputation. 
If  Novels,  however,  are  not  fated  to  last  as 
long  as  Epic  poems,  they  are  at  least  a  great 
deal  more  popular  in  their  season  ',  and,  slight 
as  their  structure,  and  imperfect  as  their  fin- 
ishing may  often  be  thought  in  comparison, 
we  have  no  hesitation  in  saying,  that  the  better 
specimens  of  the  art  are  incomparably  more 
entertaining,  and  considerably  more  instruc- 
tive. The  great  objection  to  them,  indeed,  is, 
that  they  are  -too  entertaining — and  are  so 
pleasant  in  the  reading,  as  to  be  apt  to  pro- 
duce a  disrelish  for  other  kinds  of  reading, 
which  may  be  more  necessary,  and  can  in 
no  way  be  made  so  agreeable.  Neither  sci- 
ence, nor  authentic  history,  nor  political  nor 
professional  instruction,  can  be  rightly  con- 
veyed, we  fear,  in  a  pleasant  tale ;  and,  there- 
fore, all  those  things  are  in  danger  of  appear- 


ing dull  and  uninteresting  to  the  votaries  of 
these  more  seductive  studies.  Among  the 
most  popular  of  these  popular  productions 
that  have  appeared  in  our  times,  we  must 
rank  the  works  to  which  we  just  alluded ; 
and  we  do  not  hesitate  to  say,  that  they  are 
well  entitled  to  thai  distinction.  They  are 
indeed,  in  many  respects^  very  extraordinary 
performances — though  in  nothmg  more  extra- 
ordinary than  in  having  remained  so  long  un- 
claimed. There  is  no  name,  we  think,  in  our 
literature,  to  which  they  would  not  adcLlustre 
— and  lustre,  too,  of  a  very  enviable  kindj 
for  they  not  only  show  great  talent,  but  in 
finite  good  sense  and  good  nature, — a  more- 
vigorous  and  wide-reaching  intellect  than  iy 
often  displayed  in  novels,  and  a  more  power- 
ful fancy,  and  a  deeper  s}-mpathy  with  va 
rious  passion,  than  is  often  combined  witl 
such  strength  of  understanding. 

The  author,  whoever  he  is,  has  a  trul)) 
graphic  and  creative  power  in  the  invention 
and  delineation  of  characters  —  which  he 
sketches  with  an  ease,  and  colours  with  a 
brilliancy,  and  scatters  about  with  a  pro- 
fusion, which  reminds  us  of  Shakespeare 
himself:  Yet  with  all  this  force  and  felicity 
in  the  representation  of  living  agents,  he  haa 
the  eye  of  a  poet  for  all  the  striking  aspects 
external  of  nature;  and  usually  contrives, 
both  in  his  scenery  and  in  the  groups  with 
which  it  is  enlivened,  to  combine  the  pictur- 
esque with  the  natural,  with  a  grace  that  has 
rarely  been  attained  by  artists  so  copious  and 
rapid.  His  narrative,  in  this  way,  is  kept  con- 
stantly full  of  life,  variety,  and  colour ;  and 
is  so  interspersed  with  glowing  descriptions, 
and  lively  allusions,  and  flying  traits  of  sa- 
gacity and  pathos,  as  not  only  to  keep  our 
attention  continually  awake,  but  to  afford  a 
pleasing  exercise  to  most  of  our  other  facul- 
ties. The  prevailing  tone  is  very  gay  and 
pleasant ;  but  the  author's  most  remarkable, 
and,  perhaps,  his  most  delightful  talent,  is' 
that  of  representing  kjndness  of  heart  in  union 
with  lightness  of  spirits  and  great  simplicity  . 
of  character,  and  of  bending  the  expression 
of  warm  and  generou  5  and  exalted  affections 
with  scenes  and  persons  that  are  in  themselves 
both  lowly  and  ludicrous.  This  gift  he  shares 
with  his  illustrious  countryman  Burns — as  he 
does  many  of  the  other  qualities  we  have 
mentioned  with  anofhe'r  living  poet, — who  is 
only  inferior  perhaps  in  that  to  which  we  have 
last  alluded.  It  is  veiy  honourable  indeed, 
we  think,  both  to  the  aut  hor,  and  to  the  readers 
among  whom  he  is  s.o  e.vtremely  popular,  that 
the  great  interest  of  his  pieces  is  for  the  most 
part  a  Moral  interest— that  the  concern  we 
take  in  his  favourite  chaxacjters  is  less  on  ac- 


TALES  OF  MY  LANDLORD. 


529 


count  of  their  adventures  than  of  their  amia- 
bleness — and  that  the  great  charm  of  his  works 
is  derived  from  the  kindness  of  heart,  the 
capacity  of  generous  emotions,  and  the  hghts 
of  native  taste  which  lie  ascribes,  so  lavishly, 
and  at  the  same  time  with  such  an  air  of  truth 
and  familiarity,  even  to  the  humblest  of  these 
favourites.  With  all  his  relish  for  the  ridicu- 
lous, accordingly,  there  is  no  tone  of  misan- 
thropy, or  even  of  sarcasm,  in  his  representa- 
tions j  but,  on  the  contrary,  a  great  indulgence 
and  relenting  even  towards  those  who  are  to 
be  the  objects  of  our  disapprobation.  There 
is  no  keen  or  cold-blooded  satire — no  bitter- 
ness of  heart,  or  fierceness  of  resentment,  m 
any  part  of  his  writings.  His  love  of  ridicule 
is  little  else  than  a  love  of  mirth;  and  savours 
throughout  of  the  joyous  temperament  in 
which  it  appears  to  have  its  origin ;  while  the 
buoyancy  of  a  raised  and  poetical  imagination 
lifts  him  continually  above  the  region  of  mere 
jollity  and  good  humour,  to  which  a  taste,  by 
no  means  nice  or  fastidious,  might  otherwise 
be  in  danger  of  sinking  him.  He  is  evidently 
f  a  person  of  a  very  sociable  and  liberal  spirit 
— with  great  habits  of  observation — who  has 
ranged  pretty  extensively  through  the  varie- 
[  ties  of  human  life  and  character,  and  mingled 
'i  with  them  all,  not  only  with  intelligent  famili- 
arity, but  with  a  free  and  natural  sympathy 
for  all  the  diversities  of  their  tastes,  pleasures, 
and  pursuits — one  who  has  kept  his  heart  as 
well  as  his  eyes  open  to  all  that  has  offered 
,  itself  to  engage  them ;  and  learned  indulgence 
{  for  human  faults  and  follies,  not  only  from 
I  finding  kindred  faults  in  their  most  intolerant 
censors,  but  also  for  the  sake  of  the  virtues  by 
i  which  they  are  often  redeemed,  and  the  suf- 
i  ferings  by  which  they  have  still  oftener  been 
•4  chastised.  The  temper  of  his  writings,  in 
short,  is  precisely  the  reverse  of  those  of  our 
\  Laureates  and  Lakers,  who,  being  themselves 
the  most  whh-nsical  of  mortals,  make  it  a  con- 
science to  loathe  and  abhor  all  w4th  whom 
they  happen  to  disagree ;  and  labour  to  pro- 
mote mutual  animosity  a»d  all  manner  of 
uncharitableness  among  mankind,  by  refer- 
ring every  supposed  error  of  taste,  or  pecu- 
liarity of  opinion,  to  some  hateful  corruption 
|of  the  heart  and  understanding. 
"^  With  all  the  indulgence,  however,  which 
we  so  justly  ascribe  to  him,  we  are  far  from 
complaining  of  the  writer  before  us  for  being 
too  neutral  and  undecided  on  the  great  sub- 
jects which  are  most  apt  to  engender  exces- 
sive zeal  and  intolerance — and  we  are  almost 
as  far  from  agreeing  with  him  as  to  most  of 
those  subjects.  In  politics  it  is  sufficiently 
manifest,  that  he  is  a  decided  Tory — and,  we 
are  afraid,  something  of  a  latitudinarian  both 
»in  morals  and  religion.  He  is  very  apt  at  least 
I  to  make  a  mock  of  all  enthusiasm  for  liberty 
)  or  faith — and  not  only  gives  a  decided  prefer- 
ence to  the  social  over  the  austerer  virtues — 
but  seldom  expresses  any  warm  or  hearty  ad- 
miration, except  for  those  graceful  and  gentle- 
man-like principles,  which  can  generally  be 
acted  upon  with  a  gay  countenance — and  do 
not  imply  any  great  effort  of  self-denial,  or 
any  deep  sense  of  the  rights  of  others,  or  the 
34 


helplessness  and  humility  of  our,  common 
nature.  Unless  we  misconstrue  very  grossly 
the  indications  in  these  volumes,  the  author 
thinks  no  times  so  happy  as  those  in  which  an 
indulgent  monarch  awards  a  reasonable  por- 
tion of  liberty  to  grateful  subjects,  who  do 
not  call  ui  question  his  right  either  to  give  or 
to  withhold  it — in  which  a  dignified  and  de- 
cent hierarchy  receives  the  homage  of  their 
submissive  and  uninquiring  flocks — and  a 
gallant  nobility  redeems  the  venial  immo- 
ralities of  their  gayer  hours,  by  brave  and 
honourable  conduct  towards  each  other,  and 
spontaneous  kindness  to  vassals,  in  whom 
they  recognise  no  independent  rights,  and  not 
many  features  of  a  common  nature. 

It  is  very  remarkable,  however,  that,  with 
propensities  thus  decidedly  aristocratical,  the 
ingenious  author  has  succeeded  by  far  the 
best  in  the  representation  of  rustic  and  homely 
characters ;  and  not  in  the  ludicrous  or  con- 
temptuous representation  of  them — but  by 
making  them  at  once  more  natural  and  more 
interesting  than  they  had  ever  been  made 
before  in  any  work  of  fiction ;  by  showing ' 
them,  not  as  clowns  to  be  laughed  at — or 
wretches,  to  be  pitied  and  despised — but  as 
human  creatures,  with  as  many  pleasures  and 
fewer  cares  than  their  superiors — with  affec- 
tions not  only  as  strong,  but  often  as  delicate 
as  those  whose  language  is  smoother — and 
with  a  vein  of  humour,  a  force  of  sagacity, 
and  very  frequently  an  elevation  of  fancy,  as 
high  and  as  natural  as  can  be  met  with  among 
more  cultivated  beings.  The  great  merit  of' 
all  these  delineations,  is  their  admirable  truth 
and  fidelity — the  whole  manner  and  cast  of 
the  characters  being  accurately  moulded  on 
their  condition — and  the  finer  attributes  that 
are  ascribed  to  them  so  blended  and  harmonis- 
ed with  the  native  rudeness  and  simplicity  of 
their  life  and  occupations,  that  they  are  made 
interesting  and  even  noble  beings,  without  the 
least  particle  of  foppery  or  exaggeration,  and 
delight  and  amuse  us,  without  trespassing  at 
all  on  the  province  of  pastoral  or  romance. 

Next  to  these,  we  think,  he  has  found  his 
happiest  subjects,  ox  at  least  displayed  his 
greatest  powers,  in  the  delineation  of  the  grand- 
and  gloomy  aspects  of  nature,  and  of  the  dark 
and  fierce  passions  of  the  heart.     The  natural  ■ 
gaiety  of  his  temper  does  not  indeed  allow 
him  to  dw-ell  long  on  such  themes; — but  the 
sketches  he  occasionally  introduces,  are  exe- 
cuted with  admirable  force  and  spirit — and 
give  a  strong  impression  both  of  the  vigour  of  ^ 
his  imagination,  and  the  variety  of  histatent.  / 
It  is  only  in  the  third  rank  that  we  would  place 
his  pictures  of  chivalry  and  chivalrous  char-  '. 
acter — his  traits  of  gallantry,  nobleness,  and 
honour — and  that  bewitching  combination  of  ; 
gay  and  gentle  manners,  with  generosity,  can- 
dour, and  courage,  which  has  long  been  fa- 
miliar enough  to  readers  and  writers  of  novels, 
but  has  never  before  been  represented  with 
such  an  air  of  truth,  and  so  much  ease  ami 
happiness  of  execution. 

Among  his  faults  and  failures,  we  must  give 
the  first  place  to  his  descriptions  of  virtuous 
young  ladies — and  his  representations  of  the 


sao 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


ordinary  business  rf  r<>-art.slup  and  conversa- 
tion in"  polished  lifp.  We  admit  that  those 
things,  as  they  are  commonly  conducted  in 
real  Hfe,  are  apt  to  be  a  little  insipid  to  a  mere 
critical  spectator ; — and  that  \%-hile  they  conse- 
quently require  more  heightening  than  strange 
adventures  or  grotesque  persons,  they  admit 
less  of  exaggeration  or  ambitious  ornament : 
— Yet  we  cannot  think  it  necessary  that  they 
should  be  altogether  so  tame  and  mawkish  as 
we  generally  find  them  in  the  hands  of  this 
spirited  writer, — whose  powers  really  seem 
to  require  some  stronger  stimulus  to  bring 
them  into  action,  than  ean  be  supplied  by  the 
Sat  realities  of  a  peaceful  and  ordinary  exist- 
ence. His  love  of  the  ludicrous,  it  must  also 
be  observed,  often  betrays  him  into  forced 
and  vulgar  exaggerations,  and  into  the  repeti- 
tion of  common  and  paltry  stories, — though  it 
is  but  fair  to  add,  that  he  does  not  detain  us 
long  with  them,  and  makes  amends  by  the 
copiousness  of  his  assortment  for  the  indiffer- 
ent quality  of  some  of  the  specimens.  It  is 
another  consequence  of  this  extreme  abund- 
ance in  which  he  revels  and  riots,  and  of  the 
fertility  of  the  imagination  from  which  it  is 
supplied,  that  he  is  at  all  times  a  little  apt  to 
overdo  even  those  things  which  he  does  best. 
■  His  most  striking  and  highly  coloured  char- 
acters appear  rather  too  often,  and  go  on  rather 
too  long.  It  is  astonishing,  indeed,  with  what 
spirit  they  are  supported,  and  how  fresh  and 
animated  they  are  to  the  very  last ; — but  still 
there  is  something  too  much  of  them — and 
they  would  be  more  waited  for  and  welcomed, 
if  they  were  not  quite  so  lavish  of  their  pres- 
ence.— It  was  reserved  for  Shakespeare  alone, 
to  leave  all  his  characters  as  new  and  unworn 
as  he  found  them, — and  to  carry  FalstafF 
through  the  business  of  three  several  plays, 
and  leave  us  as  greedy  of  his  sayings  as  at  the 
moment  of  his  first  introduction.  It  is  no 
light  praise  to  the  author  before  us,  that  he 
has  sometimes  reminded  us  of  this,  as  well 
as  other  inimitable  excellences  in  that  most 
gifted  of  all  inventors. 

To  complete  this  hasty  and  unpremeditated 
sketch  of  his  general  characteristics,  we  must 
add,  that  he  is  above  all  things  national  and 
Scottish, — and  never  seems  to  feel  the  powers 
of  a  Giant,  except  when  he  touches  his  native 
soil.  His  countrymen  alone,  therefore,  can 
have  a  full  sense  of  his  merits,  or  a  perfect 
relish  of  his  excellences; — and  those  only, 
indeed,  of  them,  who  have  mingled,  as  he 
has  done,  pretty  freely  with  the  lower  orders, 
and  made  themselves  familiar  not  only  with 
their  language,  but  with  the  habits  and  traits 
of  character,  of  which  it  then  only  becomes 
expressive.  It  is  one  thing  to  understand  the 
meaning  of  words,  as  they  are  explained  by 
other  words  in  a  glossary,  and  another  to  know 
their  value,  as  expressive  of  certain  feelings 
and  humours  in  the  speakers  to  whom  they 
are  native^  and  as  signs  both  of  temper  and 
condition  among  those  who  are  familiar  with 
'heir  import. 

We  must  content  ourselves,  v/e  fear,  with 
this  hasty  and  superficial  sketch  of  the  gene- 
■al  character  of  this  author's  performances,  in 


the  place  of  a  more  detailed  examination  o( 

those  which  he  has  given  to  the  public  sinc€ 
we  first  announced  him  as  the  author  of 
Waverley.  The  tim.e  for  noticing  hia  two 
intermediate  works,  has  been  permitted  to  go 
by  so  far,  that  it  would  probably  be  difiiciSt 
to  recal  the  public  attention  to  them  with  any 
effect ;  and,  at  all  events,  impossible  to  affect, 
by  any  observations  of  ours,  the  judgment 
which  has  been  passed  upon  them,  with  very  . 
little  assistance,  we  must  say,  from  professed 
critics,  by  the  mass  of  their  intelligent  readers, 
— by  whom,  indeed,  we  have  no  doubt  that 
they  are,  by  this  time,  as  well  known,  and  as 
correctly  estimated,  as  if  they  had  been  in- 
debted to  us  for  their  first  impressions  on  the 
subject.  For  our  own  parts  we  must  confess, 
that  Waverley  still  has  to  us  all  the  fascination 
of  a  first  love  !  and  that  we  cannot  help  think- 
ing, that  the  greatness  of  the  public  transac- 
tions in  which  that  story  was  involved,  as 
well  as  the  wildness  and  picturesque  graces 
of  its  Highland  scenery  and  characters,  have 
invested  it  with  a  charm,  to  which  the  more 
familiar  attractions  of  the  other  pieces  have 
not  quite  come  up.  In  this,  perhaps,  our 
opinion  differs  from  that  of  better  judges ; — 
but  vre  cannot  help  suspecting,  that  the  latter 
publications  are  most  admired  by  many,  at 
least  in  the  southern  part  of  the  island,  only 
because  they  are  more  easily  and  perfectly 
understood,  in  consequence  of  the  training 
which  had  been  gone  through  in  the  perusal 
of  the  former.  But,  however  that  be,  we  are 
far  enough  from  denying  that  the  two  suc- 
ceeding works  are  performances  of  extraordi- 
nary merit, — and  are  willing  even  to  admit, 
that  they  show  quite  as  much  power  ana 
genius  in  the  author — though,  to  our  taste  at 
least,  the  subjects  are  less  happily  selected.  T 
Dandie  Dinmont  is,  beyond  all  question,  we  \ 
think,  the  best  rustic  portrait  that  has  ever  ; 
yet  been  exhibited  to  the  public — the  most 
honourable  to  rustics,  and  the  most  creditable 
to  the  heart,  as  well  as  the  genius  of  the  artist 
— the  truest  to  natjjre — the  most  interesting  : 
and  the  most  complete  in  all  its  lineaments.  | 
— Meg  Merrilees  belongs  more  to  the  depart-  \ 
ment  of  poetry.  She  is  most  akin  to  the  ! 
witches  of  Macbeth,  with  some  traits  of  the 
ancient  Sybil  engrafted  on  the  coarser  stock 
of  a  Gipsy  of  the  last  century.  Though  not 
absolutely  in  nature,  however,  she  must  be  , 
allowed  to  be  a  very  imposing  and  emphatic 
personage ;  and  to  be  mingled,  both  with  the 
business  and  the  scenery  of  the  piece,  with 
the  greatest  possible  skill  and  effect. — Pley- 
dell  is  a  harsh  caricature ;  and  Dirk  Hatteric 
a  vulgar  bandit  of  the  German  school.  The^. 
lovers,  too,  are  rather  more  faultless  and  more  j 
insipid  than  usual, — and  all  the  genteel  per-/ 
sons,  indeed,  not  a  httle  fatiguing.  Yet  there, 
are  many  passages  of  great  merit,  of  a  gentler 
and  less  obtrusive  character.  The  grief  of 
old  Ellengowan  for  the  loss  of  his  child,  and 
the  picture  of  his  own  dotage  and  death,  are 
very  touching  and  natural ;  while  the  many 
descriptions  of  the  coast  scenery,  and  of  the 
various  localities  of  the  story,  are  given  with 
a  freedom,  force,  and  effect,  that  bring  e  rery 


TALES  OF  MY  LANDLORD. 


»31 


feature  before  our  eyes,  and  impress  us  with 
an  irresistible  conviction  of  their  reality. 

The  Antiquary  is,  perhaps,  on  the  whole, 
less  interesting. — though  there  are  touches  in 
it  equal,  if  not  superior,  to  any  thing  that 
occurs  in  either  of  the  other  works.  The 
adventure  of  the  tide  and  night  storm  under 
the  cliffs,  we  do  not  hesitate  to  pronounce  the 
very  best  description  we  ever  met  with, — in 
verse  or  in  prose,  in  ancient  or  in  modern 
writing.  Old  Edie  is  of  the  family  of  Meg 
Merrilees, — a  younger  brother,  we  confess, 
with  less  terror  and  energy,  and  more  taste 
and  gaiety,  but  equally  a  poetical  embellish- 
ment of  a  familiar  character  ',  and  yet  resting 
enough  on  the  great  points  of  nature,  to  be 
blended  without  extravagance  in  the  trans- 
actions of  beings  so  perfectly  natural  and 
V  [thoroughly  alive  that  no  suspicion  can  be  en- 
tertained of  their  reality.  The  Antiquary  him- 
|Belf  is  the  great  blemish  of  the  work, — at 
peast  in  so  far  as  he  is  an  Antiquary ; — though 
jwe  must  say  for  him,  that,  unlike  most  oddi- 
/ties,  he  wearies  us  most  at  first ;  and  is  so 
I  managed,  as  to  turn  out  both  more  interesting 
and  more  amusing  than  we  had  any  reason 
to  expect.  The  low  characters  in  this  book 
are  not  always  worth  drawing ;  but  they  are 
exquisitely  finished ;  and  prove  the  extent  and 
I  accuracy  of  the  author's  acquaintance  vi'ith 
■;  human  life  and  human  nature. — The  family 
of  the  fisherman  is  an  exquisite  group  through- 
out ;  and,  at  the  scene  of  the  funeral,  in  the 
highest  degree  striking  and  pathetic.  Dous- 
terswivel  is  as  wearisome  as  the  genuine 
Spurzheim  himself:  And  the  tragic  story  of 
the  Lord  is,  on  the  whole,  a  miscarriage; 
though  interspersed  with  passages  of  great 
force  and  energy.  The  denouement  which  con- 
nects it  with  the  active  hero  of  the  piece,  is  al- 
together forced  and  unnatural.— We  come  now, 
at  once,  to  the  work  immediately  before  us. 

The  Tales  of  My  Landlord,  though  they  fill 
four  volumes,  are,  as  yet,  but  two  in  number ; 
the  one  being  three  times  as  long,  and  ten 
times  as  interesting  as  the  other.  The  intro- 
duction, from  which  the  general  title  is  de- 
rived, is  as  foolish  and  cTumsy  as  may  be ; 
and  is  another  instance  of  that  occasional  im- 
becility, or  self-willed  caprice,  which  every 
now  and  then  leads  this  author,  before  he 
gets  afloat  on  the  full  stream  of  his  narration, 
into  absurdities  which  excite  the  astonish- 
ment of  the  least  gifted  of  his  readers.  This 
whole  prologue  of  My  Landlord,  which  is 
vulgar  in  the  conception,  trite  and  lame  in  the 
execution,  and  utterly  out  of  harmony  with 
the  stories  to  which  it  is  prefixed,  should  be 
entirely  retrenched  in  the  future  editions ; 
and  the  two  novels,  which  have  as  little  con- 
nection with  each  other  as  with  this  ill-fancied 
prelude,  given  separately  to  the  world,  each 
under  its  own  denomination. 

The  first,  which  is  comprised  in  one  volume, 
is  called  "The  Black  Dwarf'"' — and  is,  iii 
every  respect,  the  least  considerable  of  the 
family — though  very  plainly  of  the  legitirriate 
race — and  possessing  merits,  which,  in  any 
other  company,  would  have  entitled  it  to  no 
•light  distinction.  '  The  Dwarf  himself  is  a 


little  too  much  like  the  hero  of  a  fairy  tale , 
and  the  structure  and  contrivance  of  the  story, 
in  general,  would  bear  no  small  affinity  to 
that  meritorious  and  edifying  class  of  compo- 
sitions, was  it  not  for  the  nature  of  the  details, 
and  the  quality  of  the  other  persons  to  whom 
they  relate — who  are  as  real,  intelligible,  and 
tangible  beings  as  those  with  whom  we  are 
made  familiar  in  the  course  of  the  author's 
former  productions.  Indeed  they  are  very 
apparently  the  same  sort  of  people,  and  come 
here  before  us  again  with  all  the  recommenda- 
tions of  old  acquaintance.  The  outline  of  the 
story  is  soon  told.  The  scene  is  laid  among  the 
Elliots  and  Johnstons  of  the  Scottish  border, 
and  in  the  latter  part  of  Queen  Anne's  reig-n  j 
when  the  union  then  newly  effected  between 
the  two  kingdoms,  had  revived  the  old  feel- 
ings of  rivalry,  and  held  out,  in  the  general 
discontent,  fresh  encouragement  to  the  parti- 
zans  of  the  banished  family.  In  this  turbulent 
period,  two  brave,  but  very  peaceful  and  loyal 
persons,  are  represented  as  plodding  their  way 
homewards  from  deer-stalking,  in  the  gloom 
of  an  autumn  evening,  when  they  are  encoun- 
tered, on  a  lonely  moor,  by  a  strange  mis- 
shapen Dwarf,  who  rejects  their  proffered 
courtesy,  in  a  tone  of  insane  misanthropy,  and 
leaves  Hobbie  Elliot,  who  is  the  successor  of 
Dandie  Dinmont  in  this  tale,  perfectly  per- 
suaded that  he  is  not  of  mortal  lineage,  but  a 
goblin  of  no  amiable  dispositions.  He,  and 
his  friend  Mr.  Earnscliff,  who  is  a  gentleman 
of  less  credulity,  revisit  him  again,  however, 
in  daylight ',  when  they  find  him  laying  the 
foundations  of  a  small  cottage  in  that  dreary 
spot.  With,  some  casual  assistance  the  fabric 
is  completed ;  and  the  Solitary,  who  still 
maintains  the  same  repulsive  demeanour, 
fairly  settled  in  it.  Though  he  shuns  all  so- 
ciety and  conversation,  he  occasionally  ad- 
ministers to  the  diseases  of  men  and  cattle; 
and  acquires  a  certain  awful  reputation  in  the 
country,  half  between  that  of  a  wizard  and  a 
heaven-taught  cow-doctor.  In  the  mean  time 
poor  Hobble's  house  is  burned,  and  his  cattle 
and  his  bride  carried  off  by  the  band  of  one 
of  the  last  Border  foragers,  instigated  chiefly 
by  Mr.  Vere,  the  profligate  Laird  of  Ellieslaw, 
who  wishes  to  raise  a  party  in  favour  of  the 
Jacobites ;  and  between  whose  daughter  and 
young  Earnscliff  there  is  an  attachment,  which 
her  father  disapproves.  The  mysterious  Dwarf 
gives  Hobbie  an  oracular  hint  to  seek  for  his 
lost  bride  in  the  fortress  of  this  plunderer, 
which  he  and  his  friends,  under  the  command 
of  young  Earnscliff,  speedily  invest ;  and 
when  they  are  ready  to  smoke  him  out  of 
his  inexpugnable  tower,  he  capitulates,  and 
leads  forth,  to  the  astonishment  of  all  the  be- 
siegers, not  Grace  Armstrong,  but  Miss  Vere, 
who,  by  some  unintelligible  refinement  of 
iniquity,  had  been  sequestered  by  her  worthy 
father  in  that  appropriate  custody.  The  Dwarf, 
who,  with  all  his  misanthropy,  is  the  most 
benevolent  cff  human  beings,  gives  Hobbie  a 
fur  bag  full  of  gold,  and  contrives  to  have  his 
bride  restored  to  him.  He  is  likewise  con- 
sulted in  secret  by  Miss  Vere,  who  is  sadly 
distressed,  like  all  other  fictitious  cVirasels,  b>' 


532 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


her  father's  threats  to  solemnise  a  forced 
marriage  between  her  and  a  detestable  ba- 
ronet.—and  promises  to  appear  and  dehver 
her.  however  imminent  the  hazard  my  ap- 
pear. Accordingly,  when  they  are  all  ranged 
for  the  sacrifice  before  the  altar  in  the  castle 
chapel,  his  portentous  figure  pops  out  from 
behind  a  monument, — when  he  is  instantly 
recognised  by  the  guilty  Ell ie slaw,  for  a  cer- 
tain Sir  Edward  Mauley,  who  was  the  cousin 
and  destined  husband  of  the  lady  he  had  af- 
terwards married,  and  who  had  been  plunged 
into  temporary  insanity  by  the  shock  of  that 
fair  one's  inconstancy,  on  his  recovery  from 
which  he  had  allowed  Mr.  Vere  to  retain  the 
greatest  part  of  the  property  to  which  he  suc- 
ceeded by  her  death )  and  had  been  supposed 
to  be  sequestered  in  some  convent  abroad, 
when  he  thus  appears  to  protect  the  daughter 
of  his  early  love.  The  desperate  Ellieslaw  at 
first  thinks  of  having  recourse  to  force,  and 
calls  in  an  armed  band  \vhich  he  had  that 
day  assembled,  in  order  to  favour  a  rising  of 
the  Catholics — when  he  is  suddenly  surround- 
ed by  Hobble  Elliot  and  Earnscliff,  at  the 
head  of  a  more  loyal  party,  who  have  just 
overpowered  the  insurgents,  and  taken  pos- 
session of  the  castle.  Ellieslaw  and  the  Ba- 
ronet of  course  take  horse  and  shipping  forth 
of  the  realm ;  while  his  fair  daughter  is  given 
away  to  Earnscliff  by  the  benevolent  Dwarf; 
who  immediately  afterwards  disappears,  and 
seeks  a  more  profound  retreat,  beyond  the 
reach  of  their  gratitude  and  gaiety. 

The  other  and  more  considerable  story, 
which  fills  the  three  remaining  volumes  of 
this  publication,  is  entitled,  though  with  no 
great  regard  even  to  its  fictitious  origin,  "  Old 
Mortality ;" — for,  at  most,  it  should  only  have 
been  called  the  tale  or  story  of  Old  Mortality 
— being  supposed  to  be  collected  from  the  in- 
formation of  a  singular  person  who  is  said  at 
one  time  to  have  been  known  by  that  strange 
appellation.  The  redacteur  of  his  interesting 
traditions  is  here  supposed  to  be  a  village 
schoolmaster;  and  though  his  introduction 
brings  us  again  in  contact  with  My  Landlord 
and  his  parish  clerk,  we  could  have  almost 
forgiven  that  unlucky  fiction,  if  it  had  often 
presented  us  in  company  wuth  sketches,  as 
graceful  as  we  find  in  the  following  passage, 
of  the  haunts  and  habits  of  this  singular  per- 
sonage. After  mentioning  that  there  was,  on 
the  steep  and  heathy  banks  of  a  lonely  rivulet. 
a  deserted  burying  ground  to  which  he  used 
frequently  to  turn  his  walks  in  the  evening, 
the  gentle  pedagogue  proceeds — 

"  One  summer  evening  as,  in  a  stroll  such  as  I 
have  described,  I  approached  this  deserted  mansion 
of  the  dead,  I  was  somewhat  surprised  to  hear 
sounds  distinct  from  those  which  usually  soothe  its 
solitude,  the  gentle  chiding,  namely,  of  the  brook, 
and  the  sighing  of  the  wind  in  the  boughs  of  three 
gigantic  ash  trees,  which  mark  the  cemetery.  The 
clink  of  a  hammer  was,  upon  this  occasion,  dis- 
tinctly heard  ;  and  I  entertained  some  alarm  that  a 
march-dike,  long  meditated  by  the  two  proprietors 
whose  estates  were  divided  by  my  favourite  brook, 
was  about  to  be  drawn  up  the  |Ien,  in  order  to  sub- 
stitute its  rectilinear  deformity/  jr  the  graceful  wind- 
ing of  the  natural  boundary.  As  I  approached  I 
was  agreeably  undeceived.  A    old  man  was  seated 


upon  the  monument  of  the  slaughtered  Presbyle* 
rians  ;  and  busily  employed  in  deepening,  with  hu 
chisel,  the  letters  of  the  inscription,  which  announc- 
ing, in  scriptural  language,  the  promised  blessings 
of  futurity  to  be  the  lot  of  the  slain,  anathematized 
the  murderers  with  corresponding  violence.  A  blue 
bonnet  of  unusual  dimensions  covered  the  grey  hairs 
of  the  pious  workman.  His  dress  was  a  large  old- 
fashioned  coat,  of  the  coarse  cloth  called  hoddin- 
grey,  usually  worn  by  the  elder  peasants,  with 
waistcoat  and  breeches  of  the  same  ;  arid  the  wholt 
suit,  though  still  in  decent  repair,  had  obviously 
seen  a  train  of  long  service.  Strong  clouted  shoes 
studded  with  hob-nails,  and  gramoches  or  lesgins 
made  of  thick  black  cloth,  completed  his  equip- 
ment. Beside  him,  fed  among  the  graves,  a  pony, 
the  companion  of  his  journey,  whoses  extreme  white- 
ness, as  well  as  its  projeecting  bones  and  hollow 
eyes,  indicated  its  antiquity.  It  was  harnessed  in 
the  most  simple  manner,  with  a  pair  of  branks,  and 
hair  tether,  or  halter,  and  a  sunlc,  or  cushion  of 
straw,  instead  of  bridle  and  saddle.  A  canvass 
pouch  hung  round  the  neck  of  the  animal,  for  the  pur- 
pose, probably,  of  containing  the  rider's  tools,  and 
any  thing  else  he  might  have  occasion  to  carry  with 
him.  Although  I  had  never  seen  the  old  man  be- 
fore, yet,  from  the  singularity  of  his  employment, 
and  the  style  of  his  equipage,  I  had  no  difficulty  in 
recognising  a  religious  itinerant  whom  I  had  often 
heard  talked  of,  and  who  was  known  in  various 
parts  of  Scotland  by  the  name  of  Old  Mortality. 

"  Where  this  man  was  born,  or  what  was  his 
real  name,  I  have  never  been  able  to  learn,  nor  are 
the  motives  which  made  him  desert  his  home,  and 
adopt  the  erratic  mode  of  life  which  he  pursued, 
known  to  me  except  very  generally.  He  is  said  to 
have  held,  at  one  period  of  his  life,  a  small  moor- 
land farm  ;  but,  whether  from  pecuniary  losses,  or 
domestic  misfortune,  he  had  long  renounced  that 
and  every  other  gainful  caUing.  In  the  language 
of  Scripture,  he  left  his  house,  his  home,  and  his 
kindred,  and  w^andered  about  until  the  day  of  his 
death — a  period,  it  is  said,  of  nearly  thirty  years. 

"  During  this  long  pilgrimage,  the  pious  enthusi- 
ast regulated  his  circuit  so  as  annually  to  visit  the 
graves  of  the  unfortunate  Covenanters,  who  suffered 
by  the  sword,  or  by  the  executioner,  during  the 
reigns  of  the  two  last  monarchs  of  the  Stuart  hue. 
These  tombs  are  often  apart  from  all  human  habit- 
ation, in  the  remote  moors  and  wilds  to  which  the 
wanderers  had  fled  for  concealment.  But  whereve 
they  existed.  Old  Mortality  was  sure  to  visit  them, 
when  his  annual  round  brought  them  within  his 
reach.  In  the  most  lonely  recesses  of  the  moun- 
tains, the  moorfowl  shooter  has  been  often  sur- 
prised to  find  him  busied  in  cleaning  the  moss  from 
the  grey  stones,  renewing  with  his  chisel  the  half- 
defaced  inscriptions,  and  repairing  the  emblems  of 
death  with  which  these  simple  monuments  are 
usually  adorned. 

' '  As  the  wanderer  was  usually  to  be  seen  bent 
on  this  pious  task  within  the  precincts  of  some 
country  churchyard,  or  reclined  on  the  solitary 
tombstone  among  the  heath,  disturbing  the  plover 
and  the  blackcock  with  the  clink  of  his  chisel  and 
mallet,  with  his  old  white  pony  grazing  by  his  side, 
he  acquired,  from  his  converse  among  the  dead,  the 
popular  appellation  of  Old  Mortality." 

Vol.  ii.  pp.  7—18. 

The  scene  of  the  story  thus  strikingly  intro- 
duced  is  laid — in  Scotland  of  course — in  those 
disastrous  times  which  immediately  preceded 
the  Revolution  of  1688 ;  and  exhibits  a  lively 
picture,  both  of  the  general  state  of  manners 
at  that  period,  and  of  the  conduct  and  temper 
and  principles  of  the  two  great  parties  in  poli- 
tics and  religion  that  were  then  engaged  in 
unequal  and  rancorous  hostility.  There  are 
no  times  certainly,  within  the  reach  of  authen- 
tic history,  on  which  it  is  more  painful  lo  look 


TALES  OF  MY  LANDLORD. 


533 


back — which  show  a  government  more  base 
and  tyrannical,  or  a  people  more  helpless  and 
jmiserable :    And  though  all  pictures  of  the 
(greater  passions  are  full  of  interest,  and  a 
hvely  representation  of  strong  and  enthusiastic 
/emotions  never  fails  to  be  deeply  attractive, 
(  the  piece  would  have  been  too  full  of  distress 
i  and  humiliation,  if  it  had  been  chiefly  engaged 
\  with  the  course  of  public  events,  or  the  record 
\of  public  feelings.     So  sad  a  subject  would 
.Jnot  have  suited  many  readers — and  the  author, 
J- we  suspect,  less  than  any  of  them.     Accord- 
ingly, in  this,  as  in  his  other  works,  he  has 
made  use  of  the  historical  events  w'hich  came 
in  his  way,  rather  to  develope  the  characters, 
i  and  bring  out  the  peculiarities  of  the  individu- 
I  als  whose  adventures  he  relates,  than  for  any 
:  purpose  of  political  information  ;  and  makes 
;  &s  present  to  the  times  in  which  he  has  placed 
I  them,  less  by  his  direct  notices  of  the  great 
I  transactionsby  which  they  were  distinguished, 
I  than  by  his  casual  intimations  of  their  effects 
/  on  private  persons,  and  by  the  very  contrast 
I  which  their  temper  and  occupations  often  ap- 
:  pear  to  furnish  to  the  colour  of  the  national 
Btory.  Nothing,  indeed,  in  this  respect  is  more 
delusive,  or  at  least  more  woefully  imperfect, 
than  the  suggestions  of  authentic  history,  as 
it  is  generally — or  rather  universally  written 
— and  nothing  m.ore  exaggerated  than  the  im- 
ipressions  it  conveys  of  the  actual  state  and 
condition  of  those  who  live  in  its  most  agitated 
periods.     The  great  public  events  of  which 
alone  it  takes  cognisance,  have  but  little  direct 
influence  upon  the  body  of  the  people ;  and 
;do  not,  in  general,  form  the  principal  business, 
;or  happiness  or  misery  even  of  those  who  are 
iin  some  measure  concerned  in  them.     Even 
■in  the  worst  and  most  disastrous  times — in 
periods  of  civil  war  and  revolution,  and  public 
discord  and  oppression,  a  great  part  of  the 
time  of  a  great  part  of  the  people  is  still  spent 
in  making  love  and  money — in  social  amuse- 
ment or  professional  industry — in  schemes  for 
worldly  advancement  or  personal  distinction, 
just  as  in  periods  of  general  peace  and  pros- 
perity.    Men  court  and  marry  very  nearly  as 
much  in  the  one  season  as  in  the  other ;  and 
are  as  merry  at  weddings  and  christenings — 
as  gallant  at  balls  and  races — as  busy  in  their 
studies  and  counting  houses — eat  as  heartily, 
in  short,  and   sleep  as  sound — prattle  with 
their  children  as  pleasantly — and  thin  their 
plantations  and  scold  their  servants  as  zeal- 
ously, as  if  their  contemporaries  were  not  fur- 
nishing materials  thus    abundantly   for   the 
Tragic  muse  of  history.     The  quiet  under- 
current of  life,  in  short,  keeps  its  deep  and 
steady  course  in  its  eternal  channels,  unaf- 
fected, or  but  slightly  disturbed,  by  the  storms 
that  agitate  its  surface  ;  and  while  long  tracts 
of  time,  in  the  history  of  every  country,  seem, 
to  the  distant  student  of  its  annals,  to  be  dark- 
ened over  with  one  thick  and  oppressive  cloud 
of  unbroken  misery,  the  greater  part  of  those 
who  have  lived  through  the  whole  acts  of  the 
tragedy  will  be  found  to  have  enjoyed  a  fair 
average  share  of  felicity,  and  to  have  been 
much  less  im  pressed  by  the  shocking  events 
•f  their  day  than  those  who  know  nothing 


else  of  it  than  that  such  events  took  pkce  in 
its  course.  Few  men,  in  short,  are  historical 
characters — and  scarcely  any  man  is  always, 
or  most  usually,  performing  a  public  part'. 
The  actual  happiness  of  every  life  depends 
far  more  on  things  that  regard  it  exclusively, 
than  on  those  political  occurrences  which  are 
the  common  concern  of  society ;  and  though 
nothing  lends  such  an  air,  both  of  reality  and 
importance,  to  a  fictitious  narrative,  as  to  con- 
nect its  persons  with  events  in  real  history, 
still  it  is  the  imaginary  individual  himself  that 
excites  our  chief  interest  throughout,  and  we 
care  for  the  national  affairs  only  in  so  far  as 
they  affect  him.  In  one  sense,  indeed,  this 
is  the  true  end  and  the  best  use  of  history; 
for  as  all  public  events  are  important  only  as 
they  ultimately  concern  individuals,  if  the  in- 
dividual selected  belong  to  a  large  and  com- 
prehensive class,  and  the  events,  and  their 
natural  operation  on  him,  be  justly  represent- 
ed, we  shall  be  enabled,  in  following  out  his 
adventures,  to  form  no  bad  estimate  of  their 
true  character  and  value  for  all  the  rest  of  the 
community. 

The  author  before  us  has  done  all  this,  we 
think ;  and  with  admirable  talent  and  effect :, 
and  if  he  has  not  been  quite  impartial  in  thel 
management  of  his  historical  persons,  has  con- 
trived, at  any  rate,  to  make  them  contribute 
largely  to  the  interest  of  his  acknowledged 
inventions.  His  view  of  the  effects  of  great 
political  contentions  on  private  happiness,  is 
however,  we  have  no  doubt,  substantially 
true ;  and  that  chiefly  because  it  is  not  exag- 
gerated— because  he  does  not  confine  himself 
to  show  ho^v  gentle  natures  may  be  roused 
into  heroism,  or  rouoher  tempers  exasperated 
into  rancour,  by  public  oppression, — but  turns 
still  more  willingly  to  show  with  what  ludi- 
crous absurdity  genuine  enthusiasm  may  be 
debased,  how  little  the  gaiety  of  the  light- 
hearted  and  thoughtless  may  be  impaired  by 
the  spectacle  of  public  calamity,  and  how,  in 
the  midst  of  national  distraction,  selfishness 
will  pursue  its  little  g-ame  of  quiet  and  cun- 
ning speculation — and  gentler  affections  find 
time  to  multiply  and  to  meet ! 

It  is  this,  we  think,  that  constitutes  the  great 
and  peculiar  merit  of  the  work  before  us.  It 
contains  an  admirable  picture  of  manners  and 
of  characters;  and  exhibits,  we  think,  with 
great  truth  and  discrimination,  the  extent  audi 
the  variety  of  the  shades  which  the  stormy ; 
aspect  of  the  political  horizon  would  be  likely' 
to  throw  on  such  objects.  And  yet,  thougn, 
exhibiting  beyond  all  doubt  the  greatest  pos-' 
sible  talent  and  originality,  we  cannot  help 
fancying  that  we  can  trace  the  rudiments  of 
almost  all  its  characters  in  the  very  first  of  the 
author's  publications. — Morton  is  but  another 
edition  of  Waverley ; — taking  a  bloody  part  in 
political  contention,  without  caring  much  about 
the  cause,  and  interchanging  high  offices  of 
generosity  with  his  political  opponents. — 
Clave rhouse  has  many  of  the  features  of  the 
gallant  Fergus. — Cuddie  Headrigg,  of  whose 
merits,  by  the  way,  we  have  given  no  fai' 
specimen  in  our  extracts,  is  a  Dandie  Dinmoni 
of  a  considerably  lower  species ; — and  even 


634 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


the  Covenanters  and  their  leaders  were  sha- 
dowed out,  though  afar  off,  in  the  gifted  Gil- 
fillan,  and  mine  host  of  the  Candlestick.  It  is 
in  the  picture  of  these  hapless  enthusiasts, 
undoubtedly,  that  the  great  merit  and  the 
great  interest  of  the  work  consists.  That  in- 
terest, indeed,  is  so  great,  that  we  perceive  it 
has  even  given  rise  to  a  sort  of  controversy 
among  the  admirers  and  contemners  of  those 
ancient  worthies.  It  is  a  singular  honour,  no 
doubt,  to  a  work  of  fiction  and  amusement,  to 
be  this  made  the  theme  of  serious  attack  and 
defence  upon  points  of  historical  and  theologi- 
cal discussion ',  and  to  have  grave  dissertations 
written  by  learned  contemporaries  upon  the 
accuracy  of  its  representations  of  public  events 
and  characters,  or  the  moral  effects  of  the  style 
of  ridicule  in  which  it  indulges.  It  is  difficult 
for  us,  we  confess,  to  view  the  matter  in  so 
serious  a  light ;  nor  do  we  feel  much  disposed, 
even  if  we  had  leisure  for  the  task,  to  venture 
ourselves  into  the  array  of  the  disputants. 
One  word  or  two,  however,  we  shall  say,  be- 
fore concluding,  upon  the  two  great  points 
of  difference.  First,  as  to  the  author's  pro- 
fanity, in  making  scriptural  expressions  ridicu- 
lous by  the  misuse  of  them  he  has  ascribed  to 
the  fanatics ;  and,  secondly,  as  to  the  fairness 
of  his  general  representation  of  the  conduct 
and  character  of  the  insurgent  party  and  their 
opponents. 

As  to  the  first,  we  do  not  know  very  well 
what  to  say.  Undoubtedly,  all  light  or  jocu- 
lar use  of  Scripture  phraseology  is  in  some 
measure  indecent  and  profane :  Yet  we  do  not 
know  in  what  other  way  those  hypocritical 
pretences  to  extraordinary  sanctity  which 
generally  disguise  themselves  in  such  a  garb, 
can  be  so  effectually  exposed.  And  even  where 
the  ludicrous  misapplication  of  holy  writ  arises 
from  mere  ignorance,  or  the  foolish  mimicry 
of  more  learned  discoursers,  as  it  is  impossible 
to  avoid  smiling  at  the  folly  when  it  actually 
occurs,  it  is  difficult  for  witty  and  humorous 
writers,  in  whose  way  it  lies,  to  resist  fabri- 
cating it  for  the  purpose  of  exciting  smiles. 
In  so  far  as  practice  can  afford  any  justification 
of  such  a  proceeding,  we  conceive  that  its 
justification  would  be  easy.  In  all  our  jest- 
books,  and  plays  and  works  of  humour  for  two 
centuries  back,  the  characters  of  Quakers  and 
Puritans  and  Methodists,  have  been  constantly 
introduced  as  fit  objects  of  ridicule,  on  this 
very  account.  The  Reverend  Jonathan  Swift 
is  full  of  jokes  of  this  description;  and  the 
pious  and  correct  Addison  himself  is  not  a  little 
fond  of  a  sly  and  witty  application  of  a  text 
from  the  sacred  writings.  When  an  author, 
therefore,  whose  aim  was  amusement,  had  to 
do  with  a  set  of  people,  all  of  whom  dealt  in 
familiar  applications  of  Bible  phrases  and  Old 
Testament  adventures,  and  who,  undoubtedly, 
very  often  made  absurd  and  ridiculous  appli- 
cations of  them,  it  would  be  rather  hard,  we 
think,  to  interdict  him  entirely  from  the  repre- 
sentation of  these  absurdities;  or  to  put  in 
force,  foi*  him  alone,  those  statutes  against 

Erofaneness  which  so  many  other  people  have 
een  allowed  to  transgress,  in  their  hours  of 
gaiety,  without  censure  cr  punishment. 


On  the  other  point,  also,  we  rattier  lean  tfl 
the  side  of  the  author.  He  is  a  Tory,  we 
think,  pretty  plainly  in  principle,  and  scarcely 
disguises  his  preference  for  a  Cavalier  over  a 
Puritan;  But,  with  these  propensities,  we' 
think  he  has  dealt  pretty  fairly  with  both 
sides — especially  when  it  is  considered  that, 
though  he  lays  his  scene  in  a  known  crisis  of 
his  national  history,  his  work  is  professedly  a 
work  of  fiction,  and  cannot  well  be  accused 
of  misleading  any  one  as  to  matters  of  fact. 
He  might  have  made  Glaverhouse  victorious 
at  Drumclog,  if  he  had  thought  fit — and  no- 
body could  have  found  fault  with  him.  The 
insurgent  Presbyterians  of  1666  and  the  sub- 
sequent years,  were,  beyond  all  question,  a 
pious,  brave,  and  conscientious  race  of  men — 
to  whom,  and  to  whose  efforts  and  sufferings, 
their  descendants  are  deeply  indebted  for  the 
liberty  both  civil  and  religious  which  they 
still  enjoy,  as  M^ell  as  for  the  spirit  of  resist- 
ance to  tyranny,  which,  we  trust,  they  have 
inherited  along  with  it.  Considered  generally 
as  a  party,  it  is  impossible  that  they  should 
ever  be  remembered,  at  least  in  Scotland,  but 
with  gratitude  and  veneration — that  their  suf- 
ferings should  ever  be  mentioned  but  with 
deep  resentment  and  horror — or  their  heroism, 
both  active  and  passive,  but  w^ith  pride  and 
exultation.  At  the  same  time,  it  is  impos- 
sible to  deny,  that  there  were  among  them 
many  absurd  and  ridiculous  persons — ana 
some  of  a  savage  and  ferocious  character — 
old  women,  in  short,  like  Mause  Headrigg— 
preachers  like  Kettledrummle — or  despera- 
does like  Balfour  or  Burley.  That  a  Tory 
novelist  should  bring  such  characters  promi- 
nently forward,  in  a  tale  of  the  times,  appears 
to  us  not  only  to  be  quite  natural,  but  really 
to  be  less  blameable  than  almost  any  other 
way  in  which  party  feelings  could  be  shown. 
But,  even  he,  has  not  represented  the  bulk  of 
the  party  as  falling  under  this  description,  or 
as  fairly  represented  by  such  personages.  He 
has  made  his  hero — who,  of  course,  possesses 
all  possible  virtues — of  that  persuasion ;  and 
has  allowed  them,  in  general,  the  courage  of 
martyrs,  the  self-denial  of  hermits,  and  the 
zeal  and  sincerity  of  apostles.  His  representa- 
tion is  almost  avowedly  that  of  one  who  is 
not  of  their  communion ;  and  yet  we  think  it 
impossible  to  peruse  it,  without  feeling  the 
greatest  respect  and  pity  for  those  to  whom  h 
is  applied.  A  zealous  Presbyterian  might, 
no  doubt,  have  said  more  in  their  favour,  with- 
out violating,  or  even  concealing  the  truth; — 
but,  while  zealous  Presbyterians  will  not 
write  entertaining  novels  themselves,  they 
cannot  expect  to  be  treated  in  them  with  ex- 
actly the  same  favour  as  if  that  had  been  the 
character  of  their  authors. 

With  regard  to  the  author's  picture  of  their 
opponents,  we  must  say  that,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Claverhouse  himself,  whom  he  has 
invested  gratuitously  with  many  graces  and 
liberalities  to  which  we  are  persuaded  he  has 
no  title,  and  for  whom,  indeed,  he  has  a  fool- 
ish fondness,  with  which  it  would  be  absurd 
to  deal  seriously — he  has  shown  no  signs  of  a 
partiality  that  can  be  blamed,  nor  exhibited 


ROB  ROY. 


5'd6 


many  traits  in  them  with  which  their  enemies  I 
have  reason  to  quarrel.     If  any  person  can  ' 
read  his  strong  and  lively  pictures  of  military  I 
insolence  and  oppfession,  without  feeling  his  i 
blood  boil  within  him,  we  must  conclude  the  | 
fault  to  be  in  his  own  apathy,  and  not  in  any 
softenings  of  the  partial  author ; — nor  do  we 
know  any  Whig  writer  who  has  exhibited  the 
baseness  and  cruelty  of  that  wretched  gov- 
ernment,  in  more   naked  and  revolting  de- 
formity, than  in  his  scene  of  the  torture  at 
the  Privy  Council.     The  military  executions 
of  Claverhouse  himself  are  admitted  without 


palliation  :  and  the  bloodthirstiness  of  Dalzell, 
and  the  brutality  of  Lauderdale,  are  repre 
sented  in  their  true  colours.  In  short,  if  thia 
author  has  been  somewhat  severe  upon  tha 
Covenanters,  neither  has  he  spared  their  op- 
pressors ;  and  the  truth  probably  is,  that  nevei 
dreaming  of  being  made  responsible  for  his- 
torical accuracy  or  fairness  in  a  composition 
of  this  description,  he  has  exaggerated  a  little 
on  both  sides,  for  the  sake  of  effect — and  been 
carried,  by  the  bent  of  his  humour,  most  fre- 
quently to  exaggerate  on  that  which  afforded 
the  greatest  scope  for  ridicule. 


(Jebruarg,   1818.) 

Rob  Roy.    By  the  author  of  Waverley,  Guy  Mannering,  and  The  Antiquary, 

pp.930.     Edinburgh:   1818. 


12mo.   3  vols* 


This  is  not  so  good,  perhaps,  as  some  others 
of  the  family ; — ^but  it  is  better  than  any  thing 
else ;  and  has  a  charm  and  a  spirit  about  it 
that  draws  us  irresistibly  away  from  our  graver 
works  of  politics  and  science,  to  expatiate 
upon  that  which  every  body  understands  and 
agrees  in :  and  after  setting  us  diligently  to 
read  over  again  what  we  had  scarce  finished 
reading,  leaves  us  no  choice  but  to  tell  our 
readers  what  they  all  know  already,  and  to 
persuade  them  of  that  of  which  they  are  most 
intimately  convinced. 

Such,  we  are  perfectly  aware,  is  the  task 
which  we  must  seem  to  perform  to  the  greater 
part  of  those  who  may  take  the  trouble  of  ac- 
companying us  through  this  article.  But  there 
may  still  be  some  of  our  readers  to  whom  the 
work  of  which  W3  treat  is  unknown; — and 
we  know  there  are  many  who  are  far  from 
being  duly  sensible  of  its  merits.  The  public, 
indeed,  is  apt  now  and  then  to  behave  rather 
unhandsomely  to  its  greatest  benefactors ;  and 
to  deserve  the  malison  which  Milton  has  so 
emphatically  bestowed  on  those  impious  per- 
sons, who, 

"  with  senseless  base  ingratitude, 

Cram,  and  blaspheme  their  feeder.'' 

— nothing,  we  fear,  being  more  common,  than 
to  see  the  bounty  of  its  too  lavish  providers 
repaid  by  increased  captiousness  at  the  quality 
of  the  banquet,  and  complaints  of  imaginary 
fallings  off — which  should  be  imputed  entirely 
to  the  distempered  state  of  their  own  pam- 
pered appetites.  We  suspect,  indeed,  that  we 
were  ourselves  under  the  influence  of  this 
illaudable  feehng  when  he  wrote  the  first 
line  of  this  paper :  For,  except  that  the  sub- 
ject seems  to  us  somewhat  less  happily 
chosen,  and  the  variety  of  characters  rather 
less  than  in  some  of  the  author's  fornier  pub- 
lications, we  do  not  know  what  right  we  had 
to  say  that  it  was  in  any  respegt  inferior  to 
them.  Sure  we  are,  at  all  events,  that  it  has 
the  same  brilliancy  and  truth  of  colouring — 
the  same  gaiety  of  tone,  rising  every  now 
and  then  into  feelings  both  kindly  and  exalt- 


ed— the  same  dramatic  vivacity — the  same 
deep  and  large  insight  into  human  nature — 
and  the  same  charming  facility  which  distin- 
guish all  the  other  works  of  this  great  master; 
and  make  the  time  in  which  he  flourished  an 
era  never  to  be  forgotten  in  the  literary  history 
of  our  country. 

One  novelty  in  the  present  work  is,  that  it 
is  thrown  into  the  form  of  a  continued  and 
unbroken  narrative,  by  one  of  the  persona 
principally  concerned  in  the  story — and  who 
is  represented  in  his  declining  age,  as  detail- 
ing to  an  intimate  friend  the  most  interesting 
particulars  of  his  early  life,  and  all  the  recol- 
lections with  which  they  were  associated. 
We  prefer,  upon  the  whole,  the  communica- 
tions of  an  avowed  author;  who,  of  course, 
has  no  character  to  sustain  but  that  of  a 
pleasing  writer — and  can  praise  and  blame, 
and  wonder  and  moralise,  in  all  tones  and 
directions,  without  subjecting  himself  to  any 
charge  of  vanity,  ingratitude,  or  inconsistency. 
The  thing,  however,  is  very  tolerably  man- 
aged on  the  present  occasion ;  and  the  hero 
contrives  to  let  us  into  all  his  exploits  and 
perplexities,  without  much  violation  either  of 
heroic  modesty  or  general  probability; — to 
which  ends,  indeed,  it  conduces  not  a  little, 
that,  like  most  of  the  other  heroes  of  this  inge- 
nious author,  his  own  character  does  not  rise 
very  notably  above  the  plain  'level  of  medi- 
ocrity— being,  like  the  rest  of  his  brethren,  a 
well-conditioned,  reasonable,  agreeable  young 
gentleman — not  particularly  likely  to  do  any 
thing  which  it  would  be  very  boastful  to  speak 
of,  and  much  better  fitted  to  be  a  spectator  and 
historian  of  strange  doings,  than  a  partaker  in 
them. 

This  discreet  hero,  then,  our  readers  will 
probably  have  anticipated,  is  not  Rob  Roy — 
though  his  name  stands  alone  in  the  title — but 
a  Mr.  Francis  Osbaldistone,  the  only  son  of 
a  great  London  Merchant  or  Banker,  and 
i  nephew  of  a  Sir  Hildebrand  Osbaldistone.  a 
I  worthy  Catholic  Baronet,  who  spent  his  time 
in  hunting,  and  drinking  Jacobite  toasts  in 
Northumberland,  some  time  about  the  yeai 


536 


WORKS  OF  FICTION, 


1714.  The  young  gentleman  having  been 
educated  auioiig  the  muses  abroad,  testifies 
a  decided  aversion  to  the  gainful  vocations  in 
which  his  father  had  determined  that  he 
should  assist  aud    succeed  him ; — and  as  a 

Eunishment  for  this  contumacy,  he  banishes 
im  for  a  season  to  the  Siberia  of  Osbaldistone 
Hal],  from  which  he  himself  had  been  es- 
tranged ever  since  his  infancy.  The  young 
exile  jogs  down  on  horseback  rather  merrily, 
riding  part  of  the  way  with  a  stout  man,  who 
was  scandalously  afraid  of  being  robbed,  and 
meeting  once  with  a  sturdy  Scotchman,  whose 
resolute  air  and  energetic  discourses  make  a 
deep  impression  m  him. — As  he  approaches 
the  home  of  his  fathers,  he  is  surrounded  by 
a  party  of  fox  hunters,  and  at  the  same  mo- 
ment electrified  by  the  sudden  apparition  of 
a  beautiful  young  woman,  galloping  lightly 
at  the  head  of  the  field,  and  managing  her 
sable  palfrey  with  all  the  grace  of  an  Angelica. 
Making  up  to  this  etherial  personage,  he 
soon  discovers  that  he  is  in  the  heart  of  his 
kinsfolks — that  the  tall  youths  about  him  are 
the  five  sons  of  Sir  Hildebrand ;  and  the  virgin 
huntress  herself,  a  cousin  and  inmate  of  the 
family,  by  the  name  of  Diana  Vernon.  She 
is  a  very  remarkable  person  this  same  Diana. 
Though  only  eighteen  years  of  age,  and  ex- 
quisitely lovely,  she  knows  all  arts  and  sci- 
ences, elegant  and  inelegant — and  has,  more- 
over, a  more  than  masculine  resolution,  and 
jnX>re  than  feminine  kindness  and  generosity 
(of  character — wearing  over  all  this  a  playful, 
free,  and  reckless  manner,  more  characteristic 
.of  her  age  than  her  various  and  inconsistent 
accomplishments.  The  rest  af  the  household 
are  comely  savages ;  who  hunt  all  day,  and 
drink  all  night,  without  one  idea  beyond  those 
heroic  occupations— all,  at  least,  except  Rash- 
leigh,  the  youngest  son  of  this  hopeful  family 
— who,  having  been  designed  for  the  church, 
and  educated  among  the  Jesuits  beyond  seas, 
had  there  acquired  all  the  knowledge  and  the 
knavery  which  that  pious  brotherhood  was  so 
long  supposed  to  impart  to  their  disciples. — 
Although  very  plain  in  his  person,  and  very 
depraved  in  his  character,  he  has  great  talents 
and  accomplishments,  and  a  very  insinuating 
address.  He  had  been,  in  a  good  degree,  the 
instructor  of  Diana,  who,  we  should  have 
mentioned,  was  also  a  Catholic,  and  having 
lost  her  parents,  was  destined  to  take  the  veil 
in  a  foreign  land,  if  she  did  not  consent  to 
marry  one  of  the  sons  of  Sir  Hildebrand,  for 
all  of  whom  she  cherished  the  greatest  aver- 
sion and  contempt. 

Mr.  Obaldistone,  of  course,  can  do  nothing 
but  fall  in  love  with  this  wonderful  infant; 
for  which,  and  some  other  transgressions,  he 
incurs  the  deadly,  though  concealed,  hate  of 
Rashleigh,  and  meets  with  several  unpleasant 
adventures  through  his  means.  But  we  will 
not  be  tempted  even  to  abridge  the  details  of 
a  story  witn  which  we  cannot  allow  ourselves 
to  doubt  that  all  our  readers  have  long  been 
familiar  :  and  indeed  it  is  not  in  his  story  that 
this  author's  strength  ever  lies ;  and  here  he 
has  iofti  sight  of  probability  even  in  the  con- 
repuon  of  some  of  his  characters ;  and  dis- 


played  the  extraordinary  talent  of  bemg  ini« 
to  nature,  even  in  the  representation  of  im- 
possible persons. 

The  serious  interest  of  the  work  rests  on 
Diana  Vernon  and  on  Rob  Roy;  the  comic 
effect  is  left  chiefly  to  the  ministrations  of 
Baillie  Nicol  Jarvie  and  Andrew  Fairservice, 
with  the  occasional  assistance  of  less  regular 
performers.  Diana  is,  in  our  apprehension,  a 
very  bright  and  felicitous  creation — though  it 
is  certain  that  there  never  could  have  been 
any  such  person.  A  girl  of  eighteen,  not\ 
only  with  more  wit  and  learning  than  any! 
man  of  forty,  but  with  more  sound  sensej 
and  firmness  of  character,  than  any  man 
whatever — and  with  perfect  frankness  and 
elegance  of  manners,  though  bred  amon§ 
boors  and  bigots — is  rather  a  more  violent 
fiction,  we  think,  than  a  king  with  marble 
legs,  or  a  youth  with  an  ivory  shoulder.  Ii, 
spite  of  all  this,  however,  this  particular  fie  ■ 
tion  is  extremely  elegant  and  impressive  ; 
and  so  many  features  of  truth  are  blendeqf 
with  it,  that  we  soon  forget  the  impossibility^ 
and  are  at  least  as  much  interested  as  by  a 
more  conceivable  personage.  The  combina- 
tion of  fearlessness  with  perfect  purity  and 
delicacy,  as  well  as  that  of  the  inextinguish- 
able gaiety  of  jouth  with  sad  anticipations 
and  present  suffering,  are  all  strictly  natural, 
and  are  among  the  traits  that  are  wrought  out 
in  this  portrait  with  the  greatest  talent  and 
effect.  In  the  deep  tone  of  feeling,  and  the 
capacity  of  heroic  purposes,  this  heroine  bears 
a  family  likeness  to  the  Flora  of  Wayerley ; 
but  her  greater  youth,  and  her  unprotected 
situation,  add  prodigiously  to  the  interest  of 
these  qualities.  Andrew  Fairservice  is  a  new, 
and  a  less  interesting  incarnation  of  Cuddle 


ness,  and  a  top-dressing  of  pedantry  and  con- 
ceit— constituting  a  very  admirable  and  just 
representation  of  the  least  amiable  of  our 
Scottish  vulgar.  The  Baillie,  we  think,  is  an 
original.  It  once  occurred  to  us,  that  he 
might  be  described  as  a  mercantile  and  town- 
ish  Dandie  Dinmont ;  but  the  points  of  resem- 
blance are  really  fewer  than  those  of  contrast.. 
He  is  an  inimitable  picture  of  an  acute,  saga-f/ 
cious,  upright,  and  kind  man,  thoroughly  low 
bred,  and  beset  with  all  sorts  of  vulgarities. 
Both  he  and  Andrew  are  rich  mines  of  the 
true  Scottish  language;  and  afford,  in  the 
hands  of  this  singular  writer,  not  only  an  ad- 
ditional proof  of  his  perfect  familiarity  with 
all  its  dialects,  but  also  of  its  extraordinary 
copiousness,  and  capacity  of  adaptation  to  all 
tones  and  subjects.  The  reader  may  take  a 
brief  specimen  of  Andrew's  elocution  in  the 
following  characteristic  account  of  the  pur- 
gation of  the  Cathedral  Church  of  Glasgow, 
and  its  consequent  preservation  from  the 
hands  of  our  Gothic  reformers. 

"  'Ah!  it's  a  brave  kirk — nane  o'  yere  whig- 
maleeries  and  cnrlie-wurlies  and  open-steek  hems 
about  it — a'  solid,  weel-jointed  mason-wark,  that 
will  stand  as  long  as  the  Nvarld,  keep  hands  and 
gunpowther  afTit.  It  had  amaist  a  doun-come  lang 
syne  at  the  Reformation,  when  they  pu'd  doun  the 
kirks  of  St.  Andrews  and  Perth,  and  thereawa, 
to  cleanse  them  o'  Papery,  and  idolatry,  and  imag« 


WAVERLEY  NOVELS. 


6» 


n^orsliip,  and  surplices,  and  sic  like  rags  o'  the 
muckle  hoor  that  sitteth  on  seven  hills,  as  if  ane 
was  na  braid  aneugh  for  her  auld  hinder  end.  Sae 
the  commons  o'  Renfrew,  and  o'  the  Barony,  and 
the  Gorbals,  and  a'  about,  they  behooved  to  come 
into  Glasgow  ae  fair  morning  to  try  their  hand  on 
purging  the  High  Kirk  o'  Popish  nick-nackets. 
But  the  townsmen  o'  Glasgow,  they  were  feared 
their  auld  edifice  might  slip  the  girths  in  gaun 
through  siccan  rough  physic,  sae  they  rang  the 
common  bell,  and  assembled  the  train  bands  wi' 
took  o'  drum — By  good  luck,  the  worthy  James 
Rabat  was  Bean  o'  Guild  that  year — (and  a  gude 
mason  he  was  himsell,  made  him  the  keener  to 
keep  up  the  auld  bigging),  and  the  trades  assem- 
bled, and  offered  downright  battle  to  the  com- 
mons, rather  than  their  kirk  should  coup  the  crans, 


as  they  had  done  elsewhere.  It  was  na  for  luvo 
o'  Paparie — na,  na  ! — nane  could  ever  say  that  o' 
the  trades  o'  Glasgow — Sae  they  sune  cam  to  an 
agreement  to  take  a'  the  idolatrous  statutes  of  santa 
(sorrow  be  on  thern)  out  o'  their  neuks  —  And 
sae  the  bits  o'  stane  idols  were  broken  in  pieces  by 
Scripture  warrant,  and  flung  into  the  Molendinar 
Burn,  and  the  auld  kirk  stood  as  crouse  as  a  cat 
when  the  fleas  are  caimed  aff  her,  and  a' body  was 
alike  pleased.  And  I  hae  heard  wise  folk  say, 
that  if  the  same  had  been  done  in  ilka  kirk  in  Scot, 
land,  the  Reform  wad  just  hae  been  as  pure  as  it 
is  e'en  now,  and  we  wad  had  mair  Christian-hUe 
kirks  ;  for  I  hae  been  sae  lang  in  England,  that 
naething  will  drive  it  out  o'  my  head,  that  the  dog- 
kennell  at  Osbaldistone-Hall  is  better  than  mony 
a  house  o'  God  in  Scotland.'  " 


(lannarg,  1820.) 

1.  Ivanhoe.  A  Romance.  By  the  Author  of  Waverleyj  &c.  3  vols.  Edinburgh,  Constable  &  Co. 

2.  The  Novels  and  Tales  of  the  Author  of  Waverley ;  comprising  Waverley,  Guy  3Iannering, 
Antiquary,  Rob  Roy,  Tales  of  My  Landlord,  First,  Second,  and  Third  Series;  New  Edition, 
with  a  copious  Glossary.     Edinburgh,  Constable  &  Co. :     1820, 


Since  the  time  when  Shakespeare  wrote  his 
thirty-eight  plays  in  the  brief  space  of  his 
early  manhood — besides  acting  in  them,  and 
drinking  and  living  idly  with  the  other  actors 
— and  then  went  carelessly  to  the  country, 
and  lived  out  his  days,  a  little  more  idly,  and 
apparently  unconscious  of  having  done  any 
thing  at  all  extraordinary — there  has  been  no 
such  prodigy  of  fertility  as  the  anonymous 
author  before  us.  In  the  period  of  little  more^ 
than  five  years,  he  has  founded  a  new  school 
of  invention ;  and  established  and  endowed  it 
with  nearly  thirty  volumes  of  the  most  ani- 
mated and  original  compositions  that  have 
enriched  English  literature  for  a  century — 
^volumes  that  have  cast  sensibly  into  the  shade 
all  contemporary  prose,  and  even  all  recent 
poetry — (except  perhaps  that  inspired  by  the 
Genius — or  the  Demon,  of  Byron) — and,  by 
their  force  of  colouring  and  depth  of  feeling — 
by  their  variety,  vivacity,  magical  facility, 
and  living  presentment  of  character,  have 
rendered  conceivable  to  this  later  age  the 
miracles  of  the  Mighty  Dramatist. 

Shakespeare,  to  be  sure,  is  more  purely 
original ;  but  it  should  not  be  forgotten,  that, 
in  his  time,  there  was  much  less  to  borrow — 
and  that  he  too  has  drawn  freely  and  largely 
from  the  sources  that  were  open  to  Lim,  at 
least  for  his  fable  and  graver  sentiment ; — for 
his  wit  and  humour,  as  well  as  his  poetry,  are 
always  his  own.  In  our  times,, all  the  higher 
walks  of  literature  have  been  so  long  and  so 
.oHeii  trodden,  that  it  is  scarcely  possible  to 
keep  out  oLtlie  footsteps  of  some  of  our  pre- 
cursors-and  the  ancients,  it  is  well  known, 
have  stolen  most  of  our  bright  thoughts — and 
not  only  visibly  beset  all  the  patent  ap- 
P<i3£lii§v.^-".glpry7— but  swarm  in  such  am- 
bushed multitudes  behind,  that  when  we 
think  we  have  gone  fairly  beyond  their  pla- 
giarisms, and  honestly  worketi  out  an  original 
excellence  of  our  own,  up  starts  some  deep- 
tead  antiquaryj  and  makes  it  out,  much  to  his 


many  of  these  busy  bodies_h.ave  been  before- 
hand with  us,  both  in  tl|e  genitl  and  the  species: 

of  our  invention  !  """ '^- 

The  author  before  us  is  certainly  in  less 
danger  from  such  detections,  than  any  othci 
we  have  ever  met  with ;  but,  even  in  him,lhe 
traces  of  imitation  are  obvious  and-abundant : 


-  [anditis  impnii£dble3^-^^^QJi7iQJiYg  ^J^  tito 
same  credit  for  absolute  originality  as  thosc> 
_earlier  writers,  who,  having  no  snccessful 
author  to  imitate,  were  obliged  to  cop}'  direct- 
ly from  nature.  In  naming  him  aloui:-  MJth 
Shakespeare,  we  meant  still  less  to  say  that 
he  was  to  be  put  on  a  level  with  Him,  as  to 
the  richness  and  sweetness  of  his  "fancy,  or 
that  living  vein  of  pure  and  lofty  poetry  which 
flows  with  such  abundance  through  every  part 
of  his  compositions.  On  that  level  no  other 
writer  has  ever  stood — or  will  ever  stand — 
though  we  do  think  that  there  is  fancy  and 
poetry  enough  in  these  contemporary  pages, 
if  not  to  justify  the  comparison  we  have  ven- 
tured to  suggest,  at  least  to  save  it,  for  the 
first  time  for  two  hundred  years,  from  being 
altogether  ridiculous.  In  saying  even  this, 
however,  we  wish  to  observe,  that  we  have  in 
view  the^grodig^ious  vajiety__aniJLiaLCJlity  of  the 
modem  writer — atleast  as  much  as  the  qual- 
ity of  his  several  productions.  The  variety 
stands  out  on  the  face  of  each  of  them ;  ana 
the  facility  is  attested,  as  in  the  case  of 
Shakespeare  himself,  both  by  the  inimitable 
freedom  and  happy  carelessness  of  the  style 
in  which  they  are  executed,  and  by  the  match- 
less rapidity  with  which  they  have  been  lav 
ished  on  the  public. 

Such  an  author  would  really  require  a  re- 
view to  himself — and  one  too  of  swifter  than 
quarterly  recurrence :  and  accordingly  we  have 
long  since  acknowledged  our  inability  to  keep, 
up  with  him,  and  fairly  renounced  the  task 
of  keeping  a  regular  account  of  his  successive 
publications  j  contenting  ourselves  with  greet- 


538 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


ing  him  now  and  then  in  the  pauses  of  his 
brilliant  career,  and  casting,  when  we  do 
meet,  a  hurried  glance  over  the  wide  field  he 
has  traversed  since  we  met  before. 

We  gave  it  formerly,  we  think,  as  our  reason 
for  thus  passing  over,  without  special  notice, 
some  of  the  most  remarkable  productions  of 
the  age,  that  they  were  in  fact  too  remarkable 
to  need  any  notice  of  ours — that  they  were  as 
soon,  and  as  extensively  read,  as  we  could 
hope  our  account  of  them  to  be — and  that  in 
reality  all  the  world  thought  just  what  we 
were  inclined  to  say  of  them.  These  reasons 
certainly  remain  in  full  force ;  and  we  may 
now  venture  to  mention  another,  which  had 
in  secret,  perhaps,  as  much  weight  with  us  as 
all  the  rest  put  together.  We  mean  simply, 
that  when  we  began  M'ith  one  of  those  works, 
we  were  conscious  that  we  never  knew  how 
to  leave  off;  but,  finding  the  author's  words 
so  much  more  agreeable  than  our  own,  went 
on  in  the  most  unreasonable  manner  copying 
out  description  after  description,  and  dialogue 
after  dialogue,  till  we  were  abused,  not  alto- 
gether without  reason,  for  selling  our  readers 
in  small  letter  what  they  had  already  in  large, 
— and  for  the  abominable  nationality  of  filling 
up  our  pages  with  praises  of  a  Scottish  author, 
and  specimens  of  Scottish  pleasantry  and  pa- 
thos. While  we  contritely  admit  the  justice 
of  these  imputations,  we  humbly  trust  that 
our  Southern  readers  will  now  be  of  opinion 
that  the  offence  has  been  in  some  degree  ex- 
piated, both  by  our  late  forbearance,  and  our 
present  proceeding :  For  while  we  have  done 
violence  to  our  strongest  propensities,  in  pass- 
ing over  in  silence  two  very  tempting  publi- 
cations of  this  author,  on  Scottish  subjects  and 
in  the  Scottish  dialect,  we  have  at  last  recur- 
red to  him  for  the  purpose  of  noticing  the  only 
work  he  has  produced  on  a  subject  entirely 
English;  and  one  which  is  nowhere  graced 
either  with  a  trait  of  our  national  character,  or 
a  (voluntary)  sample  of  our  national  speech. 

Before  entering  upon  this  task,  however,  we 
must  be  permitted,  just  for  the  sake  of  keep- 
ing our  chronology  in  order,  to  say  a  word  or 
two  on  those  neglected  works,  of  which  we 
constrained  ourselves  to  say  nothing,  at  the 
time  when  they  formed  the  subject  of  all  other 
disceptation. 

^- ThR  Hnnrt  nf  "fVIid-Lothian"  is  remarkable 
for  containing  fewer  characters,  and  less  va- 
riety of  incident,  than  any  of  the  author's 
farmer  productions: — and  it  is  accordingly,  in 
/Some  places,  comparatuely  languid.  The 
Porteous  mob  is  rather  heavny  described  :  an 
the  whole  part  of  George  Robertson,  or  Sta 
ton,  is  extravagant  and  unpleasing.  The  finkl 
catastrophe,  too,  is  needlessly  improbable  a£d 
startling;  and  both  Saddletrees  and  Da 
Deans  become  at  last  somewhat  tedious  and 
unreasonable ;  v.-hile  we  miss,  throughout,  the 
character  of  the  generous  and  kindhearted 


such  spirit  and  interest  to  most  of  the  other 
stories.  But  with  all  these  defects,  the  work 
has  both  beauty  and  power  enough  to  vindi- 
cate its  title  to  a  legitimate  descent  from  its 
mighty  father — and  even  to  a  place  in  "  the 


valued  file"  of  his  productions.    Th  3  tiinl  and 
condemnation  of  Effie  Deans  are  pathetic  and 
beautiful  in  the  very  highest  degree ;  and  the 
scenes  with  the  Duke  of  Argyle  are  equally 
full  of  spirit ;  and  strangely  compounded  of 
peiiectkruiidedgg^ijflife  and  of  strong  and 
deep  Teeling.     But   tEe^great  boast  of  the 
piece,  and  the  great  exploit  of  the  author — 
perhaps  the  greatest  of  all  his  exploits — is  the 
character  and  history  of  Jeanie  Deans,  from 
the  time  she  first  reproves  her  sister's  flirta- 
tions at  St.  Leonard's,  till  she  settles  in  the  ^i 
manse  in  Argyleshire.     The  singTilar  talent'p, 
with  which  he  has  engraffeH  on  The"  humble 
and  somewhat  coarse  stock  of  a  quiet  unas- 
suming peasant  girl,  the  heroic  affection,  the 
strong  sense,  and  lofty  purposes,  which  dis- 
tingTiish  this  heroine — or  rather,  the  art  with 
which  he  has  so  tempered  and  modified  those^ 
great  qualities,  as  to  make  them  appear  tio-^ 
ways  unsuitable  to   the  station   or  ordinary 
bearing  of  such  a  person,  and  so  ordered  and 
disposed   the  incidents"   Dy  which  they  are 
called  out,  that  they  seem  throughout  adapted, 
and  native  as  it  were,  to  her  condition, — is 
superior  to  any  thing  we  can  recollect  in  the 
history  of  invention ;  and  must  appear,  to  anyj 
one  who  attentively  considers  it,  as  a  remark-i 
able  triumph  oyer  the  greatest  of  alFclifficSE- 
ties  111  the  conduct  of  a  fictitious  narrative^ 
j.eaoiiia  Jbe.ans,  in  the  coursebf  her  adventuroua 
undertaking,  excites  our  admiration  and  sy^jts^. 
mthy^a  great'deal  more  powerfully  than  most^ 
heroines,  and  is  in  the  highest  degree  botlQ 
j»athetic  arr3"'sut>nme';— and  yet   she   nevgit ! 
says  or  does  any  .one  thing  that  the  daughtejr  \  " 
of  a  Scotch  cowfeeder  might  not  be  supposed    I 
to  say — and  scarcely  any  thing  indeed  that  is^  ^ 
noi.  characteristic  of  her  rank  and   habitual 
occupations.     She  is  never  sentimentalj  nor   \ 
refinedj^  nor^elegiml;  and  though'  acf iiig"  al^  ; 
ways,  anH^in  very  difficult  situations,  with 
the  greatest  judgment  and  propriety,  never 
seems  to  exert  more  than  that  downright  and 
obvious  good  sense  which  is  so  often  found  to 
rule  the  conduct  of  persons  of  her  condition. 
This  is  th«  gr^at  ornamenl  and  -eharm-^-the 
woxk«^  Dumbiedykes,  however,  is  an  admir- 
able sketch  in  the  grotesque  way; — and  the 
Captain  of  Knockdunder  is  a  very  spirited, 
and,  though  our  Saxon  readers  will  scarcely 
believe  it,  a  very  accurate  representation  of  a 
Celtic  deputy.     There  is  less  description  of 
scenery,  and  less  sympathy  with  external  na- 
ture, in  this,  than  in  any  of  the  other  tales. 
l^The    Bride^  of  Jiamn^jgnqor''   is    more 
'y"an3~roniaiTtic"tImrnne*' usual  vein  of 
the  author — and  loses,  perhaps,  in  the  exag- 
geration that  is  incident  to  that  style,  some  of 
the  deep  and  heartfelt  interest  that  belongs  to 
more  familiar  situations.     The  humours  of 
Taleb  Balderstone,  too,  are  to  our  taste  the 
least  successful  of  this  author's  attempts  at 
pleasantry — and  belong  rather  to  the  school 
of  French  or  Italian  buffoonery,  than  to  that 
of  English  humour ; — and  yet,  to  give  scope 
to  these  farcical  exhibitions,  the  poverty  of 
the  Master  of  Ravenswood  is  exaggerated  be- 
yond all  credibility,  and  to  the  injury  even  of 
his  personal  dignity.   Sir  W.  Asnton  is  tedious 


WAVERLEY  NOVELS. 


5S9 


^( 


and  Bucklaw  and  his  Captain,  though  excel- 
l  lently  drawn,  take  up  rather  too  much  room 
for  subordinate  agents. — There  are  splendid 
things,  however,  in  this  work  also. — The  pic- 
ture of  old  Ailie  is  exquisite — and  beyond  the 
reach  of  any  other  living  writer. — The  hags 
that  convene  in  the  churchyard,  have  all  the 
terror  and  sublimity,  and  more  than  the  na- 
ture of  Macbeth's  witches ;  and  the  courtship 
at  the  Mermaiden's  well,  as  well  as  some  of 
the  immediately  preceding  scenes,  are  full  of 
dignity  and  beauty.  There  is  a  deep  pathos 
indeed,  and  a  genuine  tragic  interest  in  the 
whole  story  of  the  ill-omened  loves  of  the  two 
victims.  The  final  catastrophe  of  the  Bride, 
hovs-ever,  thqu^^It  may  be  founded  on  ..Tact, 
16  fou  iioniblc  lorhction.— But  that  of  Ravens- 
wood  is  magnificent-^nd,  taken  along  with 
the  prediction  which  it  was  doomed  to  fulfil, 
and  the  mourning  and  death  of  Balderstone, 
is  one  of  the  finest  combinations  of  supersti- 
tion and  sadness  which  the  gloomy  genius  of 
our  fiction  has  ever  put  together. 

^•'  The  Legend  of  Montrose?'  is  also  of  the 
nature""or  a  sketch"  or"  fragment,  and  is  still 
more  vigorous  than  its  companion. — There  is 
too  much,  perhaps,  of  Dalgetty — or,  rather,  he 
engrosses  too  great  a  proportion  of  the  work, 
— for,  in  himself,  we  think  he  is  uniformly 
entertaining; — and  the  author  has  nowhere 
shown  more  affinity  to  that  matchless  spirit 
who  could  bring  out  his  FalstafFs  and  his  Pis- 
tols, in  act  after  act,  and  play  after  play,  and 
exercise  them  every  time  in  scenes  of  un- 
bounded loquacity,  without  either  exhausting 
^heir  humour,  or  varying  a  note  from  its  char- 
acteristic tone,  than  in  his  large  and  reiterated 
specimens  of  the  eloquence  of  the  redoubted 
Rittraaster.  The  general  idea  of  the  charac- 
ter is  familiar  to  our  comic  dramatists  after 
the  Restoration — and  may  be  said  in  some 
measure  to  be  compounded  of  Captain  Fluel- 
len  and  Bobadil ; — but  the  ludicrous  combi- 
nation of  the  soldado  with  the  Divinity  student 
of  Marischal  college,  is  entirely  original ;  and 
the  mixture  of  talent,  selfishness,  courage, 
coarseness,  and  conceit,  was  never  so  happily 
exemplified.  Numerous  as  his  speeches  are, 
there  is  not  one  that  is  not  characteristic — 
and,  to  our  taste,  divertingly  ludicrous.  An- 
not  Lyle,  and  the  Children  of  the  Mist,  are  in 
a  very  different  manner — and,  though  extrava 
gant,  are  full  of  genius  and  poetry  ~" 
■XKh«4e--8tieDes  at  Argyle's  Castle,  and  in  the 
^^sgijpe  irom  il^— though  Jrespassing  too  far 
beyond  :he  bounds  of  probabliny— are  given' 
with  great  spirit  and' ^ITect;  ana  the  mixture 
of  romantic  incident  and  situation,  wath  the 
tone  of  actual  business  and  the  real  transac- 
tions of  a  camp,  give  a  life  and  interest  to  the. 
warlike  part  of  the  story,  which  belong  to  the 
fictions  of  no  other  hand.  There  is  but  little 
made  of  Montrose  himself;    and  the  wager 


productions  of  which  we  have  been  prevented 
from  speaking  in  detail,  we  proceed,  without 
further  preface,  to  give  an  account  of  the 
work  before  us. 

The  story,  as  we  have  already  stated,  is  en- 
tirely English ;  and  consequently  no  longer  pos- 
sesses the  charm  of  that  sweet  Doric  dialect, 
of  which  even  strangers  have  been  made  of 
late  to  feel  the  force  and  the  beauty.  But  our 
Southern  neighbours  will  be  no  great  gainers, 
after  all.  in  point  of  familiarity  with  the  per- 
sonages, by  this  transference  of  the  scene  of 
action  : — ^ot  the  time  is. laid  as  far  back  as 
the  reign  of  Richard  L — and  we  suspect  that 
thfi„Saxpns  and  Normans  of  that  age  are  rather 
less  known  to  them  than  even  the  Highlanders 
and  Cameronians  of  the  present.  This  was 
,the  great  difficulty  the  author  had  to.  contend 
with^  and  the  great  disadvantage  of  the  sub- 
ject with  which  he  had  to  deal.  Nfifeody  now  ^^ 
alive  can  have  a  very  clear  or  complete  con-P* 
ception  of  the  actual  way  of  life  and  manief^ 
"(f'e/re  of  our  ancestors  in  the  year  1194.  Some 
of  the  more  prominent  outlines  of  their  chiv- 
alry, their  priesthood,  and  their  villenage, 
may  be  known  to  antiquaiies.  or  even  to  gen- 
eral readers  ;  J)ut.  all  the  filling- up,  and  de- 
tails, which  alone  could  give  body  and  life  to 
the  picture,  have  been  long  since  effaced  by 
time.  We  have  scarcely  any  notion,  in  short,  / 
of  the  private  life  and  conversation  of  any 
Qlass  of  persons  in  that  remote  period;  and,  ■'■.' 
in  fact,  know  less  how  the  men  and  women 
occupied  or  amused  themselves — what  they 
talked  about — how  they  looked — or  ai  hat  they 
habitually  thought  or  felt,  at  that  time  in  Eng- 
land, than  we  know^  of  what  they  did  or 
thought  atJBO-Oie  in  the  time  of  Augustus,  or 
at  Ath^fts  in  the  time  of  Pericles.  "The  me- 
morials and  relics  of  those  earlier  ages  arid 
remoter  nations  are  greatly  more  abundant 
and  more  familiar  to  us,  than  those  of  our  an- 
cestors at  the  distance  of  seven  centuries. 
Besides  ample  histories  and  copious  orations, 
we  have  plays,  poems,  and  familiar  letters  of 
the  former  periods;  while  of  the  latter  we 
have  only  some  vague  chronicles,  some  su- 
perstitious legends,  and  a  few  fragments  of 
foreign  romance.  We  scarcely  know,  indeed, 
what  language  was  then  either  spoken  oi 
written.  Xsi^  wiih.  all  these  helps,  how  cold 
and  conjectural  a  thing  would  anovel  be,  of 
The  ]jv\:Jiich.  the  scene  was  laid  in  ancient' Rorne"^*^ 
The  author  might  talk  with  perfect  propriety 
of  the  business  of  the  Forum,  and  the  amuse« 
nients^flf  the  t!!ircus^ — of  the  baths  and  the. 
suppers,  and  the  canvass  for  office — and  the 
sacrifices,  and  musters,  and  assemblies.  He^ 
might  be  quite  correct  as  to  the  dresS;  furnp*** 
ture,  and  utensils  he  had  occasion  to  mention; 
and  might  even  engross  in  his  work  various 
anecdotes  and  sayings  preserved  in  contem- 
porary authors.     !]^ut  when  he  came  to  repre- 


founded  in  fact,  and  borrowed  from  a  very 
well  known  and  entertaining  book,  is  one  of 
the  few  things  in  the  writings  of  this  author, 
to  which  we  are  constrained  to  apply  the  epi- 
thets of  stupid  and  silly. 
Having  thus  hastily  set  our  mark  on  those 


about  the  Candlesticks — though  said   to   be  ^Sfict  the  details  of  individual  character  and 


feeling,  and  to  delineate  the  daily  conduct, 
and  report  the  ordinary'  Conversation  of  hia 
persons,  he  would  inidnlmself  either  frozen 
jn.  among  naked  and  Mrren  generalities,  ci 
engaged  with  modern  Englishmen  in  the  ma^ 
querade  habits  of  antiquity.  . 


MO 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


In  stating  these  difficulties,  however,  we 
really  mean  less  to  account  for  the  defects, 
than  to  enhance  the  merits  of  the  work  before 
us.  For  thou^t^e. author  has  networked 
impossibilities,  he  has  done  wonders  with  his 
Subject:  and  though  we  do  sometimes  miss 
those  fresh  and  living  pictures  of  the  charac- 
ters which  we  know,  and  the  nature  with 
which  we  are  familiar — and  that  high  and 
deep  interest  which  the  home  scenes  of  our 
own  times,  and  our  own  people  could  alone 
generate  or  sustain,  it  is  impossible  to  deny 
that  lie  has  niade  marvellous  good  use  of  the 
scanty  materials  at  his  disposal — and  eked 
them  out  both  by  the  greatest  skill  and  dex- 
terity in  their  arrangement,  and  by  all  the  re- 
sources that  original  genius  could  render  sub- 
servient to  such  a  design.  For  this  purpose 
he  has  laid  his  scene  in  a  period  when  the 
rivalry  of  the  victorious  Norman  and  the  con- 
quered Saxon,  had  not  been  finally  composed; 
and  when  the  courtly  petulance,  and  chival- 
rous and  military  pride  of  the  one  race,  might 
yet  be  set  in  splendid  opposition  to  the  manly 
steadiness,  and  honest  but  homely  simplicity 
of  the  other:  And  lia^^  at  the  same  time, 
given  an  air  both  of  dignity  and  of  reality  to 
his  story,  by  bringing  in  the  personal  prowess 
of  Cosur  de  Lion  himself,  and  other  person- 
ages of  historical  fame,  to  assist  in  its  devel- 
opment.— Though  reduced,  in  a  great  measure. 
to  the  vulgar  staple  of  armed  knights,  and 
jolly  friars  or  woodsmen,  imprisoned  damsels, 
lawless  barons,  collared  serfs,  and  household 
fools — he  has  made  such  admirable  use  of  his 
great  talents  for  description,  and  invested 
those  traditional  and  theatrical  persons  with 
to  much  of  the  feelings  and  humours  that  are 
of  all  ages  and  all  countries,  that  we  frequent- 
ly cease  to  regard  them — as  it  is  generally 
right  to  regard  them — as  parts  of  a  fantastical 
pageant ;  and  are  often  brought  to  consider 
the  knights  who  joust  in  panoply  in  the  lists, 
and  the  foresters  who  shoot  deer  with  arrows, 
and  plunder  travellers  in  the  woods,  as  real 
mdividuals,  with  hearts  of  flesh  and  oTood 
beating  in  their  bosoms  like  our  own — actual 
existences,  in  short,  into  whoseviews  we  may 
still  reasonably  enter,  and  with  whose  emo- 
tions we  are  bound  to  svrnpathise.  To  all 
this  he  has  added,  out  of  the  prodigality  of 
his  hlgTramT  inventive  genius,  the  grace  and 
the  interest  of  .-ome  lofty,  and  sweet,  and 
superhunian  cliaracter^: — for  which,  though 
evidently  fictitious,  and  unnatural  in  any 
stage  of  society,  the  remoteness  of  the  scene 
on  which  they  are  introduced,  may  serve  as 
an  apology — if  they  could  need  any  other 
than  what  they  bring  along  with  them  in 
their  own  sublimity  and  beauty. 

In  comparing  this  work  then  with  the  former 
procl  net  ions  of  the  same  master-hand,  it  is 
impossible  not  to  feel  that  we  are  jgassing  in 
a  good  degree  from  the  reign  of  nature. and 
fealit^^y-to-that  of  fancy  and  romance  ;  and  ex- 
changing for  scenes  of  wonder  and  curiosity, 
those  more  homefelt  sympathies  and  deeper 
touches  of  delight  that  can  only  be  excited  by 
the  people  among  whom  we  live,  and  the  ob- 
•ect«  that  are  constantly  around  us.     A  far 


greater  proportion  of  the  work  is  accordi 
made  up  of  .splendid  descriptions  of  arms  an 
dresses — moated  and  massive  castles — tourna- 
ments of  mailed  champ,  ons — solemn  feasts- 
formal  courtesies,  and  other  matters  of  external ; 
and  visible  presentment,  that  are  only  entitled 
to  such  distinction  as  connected  with  the  olden 
time,  and  new  only  by  virtue  of  their  antiquity 
— while  the^nterest  of  the  story  is  maintained, ' 
far  more  "By  surprising  adventures  ancr'"extfa:i 
ordinary  situations,  the  startling  effect  '6f"^Trx- 
agg-erated  sentiments,. and  the  strong  contrast 
of  exaggerated  characters,  than  by  the  sober 
charms  of  truth  and  reality, — the  exquisite 
representation  of  scenes  with  which  we  are 
familiar,  or  the  skilful  development  of  affec- 
tions which  we  have  often  experienced. 

jThese  bright  lights  and  deep  shadows — this 
succession  of  brilliant  pictures,  addressed  as 
often  to  the  eye  as  to  the  imagination,  and 
oftener  to  the  imagination  than  the  heart — this 
preference  of  striking  generalities  to  homely 
details,  all  belong  more  properly  to  the  pro-e- 
vince of  Poetry  than  of  Prose;  and  lyanhoe! 
accordingly  seems  to  us  much  more  akin  to. 
the  most  splendid  of  modern  poems,  than  the: 
most  interesting  of  modern  novels ;  and  savours 
more  of  Marmion,  or  the  Lady  of  the  Lake, 
than  of  Waverley,  or  Old  Mortality.  For  our 
part  we  prefer,  and  we  care  not  who  knows 
It,  the  prose  to  the  pgeiry — whether  in  metre 
or  out  of  it  ]  and  would  w^illingly  exchange,  it 
the  proud  alternative  were  in  our  choice,  even 
the  great  fame  of  Mr.  Scott,  for  that  Avhich 
awaits  the  mighty  unknown  who  has  here 
raised  his  standard  of  rivalry,  within  the  an- 
cient limits  of  his  reign.  We  cannot  now, 
however,  give  even  an  abstract  of  the  story ; 
and  shall  venture,  but  on  a  brief  citation,  from 
the  most  striking  of  its  concluding  scenes. 
The  majestic  Rebecca,  our  readers  will  recol- 
lect, had  been  convicted  before  the  grand 
master  of  the  Templars,  and  sentenced  to  die, 
unless  a  champion  appeared  to  do  battle  with 
her  accuser,  before  an  appointed  day.  The 
appointed  day  at  last  arrives.  Rebecca  is  led 
out  to  the  scaffold — faggots  are  prepared  by 
the  side  of  the  lists — and  in  the  lists  appears 
the  relentless  Templar,  mounted  and  armed 
for  the  encounter.  No  champion  appears  for 
Rebecca ;  and  the  heralds  ask  her  if  she  yields 
herself  as  justly  condemned. 

"  '  Say  to  the  Grand  Master,' replied  Rebecca, 
'  that  I  maintain  my  innocence,  and  do  not  yield  me 
as  justly  condemned,  lest  I  become  guilty  of  mine 
own  blood.  Say  to  him,  that  I  challenge  such  de- 
lay as  his  forms  will  permit,  to  see  if  God,  whose 
opportunity  is  in  man's  extremity,  will  raise  me  up 
a  dehvereir ;  and  when  such  uttermost  space  is 
passed,  may  his  Holy  will  be  done!'  The  herald 
retired  to  carry  this  answer  to  the  Grand  Master. — 
'  God  forbid,'  said  Lucas  Beaumanoir,  '  that  Jew  or 
Pae;an  should  impeach  us  of  injustice. — Until  the 
shadows  be  cast  from  the  west  to  the  eastward,  will 
we  wait  to  see  if  a  chanipion  will  appear  for  this 
unfortunate  vyoman.' 

The  hours  pass  away — and  the  shadows 
begin  to  pass  to  the  eastward.  The  assembled 
multitudes  murmur  with  impatience  and  com* 
passion — and  the  Judges  whisper  to  each  other 
that  it  is  time  to  proceed  to  doom. 


M 


WAVERLEY  NOVELS. 


541 


•*At  this  instant  a  knight,  urging  his  horse  to 
speed,  appeared  on  the  plain  advancing  towards  the 
hsts.  An  hundred  voices  exclaimed,  '  A  champion  ! 
a  champion  !'  And,  despite  the  prepossession  and 
prejudices  of  the  muUitude,  they  shouted  unani- 
mously as  the  knight  rode  rapidly  into  the  tilt-yard, 
i'o  the  summ.ons  of  the  herald,  who  demanded  his 
rank,  his  name,  and  purpose,  the  stranger  knight 
answered  readily  and  boldly,  '  I  am  a  good  knight 
and  noble,  come  hither  to  sustain  with  lance  and 
sword  the  just  and  lawful  quarrel  of  this  damsel, 
Rebecca,  daughter  of  Isaac  of  York  ;  to  uphold  the 
doom  pronounced  against  her  to  be  false  and  truth- 
less; and  to  defy  Sir  Brian  de  Bois-Guilbert,  as  a 
traitor,  murtherer,  and  liar.'  '  The  stranger  must 
first  show,'  said  Malvoisin,  'that  he  is  a  good 
Knight,  and  of  honourable  lineage.  The  Temple 
sendeth  not  forth  her  champions  against  nameless 
men.' — 'My  name,'  said  the  Knight,  raising  his 
helmet,  'is  better  known,  my  lineage  more  pure, 
Malvoisin,  than  thine  own,  I  am  Wilfred  of  Ivan- 
hoe.' — '  I  will  not  fight  with  thee,'  said  the  Templar, 
in  a  changed  and  hollow  voice,  '  Get  thy  wounds 
healed,  and  purvey  thee  a  better  horse,  and  it  may 
be  I  will  hold  it  worth  my  while  to  scourge  out  of 
thee  this  boyish  spirit  of  bravade,' — '  Ha !  proud 
Templar,'  said  Ivanhoe,  '  hast  thou  forgotten  that 
twice  didst  thou  fall  before  this  lance  ?  Remember 
the  lists  at  Acre — remember  the  Passage  of  Arms 
at  Ashby — remember  thy  proud  vaunt  in  the  halls 
of  Rotherwood,  and  the  gage  of  your  gold  chain 
against  my  reliquary,  that  thou  wouldst  do  battle 
with  Wilfred  of  Ivanhoe,  and  recover  the  honour 
thou  hadst  lost !  By  that  rehquary,  and  the  holy 
relique  it  contains,  I  will  proclaim  ihee.  Templar, 
a  coward  in  every  court  in  Europe — in  every  Pre- 
ceptory  of  thine  Order — unless  thou  do  battle  with- 
out farther  delay.' — Bois-Guilbert  turned  his  coun- 
tenance irresolutely  towards  Rebecca,  and  then  ex- 
claimed, looking  fiercely  at  Ivanhoe,  'Dog  of  a 
Saxon,  take  thy  lance,  and  prepare  for  the  death 
thou  hast  drawn  upon  thee!' — 'Does  the  Grand 
Master  allow  me  the  combat  ?'  said  Ivanhoe. — '  I 
may  not  deny  what  you  have  challenged,'  said  the 
Grand  Master,  '  yet  I  would  thou  wert  in  better 
plight  to  do  battle.  An  enemy  of  our  Order  hast 
thou  ever  been,  yet  would  I  have  thee  honourably 
n.at  with.'  '  Thus — thus  as  I  am,  and  not  other- 
wise,' said  Ivanhoe  ;  '  it  is  the  judgment  of  God  ! — 
to  his  keeping  I  commend  myself  " 

We  cannot  make  room  for  the  whole  of  this 
catastrophe.  The  overtired  horse  of  Ivanhoe 
falls  in  the  shock ;  but  the  Templar,  though 
scarcely  touched  by  the  lance  of  his  adver- 
sary, reels,  and  falls  also  ', — and  when  they 
seek  to  raise  him,  is  fqund  to  be  utterly  dead ! 
a  victim  to  his  own  contending  passions. 

We  will  give  but  one  scene  more — and  it  is 
in  honour  of  the  divine  Rebecca — for  the  fate  of 
all  the  rest  may  easily  be  divined.  Richard  for- 
gives his  brother ;  and  Wilfred  weds  Rowena. 

"  It  was  upon  the  second  morning  after  this  happy 
bridal,  that  the  Lady  Rowena  was  made  acquainted 
by  her  handmaid  Elgitha,  that  a  damsel  desired  ad- 
mission to  her  presence,  and  solicited  that  their  par- 
ley migiit  be  without  witness.  Rowena  wondered, 
hesitated,  became  curious,  and  ended  by  command- 
ing the  damsel  to  be  admitted,  and  her  attendants 
to  withdraw, — She  entered — a  noble  and  command- 
ing figure ;  the  long  white  veil  in  which  she  was 
shrouded,  overshadowing  rather  than  concealing 
the  elegance  and  majesty  of  her  shape.  Her  de- 
meanour was  that  of  respect,  unmingled  by  the 
*east  shade  either  of  fear,  or  of  <:  wish  to  propitiate 
favour.  Rowena  was  ever  ready  to  acknowledge 
the  claims,  and  attend  to  the  ffeelings  of  others.  She 
arose,  and  would  have  conducted  the  lovely  stranger 
to  a  seat ;  but  she  looked  at  Elgitha,  and  again  in- 
timated a  wish  to  discourse  with  the  Lady  Rowena 


alone.  Elgitha  had  no  sooner  retired  with  unwilling 
steps,  than,  to  the  surprise  of  the  Lady  of  Ivanhoe, 
her  fair  visitant  kneeled  suddenly  on  one  knee, 
pressed  her  hands  to  her  forehead,  and,  bending  her 
head  to  the  ground,  in  spite  of  Rowena's  resistance, 
kissed  the  embroidered  hem  of  her  tunic. — *  What, 
means  this  ?'  said  the  surprised  bride  ;  '  or  why  do  ' 
you  offer  to  me  a  deference  so  unusual  ?' — '  Be- 
cause to  you.  Lady  of  Ivanhoe,'  said  Rebecca, 
rising  up  and  resuming  the  usual  quiet  dignity  of 
her  manner,  '  I  may  lawfully,  and  without  rebuke, 

fay  the  debt  of  gratitude  which  I  owe  to  Wilfred  of 
vanhoe.  1  am — forgive  the  boldness  which  has 
oflfered  to  you  the  homage  of  my  country — I  am  the 
unhappy  Jewess,  for  whom  your  husband  hazarded 
his  life  against  such  fearful  odds  in  the  tilt-yard  of 
Templestowe. — '  Damsel,'  said  Rowena,  '  Wilfred 
of  Ivanhoe  on  that  day  rendered  back  but  in  a  shght 
measure  your  unceasing  charity  towards  him  in  his 
wounds  and  misfortunes.  Speak,  is  there  aught 
remains  in  which  he  and  I  can  serve  thee  ?' — '  Notli- 
ing,'  said  Rebecca,  calmly,  '  unless  you  will  trans- 
mit to  him  my  grateful  farewell.' — '  You  leave  Eng- 
land, then,'  said  Rowena,  scarce  recovering  the  sur* 
prise  of  this  extraordinary  visit. — '  I  leave  it,  lady, 
ere  this  moon  again  changes.  My  father  hath  a 
brother  high  in  lavour  with  Mohammed  Boabdil, 
King  of  Grenada — thither  we  go,  secure  of  peace 
and  protection,  for  the  payment  of  such  ransom  as 
the  Moslem  exact  from  our  people.' — '  And  are  you 
not  then  as  well  protected  in  England?'  said  Rowe- 
na. '  My  husband  has  favour  with  the  King — the 
King  himself  is  just  and  generous,' — '  Lady,'  said 
Rebecca,  '  I  doubt  it  not — but  England  is  no  safe 
abode  for  the  children  of  my  people.  Ephraim  is  an 
heartless  dove — Tssachar  an  over-laboured  drudge, 
which  stoops  between  two  burthens.  Not  in  a  land 
of  war  and  blood,  surrounded  by  hostile  neighbours, 
and  distracted  by  internal  factions,  can  Israel  hope 
to  rest  during  her  wanderings.'—'  But  you,  maiden,' 
said  Rowena — '  you  surely  can  have  nothing  to  fear. 
She  who  nursed  the  sick-bed  of  Ivanhoe,'  she  con- 
tinued, rising  with  enthusiasm — '  she  can  have  noth- 
ing to  fear  in  England,  where  Saxon  and  Norman 
will  contend  who  shall  most  do  her  honour.' — '  Thy 
speech  is  fair,  lady,'  said  Rebecca,  'and  thy  pur- 
pose fairer ;  but  it  may  not  be — there  is  a  gulf  be- 
twixt us.  Our  breeding,  our  faith,  alike  forbid  either 
to  pass  over  it.  Farewell  1 — yet,  ere  I  go,  indulge 
me  one  request.  The  bridal  veil  hangs  over  thy 
face  ;  raise  it,  and  let  me  see  the  features  of  which 
fame  speaks  so  highly.' — '  They  are  scarce  worthy 
of  being  looked  upon,'  said  Rowena;  '  but,  expect- 
ing the  same  from  my  visitant,  I  remove  the  veil.'— 
She  took  it  off'accordingly,  and  partly  from  the  con- 
sciousness of  beauty,  partly  from  bashfulness,  she 
blushed  so  intensely,  that  cheek,  brow,  neck,  and 
bosom,  were  suhused  whh  crimson.  Rebecca  blush- 
ed also,  but  it  was  a  momentary  feeling ;  and,  mas- 
tered by  higher  emotions,  passed  slowly  from  her 
features  like  the  crimson  cloud,  which  changes  co- 
lour when  the  sun  sinks  beneath  the  horizon. 

"'Lady,  she  said,  'the  countenance  you  have 
deigned  to  show  me  will  long  dwell  in  my  remem- 
brance. There  reigns  in  it  gentleness  and  good- 
ness ;  and  if  a  tinge  of  the  world's  pride  or  vanities 
may  mix  with  an  expression  so  lovely,  how  may  we 
chide  that  which  is  of  earth  for  bearing  some  colour 
of  its  original  ?  Long,  long  shall  I  remember  your 
features,  and  bless  God  that  ]  leave  my  noble  de- 
liverer united  with' — She  stopped  short — her  eyes 
filled  with  tears.  She  hastily  wiped  them,  and  an- 
swered to  the  anxious  inquiries  of  Rowena — '  I  am 
well,  lady — well.  But  my  heart  swells  when  I  think 
of  Torquilstone  and  the  lists  of  Templestowe  ! — 
Farewell !  One,  the  most  trifling  part  of  my  duty, 
remains  undischarged.  Accept  this  casket — startle 
not  at  its  contents.' — Rowena  opened  the  small  sil 
ver-chased  casket,  and  perceived  a  carcanet,  or 
necklace,  with  ear -jewels,  of  diamonds,  which  were 
visibly  of  immense  value. — '  It  is  impossible,'  she 
said,  tendering  back  the  casket,  '  I  dare  not  accept 


542 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


a  gift  of  such  consequence.' — '  Yet  keep  it,  lady,' 
returned  Rebecca. — '  Let  me  not  think  you  deem 
BO  wretchedly  ill  of  my  nation  as  your  commons  be- 
lieve. Think  ye  that  I  prize  these  sparkling  frag- 
ments of  stone  above  my  liberty  ?  or  that  my  father 
values  them  in  comparison  to  the  honour  of  his  only 
child  ?  Accept  them,  lady — to  me  they  are  valueless. 
I  will  never  wear  jewels  more.' — 'You  are  then 
unhappy,'  said  Rowena,  struck  with  the  manner  in 
which  Rebecca  uttered  the  last  words.  '  O,  remain 
with  us — the  counsel  of  holy  men  will  wean  you 
from  your  unhappy  law,  and  I  will  be  a  sister  to 
you.' — '  No,  lady,'  answered  Rebecca,  the  same 
calm  melancholy  reigning  in  her  soft  voice  and  beau- 
tiful features, — '  that  may  not  be.  I  may  not  change 
the  faith  of  my  fathers,  like  a  garment  unsuited  to 
the  climate  in  which  I  seek  to  dwell ;  and  unhappy, 
lady,  I  will  not  be.  He,  to  whom  I  dedicate  my 
future  life,  will  be  my  comforter,  if  I  do  His  will.' — 
'  Have  you  then  convents,  to  one  of  which  you 
mean  to  retire  ?'  asked  Rowena. — '  No,  lady,'  said 
the  Jewess ;  '  but  among  our  people,  since  the  time 
of  Abraham  downward,  have  been  women  who 
have  devoted  their  thoughts  to  Heaven,  and  their 
actions  to  works  of  kindness  to  men,  tending  the 
sick,  feeding  the  hungry,  and  relieving  the  distress- 
ed. Among  these  will  Rebecca  be  numbered.  Say 
this  to  thy  lord,  should  he  inquire  after  the  fate  of 
her  whose  life  he  saved  !' — There  was  an  involun- 
tary tremor  in  Rebecca's  voice,  and  a  tenderness 
of  accent,  which  perhaps  betrayed  more  than  she 
would  willingly  have  expressed.  She  hastened  to 
bid  Rowena  adieu. — '  Farewell,'  she  said,  '  may 
He,  who  made  both  Jew  and  Christian,  shower 
down  on  you  his  choicest  blessings !' 

"  She  glided  from  the  apartment,  leaving  Rowena 
surprised  as  if  a  vision  had  passed  before  her.  The 
fair  Saxon  related  the  singular  conference  to  her 
husband,  on  whose  mind  it  made  a  deep  impression. 
He  lived  long  and  happily  with  Rowena  ;  for  they 
were  attached  to  each  other  by  the  bonds  of  early 
affection,  and  they  loved  each  other  the  more,  from 
recollection  of  the  obstacles  which  had  impeded 
their  union.  Yet  it  would  be  inquiring  too  curiously 
to  ask,  whether  the  recollection  of  Rebecca's  beauty 
and  magnanimity  did  not  recur  to  his  mind  more 
frequently  than  the  fair  descendant  of  Alfred  might 
altogether  have  approved." 

The  work  before  us  shows  at  least  as  much 
genius  as  any  of  those  with  which  it  must  now 
be  numbered — and  excites,  perhaps,  at  least 
on  the  first  perusal,  as  strong  an  interest :  But 
it  does  not  delight  so  deeply — and  we  rather 
think  it  will  not  please  so  long.  Rebecca  is 
almost  the  only  lovely  being  in  the  story — and 
she  is  evidently  a  creature  of  the  fancy — a 
mere  poetical  personification.  Next  to  her — 
for  Isaac  is  but  a  milder  Shylock,  and  by  no 
means  more  natural  than  his  original — the 
heartiest  interest  is  excited  by  the  outlaws  and 
their  merry  chief — because  the  tone  and  man- 
ners ascribed  to  them  are  more  akin  to  those 
mat-  prevailed  among  the  yeomanry  of  later 
days,  than  those  of  the  Knights,  Priors,  and 
Princes,  are  to  any  thing  with  which  a  more 
recent  age  has  been  acquainted. — Cedric  the 
Saxon,  with  his  thralls,  and  Bois-Guilbert  the 
Templar  with  his  Moors,  are  to  us  but  theoreti- 
cal or  mythological  persons.  We  know  noth- 
ing about  them — and  never  feel  assured  that 
we  fully  comprehend  their  drift,  or  enter 
rightly  into  their  feelings.  The  same  genius 
which  now  busies  us  with  their  concerns, 
might  have  excited  an  equal  interest  for  the 
adventures  of  Oberon  and  Pigwiggin — or  for 
any  imaginary  community  of  Giants,  Amazons, 


or  Cynocephali.  The  interest  we  do  take  is  h\ 
the  situations — and  the  extremes  of  peril,  he- 
roism, and  atrocity,  in  which  the  great  lati- 
tude of  the  fiction  enables  the  author  to  in- 
dulge. Even  with  this  advantage,  we  soon 
feel,  not  only  that  the  characters  lie  bruigs  Ix'- 
foreus  are  contrary  to  our  expericJicC;  but  that 
they  are  actually  impossible.  There  could  iu' 
fact  havebeen  no  such  state  of  society  as  that 
of  which  the  .story  before  us  professes  to  give 
us  but  samples  and  ordinary,  .xesiiltg.  In  a 
country  beset  with  such  worthies  as;Tront-de- 
BcEuf,  Malvoisin,  and  the  rest,  Isaac  the  Jew 
could  neither  have  grown  rich,  rjor  lived  to  old 
age  J  and  no  Rebecca  could  either  have  ac- 
quired her  delicacy,  or  preserved  her  honour. 
Neither  could  a  plump  Prior  Aymer  have  fol- 
lowed venery  in  woods  swarming  with  the 
merry  men  of  Robin  Hood. — Rotherwood  must 
have  been  burned  to  the  ground  two  or  three 
times  in  every  year — and  all  the  knights  and 
thanes  of  the  land  been  killed  oft'  nearly  as 
often.  The  thing,  in  short,  when  calmly  con-a^'^ 
sidered,. cannot  be  received  as  a  realit-ju^.an^^^  ^ 
after  gazing  for  awhile  on  the  splendid  pageant 
which  it  presents,  and  admiring  the  exaggei;-..^ 
rated  beings  who.  counterfeit,  in  iheir  grand 
style,  the  passions  and  feelings  of  our  poor  hu- 
man nature,  we  soon  find  that  we  must  turn 
again  to  our  Waverleys,  and  Antiquaries,  and 
Old  Mortalities,  and  become  acquainted  with 
our  neighbours  and  ourselves,  and  our  duties, 
and  dangers,  and  true  felicities,  in  the  exqui- 
site pictures  which  our  author  f/iere  exhiblta  . 
of  the  follies  we  daily  witness  or  display,  and*"* 
of  the  prejudices,  habits,  and  affections,  by'^ 
which  we  are  still  hourly  obstructed,  govern- 
ed, or  cheered. 

We  end,  therefore,  as  we  began — by  pieR^.j- 
ferring  the  home  scenes,  a^d  the  copies  of ' 
originals  which  we  know-(-but  admiring,  in, 
the  highest  degree,  the  fancy  and  judgment 
and  feeling  by  which  this  more  distant  and 
ideal.  pjrQspect  is  enriched.  It  is  a  spleiidid  * 
Poem — and  contains  matter  enough  for  six 
good  Tragedies.  As  it  is,  it  will  make  a  glo- 
rious melodrame  for  the  end  of  the  season. — 
Perhaps  the  author  does  better — for  us  and 
for  himself — by  writing  more  novels  :  But  we 
have  an  earnest  wish  that  he  would  try  his 
hand  in  the  actual  bow  of  Shakespeare — ven- 
ture fairly  within  his  enchanted  circle — and 
reassert  the  Dramatic  Sovereignty  of  England, 
by  putting  forth  a  genuine  Tragedy  of  passion, 
fancy,  and  incident.  He  has  all  the  qualifica- 
tions to  insure  success* — except  perhaps  the 
art  of  compression ; — for  we  suspect  it  would 
cost  him  no  little  effort  to  confine  his  story, 
and  the  development  of  his  characters,  to 
some  fifty  or  sixty  small  pages.  But  the  at- 
tempt is  worth  making ;  and  he  may  be  cer- 
tain that  he  cannot  fail  without  glory. 

*  We  take  it  for  granted,  that  the  charming  ex- 
tracts from  "  Old  Plays,"  that  are  occasionally 
given  as  mottoes  to  the  chapters  of  this  and  som« 
of  his  other  works,  are  original  compositions  of  the 
author  whose  prose  they  garnish  : — and  they  show- 
that  he  is 'not  less  a  master  of  the  most  beautiful 
style  of  Dramatic  versification,  than  of  all  the  highei 
and  more  inward  secrets  o^  that  forgotten  art. 


WAVERLEY  NOVELS. 


643 


The  Tofixetut  jf  Nigel. 
12mo. 


(Sitne,  182  2.) 

By  the  Author  of  "Waverley,"  '•' Kenilworth,"  &c. 
pp.  950.     Edinburgh :  Constable  &  Co.  1822. 


In  3  vols. 


It  was  a  happy  thought  in  us  to  review  this 
luthor's  works  in  groups,  rather  than  in  single 
pieces ;  for  we  should  never  otherwise  have 
been  able  to  keep  up  both  with  him  and  with 
our  other  business.  Even  as  it  is,  we  find  we 
have  let  him  run  so  far  ahead,  that  we  have 
now  rather  more  of  him  on  hand  than  we  can 
well  get  through  at  a  sitting ;  and  are  in  dan- 
ger of  forgetting  the  early  part  of  the  long 
series  of  stories  to  which  we  are  thus  obliged 
to  look  back,  or  of  finding  it  forgotten  by  the 
public — or  at  least  of  having  the  vast  assem- 
blage of  events  and  characters  that  now  lie 
before  us  something  jumbled  and  confounded, 
both  in  our  own  recollections,  and  that  of  our 
admiring  readers. 

Oar  last  particular  notice,  we  think,  was  of 
Ivanhoe,  in  the  end  of  1819 ;  and  in  the  two 
years  that  have  since  elapsed,  we  have  had 
the  Monastery,  the  Abbot,  Kenilworth,  the 
Pirates,  and  Nigel, — one,  two,  three,  four,  five 
— large  original  works  from  the  same  fertile 
and  inexhaustible  pen.  It  is  a  strange  manu- 
facture !  and,  though  depending  entirely  on 
invention  and  original  fancy,  really  seem.s  to 
proceed  with  all  the  steadiness  and  regularity 
a  thing  that  was  kept  in  operation  by  in- 
dustry and  application  alone.  Our  whole 
fraternity,  for  example,  with  all  the  works  of 
all  other  writers  to  supply  them  w^ith  mate- 
rials, are  not  half  so  sure  of  bringing  out  their 
two  volumes  in  the  year,  as  this  one  author, 
with  nothing  but  his  own  genius  to  depend 
on,  is  of  bringing  out  his  six  or  seven .  There 
is  no  instance  of  any  such  experiment  being 
so  long  continued  with  success  ',  and,  accord- 
ing to  all  appearances,  it  is  just  as  far  from  a 
termination  now,  as  it  was  at  the  beginning. 
If  it  were  only  for  the  singularity  of  the  thing, 
it  w^ould  be  worth  while  to  chronicle  the  ac- 
tual course  and  progress  of  this  extraordinary 
adventure. 

Of  the  two  first  works  we  have  mentioned, 
the  Monastery  and  the  Abbot,  we  have  the 
least  to  say ;  and  we  believe  the  public  have 
the  least  curiosity  to  know  our  opinion.  They 
are  certainly  the  least  meritorious  of  the  whole 
series,  either  subsequent  or  preceding;  and 
while  they  are  decidedly  worse  than  the  other 
works  of  the  same  author,  we  are  not  sure 
that  we  can  say,  as  we  have  done  of  some  of 
his  other  failures,  that  they  are  better  than 
those  of  any  other  recent  writer  of  fiction. — 
So  conspicuous,  indeed,  was  their  inferiority, 
that  we  at  one  time  apprehended  that  we 
should  have  been  called  upon  to  interfere 
Defore  our  time,  and  to  admonish  the  author 
of  the  hazard  to  which  he  was  exposing  his 
tame.  But  as  he  has  since  redeemed  that 
»lip,  we  shall  now  pass  it  over  lightly,  and 


merely  notice  one  or  two  things  that  still  live 
in  our  remembrance. 

We  do  not  think  the  White  Lady,  and  the 
other  supernatural  agencies,  the  worst  blemish 
of  "The  Monastery."  On  the  contrary,  the 
first  apparition  of  the  spirit  by  her  lonely 
fountain  (though  borrowed  from  Lord  Byron's 
Witch  of  the  Alps  in  Manfred),  as\ve]l  as  the 
effect  of  the  interview  on  the  mind  of  the 
young  aspirant  to  whom  she  reveals  herself, 
have  always  appeared  to  us  to  be  very  beau- 
tifully imagined :  But  we  must  confess,  that 
their  subsequent  descent  into  an  alabaster 
cavern,  and  the  seizure  of  a  stolen  Bible  from 
an  altar  blazing  with  cold  flames,  is  a  fiction 
of  a  more  ignoble  stock  ',  and  looks  very  like 
an  unlucky  combination  of  a  French  fairy  tale 
and  a  dull  German  romance.  The  Euphuist 
too.  Sir  Piercie  Shafton,  is  a  mere  nuisance 
throughout.  Nor  can  we  remember  any  in- 
cident in  an  unsuQcessful  farce  more  utterly 
absurd  and  pitiable,  than  the  remembrance 
of  tailorship  that  is  supposed  to  be  conjured 
up  in  the  mind  of  this  chivalrous  person,  by 
the  presentment  of  the  fairy's  bodkin  to  his 
eyes.  There  is  something  ineffably  poor  at 
once,  and  extravagant,  in  the  idea  of  a  solid 
silver  implement  being  taken  from  the  hair  of 
a  spiritual  and  shadowy  being,  for  the  sage 
purpose  of  making  an  earthly  coxcomb  angry 
to  no  end  ; — while  our  dehght  at  this  happy 
imagination  is  not  a  little  heightened  by  re- 
flecting that  it  is  all  the  time  utterly  unintelli- 
gible, how  the  mere  exhibition  of  a  lady's 
bodkin  should  remind  any  man  of  a  tailor  in 
his  pedigree — or  be  thought  to  import  such  a 
disclosure  to  the  spectators. 

But,  notwithstanding  these  gross  faults,  and 
the  general  fiatness  of  the  monkish  parts — 
including  that  of  the  Sub-prior,  which  is  a 
failure  in  spite  of  considerable  labour  — it 
would  be  absurd  to  rank  this  with  common 
novels,  or  even  to  exclude  it  from  the  file  of 
the  author's  characteristic  productions.  It  has 
both  humour,  and  fancy  and  pathos  enough, 
to  maintain  its  title  to  such  a  distinction. — 
The  aspiring  temper  of  Halbert  Glendinning, 
the  rustic  establishment  of  Glendearg,  the 
picture  of  Christie  of  Clinthill,  and,  above  all, 
the  scenes  at  the  castle  of  Avenel,  are  all 
touched  with  the  hand  of  a  master.  Julian's 
dialogue,  or  soliloquy  rather,  to  his  hawk,  in 
presence  of  his  paramour,  with  its  accompani- 
ments and  seque],  is  as  powerful  as  any  thing 
the  author  has  produced  ;  and  the  tragic  and 
historical  scenes  that  lead  to  the  conclusion 
are  also,  for  the  most  part,  excellent.  It  is  a 
work,  in  short,  which  pleases  more  upon  a 
second  reading  than  at  first — as  we  not  only 
pass  over  the  Euphuism  and  other  dull  pas 


544 


WORKS  OF  FICTION 


pages,  but,  being  aware  of  its  defects,  no 
longer  feel  the  disappointment  and  provoca- 
tion which,  are  apt,  on  their  first  excitement, 
to  make  us  unjust  to  its  real  merits. 

In  point  of  real  merit,  '•'  The  Abbot"  is  not 
much  better,  we  think,  than  the  JMonastsry — 
but  it  is  fuller  of  historical  painting,  and,  in 
the  higher  scenes,  has  perhaps  a  deeper  and 
more  exalted  interest.  The  Popish  zealots, 
whether  in  the  shape  of  prophetic  crones  or 
heroic  monks,  are  very  tiresome  personages. 
Catherine  Seyton  is  a  wilful  deterioration  of 
Diana  Vernon,  and  is  far  too  pert  and  con- 
fident ]  while  her  paramour  Roland  Graeme  is, 
for  a  good  part  of  the  work,  Httle  better  than 
a  blackguard  boy,  who  should  have  had  his 
head  broken  twice  a  day,  and  been  put  nightly 
in  the  stocks,  for  his  impertinence.  Some  of 
the  scenes  at  Lochleven  are  of  a  diff'erent 
pitch ; — though  the  formal  and  measured  sar- 
casms which  the  Queen  and  Lady  Douglas 
interchange  with  such  solemn  verbosity,  have 
a  very  heavy  and  unnatural  effect.  These 
faults,  however,  are  amply  redeemed  by  the 
beauties  with  which  they  are  mingled.  There 
are  some  grand  passages,  of  enthusiasm  and 
devoted  courage,  in  Catherine  Seyton.  The 
escape  from  Lochleven  is  given  with  great 
effect  and  spirit — and  the  subsequent  muster- 
ing of  the  Queen's  adherents,  and  their  march 
to  Langside,  as  well  as  the  battle  itself,  are 
.  full  of  life  and  colouring.  The  noble  bearing 
and  sad  and  devoted  love  of  George  Douglas 
— the  brawl  on  the  streets  of  Edinburgh,  and 
the  scenes  at  Holyrood,  both  serious  and 
comic,  as  well  as  many  of  the  minor  charac- 
ters, such  as  the  Ex-abbot  of  St.  Mary's  me- 
tamorphosed into  the  humble  gardener  of 
Lochleven,  are  all  in  the  genuine  manner  of 
the  author,  and  could  not  have  proceeded  from 
any  other  hand.  On  the  whole,  however,  the 
work  is  unsatisfactory,  and  too  deficient  in 
design  and  unity.  We  do  not  know  why  it 
should  have  been  called  "The  Abbot,"  as 
that  personage  has  scarcely  any  thing  to  do 
with  it.  As  an  historical  sketch,  it  has  nei- 
ther beginning  nor  end  ; — nor  does  the  time 
which  it  embraces  possess  any  peculiar  inter- 
est : — and  for  a  history  of  Roland  Graeme, 
which  is  the  only  denomination  that  can  give 
.  it  coherence,  the  narrative  is  not  only  far  too 
slight  and  insignificant  in  itself,  but  is  too 
much  broken  in  upon  by  higher  persons  and 
weightier  affairs,  to  retain  any  of  the  interest 
which  it  might  otherwise  have  possessed. 

"Kenilworth,"  however,  is  a  flight  of  an- 
other wing — and  rises  almost,  if  not  alto- 
gether, to  the  level  of  Ivanhoe  ) — displaying, 
perhaps,  as  much  power  in  assembling  to- 
gether, an''  iistributing  in  striking  groups, 
the  copious  historical  materials  of  that  ro- 
mantic age,  as  the  other  does  in  eking  out 
their  scantiness  by  the  riches  of  the  author's 
imaginatiow.  Elizabeth  herself,  surrounded 
»,  as  she  is  with  lively  and  imposing  recollec- 
\'^^  tions,  was  a  difficult  personage  to  bring  promi- 
nently forward  in  a  work  of  fiction :  But  the 
task,  we  think,  is  here  not  only  fearlessly, 
but  admirably  performed ;  and  the  character 
brought  out.  not  merely  with  the  most  un- 


sparing fulness,  but  with  the  most  brilliari 
and  seducing  effect.  Leicester  is  less  happy  y 
and  we  have  certainly  a  great  deal  too  much 
both  of  the  blackguardism  of  Michael  Lam- 
bourne,  the  atrocious  villany  of  Varney  and 
Foster,  and  the  magical  dealings  of  Alascp 
and  Wayland  Smith.  Indeed,  almost  all  the 
lower  agents  in  the  performance  h^fve  a  sort 
of  Demoniacal  character ;  and  the  deep  and 
disgusting  guilt  by  which  most  of  the  main 
incidents  are  developed,  make  a  splendid  pas- 
sage of  English  history  read  like  the  Newgate 
Calendar,  and  give  a  certain,, horror  to  the 
story,  which  is  neither  agreeable  to  historical 
truth,  nor  attractive  in  a  work  of  imagination. 
The  great  charm  and  glory  of  the  piece, 
however,  consists  in  the  magnificence  and 
vivacity  of  the  descriptions  with  which  it 
abounds ;  and  which  set  before  our  eyes,  with 
a  freshness  and  force  of  colouring  which  can 
scarcely  ever  be  gained  except  by  actual  ob- 
servation, all  the  pomp  and  stateliness,  the 
glitter  and  solemnity,  of  that  heroic  reign. 
The  moving  picture  of  Elizabeth's  night  entry 
to  Kenilworth  is  given  with  such  spirit,  rich- 
ness, and  copiousness  of  detail,  that  we  seem 
actually  transported  to  the  middle  of  the 
scene.  We  feel  the  press,  and  hear  the  music 
and  the  din — and  descry,  amidst  the  fading 
lights  of  a  summer  eve,  the  majestical  pacings 
and  waving  barmers  that  surround  the  march 
of  the  heroic  Queen-  while  the  mixture  of 
ludicrous  incidents,  and  the  ennui  that  steals 
on  the  lengthened  parade  and  fatiguing  prepa- 
ration, give  a  sense  of  truth  and  reality  to  the 
sketch  that  seems  to  belong  rather  to  recent 
recollection  than  mere  ideal  conception.  We 
believe,  in  short,  that  we  have  at  this  moment 
as  lively  and  distinct  an  impression  of  the 
whole  scene,  as  we  shall  have  in  a  few  weeks 
of  a  similar  Joyous  Entry,  for  which  prepara- 
tions are  now  making*  in  this  our  loyal  me- 
tropolis,— and  of  which  we  hope,  before  that 
time,  to  be  spectators.  The  account  of  Lei- 
cester's princely  hospitality,  and  of  the  royal 
divertisements  that  ensued. — the  feastings 
and  huntings,  the  flatteries  and  dissemblings, 
the  pride,  the  jealousy,  the  ambition,  the  re- 
venge,— are  all  portrayed  with  the  same  ani- 
mating pencil,  and  leave  every  thing  behind, 
but  some  rival  works  of  the  same  unrivalled 
artist.  The  most  surprising  piece  of  mere 
description,  however,  that  we  have  ever  seen, 
is  that  of  Amy's  magnificent  apartments  at 
Cumnor  Place,  and  of  the  dress  and  beauty 
of  the  lovely  creature  for  whom  they  were 
adorned.  We  had  no  idea  before  that  up- 
holstery and  millinery  could  be  made  so  en- 
gaging; and  though  we  are  aware  that  it  is 
the  living  Beauty  that  gives  its  enchantment 
to  the  scene,  and  breathes  over  the  whole  ar 
air  of  voluptuousness,  innocence,  and  pity,  i: 
is  impossible  not  to  feel  that  the  vivid  and 
clear  presentment  of  the  visible  objects  by 
which  she  is  surrounded,  and  the  antique 
splendour  in  which  she  is  enshrined,  not  only 
strengthen  our  impressions  of  the  reality,  but 


*  The  visit  of  George  IV.  to  Edinburgh  in  July, 
1822. 


WAVERLEY  NOVELS. 


543 


q^tually  fascinate  and  delight  us  in  them- 
selves,— just  as  the  draperies  and  still-life  in 
a  grand  historical  picture  often  divide  our  ad- 
miration with  the  pathetic  effect  of  the  story 
told  by  the  principal  figures.  The  catastro- 
phe of  the  unfortunate  Amy  herself  is  too 
sickening  and  full  of  pity  to  be  endured ;  and 
we  shrink  from  the  recollection  of  it,  as  we 
would  from  that  of  a  recent  calamity  of  our 
own.  The  part  of  Tressilian  is  unfortunate  on 
the  whole,  though  it  contains  touches  of  in- 
terest and  beauty.  The  sketch  of  young  Ra- 
leigh is  splendid,  and  in  excellent  keeping 
with  every  thing  beside  it.  More,  we  think, 
might  have  been  made  of  the  desolate  age 
and  broken-hearted  anguish  of  Sir  Hugh  Rob- 
sart ;  though  there  are  one  or  two  little  traits 
of  his  paternal  love  and  crushed  affection, 
that  are  inimitably  sweet  and  pathetic,  and 
which  might  have  lost  their  effect,  perhaps, 
if  the  scene  had  been  extended.  We  do  not 
care  much  about  the  goblin  dwarf,  nor  the  host, 
nor  the  mercer, — ^nor  any  of  the  other  charac- 
ters. They  are  all  too  fantastical  and  affected. 
;  They  seem  copied  rather  from  the  quaintness 
V)f  old  plays,  than  the  reality  of  past  and  pres- 
ent nature  ;  and  serve  better  to  show  what 
manner  of  personages  were  to  be  met  with  in 
the  Masks  and  Pageants  of  the  age,  than  what 
were  actually  to  be  found  in  the  living  popu- 
lation of  the  land. 

'•  The  Pirates  "  is  a  bold  attempt  to  furnish 
out  a  long  and  eventful  story,  from  a  very  nar- 
row circle  of  society,  and  a  scene  so  circum- 
scribed as  scarcely  to  admit  of  any  great  scope 
or  variety  of  action ;  and  its  failure,  in  so  far 
as  it  may  be  thought  to  have  failed,  should, 
in  fairness,  be  ascribed  chiefly  to  this  scanti- 
ness and  defect  of  the  materials.  The  author, 
accordingly,  has  been  obliged  to  borrow  pretty 
Jargely  from  other  regions.  The  character 
and  story  of  Mertoun  (which  is  at  once  com- 
mon-place and  extravagant); — that  of  the 
Pirate  himself, — and  that  of  Halcro  the  poet, 
have  no  connection  with  the  localities  of  Shet- 
land, or  the  peculiarities  of  an  insular  life. 
Mr.  Yellowlees,  though  he  gives  occasion  to 
some  strong  contrasts,  is  in  the  same  situa- 
tion. The  great  blemish,  however,  of  the 
work,  is  the  inconsistency  in  Cleveland's 
character,  or  rather  the  way  in  which  he  dis- 
appoints us,  by  turning  out  so  much  better 
than  we  had  expected — and  yet  substantially 
so  ill.  So  great,  indeed,  is  this  disappoint- 
ment, and  so  strong  the  grounds  of  it,  that  we 
cannot  help  suspecting  that  the  author  him- 
self must  have  altered  his  design  in  the  course 
of  the  work ;  and,  finding  himself  at  a  loss 
how  to  make  either  a  demon  or  a  hero  of  the 
personage  whom  he  had  introduced  with  a 
view  to  one  or  other  of  these  characters,  be- 
i'took  himself  to  the  expedient  of  leaving  him 
J  in  that  neutral  or  mixed  state,  which,  after 
'  all,  suits  the  least  with  his  conduct  and  situa- 
tion, or  with  the  effects  which  he  is  supposed 
to  produce.  All  that  wo  see  of  him  is  a  dar- 
ing, underbred,  forward,  heartless  fellow — 
very  unlikely,  we  should  suppose,  to  capti- 
vate the  affections  of  the  high-minded,  ro- 
mantic Minna,  or  even  to  supplant  an  old 
35 


friend  in  the  favour  of  the  honest  Udall.^r. 
The  charm  of  the  book  is  in  the  pictuie  of 
his  family.  Nothing  can  be  more  beautiful 
than  the  description  of  the  two  sisters,  and 
the  gentle  and  innocent  affection  that  con- 
tinues to  unite  them,  even  after  love  has  come 
to  divide  their  interests  and  wishes.  The  visit 
paid  them  by  Noma,  and  the  tale  she  tells 
them  at  midnight,  lead  to  a  fine  display  of 
the  perfect  purity  of  their  young  hearts,  and 
the  native  gentleness  and  dignity  of  their 
character.  There  is,  perhaps,  still  more  ge- 
nius in  the  development  and  full  exhibition  of 
their  father's  character;  who  is  first  introduced- 
to  us  as  little  else  than  a  jovial,  thoughtless, 
hospitable  housekeeper,  but  gradually  dis- 
closes the  most  captivating  traits,  not  only  of 
kindness  and  courage,  but  of  substantial  gene- 
rosity and  delicacy  of  feeling,  without  ever 
departing,  for  an  instant,  from  the  frank  home- 
liness of  his  habitual  demeanour.  Noma  is  a 
new  incarnation  of  Meg  Merrilees,  and  palpa- 
bly the  same  in  the  spirit.  Less  degraded  in 
her  habits  and  associates,  and  less  lofty  and 
pathetic  in  her  denunciations,  she  reconciles 
fewer  contradictions,  and  is,  on  the  whole, 
inferior  perhaps  to  her  prototype ;  but  is  far  .- 
above  the  rank  of  a  mere  imitated  or  borrowed 
character.  The  Udaller's  visit  to  her  dwell- 
ing on  the  Fitful-head  is  admirably  managed, 
and  highly  characteristic  of  both  parties.  Of 
the  humorous  characters,  Yellowlees  is  the 
best.  Few  things,  indeed,  are  better  than 
the  description  of  his  equestrian  progression 
to  the  feast  of  the  Udaller.  Claud  Halcro  is 
too  fantastical ;  and  peculiarly  out  of  place, 
we  should  think,  in  such  a  region.  A  man 
who  talks  in  quotations  from  common  plays, 
and  proses  eternally  about  glorious  John  Dry- 
den,  luckily  is  not  often  to  be  met  with  any- 
where, but  least  of  all  in  the  Orkney  Islands. 
Bunce  is  liable  to  the  same  objection, — though 
there  are  parts  of  his  character,  as  well  as 
that  of  Fletcher  and  the  rest  of  the  crew, 
given  with  infinite  spirit  and  effect.  The  de- 
nouement of  the  story  is  strained  and  im- 
probable, and  the  conclusion  rather  unsatis- 
factory :  But  the  work,  on  the  whole,  opens 
up  a  new  world  to  our  curiosity,  and  affords 
another  proof  of  the  extraordinary  pliability, 
as  well  as  vigour,  of  the  author's  genius. 

We  come  now  to  the  work  which  has  af- 
forded us  a  pretext  for  this  long  retrospection, 
and  which  we  have  approached,  as  befitteth 
a  royal  presence,  through  this  long  vista  of 

Preparatory  splendour.  Considering  that  it 
as  now  been  three  months  in  the  hands  of 
the  public — and  must  be  about  as  well  known 
to  most  of  our  renders  as  the  older  works  to 
which  we  have  just  alluded — we  do  not  very 
well  see  why  we  should  not  deal  with  it  as 
summarily  as  we  have  done  Avith  them  ;  and. 
sparing  our  dutiful  readers  the  fatigue  of  toil- 
ing through  a  detail  with  which  they  are  al- 
ready familiar,  content  ourselves  with  marking 
our  opinion  of  it  in  the  same  general  and 
comprehensive  manner  that  we  have  ventured 
to  adopt  as  to  those  earlier  productions.  This 
accordingly  is  the  course  which,  in  the  mam, 
we  propose  to  follow ;  though,  for  the  sake  nf 


S46 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


our  distant  readers,  as  well  as  to  give  more 
lorce  and  direct  application  to  our  general  re- 
marks, we  must  somewhat  enlarge  the  scale 
of  our  critical  notice. 

This  work,  though  dealing  abundantly  in 
invention,  is,  in  substance,  like  Old  Mortality 
and  Kenilworth,  of  an  historical  character, 
and  may  be  correctly  represented  as  an  at- 
tempt to  describe  and  illustrate,  by  examples, 
the  manners  of  the  court,  and  generally  speak- 
ing, of  the  age,  of  James  I.  of  England.  And 
this,  on  the  whole,  is  the  most  favourable  as- 
pect under  which  it  can  be  considered  ;  for, 
while  it  certainly  presents  us  with  a  very 
brilliant,  and,  we  believe,  a  very  faithful  sketch 
'  of  the  manners  and  habits  of  the  time,  we 
cannot  say  that  it  either  embodies  them  in  a 
very  interesting  story,  or  supplies  us  with  any 
rich  variety  of  particular  characters.  Except 
King  James  himself,  and  Richie  Moniplies, 
there  is  but  little  individuality  in  the  person- 
ages represented.  We  should  perhaps  add 
Master  George  Heriot ;  except  that  he  is  too 
staid  and  prudent  a  person  to  engage  very 
much  of  our  interest.  The  story  is  of  a  very 
simple  structure,  and  may  soon  be  told. 

Lord  Glenvarloch,  a  young  Scottish  noble- 
man, whose  fortunes  had  been  ruined  by  his 
father's  profusion,  and  chiefly  by  large  loans 
to  the  Crown,  comes  to  London  about  the  mid- 
dle of  James'  reign,  to  try  what  part  of  this 
debt  may  be  recovered  from  the  justice  of  his 
now  opulent  sovereign.  From  want  of  patron- 
age and  experience,  he  is  unsuccessful  in  his 
first  application ;  and  is  about  to  withdraw  in 
despair,  when  his  serving  man,  Richard  Moni- 
plies, falling  accidentally  in  the  way  of  George 
Heriot,  the  favourite  jeweller  and  occasional 
banker  of  the  King,  that  benevolent  person  (to 
whom,  it  may  not  be  known  to  our  Southern 
readers,  Edinburgh  is  indebted  for  the  most 
flourishing  and  best  conducted  of  her  founded 
schools  or  charities)  is  pleased  to  take  an  in- 
terest in  his  affairs,  and  not  only  represents 
his  case  in  a  favourable  way  to  the  Sovereign, 
but  is  the  means  of  introducing  him  to  another 
nobleman,  with  whose  son.  Lord  Dalgarno,  he 
speedily  forms  a  rather  inauspicious  intimacy. 
By  this  youth  he  is  initiated  into  all  the  gaie- 
1  ties  of  the  town;  of  which,  as  well  of  the 
\  manners  and  bearing  of  the  men  of  fashion  of 
'  the  time,  a  very  lively  picture  is  drawn. 
Among  other  things,  he  is  encouraged  to  try 
his  fortune  at  play ;  but,  being  poor  and  pru- 
dent, he  plays  but  for  small  sums,  and,  rather 
unhandsomely  we  must  own,  makes  it  a  prac- 
tice to  come  away  after  a  moderate  winning. 
On  this  account  he  is  slighted  by  Lord  Dal- 
garno and  his  more  adventurous  associates; 
and,  having  learned  that  they  talked  con- 
temptuously of  him,  and  that  Lord  D.  had 
prejudiced  the  King  and  the  Prince  against 
him,  he  challenges  him  for  his  perfidy  in  the 
Park,  and  actually  draws  on  him,  in  the  pre- 
cincts of  the  royal  abode.  This  was,  in  those 
days,  a  very  serious  offence ;  and,  to  avoid  its 
immediate  consequences,  he  is  advised  to  take 
refuge  in  Whitefriars,  then  known  by  the  cant 
name  of  Alsatia,  and  understood  to  possess  the 
privileges  of  a  sanctuary  against  ordinary  ar- 


rests. A  propos  of  this  retirement,  we  havei 
a  very  striking  and  animated  picture  of  the , 
bullies  and  bankrupts,  and  swindlers  and  pett  jr^ 
felons  by  whom  this  city  of  refuge  was  chiefly; 
inhabited — and  among  whom  the  young  Lord' 
has  the  good  luck  to  witness  a  murder,  com- 
mitted on  the  person  of  his  miserly  host.  He 
then  bethinks  himself  of  repairing  to  Green- 
wich, where  the  court  was,  throwing  himself 
upon  the  clemency  of  the  King,  and  insisting 
on  being  confronted  with  his  accusers;  but 
happening  unfortunately  to  meet  with  his 
Majesty  in  a  retired  part  of  the  Park  to  which 
he  had  pursued  the  stag,  ahead  of  all  his  at- 
tendants, his  sudden  appearance  so  startles 
and  alarms  that  pacific  monarch,  that  he  ac- 
cuses him  of  a  treasonable  design  on  his  life, 
and  has  him  committed  to  the  Tower,  under 
that  \yeighty  accusation.  In  the  mean  time, 
however,  a  certain  Margaret  Ramsey,  a  daugh- 
ter of  the  celebrated  watchmaker  of  that  name, 
who  had  privately  fallen  in  love  with  him  at 
the  table  of  George  Heriot  her  god-father,  and 
had,  ever  since,  kept  watch  over  his  proceed- 
ings, and  aided  him  in  his  difficulties  by  va- 
rious stratagems  and  suggestions,  had  repaired 
to  Greenwich  in  male  attire,  with  the  roman- 
tic design  of  interesting  and  undeceiving  the 
King  with  regard  to  him.  By  a  lucky  acci- 
dent, she  does  obtain  an  opportunity  of  making 
her  statement  to  James ;  who,  in  order  to  put 
her  veracity  to  the  test,  sends  her,  disguised 
as  she  was,  to  Glenvarloch's  prison  in  the 
Tower,  and  also  looses  upon  him  in  the  same 
place,  first  his  faithful  Heriot,  and  afterwards 
a  sarcastic  courtier,  while  he  himself  plays 
the  eavesdropper  to  their  conversation,  from  an 
adjoining  apartment  constructed  for  that  pur- 
pose. The  result  of  this  Dionysian  experi- 
ment is,  to  satisfy  the  sagacious  monarch  both 
of  the  innocence  of  his  young  countryman, 
and  the  malignity  of  his  accusers;  who  are 
speedily  brought  to  shame  by  his  acquittal 
and  admittance  to  favour. 

There  is  an  underplot  of  a  more  extravagant 
and  less  happy  structure,  about  a  sad  and 
mysterious  lady  who  inhabits  an  inaccessible 
apartment  in  Heriot's  house,  and  turns  out  to 
be  the  deserted  wife  of  Lord  Dalgarno,  and  a 
near  relation  of  Lord  Glenvarloch.  The  former 
is  compelled  to  acknowledge  her  by  the  King, 
very  much  against  his  will ;  though  he  is  con- 
siderably comforted  when  he  finds  that,  by 
this  alliance,  he  acquires  right  to  an  ancient 
mortgage  over  the  lands  of  the  latter,  which 
nothing  but  immediate  payment  of  a  large 
sum  can  prevent  him  from  foreclosing.  This 
is  accomphshed  by  the  new-raised  credit  and 
consequential  agency  of  Richie  IMoniplies, 
though  not  without  a  scene  of  pettifogging 
difficulties.  The  conclusion  is  something  tra- 
gical and  sudden.  Lord  Dalgarno,  travelling 
to  Scotland  with  the  redemption-money  in  a 
portmanteau,  challenges  Glenvarloch  to  meet 
and  fight  him,  one  stage  from  town;  and, 
while  he  is  waiting  on  the  common,  is  him- 
self shot  dead  ty  one  of  the  Alsatian  bullies, 
who  had  heai(  of  the  precious  cargo  with 
which  he  was  making  the  journey.  His  an- 
tagonist comes  up  soon   enough  to  revenge 


WAVERLEY  NOVELS. 


647 


mm ;  and,  soon  after,  is  married  to  Miss  Ram- 
Bey,  for  Avhom  the  King  finds  a  suitable  pedi- 
gree, and  at  whose  marriage-dinner  he  conde- 
scends to  preside;  while  Richard  Moniplies 
marries  the  heroic  daughter  of  the  Alsatian 
miser,  and  is  knighted  in  a  very  characteristic 
manner  by  the  good-natured  monarch. 

The  best  things  in  the  book,  as  we  have 
already  intimated,  are  the  pictures  of  King 
James  and  of  Richard  Moniplies — though  my 
Lord  Dalgarno  is  very  lively  and  witty,  and 
well  represents  the  gallantry  and  profligacy 
of  the  time ;  while  the  worthy  Earl,  his  father, 
is  very  successfully  brought  forward  as  the 
type  of  the  ruder  and  more  uncorrupted  age 
that  preceded.  We  are  sorely  tempted  to  pro- 
duce a  sample  of  Jin  Vin  the  smart  apprentice, 
and  of  the  mixed  childishness  and  heroism  of 
Margaret  Ramsay,  and  the  native  loftiness 
and  austere  candour  of  Martha  Trapbois,  and 
the  humour  of  Dame  Suddlechops,  and  divers 
other  inferior  persons.  But  the  rule  we  have 
laid  down  to  ourselves,  of  abstaining  from 
citations  from  well-known  books,  must  not  be 
farther  broken,  in  the  very  hour  of  its  enact- 
ment ; — and  we  shall  therefore  conclude,  with 
a  few  such  general  remarks  on  the  work  be- 
fore us  as  we  have  already  bestowed  on  some 
other  performances,  probably  no  longer  so 
familiar  to  most  of  our  readers. 

We  do  not  think,  then,  that  it  is  a  work 
either  of  so  much  genius  or  so  much  interest 
as  Ken il worth  or  Ivanhoe,  or  the  earlier  his- 
torical novels  of  the  same  author — and  yet 
there  be  readers  who  will  in  all  likelihood 
prefer  it  to  those  books,  and  that  for  the  very 
reasons  which  induce  us  to  place  it  beneath 
them.     These  reasons  are, — First,  that  the 
scene  is  all  in  London — and  that  the  piece  is 
consequently  deprived   of  the   interest   and 
variety  derived  from  the  beautiful  descriptions 
of  natural  scenery,  and  the  still  more  beautiful 
combination  of  its  features  and  expression, 
with  the  feelings  of  the  living  agents,  which 
abound  in  those  other  works  ',  and  next,  that 
the   characters  are   more   entirely  borrowed 
from   the  written  memorials  of  the  age  to 
which  they  refer,  and  less  from  that  eternal 
and  universal  nature  which  is  of  all  ages, 
than  in  any  of  his  former  works.     The  plays 
of  that  great  dramatic  era.  and  the  letters  and 
memoirs  which  have  been  preserved  in  such 
abundance,  have  made  all  diligent  readers 
iamiliar  w^ith  the  peculiarities  by  which  it  was 
hnarked.   But  unluckily  the  taste  of  the  writers 
/  of  that  age  was  quaint  and  fantastical ',  and 
1  though  their  representations  necessarily  give 
«  us  a  true  enough  picture  of  its  fashions  and 
j  follies,  it  is  obviously  a  distorted  and  exagge- 
I  rated  picture — and   their  characters  plainly 
both  speak  and  act  as   no  living  men  ever 
1  speak  or  act.     Now,  this  style  of  carica- 
iie  is  too  palpably  copied  in  the  work  before 
us, — and,  though  somewhat  softened  and  re- 
laxed by  the  good  sense  of  the  author,  is  still 
so  prevalent,  that  most  of  his  characters  strike 
ns  rather  as  whimsical  humourists  or  affected 
maskers,  than  as  faithful  copies  of  the  actual 
society  of  any  historical  period ;  and  though 
they  may  aflTord  great  delight  to  such  slender 


wits  as  think  the  commentators  on  Shake- 
speare the  greatest  men  in  the  world,  and  liere 
find  their  little  archseological  persons  made 
something  less  inconceivable  than  usual,  they 
cannot  fail  to  offend  and  disappoint  all  those 
who  hold  that  nature  alone  must  be  the  source 
of  all  natural  interest. 

Finally,  we  object  to  this  work,  as  com- 
pared with  those  to  which  we  have  alluded, 
that  the  interest  is  more  that  of  situation,  and 
less  of  character  or  action,  than  in  any  of  the 
former.  The  hero  is  not  so  much  an  actor  or 
a  sufferer,  in  most  of  the  events  represented, 
as  a  spectator.  With  comparatively  little  to 
do  in  the  business  of  the  scene,  he  is  merely 
placed  in  the  front  of  it,  to  look  on  with  the 
reader  as  it  passes.  He  has  an  ordinary  and 
slow-moving  suit  at  court — and,  a  propos  of 
this— all  the  humours  and  oddities  of  the' 
sovereign  are  exhibited  in  rich  and  splendid 
detail.  He  is  obliged  to  take  refuge  for  a  day 
in  Whitefriars — and  all  the  horrors  and  atro- 
cities of  the  Sanctuary  are  spread  out  before 
us  through  the  greater  part  of  a  volume.  Two 
or  three  murders  are  committed,  in  which  he 
has  no  interest,  and  no  other  part  than  that  of 
being  accidentally  present.  His  own  scanty 
part,  in  short,  is  performed  in  the  vicinity  of 
a  number  of  other  separate  transactions ;  and 
this  mere  juxtaposition  is  made  an  apology 
for  stringing  them  all  up  together  into  one  his-, 
torical  romance.  We  should  not  care  very 
much  if  this  only  destroyed  the  unity  of  the 
piece — but  it  also  sensibly  weakens  its  interest 
— and  reduces  it  from  the  rank  of  a  compre- 
hensive and  engaging  narrative,  in  which 
every  event  gives  and  receives  importance 
from  its  connection  with  the  rest,  to  that  of  a 
mere  collection  of  sketches,  relating  to  the 
same  period  and  state  of  society. 

The  character  of  the  hero,  we  also  think,' 
is  more  than  usually  a  failure.     He  is  not  only] 
a  reasonable  and  discreet  person,  for  whose '| 
prosperity  we  need  feel  no  great  apprehen  i 
sion,  but  he  is  gratuitously  debased  by  certain  \ 
infirmities  of  a  mean  and  somewhat  sordid  i 
description,  which  suit  remarkably  ill  with 
the   heroic   character.     His  prudent  deport- 
ment at  the  gaming  table,  and  his  repeated 
borrowings    of  money,   have    been   already 
hinted  at ;  and  we  may  add,  that  when  in- 
terrogated by  Heriot  about  the  disguised  dam- 
sal  who  is  found  with  him  in  the  Tower,  he 
makes  up  a  false  story  for  the  occasion,  with 
a  cool  promptitude  of  invention,  which  re- 
minds U3  more  of  Joseph  Surface  and   his 
French  milliner,  than  of  the  high-minded  son 
of  a  stern  puritanical  Baron  of  Scotland. 

These  are  the  chief  faults  of  the  work,  and 
they  are  not  slight  ones.  Its  merits  do  not 
require  to  be  specified.  They  embrace  all 
to  which  we  have  not  specially  objected .  The 
general  brilliancy  and  force  of  the  colouring, 
the  ease  and  spirit  of  the  design,  and  the 
strong  touches  of  character,  are  all  such  as 
we  have  have  long  admired  in  the  best  works 
of  the  author.  Besides  the  King  and  Richie 
Moniplies,  at  whose  merits  we  have  already 
hinted,  it  would  be  unjust  to  pass  over  trm 
prodigious   strength  of   writing  that   distin 


h\ 


^s 


B48 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


"■uishes  the  part  of  Mrs.  Martha  TrapboiS;  and 
ihe  inimitable  scenes,  though  of  a  coarse  and 
revolting  complexion,  with  Duke  Hildebrod 
and  the  miser  of  Alsatia.  The  Templar 
LowestofFe,  and  Jin  Vin,  the  aspiring  appren- 
tice, are  excellent  sketches  of  their  kind. 
So  are  John  Christie  and  his  frail  dame.  Lord 
Dalg-arno  is  more  questionable.  There  are 
passages  of  extraordinary  spirit  and  ability  in 
this  part ;  but  he  turns  out  too  atrocious.  Sir 
Mungo  Malagrowther  wearies  us  from  the 
beginning,  and  so  does  the  horologist  Ramsay 
— because  they  are  both  exaggerated  and  un- 
natural characters.  We  scarcely  see  enough 
of  Margaret  Ramsay  to  forgive  her  all  her  ir- 
regularities, and  her  high  fortune  ;  but  a  great 
deal  certainly  of  what  we  do  see  is  charm- 
ingly executed.     Dame  Ursula  is  something 


between  the  vulgar  gossippmg  of  Mrs  Quickly 
in  the  merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  and  the 
atrocities  of  Mrs.  Turner  and  Lady  Suffolk ; 
and  it  is  rather  a  contamination  of  Margaret's 
purity  to  have  used  such  counsel. 

We  have  named  them  all  now,  or  nearly — 
and  must  at  length  conclude.  Indeed,  nothing 
but  the  fascination  of  this  author's  pen,  and 
the  difficulty  of  getting  away  from  him,  could 
have  induced  us  to  be  so  particular  in  our 
notices  of  a  story,  the  details  of  which  will  so 
soon  be  driven  out  of  our  heads  by  other  de- 
tails as  interesting — and  as  little  fated  to  be  re- 
membered. There  are  other  twobooks  coming, 
we  hear,  in  the  course  of  the  winter ;  and  by 
the  time  there  are  four  or  five,  that  is,  in  abottt 
eighteen  months  hence,  we  must  hold  our- 
selves prepared  to  give  some  account  of  then? . 


(©rtober,  1823.) 

1.  Annals  of  the  Parish,  or  the  Chronicle  of  Dalmailing,  during  the  Ministry  of  the  Rev 
Micah  Balwhidder.  Written  by  Himself.  1vol.  12mo.  pp.400.  Blackwood.   Edin.  :1819 

2.  The  Ayrshire  Legatees,  or  the  Pringle  Family.   By  the  Author  of  "  Annals  of  the  Parish,' 
&c.     1vol.   12mo.  pp.  395.     Blackwood.     Edinburgh:  1820. 

3.  The  Provost.    By  the  Author  of  "Annals  of  the  Parish,"  "Ayrshire  Legatees,"  &c 
1vol.    12mo.     Blackwood.     Edinburgh:  1820. 

4.  Sir  Andrew  Wyllie  of  that  Ilk.     By  the  Author  of  "Annals  of  the  Parish,"  &c.    3  vols 
12mo.    Blackwood.     Edin. :  1822. 

5.  The  Steam  Boat.    By  the  Author  of  "Annals  of  the  Parish,"  &c.     1  vol.  12mo.    Black 
wood.     Edinburgh:  1822. 

6.  The  Entail,  or  the  Lairds  of  Grippy.    By  the  Author  of  "Annals  of  the  Parish,"  "Sii 
Andrew  Wyllie,"  &c.     3  vols.  18mo.    Blackwood.     Edinburgh  :  1823. 

7.  Ringan  Gilhaize,  or  the  Covenanters.     By  the  Author  of  "Annals  of  the  Parish,"  &o. 
3  vols.   ]2mo.    Blackwood.     Edinburgh:  1823. 

8.  Valerius,  a  Roman  Story.     3  vols.   12mo.     Blackwood.     Edinburgh:  1820. 

9.  Lights  and  Shadows  of  Scottish  Life.     1  vol.  8vo.     Blackwood.     Edinburgh  :  1822. 

10.  Some  Passages  in  the  Life  of  Mr.  Adam  Blair,  Minister  of  the  Gospel  at  Cross-Meikte 
1  vol.  8vo.     Blackwood.    Edinburgh :  1822. 

11.  The  Trials  of  Margaret  Lyndsay."  By  the  Author  of  "Lights  and  Shadows  of  Scottish 
Life."     1  vol.  8vo.     Blackwood.     Edinburgh:  1823. 

12.  Reginald  Dalton.     By  the  Author  of  "Valerius,"  and  "Adam  Blair."     3  vols.  8vo 
Blackwood.     Edinburjih:  1823.* 


We  have  been  sometimes  accused,  we  ob- 
serve, of  partiality  to  the  writers  of  our  own 
country,  and  reproached  with  helping  mid- 
dling Scotch  works  into  notice,  while  far  more 
meritorious  publications  in  England  and  Ire- 
land have  been  treated  with  neglect.  We 
take  leave  to  say,  that  there  could  not  possi- 
bly be  a  more  unjust  accusation :  and  the  list 
of  books  which  we  have  prefixed  to  this  arti- 
cle, affords  of  itself,  we  now  conceive,  the 
most  triumphant  refutation  of  it.     Here  is  a 

*  I  have  retained  most  of  the  citations  in  this 
article  : — the  books  from  which  they  are  taken  not 
being  so  universally  known  as  those  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott — and  yet  deserving,  I  think,  of  being  thus 
recalled  to  the  attention  of  general  readers.  The 
whole  seem  to  have  been  originally  put  out  anony- 
mously : — But  the  authorship  has  been  long  ago 
acknowledged  ; — so  that  it  is  scarcely  necessary  for 
me  to  mention  that  the  first  seven  in  the  list  are  the 
works  of  the  late  Mr.  Gait,  Valerius  and  Adam 
Blair  of  Mr.  Lockhart — and  the  Lights  and  Sha- 
dows, and  Margaret  Lindsay,  of  Professor  Wilson. 


set  of  lively  and  popular  works,  that  have  at- 
tracted, and  very  deservedly,  a  large  share  of 
attention  in  every  part  of  the  empire — issuing 
from  the  press,  successively  for  four  or  five 
years,  in  this  very  city,  and  under  our  eyes, 
and  not  hitherto  honoured  by  us  with  any  in- 
dication of  our  being  even  conscious  of  their, 
existence.  The  causes  of  this  long  neglect  it 
can  now  be  of  no  importance  to  explain.  Bu* 
sure  we  are,  that  our  ingenious  countrymen 
have  far  greater  reason  to  complain  of  it,  than 
any  aliens  can  have  to  impute  this  tardy  repa- 
ration to  national  partiality. 

The  works  themselves  are  evidently  too 
numerous  to  admit  of  our  now  giving  more 
than  a  very  general  account  of  them  : — and 
indeed,  some  of  their  authors  emulate  their 
great  prototype  so  successfully  in  the  rapid 
succession  of  their  performances,  that,  even 
if  they  had  not  been  so  far  ahead  of  us  at  the 
starting,  we  must  soon  have  been  reduced  to 
deal  with  them  as  we  have  done  with  him, 


SCOTCH  NOVELS. 


549 


and  only  to  have  noticed  their  productions  : 
when  they  had  grown  up  into  groups  and  fa-  j 
mihes — as  they  increased  and  multiplied  in 
the  land.  In  intimating  that  we  reg-ard  them 
as  imitations  of  the  inimitable  novels, — which 
»/;e,  who  never  presume  to  peep  under  masks, 
still  hold  to  be  by  an  author  unknown, — we 
have  already  exhausted  more  than  half  their 
general  character.  They  are  inferior  certainly 
(and  what  is  not?)  to  their  great  originals. 
But  they  are  the  best  copies  which  have 
yet  been  produced  of  them;  and  it  is  not 
a  little  creditable  to  the  genius  of  our  be- 
loved country,  that,  even  in  those  gay  and 
airy  walks  of  literature  from  which  she  had 
been  so  long  estranged,  an  opening  was  no 
sooner  made,  by  the  splendid  success  of  one 
gifted  Scotsman,  than  many  others  were  found 
ready  to  enter  upon  them,  with  a  spirit  of  en- 
terprise, and  a  force  of  invention,  that  prom- 
ised still  farther  to  extend  their  boundaries — 
and  to  make  these  new  adventurers,  if  not  form- 
idable rivals,  at  least  not  unworthy  followers 
of  him  by  whose  example  they  were  roused. 
There  are  three  authors,  it  seems,  to  the 
works  now  before  us ; — so  at  least  the  title- 
pages  armounce ;  and  it  is  a  rule  with  us,  to 
give  implicit  faith  to  those  solemn  intimations. 
We  think,  indeed,  that  without  the  help  of 
that  oracle,  we  should  have  been  at  no  loss  to 
ascribe  all  the  works  which  are  now  claimed 
by  the  author  of  the  Annals  of  the  Parish,  to 
one  and  the  same  hand ;  But  we  should  cer- 
tainly have  been  inclined  to  suppose,  that 
there  was  only  one  author  for  all  the  rest, — 
with  the  exception,  perhaps,  of  Valerius, 
which  has  little  resemblance,  either  in  sub- 
stance or  manner,  to  any  of  those  with  which 
it  is  now  associated. 

In  the  arduous  task  of  imitating  the  great 
novelist,  they  have  apparently  found  it  neces- 
sary to  resort  to  the  great  principle  of  division 
of  labour;  and  yet  they  have  not,  among 
them,  been  able  to  equal  the  work  of  his  single 
hand  !  The  author  of  the  Parish  Annals  seems 
to  have  sought  chiefly  to  rival  the  humorous 
and  less  dignified  parts  of  his  original;  by 
large  representations  of  the  character  and 
manners  of  the  middling  and  lower  orders  in 
Scotland,  intermingled  with  traits  of  sly  and 
sarcastic  sagacity,  and  occasionally  softened 
and  relieved  by  touches  of  unexpected  ten- 
derness and  simple  pathos,  all  harmonised  by 
the  same  truth  to  nature  and  fine  sense  of 
national  peculiarity.  In  these  delineations 
there  is,  no  doubt,  more  vulgarity,  both  of 
style  and  conception,  and  less  poetical  inven- 
tion, than  in  the  corresponding  passages  of 
the  works  he  aspires  to  imitate ;  but,  on  the 
other  hand,  there  is  more  of  that  peculiar 
humour  which  depends  on  the  combination  of 
great  naivete,  indolence,  and  occasional  ab- 
surdity, with  natural  good  sense,  and  taste, 
and  kind  feelings  in  the  principal  characters — 
such  combinations  as  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley, 
the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  and  My  Uncle  Toby, 
have  made  familiar  to  all  English  readers,  but 
of  which  we  have  not  hitherto  had  any  good 
'.  Scottish  reprGnentative.  There  is  also  more 
i     systematic,  though  very  good-humoured,  sar- 


casm, and  a  more  distinct  moral,  or  unity  of 
didactic  purpose,  in  most  of  his  writings,  than 
it  would  be  easy  to  discover  in  the  playful,  ca- 
pricious,  and  fanciful  sketches  of  his  great 
master. 

The  other  two  authors  have  formed  them- 
selves more  upon  the  poetical,  reflective,  and 
pathetic  parts  of  their  common  model;  and 
have  aimed  at  emulating  such  beautiful  pic- 
tures as  that  of  Mr.  Peter  Pattison,  the  blind 
old  women  in  Old  Mortality  and  the  Bride  of 
Lammermoor,  the  courtship  at  the  Mermaid- 
en's  Well,  and,  generally,  his  innumerable 
and  exquisite  descriptions  of  the  soft,  simple, 
and  sublime  scenery  of  Scotland,  as  viewed 
in  connection  with,  the  character  of  its  better 
rustic  population.  Though  far  better  skilled 
than  their  associate,  in  the  art  of  composition, 
and  chargeable,  perhaps,  with  less  direct  imi- 
tation, we  cannot  but  regard  them  as  much 
less  original,  and  as  having  performed,  upon 
the  whole,  a  far  easier  task.  They  have  no 
great  variety  of  style,  and  but  little  of  actual 
invention. — and  are  mannerists  in  the  strongest 
sense  of  that  term.  Though  unquestionably 
pathetic  in  a  very  powerful  degree,  they  are 
pathetic,  for  the  most  part,  by  the  common 
recipes,  which  enable  any  one  almost,  to  draw 
tears,  who  will  condescend  to  employ  them. 
They  are  mighty  religious  too, — but  appa- ' 
rently  on  the  same  principle ;  and.  while  their 
laboured  attacks  on  our  symptithiesare  felt,  at 
last,  to  be  somewhat  impcfrkmate  and  puerile, 
their  devotional  orthodoxies  seem  to  tend, 
every  now  and  then,  a  little  towards  cant. 
This  is  perhaps  too  harshly  said ;  and  is  more, 
we  confess,  the  result  of  the  second  leading 
than  the  first :  and  suggested  rather  by  a  com 
parison  with  their  great  original,-  than  an  im 
pression  of  their  own  independent  merits. 
Compared  with  that  high  standard,  it  is  im- 
possible not  to  feel  that  they  are  somewhat 
wanting  in  manliness,  freedom,  and  liberality  j  , 
and,  while  they  enlarge,  in  a  sort  of  pastoral,  .' 
emphatic,  and  melodious  style,  on  the  virtues 
of  our  cottagers,  and  the  apostolical  sanctity 
of  our  ministers  and  elders,  the  delights  of 
pure  affection,  and  the  comforts  of  the  Bible, 
are  lamentably  deficient  in  that  bold  and  free 
vein  of  invention,  that  thorough  knowledge 
of  the  world,  and  rectifying  spirit  of  good 
sense,  which  redeem  all  that  great  author's 
flights  from  the  imputation  either  of  extrava- 
gance or  affectation,  and  give  weight,  as  well 
as  truth,  to  his  most  poetical  delineations  of 
nature  and  of  passion.  But,  though  they  can- 
not pretend  to  this  rare  merit,  which  ha? 
scarcely  fallen  to  the  share  of  more  than  one 
since  the  days  of  Shakespeare,  there  is  no 
doubt  much  beautiful  writing,  much  admi- 
rable description,  and  much  both  of  tender 
and  of  lofty  feeling,  in  the  volumes  of  which 
we  are  now  speaking;  and  though  their  infe 
rior  and  borrow^ed  lights  ai-e  dimmed  in  the 
broader  blaze  of  the  luminary,  who  now  fills 
our  Northern  sky  with  his  glory,  they  still  hold 
their  course  distinctly  within  the  orb  of  his  at 
traction,  and  make  a  visible  part  of  the  splen 
dour  which  draws  to  that  quarter  of  the  hea 
vens  the  admiration  of  so  many  distant  eve» 


590 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


We  must  noWj  however,  say  a  word  or  two 
on  the  particular  works  we  have  enumerated; 
among  which,  and  especially  in  the  first  series, 
there  is  a  very  great  difference  of  design,  as 
well  as  inequality  of  merit.  The  first  with 
which  we  happened  to  become  acquainted, 
and,  after  all,  perhaps  the  best  and  most  in- 
teresting of  the  whole,  is  that  entitled  "An- 
nals of  the  Parish."  comprising  in  one  little 
volume  of  about  four  hundred  pages  the  do- 
mestic chronicle  of  a  worthy  minister,  on  the 
coast  of  Ayrshire,  for  a  period  of  no  less  than 
fifty-one  years,  from  1760  to  1810.  The 
primitive  simplicity  of  the  pastor's  character, 
tinctured  as  it  is  by  his  professional  habits  and 
sequestered  situation,  form  but  a  part  of  the 
attraction  of  this  work.  The  brief  and  natural 
notices  of  the  public  events  which  signalised 
the  long  period  through  which  it  extends,  and 
the  slight  and  transient  effects  they  produced 
on  the  tranquil  lives  and  peaceful  occupations 
of  his  remote  parishioners,  have  not  only  a 
natural,  we  think,  but  a  moral  and  monitory 
effect;  and,  while  they  revive  in  our  own 
breasts  the  almost  forgotten  impressions  of  our 
childhood  and  early  youth,  as  to  the  same 
transactions,  make  us  feel  the  actual  insignifi- 
cance of  those  successive  occurrences  which, 
each  in  its  turn,  filled  the  minds  of  his  con- 
temporaries,— and  the  little  real  concern  which 
the  bulk  of  mankind  have  in  the  public  history 
of  their  day.  This  quiet  and  detailed  retro- 
spect of  fifty  years,  brings  the  true  moment 
and  value  of  the  events  it  embraces  to  the 
test,  as  it  were,  of  their  actual  operation  on 
particular  societies ;  and  helps  to  dissipate  the 
illusion,  by  which  private  persons  are  so  fre- 
quently led  to  suppose,  that  they  have  a  per- 
sonal interest  in  the  wisdom  of  cabinets,  or 
the  madness  of  princes.  The  humble  sim- 
plicity of  the  chronicler's  character  assists,  no 
doubt,  this  sobering  effect  of  his  narrative. 
The  natural  and  tranquil  manner  in  which  he 
puts  down  great  things  by  the  side  of  little — 
and  considers  as  exactly  on  the  same  level, 
the  bursting  of  the  parish  mill-dam  and  the 
commencement  of  the  American  troubles — 
the  victory  of  Admiral  Rodney  and  the  dona- 
tion of  50/.  to  his  kirk-session, — are  all  equally 
edifying  and  agreeable ;  and  illustrate,  in  a 
very  pleasing  way,  that  law  of  intellectual,  as 
well  as  of  physical  optics,  by  which  small 
things  at  hand  uniformly  appear  greater  than 
large  ones  at  a  distance. 

The  great  charm  of  the  work,  however,  is 
in  the  traits  of  character  which  it  discloses, 
and  the  commendable  brevity  with  which 
the  whole  chronicle  is  digested.  We  know 
scarcely  any  instance  in  which  a  modern 
writer  has  shown  such  forbearance  and  con- 
sideration for  his  readers.  With  very  consider- 
able powers  of  humour,  the  ludricous  incidents 
are  never  dwelt  upon  with  any  tediousness, 
nor  pushed  to  the  length  of  burlesque  or  caric- 
ature— and  the  more  seducing  touches  of 
pathos  with  which  the  work  abounds,  are 
intermingled  and  cut  short,  with  the  same 
sparing  and  judicious  hand ; — so  that  the  tem- 
perate and  natural  character  of  the  pastor  is 
thus,  by  a  rare  merit  and  felicity,  made  to 


preponderate  over  the  tragic  ano  comic  geuiuii 

of  the  author.  That  character  is,  as  we  have 
already  hinted,  as  happily  conceived  as  it  ia 
admirably  executed — contented,  humble,  and 
perfectly  innocent  and  sincere — very  orthodox^ 
and  zealously  Presbyterian,  without  learning 
or  habits  of  speculation — soft-hearted  and  full 
of  indulgence  and  ready  sympathy,  without 
any  enthusiasm  or  capacity  of  devoted  attach- 
ment— given  to  old-fashioned  prejudices,  with 
an  instinctive  sagacity  in  practical  afi'airs — 
and  unconsciously  acute  in  detecting  the  char- 
acters of  others,  and  singularly  awake  to  the 
beauties  of  nature,  without  a  notion  either  of 
observation  or  of  poetry — very  patient  and 
primitive  in  short,  indolent  and  gossiping,  and 
scarcely  ever  stirring  either  in  mind  or  person, 
beyond  the  limits  of  his  parish.  The  style 
of  the  book  is  curiously  adapted  to  the  char- 
acter of  the  supposed  author — very  genuine 
homely  Scotch  in  the  idiom  and  many  of  the 
expressions — but  tinctured  with  scriptural 
phrases,  and  some  relics  of  college  learning — 
and  all  digested  in  the  grave  and  methodical 
order  of  an  old-fashioned  sermon. 

After  so  much  praise,  we  are  rather  afraid 
to  make  any  extracts — for  the  truth  is,  that 
there  is  not  a  great  deal  of  matter  in  the  book, 
and  a  good  deal  of  vulgarity — and  that  it  is 
only  good-natured  people,  with  something  of 
the  annalist's  own  simplicity,  that  will  be  as 
much  pleased  with  it  as  we  have  been.  For 
the  sake  of  such  persons,  however,  we  will 
venture  on  a  few  specimens.  Here  is  the 
description  of  Mrs.  Malcolm. 

"  Secondly.  I  have  now  to  speak  of  the  coming 
of  Mrs.  Malcolm.  She  was  the  widow  of  a  Clyde 
shipmaster,  that  was  lost  at  sea  with  his  vessel.  She 
was  a  genty  body,  calm  and  methodical.  From 
morning  to  night  she  sat  at  her  wheel,  spinning  the 
finest  lint,  which  suited  well  with  her  pale  hands. 
She  never  changed  her  widow's  weeds,  and  she 
was  aye  as  if  she  had  just  been  ta'en  out  of  a  band- 
box. The  tear  was  at'ten  in  her  e'e  when  the  bairns 
were  at  the  school ;  but  when  they  came  home,  her 
spirit  was  lighted  up  with  gladness,  although,  poor 
woman,  she  had  many  a  time  very  little  to  give 
them.  I'hey  were,  however,  wonaerful  well-bred 
things,  and  took  with  thankfulness  whatever  she 
set  before  them,  for  they  knew  that  their  father,  the 
breadwinner,  was  away,  and  that  she  had  to  work 
sore  for  their  bit  and  drap.  I  dare  say,  the  only 
vexation  that  ever  she  had  from  any  of  them,  on 
their  own  account,  was  when  Charlie,  the  eldest 
laddie,  had  won  fourpence  at  pitch  and  toss  at  the 
school,  which  he  brought  home  with  a  proud  heart 
to  his  mother.  I  happened  to  be  daunrin'  bye  at 
the  time,  and  just  looked  in  at  the  door  to  say  gude 
night.  And  there  was  she  sitting  with  the  silent 
tear  on  her  cheek,  and  Charlie  greeting  as  if  he  had 
done  a  great  fault,  and  the  other  four  looking  on 
with  sorrowful  faces.  Never,  I  am  sure,  did  Charlie 
Malcolm  gamble  after  that  night. 

"  I  often  wondered  what  brought  Mrs.  Malcolm 
to  our  clachan,  instead  of  going  to  a  populous  town, 
where  she  might  have  taken  up  a  huxtry-shop,  as 
she  was  but  ot  a  silly  constitution,  the  which  would 
have  been  better  for  her  than  spinning  from  morning 
to  far  in  the  night,  as  if  she  was  in  verity  drawing 
the  thread  of  lile.  But  it  was,  no  doubt,  from  an 
honest  pride  to  hide  her  poverty ;  for  when  her 
daughter  Effie  was  ill  wiih  the  measles — the  poor 
lassie  was  very  ill — nobody  thought  she  could  come 
through  ;  and  when  she  did  get  the  turn,  she  was 
for  many  a  day  a  heavy  handful ; — our  session  being 


SCOTCH  NOVELS. 


^1 


rich,  and  nobody  on  it  but  cripple  Tammy  Daidles, 
*hat  was  at  that  time  known  through  all  the  country 
side  for  begging  on  a  horse,  I  thought  it  my  duty  to 
call  upon  Mrs.  Malcolm  in  a  sympathising  way,  and 
offer  her  some  assistance — but  she  refused  it.  '  No, 
sir,'  said  she.  '  I  canna  take  help  from  the  poor's 
box,  although  it's  very  true  that  I  am  in  great  need  ; 
for  it  might  hereafter  be  cast  up  to  my  bairns,  whom 
't  may  please  God  to  restore  to  better  circumstances 
when  I  am  no  to  see't ;  but  I  would  fiiin  borrow 
five  pounds,  and  if,  sir,  you  will  write  to  Mr.  Mait- 
land,  that  is  now  the  Lord  Provost  of  Glasgow,  and 
tell  him  that  Marion  Shaw  would  be  obliged  to 
him  for  the  lend  of  that  soom,  I  think  he  will  not 
fail  to  send  it.' 

' '  I  wrote  the  letter  that  night  to  Provost  Mait- 
land,  and,  by  the  retour  of  the  post,  I  got  an  answer, 
with  twenty  pounds  for  Mrs.  Malcolm,  saying,  '  that 
it  was  with  sorrow  he  heard  so  small  a  trifle  could 
be  serviceable.'  When  I  took  the  letter  and  the 
money,  which  was  in  a  bank-bill,  she  said,  '  This 
is  just  like  himsel.'  She  then  told  me,  that  Mr. 
Maitland  had  been  a  gentleman's  son  of  the  east 
eourwry,  but  driven  out  of  his  father's  house,  when 
a  laddie,  by  his  step-mother  ;  and  that  he  had  served 
as  a  servant  lad  with  her  father,  who  was  the  Laird 
of  Yillcogie,  but  ran  through  his  estate,  and  left 
her,  his  only  daughter,  in  little  better  than  beggary 
with  her  auntie,  the  mother  of  Captain  Malcolm, 
her  husband  that  was.  Provost  Maitland  in  his 
servitude,  had  ta'en  a  notion  of  her;  and  when  he 
recovered  his  patrimony,  and  had  become  a  great 
Glasgow  merchant,  on  hearing  how  she  was  left  by 
her  father,  he  offered  to  marry  her,  but  she  had 
promised  herself  to  her  cousin  the  Captain,  whose 
widow  she  was.  He  then  married  a  rich  lady,  and 
in  time  grew,  as  he  was,  Lord  Provost  of  the  City  : 
but  his  letter  with  the  twenty  pounds  to  me,  showed 
that  he  had  not  forgotten  his  first  love.  It  was  a 
jjhort,  but  a  well-written  letter,  in  a  fair  hand  of 
write,  containing  much  of  the  true  gentleman  ;  and 
Mrs.  Malcolm  said,  '  Who  knows  but  out  of  the 
regard  he  once  had  for  their  mother,  he  may  do 
something  for  my  five  helpless  orphans,'  " — Annals 
of  the  Parish,  Tpp.  16—21. 

Charles  afterwards  goes  to  sea,  and  comes 
home  unexpectedly. 

*'  One  evening,  towards  the  gloaming,  as  I  was 
taking  my  walk  of  meditation,  I  saw  a  brisk  sailor 
laddie  coming  towards  me.  He  had  a  pretty  green 
parrot,  sitting  on  a  bundle,  tied  in  a  Barcelona  silk 
handkerchief,  which  he  carried  with  a  stick  over  his 
shoulder,  and  in  this  bundle  was  a  wonderful  big 
nut,  such  as  no  one  in  our  parish  had  ever  seen.  It 
was  called  a  cocker-nut.  This  bUthe  callant  was 
Charhe  Malcolm,  who  had  come  all  the  way  that 
day  his  leaful  lane,  on  his  own  legs  from  Greenock, 
where  the  Tobacco  trader  was  then  'livering  her 
cargo.  I  told  him  how  his  mother,  and  his  brothers, 
andhis  sisters  were  all  in  good  health,  and  went  to 
convoy  him  home  ;  and  as  we  were  going  along,  he 
told  me  many  curious  things  :  and  he  gave  me  six 
beautiful  yellow  limes,  that  he  had  brought  in  his 
pouch  all  the  way  across  the  seas,  for  me  to  make 
a  bowl  of  punch  with  !  and  I  thought  more  of  them 
than  if  they  had  been  golden  guineas — it  was  so 
mindful  of  the  laddie. 

"  When  we  got  to  the  door  of  his  mother's  house, 
§he  was  sitting  at  the  fire-side,  with  her  three  other 
bairns  at  their  bread  and  milk,  Kate  being  then  with 
Lady  Skimmilk,  at  the  Breadland,  sewing.  It  was 
between  the  day  and  dark,  when  the  shuttle  stands 
,Btill  till  the  lamp  is  lighted.  But  such  a  shout  of  joy 
and  thankfulness  as  rose  from  that  hearth,  when 
Charlie  went  in  !  The  very  parrot,  ye  would  have 
thought,  was  a  participator,  for  the  beast  gied  a 
skraik  that  made  my  whole  head  dirl ;  and  the 
neighbours  came  flying  and  flocking  to  see  what 
was  the  matter,  for  it  was  the  first  parrot  ever 
teen  within  the  bounds   of  the  paiish,  and  some 


thought  it  was  but  a  foreign  hawk,  with  a  yelloM 
head  and  green  feathers." — Ibid.  pp.  44,  45. 

The  good  youth  gets  into  the  navy,  and  dis- 
tinguishes himself  in  various  actions.  Thjs  ia 
the  catastrophe. 

"But,  oh !  the  wicked  wastry  of  life  in  war !  In 
less  than  a  month  after,  the  news  came  of  a  victory 
over  the  French  fleet,  and  by  the  same  post  I  got  a 
letter  from  Mr.  Howard,  that  was  the  midshipman 
who  came  to  see  us  with  Charles,  telling  me  that 
poor  Charles  had  been  mortally  wounded  in  the  ac- 
tion, and  had  afterwards  died  of  his  wounds.  '  He 
was  a  hero  in  the  engagement,'  said  Mr.  Howard, 
'  and  he  died  as  a  good  and  a  brave  man  should.' — 
These  tidings  gave  me  one  of  the  sorest  hearts  1 
ever  suffered  ;  and  it  was  long  before  I  could  gather 
fortitude  to  disclose  the  tidings  to  poor  Charles' 
mother.  But  the  callants  of  the  school  had  heard  of 
the  victory,  and  were  going  shouting  about,  and  had 
set  the  steeple  bell  a-ringing,  by  which  Mrs.  Mai- 
colm  heard  the  news ;  and  knowing  that  Charles' 
ship  was  with  the  fleet,  she  came  over  to  the  Manse 
in  great  anxiety,  to  hear  the  particulars,  somebody 
telling  her  that  there  had  been  a  foreign  letter  to  me 
by  the  post-man. 

"  When  I  saw  her  I  could  not  speak,  but  looked 
at  her  in  pity  !  and  the  tear  fleeing  up  into  my  eyes, 
she  guessed  what  had  happened.  After  giving  a 
deep  and  sore  sigh,  she  inquired,  '  How  did  he  be- 
have ?  I  hope  well,  for  he  was  aye  a  gallant  lad- 
die !' — and  then  she  wept  very  bitterly.  However, 
growing  calmer,  I  read  to  her  the  letter,  and  when 
I  had  done,  she  begged  me  to  give  it  her  to  keep, 
saying,  '  It's  all  that  I  have  now  left  of  my  pretty 
boy ;  but  it's  mair  precious  to  me  than  the  wealth 
of  the  Indies  ;'  and  she  begged  me  to  return  thanks 
to  the  Lord,  for  all  the  comforts  and  manifold  mer- 
cies with  which  her  lot  had  been  blessed,  since  the 
hour  she  put  her  trust  in  Him  alone,  and  that  was 
when  she  was  left  a  pennyless  widow,  with  her  five 
fatherless  bairns.  It  was  just  an  edification  of  the 
spirit,  to  see  the  Christian  resignation  of  this  wor- 
thy woman.  Mrs.  Balwhidder  was  confounded, 
and  said,  there  was  more  sorrow  in  seeing  the  deep 
grief  of  her  fortitude,  than  tongue  could  tell. 

"  Having  taken  a  glass  of  wine  with  her,  I  walk- 
ed out  to  conduct  her  to  her  own  house,. but  in  the 
way  we  met  with  a  severe  trial.  All  the  weans 
were  out  parading  with  napkins  and  kail-blades  on 
sticks,  rejoicing  and  triumphing  in  the  glad  tidings 
of  victory.  But  when  they  saw  me  and  Mrs.  Mal- 
colm coming  slowly  along,  they  guessed  what  had 
happened,  and  threw  away  their  banners  of  joy  ; 
and,  standing  all  up  in  a  row,  with  silence  and  sad- 
ness, along  the  kirk-yard  wall  as  we  passed,  show- 
ed an  instinct  of  compassion  that  penetrated  to  my 
very  soul.  The  poor  mother  burst  into  fresh  afflic- 
tion, and  some  of  the  bairns  into  an  audible  weep- 
ing ;  and,  taking  one  another  by  the  hand,  they  fol- 
lowed us  to  her  door,  like  mourners  at  a  funeral. 
Never  was  such  a  sight  seen  in  any  town  before. 
The  neighbours  came  to  look  at  it,  as  we  w'alked 
along ;  and  the  men  turned  aside  to  hide  their  faces, 
while  the  mothers  pressed  their  babies  fondlier  to 
their  bosoms,  and  watered  their  innocent  faces  with 
their  tears. 

"I  prepared  a  suitable  sermon,  taking  as  the 
words  of  my  text,  '  Howl,  ye  ships  of  Tarshish,  for 
your  strength  is  laid  waste.'  But  when  I  saw  arouno 
me  so  many  of  my  people,  clad  in  complimentary 
mourning  for  the  gallant  Charles  Malcolm,  and  that 
even  poor  daft  Jenny  Gaffaw,  and  her  daughter,  had 
on  an  old  black  ribbon  ;  and  when  I  thought  of  him, 
the  spirited  laddie,  coming  home  from  Jamaica,  with 
his  parrot  on  his  shoulder,  and  his  limes  for  me,  my 
heart  filled  full,  and  I  was  obliged  to  sit  down  in  the 
pulpit  and  drop  a  tear.'' — Ibid.  pp.  214 — 218. 

We  like  these  tender  passages  the  best- 
but  the  reader  should  have  a  specimen  of  tne 


S5^ 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


humorous  vein  also.     The  following  we  think 
excellent. 

"  111  the  course  of  the  summer,  just  as  the  roof 
was  closing  in  of  the  school-house,  my  lord  came  to 
the  castle  with  a  great  company,  and  was  not  there 
R  day  till  he  sent  for  me  to  come  over  on  the  next 
Sund  ly,  to  dine  with  him  ;  but  I  sent  him  word  that 
I  could  not  do  so,  for  it  would  be  a  transgression  of 
the  Sabbath ;  which  made  him  send  his  own  gentle- 
man, to  make  his  apology  for  having  taken  so  great 
a  liberty  with  me,  and  to  beg  me  to  come  on  the 
Monday,  which  I  accordingly  did,  and  nothing  could 
be  better  than  the  discretion  with  which  I  was  used. 
There  was  a  vast  company  of  English  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  and  his  lordship,  in  a  most  jocose  man- 
ner, told  them  all  how  he  had  fallen  on  the  midden, 
and  how  I  had  clad  him  in  my  clothes,  and  there 
was  a  wonder  of  laughing  and  diversion :  But  the 
most  particular  thing  in  the  company,  was  a  large, 
round-faced  man,  with  a  wig,  that  was  a  dignitary 
in  some  great  Episcopalian  church  in  London,  who 
was  extraordinary  condescending  towards  me, 
drinking  wine  with  me  at  the  table,  and  saying 
weighty  sentences  in  a  fine  style  of  language,  about 
the  becoming  grace  of  simplicity  and  innocence  of 
heart,  in  the  clergy  of  all  denominations  of  Chris- 
tians, which  I  was  pleased  to  hear ;  for  really  he 
had  a  proud  red  countenance,  and  I  could  not  have 
thought  he  was  so  mortified  to  humility  within,  had 
I  not  heard  with  what  sincerity  he  delivered  him- 
self, arid  seen,  how  much  reverence  and  attention 
was  paid  to  him  by  all  present,  particularly  by  my 
lord's  chaplain,  who  was  a  pious  and  pleasant  young 
divine,  though  educated  at  Oxford  for  the  Episco- 
palian  persuasion. 

"  One  day  soon  after,  as  I  was  sitting  in  my 
closet  conning  a  sermon  for  the  next  Sunday,  I  was 
surprised  by  a  visit  from  the  dean,  as  the  dignitary 
was  called.  He  had  come,  he  said,  to  wait  on  me 
as  rector  of  the  parish,  for  so  it  seems  they  call  a 
pastor  in  England,  and  to  say,  that,  if  it  was  agree- 
able, he  would  take  a  family  dinner  with  us  before 
he  left  the  castle.  I  could  make  no  objection  to  his 
kindness,  but  said  I  hoped  my  lord  would  come 
with  him,  and  that  we  would  do  our  best  to  enter- 
tain them  with  all  suitable  hospitality.  About  an 
hour  or  so  after  he  had  returned  to  the  castle,  one  of 
the  flunkies  brought  a  letter  from  his  lordship  to 
say,  that  40t  only  he  would  come  with  the  dean, 
but  that  they  would  bring  the  other  guests  with 
them,  and  that,  as  they  could  only  drink  London 
wine,  the  butler  would  send  me  a  hamper  in  the 
morning,  assured,  as  he  was  pleased  to  say,  that  Mrs. 
Balwhidder  would  otherwise  provide  good  cheer. 

"  This  notification,  however,  was  a  great  trouble 
to  my  wife,  who  was  only  used  to  manufacture  the 
produce  of  our  glebe  and  yard  to  a  profitable  pur- 
pose, and  not  used  to  the  treatment  of  deans  and 
lords,  and  other  persons  of  quality.  However,  she 
was  determined  to  stretch  a  point  on  this  occasion, 
and  we  had,  as  all  present  declared,  a  charming 
dinner ;  for  fortunately  one  of  the  sows  had  a  litter 
of  pigs  a  few  days  before,  and,  in  addition  to  a  goose, 
that  is  but  a  boss  bird,  we  had  a  roasted  pig,  with 
an  apple  in  its  mouth,  which  was  just  a  curiosity  to 
see  ;  and  my  lord  called  it  a  tythe  pig,  but  I  told 
him  it  was  one  of  Mrs.  Balwhidder's  own  decking, 
which  saying  of  mine  made  no  little  sport  when 
expounded  to  the  dean." — Annals  of  the  Parish, 
pp.  136—141. 

We  add  the  description  of  the  first  dancing- 
master  that  had  been  seen  in  these  parts  in 
the  year  1762. 

•'  Also  a  thing  happened  in  this  year,  which  de- 
Berves  to  be  recorded,  as  manifesting  what  eflfect  the 
smuggling  was  beginning  to  take  on  the  morals  of 
the  country  side.  One  Mr.  Macskipnish,  of  High- 
land parentage,  who  had  been  a  valet-de-chambre 
with  a  Major  in  the  campaigns,  and  taken  a  prisoner 
with  him  by  the  French,  he  having  come  home  in 


a  cartel,  took  up  a  dancing-school  at  Irevillc,  t}i6 
which  art  he  had  learned  in  the  genteelest  fashion, 
in  the  mode  of  Paris,  at  the  French  court.  Such  a 
thing  as  a  dancing-school  had  never,  in  the  memory 
of  man,  been  known  in  our  country  side  ;  and  there 
was  such  a  sound  about  the  steps  and  cotillions  of 
Mr.  Macskipnish,  that  every  lad  and  lass,  that  could 
spare  time  and  siller,  went  to  him,  to  the  great  ne- 
glect of  their  work.  The  very  bairns  on  the  loan, 
instead  of  their  wonted  play,  gaed  linking  and  ioup- 
ing  in  the  steps  of  Mr.  Macskipnish,  who  was,  to  be 
sure,  a  great  curiosity,  with  long  spindle  legs,  his 
breast  shot  out  like  a  duck's,  and  his  head  powder- 
ed and  frizzled  up  like  a  tappit-hen.  He  was,  in- 
deed, the  proudest  peacock  that  could  be  seen,  and 
he  had  a  ring  on  his  finger,  and  when  he  came  to 
drink  his  tea  at  the  Breadland,  he  brought  no  hat  on 
his  head,  but  a  droll  cockit  thing  under  his  arm, 
which,  he  said,  was  after  the  manner  of  the  courtiers 
at  the  petty  suppers  of  one  Madame  Fumpadour,  who 
was  at  that  time  the  concubine  of  the  French  king. 
"  I  do  not  recollect  any  other  remarkable  thing 
that  happened  in  this  year.  The  harvest  was  very 
abundant,  and  the  meal  so  cheap,  that  it  caused  3 
great  defect  in  my  stipend,  so  that  I  was  obligated  to 
postpone  the  purchase  of  a  mahogany  scruioire  for 
my  study,  as  I  had  intended.  But  I  had  not  tht) 
heart  to  complain  of  this  ;  on  the  contrary,  I  rejoiced 
thereat,  for  what  made  me  want  my  scrutoire  tilJ 
another  year,  had  carried  blitheness  into  the  hearth 
of  the  cotter,  and  made  the  widow's  heart  sing  with 
joy  ;  and  I  w^ould  have  been. an  unnatural  creature, 
had  I  not  joined  in  the  universal  gladness,  because 
plenty  did  abound." — Ibid.  pp.  30 — 32. 

We  shall  only  try  the  patience  of  our  read- 
ers farther  with  the  death  of  Nanse  Banks,  the 
old  parish  school-mistress. 

"  She  had  been  long  in  a  weak  and  frail  state, 
but,  being  a  methodical  creature,  still  kept  on  the 
school,  laying  the  foundation  for  many  a  worthy  wife 
and  mother.  However,  about  the  decline  of  the 
year  her  complaints  increased,  and  she  sent  for  me 
to  consult  about  her  giving  up  the  school;  and  I 
went  to  see  her  on  a  Saturday  afternoon,  when  the 
bit  lassies,  her  scholars,  had  put  the  house  in  order, 
and  gone  home  till  the  Monday. 

"She  was  sitting  in  the  window-nook,  reading 
THE  WORD  to  herself,  when  I  entered  ;  but  she  clos- 
ed the  book,  and  put  her  spectacles  in  for  a  mark 
when  she  saw  me  :  and,  as  it  was  expected  I  would 
come,  her  easy  chair,  with  a  clean  cover,  had  been 
set  out  for  me  by  the  scholars,  by  which  I  discerned 
that  there  was  something  more  than  common  to 
happen,  and  so  it  appeared  when  I  had  taken  my 
seat.  '  Sir,'  said  she,  '  I  hae  sent  for  you  on  a  thing 
troubles  me  sairly.  I  have  warsled  with  poortith  in 
this  shed,  which  it  has  pleased  the  Lord  to  allow  me 
to  possess ;  but  my  strength  is  worn  out,  and  I  fear 
I  maun  yield  in  the  strife ;'  and  she  wiped  her  eye 
with  her  apron.  I  told  her,  however,  to  be  of  good 
cheer ;  and  then  she  said,  '  that  she  could  no  longer 
thole  the  din  of  the  school ;  and  that  she  was  weary, 
and  ready  to  lay  herself  down  to  die  whenever  th« 
Lord  was  pleased  to  permit.  But,'  continued  she, 
'what  can  I  do  without  the  school?  and,  alas!  I 
can  neither  work  nor  want ;  and  I  am  wae  to  go  on 
the  Session,  for  I  am  come  of  a  decent  family.'  I 
comforted  her,  and  told  her,  that  I  thought  she  had 
done  so  much  good  in  the  parish,  that  the  Session 
was  deep  in  her  debt,  and  that  what  they  might 
give  her  was  but  a  just  payment  for  her  service.  '  I 
would  rather,  however,  sir,'  said  she,  '  try  first 
what  some  of  my  auld  scholars  will  do,  and  it  was 
for  that  I  wanted  to  speak  with  you.  If  some  of 
them  would  but  just,  from  time  to  time,  look  in 
upon  me,  that  I  may  not  die  alane  ;  and  the  little 
pick  and  drap  that  I  require  would  not  be  hard  upon 
them — I  am  more  sure  that  in  this  way  their  grati- 
tude would  be  no  discredit,  than  I  am  of  having  any 
claim  on  the  Session.' 

• '  As  I  had  always  a  great  respect  for  an  honeoi 


SCOTCH  NOVELS. 


563 


pride,  I  assured  her  that  I  would  do  what  she 
wanted ;  and  accordingly,  the  very  morning  after, 
being  Sabbath,  I  preached  a  sermon  on  the  help- 
lessness of  them  that  have  no  help  of  man  ;  mean- 
ing aged  single  women,  living  in  garret-rooms, 
whose  forlorn  state,  in  the  gloaming  of  life,  I  made 
manifest  to  the  hearts  and  understandings  of  the 
congregation,  in  such  a  manner  that  many  shed 
tears,  and  went  away  sorrowful. 

"  Having  thus  roused  the  feelings  of  my  people, 
I  went  round  the  houses  on  the  Monday  morning, 
and  mentioned  what  I  had  to  say  more  particularly 
about  poor  old  Nanse  Banks  the  schoolmistress, 
and  truly  I  was  rejoiced  at  the  condition  of  the 
hearts  of  my  people.  There  was  a  universal  sym- 
pathy among  them  ;  and  it  was  soon  ordered  that, 
what  with  one  and  another,  her  decay  should  be 
provided  for.  But  it  was  not  ordained  that  she 
should  be  long  heavy  on  their  good  will.  On  the 
Monday  the  school  was  given  up,  and  there  was 
nothing  but  wailing  among  the  bit  lassies,  the 
scholars,  for  getting  the  vacance,  as  the  poor  things 
said,  because  the  mistress  was  going  to  lie  down 
to  dee.  And,  indeed,  so  it  came  to  pass  ;  for  she 
took  to  her  bed  the  same  afternoon,  and,  in  the 
course  of  the  week,  dwindled  away,  and  slippet 
out  of  this  howling  wilderness  into  the  kingdom  of 
heaven,  on  the  Sabbath  following,  as  quietly  as  a 
blessed  saint  could  do.  And  here  I  should  men- 
tion, that  the  Lady  Macadam,  when  I  told  her  of 
Nanse  Banks'  case,  inquired  if  she  was  a  snuffer, 
and,  being  answered  by  me  that  she  was,  her  lady- 
ship sent  her  a  pretty  French  enamel  box  full  of 
Macabaw,  a  fine  snufFthat  she  had  in  a  bottle  ;  and, 
among  the  Macabaw,  was  found  a  guinea,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  box,  after  Nanse  Banks  had  departed 
this  life,  which  was  a  kind  thing  of  Lady  Macadam 
to  do." — Annals  of  the  Parish,  pp.  87 — 91. 

The  next  of  this  author's  publications,  we 
believe,  was  "  The  Ayrshire  Legatees,"  also 
in  one  volume,  and  a  work  of  great,  and 
similar,  though  inferior  merit,  to  the  former. 
It  is  the  story  of  the  proceedings  of  a  worthy 
Scottish  clergyman  and  his  family,  to  whom 
a  large  property  had  been  unexpectedly  be- 
queathed by  a  relftion  in  India,  in  the  course 
of  their  visit  to  London  to  recover  this  prop- 
erty. The  patriarch  himself  and  his  wife, 
and  his  son  and  daughter,  who  form  the  party, 
all  write  copious  accounts  of  what  they  see, 
to  their  friends  in  Ayrshire — and  being  all 
lowly  and  simply  bred,  and  quite  new  to  the 
scenes  in  which  they  are   now   introduced, 

'  make  up  among  them  a  very  entertaining 
miscellany,  of  original,  naive  and  preposterous 
observations.  The  idea  of  thus  making  a 
family  club,  as  it  were,  for  a  varied  and  often 
contradictory  account  of  the  same  objects — 
each  tinging  the  picture  with  his  own  peculi- 
arities, and  unconsciously  drawing  his  own 
character  in  the  course  of  the  description, 
was  first  exemplified,  we  believe,  in  the  Hum- 

I  phrey  Clinker  of  Smollett,  and  has  been  since 
copied  with  success  in  the  Bath  Guide,  Paul's 
Letters  to  his  Kinsfolk,  the  Fudge  Family, 
and  other  ingenious  pieces,  both  in  prose  and 
verse.  Though  the  conception  of  the  Ayr- 
shire Legatee?,  however,  is  not  new,  the  exe- 
cution and  details  must  be  allowed  to  be 
original ;  and,  along  with  a  good  deal  of 
twaddle,  and  loo  much  vulgarity,  certainly 
display  very  considerable  powers  both  of 
humo'ir,  invention,  and  acute  observation. 

The  author's  next  work  is  •'  The  Provost," 
which  is  decidedly  better  than  the  LegateeSj 


and  on  a  level  nearly  with  the  Annals  of  the 
Parish.  There  is  no  inconsiderable  resem- 
blance, indeed,  it  appears  to  us,  in  tne  char- 
acter of  the  two  Biographies :  for  if  we  sub- 
stitute the  love  of  jobbing  and  little  manage- 
ment, which  is  inseparable  from  the  situation 
of  a  magistrate  in  one  of  our  petty  Burghs, 
for  the  zeal  for  Presbyterian  discipline  which 
used  to  attach  to  our  orthodox  clergy,  and 
make  a  proper  allowance  for  the  opposite 
effects  of  their  respective  occupations,  we 
shall  find  a  good  deal  of  their  remaining  pe- 
culiarities common  to  both  those  personages, 
— the  same  kindness  of  nature  with  the  same 
tranquillity  of  temper — and  the  same  practi- 
cal sagacity,  with  a  similar  deficiency  of  large 
views  or  ingenious  speculations.  The  Provost, 
to  be  sure,  is  a  more  worldly  person  than  the 
Pastor,  and  makes  no  scruple  about  using  in- 
direct methods  to  obtain  his  ends,  from  which 
the  simplicity  of  the  other  would  have  re- 
coiled ; — but  his  ends  are  not,  on  the  whole, 
unjust  or  dishonest ;  and  his  good  nature,  and 
acute  simplicity,  with  the  Burghal  authority 
of  his  tone,  would  almost  incline  us  to  con- 
clude, that  he  was  somehow  related  to  the 
celebrated  Bailie  Nicol  Jarvie  of  the  Salt- 
market  1  The  style  of  his  narrative  is  ex- 
ceedingly meritorious ;  for  while  it  is  pitched 
on  the  self-same  key  of  picturesque  homeli- 
ness and  deliberate  method  with  that  of  the 
parish  Annalist,  it  is  curiously  distinguished 
from  it,  by  a  sensible  inferiority  in  literature, 
and  an  agreeable  intermixture  of  malapropsj 
and  other  figures  of  rhetoric  befitting  the 
composition  of  a  loyal  chief  magistrate.  By 
far  the  most  remarkable  and  edifying  thing, 
however,  in  this  volume,  is  the  discovery,; 
which  the  worthy  Provost  is  represented  as 
having  gradually  made,  of  the  necessity  of' 
consulting  public  opinion  in  his  later  transac-* 
tions,  and  the  impossibility  of  managing  pub- 
lic affairs,  in  the  present  times,  with  the  same, 
barefaced  assertion,  and  brave  abuse,  of  au- 
thority, which  had  been  submitted  to  by  a 
less  instructed  generation.  As  we  cannot  but 
suspect,  that  this  great  truth  is  not  yet  suffi- 
ciently familiar  with  all  in  authority  among 
us,  and  as  there  is  something  extremely  en-; 
gaging  in  the  Provost's  confession  of  his  slow  \ 
and  reluctant  conversion,  and  in  the  honest  ' 
simplicity  with  which  he  avows  his  adherence 
to  the  principles  of  the  old  school  of  corrup- 
tion, though  convinced  that  the  manner  of 
advancing  them  must  now  be  changed,  we 
are  tempted  to  extract  a  part  of  his  lucubra- 
tions on  this  interesting  subject.  After  notic- 
ing the  death  of  old  Bailie  M-'Lucre,  he  takes 
occasion  to  observe : — 

"  And  now  that  he  is  dead  and  gone,  and  also  all 
those  whom  I  found  conjunct  with  him,  when  I 
first  came  into  power  and  office,  I  may  venture  to 
say,  that  things  in  yon  former  times  were  not  guided 
so  thoroughly  by  the  hand  of  a  disinterested  integ 
rity  as  in  these  latter  years.  On  the  contrary,  ii 
seemed  to  be  the  use  and  wont  of  men  m  public 
trusts,  to  think  they  were  free  to  indemnify  them- 
selves, in  a  left-handed  way,  for  the  time  and 
trouble  they  bestowed  in  the  same.  But  the  thing 
was  not  so  far  wrong  in  principle,  as  in  the  hug 
germuggering  way  in  which  it  was  done,  and  which 


554 


WORKS  OF  FICTKfN. 


gave  to  it  a  guilty  colour,  that,  by  the  judicious 
stratagem  of  a  right  system,  it  would  never  have 
had.  And,  sooth  to  say,  through  the  whole  course 
of  my  public  life,  I  met  with  no  greater  difficulties 
and  trials,  than  in  cleansing  myself  from  the  old 
habitudes  of  office.  For  I  must,  in  verity,  confess, 
that  I  myself  partook,  in  a  degree,  at  my  beginning, 
of  the  caterpillar  nature,  &c. — While,  therefore,  I 
think,  it  has  been  of  a  great  advantage  to  the  public 
to  have  survived  that  method  of  administration  in 
which  the  like  of  Bailie  M'Lucre  was  engendered, 
I  would  not  have  it  understood  that  I  think  the 
men  who  held  the  public  trust  in  those  days  a  whit 
less  honest  than  the  men  of  my  own  time.  The 
spirit  of  their  own  age  was  upon  them,  as  that  of 
ours  is  upon  us ;  and  their  ways  of  working  the 
wherry  entered  more  or  less  into  all  their  traffick- 
ing, whether  for  the  commonality,  or  for  their  own 
particular  behoof  and  advantage. 

"  I  have  been  thus  large  and  frank  in  my  re- 
flections anent  the  death  of  the  Bailie,  because, 
poor  man,  he  had  outlived  the  times  for  which  he 
was  qualified  ;  and  instead  of  the  merriment  and 
jocularity  that  his  wily  by-hand  ways  used  to  cause 
among  his  neighbours,  the  rising  generation  began 
to  pick  and  dab  at  him,  in  such  a  manner,  that,  had 
he  been  much  longer  spared,  it  is  to  be  feared  he 
would  not  have  been  allowed  to  enjoy  his  earnings 
both  with  ease  and  honour." 

TAeProwsf,  pp.  171— 174. 

Accordingly,  afterwardsj  when  a  corps  of 
volunteers  was  raised  in  his  Burgh,  he  ob- 
serves— 

"  I  kept  myself  aloof  from  all  handling  in  the 
pecuniaries  of  the  business  ;  but  I  lent  a  friendly 
countenance  to  every  feasible  project  that  was  likely 
to  strengthen  the  confidence  of  the  King  in  the 
loyally  and  bravery  of  his  people.  For  by  this 
time  I  had  learnt,  that  there  was  a  wakerife  Com- 
mon Sense  abroad  among  the  opinions  of  men  ; 
and  that  the  secret  of  the  new  way  of  ruling  the 
world  was  to  follow,  not  to  control,  the  evident 
dictates  of  the  popular  voice  ;  and  I  soon  had  rea- 
son to  felicitate  myself  on  this  prudent  and  season- 
able discovery ;  for  it  won  me  great  reverence 
among  the  forward  young  men,  who  started  up  at 
the  call  of  their  country. — The  which,  as  I  tell 
frankly,  was  an  admonition  to  me,  that  the  peremp- 
tory will  of  authority  was  no  longer  sufficient  for 
the  rule  of  mankind  ;  and,  therefore,  I  squared  my 
after  conduct  more  by  a  deference  to  public  opinion, 
than  by  any  laid  down  maxims  and  principles  of  my 
own.  The  consequence  of  which  was,  that  my 
influence  still  continued  to  grow  and  gather  strength 
in  the  community,  and  I  was  enabled  to  accomplish 
many  things  that  my  predecessors  would  have 
thought  it  was  almost  beyond  the  compass  of  man 
to  undertake.'' — Ibid.  pp.  208—217. 

Upon  occasion  of  his  third  and  last  promo- 
motion  13  the  Provostry,  he  thus  records  his 
own  final  conversion. 

"When  I  returned  home  to  my  own  house,  I 
retired  into  my  private  chamber  for  a  time,  to  con- 
sult with  myself  in  what  manner  my  deportment 
should  be  regulated  ;  for  I  was  conscious  that  here- 
tofore I  had  been  overly  governed  with  a  disposition 
to  do  things  my  own  way  ;  and  although  not  in  an 
avaricious  temper,  yet  something,  I  must  confess, 
with  a  sort  of  sinister  respect  for  my  own  interests. 
It  may  be,  that  standing  now  clear  and  free  of  the 
world,  I  had  less  incitement  to  be  so  grippy,  and  so 
was  thought  of  me,  I  very  well  know ;  but  in  so- 
briety  and  truth  I  conscientiously  affirm,  and  herein 
j-ecord,  that  I  had  lived  to  partake  of  the  purer  spirit 
which  the  great  mutations  of  the  age  had  conjured 
Into  public  affairs  ;  and  I  saw  that  there  was  a  ne- 
cessity to  carry  into  all  dealings  with  the  concerns 
■if  the  community,  the  same  probity  which  helps  a 


man  to  prosperity,  in  the  sequestered  traffic  oi  pri 

vate  life.''— Ibid.  pp.  315,  316.  ^ 

Trusting  that  these  lessons  from  a  person  -i 
of  such  prudence,  experience,  and  loyalty, 
will  not  be  lost  on  his  successors,  we  shall 
now  indulge  ourselves  by  quoting  a  few  speci- 
mens  of  what  will  generally  be  regarded  as 
his  more  interesting  style ;  and.  with  our  usual 
predilection  for  the  tragic  vein,  shall  begin 
with  the  following  very  touching  account  of 
the  execution  of  a  fair  young  woman  for  the 
murder  of  her  new-born  infant. 

"  The  heinousness  of  the  crime  can  by  no  possi- 
bility be  lessened ;  but  the  beauty  of  the  mother, 
her  tender  years,  and  her  light-headedness,  had 
won  many  favourers,  and  there  was  a  great  leaning 
in  the  hearts  of  all  the  town  to  compassionate  her, 
especially  when  they  thought  of  the  ill  example  that 
had  been  set  to  her  in  the  walk  and  conversation  of 
her  mother.  It  was  not,  however,  within  the  power 
of  the  magistrates  to  overlook  the  accusation ;  so 
we  were  obligated  to  cause  a  precognition  to  be 
taken,  and  the  search  left  no  doubt  of  the  wilfulness 
of  the  murder.  Jeanie  was  in  consequence  removed 
to  the  Tolbooth,  where  she  lay  till  the  Lords  were 
coming  to  Ayr,  when  she  was  sent  thither  to  stand 
her  trial  before  them  ;  but,  from  the  hour  she  did 
the  deed,  she  never  spoke. 

"  Her  trial  was  a  short  procedure,  and  she  was 
cast  to  be  hanged — and  not  only  to  be  hanged,  but 
ordered  to  be  executed  in  our  town,  and  her  body 
given  to  the  doctors  to  make  an  Atomy.  The  exe- 
cution of  Jeanie  was  what  all  expected  would  hap- 
pen ;  but  when  the  news  reached  the  town  of  the 
other  parts  of  the  sentence,  the  wail  was  as  the 
sough  of  a  pestilence,  and  fain  would  the  council 
have  got  it  dispensed  with.  But  the  Lord  Advocate 
was  just  wud  at  the  crime,  both  because  there  had 
been  no  previous  concealment,  so  as  to  have  been 
an  extenuation  for  the  shame  of  the  birth,  and  be- 
cause Jeanie  would  neither  divulge  the  name  of  the 
father,  nor  make  answer  to  all  the  interrogatories 
that  were  put  to  her,  standing  at  the  bar  Hke  a 
dumbie,  and  looking  round  her,  and  at  the  judges, 
like  a  demented  creature — and  beautiful  as  a  Flan- 
ders baby  !  It  was  thought  by  many  that  her  ad- 
vocate might  have  made  great  use  of  her  visible 
consternation,  and  plead  that  she  was  by  herself; 
for  in  truth  she  had  every  appearance  of  being  so. 
He  was,  however,  a  dure  man,  no  doubt  well 
enough  versed  in  the  particulars  and  punctuaUties 
of  the  law  for  an  ordinary  plea,  but  no  of  the  right 
sort  of  knowledge  and  talent  to  take  up  the  case 
of  a  forlorn  lassie,  misled  by  ill  example  and  a  win- 
some nature,  and  clothed  in  the  allurement  of  love- 
liness, as  the  judge  himself  said  to  the  jury. 

"  On  the  night  before  the  day  of  execution,  she 
was  brought  over  in  a  chaise  from  Ayr  between 
two  town-officers,  and  placed  again  in  our  hands, 
and  still  she  never  spoke.  Nothing  could  exceed 
the  compassion  that  every  one  had  for  poor  Jeanie  ; 
so  she  was  na  committed  to  a  common  cell,  but 
laid  in  the  council  room,  where  the  ladies  of  the 
town  made  up  a  comfortable  bed  for  her,  and  some 
of  them  sat  up  all  night  and  prayed  for  her:  But 
her  thoughts  were  gone,  and  she  sat  silent.  In  the 
morning,  by  break  of  day,  her  wanton  mother  that 
had  been  trolloping  in  Glasgow  came  to  the  Tol- 
booth door,  and  made  a  dreadful  wally  waeing;  and 
the  ladies  were  obligated,  for  the  sake  of  peace,  to 
bid  her  be  let  in.  But  Jeanie  noticed  her  not,  still 
sitting  with  her  eyes  cast  down,  waiting  the  coming 
on  of  the  hour  of  her  doom. 

"  There  had  not  been  an  execution  in  the  town 
in  the  memory  of  the  oldest  person  then  living;  the 
last  that  suffered  was  one  of  the  martyrs  in  the 
time  of  the  persecution,  so  that  we  were  not  skilled 
in  the  business,  and  had  besides  no  hangman,  bul 
were  necessitated  to  borrow  the  Ayr  one.    Indeed 


SCOTCH  NOVELS. 


565 


)  being  the  youngest  bailie,  was  in  terror  that  the 
obligation  might  have  fallen  on  me.  A  scaffold 
was  erected  at  the  Tron  just  under  the  Tolbooth 
windows,  by  Thomas  Gimblet,  the  Master-ol"-work, 
who  had  a  good  penny  of  profit  by  the  job  ;  for  he 
contracted  with  the  town  council,  and  had  the  boards 
after  the  business  was  done  to  the  bargain  ;  but 
Thomas  was  then  deacon  of  the  wrights,  and  him- 
self a  member  of  our  body. 

"  At  the  hour  appointed,  Jeanie,  dressed  in  white, 
was  led  out  by  the  town-officers,  and  in  the  midst 
of  the  magistrates  from  among  the  ladies,  with  her 
hands  tied  behind  her  with  a  black  ribbon.  At  the 
first  sight  of  her  at  the  Tolbooth  stairhead,  a  uni- 
versal sob  rose  from  all  the  multitude,  and  the  stern- 
est ee  could  na  refrain  from  shedding  a  tear.  We 
inarched  slowly  down  the  stair,  and  on  to  the  foot 
of  the  scaffold,  where  her  younger  brother,  Willy, 
that  was  stable-boy  at  my  lord's,  was  standing  by 
himself,  in  an  open  ring  made  round  him  in  the 
crowd ;  every  one  compassionating  the  dejected 
laddie,  for  he  was  a  fine  youth,  and  of  an  orderly 
spirit.  As  his  sister  came  towards  the  foot  of  the 
ladder,  he  ran  towards  her,  and  embraced  her  with 
a  wail  of  sorrow  that  melted  every  heart,  and  made 
us  all  stop  in  the  middle  of  our  solemnity.  Jeanie 
looked  at  him  (for  her  hands  were  tied),  and  a  silent 
tear  was  seen  to  drop  from  her  cheek.  But  in  the 
course  of  little  more  than  a  minute,  all  was  quiet, 
and  vv^e"  proceeded  to  ascend  the  scaffold.  Willy, 
who  had  by  this  time  dried  his  eyes,  went  up  with 
us,  and  when  Mr.  Pittle  had  said  the  prayer,  and 
sung  the  psalm,  in  which  the  whole  multitude  join- 
ed, as  it  were  with  the  contrition  of  sorrow,  the 
hangman  stepped  forward  to  put  on  the  fatal  cap, 
but  Willy  took  it  out  of  his  hand,  and  placed  it  on 
his  sister  himself,  and  then  kneeling  down,  with  his 
back  towards  her,  closing  his  eyes  and  shutting  his 
ears  with  his  hands,  he  saw  not  nor  heard  when 
she  was  launched  into  eternity  ! 

"  When  the  awful  act  was  over,  and  the  stir  was 
for  the  magistrates  to  return,  and  the  body  to  be 
2ut  down,  poor  Willy  rose,  and,  without  looking 
round,  went  down  the  steps  of  the  scaffold  ;  the 
multitude  made  a  lane  for  him  to  pass,  and  he  went 
on  through  them  hiding  his  face,  and  gaed  straight 
out  of  the  town." — The  Provost,  pp.  67 — 73. 

This  is  longer  ttian  we  had  expected — and 
therefore,  omitting  all  the  stories  of  his  wiles 
and  jocosities,  we  shall  take  onr  leave  of  the 
Provost;  with  his  very  pathetic  and  picturesque 
description  of  the  catastrophe  of  the  Windy- 
Yule,  which  we  think  would  not  discredit  the 
pen  of  the  great  novelist  himself. 

"  In  the  morning,  the  weather  was  blasty  and 
sleeiy,  waxing  more  and  more  tempestuous,  till 
about  mid-day,  when  the  wind  checked  suddenly 
round  from  the  nor-east  to  the  sou-west,  and  blew 
a  gale,  as  if  the  prince  of  the  powers  of  the  air  was 
doing  his  utmost  to  work  mischief.  The  rain  blat- 
tered, the  windows  clattered,  the  shop  shutters  flap- 
fied,  pigs  from  the  lum-heads  came  rattling  down 
ike  thunder-claps,  and  the  skies  were  dismal  both 
with  cloud  and  carry.  Yet,  for  all  that,  there  was 
in  the  streets  a  stir  and  a  busy  visitation  between 
neighbours,  and  every  one  went  to  their  high  win- 
dows to  look  at  the  five  poor  barks,  that  were  wars- 
ling  against  the  strong  arm  of  the  elements  of  the 
storm  and  the  ocean. 

"  Still  the  lift  gloomed,  and  the  wind  roared  ;  and 
it  was  aj  doleful  a  sight  as  ever  was  seen  in  any 
town  afflicted  with  calamity,  to  see  the  sailor's 
wives,  with  their  red  cloaks  about  their  heads,  fol- 
tovyed  by  their  hirpling  and  disconsolate  bairns, 
going  one  after  another  to  the  kirkyard,  to  look  at 
the  vessels  where  their  helpless  breadwinners  were 
battling  with  the  tempest.  My  heart  was  really 
sorrowful,  and  full  of  a  sore  anxiety  to  think  of 
what  might  happen  to  the  town,  whereof  so  many 
were  in  peril,  and  to  whom  no  human  magistracy 


could  extend  the  arm  of  protection.  Seeing  no 
abatement  of  the  wrath  of  heaven,  that  howled 
and  roared  around  us,  I  put  on  my  bi^  coat,  and 
taking  my  staff  in  my  hand,  having  tied  down  my 
hat  with  a  silk  handkerchief,  towards  gloaming  1 
walked  hkewise  to  the  kirkyard,  where  I  behcl- 
such  an  assemblage  of  sorrow,  as  few  men  in  situ- 
ation have  ever  been  put  to  the  trial  to  witness. 

"  In  the  lea  of  the  kirk  many  hundreds  of  the 
town  were  gathered  together ;  but  there  was  no 
discourse  among  them.  'I'he  major  part  were  sai- 
lors' wives  and  weans,  and  at  every  new  thud  of 
the  blast,  a  sob  rose,  and  the  mothers  drew  theh 
bairns  closer  in  about  them,  as  if  they  saw  the 
visible  hand  of  a  foe  raised  to  smite  them.  Apart 
from  the  multitude,  I  observed  three  or  four  young 
lasses,  standing  behind  the  Whinnyhill  families" 
tomb,  and  I  jealoused  that  they  had  joes  in  the 
ships,  for  they  ©ften  looked  to  the  bay,  with  long 
necks  and  sad  faces,  from  behind  the  monument. 
But  of  all  the  piteous  objects  there,  on  that  doleful 
evening,  none  troubled  my  thoughts  more  than 
three  motherless  children,.rthat  belonged  to  the 
mate  of  one  of  the  vessels  in  the  jeopardy.  He 
was  an  Englishman  that  had  been  settled  some 
years  in  the  town,  where  his  family  had  neither 
kith  nor  kin;  and  his  wife  having  died  about  a 
month  before,  the  bairns,  of  whom  the  eldest  was 
but  nine  or  so,  were  friendless  enough,  though 
both  my  gudewife,  and  other  well-disposed  ladies, 
paid  them  all  manner  of  attention  till  their  father 
would  come  home.  The  three  poor  little  things, 
knowing  that  he  was  in  one  of  the  ships,  had  been 
often  out  and  anxious,  and  they  were  then  sitting 
under  the  lea  of  a  headstone,  near  their  mother's 
grave,  chittering  and  creeping  closer  and  closer  at 
every  squall!  Never  was  such  an  orphan-like 
sight  seen. 

"  When  it  began  to  be  so  dark,  that  the  vessel? 
could  no  longer  be  discerned  from  the  churchyard, 
many  went  down  to  the  shore,  and  I  took  the  three 
babies  home  with  me,  and  Mrs.  Pawkie  made  tea 
for  them,  and  they  soon  began  to  play  with  our  own 
younger  children,  in  blythe  forgeifulness  of  the 
storm;  every  now  and  then,  however,  the  eldest 
of  them,  when  the  shutters  rat-tied,  and  the  lum- 
head  roared,  would  pause  in  his  innocent  daffing, 
and  cower  in  towards  Mrs.  Pawkie,  as  if  he  was 
daunted  and  dismayed  by  something  he  knew  not 
what. 

"  Many  a  one  that  night  walked  the  sounding 
shore  in  sorrow,  and  fires  were  lighted  along  it  to  a 
great  extent,  but  the  darkness  and  the  noise  of  the 
raging  deep,  and  the  howling  wind,  never  intermit- 
ted till  about  midnight;  at  which  time  a  message 
was  brought  to  me,  that  it  might  be  needful  to  send 
a  guard  of  soldiers  to  the  beach,  for  that  broken 
masts  and  tackle  had  come  in,  and  that  surely  some 
of  the  barks  had  perished.  1  lost  no  time  in  obey- 
ing this  suggestion,  which  was  made  to  me  by  one 
of  the  owners  of  the  Louping  Me^ ;  and  to  show 
that  I  sincerely  sympathised  with  all  those  in  afflic- 
tion, I  rose  and  dressed  myself,  and  went  down  to 
the  shore,  where  I  directed  several  old  boats  to  be 
drawn  up  by  the  fires,  and  blankets  to  be  brought, 
and  cordials  prepared,  for  them  that  might  be  spared 
with  life  to  reach  the  land  ;  and  I  walked  the  beach 
with  the  mourners  till  the  morning. 

"  As  the  day  dawned,  the  wind  began  to  abate 
in  its  violence,  and  to  wear  away  from  Ihe  sou-west 
into  the  norit ;  but  it  was  soon  discovered,  that 
some  of  the  vessels  with  the  corn  had  perished ! 
for  the  first  thing  seen,  was  a  long  fringe  of  tangle 
and  grain,  along  the  line  of  the  highwater  mark 
and  every  one  strained  with  greedy  and  grievet! 
eyes,  as  the  daylight  brightened,  to  discover  which 
had  suffered.  But  I  can  proceed  no  farther  with 
the  dismal  recital  of  that  doleful  morning  !  Let  it 
suffice  here  to  be  known,  that,  through  the  haze, 
we  at  last  saw  three  of  the  vessels  lying  on  their 
beam-ends,  with  their  masts  broken,  and  the  wave*» 
riding  like  the  furious  horses  of  destruction  over 
them.     What  had  become  of  the  other  two,  wai 


556 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


iH 


never  known ;  but  it  was  supposed  that  they  had 
foundered  at  their  anchors,  and  that  all  on  board 
perished. 

"  The  day  being  now  Sabbath,  and  the  whole 
town  idle,  every  body  in  a  manner  was  down  on 
the  beach,  to  help,  and  mourn,  as  the  bodies,  one 
after  another,  were  cast  out  by  the  waves.  Alas  ! 
few  were  the  better  of  my  provident  preparation, 
and  it  was  a  thing  not  to  be  described,  to  see,  for 
more  than  a  mile  along  the  coast,  the  new-made 
widows  and  fatherless  bairns,  mourning  and  weep- 
ing over  the  corpsesof  those  they  loved  !  Seventeen 
bodies  were,  before  ten  o'clock,  carried  to  the  deso- 
lated dwellings  of  their  families;  and  when  old 
Thomas  Pull,  the  betherel,  went  to  ring  the  bell 
for  public  worship,'  such  was  the  universal  sorrow 
of  the  town,  that  Nanse  Donsie,  an  idiot  natural, 
ran  up  the  street  to  stop  him,  crying,  in  the  voice 
of  a  pardonable  desperation,  '  Wha,  in  sic  a  time, 
can  praise  the  Lord  ?'  " — The  Provost,  pp.  177-184. 

The  next  work  on  our  list  is  the  history  of 
"  Sir  Andrew  Wylie,"  in  three  volumes — and 
this,  we  must  say,  is  not  nearly  so  good  as  any 
of  the  former.  It  contains,  however,  many 
passages  of  great  interest  and  originality,  and 
displays,  throughout,  a  power  which  we  think 
ought  naturally  to  have  produced  something 
better;  but  the  story  is  clumsily  and  heavily 
jmanaged,  and  the  personages  of  polite  life 
ivery  unsuccessfully  dealt  with.  The  author's 
r  great  error,  we  suspect,  was  in  resolving  to 
have  three  volumes  instead  of  one — and  his 
writing,  which  was  full  of  spirit,  while  he 
was  labouring  to  confine  his  ideas  within  the 
space  assigned  to  them,  seems  to  have  be- 
come flat  and  languid,  the  moment  his  task 
was  to  find  matter  to  fill  that  space. 

His  next  publication,  however,  though  only 
in  one  volume,  is  undoubtedly  the  worst  of 
the  whole — we  allude  to  the  thing  called  the 
''  The  Steam-Boat,"  which  has  really  no  merit 
at  all;  and  should  never  have  been  trans- 
planted from  the  Magazine  in  which  we  are 
informed  it  first  made  its  appearance.  With 
the  exception  of  some  trash  about  the  Corona- 
tion, which  nobody  of  course  could  ever  look 
at  three  months  after  the  thing  itself  was 
over,  it  consists  of  a  series  of  vulgar  stories. 
with  little  either  of  probability  or  originality 
to  recommend  them.  The  attempt  at  a  paral- 
lel or  paraphrase  on  the  story  of  Jeanie  Deans, 
is,  without  any  exception,  the  boldest  and  the 
most  unsuccessful  speculation  we  have  ever 
seen  in  literary  adventure. 

The  piece  that  follows,  though  in  three 
volumes,  is  of  a  far  higher  order — and  though 
m  many  points  unnatural,  and  on  the  whole 
rather  tedious,  is  a  work  undoubtedly  of  no 
ordinary  merit.  We  mean  "The  Entail."  It 
contains  many  strong  pictures,  much  sarcastic 
observation,  and  a  great  deal  of  native  and 
effective  numour,  though  too  often  debased 
by  a  tone  of  wilful  vulgarity.  The  ultimate 
conversion  of  the  Entailer  himself  into  a 
sublime  and  sentimental  personage,  is  a  little 
too  romantic — the  history  of  poor  Watty,  the 
innocent  imbecile,  and  his  Betty  Bodle,  is 
perhaps  the  best  full-length  narrative — and 
the  drowning  of  honest  Mr.  Walkinshaw  the 
most  powerful  single  sketch  in  the  work.  We 
fan  atTord  to  make  no  extracts. 

'^Ringan  Gilhaize/'  also  in  three  volumes, 


is  the  last,  in  so  far  as  we  know,  of  this  ready 
writer's  publications;  and  is  a  bold  attempt 
to  emulate  the  fame  of  the  Historical  novels 
of  his  original;  and  to  combine  a  striking 
sketch  of  great  public  occurrences,  with  the 
details  of  individual  adventure.  By  the  as- 
sistance of  his  grandfather's  recollections, 
which  fill  nearly  half  the  book,  the  hero  con- 
trives to  embrace  the  period  both  of  the  Ref- 
ormation from  Popery,  in  the  Reign  of  Queen 
Mary,  and  of  the  sufferings  of  the  Covenanters 
from  that  of  King  Charles  till  the  Revolution. 
But  with  all  the  benefit  of  this  wide  range, 
and  the  interest  of  those  great  events,  we 
cannot  say  that  he  has  succeeded  in  making 
a  good  book ;  or  shown  any  spark  of  that  spirit 
which  glows  in  the  pages  of  Waverley  and 
Old  Mortality.  The  work,  however,  is  written 
with  labour  and  care  :  and,  besides  a  full  nar- 
rative of  all  the  remarkable  passages  of  our 
ecclesiastical  story,  from  the  burning  of  Mr. 
Wishart  at  St.  Andrew's,  to  the  death  of  Dun- 
dee at  Killicrankie,  contains  some  animated 
and  poetical  descriptions  of  natural  scenery, 
and  a  few  sweet  pictures  of  humble  virtue 
and  piety.  Upon  the  whole,  however,  it  is  a 
heavy  work — and  proves  conclusively,  that 
the  genius  of  the  author  lies  much  more  in 
the  quieter  walks  of  humorous  simplicity,  in- 
termixed with  humble  pathos,  than  the  lofty 
paths  of  enthusiasm  or  heroic  emotion.  In 
the  first  part  we  meet  with  nothing  new  or 
remarkable,  but  the  picture  of  the  Archbishop 
of  St.  Andrews'  luxurious  dalliance  with  his 
paramour,  and  of  the  bitter  penitence  and 
tragical  death  of  that  fair  victim  of  his  seduc- 
tions, both  which  are  sketched  with  consider- 
able power  and  effect.  In  the  latter  part, 
there  is  some  good  and  minute  description  of 
the  perils  and  sufferings  which  beset  the  poor 
fugitive  Covenanters,  in  the  days  of  their  long 
and  inhuman  persecution.  The  cruel  desola- 
tion of  Gilhaize's  own  household  is  also  given 
with  great  force  and  pathos ;  as  well  as  the  de- 
scription of  that  irresistible  impulse  of  zeal  and 
vengeance  that  drives  the  sad  survivor  to  rush 
alone  to  the  field  of  Killicrankie.  and  to  repay 
at  last,  on  the  head  of  the  slaughtered  victor 
of  that  fight,  the  accumulated  wrongs  and  op- 
pressions of  his  race.  But  still  the  book  is  tire- 
some, and  without  effect.  The  narrative  is  nei- 
ther pleasing  nor  probable,  and  the  calamities 
are  too  numerous,  and  too  much  alike;  while 
the  uniformity  of  the  tone  of  actual  suffering 
and  dim  religious  hope,  weighs  like  a  load  on 
the  spirit  of  the  reader.  There  is  no  interest- 
ing complication  of  events  or  adventure,  and 
no  animating  development  or  catastrophe.  In 
short,  the  author  has  evidently  gone  beyona 
his  means  in  entering  the  lists  with  the  master 
of  historical  romance ;  and  must  be  contented, 
hereafter,  to  follow  his  footsteps  in  the  more 
approachable  parts  of  his  career. 

Of  the  other  set  of  publications  before  us. 
"Valerius"  is  the  first  in  point  of  date;  and 
the  most  original  in  conception  and  design. 
It  is  a  Roman  story,  the  scene  of  which  is  laid 
in  the  first  age  of  Christianity ;  and  its  object 
seems  to  be,  partly  to  present  UiS  with  a  living 


SCOTCH  NOVELS. 


557 


picture  of  the  manners  and  characters  of  those 
ancient  times,  and  partly  to  trace  the  effects 
of  the  true  faith  on  the  feehngs  and  affections 
of  those  who  first  embraced  it,  in  the  dangers 
and  darkness  of  expiring  Paganism.  It  is  a 
work  to  be  excepted  certainly  from  our  gene- 
ral remark,  that  the  productions  before  us 
were  imitations  of  the  celebrated  novels  to 
which  we  have  so  often  made  reference,  and 
their  authors  disciples  of  that  great  school. 
Such  as  it  is,  Valerius  is  undoubtedly  original ; 
or  at  least  owes  nothing  to  that  new  source  of 
inspiration.  It  would  be  more  plausible  to 
say,  that  the  author  had  borrowed  something 
from  the  travels  of  Anacharsis,  or  the  ancient 
romance  of  Heliodorus  and  Charielea — or  the 
later  effusions  of  M.  Chateaubriand.  In  the 
main,  however,  it  is  original ;  and  it  is  written 
with  very  considerable  power  and  boldness. 
But  we  cannot,  on  the  whole,  say  that  it  has 
been  successful;  and  ev3n  greater  powers 
could  not  have  insured  success  for  such  an 
j  undertaking.  We  must  kaow  the  daily  life 
j  and  ordinary  habits  of  the  people* in  whose 
domestic  adventures  we  take  an  interest : — 
and  we  really  know  nothing  of  the  life  and 
habits  of  the  ancient  Romans  and  primitive 
Christians.  We  may  patch  together  a  cento 
out  of  old  books,  and  pretend  that  it  exhibits 
a  view  of  their  manners  and  conversation : 
But  the  truth  is,  that  all  that  is  authentic  in 
Buch  a  compilation  can  amount  only  to  a  few 
fragments  of  such  a  picture;  and  that  any 
thing  like  a  complete  and  living  portrait  must 
be  made  up  by  conjecture,  and  inferences 
drawn  at  hazard.  Accordingly,  the  work  be- 
fore us  consists  alternately  of  enlarged  tran- 
scripts of  particular  acts  and  usages,  of  which 
accounts  have  been  accidentally  transmitted 
10  us,  and  details  of  dialogue  ancl  observation 
in  which  there  is  nothing  antique  or  Roman 
but  the  names, — and  in  reference  to  which, 
the  assumed  time  and  place  of  the  action  is 
felt  as  a  mere  embarrassment  and  absurdity. 
To  avoid  or  disguise  this  awkwardness,  the 
only  resource  seems  to  be,  to  take  shelter  in 
a  vague  generality  of  talk  and  description, — 
and  to  save  the  detection  of  the  modern  in 
his  masquerade  of  antiquity,  by  abstaining 
from  every  thing  that  is  truly  characteristic 
either  of  the  one  age  or  the  other,  and  conse- 
quently from  every  thing  by  which  either 
character  or  manners  can  be  effectually  de- 
lineated or  distij-iguished.  The  very  style  of 
the  work  bG,fore  us  affords  a  curious  example 
of  the  necessity  of  this  timid  indefiniteness, 
under  such  circumstances,  and  of  its  awkward 
effect.  To  exclude  the  tone  of  modern  times, 
it  is  without  idiom,  without  familiarity,  with- 
out any  of  those  natural  marks  by  which 
alone  either  individuality  of  character,  or  the 
stamp  and  pressure  of  the  time,  can  possibly 
be  conveyed, — and  runs  on,  even  in  the  gay 
and  satirical  passages,  in  a  rumbling,  round- 
about, rhetorical  measure,  like  a  translation 
from  solemn  Latin,  or  some  such  academical 
exercitation.  It  is  an  attempt,  in  short,  which, 
though  creditable  to  the  spirit  and  talents  of 
the  author,  we  think  he  has  done  wisely  in 
Rot  seeking  to  repeat, — and  which,  though  it 


has  not  failed  through  any  deficiency  of  his, 
has  been  prevented,  we  think,  from  succeed- 
ing by  the  very  nature  of  the  subject. 

The  next  in  order,  we  believe,  is  "  Lights 
and  Shadows  of  Scottish  Life." — an  affected, 
or  at  least  too  poetical  a  title, — and,  standing 
before  a  book,  not  very  natural,  but  bright 
with  the  lights  of  poetry.  It  is  a  collection 
of  twenty-five  stories  or  little  pieces,  half 
novels  half  idylls,  characteristic  of  Scottish 
scenery  and  manners — mostly  pathetic,  and 
mostly  too  favourable  to  the  country  to  which 
they  relate.  They  are,  on  the  whole,  we 
think,  very  beautifully  and  sweetly  written, 
and  in  a  soft  spirit  of  humanity  and  gentleness. 
But  the  style  is  too  elaborate  and  uniform; — 
there  is  occasionally  a  gDod  deal  of  w^eaknesa 
and  commonplace  in  the  passages  that  are 
most  emphatically  expressed, — and  the  poet- 
ical heightenings  are  often  introduced  where 
they  hurt  both  the  truth  and  the  simplicity  of 
the  picture.  Still,  however,  they  have  their 
foundation  in  a  fine  sense  of  the  peculiarities 
of  our  national  character  and  scenery,  and  a 
deep  feeling  of  their  excellence  and  beauty — 
and,  though  not  executed  according  to  the  dic- 
tates of  a  severe  or  correct  taste,  nor  calcu- 
lated to  make  much  impression  on  those  who 
have  studied  men  and  books,  "with  a  learned 
spirit  of  observation,"  are  yet  well  fitted  to 
minister  delight  to  less  fastidious  spirits,^ — 
and  to  revive,  in  many  world-w^earied  hearts, 
those  illusions  which  had  only  been  succeeded 
by  illusions  less  irmocent  and  attractive,  and 
those  affections  in  which  alone  there  is  neither 
illusion  nor  disappointment. 

As  the  author's  style  of  narration  is  rather 
copious,  we  cannot  now  afford  to  present  our 
readers  with  any  of  his  stories — but,  as  a 
specimen  of  his  tone  and  manner  of  composi- 
tion, we  m.ay  ventui-e  on  one  or  two  of  his  in- 
troductory descriptions.  The  following,  of  a 
snowy  morning,  is  not  the  least  characteristic. 

"  It  was  on  a  fierce  and  howling  winter  day  that 
I  was  crossing  the  dreary  moor  of  Auchindown,  on 
my  way  to  the  Manse  of  that  parish,  a  solitary  pe- 
destrian. The  snow,  which  had  been  incessantly 
falling  for  a  week  past,  was  drifted  into  beautiful 
but  dangerous  wreaths,  far  and  wide,  over  the 
melancholy  expanse — and  the  scene  kept  visibly 
shifting  before  me,  as  the  strong  wind  that  blew 
from  every  point  of  the  compass  struck  the  dazzling 
masses,  and  heaved  them  up  and  down  in  endless 
transformation.  There  was  something  inspiriting 
in  the  labour  with  which,  in  the  buoyant  strength 
of  youth,  I  forced  my  way  through  the  storm — and 
I  could  not  but  enjoy  those  gleamings  of  sunlight 
that  ever  and  anon  burst  through  some  unexpected 
opening  in  the  sky,  and  Mve  a  character  of  cheer- 
fulness, and  even  warmth,  to  the  sides  or  summits 
of  the  stricken  hills.  As  the  momentary  cessations 
of  the  sharp  drift  allowed  my  eyes  to  look  onwards 
and  around,  I  saw  here  and  there  up  the  little  open- 
ing valleys,  cottages  just  visible  beneath  the  black 
stems  of  their  snow-covered  clumps  of  trees,  or  be- 
side some  small  spot  of  green  pasture  kept  open  foi 
the  sheep.  These  intimations  of  life  and  happiness 
came  delightfully  to  me  in  the  midst  of  the  desola- 
tion; and  the  barking  of  a  dog,  attending  somit 
Shepherd  in  his  quest  on  the  hill,  put  fresh  vigour 
into  my  limbs,  telling  me  that,  lonely  as  I  seemed 
to  be,  i  was  surrounded  by  cheerful  though  unseen 
company,  and  that  I  was  not  the  only  wandere* 
over  the  snows.  , 


558 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


"  As  I  walked  along,  my  mind  was  insensibly 
filled  with  a  crowd  of  pleasant  images  of  rural  win- 
ter life,  that  helped  me  gladly  onwards  over  many 
miles  of  moor.  1  thought  of  the  severe  but  cheerful 
labours  of  the  barn — the  mending  of  farm-gear  by 
ihe  fireside — the  wheel  turned  by  the  foot  of  old 
age,  less  for  gain  than  as  a  thrifty  pastime — the  skil- 
ful mother,  making  '  auld  ciaes  look  amaist  as 
weal's  the  new' — the  ballad  unconsciously  listened 
to  by  the  family,  all  busy  at  their  own  tasks  round 
the  singing  maiden — the  old  traditionary  tale  told 
by  some  wayfarer  hospitably  housed  till  the  storm 
should  blow  by — the  unexpected  visit  of  neighbours, 
on  need  or  friendship — or  the  footstep  of  lover  un- 
deterred by  the  snow-drifts  that  have  buried  up  his 
flocks ; — but  above  all,  I  thought  of  those  hours  of 
religious  worship  that  have  not  yet  escaped  front 
the  domestic  life  of  the  Peasantry  of  Scotland — of 
the  sound  of  psalms  that  the  depth  of  snow  cannot 
deaden  to  the  ear  of  Him  to  whom  they  are  chanted 
— and  of  that  sublime  Sabbath-keeping,  which,  on 
days  too  tempestuous  for  the  kirk,  changes  the  cot- 
tage of  the  Shepherd  into  the  Temple  of  God. 

"  With  such  glad  and  peaceful  images  in  my 
heart,  I  travelled  along  that  dreary  moor,  with  the 
cutting  wind  in  my  face,  and  my  feet  sinking  in  the 
snow,  or  sliding  on  the  hard  blue  ice  beneath  it — as 
cheerfully  as  1  ever  walked  in  the  dewy  warmth 
of  a  summer  morning,  through  fields  of  fragrance 
and  of  flowers.  And  now  I  could  discern,  within 
half  an  hour's  walk  before  me,  the  spire  of  the 
church,  close  to  which  stood  the  Manse  of  my  aged 
friend  and  benefactor.  My  heart  burned  within  me 
as  a  sudden  gleam  of  stormy  sunlight  tipt  it  with 
fire — and  I  felt,  at  that  moment,  an  inexpressible 
sense  of  the  sublimity  of  the  character  of  that  gray- 
headed  Shepherd  who  had,  for  fifty  years,  abode  in 
the  wilderness,  keeping  together  his  own  happy 
little  Rock.''— Lig?its  and  Shadows,  pp.  131—133. 

The  next,  of  a  summer  storm  among  the 
mountainSj  is  equally  national  and  appropriate. 

"An  enormous  thunder-cloud  had  lain  all  day 
over  Ben-Nevis,  shrouding  its  summit  in  thick 
darkness,  blackening  its  sides  and  base,  wherever 
they  were  beheld  from  the  surrounding  country, 
with  masses  of  deep  shadow,  and  especially  flinging 
down  a  weight  of  gloom  upon  that  magnificent  Glen 
that  bears  the  same  name  with  the  Mountain ;  till 
now  the  afternoon  was  like  twilight,  and  the  voice 
of  all  the  streams  was  distinct  in  the  breathlessness 
of  the  vast  sohtary  hollow.  The  inhabitants  of  all 
the  straths,  vales,  glens,  and  dells,  round  and  about 
the  Monarch  of  Scottish  mountains,  had,  during 
each  successive  hour,  been  expecting  the  roar  of 
thunder  and  the  deluge  of  rain  ;  but  the  huge  con- 
glomeration of  lowering  clouds  would  not  rend 
asunder,  although  it  was  certain  that  a  calm  blue 
sky  could  not  be  restored  till  all  that  dreadful  as- 
semblage had  melted  away  into  torrents,  or  been 
driven  oflT  by  a  strong  wind  from  the  sea.  All  the 
cattle  on  the  hills,  and  on  the  hollows,  stood  still  or 
lay  down  in  their  fear, — the  wild  deer  sought  in 
herds  the  shelter  of  the  pine-covered  cliffs — the 
raven  hushed  his  hoarse  croak  in  some  grim  cavern, 
and  the  eagle  left  the  dreadful  silence  of  the  upper 
heavens.  Now  and  then  the  shepherds  looked 
from  their  huts,  while  the  shadow  of  the  thunder- 
clouds deepened  the  hues  of  their  plaids  and  tar- 
tans !  and  at  every  creaking  of  the  heavy  branches 
of  the  pines,  or  wide-armed  oaks  in  the  solitude  of 
their  inaccessible  birth-place,  the  hearts  of  the  lone- 
ly dwellers  quaked,  and  they  lifted  up  their  eyes  to 
see  the  first  wide  flash — the  disparting  of  the  masses 
of  darkness — and  paused  to  hear  the  long  loud  rat- 
tle of  heaven's  artillery  shaking  the  foundation  of 
ihe  everlasting  mountains.     But  all  was  yet  silent. 

"  The  peal  came  at  last !  and  it  seemed  as  if  an 
earthquake  had  smote  the  silence.  Not  a  tree— not 
a  blade  of  grass  moved  ;  but  the  blow  stunned,  as 
it  were,  the  heart  of  the  solid  globe.  Then  was 
Uiore  a  low,  wild,  whispering,  wailing  voice,  as  of 


many  spirits  all  joining  togetner  from  every  point 
of  heaven  :  It  died  away — and  then  the  rushing  of 
rain  was  heard  through  the  darkness  ;  and,  in  a  few 
minutes,  down  came  all  the  mountain  torrents  in 
their  power,  and  the  sides  of  all  the  steeps  were 
suddenly  sheeted,  far  and  wide,  with  waterfalls. 
The  element  of  water  was  let  loose  to  run  its  re- 
joicing race — and  that  of  fire  lent  it  illumination, 
whether  sweeping  in  floods  along  the  great  open 
straths,  or  tumbling  in  cataracts  from  chfTs  over- 
hanging the  eagle's  eyrie. 

"  Great  rivers  were  suddenly  flooded — and  the 
little  mountain  rivulets,  a  few  minutes  before  only 
silver  threads,  and  in  whose  fairy  basins  the  minnow 
played,  were  now  scarcely  fordable  to  shepherd's 
feet.  It  was  time  for  the  strongest. to  take  shelter, 
and  none  now  would  have  liked  to  issue  from  it ; 
for  while  there  was  real  danger  to  life  and  hmb  in 
the  many  ranging  torrents,  and  in  the  lightning's 
flash,  the  imagination  and  the  soul  themselves  were 
touched  with  awe  in  the  long  resounding  glens,  and 
beneath  the  savage  scowl  of  the  angry  sky. 

"  It  was  not  a  time  to  be  abroad  :  Yet  all  by 
herself  was  hastening  down  Glen-Nevis,  from  a 
shealing  far  up  the  river,  a  little  Girl,  not  more  than 
twelve  years  of  age — in  truth,  a  very  child.  Grief 
and  fear,  not  for  herself,  but  for  another,  bore  her 
along  as  upon  wings,  through  the  storm ;  she 
crossed  rivulets  from  which,  on  any  other  occasion, 
she  would  have  turned  back  trembling  ;  and  she 
did  not  even  hear  many  of  the  crashes  of  thunder 
thaf  smote  the  smoking  hills.  Sometimes  at  a 
fiercer  flash  of  lightning  she  just  lifted  her  hand  to 
her  dazzled  eyes,  and  then,  unappalled,  hurried  on 
through  the  hot  and  sulphurous  air.  Had  she  been 
a  maiden  of  that  tender  age  from  village  or  city,  her 
course  would  soon  have  been  fatally  stopt  short ; 
but  she  had  been  born  among  the  hills  ;  had  first 
learned  to  walk  among  the  heather,  holding  by  ita 
blooming  branches,  and  many  and  many  a  solitary 
mile  had  she  tripped,  young  as  she  was,  over  moss 
and  moor,  glen  and  mountain,  even  like  the  roe  that 
had  its  lair  in  the  coppice  beside  her  own  beloved 
Shealing.''— Ibid.  pp.  369—372. 

We  must  add  a  part  of  the  story  of  a  fair 
child's  sickness,  in  the  family  of  one  of  our 
cheerful  and  pious  cottagers. 

"  The  surgeon  of  the  parish  lived  some  miles  dis- 
tant, but  they  expected  him  now  every  moment, 
and  many  a  wistful  look  was  directed  by  tearful  eyei 
along  the  moor.  The  daughter,  who  was  out  at 
service,  came  anxiously  home  on  this  night,  the 
only  one  that  could  be  allowed  her,  for  the  poor 
must  work  in  their  grief,  and  servants  must  do  their 
duty  to  those  whose  bread  they  eat,  even  when  na- 
ture is  sick, — sick  at  heart.  Another  of  the  daugh- 
ters came  in  from  the  potatoe-field  beyond  the  brae, 
with  what  was  to  be  their  frugal  supper.  The  calm 
noiseless  spirit  of  life  was  in  and  around  the  house, 
while  death  seemed  dealing  with  one  who,  a  few 
days  ago,  was  like  light  upon  the  floor,  and  the 
sound  of  music,  that  always  breathed  up  when  most 
wanted. — '  Do  you  think  the  child  is  dying  ?'  said 
Gilbert  with  a  calm  voice  to  the  surgeon,  who,  on 
his  wearied  horse,  had  just  arrived  from  another 
sick-bed,  over  the  misty  range  of  hills,  and  had 
been  looking'stedfastly  for  some  minutes  on  the 
little  patient.  The  humane  man  knew  the  family 
well,  in  the  midst  of  whom  he  was  standing,  and 
replied,  '  While  there  is  life  there  is  hope  ;  but  my 
pretty  little  Margaret  is,  I  fear,  in  the  last  extremi- 
ty.' There  was  no  loud  lamentation  at  these  words 
— all  had  before  known,  though  they  would  not 
confess  it  to  themselves,  what  they  now  were  told— 
and  though  the  certainty  that  was  in  the  words  of 
the  skilful  man  made  their  hearts  beat  for  a  little 
with  sicker  throbbings,  made  their  pale  faces  paler, 
and  brought  out  from  some  eyes  a  greater  gush  of 
tears,  yet  death  had  been  before  in  this  house,  and 
in  this  case  he  came,  as  he  always  does,  in  awe, 
but  not  in  terror. 


SCOTCH  NOVELS. 


551 


'•  The  child  was  now  left  with  none  but  her 
mother  by  the  bedside,  for  it  was  said  to  be  best  so ; 
and  Gilbert  and  his  family  sat  down  round  the 
kitchen  fire,  for  a  while  in  silence.  In  about  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  they  began  to  rise  calmly,  and 
to  go  each  to  his  allotted  work.  One  of  the  daugh- 
ters went  forth  with  the  pail  to  milk  the  cow,  and 
another  began  to  set  out  the  table  in  the  middle  of 
me  floor  for  supper,  covering  it  with  a  white  cloth. 
Gilbert  viewed  the  usual  household  arrangements 
with  a  solemn  and  untroubled  eye  ;  and  there  was 
almost  the  faint  light  of  a  grateful  smile  on  his 
cheek,  as  he  said  to  the  worthy  surgeon,  '  You  will 
partake  of  our  fare  after  your  day's  travel  and  toil 
of  humanity.'  In  a  short  silent  half  hour,  the  po- 
tatoes and  oat-cakes,  butter  and  milk,  were  on  the 
board ;  and  Gilbert,  lifting  up  his  toil-hardened, 
but  manly  hand,  with  a  slow  motion,  at  which  the 
room  was  as  hushed  as  if  it  had  been  empty,  closed 
his  eyes  in  reverence,  and  asked  a  blessing.  There 
was  a  little  stool,  on  which  no  one  sat,  by  the  old 
man's  side  !  It  had  been  put  there  unwittingly, 
when  the  other  seats  were  all  placed  in  their  usual 
order  ;  but  the  golden  head  that  was  wont  to  rise 
at  that  part  of  the  table  was  now  wanting.  There 
was  silence — not  a  word  was  said — their  meal  was 
before  them, — God  had  been  thanked,  and  they 
began  to  eat. 

"  Another  hour  of  trial  passed,  andthe  child  was 
still  swimming  for  its  life.  The  very  dogs  knew  there 
was  grief  in  the  house  ;  and  lay  without  stirring, 
as  if  hiding  themselves,  below  the  long  table  at  the 
window.  One  sister  sat  with  an  unfinished  gown 
on  her  knees,  that  she  had  been  sewing  for  the 
dear  child,  and  still  continued  at  the  hopeless  work, 
she  scarcely  knew  why  ;  and  often,  often  putting  up 
her  hand  to  wipe  away  a  tear.  '  What  is  that  ?' 
said  the  old  man  to  his  eldest  daughter — 'what  is  that 
you  are  laying  on  the  shelf?'  She  could  scarcely 
reply  that  it  was  a  riband  and  an  ivory  comb  that  she 
had  brought  for  little  Margaret,  against  the  night 
of  the  dancing-school  ball.  And,  at  these  words, 
the  father  could  not  restrain  a  long,  deep,  and  bitter 
groan  ;  at  which  the  boy,  nearest  in  age  to  his  dying 
Bister,  looked  up  weeping  in  his  face,  and  letting 
the  tattered  book  of  old  ballads,  which  he  had 
been  poring  on,  but  not  reading,  fall  out  of  his  hands, 
he  rose  from  his  seat,  and,  go'ir.»j  into  his  father's 
bosom,  kissed  him,  and  asked  God  to  bless  him ; 
for  the  holy  heart  of  the  boy  was  moved  within 
him ;  and  the  old  man,  as  he  embraced  him,  felt 
that,  in  his  innocence  and  simplicity,  he  was  indeed 
a  comforter.  Scarcely  could  Gilbert  reply  to  his 
first  question  about  his  child,  when  the  surgeon 
came  from  the  bed-room,  and  said,  '  Margaret  seems 
lifted  up  by  God's  hand  above  death  and  the  grave  ; 
I  think  she  will  recover.  She  has  fallen  asleep ; 
and,  when  she  wakes,  I  hope — I  believe — that  the 
danger  will  be  past,  and  that  your  child  will  live.' 
They  were  all  prepared  for  death  ;  but  now  they 
were  found  unprepared  for  life.  One  wept  that  had 
till  then  locked  up  all  her  tears  within  her  heart ; 
another  gave  a  short  palpitating  shriek  ;  and  the 
tender-hearted  Ifeobel,  who  had  nursed  the  child 
when  it  was  a  baby,  fainted  away.  The  younjrest 
brother  gave  way  to  gladsome  smiles  ;  and,  calling 
out  his  dog  Hector,  who  used  to  sport  with  him  and 
his  little  sister  on  the  moor,  he  told  the  tidings  to 
the  dumb  irrational  creature,  whose  eyes,  it  is  cer- 
tain, sparkled  with  a  sort  of  joy." — Lights  and 
Shadows,  pp.  36 — 43. 

There  are  many  things  better  than  this  in 
the  book — and  there  are  many  not  so  good. 
We  had  marked  some  passages  for  censure, 
and  some  for  ridicule — but  the  soft-hearted- 
r^ess  of  the  author  has  softened  our  hearts  to- 
wards him — and  we  cannot,  just  at  present, 
say  any  thing  but  good  of  him. 

The  next  book  is  "  Adam  Blair,"  which,  it 
ieems,  is  by  the  author  of  Valerius,  though  it 


is  much  more  in  the  manner  of  the  Lights  and 
Shadows.  It  is  a  story  of  great  power  and  in- 
terest,  though  neither  very  pleasing,  nor  very 
moral,  nor  very  intelligible.  Mr.  Blair  is  an  ex- 
emplary clergyman  in  Scotland,  who,  while  yet 
in  the  prime  of  life,  loses  a  beloved  wife,  and 
is  for  a  time  plunged  in  unspeakable  afflic- 
tion. In  this  state  he  is  visited  by  Mrs.  Camp- 
bell, the  intimate  friend  of  his  deceased  wife, 
who  had  left  her  husband  abroad — and  soon 
after  saves  his  little  daughter,  and  indeed 
himself,  from  drowning.  There  are  evident 
marks  of  love  on  the  lady's  part,  and  much 
affection  on  his — but  both  seem  unconscious 
of  the  true  state  of  their  hearts,  till  she  is 
harshly  ordered  home  to  the  Highland  tower 
of  her  husband,  and  he  is  left  alone  in  the 
home  she  had  so  long  cheered  w;  th  her  smiles. 
With  nothing  but  virtue  and  prudence,  as  the 
author  assures  us,  in  his  heart — he  unaccount- 
ably runs  off  from  his  child  and  his  parish, 
and  makes  a  clandestine  visit  to  her  Celtic? 
retreat — arrives  there  in  the  night — is  rapturr 
ously  welcomed — drinks  copiously  of  wine—* 
gazes  with  her  on  the  moonlight  sea — is  agaia 
pressed  to  the  wine  cup— and  finds  himself 
the  next  morning — and  is  found  by  her  ser- 
vants, clasped  in  her  embraces !  His  remorse 
and  horror  are  now  abundantly  frantic — he 
flies  from  her  into  the  desert — and  drives  her 
from  him  with  the  wildest  execrations.  His 
contrition,  however,  brings  on  frenzy  and 
fever — he  is  carried  back  to  her  tower,  and 
watched  over  by  her  for  a  while  in  his  deli- 
rium. As  he  begins,  after  many  days,  to  re- 
cover, he  hears  melancholy  music,  and  sees 
slow  boats  on  the  water  beneath  his  window — 
and  soon  after  learns  that  she  had  caught  the 
fever  from  him,  and  died  !  and  that  it  was  the 
ceremony  of  her  interment  he  had  seen  and 
heard  on  the  water.  He  then  journies  slowly 
homeward ;  proclaims  his  lapse  to  the  presby- 
tery, solemnly  resigns  his  office,  and  betakes 
himself  to  the  humble  task  of  a  day-labourer 
in  his  own  former  parish.  In  this  state  of 
penitence  and  humiliation  he  passes  ten  lonely 
and  blameless  years — gradually  winning  back 
the  respect  and  esteem  of  his  neighbours,  by 
the  depth  of  his  contrition  and  the  zeal  of  his 
humble  piety — till  at  last  his  brethren  of  the 
presbytery  remove  the  sentence  of  depriva- 
tion, and,  on  the  next  vacancy,  restore  him  to 
the  pastoral  charge  of  his  afflicted  and  affec- 
tionate flock. 

There  is  no  great  merit  in  the  design  of  this 
story,  and  there  are  many  things  both  absurd 
and  revolting  in  its  details :  but  there  is  no 
ordinary  power  in  the  execution ;  and  there  is 
a  spirit  and  richness  in  the  writing,  of  which 
no  notion  can  be  formed  from  our  little  ab- 
stract of  its  substance.  It  is  but  fair,  there- 
fore, to  the  author,  to  let  him  speak  for  himself 
in  one  specimen ;  and  we  take  the  account, 
with  which  the  book  opens,  of  the  death  of 
the  pastor's  wife,  and  his  own  consequent  des- 
olation. She  had  suffered  dreadfully  from 
the  successive  loss  of  three  children,  and  her 
health  had  gradually  sunk  under  her  affliction. 

"  The  long  melancholy  summer  passed  away, 
and  the  songs  of  the  harvest  reapers  were  heard  in 


560 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


the  surrounding  fields  ;  whik  all,  fiom  day  to  day,  l 
was  becoming  darker  and  darker  within  tlie  Manse  ! 
of  Cross- Meikle,     Worn  to  a  shadow — as  pale  as  I 
ashes — feeble  as  a  child — the  dying  mother  had,  for 
many  weeks,  been  unable  to  quit  her  chamber;  and  i 
the  long-hoping  husband  at  last  felt  his  spirit  faint  j 
within  him  ;  for  even  he  perceived  that  the  hour  of 
separation  could  not  much  farther  be  deferred.    He 
watched — he   prayed  by  her  bed-side — he  strove 
even  yet  to  smile  and  to  speak  of  hope,  but  his  lips 
trembled  as  he  spake  ;  and  neither  he  nor  his  wife 
were  deceived;  for  their  thoughts  were  the  same, 
and  years  of  love  had  taught  them  too  well  all  the 
secrets  of  each  other's  looks  as  well  as  hearts. 

"  Nobody  witnessed  their  last  parting ;  the  room 
was  darkened,  and  no  one  was  within  it  but  them- 
selves and  their  child,  who  sat  by  the  bed-side, 
weeping  in  silence  she  knew  not  wherefore — for  of 
death  she  knew  little,  except  the  terrible  name  ; 
and  her  father  had  as  yet  been,  if  not  brave  enough 
to  ^hed  no  tears,  at  least  strong  enough  to  conceal 
them. — Silently  and  gently  was  the  pure  spirit  re- 
leased from  its  clay ;  but  manly  groans  were,  for 
the  first  time,  heard  above  the  sobs  and  waihngs  of 
the  infant ;  and  the  listening  household  shrunk  back 
from  the  door,  for  they  knew  that  the  blow  had  been 
stricken  ;  and  the  voice  of  humble  sympathy  feared 
to  make  itself  be  heard  in  the  sanctuary  of  such 
affliction.  The  village  doctor  arrived  just  at  that 
moment ;  he  hstened  for  a  few  seconds,  and  being 
satisfied  that  all  was  over,  he  also  turned  away. 
His  horse  had  been  fastened  to  the  hook  by  the 
Manse  door ;  he  drew  out  the  bridle,  and  led  the 
animal  softly  over  the  turf,  but  did  not  mount  again 
until  he  had  far  passed  the  outskirts  of  the  green. 

"  Perhaps  an  hour  might  have  passed  before  Mr. 
Blair  opened  the  window  of  the  room  in  which  his 
wife  had  died.  His  footstep  had  been  heard  for 
some  time  hurriedly  traversing  and  re-traversing  the 
floor  ;  but  at  last  he  stopped  where  the  nearly  fas- 
tened shutters  of  the  window  admitted  but  one 
broken  line  of  light  into  the  chamber.  He  threw 
every  thing  open  with  a  bold  hand,  and  the  upUfting 
of  the  window  produced  a  degree  of  noise,  to  the 
like  of  which  the  house  had  for  some  time  been  un- 
accustomed :  he  looked  out,  and  saw  the  external 
world  bright  before  him,  with  all  the  rich  colourings 
of  a  September  evening. — The  hum  of  the  village 
sent  an  occasional  echo  through  the  intervening 
hedge-rows  ;  all  was  quiet  and  beautiful  above  and 
below ;  the  earth  seemed  to  be  clothed  all  over  with 
sights  and  sounds  of  serenity  ;  and  the  sky,  deep- 
ening into  darker  and  darker  blue  overhead,  show- 
ed the  earliest  of  its  stars  intensely  twinkling,  as  if 
ready  to  harbinger  or  welcome  the  coming  moon. 

"  The  widowed  man  gazed  for  some  minutes  in 
silence  upon  the  glorious  calm  of  nature,  and  then 
turned  with  a  sudden  start  to  the  side  of  the  room 
where  the  wife  of  his  bosom  had  so  lately  breathed ; 
— he  saw  the  pale  dead  face ;  the  black  ringlets 
parted  on  the  brow ;  the  marble  hand  extended 
upon  the  sheet ;  the  unclosed  glassy  eyes  ;  and  the 
little  girl  leaning  towards  her  mother  in  a  gaze  of 
half-horrified  bewilderment ;  he  closed  the  stiffen- 
ing eyelids  over  the  soft  but  ghastly  orbs  ;  kissed 
the  brow,  the  cheek,  the  lips,  the  bosom,  and  then 
rushed  down  the  stairs,  and  went  out,  bare-headed, 
into  the  fields,  before  any  one  could  stop  him,  or 
ask  whither  he  was  going. 

"  There  is  an  old  thick  grove  of  pines  almost 
immediately  behind  the  house ;  and  after  staring 
about  him  for  a  moment  on  the  green,  he  leapt  hastily 
over  the  little  brook  that  skirts  it,  and  plunged 
wuhin  the  shade  of  the  trees.  The  breeze  was 
rustling  the  black  boughs  high  over  his  head,  and 
whistling  along  the  bare  ground  beneath  him.  He 
rushed  he  knew  not  whither,  on  and  on,  between 
those  naked  brown  trunks,  till  he  was  in  the  heart 
of  the  wood ;  and  there,  at  last,  he  tossed  himself 
down  on  his  back  among  the  withered  fern  leaves 
and  mouldering  fir-cones.  All  the  past  things  of 
life  floated  before  him,  distinct  in  their  lineaments, 


yet  twined  together,  the  darkest  and  the  gayest 
mto  a  sort  of  union  that  made  them  all  appear  alike 
dark.  The  mother,  that  had  nursed  his  years  of 
infancy — the  father,  whose  grey  hejrs  he  had  long 
before  laid  in  the  grave — sisters,  brothers,  friends, 
all  dead  and  buried — the  angel  forms  of  his  own 
early-ravished  offspring — all  crowded  round  and 
round  him,  and  then  rushing  away,  seemed  to  bear 
from  him,  as  a  prize  and  a  trophy,  the  pale  image 
of  his  expiring  wife.  Again  she  returned,  and  she 
alone  was  present  with  him — not  the  pale  expiring 
wife,  but  the  young  radiant  woman — blushing, 
trembling,  smiling,  panting,  on  his  bosom,  whisper 
ing  to  him  all  her  hopes,  and  fears,  and  pride,  and 
love,  and  tenderness,  and  meekness,  like  a  bride  ! 
and  then  again  all  would  be  black  as  night.  He 
would  start  up  and  gaze  around,  and  see  nothing 
but  the  sepulchral  gloom  of  the  wood,  and  hear 
nothing  but  the  cold  blasts  among  the  leaves.  He 
lay  insensible  alike  to  all  things,  stretched  out  at  all 
his  length,  with  his  eyes  fixed  in  a  stupid  steadfast- 
ness upon  one  great  massy  branch  that  hung  over 
him— his  bloodless  lips  fastened  together  as  if  they 
had  been  glued — his  hmbs  like  things  entirely  des- 
titute of  hid  and  motion — every  thing  about  him 
cold,  stiflf,  and  senseless.  Minute  after  minute  passed 
heavily  away  as  in  a  dream — hour  after  hour  rolled 
unheeded  into  the  abyss — the  stars  twinkled  through 
the  pine  tops,  and  disappeared — the  moon  arose  in 
her  glory,  rode  through  the  clear  autumn  heaven, 
and  vanished — and  all  ahke  unnoted  by  the  pros- 
trate widower. 

"Adam  Blair  came  forth  from  among  the  fir 
trees  in  the  grey  light  of  the  morning,  walked  leis- 
urely  and  calmly  several  times  round  the  garden- 
green,  which  lay  immediately  in  front  of  his  house, 
then  lifted  the  latch  for  himself,  and  glided  with 
light  and  hastv  footsteps  up  stairs  to  the  room, 
where,  for  sSme  weeks  past,  he  had  been  ac- 
customed to  occupy  a  solitary  bed.  The  v/akeful 
servants  heard  him  shut  his  door  behind  him  ;  one 
of  them  having  gone  out  anxiously,  had  traced  him 
to  his  privacy,  but  none  of  them  had  ventured  to 
think  of  disturbing  it.  Until  he  came  back,  not 
one  of  them  thought  of  going  to  bed.  Now,  how- 
ever, they  did  so,  and  the  house  of  sorrow  was  all 
over  silent.'' — Adam  Blair,  pp.  4—12. 

There  is  great  merit  too,  though  of  a  differ- 
ent kind,  in  the  scenes  with.  Strahan  and 
Campbell,  and  those  with  the  ministers  and 
elders.  But  the  story  is  clumsily  put  to- 
gether, and  the  diction,  though  strong  and 
copious,  is  frequently  turgid  and  incorrect. 

"The  Trials  of  Margaret  Lyndsay,"  by  the 
author  of  Lights  and  Shadows,  is  the  last  of 
these  publications  of  which  we  shall  noM^  say 
any  thing ',  and  it  is  too  pathetic  and  full  of 
sorrow  for  us  to  say  much  of  it.  It  is  very 
beautiful  and  tender ;  but  something  cloying, 
perhaps,  in  the  uniformity  of  its  beauty^  and 
exceedingly  oppressive  in  the  unremitting 
weight  of  the  pity  with  which  it  presses  on 
our  souls.  Nothing  was  ever  imagined  more 
lovely  than  the  beauty,  the  innocence,  and 
the  sweetness  of  Margaret  Lyndsay,  in  the 
earlier  part  of  her  trials ;  and  nothing,  we  be- 
lieve, is  more  true,  than  the  comfortable  les- 
son which  her  tale  is  meant  to  inculcate, — 
that  a  gentle  and  affectionate  nature  is  never 
inconsolable  nor  permanently  unhappy,  but 
easily  proceeds  from  submission  to  new  enjoy 
ment.  But  the  tale  of  her  trials,  the  accu- 
mulation of  suffering  on  the  heads  of  the 
humblest  and  most  innocent  of  God's  crea- 
tures, is  too  painful  to  be  voluntarily  recalled; 
and  we  cannot  now  undertake  to  give  oui 


SCOTCH  NOVELS. 


561 


readers  any  account  of  her  father's  desertion 
of  his  helpless  family — of  their  dismal  ban- 
isliment  from  the  sweet  retreat  in  which  they 
had  been  nurtured — their  painful  struggle 
with  poverty  and  discomfort,  in  the  darksome 
lanes  of  the  city — the  successive  deaths  of  all 
this  affectionate  and  harmless  household,  and 
her  own  ill-starred  marriage  to  the  husband 
of  another  wife.  Yet  we  must  enable  them 
to  form  some  notion  of  a  work,  which  has 
drawn  more  tears  from  us  than  any  we  have 
had  to  peruse  since  the  commencement  of 
our  career.  This  is  the  account  of  the  migra- 
tion of  the  ruined  and  resigned  family  froi^ 
the  scene  of  their  early  enjoyments. 

"  The  twenty-fourth  day  of  November  came  at 
last — a  dim,  dull,  dreary,  and  obscure  day,  fit  for 
parting  everlastingly  from  a  place  or  person  ten- 
derly beloved.  There  was  no  sun— no  wind — no 
sound  in  the  misty  and  unechoing  air.  A  deadness 
lay  over  the  wet  earth,  and  there  was  no  visible 
Heaven.  Their  goods  and  chattels  were  few ;  but 
many  little  delays  occurred,  some  accidental,  and 
more  in  the  unwillingness  of  their  hearts  to  take  a 
final  farewell.  A  neighbour  had  lent  his  cart  for 
the  flitting,  and  it  was  now  standing  loaded  at  the 
door,  ready  to  move  away.  The  fire,  which  had 
been  kindled  in  the  morning  with  a  few  borrowed 
peats,  was  now  out — the  shutters  closed — the  door 
was  locked — and  the  key  put  into  the  hand  of  the 
person  sent  to  receive  it.  And  now  there  was 
nothing  more  to  be  said  or  done,  and  the  impatient 
horse  started  briskly  away  from  Braehead.  The 
bhnd  girl,  and  poor  Marion,  were  sitting  in  the  cart 
—Margaret  and  her  mother  were  on  foot.  Esther 
had  two  or  three  small  flower-pots  in  her  lap,  for 
in  her  bUndness  she  loved  the  sweet  fragrance, 
and  the  felt  forms  and  imagined  beauty  of  flowers  ; 
and  the  innocent  carried  away  her  tame  pigeon  in 
her  bosom.  Just  as  Margaret  fingered  on  the 
threshold,  the  Robin  red-breast  that  had  been  her 
boarder  for  several  winters,  hopped  upon  the  stone- 
seat  at  the  side  of  the  door,  and  turned  up  its  merry 
eyes  to  her  face.  '  There,'  said  she,  '  is  your  last 
crumb  from  us,  sweet  Roby,  but  there  is  a  God 
who  takes  care  o'  us  a'.  The  widow  had  by  this 
time  shut  down  the  lid  of  her  memory,  and  left  all 
the  hoard  of  her  thoughts  and  feelings,  joyful  or 
despairing,  buried  in  darkness.  The  assembled 
group  of  neighbours,  mostly  mothers  with  their 
children  in  their  arms,  had  given  the  '  God  bless 
you,  Alice,  God  bless  you,  Margaret,  and  the 
lave,'  and  began  to  disperse  ;  each  turning  to  her 
own  cares  and  anxieties,  in  which,  before  night,  the 
Lyndsays  would  either  be  forgotten,  or  thought  on 
with  that  unpainful  sympathy  which  is  all  the  poor 
can  afford  or  expect,  but  which,  as  in  this  case, 
often  yields  the  fairest  fruits  of  charity  and  love. 

"A  cold  sleety  rain  accompanied  the  cart  and  the 
foot  travellers  all  the  way  to  the  city.  Short  as  the 
distance  was,  they  met  with  several  other  flittings, 
some  seemingly  cheerful,  and  from  good  to  better, 
— others  with  woe-begone  faces,  going  like  them- 
selves down  the  path  of  poverty,  on  a  journey  from 
which  they  were  to  rest  at  night  in  a  bare  and  hun- 
gry house.  And  now  they  drove  through  the  sub- 
urbs, and  into  the  city,  passing  unheeded  among 
crowds  of  people,  all  on  their  own  business  of 
pleasure  or  profit,  laughing,  jibing,  shouting,  curs- 
ing,— the  stir,  and  tumult,  and  torrent  of  congre- 
gated life.  Margaret  could  hardly  help  feeling 
elated  with  the  glitter  of  all  tie  shining  windows, 
and  the  hurry  of  the  streets.  Marion  sat  silent 
vaith  her  pigeon  warm  in  her  breast  below  her  brown 
cloak,  unknowing  she  of  change,  of  time,  or  of 
place,  and  reconciled  to  sit  patiently  there,  with 
the  soft  plumage  touching  her  heart,  if  the  cart  had 
gone  on,  through  the  cold  and  sleet,  to  midnight ! 

"  The  cart  stopt  at  the  faot  of  a  lane  too  narrow 
36 


to  admit  the  wheels,  and  also  too  steep  for  a  laden 
horse.  Two  or  three  of  their  new  neighbours, — 
persons  in  the  very  humblest  condition,  coarsely 
and  negligently  dressed,  but  seemingly  kind  and 
decent  people,  came  out  from  their  houses  at  the 
stopping  of  the  cart-wheels.  The  cart  was  soon 
unladen,  and  the  furniture  put  into  the  empty  room. 
A  cheerful  fire  was  blazing,  and  the  animated  and 
interested  faces  of  the  honest  folks  who  crowded 
into  it,  on  a  slight  acquaintance,  unceremoniously 
and  curiously,  but  without  rudeness,  gave  a  cheer- 
ful welcome  to  the  new  dwelling.  In  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  the  beds  were  laid  down, — the  room  de- 
cently arranged, — one  and  all  of  the  neighbours 
said  '  Gude  night,' — and  the  door  was  closed  upon 
the  Lyndsays  in  their  new  dweUing. 

"  They  blessed  and  eat  their  bread  in  peace.  The 
Bible  was  then  opened,  and  Margaret  read  a  chap- 
ter. There  was  frequent  and  loud  noise  in  the  lane, 
of  passing  merriment  or  anger, — but  this  little  con- 
gregation worshipped  God  in  a  hymn,  Esther's 
sweet  voice  leading  the  sacred  melody,  and  they 
knelt  together  in  prayer." — Trials  of  Margaret 
Lyndsay,  pp.  Gf^ — 70. 

Her  brother  goes  to  sea,  and  returns,  affec- 
tionate and  happy,  with  a  young  companion, 
whom  the  opening  beauty  of  Margaret  Lynd- 
say charms  into  his  first  dream  of  love,  and 
whose  gallant  bearing  and  open  heart,  cast 
the  first,  and  almost  the  last  gleam  of  joy  and 
enchantment  over  the  gentle  and  chastened 
heart  of  the  maiden.  But  this,  like  all  her 
other  dawnings  of  joy,  led  only  to  more  bitter 
affliction.  She  had  engaged  to  go  with  him 
and  her  brother  to  church,  one  fine  summer 
Sunday,  and — the  author  shall  tell  the  rest 
of  the  story  himself. 

"Her  heart  was  indeed  glad  within  her,  when 
she  saw  the  young  sailor  at  the  spot.  His  brown 
sun-burnt  face  was  all  one  smile  of  exulting  joy — 
and  his  bold  clear  eyes  burned  through  the  black 
hair  that  clustered  over  his  forehead.  There  >vaa 
not  a  handsomer,  finer-looking  boy  in  the  British 
navy.  Although  serving  before  the  mast,  as  many 
a  noble  lad  has  done,  he  was  the  son  of  a  poor  gen- 
tleman ;  and  as  he  came  up  to  Margaret  Lyndsay, 
in  his  smartest  suit,  with  his  white  straw  hat,  hia 
clean  shirt-neck  tied  with  a  black  riband,  and  a 
small  yellow  cane  in  his  hand,  a  brighter  boy  and  a 
fairer  girl  never  met  in  affection  in  the  calm  sun- 
shine of  a  Scottish  Sabbath-day. 

"  '  Why  have  not  you  brought  Laurence  with 
you?'  Harry  made  her  put  her  arm  within  his, 
and  then  told  her  that  it  was  not  her  brother's  day 
on  shore.  Now  all  the  calm  air  was  filled  with  the 
sound  of  bells,  and  Leith  Walk  covered  with  well- 
dressed  families.  The  nursery-gardens  on  each 
side  were  almost  in  their  greatest  beauty — so  soft 
and  delicate  the  verdure  of  the  young  imbedded 
trees,  and  so  bright  the  glow  of  intermingled  early 
flowers.  '  Let  us  go  to  Leith  by  a  way  I  have  dis 
covered,'  said  the  joyful  sailor — and  he  drew  Mar 
garet  gently  away  from  the  public  walk,  into  a  re- 
tired path  winding  with  many  little  while  gates 
through  these  luxuriantly  cultivated  enclosures. 
The  insects  were  dancing  in  the  air — ^birds  singing 
all  about  them — the  sky  was  without  a  cloud — and 
a  bright  dazzling  line  of  light  was  all  that  was  now 
seenfor  the  sea.  The  youthful  pair  loitered  in  their 
happiness — they  never  marked  that  the  bells  had 
ceased  ringing ;  and  when  at  last  they  hurried  to 
reach  the  chapel,  the  door  was  closed,  and  they 
heard  the  service  chanting.  Margaret  durst  not 
knock  at  the  door,  or  go  in  so  long  after  worship 
was  begun  ;  and  she  secretly  upbraided  herself  for 
her  forgetfulness  of  a  well-known  and  holy  hour. 
She  felt  unlike  herself  walking  on  the  street  during 
the  time  of  church,  and  beseeched  Harry  to  go  with 
her  out  of  the  sight  of  the  windows,  that  all  seemed 


562 


WOllKS  OF  FICTION. 


watching  her  in  her  neglect  of  Divine  worship.  So 
they  bent  their  steps  towcirds  the  shore. 

*'  Harry  Needham  had  not  perhaps  had  any  pre- 
conceived intention  to  keep  Margaret  from  church ; 
but  he  was  very  well  pleased,  that,  instead  of  being 
with  her  in  a  pew  there,  in  a  crowd,  he  was  now 
walking  alone  with  her  on  the  brink  of  his  own 
element.  The  tide  was  coming  fast  in,  hurrying 
on  its  beautiful  little  bright  ridges  of  variegated 
foam,  by  short  successive  encroachments  over  the 
smooth  hard  level  shore,  and  impatient,  as  it  were, 
to  reach  the  highest  line  of  intermingled  sea-weed, 
silvery  sand,  and  deep-stained  or  glittering  shells. 
The  friends,  or  lovers — and  their  short  dream  was 
both  friendship  and  love — retreated  playfully  from 
every  little  watery  wall  that  fell  in  pieces  at  their 
feet,  and  Margaret  turned  up  her  sweet  face  in  the 
sun-light  to  watch  the  slow  dream-like  motion  of 
the  sea-mews,  who  seemed  sometimes  to  be  yield- 
ing to  the  breath  of  the  shifting  air,  and  sometimes 
obeying  only  some  wavering  impulse  of  joy  within 
their  own  white-plumaged  breasts.  Or  she  walked 
softly  behind  them,  as  they  alighted  on  the  sand, 
that  she  might  come  near  enough  to  observe  that 
beautifully  wild  expression  that  is  in  the  eyes  of  all 
winged  creatures  whose  home  is  on  the  sea. 

"  Alas  !  home — church — every  thing  on  earth 
was  forgotten — for  her  soul  was  filled  exclusively 
with  its  present  joy.  She  had  never  before,  in  all 
her  life,  been  down  at  the  sea  shore — -and  she  never 
again  was  within  hearing  of  its  bright,  sunny,  hol- 
low-sounding and  melancholy  waves  ! 

"'See,'  said 'Harry,  with  a  laugh,  'the  kirks 
have  scaled,  as  you  say  here  in  Scotland — the  pier- 
head is  like  a  wood  of  bonnets. — Let  us  go  there, 
and  I  think  I  can  show  them  the  bonniest  face 
among  them  a'.'  The  fresh  sea  breeze  had  tinged 
Margaret's  pale  face  with  crimson, — and  her  heart 
now  sent  up  a  sudden  blush  to  deepen  and  brighten 
that  beauty.  They  mingled  with  the  cheerful,  but 
calm  and  decent  crowd,  and  stood  together  at  the 
end  of  the  pier,  looking  towards  the  ship.  *  That 
is  our  frigate,  Margaret,  the  Tribune;— she  sits  like 
a  bird  on  the  water,  and  sails  well,  both  in  calm 
and  storm.'  The  poor  girl  looked  at  the  ship  with 
her  flags  flying,  till  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  '  If 
we  had  a  glass,  like  one  my  father  ot.ce  had,  we 
might,  perhaps,  see  Laurence.'  And  for  the  mo- 
ment she  used  the  word  *  father '  without  remem- 
bering what  and  where  he  was  in  his  misery. — 
*  There  is  one  of  our  jigger-rigged  boats  coming 
right  before  the  wind.  Why,  Margaret,  this  is  the 
last  opportunity  you  may  have  of  seeing  your 
brother.  We  may  sail  to-morrow;  nay,  to-night.' 
— A  sudden  wish  to  go  on  board  the  ship  seized 
Margaret's  heart.  Harry  saw  the  struggle — and, 
wiling  her  down  a  flight  of  steps,  in  a  moment 
lifted  her  into  the  boat,  which,  with  the  waves 
rushing  in  foam  within  an  inch  of  the  gunwale, 
went  dancing  out  of  harbour,  and  was  soon  half-way 
over  to  the  anchored  frigate. 

"The  novelty  of  her  situation,  and  of  all  the 
scene  around,  at  first  prevented  the  poor  girl  from 
thinking  deliberately  of  the  great  error  she  had 
committed,  in  thus  employing  her  Sabbath  hours 
in  a  way  so  very  different  to  what  she  had  been  ac- 
customed ;  but  she  soon  could  not  help  thinking 
what  she  was  to  say  to  her  mother  when  she  wont 
home,  and  was  obliged  to  confess  that  she  had  not 
been  at  church  at  all,  and  had  paid  a  visit  to  her 
brother  on  board  the  ship.  It  was  very  sinful  in 
her  thus  to  disobey  her  own  conscience  and  her 
mother's  will,  and  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes. — 
The  young  sailor  thought  she  was  afraid,  and  only 
pressed  her  closer  to  him,  with  a  few  soothing 
words.  At  that  moment  a  sea-mew  came  winnow- 
ing its  way  towards  the  boat,  and  one  of  the  sailors 
rising  up  with  a  musquet,  took  aim  as  it  flew  over 
their  heads.  Margaret  suddenly  started  up,  crying, 
'Do  not  kill  the  pretty  bird,'  and,  stumbling,  fell 
forward  upon  the  man,  who  also  lost  his  balance. — 
A  flaw  of  wind  struck  the  mainsail— the  helmsman 


was  heedless — the  sheet  fast — and  the  boat  instantly 
filling,  went  down  in  a  moment,  head  foremost,  in 
twenty  fathom  water  ! 

"  The  accident  was  seen  both  from  the  shore  and 
ship ;  and  a  crowd  of  boats  put  off  to  their  reliei^ 
But  death  was  beforehand  with  them  all;  ana. 
when  the  frigate's  boat  came  to  the  place,  nothing 
was  seen  upon  the  waves.  Two  of  the  men,  it 
was  supposed,  had  gone  to  the  bottom  entangled 
with  ropes  or  beneath  the  sail, — in  a  few  moments 
the  grey  head  of  the  old  steersman  was  apparent, 
and  he  was  lifted  up  with  an  oar — drowned.  A 
woman's  clothes  were  next  descried  ;  and  Margaret 
was  taken  up  with  something  heavy  weighing  down 
the  body.  It  was  Harry  Needham,  who  had  sunk 
in  trying  to  save  her  ;  and  in  one  of»  his  hands  was 
grasped  a  tress  of  her  hair  that  had  given  way  in 
the  desperate  struggle.  There  seemed  to  be  faint 
symptoms  of  life  in  both ;  but  they  were  utterly 
insensible.  The  crew,  among  which  was  Laurence 
Lyndsay,  pulled  swiftly  back  to  the  ship  ;  and  the 
bodies  were  first  of  all  laid  down  together  side  by 
side  in  the  captain's  cabin. "-r-TriaZs  of  Margaret 
Lyndsay,  pp.  125 — 130. 

We  must  conclude  with  something  less 
desolating — and  we  can  only  find  it  in  the 
account  of  the  poor  orphan's  reception  from 
an  ancient  miserly  kinsman,  to  whom,  after 
she  had  buried  all  her  immediate  family,  she 
went  like  Ruth,  in  the  simple  strength  of  her 
innocence.  After  walking  all  day,  she  comes 
at  night  within  sight  of  his  rustic  abode. 

"  With  a  beating  heart,  she  stopt  for  a  little  while 
at  the  mouth  of  the  avenue,  or  lane,  that  seemed 
to  lead  up  to  the  house.  It  was  much  overgrown 
with  grass,  and  there  were  but  iew  marks  of  wheels ; 
the  hedges  on  each  side  were  thick  and  green,  but 
undipped,  and  with  frequent  gaps ;  something 
melancholy  lay  over  all  about ;  and  the  place  had 
the  air  of  being  uninhabited.  But  still  it  was  beau- 
tiful ;  for  it  was  bathed  in  the  dews  of  a  rich  mid- 
summer gloaming,  and  the  clover  filled  the  air  wnth 
fragrance  that  revived  the  heart  of  the  solitary 
orphan,  as  she  stood,  for  a  few  minutes,  irresolute, 
and  apprehensive  of  an  unkind  reception. 

"At  last  she  found  heart,  and  the  door  of  the 
house  being  open,  Margaret  walked  in,  and  stood 
on  the  floor  of  the  wide  low-roofed  kitchen.  An 
old  man  was  sitting,  as  if  half  asleep,  in  a  high- 
backed  arm-chair,  by  the  side  of  the  chimney. — 
Before  she  had  time  or  courage  to  speak,  her  sha- 
dow fell  upon  his  eyes,  and  he  looked  towards  her 
with  strong  visible  surprise,  and,  as  she  thought, 
with  a  slight  displeasure.  '  Ye  hae  got  off  your 
road,  I'm  thinking,  young  woman  ;  what  seek  you 
here  ?'  Margaret  asked  respectfully  if  she  might 
sit  down.  'Aye,  aye,  ye  may  sit  down,  but  we 
keep  nae  refreshment  here — this  is  no  a  public- 
house.  There's  ane  a  mile  west  in  the  Clachan.' 
The  old  man  kept  looking  upon  her,  and  with  a 
countenance  somewhat  relaxed  from  its  inhospita- 
ble austerity.  Her  appearance  did  not  work  as  a 
charm  or  a  spell,  for  she  was  no  enchantress  in  a 
fairy  tale  ;  but  the  tone  of  her  voice,  so  sweet  and 
gentle,  the  serenity  of  her  face,  and  the  meekness 
of  her  manner,  as  she  took  her  seat  upon  a  stool 
not  far  from  the  door,  had  an  effect  upon  old  Daniel 
Craig,  and  he  bade  her  come  forward,  and  take  a 
chair  '  farther  ben  the  house.' 

"  '  I  am  an  Orphan,  and  have  perhaps  but  little 
claim  upon  you,  but  I  have  ventured  to  come  here 
— my  name  is  Margaret  Lyndsay,  and  my  mother's 
name  was  Alice  Craig.'  The  old  man  moved  upon 
his  chair,  as  if  a  blow  had  struck  him.  and  looked 
long  and  earnestly  into  her  face.  Her  features  con- 
firmed her  words.  Her  countenance  possessed  that 
strong  power  over  him  that  goes  down  mysterioupiy 
through  the  generations  ot  perishable  mari.  f<);i 
necting  love  with  likeness,  so  that  the  child  n  i 
cradle  may  be  smiling  almost  with  the  self-  f:a;l^ 


SCOTCH  NOVELS. 


56a 


expression  that  belonged  lo  some  one  of  its  fore- 
fathers mouldered  into  ashes  many  hundred  years 
ago.  '  Nae  doubt,  nae  doubt,  ye  are  the  daughter 
o'  Walter  Lyndsay  and  Alice  Craig.  Never  w^re 
tvva  faces  mair  unUke  than  theirs,  yet  yours  is  like 
them  baith.  Margaret — that  is  vour  name — I  give 
you  my  blessing.  Hae  you  walked  far  ?  Mysie's 
doun  at  the  Rashy-riggs,  wi'  milk  to  the  calf,  but 
will  be  in  belyve.  Come,  my  bonny  bairn,  take  a 
shake  o'  your  uncle's  hand.' 

"Margaret  told,  in  a  few  words,  the  principal 
events  of  the  last  three  years,  as  far  as  she  could; 
and  the  old  man,  to  whom  they  had  been  almost 
all  unknown,  heard  her  story  with  attention,  but 
said  little  or  nothing.  Meanwhile,  Mysie  came  in 
-an  elderly,  hard-featured  woman,  but  with  an 
expression  of  homely  kindness,  that  made  her  dark 
face  not  unpleasant. 

"  Margaret  felt  herself  an  inmate  of  her  uncle's 
house,  and  her  heart  began  already  to  warm  towards 
the  old  grey-headed  solitary  man.  His  manner  ex- 
hibited, as  she  thought,  a  mixture  of  curiosity  and 
kindness ;  but  she  did  not  disturb  his  taciturnity, 
and  only  returned  immediate  and  satisfactory  an- 
swers to  his  few  short  and  abrupt  questions.  He 
evidently  was  thinking  over  the  particulars  which 
she  had  given  him  ofner  life  at  Braehead,  and  in 
the  lane ;  and  she  did  not  allow  herself  to  fear,  but 
that,  in  a  day  or  two,  if  he  permitted  her  to  stay, 
she  would  be  able  to  awaken  in  his  heart  a  natural 
interest  in  her  behalf.  Hope  was  a  guest  that  never 
left  her  bosom — and  she  rejoiced  when  on  the  return 
of  the  old  domestic  from  the  bed-room,  her  uncle 
requested  her  to  read  aloud  a  chapter  of  the  Bible. 
She  did  so, — and  the  old  man  took  the  book  out  of 
her  hand  with  evident  satisfaction,  and,  fastening 
the  clasp,  laid  it  by  in  the  little  cupboard  in  the  wall 
near  his  chair,  and  wished  her  good  night. 

"  Mysie  conducted  her  into  the  bed-room,  where 
every  thing  was  neat,  and  superior,  indeed,  to  the 
ordinary  accommodation  of  a  farm-house.  '  Ye 
need  na  fear,  for  feather-bed  and  sheets  are  a'  as 
dry  as  last  year's  hay  in  the  stack.  I  keep  a'  things 
in  the  house  weel  aired,  for  damp's  a  great  disaster. 
But,  for  a'  that,  sleepin'  breath  has  na  been  drawn 
in  that  bed  these  saxteen  years  !'  Margaret  thanked 
her  for  the  trouble  she  had  taken,  and  soon  laid 
down  her  limbs  in  grateful  rest.  A  thin  calico  cur- 
tain was  before  the  low  window ;  but  the  still  serene 
radiance  of  a  midsummer  night  gUmmered  on  the 
floor.  All  was  silent — and  in  a  few  minutes  Mar- 
ftret  Lyndsav  was  asleep. 


"  In  the  quiet  of  the  succeeding  evening,  the  old 
man  took  her  with  him  along  the  burn-side,  and 
into  a  green  ewe-bught,  where  they  sat  down  for  a 
while  in  silence.  At  last  he  said,  *  I  have  nae  wife 
— nae  children — nae  friends,  I  may  say,  Margaret 
— nane  that  cares  for  me,  but  the  servant  in  the 
house,  an  auld  friendless  body  Uke  mysel'  ;  but  if 
you  choose  to  bide  wi'  us,  you  are  mair  than  wel- 
come ;  for  I  know  not  what  is  in  that  face  o'  thine ; 
but  this  is  the  pleasantest  day  that  has  come  to  me 
these  last  thirty  years.' 

"  Margaret  was  now  requested  to  tell  her  uncle 
more  about  her  parents  and  herself,  and  she  com- 
plied with  a  full  heart.  She  went  back  with  all  the 
power  of  nature's  eloquence,  to  the  history  of  her 
young  years  at  Braehead — recounted  all  her  father's 
miseries — her  mother's  sorrows — and  her  own  trials. 
All  the  while  she  spoke,  the  tears  were  streaming 
from  her  eyes,  and  her  sweet  bosom  heaved  with  a 
crowd  of  heavy  sighs.  The  old  man  sat  silent; 
but  more  than  once  he  sobbed,  and  passed  his 
withered  toil-worn  hands  across  his  forehead. — 
They  rose  up  together,  as  by  mutual  consent,  and 
returned  to  the  house.  Before  the  light  had  too  far 
died  away,  Daniel  Craig  asked  Margaret  to  read  a 
chapter  in  the  Bible,  as  she  had  done  the  night  be- 
fore; and  when  she  had  concluded,  he  said,  'I 
never  heard  the  Scriptures  so  well  read  in  all 
my  days  —  did  you,  Mysie?'  The  quiet  creature 
looked  on  Margaret  whh  a  smile  of  kindness  and 
admiration,  and  said,  that  'she  had  never  un- 
derstood that  chapter  sae  weel  before,  although, 
aiblins,  she  had  read  it  a  hundred  times.' — '  Ye  can 
gang  to  your  bed  without  Mysie  to  show  you  the 
way  to-night,  my  good  niece — ye  are  one  of  the 
family  now — and  Nether-Place  will  after  this  be 
as  cheerfu'  a  house  as  in  a'  the  parish.'  " — Trials 
of  Margaret  Lyudsay,  pp.  251,  252. 

We  should  now  finish  our  task  by  saying 
something  of  "Reginald  Dalton;" — but  such 
of  our  readers  as  have  accompanied  us  througn 
this  long  retrospect,  will  readily  excuse  "ss, 
we  presume,  for  postponing  our  notice  of  that 
work  till  another  opportunity.  There  are  two 
decisive  reasons,  indeed,  against  our  proceed- 
ing with  it  at  present, — one,  that  we  really 
have  not  yet  read  it  fairly  through — the  other, 
that  we  have  no  longer  room  to  gay  aL  of  it 
that  we  foresee  it  will  require. 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


A  GREAT  deal  that  should  naturally  come  under  this  title  has  been  unavoidably  given 
already,  under  that  of  History ;  and  more,  I  fear,  may  be  detected  under  still  less  appropriate 
denominations.  If  any  unwary  readers  have  been  thus  unwittingly  decoyed  into  Politics, 
while  intent  on  more  innocent  studies,  I  can  only  hope  that  they  will  now  take  comfort,  from 
finding  how  little  of  this  obnoxious  commodity  has  been  left  to  appear  in  its  proper  colours ; 
and  also  from  seeing,  from  the  decorous  title  now  assumed,  that  all  intention  of  engaging 
them  in  Party  discussions  is  disclaimed. 

I  do  not  think  that  I  was  ever  a  violent  or  (consciously)  uncandid  partisan  j  and  at  all 
events,  ten  years  of  honest  abstinence  and  entire  segregation  from  party  contentions  (to  say 
nothing  of  the  sobering  effects  of  threescore  antecedent  years!),  should  have  pretty  much 
effaced  the  vestiges  of  such  predilections,  and  awakened  the  least  considerate  to  a  sense  of 
the  exaggerations,  and  occasional  urifairness,  which  such  influences  must  almost  unavoidably 
impart  to  political  disquisitions.  In  what  I  now  reprint  I  have  naturally  been  anxious  to  se- 
lect what  seemed  least  liable  to  this  objection :  and  though  I  cannot  flatter  myself  that  a  tone 
of  absolute.  Judicial  impartiality  is  maintained  in  all  these  early  productions,  I  trust  that 
nothing  will  be  found  in  them  that  can  suggest  the  idea  either  of  personal  animosity,  or  of  an 
ungenerous  feeling  towards  a  public  opponent. 

To  the  two  first,  and  most  considerable,  of  the  following  papers,  indeed,  I  should  wish 
particularly  to  refer,  as  fair  exponents  both  of  the  principles  I  think  I  have  always  maintained, 
and  of  the  temper  in  which  I  was  generally  disposed  to  maintain  them.  In  some  of  the 
others  a  more  vehement  and  contentious  tone  may  no  doubt  be  detected.  But  as  they  toach 
upon  matters  of  permanent  interest  and  importance,  and  advocate  opinions  which  I  stiU  think 
substantially  right,  I  have  felt  that  it  would  be  pusillanimous  now  to  suppress  them,  from  a 
poor  fear  of  censure,  which,  if  just,  I  cannot  but  know  that  I  deserve — or  a  still  poorer  distrust 
of  those  allowances  which  I  have  no  reason  to  think  will  be  withheld  from  me  by  the  bettei 
part  of  my  readers. 


{^ovtmbtv,  1812.) 

Essay  on  the  Practice  of  the  British  Government,  distinguished  from  the  abstract  Theory  on 
which  it  is  supposed  to  be  founded.    By  Gould  Francis  Leckie.   8vo.    London:  1812.* 


This  is  the  most  direct  attack  which  we 
have  ever  seen  in  English,  upon  the  free  con- 
stitution of  England ; — or  rather  upon  political 
liberty  in  general,  and  upon  our  government 
only  in  so  far  as  it  is  free : — and  it  consists 
partly  in  an  eager  exposition  of  the  inconveni- 
ences resulting  from  parliaments  or  represen- 
tative legislatures,  and  partly  in  a  warm  de- 
fence and  undisguised  panegyric  of  Absolute, 
or,  as  the  author  more  elegantly  phrases  it,  of 
Simple  monarchy. 

*  I  used  to  think  that  this  paper  contained  a  very 
good  defence  of  our  free  constitution ;  and  especially 
the  most  complete,  temperate,  and  searching  vindi- 
cation of  our  Hereditary  Monarchy  that  was  any 
where  to  be  met  with :  And,  though  it  now  appears 
to  me  rather  more  elementary  and  elaborate  than 
was  necessary,  I  am  still  of  opinion  that  it  may  be 
of  use  to  young  pohticians, — and  suggest  cautions 
and  grounds  of  distrust,  to  rash  discontent  and 
(thoughtless  presumption. 
564 


The  pamphlet  which  contains  these  con- 
solatory  doctrines,  has  the  further  merit  of 
being,  without  any  exception,  the  worst  writ- 
ten, and  the  worst  reasoned,  that  has  ever 
fallen  into  our  hands ;  and  there  is  nothing  in- 
deed but  the  extreme  importance  of  the  sub- 
ject, and  of  the  singular  complexion  of  the 
times  in  which  it  appears,  that  could  induce 
us  to  take  any  notice  of  it.  The  rubbish  that 
is  scattered  in  our  common  walks,  we  merely 
push  aside  and  disregard;  but,  when  it  defiles 
the  approaches  to  the  temple,  or  is  heaped  on 
the  sanctuary  itself,  it  must  be  cast  out  with 
other  rites  of  expiation,  and  visited  with  se- 
verer penalties.  When  the  season  is  healthy, 
we  may  walk  securely  among  the  elements 
of  corruption,  and  warrantably  decline  the  in- 
glorious labour  of  sweeping  them  away : — 
but,  when  the  air  is  tainted  and  the  blood 
impure,  we  should  look  with  jealousy  upon 
every  speck,  and  consider  that  the  shgbtesl 


LECKIE  ON  BEUTISH  GOVERNMENT. 


565 


rt-ntkeision  of  our  police  may  spread  a  pesti- 
lence through  all  the  borders  of  the  land. 

There  are  two  periods,  it  appears  to  us, 
when  tne  promulgation  of  such  doctrines  as 
are  maintained  by  this  author  may  be  con- 
sidered as  dangerous,  or'  at  least  as  of  evil 
omen,  in  a  country  like  this..  The  one,  when 
the  friends  of  arbitrary  power  are  strong  and 
flaring,  and  advantageously  posted ;  and  when, 
meditating  some  serious  attack  on  the  liber- 
ties of  the  people,  they  send  out  their  emis- 
saries and  manifestoes,  to  feel  and  to  prepare 
their  way: — the  other,  when  they  are  sub- 
stantially weak,  and  unfit  to  maintain  a  con- 
flict with  their  opponents,  but  where  the  great 
body  of  the  timid  and  the  cautious  are  alarmed 
at  the  prospect  of  such  a  conflict,  and  half 
disposed  to  avert  the  crisis  by  supporting 
whatever  is  in  actual  possession  of  powder. 
Whether  either  of  these  descriptions  may  suit 
the  aspect  of  the  present*  times,  we  willingly 
leave  it  to  our  readers  to  determine :  But  be- 
fore going  farther,  we  think  it  proper  to  say,  that 
we  impute  no  corrupt  motives  to  the  author 
before  us ;  and  that  there  is,  on  the  contrary, 
every  appearance  of  his  being  conscientious- 
ly persuaded  of  the  advantages  of  arbitrary 
power,  and  sincerely  eager  to  reconcile  the 
minds  of  his  countrymen  to  the  introduction 
of  so  great  a  blessing.  The  truth  indeed 
seems  to  be,  that  having  lived  so  long  abroad 
as  evidently  to  have  lost,  in  a  great  degree, 
the  use  of  his  native  language,  it  is  not  sur- 
prising that  he  should  have  lost  along  with 
It,  a  great  number  of  those  feelings,  without 
which  it  really  is  not  possible  to  reason,  in 
this  country,  on  the  English  constitution ;  and 
has  gradually  come,  not  only  to  speak,  but  to 
feel,  like  a  foreigner,  as  to  many  of  those 
things  which  still  constitute  both  the  pride 
and  the  happiness  of  his  countrymen.  We 
have  no  doubt  that  he  would  be  a  very  useful 
and  enlightened  patriot  in  Sicily;  but  we 
think  it  was  rather  harsh  in  him  to  venture 
before  the  public  with  his  speculations  on  the 
English  government,  with  his  present  stock 
of  information  and  habits  of  thinking.  Though 
we  do  not,  however,  impute  to  him  any  thing 
worse  than  these  disqualifications,  there  are 
persons  enough  in  the  country  to  whom  it 
will  be  a  sufficient  recommendation  of  any 
work,  that  it  inculcates  principles  of  servility; 
and  who  will  be  abundantly  ready  to  give  it 
every  chance  of  making  an  impression,  which 
it  may  derive  from  their  approbation ;  and  in- 
deed we  have  already  heard  such  testimonies 
in  favour  of  this  slender  performance,  as  seem 
to  impose  it  upon  us  as  a  duty  to  give  some 
little  account  of  its  contents,  and  some  short 
opinion  of  its  principles. 

The  first  part  of  the  task  may  be  performed 
in  a  v(jry  moderate  compass ;  for  though  the 
learned  author  has  not  always  the  gift  of 
w^riting  intelligibly,  it  is  impossible  for  a  dili- 
gent reader  not  to  see  what  he  would  be  at ; 
and  his  doctrine,  when  once  fairly  understood, 
may  readily  be  reduced  to  a  few  very  simple 
propositions.  After  preluding  oq  a  variety 
of  minor  topics,  and  suggesting  some  curious 
enough  remedies  for  our  present  unhappy  con- 


dition, he  candidlv  admits  that  none  or  thoca 
would  reach  to  tlie  root  of  the  evil;  which' 
consists  entirely,  it  seems,  in  our  "too  gieat 
jealousy  of  the  Crown  :"  and  accordingly  pro- 
ceeds to  draw  a  most  seducing  picture  of  his 
favourite  Simple  monarchy ;  and  indirectly  in- 
deed, but  quite  unequivocally,  to  intimate, 
that  the  only  effectual  cure  for  the  evils  under 
W'hich  we  now  sufier  is  to  be  found  in  the  total 
abolition  of  Parliaments,  and  the  conversion 
of  our  constitution  into  an  absolute  monarchy : 
or,  shortly  to  '-'advert,"  as  he  expresses  him- 
self, "to  the  advantages  which  a  Monarchy, 
such  as  has  been  described,  has  over  our 
boasted  British  Constitution."  These  advan- 
tages, after  a  good  deal  of  puzzling,  he  next 
settles  to  be — First,  that  the  sovereign  will  be 
"  more  likely  to  feel  a  pride,  as  well  as  a  zeal, 
to  act  a  great  and  good  part ;" — secondly,  that 
the  ministers  will  have  more  time  to  attend  to 
their  duties  when  they  have  no  parliamentary 
contentions  to  manage ; — thirdly,  that  the  pub- 
lic councils  will  be  guided  by  fixed  and  steady 
principles;  —  fourthly,  that  if  the  Monarch 
should  act  in  an  oppressive  manner,  it  will  be 
easier  for  the  people  to  get  the  better  of  hira 
than  of  a  whole  Parliament,  who  might  act  in 
the  same  manner; — fifthly,  that  the  heir  ap- 
parent might  then  be  allowed  to  travel  in 
foreign  countries  for  the  improvement  of  his 
manners  and  understanding; — sixthly,  and 
lastly,  that  there  would  be  no  longer  any  pre- 
text for  a  cry  against  "what  is  styled  back- 
stair  injiuenceV^ 

Such  is  the  sum  of  Mr.  Leckie's  publ:  ca- 
tion ;  of  which,  as  a  curious  specimen  of  the 
infinite  diversity  of  human  opinions  and  en- 
dowments, and  of  the  license  of  political  specu- 
lation that'  is  still  occasionally  indulged  in  in 
this  country,  we  have  thought  it  right  that 
some  memorial  should  be  preserved — a  little 
more  durable  than  the  pamphlet  itself  seemed 
likely  to  afibrd.  But  though  what  we  have 
already  said  is  probably  more  than  enough  to 
settle  the  opinion  of  all  reasonable  persons 
with  regard  to  the  merits  of  the  work,  we 
think  we  can  trace,  even  in  some  of  the  most 
absurd  and  presumptuous  of  its  positions,  the 
operation  of  certain  errors,  which  we  have 
found  clouding  the  views,  and  infecting  the 
opinions  of  persons  of  far  sounder  understand- 
ing; and  shall  presume,  therefore,  to  offer  a 
few  very  plain  and  simple  remarks  upon  some 
of  the  points  which  we  think  we  have  most 
frequently  found  either  misrepresented  or 
misunderstood. 

The  most  important  and  radical  of  those,  is 
that  which  relates  to  the  nature  and  uses  of 
Monarchy,  and  the  rights  and  powers  of  a 
sovereign  ;  upon  which,  therefore,  we  beg 
leave  to  begin  with  a  few  observ^ations.  And 
here  we  shall  take  leave  to  consider  Royalty 
as  being,  on  the  whole,  but  a  Human  Institu- 
tion,— originating  in  a  view  to  the  general 
good,  and  not  to  the  gratification  of  the  indi- 
vidual upon  w  hom  the  office  is  conferred ;  oi 
at  least  only  capable  of  being  justified,  or  de- 
serving to  be  retained,  where  it  is  found,  or 
believed,  to  be  actually  beneficial  to  the  wholu 
society.     Now  f;e  think  that,  generally  speak 


566 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


ingp  it  is  a  highly  beneficial  institution:  and 
that  the  benefits  which  it  is  calculated  to  confer 
are  great  and  obvious. 

From  the  first  moment  that  men  began  to 
associate  together,  and  to  act  in  concert  for 
their  general  good  and  protection,  it  would  be 
found  that  all  of  them  could  not  take  a  share 
in  consulting  and  regulating  their  operations, 
and  that  the  greater  part  must  submit  to  the 
direction  of  certain  managers  and  leaders. 
Among  these,  again,  some  one  would  naturally 
assume  a  pre-eminence ;  and  in  time  of  war 
especially,  would  be  allowed  to  exercise  a  great 
authority.  Struggles  would  as  necessarily  en- 
sue for  retaining  this  post  of  distinction,  and 
for  supplanting  its  actual  possessor;  and 
whether  there  was  a  general  acquiescence  in 
the  principle  of  having  one  acknowledged 
chief,  or  a  desire  to  be  guided  and  advised  by 
a  plurality  of  those  who  seemed  best  qualified 
for  the  task,  there  would  be  equal  hazard,  or 
rather  certainty,  of  perpetual  strife,  tumult, 
and  dissension,  from  the  attempts  of  ambitious 
individuals,  either  to  usurp  an  ascendancy 
over  all  their  competitors,  or  to  dispute  with 
him  who  had  already  obtained  it,  his  right  to 
continue  its  possession.  Every  one  possessed 
of  any  considerable  means  of  influence  would 
thus  be  tempted  to  aspire  to  a  precarious 
Sovereignty ;  and  while  the  inferior  persons 
of  the  community  would  be  opposed  to  each 
other  as  adherents  of  the  respective  pretenders, 
not  only  would  all  care  of  the  general  good  be 
omitted,  but  the  society  would  become  a  prey 
to  perpetual  feuds,  cabals,  and  hostilities, 
subversive  of  the  first  principles  of  its  insti- 
tution. 

Among  the  remedies  which  would  naturally 
present  themselves  for  this  great  evil,  the 
most  efficacious,  though  not  perhaps  at  first 
sight  the  most  obvious,  would  be  to  provide 
some  regular  and  authentic  form  for  the  elec- 
tion of  One  acknowledged  chief,  by  a  fair  but 
pacific  competition  ; — the  term  of  whose  au- 
thority would  be  gradually  prolonged  to  that 
of  his  natural  life, — and  afterwards  extended 
to  the  lives  of  his  remotest  descendants.  The 
advantages  which  seem  to  us  to  be  peculiar 
to  this  arrangement  are,  first,  to  disarm  the 
ambition  of  dangerous  and  turbulent  indi- 
viduals, by  removing  the  great  prize  of  Su- 
preme authority,  at  all  times,  and  entirely, 
from  competition;  and,  secondly,  to  render 
this  authority  itself  more  manageable,  and 
less  hazardous,  by  delivering  it  over  peace- 
ably, and  upon  expressed  or  understood  con- 
ditions, to  an  hereditary  prince;  instead  of 
.  elting  it  be  seized  upon  by  a  fortunate  con- 
queror, who  would  think  himself  entitled  to 
ase  it — as  conquerors  commonly  use  their 
Dooty — for  his  own  exclusive  gratification. 

The  steps,  then,  by  which  we  are  conducted 
to  the  justification  of  Hereditary  Monarchy, 
ire  shortly  as  follows.  Admitting  all  men  to 
be  equal  in  rights,  they  can  never  be  equal  in 
natural  endowments, — nor  long  equal  in  wealth 
and  other  acquisitions :  —  Absolute  liberty, 
therefore,  or  equal  participation  of  power,  is 
Altogether  out  of  the  question  ;  and  a  kind  of 
Aristocracy  or  disorderly  and  fluctuating  su- 


premacy of  the  richest  and  most  accomplished 
may  be  considered  as  the  primeval  state  ol 
society.  Now  this,  even  if  it  could  be  eup« 
posed  to  be  peaceable  and  permanent,  is  by 
no  means  a  desirable  state  for  the  persona 
subjected  to  this  multifarious  and  irregulai 
authority.  But  it  is  plain  that  it  could  not  be 
peaceable, — that  even  among  the  rich,  and 
the  accomplished,  and  the  daring,  some  would 
be  more  rich,  more  daring,  and  more  accom- 
plished than  the  rest ;  and  that  those  in  the 
foremost  ranks  who  were  most  nearly  on  an 
equality,  would  be  armed  against  each  other 
by  mutual  jealousy  and  ambition ;  while  those 
who  were  a  little  lower,  would  combine,  out 
of  envy  and  resentment,  to  defeat  or  resist,  by 
their  junction,  the  pretensions  of  the  few  who 
had  thus  outstripped  their  original  associates. 
Thus  there  would  not  only  be  no  liberty  or 
security  for  the  body  of  the  people,  but  the 
whole  would  be  exposed  to  the  horror  and 
distraction  of  perpetual  intestine  contentions. 
The  creation  of  one  Sovereign,  therefore, 
whom  the  w- hole  society  would  acknowledge 
as  supreme,  was  a  great  point  gained  for  tran- 
quillity as  well  as  individual  independence; 
and  in  order  to  avoid  the  certain  evils  of  per- 
petual struggles  for  dominion,  and  the  immi- 
nent hazard  of  falling  at  last  under  the  abso- 
lute will  of  an  exasperated  conqueror,  nothing 
could  be  so  wisely  devised  as  to  agree  upon 
the  nomination  of  a  King ;  and  thus  to  get  rid 
of  a  multitude  of  petty  tyrants,  and  the  risk 
of  military  despotism,  by  the  establishment 
of  a  legitimate  monarchy.  The  first  king 
would  probably  be  the  most  popular  and  pow- 
erful individual  in  the  community ;  and  the 
first  idea  would  in  all  likelihood  be  to  appoint 
his  successor  on  account  of  the  same  qualifi- 
cations :  But  it  would  speedily  be  discovered, 
that  this  would  give  rise  at  the  death  of  every 
sovereign — and  indeed,  prospectively,  long  be- 
fore it — to  the  same  fatal  competitions  and 
dissensions,  which  had  formerly  been  per- 
petual ;  and  not  only  hazard  a  civil  war  on 
every  accession,  but  bring  the  successful  com- 
petitor, to  the  throne,  with  feelings  of  extreme 
hostility  towards  one  half  of  his  subjects,  and 
of  extreme  partiality  to  the  other.  The 
chances  of  not  finding  eminent  talents  for 
command  in  the  person  of  the  sovereign, 
therefore,  would  soon  be  seen  to  be  a  far  lesi 
evil  than  the  sanguinary  competitions  that 
would  ensue,  if  merit  were  made  the  sola 
ground  of  preferment ;  and  a  very  little  reflec- 
tion, or  experience,  would  also  serve  to  show, 
that  the  sort  of  merit  which  was  most  likel) 
to  succeed  in  such  a  competition,  did  not  pro- 
mise a  more  desirable  sovereign,  than  mighl 
be  probably  reckoned  on,  in  the  common 
course  of  hereditary  succession.  The  only 
safe  course,  therefore,  was,  to  take  this  Great 
Prize  altogether  out  of  the  Lottery  of  human 
life — to  make  the  supreme  dignity  in  the  state, 
professedly  and  altogether  independent  of 
merit  or  popularity;  and  to  fix  it  immutabl) 
in  a  place  quite  out  of  the  career  of  ambition. 
This  great  point  then  was  gained  by  the 
mere  institution  of  Monarchy,  and  by  render- 
ing it  hereditary :  The  chief  cause  of  internal 


LECKIE  ON  BRITISH  GOVERNMENT. 


567 


discord  was  removed,  and  the  most  dangerous 
incentive  to  ambition  placed  in  a  great  mea- 
sure beyond  the  sphere  of  its  operation ; — and 
this  we  have  always  considered  to  be  the  pe- 
culiar and  characteristic  advantage  of  that 
form  of  government.  A  pretty  important  chap- 
ter, however,  remains,  as  to  the  extent  of  the 
Powers  that  ought  to  be  vested  in  the  Mon- 
arch, and  the  nature  of  the  Checks  by  w*hich 
the  limitation  of  those  powers  should  be  ren- 
dered effectual.  And  here  it  will  be  readily 
understood,  that  considering,  as  we  do,  the 
chief  advantage  of  monarchy  to  consist  in  its 
taking  away  the  occasions  of  contention  for 
the  First  Place  in  the  state,  and  in  a  manner 
neutralizing  that  place  by  separating  it  entirely 
from  any  notion  of  merit  or  popularity  in  the 
possessor — we  cannot  consistently  be  for  al- 
lotting a  greater  measure  of  actual  power  to  it 
than  is  absolutely  necessary  for  answering 
this  purpose.  Our  notions  of  this  measure, 
however,  are  by  no  means  of  a  jealous  or  pe- 
nurious description.  We  must  give  enough  of 
real  power,  and  distinction  and  prerogative,  to 
make  it  truly  and  substantially  the  first  place 
in  the  State,  and  also  to  make  it  impossible 
for  the  occupiers  of  inferior  places  to  endan- 
ger the  general  peace,  by  their  contentions ; — 
for,  otherwise,  the  whole  evils  which  its  in- 
stitution was  meant  to  obviate  would  recur 
with  accumulated  force,  and  the  same  fatal 
competitions  be  renewed  among  persons  of 
disorderly  ambition,  for  those  other  situations, 
by  whatever  name  they  might  be  called,  m 
^^•hich,  though  nominally  subordinate  to  the 
throne,  the  actual  powers  of  sovereignty  were 
embodied.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  we  would 
give  no  powers  to  the  Sovereign,  or  to  any 
other  ofRcei  in  the  community,  beyond  what 
were  evidently  required  for  the  public  good ; 
— and  no  powers  at  all,  on  the  exercise  of 
which  there  was  not  an  efficient  control,  and 
for  the  use  of  which  there  was  not  a  substan- 
tial responsibility.  It  is  in  the  reconciling  of 
these  two  conditions  that  the  whole  difficulty 
of  the  theory  of  a  perfect  monarchy  consists. 
If  you  do  not  control  your  sovereign,  he  will 
be  in  danger  of  becoming  a  despot ;  and  if 
you  do  control  him,  there  is  danger,  unless 
you  choose  the  depository  of  this  control  with 
singular  caution,  that  you  create  another  pow- 
er, that  is  uncontrolled  and  uncontrollable — 
to  be  the  prey  of  audacious  leaders  and  out- 
rageous factions,  in  spite  of  the  hereditary  set- 
tlement of  the  nominal  sovereignty.  Though 
there  is  some  difficulty,  however,  in  this  pro- 
blem, and  though  we  learn  from  history,  that 
various  errors  have  been  committed  in  an  at- 
tempt at  its  practical  solution,  yet  we  do  not 
conceive  it  as  by  any  means  insoluble  j  and 
think  indeed  that,  with  the  lights  which  we 
may  derive  from  the  experience  of  our  own 
constitution,  its  demonstration  may  be  effected 
by  a  very  moderate  exertion  of  sagacity.  It 
will  be  best  understood,  however,  by  a  short 
view  of  the  nature  of  the  powers  to  be  control- 
led, and  of  the  system  of  checks  which  have, 
at  different  times,  been  actually  resorted  to. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  we  must  beg  leave 
'o  »emind  our  readers,  however  superfluous  it 


may  appear,  that  as  kings  are  now  generaUj 
allowed  to  be  mere  mortals,  they  cannot  of 
themselves  have  any  greater  powers,  eithei 
of  body  or  mind,  than  other  individuals,  and 
must  in  fact  be  inferior  in  both  respects  to 
very  many  of  their  subjects.  Whatever  powera 
they  have,  therefore,  must  be  powers  confer- 
red upon  them  by  the  consent  of  the  stronger 
part  of  their  subjects,  and  are  in  fact  really 
and  truly  the  powers  of  those  persons.  The 
most  absolute  despot  accordingly,  of  whom  his- 
tory furnishes  any  record,  must  have  govern- 
ed merely  by  the  free  will  of  those  who  chose 
to  obey  hinij  in  compelling  the  rest  of  his  sub- 
jects to  obedience.  The  Sultan,  as  Mr.  Hume 
remarks,  may  indeed  drive  the  bulk  of  his 
unarmed  subjects,  like  brutes,  by  mere  force ; 
but  he  must  lead  his  €rmed  Janissaries  like 
men,  by  their  reason  and  free  will.  And  so  it 
is  in  all  other  governments :  The  power  of  the 
sovereign  is  nothing  else  than  the  power — the 
actual  force  of  muscle  or  of  mind — which  a 
certain  part  of  his  subjects  choose  to  lend  for 
carrying  his  orders  into  effect ;  and  the  check 
or  limit  to  this  power  is,  in  all  cases,  ultimately 
and  in  effect,  nothing  else  than  their  refusal 
to  act  any  longer  as  the  instruments  of  his 
pleasure.  The  check,  tkerefore,  is  substan- 
tially the  same  in  kind,  in  all  cases  whatever ; 
and  must  necessarily  exist  in  full  vigour  in 
every  country  in  the  world ;  though  the  like- 
lihood of  its  beneficial  application  depends 
greatly  on  the  structure  of  society  in  each  par- 
ticular nation;  and  the  possibility  of  applying 
it  with  ease  and  safety  must  result  wholly 
from  the  contrivances  that  have  been  adopted 
to  make  it  bear,  at  once  gradually  and  steadily, 
on  the  power  it  is  destined  to  regulate.  It  is 
here  accordingly,  and  here  only,  that  there  is 
any  material  difference  between  a  good  and  a 
bad  constitution  of  Monarchical  government. 

The  ultimate  and  only  real  limit  to  what  ia 
called  the  power  of  the  sovereign,  is  the  re- 
fusal or  the  consent  or  co-operation  of  those 
who  possess  the  substantial  power  of  the  com- 
munity, and  who,  during  their  voluntary  con- 
cert with  the  sovereign,  allow  this  power  of 
theirs  to  pass  under  his  name.  In  considering 
whether  this  refusal  is  likely  to  be  wisely  and 
beneficially  interposed,  it  is  material  therefore 
to  inquire  in  whom,  in  any  particular  case, 
the  power  of  interposing  it  is  vested  :  or,  in 
other  words,  in  what  individuals  the  actual 
power  of  coercing  and  compelling  the  submis- 
sion of  the  bulk  of  the  community  is  intrinsic- 
ally vested .  If  every  individual  were  equally 
gifted,  and  equally  situated,  the  answer  would 
be.  In  the  numerical  majority :  But  as  this 
never  can  be  the  case,  this  power  will  fre- 
quently be  found  to  reside  in  a  very  small 
proportion  of  the  whole  society. 

In  rude  times,  M'hen  there  is  little  intelli- 
gence or  means  of  concert  and  communication, 
a  very  moderate  number  of  armed  and  disci- 
plined forces  will  be  able,  so  long  as  they 
keep  together,  to  overawe,  and  actually  over- 
power the  whole  unarmed  inhabitants,  even 
of  an  extensive  region ;  and  accordingly,  in 
such  times,  the  necessity  of  procurinir  the 
good  will  and  consent  of  the  Soldiery,  is  iha 


568 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


ouly  check  upon  the  power  of  the  Sovereign  ] 
or,  in  other  words,  the  soldiers  may  do  what 
they  choose — and  their  nominal  master  can 
do  nothing  which  they  do  not  choose.  Such 
is  the  state  of  the  worst  despotisms.  The 
check  upon  the  royal  authority  is  the  same  in 
substance  as  in  the  best  administered  mon- 
archies, viz.  the  refusal  of  the  consent  or  co- 
operation of  those  who  possess  for  the  time  the 
natural  power  of  the  community :  But.  from 
the  unfortunate  structure  of  society,  which  (in 
the  case  supposed)  vests  this  substantial  power 
in  a  few  bands  of  disciplined  ruffians,  the 
check  will  scarcely  ever  be  interposed  for  the 
benetit  of  the  nation,  and  will  merely  operate 
to  prevent  the  king  from  doing  any  thing  to 
the  prejudice  or  oppression  of  the  soldiery 
themselves.  "•* 

When  civilisation  has  made  a  little  further 
progress,  a  number  of  the  leaders  of  the  army, 
or  their  descendants,  acquire  landed  property, 
and  associate  together,  not  merely  in  their 
military  capacity,  but  as  guardians  of  their 
new  acquisitions  and  hereditary  dignities. — 
Their  soldiers  become  their  vassals  in  time  of 
peace;  and  the  real  power  of  the  State  is 
gradually  transferred  from  the  hands  of  de- 
tached and  mercen^y  battalions,  to  those  of 
a  Feudal  Nobility.  The  check  on  the  royal 
authority  comes  then  to  lie  in  the  refusal  of 
this  body  to  co-operate  in  such  of  his  measures 
as  do  not  meet  with  their  approbation ;  and  the 
king  can  now  do  nothing  to  the  prejudice  of 
the  order  of  Nobility.  The  body  of  the  peo- 
ple fare  a  little  better  under  the  operation  of 
this  check ; — because  their  interest  is  much 
more  identified  with  that  of  their  feudal  lords, 
than  with  that  of  a  standing  army  of  regular 
or  disorderly  forces. 

As  society  advances  in  refinement,  and  the 
arts  of  peace  are  developed,  men  of  the  lower 
orders  assemble,  and  fortify  themselves  in 
Towns  and  Cities,  and  thus  come  to  acquire  a 
power  iadependent  of  their  patrons.  Their 
consent  also  accordingly  becomes  necessary 
to  the  development  of  the  public  authority 
within  their  communities;  and  hence  another 
check  to  what  is  called  the  power  of  the  sove- 
reign. And,  finally,  to  pass  over  some  inter- 
mediate stages,  when  society  has  attained  its 
fall  measure  of  civility  and  intelligence,  and 
is  filled  from  top  to  bottom  with  wealth  and 
industry,  and  reflection ;  when  every  thing 
that  is  done  or  felt  by  any  one  class,  is  com- 
municated on  the  instant  to  all  the  rest, — and 
a  vast  proportion  of  the  whole  population  takes 
an  interest  in  the  fortunes  of  the  country,  and 
jKjssesses  a  certain  intelligence  as  to  the  public 
(tonduct  of  its  rulers. — then  the  substantial 
iicwer  of  the  nation  maybe  said  to  be  vested 
m  ine  Nation  at  large ;  or  at  least  in  those 
individuals  who  can  habitually  command  the 
good-will  and  support  of  the  greater  part  of 
them : — and  the  ultimate  check  to  the  power 
of  the  sovereign  comes  to  consist  in  the  gen- 
eral unwillingness  of  The  People  to  comply 
with  those  orders,  which,  if  at  all  united  in 
their  resolution,  they  may  now  effectually 
uisobey  and  resist.  This  check,  when  ap- 
Dlied  a*  all,  is  hkely,  of  course,  to  be  applied 


for  the  general  good ;  and,  though  the  same 
in  substance  with  those  which  have  been 
already  considered,  namely,  the  refusal  of 
those  in  whom  the  real  power  is  vested,  to 
lend  it  to  the  monarch  for  purposes  which 
they  do  not  approve,  is  yet  infinitely  more 
beneficial  in  its  operation,  in  consequence  of 
the  more  fortunate  position  of  those  io  whom 
that  power  now  belongs. 

Thus  we  see  that  Kings  have  no  power  of 
their  own ;  and  that,  even  in  the  purest  des- 
potisms, they  are  the  mere  organs  or  directors 
of  that  power  which  they  who  truly  possess 
the  physical  and  intellectual  force  of  the  na- 
tion may  choose  to  put  at  their  disposal ;  and 
are  at  all  times,  and  under  every  form  of 
monarchy,  entirely  under  the  control  of  that 
only  virtual  and  effective  power.  There  is  at 
bottom,  therefore,  no  such  thing,  as  an  un- 
limited monarchy ;  or  indeed  as  a  monarchy 
that  is  potentially  either  more  or  less  limited 
than  every  other.  All  kings  must  act  by  the 
consent  of  that  order  or  portion  of  the  nation 
which  can  really  command  all  the  rest,  and 
may  generally  do  whatever  these  substantial 
masters  do  not  disapprove  of:  But  as  it  is 
their  power  which  is  truly  exerted  in  the 
name  of  the  sovereign,  so,  it  is  not  so  much 
a  necessary  consequence  as  an  identical  pro- 
position to  say,  that  where  they  are  clearly 
opposed  to  the  exercise  of  that  power,  ihe 
king  has  no  means  whatever  of  asserting  tbe 
slightest  authority.  This  is  the  universai  law 
indeed  of  all  governments;  and  though  the 
different  constitution  of  society,  in  the  vari- 
ous stages  of  jts  progress,  may  give  a  differ- 
ent character  to  the  controlling  power,  the 
principles  which  regulate  its  operation  are 
substantially  the  same  in  all.  There  is  nc 
room,  therefore,  for  the  question,  whether 
there  should  be  any  control  on  the  power  of 
a  king,  or  what  that  control  should  be ;  be- 
cause, as  the  power  really  is  not  the  king's, 
but  belongs  inalienably  to  the  stronger  part 
of  the  nation  itself,  whether  it  derive  that 
strength  from  disciphne,  talents,  numbers,  or 
situation,  it  is  impossible  that  it  should  be 
exercised  at  his  instigation,  without  the  con- 
currence, or  acquiescence  at  least,  of  those  in 
whom  it  is  substantially  vested. 

Such,  then,  is  the  abstract  and  fundamental 
doctrine  as  to  the  true  nature  of  JMonarchical. 
and  indeed  of  every  other  species  of  Political 
power:  and,  abstract  as  it  is,  we  omnot  help 
thinking  that  it  goes  far  to  settle  all  contro- 
versies as  to  the  rights  of  sovereigns,  and 
ought  to  be  kept  clearly  in  mind  in  proceed 
ing  to  the  more  practical  views  of  the  subject. 
For,  though  what  we  have  now  said  as  to  all 
actual  power  belonging  to  the  predominant 
mass  of  physical  and  intellectual  force  in  every 
community,  and  the  certainty  of  its  ultimately 
impelling  the  public  authority  in  the  direction 
of  its  interests  and  inclinations,  be  unquestion- 
ably true  in  itself;  it  is  still  of  infinite  impor- 
tance to  consider  what  provisions  are  made  by 
the  form  of  the  government,  or  what  is  called 
its  Constitution,  for  the  ready  operation  of 
those  interests  and  inclinations  upon  the  im- 
mediate agents  of  the  public  authority.   ThaJ 


LECKIE  ON  BRITISH  GOVERNMENT. 


569 


tLey  will  operate  with  full  effect  in  the  long- 
run,  whether  those  provisions  be  good  or  bad, 
or  whether  there  be  any  such  provision  for- 
mally recognised  in  the  government  or  not, 
we  take  to  be  altogether  indisputable  :  But,  in 
the  one  case,  they  will  operate  only  after  long 
intervals  of  suffering, — and  by  means  of  much 
eiuffering;  while,  on  the  other,  they  will  be 
constantly  and  almost  insensibly  m  action, 
and  will  correct  the  first  declination  of  the 
visible  index  of  public  authority,  from  the 
natural  line  of  action  of  the  radical  power  of 
which  it  should  be  the  exponent,  or  rather 
will  prevent  any  sensible  variation  or  discon- 
formity  in  their  respective  movements.  The 
whole  difference,  indeed,  between  a  good  and 
a  bad  government,  appears  to  us  to  consist  in 
this  particular,  viz.  in  the  greater  or  the  less 
facility  which  it  affords  for  the  early,  the  gra- 
dual and  steady  operation  of  the  substantial 
Power  of  the  community  upon  its  constituted 
Authorities;  while  the  freedom,  again,  and 
ultimate  happiness  of  the  nation  depend  on 
the  degree  in  which  this  substantial  power  is 
possessed  by  a  greater  or  a  smaller,  and  a 
more  or  less  moral  and  instructed  part  of  the 
whole  society — a  matter  almost  independent 
of  the  form  or  name  of  the  government,  and 
determined  in  a  great  degree  by  the  progress 
which  the  society  itself  has  made  in  civilisa- 
tion and  refinement. 

Thus,  to  take  the  most  abominable  of  all 
governments — a  ferocious  despotism,  such  as 
that  of  Morocco — where  an  Emperor,  in  con- 
cert with  a  banditti  of  armed  rufftans,  butch- 
ers, plunders,  and  oppresses  the  whole  un- 
armed population, — the  check  to  the  monar- 
chical power  is  complete,  even  there,  in  the 
disobedience  or  dissatisfaction  of  the  banditti ; 
although,  from  the  character  of  that  body,  it 
affords  but  little  protection  to  the  community, 
and,  from  the  want  of  any  contrivance  for  its 
early  or  systematic  operation,  can  scarcely 
ever  be  applied,  even  for  its  own  objects,  but 
with  irreparable  injury  to  both  the  parties 
concerned.  As  there  is  no  arrangement  by 
which  the  general  sense  of  this  lawless  sol- 
diery can  be  collected,  upon  any  proposed 
measures  of  their  leader,  or  the  moment  ascer- 
tained when  the  degree  of  his  oppression  ex- 
ceeds that  of  their  patience,  they  never  begin 
to  act  till  his  outrages  have  gone  far  beyond 
what  was  necessary  to  decide  their  resistance ', 
and  accordingly,  he  on  the  one  hand,  goes  an 
decapitating  and  torturing,  for  months  after 
all  the  individuals,  by  whose  consent  alone  he 
was  enabled  to  take  this  amusement,  were 
truly  of  opinion  that  it  should  have  been  dis- 
continued ;  and,  on  the  other,  receives  the 
intimation  at  lasj:,  not  in  the  form  of  a  re- 
monstrance, upon  which  he  might  amend, 
but  in  the  shape  of  a  bow-string,  a  dose  0/ 
poison,  or  a  stroke  of  the  dagger.  Thus,  from 
the  mere  want  of  any  provision  for  ascertain- 
ing the  sentiments  of  the  individuals  possess- 
ing the  actual  power  of  the  state,  or  for  com- 
municating them  to  the  individual  appointed 
to  administer  it,  infinite  evils  result  to  both 
parties.  The  first  suffer  intolerable  opprfes- 
•i«n*  oelore  they  feel  such  confidence  iii  their 


unanimity  as  to  interfere  at  all;  and  then, 
they  do  it  at  last,  in  the  form  of  brutal  vio- 
lence and  vindictive  infliction.  Every  admo- 
nition, in  short,  given  to  their  elected  leadei 
is  preceded  by  their  suffering,  and  follewed 
by  his  death ;  and  every  application  of  the 
check  which  nature  itself  has  provided  for 
the  abuse  of  all  delegated  power,  is  accom- 
panied by  a  total  dissolution  of  the  govern- 
ment, and  the  hazard  of  a  long  series  of  revo 
lutionary  tumults. 

This  is  the  history  of  all  Military  despo- 
tisms, in  barbarous  and  uninstructed  commu- 
nities. When  they  get  on  to  Feudal  aristoc- 
racies, matters  are  a  little  mended  ;  both  by 
the  transference  of  the  actual  power  to  a 
larger  and  worthier  body,  and  by  the  intro- 
duction of  some  sort  of  machinery  or  contri- 
vance, however  rude,  to  insure  or  facilitate 
the  operation  of  this  power  upon  the  ostensible 
agents  of  the  government.  The  person  of  the 
Sovereign  is  now  surrounded  by  some  kind 
of  Council  or  parliament ;  and  threats  and 
remonstrances  are  addressed  to  him,  with 
considerable  energy,  by  such  of  its  members 
as  take  offence  at  the  measures  he  proposes. 
Such,  however,  is  the  imperfection  of  the 
means  devised  for  these  communications,  and 
such  the  difficulty  of  collecting  the  sentiments 
of  those  who  can  make  them  with  effect,  that 
this  necessary  operation  is  still  performed  in 
a  very  clumsy  and  hazardous  manner.  These 
are  the  times,  accordingly,  when  Barons  enter 
their  protests,  by  openly  waging  war  on  their 
Sovereign,  or  each  other;  and,  even  when 
they  are  tolerably  agreed  among  themselves, 
can  think  of  no  better  way  of  controlling  or 
enlightening  their  monarch,  than  by  marching 
down  in  arms  to  Runnymede,  and  compelling 
him,  by  main  force,  and  in  sight  of  all  hia 
people,  to  sign  a  charter  of  their  liberties. 
The  evils,  in  short,  are  the  same  in  substance 
as  in  the  sanguinary  revolutions  of  Morocco. 
The  mischief  goes  to  a  dangerous  length  be- 
fore any  remedy  is  applied ;  and  the  rem.edy 
itself  is  a  great  mischief :  Although,  from  the 
improved  state  of  intelligence  and  civilisation, 
the  outrages  are  not  on  either  side  so  horrible. 

The  next  stage  brings  us  to  commercial  and 
enlightened  times,  in  which  the  real  strength 
and  power  of  the  nation  is  scattered  pretty 
widely  through  the  whole  of  its  population, 
and  in  which,  accordingly,  the  check  upon 
the  misapplication  of  that  power  must  arise 
from  the  dissatisfaction  of  that  great  body 
The  check  must  always  exist, — and  is  sure^ 
sooner  or  later,  to  operate  wnth  sufficient 
efficacy;  but  the  safety  and  the  promptitude 
of  its  operation  depend,  in  this  case  as  in  al! 
the  others,  upon  the  nature  of  the  contrivancefe 
which  the  Constitution  has  provided,  first,  for 
collecting  and  ascertaining  the  sentiments  of 
that  great  and  miscellaneous  aggregate  in 
whom  the  actual  power  is  now  vested  ;  and, 
secondly,  for  communicating  this  in  an  au- 
thentic manner  to  the  executive  officers  of 
the  government.  The  most  effectual  and 
complete  way  of  effecting  this,  is  undoubtedly 
by  a  Parliament,  so  elected  as  to  represent 
pretty  fairly  the  views  of  all  the  considerable 


570 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


classes  of  the  people,  and  so  constituted  as 
to  havf  at  all  times  the  means,  both  of  sug- 
gesting those  views  to  the  executive,  and  of 
effectually  checking  or  preventing  its  malver- 
sations. Where  no  such  institution  exists,  the 
tranquillity  of  the  state  will  always  be  ex- 
posed to  considerable  hazard;  and  the  danger 
of  great  convulsions  will  unfortunately  become 
greater,  exactly  in  proportion  as  the  body  of  the 
people  become  more  wealthy  and  intelligent. 

Under  the  form  of  society,  however,  of 
which  we  are  now  speaking,  there  must 
always  be  some  channels,  however  narrow 
and  circuitous,  by  which  the  sense  of  the  peo- 
ple may  be  let  in  to  act  upon  the  administrators 
of  their  government.  The  channel  of  the  press, 
for  example,  and  of  general  literature — provin- 
cial magistracies  and  assemblies,  such  as  the 
States  and  Parliaments  of  old  France — even 
the  ordinary  courts  of  law — the  stage  —  the 
pulpit — and  all  the  innumerable  occasions  of 
considerable  assemblages  for  deliberation  on 
local  interests,  election  to  local  offices,  or  for 
mere  solemnity  and  usage  of  festivity — which 
must  exist  in  all  large,  ancient,  and  civilised 
communities,  may  afford  indications  of  that 
general  sentiment,  which  must  ultimately  gov- 
ern all  things  ',  and  may  serve  to  admonish  ob- 
servant kings  and  courtiers  how  far  the  true 
possessors  of  the  national  power  are  likely  to 
sanction  any  of  its  proposed  applications. — 
Where  those  indications,  however,  are  ne- 
glected or  misconstrued,  or  where,  from  other 
circumstances,  institutions  that  may  seem 
better  contrived,  fail  either  to  represent  the 
true  sense  of  the  ruling  part  of  the  commu- 
nity, or  to  convince  the  Executive  magistrate 
that  they  do  represent  it,  there,  even  in  the 
most  civilised  and  intelligent  countries,  the 
most  hazardous  and  tremendous  distractions 
may  ensue ; — such  distractions  as  broke  the 
peace,  and  endangered  the  liberties  of  this 
country  in  the  time  of  Charles  the  First — or 
such  as  have  recently  torn  in  pieces  the  frame 
of  society  in  France ;  and  in  their  conse- 
quences still  threaten  the  destiny  of  the  world. 

Both  those  convulsions,  it  appears  to  us, 
arose  from  nothing  else  than  the  want  of  some 
proper  or  adequate  contrivance  for  ascertain- 
ing the  sentiments  of  those  holding  the  actual 
strength  of  the  nation, — and  for  conveying 
those  sentiments,  with  the  full  evidence  of 
their  authenticity,  to  the  actual  administrators 
of  their  affairs.  And  the  two  cases,  we  take 
*t,  were  more  nearly  alike  than  has  generally 
Ixjen  imagined  ;  for  though  the  House  of  Com- 
mons had  an  existence  long  before  the  time 
of  King  Charles,  it  had  not  previously  been 
recognised  as  the  vehicle  of  commanding 
opinions,  nor  the  proper  organ  of  that  great 
body  to  whom  the  actual  power  of  the  State 
had  been  recently  and  insensibly  transferred. 
The  Court  still  considered  the  effectual  power 
to  reside  in  the  feudal  aristocracy,  by  the 
greater  part  of  which  it  was  supported ;  and, 
when  the  Parliament,  or  rather  the  House  of 
Commons,  spoke  in  name  of  the  People  of 
England,  thought  it  might  safely  disregard  the 
admonitions  of  a  body  which  had  not  hitherto 
advanced  any  such  authoritative  clairos  to  at- 


tention. It  refused,  therefore,  to  acknowledge 
this  body  as  the  organ  of  the  supreme  power 
of  the  State ;  and  was  only  undeceived  when 
it  fell  before  its  actual  exertion.  In  France 
ag-ain,  the  error,  though  more  radical,  was  of 
the  very  same  nature.  The  administration 
of  the  government  w^as  conducted,  up  to  the 
very  eve  of  the  Revolution,  upon  the  same 
principles  as  when  the  Nobles  were  every 
thing,  and  the  People  nothing ; — though  the 
people,  in  the  mean  time,  had  actually  become 
far  more  than  a  match  for  the  nobility,  in 
wealth,  in  intelhgence,  and  in  the  knowledge 
of  their  own  importance.  The  Constitution, 
however,  provided  no  means  for  the  peaceable 
but  authoritative  intimation  of  this  change  to 
the  official  rulers ;  or  for  the  gradual  develop- 
ment of  the  new  power  which  had  thus  been 
generated  in  the  community;  and  the  conse- 
quence was,  that  its  more  indirect  indications 
were  overlooked,  and  nothing  yielded  to  its 
accumulating  pressure,  till  it  overturned  the 
throne, — and  overwhelmed  with  its  wasteful 
flood  the  whole  ancient  institutions  of  the 
country.  If  there  had  been  any  provision  in 
the  structure  of  the  government,  by  which  the 
increasing  power  of  the  lower  orders  had  been 
enabled  to  make  itself  distinctly  felt,  and  to 
bear  upon  the  constituted  authorities,  as  gradu- 
ally as  it  was  generated,  the  great  calamities 
which  have  befallen  that  nation  might  have 
been  entirely  avoided, — the  condition  of  the 
monarchy  might  have  insensibly  accommo 
dated  itself  to  the  change  in  the  condition  of 
the  people,*— and  a  most  beneficial  alteration 
might  have  taken  place  in  its  administration, 
without  any  shock  or  convulsion  in  any  part 
of  the  community.  For  want  of  some  such 
provision,  however,  the  Court  was  held  in  ig- 
norance of  the  actual  power  of  the  people,  till 
it  burst  in  thunder  on  their  heads.  The  pent- 
up  vapours  disploded  with  the  force  of  an 
earthquake;  and  those  very  elements  that 
would  have  increased  the  beauty  and  strength 
of  the  constitution  by  their  harmonious  com- 
bination, crumbled  its  whole  fabric  into  ruin 
by  their  sudden  and  untempered  collision. 
The  bloody  revolutions  of  the  Seraglio  were 
acted  over  again  in  the  heart  of  the  most 
polished  and  enlightened  nation  of  Europe  ; — 
and  from  the  very  same  cause — the  want  of  a 
channel  for  conveying,  constantly  and  temper- 
ately and  effectually,  the  sense  of  those  who 
possess  power,  to  those  whose  office  it  was  to 
direct  its  application ; — and  the  outrage  was 
only  the  greater  and  more  extensive,  that  the 
body  among  whom  this  power  was  diffused 
was  larger,  and  the  period  of  its  unsuspected 
accumulation  of  longer  duration. 

The  great  point,  then,  is  to  insure  a  free, 
an  authoritative,  and  an  uninterrupted  com- 
munication between  the  ostensible  adminis- 
trators of  the  national  power  and  its  actual 
constituents  and  depositories ;  and  the  chief 
distinction  between  a  good  and  a  bad  govern- 
ment consists  in  the  degree  in  which  it  affords 
the  means  of  such  a  communication.  The 
main  end  of  government,  to  be  sure  is,  that 
wile  laws  should  be  enacted  and  enforced 
but  such  is  the  condition  of  human  infirmity 


LECKIE  ON  BRITISH  GOVERNMENT. 


671 


that  the  hazards  of  sanguinary  contentions 
about  the  exercise  of  power,  is  a  much  greater 
and  more  imminent  evil  than  a  considerable 
obstruction  in  the  making  or  execution  of  the 
\aws ;  and  the  best  government  therefore  is, 
not  that  which  promises  to  make  the  best 
laws,  and  to  enforce  them  most  vigorously, 
but  that  which  guards  best  against  the  tre- 
mendous conflicts  to  which  all  administrations 
of  government,  and  all  exercise  of  political 
power  is  so  apt  to  give  rise.  It  happens,  for- 
tunately indeed,  that  the  same  arrangements 
which  most  effectually  insure  the  peace  of 
society  against  those  disorders,  are  also,  on 
the  whole,  the  best  calculated  for  the  pur- 
poses of  wise  and  efficient  legislation.  But 
we  do  not  hesitate  to  look  upon  their  negative 
or  preventive  virtues  as  of  a  far  higher  cast 
than  their  positive  and  active  ones;  and  to 
consider  a  representative  legislature  as  incom- 
parably of  more  value,  when  it  truly  enables 
the  efficient  force  of  the  nation  to  control  and  di- 
rect the  executive,  than  when  it  merely  enacts 
wholesome  statutes  in  its  legislative  capacity. 

The  result  of  the  whole  then  is,  that  in  a 
civilised  and  enlightened  country,  the  actual 
power  of  the  State  resides  in  the  great  body 
of  the  people,  and  especially  among  the  more 
wealthy  and  intelligent  in  all  the  different 
ranks  of  which  it  consists ;  and  consequently, 
that  the  administration  of  a  government  can 
never  be  either  safe  or  happy,  unless  it  be 
conformable  to  the  wishes  and  sentiments  of 
that  great  body;  while  there  is  little  chance 
of  its  answering  either  of  these  conditions, 
unless  the  forms  of  the  Constitution  provide 
some  means  for  the  regular,  constant,  and  au- 
thentic expression  of  their  sentiments, — to 
which,  when  so  expressed,  it  is  the  undoubted 
duty,  as  well  as  the  obvious  interest  of  the 
executive  to  conform.  A  Parliament,  there- 
fore, which  really  and  truly  represents  the 
sense  and  opinions — we  mean  the  general  and 
mature  sense,  not  the  occasional  prejudices 
and  fleeting  passions — of  the  efficient  body 
of  the  people,  and  which  watches  over  and 
efTectually  controls  every  important  act  of  the 
executive  magistrate,  is  necessary,  in  a  coun- 
try hke  this,  for  the  tranquillity  of  the  govern- 
ment, and  the  ultimate  safety  of  the  Monarchy 
itself, — much  more  even  than  for  the  enact- 
ment of  laws ',  and,  in  proportion  as  it  varies 
from  this  description,  or  relaxes  in  this  con- 
trol, wil.l  the  peace  of  the  country  and  the 
security  of  the  government  be  endangered. 

But  then  comes  Mr.  Leckie,  and  a  number 
of  loyal  gentlemen,  from  Sicily,  or  other  places, 
exclaiming  that  this  is  mere  treason  and  re- 
publicanism,— and  asking  whether  the  king  is 
to  have  no  will  or  voice  of  his  own  1 — what  is 
to  become  of  the  balance  of  the  Constitution 
if  he  is  to  be  reduced  to  a  mere  cypher  added 
to  the  end  of  every  ministerial  majority? — 
and  how,  if  the  office  is  thus  divested  of  all 
real  power,  it  can  ever  fulfil  the  purposes  for 
which  we  ourselves  have  preferred  Monarchy 
to  all  other  constitutions  ?  We  shall  endeavour 
to  answer  these  questions ; — and  after  the  pre- 
cedins:  full  exposition  of  our  premises,  we 
think  they  may  be  answered  very  briefly. 


In  the  first  place,  then,  it  does  not  appeal 
to  us  that  it  can  be  seriously  maintained  thai 
any  national  or  salutary  purpose  can  ever  he 
served  by  recognising  the  private  will  or  voice 
of  the  King  as  an  individual,  as  an  element  in 
the  political  government,  especially  in  an  He- 
reditary monarchy.  The  person  upon  whom 
that  splendid  lot  may  fall,  not  having  been 
selected  for  the  office  on  account  of  any  proof 
or  presumption  of  his  fitness  for  it,  but  being 
called  to  it  as  it  were  by  mere  accident,  may 
be  fairly  presumed  to  have  less  talent  or  ca- 
pacity than  any  one  of  the  individuals  who 
have  made  their  own  way  to  a  place  of  in- 
fluence or  authority  in  his  councils ;  and  his 
voice  or  opinion  therefore,  considered  naturally 
and  in  itself,  must  be  of  less  value  or  intrinsic 
authority  than  that  of  any  other  person  in  high 
office  under  him :  And  when  it  is  farther 
considered  that  this  Sovereign  may  be  very 
young  or  very  old — almost  an  idiot — almost  a 
madman — and  altogether  a  dotard,  while  he 
is  still  in  the  full  possession  and  the  lawful 
exercise  of  the  whole  authority  of  his  station, 
it  must  seem  perfectly  extravagant  to  main- 
tain that  it  can  be  of  advantage  to  the  nation, 
that  his  individual  wishes  or  opinions  should 
be  the  measure  or  the  condition  of  any  one 
act  of  legislation  or  national  policy. — Assured- 
ly it  is  not  for  his  wisdom  or  his  patriotism, 
and  much  less  for  his  own  delight  and  gratifi- 
cation, that  an  hereditary  monarch  is  placed 
upon  the  throne  of  a  free  people;  and  this 
obvious  consideration  alone  might  lead  us  at 
once  to  the  true  end  and  purpose  of  royalty. 

But  the  letter  and  theory  of  the  English 
Constitution  recognise  the  individual  will  of 
the  Sovereign,  just  as  fittle  as  reason  and 
common  sense  can  require  it,  as  an  integral 
element  in  that  constitution.  It  declares  that 
the  King  as  an  individual  can  do  no  wrong, 
and  can  be  made  accountable  for  nothing — 
but  that  his  ministers  and  advisers  shall  be 
responsible  for  all  his  acts  without  any  excep- 
tion— or  at  least  with  the  single  exception  of 
the  act  of  naming  those  advisers.  In  every 
one  act  of  his  peculiar  and  official  Prerogative, 
in  which,  if  in  any  thing,  his  individual  and 
private  will  must  be  understood  to  have  been 
exerted,  the  Constitution  sees  only  the  will 
and  the  act  of  his  ministers.  The  King's  speech 
— the  speech  pronounced  by  his  own  lips,  and 
as  his  voluntary  act  in  the  face  of  the  whole 
nation — is  the  speech  of  the  minister ;  and  as 
such,  is  openly  canvassed,  and  condemned  if 
need  be,  by  the  houses  of  Parliament,  in  the 
ordinary  course  of  their  duty.  The  King's 
personal  answers  to  addresses — his  declara- 
tions of  peace  or  war — the  honours  he  person- 
ally confers — the  bills  he  personally  passes  or 
rejects — are  all  considered  by  the  Constitution 
as  the  acts  only  of  his  counsellors.  It  is  not 
only  the  undoubted  right,  but  the  unquestion- 
able duty  of  the  Houses  of  Parliament,  to  con* 
sider  of  their  propriety — to  complain  of  them 
if  they  think  them  inexpedient — to  get  them 
rescinded  if  they  admit  of  such  a  correction  ; 
and  at  all  events  to  prosecute,  impeach,  and 
punish  those  advisers — to  whom,  and  not  to 
the  Sovereign  in  whose  name  they  mn,  they 


572 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


are  exclusively  attributed.  This  great  doc- 
trine, then,  of  ministerial  responsibility,  an- 
swer's the  first  question  of  Mr.  Leckie  and  his 
adherents,  as  lo  the  enormity  of  subjecting  the 
personal  will  and  opinion  of  the  Sovereign  at 
all  times  to  the  control  of  those  who  represent 
the  efficient  power  of  the  community.  Mr. 
Leckie  himself,  it  is  to  be  observed,  is  for  leav- 
ing this  grand  feature  of  ministerial  responsi- 
bility, even  when  he  is  for  dispensing  with 
the  attendance  of  Parliaments: — though,  to  be 
sure,  among  his  other  omissions,  he  has  for- 
gotten to  tell  us  by  whom,  and  in  what  man- 
ner, it  could  be  enforced,  after  the  abolition 
of  those  troublesome  assemblies. 

The  next  question  relates  to  the  theoretical 
balance  of  the  Constitution,  which  they  say 
implies  that  the  will  and  the  power  of  the 
Monarch  is  to  be  a  separate  and  independent 
element  in  the  government.  We  have  not  left 
ourselves  room  now  to  answer  this  at  large ; 
nor  indeed  do  we  think  it  necessary ;  and  ac- 
cordingly we  shall  make  but  two  remarks  in 
regard  to  it,  and  that  in  the  most  summary 
manner.  The  first  is,  that  the  powers  ascribed 
to  the  Sovereign,  in  the  theory  of  the  Consti- 
tution, are  not  supposed  to  be  vested  in  him 
as  an  insulated  and  independent  individual — 
but  in  him  as  guided  and  consubstantiated 
with  his  responsible  counsellors — that  the  King, 
in  that  balance,  means  not  the  -person  of  tlTe 
reigning  prince,  but  the  department  of  the 
'Executive  government — the  whole  body  of 
ministers  and  their  dependants — to  whom,  for 
the  sake  of  convenience  and  dispatch,  the  ini- 
tiative of  many  important  measures  is  entrust- 
ed :  and  who  are  only  entitled  or  enabled  to 
carry  on  business,  under  burden  of  their  re- 
sponsibility to  Parliament,  and  in  reliance  on 
its  ultimate  support.  The  second  remark  is, 
that  the  balance  of  the  Constitution,  in  so  far 
as  it  has  any  real  existence,  will  be  found  to 
subsist  almost  entirely  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, which  possesses  exclusively  both  the 
power  of  impeachment,  and  the  power  of 
granting  supplies  j  and  has  besides,  the  most 
natural  and  immediate  communication  with 
that  great  body  of  the  Nation,  in  whom  the 
power  of  control  over  all  the  branches  of  the 
Legislature  is  ultimately  vested.  The  Execu- 
tive, therefore,  has  its  chief  Ministers  in  that 
House,  and  exerts  in  that  place  all  the  influ- 
ence which  is  attached  to  its  situation.  If  it 
is  successfully  opposed  there,  it  would  for  the 
most  part  be  infinitely  dangerous  for  it  to  think 
of  resisting  in  any  other  quarter.  But  if  it 
were  to  exercise  its  legal  prerogative,  by  re- 
fusing a  series  of  favourite  bills,  or  disregard- 
ing an  unanimous  address  of  the  Commons, 
the  natural  consequence  would  be,  that  the 
Commons  would  retort,  by  exercising  their 
legal  privilege  of  withholding  the  supplies; 
and  as  things  could  not  go  on  for  a  moment  on 
such  a  footing,  the  King  must  either  submit 
at  discretion,  or  again  bethink  himself  of  rais- 
ing his  royal  standard  against  that  of  a  Parlia- 
mentary army.  The  general  view,  indeed, 
which  we  have  taken  above  of  the  true  nature 
^f  that  which  is  called  the  power  of  the  Mon- 
arch, IS  enough  to  mow,  that  it  can  only  be 


I  upon  the  very   unlikely,    hut  not  impossiblt 

!  supposition,  that  the  nominal  representatives 

j  of  the  people  are  really  more  estranged  from 

'  their  true  sentiments  than  the  ministers  of  the 

Crown,  that  it  can  ever  be  safe  or  allowable 

for  the  latter  to  refuse  immediate  compHance 

with  the  will  of  those  representatives. 

There  remains  then  but  one  other  question. 
viz.  Whether  we  are  really  for  reducing  the 
King  to  the  condition  of  a  mere  tool  in  the 
hands  of  a  ministerial  majority,  without  any 
real  power  or  influence  whatsoever;  and  whe- 
ther, upon  this  supposition,  there  can  be  any 
use  in  the  institution  of  monarchy — as  the 
minister,  on  this  view  of  things,  must  be  re- 
garded as  the  real  sovereign,  and  his  office  is 
still  open  to  competition,  as  the  reward  of  dan- 
gerous and  disorderly  ambition?  Now,  the  an- 
swer to  this  is  a  denial  of  the  assumption  upon 
which  the  question  is  raised.  The  King,  upon 
our  view  of  his  office — which  it  has  been  seen 
is  exactly  that  taken  by  the  Constitution — 
would  still  hold,  indisputably,  the  first  place 
in  the  State,  and  possess  a  substantial  power, 
not  only  superior  to  that  which  any  minister 
could  ever  obtain  under  him,  but  sufficient  to 
repress  the  pretensions  of  any  one  who,  under 
any  other  form  of  government,  might  be 
tempted  to  aspire  to  the  sovereignty.  The 
King  of  England,  it  will  be  remembered,  is  a 
perpetual  member  of  the  cabinet — and  per- 
petually the  First  Member  of  it.  No  disap- 
probation of  its  measures,  whether  expressed 
by  votes  of  the  Houses,  or  addresses  from  the 
people,  can  turn  him  out  of  his  situation :  and 
he  has  also  the  power  of  nominating  its  other 
members ;  not  indeed  the  power  of  maintain- 
ing them  in  their  offices  against  the  sense  of 
the  nation — but  the  power  of  trying  the  ex- 
perimentj  and  putting  it  on  the  country  to  take 
the  painful  and  difficult  step  of  insisting  on 
their  removal.  If  he  have  any  portion  of 
ministerial  talents,  therefore,  he  must  have, 
in  the  first  place,  all  the  power  that  could  at- 
tach to  a  Perpetual  Minister — with  all  the  pe- 
culiar influence  that  is  inseparable  from  the 
splendour  of  his  official  station :  and,  in  the 
second  place,  he  has  the  actual  power,  if  not 
absolutely  to  make  or  unmake  all  the  other 
members  of  his  cabinet  at  his  pleasure,  at  least 
to  choose,  at  his  own  discretion,  among  all 
who  are  not  upon  very  strong  grounds  excep- 
tionable to  the  country  at  large. 

Holding  it  to  be  quite  clear,  then,  that  the 
private  and  individual  will  of  the  sovereign  is 
not  to  be  recognised  as  a  separate  element  in 
the  actual  legislation,  or  administrative  gov- 
ernment of  the  country,  and  that  it  must  in 
all  cases  give  way  to  the  mature  sense  of  the 
nation,  we  shall  still  find,  that  his  place  ia 
conspicuously  and  beyond  all  question  the 
First  in  the  State,  and  that  it  is  invested  whh 
quite  as  much  substantial  power  as  is  necessa- 
ry to  maintain  all  other  offices  in  a  condition  of 
subordination.  To  see  this  clearly,  indeed,  it 
is  only  necessary  to  consider,  a  little  in  detail, 
what  is  the  ordinary  operation  of  the  regal 
power,  and  on  what  occasions  the  necessary 
checks  to  which  we  have  alluded  come  in  to 
control  it.     The  King,  then,  as  the  presiding 


LECKIE  ON  BRITISH  GOVERNMENT 


member  of  the  cabinet,  can  not  only  resist, 
put  suggest,  or  propose,  or  recommend  any 
thing  which  he  pleases  for  the  adoption  of 
that  executive  council ; — and  his  suggestions 
must  at  all  times  be  more  attended  to  than 
tnose  of  any  other  person  of  the  same  know- 
ledge or  capacity.  Such,  indeed,  are  the  in- 
destructible sources  of  influence  belonging  to 
his  situation,  that,  if  he  be  only  compos  mentis, 
he  may  rely  upon  having  more  authority  than 
any  two  of  the  gravest  and  most  experienced 
nidividuals  with  whom  he  can  communicate  ; 
and  that  there  will  be  a  far  greater  disposition 
to  adopt  his  recommendations,  than  those  of 
the  wisest  and  most  popular  rtiinister  that  the 
country  has  ever  seen.  He  may,  indeed,  be 
outvoted  even  in  the  cabinet ; — the  absurdity 
of  his  suggestions  may  be  so  palpable,  or  their 
danger  so  great,  that  no  habitual  deference, 
or  feeling  of  personal  dependence,  may  be 
sufficient  to  induce  his  advisers  to  venture  on 
their  adoption.  This,  however,  we  imagine, 
will  scarcely  be  looked  upon  as  a  source  of 
national  weakness  or  hazard  ;  and  is,  indeed, 
an  accident  that  may  befal  any  sovereign, 
however  absolute — since  the  veriest  despot 
cannot  work  without  tools — and  even  a  mili- 
tary sovereign  at  the  head  of  his  army,  must 
submit  to  abandon  any  scheme  which  that 
army  positively  refuses  to  execute.  If  he  is 
baffled  in  one  cabinet,  however,  the  King  of 
England  may  in  general  repeat  the  experi- 
ment in  another ;  and  change  his  counsellors 
over  and  over,  till  he  find  some  who  are  more 
courageous  or  more  complying. 

But,  suppose  that  the  Cabinet  acquiesces : — 
the  Parliament  also  may  no  doubt  oppose,  and 
defeat  the  execution  of  the  project.  The 
Cabinet  may  be  outvoted  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  as  the  Sovereign  may  be  outvoted 
in  the  Cabinet;  and  all  its  other  members 
may  be  displaced  by  votes  of  that  House. 
The  minister  who  had  escaped  being  dis- 
missed by  the  King  through  his  compliance 
with  the  Royal  pleasure,  may  be  dismissed 
for  that  compliance,  by  the  voice  of  the 
Legislature.  But  the  Sovereign,  with  whom, 
upon  this  supposition,  the  objectionable  mea- 
sure originated,  is  not  dismissed ;  and  may 
not  only  call  another  minister  to  his  councils 
to  try  this  same  measure  a  second  time,  but 
may  himself  dismiss  the  Parliament  by  which 
it  had  been  censured;  and  submit  its  pro- 
ceedings to  the  consideration  of  another  as- 
sembly !  We  really  cannot  see  any  want  of 
effective  power  in  such  an  order  of  things ; 
nor  comprehend  how  the  royal  authority  is 
rendered  altogether  nugatory  and  subordinate, 
merely  by  requiring  it  to  have  ultimately  the 
concurrence  of  the  Cabinet  and  of  the  Legis- 
lature. The  last  stage  of  this  hypothesis, 
however,  will  clear  all  the  rest. 

The  King's  measure  may  triumph  in  par- 
liament as  well  as  in  the  council — and  yet  it 
may  be  resisted  by  the  Nation.  The  parlia- 
ment may  be  outvoted  in  the  country,  as  well 
as  the  cabinet  in  the  parliament ;  and  if  the 
measure,  even  in  this  last  stage,  and  after  all 
these  tests  of  its  safety,  be  not  abandoned, 
the  most  dreadful  consequences  may  ensue. 


If  addresses  and  clamours  are  disregarded, 
recourse  may  be  had  to  arms ;  and  an  opeii 
civil  war  be  left  again  to  determine,  whether 
the  sense  of  the  people  at  large  be,  or  be  not, 
resolutely  ag-ainst  its  adoption.  This  last 
species  of  check  on  the  power  of  the  Sove- 
reign, no  political  arrangement,  and  no  change 
in  the  Constitution,  can  obviate  or  prevent, 
and  as  all  the  other  checks  of  which  we  have 
spoken  refer  ultimately  to  this,  so,  the  defence 
of  their  necessity  and  justice  is  complete, 
when  we  merely  say,  that  their  use  is  to  pre- 
vent a  recurrence  t6  this  last  extremity — and, 
by  enabling  the  sense  of  the  nation  to  repress 
pernicious  counsels  in  the  outset,  through  the 
safe  and  pacific  channels  of  the  cabinet  and 
the  parliament,  to  remove  the  necessity  of  re- 
sisting them  at  last,  by  the  dreadful  expedient 
of  actual  force  and  compulsion. 

If  a  king,  under  any  form  of  monarchy, 
attempt  to  act  against  the  sense  of  the  com- 
manding part  of  the  population,  he  will  inev- 
itably be  resisted  and  overthrown.  This  is 
not  a  matter  of  institution  or  policy;  but  a 
necessary  result  from  the  nature  of  his  office, 
and  of  the  power  of  which  he  is  the  adminis- 
trator— or  rather  from  the  principles  of  human 
nature.  But  that  form  of  monarchy  is  the 
worst — both  for  the  monarch  and  for  the  peo- 
ple— which  exposes  him  the  most  to  the  shock 
of  such  ultimate  resistance ;  and  that  is  the 
best,  which  interposes  the  greatest  number 
of  intermediate  bodies  between  the  oppressive 
purpose  of  the  king  and  his  actual  attempt  to 
carry  it  into  execution. — which  tries  the  pro- 
jected measure  upon  the  greatest  number  of 
selected  samples  of  the  public  sense,  before 
it  comes  into  collision  with  its  general  mass, — 
and  affords  the  most  opportunities  for  retreat, 
and  the  best  cautions  for  advance,  before  the 
battle  is  actually  joined.  The  cabinet  is  pre- 
sumed to  know  more  of  the  sentiments  of  the 
nation  than  the  king ; — and  the  parliament  to 
know  more  than  the  cabinet.  Both  these 
bodies,  too,  are  presumed  to  be  rather  more 
under  the  personal  influence  of  the  king  than 
the  great  body  of  the  nation ;  and  therefore^ 
whatever  suggestions  of  his  are  ultimately 
rejected  in  those  deliberative  assemblies, 
must  be  held  to  be  such  as  would  have  been 
still  less  acceptable  to  the  bulk  of  the.  com- 
munity. By  rejecting  them  there,  however, 
by  silent  votes  or  clamorous  harangues,  the 
nation  is  saved  from  the  necessity  of  rejecting 
them,  by  actual  resistance  and  insurrection  in 
the  field.  The  person  and  the  office  of  the 
monarch  remain  untouched,  and  untainted  for 
all  purposes  of  good ;  and  the  peace  of  the 
country  is  maintained,  and  its  rights  asserted, 
without  any  turbulent  exertion  of  its  power. 
The  whole  frame  and  machinery  of  the  con- 
stitution, in  short,  is  contrived  for  the  express 
purpose  of  preventing  the  kingly  power  from 
dashing  itself  to  pieces  against  the  more  rad- 
ical power  of  the  people :  and  those  institu 
tions  that  are  absurdly  supposed  to  restrain 
the  authority  of  the  sovereign  within  too  nar- 
row limits,  are  in  fact  its  great  safeguards 
and  protectors,  by  providing  for  the  timely 
and  peaceful  operation  of  that  great  cental- 


574 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


ling  poweFj  which  it  could  only  elude  for  a 
Beason,  at  the  expense  of  much  certain  mis- 
ery to  the  people,  and  the  hazard  of  final 
destruction  to  itself. 

Mr.  Leckie,  however,  and  his  adherents, 
can  see  nothing  of  all  this.  The  facility  of 
casting  down  a  single  tyrant,  w^e  have  already 
seen,  is  one  of  the  prime  advantages  which 
he  ascribes  to  the  institution  of  Simple  mon- 
archy;— and  so  much  is  this  advocate  of 
kingly  power  enamoured  of  the  uncourtly 
doctrine  of  resistance,  that  he  not  only  recog;- 
nises  it  as  a  familiar  element  in  the  constitu- 
tion, but  lays  it  down  in  express  terms,  that 
it  affords  the  only  remedy  for  all  political  cor- 
ruption. "History,"'  he  observes,  "has  fur- 
nished us  with  no  example  of  the  reform  of  a 
corrupt  and  tyrannical  government,  but  either 
from  intestine  war,  or  conquest  from  without. 
Thus,  the  objection  against  a  simple,  mon- 
archy, because  there  is  no  remedy  for  its 
abuse,  holds  the  same,  but  in  a  greater  de- 
gree, against  any  other  form.  Each  is  borne 
with  as  long  as  possible  ;  and  when  the  evil  is 
at  its  greatest  height,  the  nation  eilher  rises 
against  it,  or,  not  having  the  means  of  so  doing, 
sinks  into  abject  degradation  and  misery." 

Such,  however,  are  not  our  principles  of 
policy;  on  the  contrary,  we  hold,  that  the 
chief  use  of  a  free  constitution  is  to  prevent 
the  recurrence  of  these  dreadful  extremities : 
and  that  the  excellence  of  a  limited  monarchy 
consists  less  in  the  good  laws,  and  the  good 
administration  of  law,  to  which  it  naturally 
gives  birth,  than  in  the  security  it  affords 
against  such  a  melancholy  alternative.  To 
some,  we  know,  who  have  been  accustomed 
to  the  spectacle  of  long-established  despo- 
tisms, the  hazards  of  such  a  terrific  regenera- 
tion appear  distant  and  inconsiderable  ',  and, 
if  they  could  only  prolong  the  intervals  of 
patient  submission,  and  polish  away  some 
of  the  harsher  features  of  oppression,  they 
imagine  a  state  of  things  would  result  more 
tranquil  and  desirable  than  can  ever  be  pre- 
sented by  the  eager  and  salutary  contentions 
of  a  free  government.  To  such  persons  we 
shall  address  but  two  observations.  The  first, 
that  though  the  body  of  the  people  may  in- 
deed be  kept  in  brutish  subjection  for  ages, 
where,  the  state  of  society,  as  to  intelligence 
and  property,  is  such  that  the  actual  power 
and  command  of  the  nation  is  vested  in  a  few 
bands  of  disciplined  troops,  this  could  never 
be  done  in  a  nation  abounding  in  independent 
wealth,  very  generally  given  to  reading. and 
reflection,  and  knit  together  in  all  its  parts 
by  a  thousand  means  of  communication  and 
ties  of  mutual  interest  and  sympathy;  and 
least  of  all  could  it  be  done  in  a  nation  already 
accustomed  to  the  duties  and  enjoyments  of 
freedom,  and  regarding  the  safe  and  honour- 
able struggles  it  is  constantly  obliged  to  main- 
tain in  its  defence,  as  the  most  ennobling  and 
delightful  of  its  exercises.  The  other  remai*k 
is,  that  even  if  it  were  possible,  as  it  is  not, 
to  rivFt  and  shackle  down  an  enlightened  na- 
tion in  such  a  way  as  to  make  it  submit  for 
some  time,  in  apparent  quietness,  to  the  abuses 
of  arbitrary  power,  it  is  never  to  be  forgotten 


that  this  submission  is  itself  an  evil — and  an 
evil  only  inferior  to  those  through  which  it 
must  ultimately  seek  its  relief.  If  any  form 
of  tyranny,  therefore,  were  as  secure  from 
terrible  convulsions  as  a  regulated  freedom, 
it  would  not  cease  for  that  to  be  a  far  less  de- 
sirable condition  of  existence;  and  as  the 
mature  sense  of  a  whole  nation  may  be  fairly 
presumed  to  point  more  certainly  to  the  trae 
means  of  their  happiness  than  the  single 
opinion  even  of  a  patriotic  king,  so  it  must  be 
right  and  reasonable,  in  all  cases,  that  his 
opinion  should  give  way  to  theirs;  and  that  a 
power  should  be  generated,  if  it  did  not  natu- 
rally and  necessarily  exist,  to  insure  its  pre- 
dominance. 

We  have  still  a  word  or  two  to  say  on  the 
alleged  inconsistency  and  fluctuation  of  all 
public  councils  that  are  subjected  to  the  con- 
trol of  popular  assemblies,  and  on  the  unprin- 
cipled violence  of  the  factions  to  which  they 
are  said  to  give  rise.  The  first  of  these  topics, 
however,  need  not  detain  us  long.  If  it  be 
meant,  that  errors  in  pubKc  measures  are 
more  speedily  detected,  and  more  certainly 
repaired,  when  they  are  maturely  and  freely 
discussed  by  all  the  wisdom  and  all  the  talent 
of  a  nation,  than  when  they  are  left  to  the 
blind  guidance  of  the  passions  or  conceit  of 
an  individual ; — if  it  be  meant,  that,  under  a 
Simple  monarchy,  we  should  have  persevered 
longer  and  more  steadily  in  the  principles  of 
the  Slave  Trade,  of  Catholic  Proscription,  and 
of  the  Orders  in  Council : — then  we  cheerfully 
admit  the  justice  of  the  charge — we  readily 
yield  to  those  governments  the  praise  of  sucn 
consistency  and  such  perseverance — and  offer 
no  apology  for  that  change  from  folly  to  wis- 
dom, and  from  cruelty  to  mercy,  which  is  pro- 
duced by  the  variableness  of  a  free  consti- 
tution. But  if  it  be  meant  that  an  absolute 
monarch  keeps  the  faith  which  he  pledges 
more  religiously  than  a  free  people,  or  that  he 
is  less  liable  to  sudden  and  capricious  varia- 
tions in  his  policy,  we  positively  deny  the 
truth  of  the  imputation,  and  boldly  appeal  to 
the  whole  course  of  history  for  its  confutation. 
What  nation,  we  should  like  to  know,  ever  stood 
half  so  high  as  our  own,  for  the  reputation  of 
good  faith  and  inviolable  fidelity  to  its  allies  ? 
Or  in  what  instance  has  the  national  honour 
been  impeached,  by  the  refusal  of  one  set  of  | 
ministers  to  abide  by  the  engagements  enter- 
ed into  by  their  predecessors  ? — With  regurd 
to  mere  caprice  and  inconsistency  again,  will 
it  be  seriously  maintained,  that  councils,  de- 
pending upon  the  individual  will  of  an  abso- 
lute sovereign — who  may  be  a  boy,  or  a  girl, 
or  a  dotard,  or  a  driveller — are  more  likely 
to  be  steadily  and  wisely  pursued,  than  those 
that  are  taken  up  by  a  set  of  experienced 
statesmen,  under  the  control  of  a  vigilant  and  ,, 
intelligent  public  ?  It  is  not  by  mere  popular  ^ 
clamour — by  the  shouts  or  hisses  of  an  igno» 
rant  and  disorderly  mob — but  by  the  deep,  the 
slow,  and  the  collected  voice  of  the  intelligent 
and  enlightened  part  of  the  community,  that 
the  councils  of  a  free  nation  are  ultimately 
guided.  But  if  they  were  at  the  disposal  of  a 
rabble — what  rabble,  we  would  ask,  is  so  ig- 


LECKIE  ON  BRITISH  GOVERNMENT. 


675 


norant,  so  contemptiblej  so  fickle,  false,  and 
empty  of  all  energy  of  purpose  or  principle, 
as  the  rabble  that  invests  the  palaces  of  arbi- 
trary kings — the  favourites,  the  mistresses, 
the  panders,  the  flatterers  and  intriguers,  who 
succeed  or  supplant  each  other  in  the  crum- 
bling soil  of  his  favour,  and  so  frequently  dis- 
pose of  all  that  ought  to  be  at  the  command 
of  wisdom  and  honour '? 

Looking  only  to  the  eventful  history  of  our 
own  day,  will  any  one  presume  to  say,  that 
the  conduct  of  the  simple  monarchies  of  Eu- 
rope has  afforded  us,  for  the  last  twenty  years, 
any  such  lessons  of  steady  and  unwavering 
policy  as  to  make  us  blush  for  our  own  demo- 
cratical  inconstancy  1  What,  during  that  pe- 
riod, has  been  the  conduct  of  Prussia — of 
Russia — of  Austria  herself — of  every  state,  in 
short,  that  has  not  been  terrified  into  constan- 
cy by  the  constant  dread  of  French  violence? 
And  where,  during  all  that  time,  are  we  to  look 
for  any  traces  of  manly  firmness,  but  in  the 
conduct  and  councils  of  the  only  nation  whose 
measures  were  at  all  controlled  by  the  influ- 
ence of  popular  sentiments "?  If  that  nation 
too  was  not  exempt  from  the  common  chai-ge 
of  vacillation — if  she  did  fluctuate  between 
designs  to  restore  the  Bourbons,  and  to  enrich 
herself  by  a  share  of  their  spoils — if  she  did 
contract  one  deep  stain  on  her  faith  and  her 
humanity,  by  encouraging  and  deserting  the 
party  of  the  Royalists  in  La  Vendee — if  she 
did  waver  and  wander  from  expeditions  into 
Flanders  to  the  seizure  of  West  Indian  islands, 
and  from  menaces  to  extirpate  Jacobinism  to 
missions  courting  its  alliance — will  any  man 
pretend  to  say,  that  these  signs  of  infirmity 
of  purpose  were  produced  by  yielding  to  the 
varying  impulses  of  popular  opinions,  or  the 
alternate  preponderance  of  hostile  factions  in 
the  state  ?  Is  it  not  notorious,  on  the  contra- 
ry, that  they  all  occurred  during  that  lament- 
able but  memorable  period,  when  the  alarm 
excited  by  the  aspect  of  new  dangers  had  in 
a  manner  extinguished  the  constitutional  spirit 
of  party,  and  composed  the  salutary  conflicts 
of  the  nation — that  they  occurred  in  the  first 
ten  years  of  Mr.  Pitt's  war  administration, 
when  opposition  was  almost  extinct,  and  when 
the  government  was  not  only  more  entirely  in 
the  hands  of  one  man  than  it  had  been  at  any 
time  since  the  days  of  Cardinal  Wolsey,  but 
when  the  temper  and  tone  of  its  administra- 
tion approached  very  nearly  to  that  of  an  ar- 
bitrary monarchy  ? 

On  the  doctrine  of  parties  and  party  dissen- 
sions, it  is  now  too  late  for  us  to  enter  at 
large  ; — and  indeed  when  we  recollect  what 
Mr.  B  jrke  has  written  upcr.  that  subject,*  we 
do  not  know  why  we  should  wish  for  an  op- 
portunity of  expressing  our  feeble  sentiments. 
Parties  are  necessary  in  all  free  governments 
— and  are  indeed  the  characteristics  by  which 
such  governments  may  be  known.  One  party, 
that  of  the  Rulers  or  the  Court,  is  necessarily 
formed  and  disciplined  from  the  permanence 
pf  its  chief,  and  the  uniformity  of  the  interests 


*  See  his  "  Thouarhts  en  the  Cause  of  the  present 
Discontents."     Sub  initio — et  passim. 


it  has  to  maintain ; — the  party  in  Opposition, 
therefore,  must  be  marshalled  in  the  same 
way.  When  bad  men  combine,  good  men 
must  unite  : — and  it  would  not  be  less  hope- 
less for  a  crowd  of  worthy  citizens  to  take  the 
field  without  leaders  or  discipline,  against  a 
regular  army,  than  for  individual  patriots  to 
think  of  opposing  the  influence  of  the  Sove- 
reign by  their  separate  and  uncombined  ex- 
ertions. As  to  the  length  which  they  should! 
be  permitted  to  go  in  support  of  the  common 
cause,  or  the  extent  to  which  each  ought  to 
submit  his  private  opinion  to  the  general  sense 
of  his  associates,  it  does  not  appear  to  us — 
though  casuists  may  varnish  over  dishonour, 
and  purists  startle  at  shadows — either  that 
any  man  of  upright  feelings  can  be  often  at  a 
loss  for  a  rule  of  conduct,  or  that,  in  point  of 
fact,  there  has  ever  been  any  blameable  ex 
cess  in  the  maxims  upon  which  the  great  par 
ties  of  this  country  have  been  generally  coKl 
ducted.  The  leading  priRciple  is,  that  a  man 
should  satisfy  himself  that  the  party  to  which 
he  attaches  niraself  means  well  to  the  coun- 
try, and  that  more  substantial  good  w^ill  ac- 
crue to  the  nation  from  its  coming  into  power, 
than  from  the  success  of  any  other  body  of 
men  whose  success  is  at  all  within  the  limits 
of  probability.  Upon  this  principle,  therefore, 
he  will  support  that  party  in  all  things  which 
he  approves — in  all  things  that  are  indiff"erent 
— and  even  in  some  things  M'hich  he  partly 
disapproves,  provided  they  neither  touch  the 
honour  and  vital  interests  of  the  ccuntry,  nor 
imply  any  breach  of  the  ordins.ry  rules  of 
morality. — Upon  the  same  principle  he  Avill 
attack  not  only  all  that  he  individually  disap- 
proves in  the  conduct  of  the  adversary,  but  all 
that  might  appear  indifierent  and  tolerable 
enough  to  a  neutral  spectator,  if  it  afford  an 
opportunity  to  weaken  this  adversary  in  the 
public  opinion,  and  to  increase  the  chance  of 
bringing  that  party  into  power  from  which 
alone  he  sincerely  believes  that  any  sure  or 
systematic  good  is  to  be  expected.  Farther 
than  this  we  do  not  believe  that  the  leaders 
or  respectable  follow^ers  of  any  considerable 
party,  intentionally  allow  themselves  to  go. 
Their  zeal,  indeed,  and  the  heats  and  passions 
engendered  in  the  course  of  the  conflict,  may 
sometimes  hurry  them  into  measures  for 
which  an  impartial  spectator  cannot  find  this 
apology : — but  to  their  own  consciences  and 
honour  we  are  persuaded  that  they  generally 
stand  acquitted  ; — and,  on  the  score  of  duty  oi 
morality,  that  is  all  that  can  be  required  of 
human  beings.  For  the  baser  retainers  of  the 
party  indeed — those  marauders  who  follow  in 
the  rear  of  every  army,  not  for  battle  but  for 
booty — who  concern  themselves  in  no  way 
about  the  justness  of  the  quarrel,  or  the  fair- 
ness of  the  field  —  who  plunder  the  dead, 
and  butcher  the  wounded,  and  desert  the  un- 
prosperous,  and  betray  the  daring ; — for  those 
wretches  who  truly  belong  to  no  party,  and  aif: 
a  disgrace  and  a  drawback  upon  all,  we  shall 
assuredly  make  no  apology,  nor  propose  any 
measures  of  toleration.  The  spirit  by  which 
they  are  actuated  is  the  very  opposite  of  thai 
spirit  which  is  generated  by  the  parties  of  a 


57« 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


free  people ;  and  accordingly  it  is  among  the 
advocates  of  arbitrary  power  that  such  per- 
sons, after  they  have  served  their  purpose  by 
a  pretence  of  patriotic  zeal,  are  ultimately 
found  to  range  themselves. 

We  positively  deny,  then,  that  the  interests 
jf  the  country  have  ever  been  sacrificed  to  a 
vindictive  desire  to  mortify  or  humble  a  rival 
party ; — though  we  freely  admit  that  a  great 
deal  of  the  time  and  the  talent  that  might  be 
devoted  more  directly  to  her  service,  is  wasted 
in  such  an  endeavour.  This,  however,  is  un- 
avoidable— nor  is  it  possible  to  separate  those 
discussions,  which  are  really  necessary  to  ex- 
pose the  dangers  or  absurdity  of  the  practical 
measures  proposed  by  a  party,  from  those 
which  have  really  no  other  end  but  to  expose 
it  to  general  ridicule  or  odium.  This  too, 
however,  it  should  be  remembered,  is  a  point 
in  which'the  country  has  a  still  deeper,  though 
a  more  indirect  interest  than  in  the  former ; 
since  it  is  only  by  such  means  that  a  system 
that  is  radically  vicious  can  be  exploded,  or  a 
set  of  men  fundamentally  corrupt  and  incapa- 
pable  removed.  If  the  time  be  well  spent, 
therefore,  which  is  occupied  in  preventing  or 
palliating  some  particular  act  of  impolicy  or 
oppression,  it  is  impossible  to  grudge  that  by 
which  the  spring  and  the  fountain  of  all  such 
acts  may  be  cut  off. 

With  regard  to  the  tumult — the  disorder — 
the  danger  to  public  peace — the  vexation  and 
discomfort  which  certain  sensitive  persons 
and  great  lovers  of  tranquillity  represent  as 
the  fruits  of  our  political  dissensions,  we  can- 
not help  saying  that  we  have  no  sympathy 
with  their  delicacy  or  their  timidity.  What 
they  look  upon  as  a  frightful  commotion  of  the 
elements,  we  consider  as  no  more  than  a  whole- 
some agitation;  and  cannot  help  regarding 
the  contentions  in  which  freemen  are  engaged 
by  a  conscientious  zeal  for  their  opinions,  as 
an  invigorating  and  not  ungenerous  exercise. 
What  serious  breach  of  the  public  peace  has 
it  occasioned  ? — to  what  insurrections,  or  con- 
spiracies, or  proscriptions  has  it  ever  given 
rise  ] — what  mob  even,  or  tumult,  has  been 
excited  by  the  contention  of  the  two  great 
parties  of  the  state,  since  their  contention  has 
been  open,  and  their  weapons  appointed,  and 
their  career  marked  out  in  the  free  lists  of  the 
constitution? — Suppress  these  contentions,  in- 
deed— forbid  these  weapons,  and  shut  up 
these  lists,  and  you  will  have  conspiracies 
and  insurrections  enough. — These  are  the 
short-sighted  fears  of  tyrants. — The  dissen- 
sions of  a  free  people  are  the  preventives 
and  not  the  indications  of  radical  disorder — 
and  the  noises  which  make  the  weak-hearted 
tremble,  are  but  the  natural  murmurs  of  those 
mighty  and  mingling  currents  of  public  opin- 
ion, which  are  destined  to  fertilize  and  unite 
the  country,  and  can  never  become  danger- 
ous till  an  attempt  is  made  to  obstruct  their 
course,  or  to  disturb  their  level. 

Mr.  Leckie  has  favoured  his  readers  with 


an  enumeration  of  the  advantages  of  absolulrt 

monarchy ; — and  we  are  tempted  to  follow  hia 
example,  by  concluding  with  a  dry  catalogue 
of  the  advantages  of  free  government — each 
of  which  would  require  a  chapter  at  least  as 
long  as  that  which  we  have  now  bestow^ed 
upon  one  of  them.  Next,  then,  to  that  of  its 
superior  security  from  great  reverses  and  atro- 
cities, of  which  we  have  already  spoken  at 
sufficient  length,  we  should  be  disposed  to 
rank  that  pretty  decisive  feature,  of  the  su- 
perior Happiness  which  it  confers  upon  all 
the  individuals  who  live  under  it.  The  con- 
sciousness of  liberty  is  a  great  blessing  and  en- 
joyment in  itself. — The  occupation  it  affords 
— the  importance  it  confers — the  excitement 
of  intellect,  and  the  elevation  of  spirit  vvhicl 
it  implies,  are  all  elements  of  happiness  pe 
culiar  to  this  condition  of  society,  and  quit* 
separate  and  independent  of  the  external  ad-i 
vantages  with  which  it  may  be  attendedj 
In  the  second  place,  how^ever,  liberty  makeg 
men  more  Industrious,  and  consequently  more 
generally  prosperous  and  Wealthy ;  the  result] 
of  which  is,  both  that  they  have  among  theraj 
more  of  the  good  things  that  wealth  can  pr( 
cure,  and  that  the  resources  of  the  State  are 
greater  for  all  public  purposes.  In  the  thirds 
place,  it  renders  men  more  Valiant  and  High- 
minded,  and  also  promotes  the  development 
of  Genius  and  Talents,  both  by  the  unboundec" 
career  it  opens  up  to  the  emulation  of  even 
individual  in  the  land,  and  by  the  natural  ei 
feet  of  all  sorts  of  intellectual  or  moral  ex* 
citement  to  awaken  all  sorts  of  intellectuj 
and  moral  capabilities.  In  the  fourth  place 
it  renders  men  more  Patient,  and  Docile,  an( 
Resolute  in  the  pursuit  of  any  public  object 
and  consequently  both  makes  their  chance  oi 
success  greater,  and  enables  them  to  make 
much  greater  efforts  in  every  way,  in  proporH 
tion  to  the  extent  of  their  population.  N< 
slaves  could  ever  have  undergone  the  toils  t< 
which  the  Spartans  or  the  Romans  taskec 
themselves  for  the  good  or  the  glory  of  theil 
country ; — and  no  tyrant  could  ever  have  ex^ 
torted  the  sums  in  which  the  Commons  of 
England  have  voluntarily  assessed  themselves 
for  the  exigencies  of  the  state.  These  are 
among  the  positive  advantages  of  freedom; 
and,  in  our  opinion,  are  its  chief  advantages. 
— But  we  must  not  forget,  in  the  fifth  and  last 
place,  that  there  is  nothing  else  but  a  free 
government  by  which  men  can  be  secured 
from  those  arbitrary  invasions  of  their  Persons 
and  Properties — those  cruel  persecutions,  op- 
pressive imprisonments,  and  lawless  execu- 
tions, which  no  formal  code  can  prevent  an 
absolute  monarch  from  regarding  as  a  part  of 
his  prerogative;  and,  above  all,  from  those 
provincial  exactions  and  oppressions,  and 
those  universal  Insults,  and  Contumelies,  and 
Indignities,  by  \vhich  the  inferior  minions  of 
power  spread  misery  and  degradation  among 
the  whole  mass  of  every  people  which  has  ns 
political  independence. 


RESTORATION  OF  THE  BOURBOI^S. 


6n 


(Caprtl,  1814.) 


A  Song  of  Triumph.     ByW.  Sothebf,  Esq. 


VActe  Constitutionnclj  en  la  Seance  du  9  Avril, 


8vo. 
1814. 


Londoif:  1814. 
8vo.     Londres:   1814. 

Of  Bonaparte,  the  Bourbons,  and  the  Necessity  of  rallying  round  our  legitimate  Princes,  for  the 
Happiness  of  France  and  of  Europe.    By  F.  A.  Chateaubriand.    8vo.    London:  1814.* 


It  would  be  strange  indeed,  we  think,  if 
pages  dedicated  like  ours  to  topics  of  present 
interest,  and  the  discussions  of  the  passing 
hour,  should  be  ushered  into  the  world  at  such 
a  moment  as  this,  without  some  stamp  of  that 
common  joy  and  anxious  emotion  with  which 
the  wonderful  events  of  the  last  three  months 
are  still  tilling  all  the  regions  of  the  earth.  In 
such  a  situation,  it  must  be  difficult  for  any 
one  who  has  the  means  of  being  heard,  to  re- 
frain from  giving  utterance  to  his  sentiments : 
But  to  us,  whom  it  has  assured,  for  the  first 
time,  of  the  entire  sympathy  of  all  our  coun- 
trymen, the  temptation,  we  own,  is  irresisti- 
ble ;  and  the  good-natured  part  of  our  readers, 
we  are  persuaded,  will  rather  smile  at  our 
simplicity,  than  fret  at  our  presumption,  when 
we  add,  that  we  have  sometimes  permitted 
ourselves  to  fancy  that,  if  any  copy  of  these 
our  lucubrations  should  go  down  to  another 
generation,  it  may  be  thought  curious  to  trace 
m  them  the  first  effects  of  events  that  are  pro- 
bably destined  to  fix  the  fortune  of  succeed^ 
ing  centuries,  and  to  observe  the  impressions 
which  were  made  on  the  minds  of  contempo- 
raries, by  those  mighty  transactions,  which 
will  appear  of  yet  greater  moment  in  the  eyes 
of  a  distant  posterity.  We  are  still  too  near 
that  great  image  of  Deliverance  and  Reform 
which  the  Genius  of  Europe  has  just  set  up 
before  us,  to  discern  with  certainty  its  just 
lineaments,  or  construe  the  true  character  of 
the  Aspect  with  which  it  looks  onward  to  fu- 
turity !  We  see  enough,  however,  to  fill  us 
with  innumerable  feelings,  and  the  germs  of 


*  This,  I  am  afraid,  will  now  be  thought  to  be  too 
much  of  a  mere  "  Song  of  Triumph  ;"  or,  at  least, 
to  be  conceived  throughout  in  a  far  more  sanguine 
spirit  than  is  consistent  either  with  a  wise  observa- 
tion of  passing  events,  or  a  philosophical  estimate 
of  the  frailties  of  human  nature  :  And,  having  cer- 
tainly been  written  under  that  prevailing  excite- 
ment, of  which  I  chiefly  wish  to  preserve  it  as  a 
memorial,  I  have  no  doubt  that,  to  some  extent,  it 
is  so.  At  the  same  time  it  should  be  recollected, 
that  it  was  written  immediately  after  the  first  res- 
toration  of  the  Bourbons  ;  and  before  the  startling 
drama  of  the  Hundred  Days,  and  its  grand  catastro- 
phe at  Waterloo,  had  dispelled  the  first  wholesome 
tears  of  the  Allies,  or  sown  the  seeds  of  more  bitter 
ranklings  and  resentments  in  the  body  of  the  French 
people :  and,  above  all,  that  it  was  so  written,  be- 
fore the  many  lawless  invasions  of  national  inde- 
pendence, and  broken  promises  of  Sovereigns  to 
their  subjects,  which  have  since  revived  that  dis- 
trust, which  both  nations  and  philosophers  were 
then,  perhaps,  too  ready  to  renounce.  And  after 
all,  I  must  say,  that  an  attentive  reader  may  find, 
even  in  this  strain  of  good  auguries,  both  such  traces 
of  misgivings,  and  such  iteration  of  anxious  warn- 
ings, as  to  save  me  from  the  imputation  of  having 
merely  predicted  a  Millennium. 
37 


many  high  and  anxious  speculations.  The  feel- 
ings, we  are  sure,  are  in  unison  with  all  that 
exists  around  us ;  and  we  reckon  therefore  on 
more  than  usual  indulgence  for  the  specula- 
tions into  which  they  may  expand. 

The  first  and  predominant  feeling  which 
rises  on  contemplating  the  scenes  that  have 
just  burst  on  our  view,  is  that  of  deep-felt 
gratitude  and  delight, — for  the  liberation  of 
so  many  oppressed  nations, — for  the  cessation 
of  bloodshed  and  fear  and  misery  over  the 
fairest  portions  of  the  civilised  world, — and 
for  the  enchanting,  though  still  dim  and  un- 
certain prospect  of  long  peace  and  measureless 
improvement,  which  seems  at  last  to  be  open- 
ing on  the  suffering  kingdoms  of  Europe.  The 
very  novelty  of  such  a  state  of  things,  which 
could  be  known  only  by  description  to  the 
greater  part  of  the  existing  generation — the 
suddenness  of  its  arrival,  and  the  contrast 
which  it  forms  with  the  anxieties  and  alarms 
to  which  it  has  so  immediately  succeeded,  all 
o©ncur  most  powerfully  to  enhance  its  vast 
intrinsic  attractions.  It  has  come  upon  the 
world  like  the  balmy  air  and  flushing  verdure 
of  a  late  spring,  after  the  dreary  chills  of  a 
long  and  interminable  winter-  and  the  re- 
freshing sweetness  with  which  it  has  visited 
the  earth,  feels  like  Elysium  to  those  who 
have  just  escaped  from  the  driving  tempests 
it  has  banished. 

We  have  reason  to  hope,  too,  that  the  riches 
of  the  harvest  will  correspond  with  the  splen- 
dour of  this  early  promise.  All  the  periods 
in  which  human  society  and  human  intellect 
have  been  known  to  make  great  and  memor- 
able advances,  have  followed  close  upon 
periods  of  general  agitation  and  disorder. 
Men's  minds,  it  would  appear,  must  be  deeply 
and  roughly  stirred,  before  they  become  pro- 
lific of  great  conceptions,  or  vigorous  resolves; 
and  a  vast  and  alarming  fermentation  must 
pervade  and  agitate  the  mass  of  society,  to 
inform  it  with  that  kindly  warmth,  by  which 
alone  the  seeds  of  genius  and  improvement 
can  be  expanded.  The  fact,  at  all  events,  is 
abundantly  certain  ;  and  may  be  accounted 
for,  we  conceive,  without  mystery,  and  with- 
out metaphors. 

A  popular  revolution  in  government  or  re- 
ligion— or  any  thing  else  that  gives  rise  to 
general  and  long-continued  contention,  natu- 
rally produces  a  prevailing  disdain  of  author- 
ity, and  boldness  of  thinking  in  the  leaders 
of  the  fray, — together  with  a  kindling  of  the 
imagination  and  development  of  intellect  in  a 
great  multitude  of  persons,  who,  in  ordinary 
times,  would  have  vegetated  stupidly  in  the 
places  where  fortune  had  fixed  them.   Power 


578 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


and  distinction,  and  all  the  higher  prizes  in 
the  lottery  of  life,  are  then  brought  within  the 
reach  of  a  larger  proportion  of  the  community ; 
and  that  vivifying  spirit  of  ambition,  which  is 
the  true  source  of  all  improvement,  instead 
of  burning  at  a  few  detached  ^points  on  the 
summit  of  society,  now  pervades  every  por- 
tion of  its  frame.  Much  extravagance,  and,  in 
all  probability,  much  guilt  and  much  misery, 
result,  in  the  first  instance,  from  this  sudden 
extrication  of  talent  and  enterprise,  in  places 
where  they  can  as  yet  have  no  legitimate 
issue,  or  points  of  application.  But  the  con- 
tending elements  at  last  find  their  spheres, 
and  their  balance.  The  disorder  ceases ;  but 
the  activity  rerr.ains.  The  multitudes  that 
had  been  raised  into  intellectual  existence  by 
dangerous  passions  and  crazy  illusions,  do  not 
all  relapse  into  their  original  torpor,  when 
their  passions  are  allayed  and  their  illusions 
dispelled.  There  is  a  great  permanent  addi- 
tion to  the  power  and  the  enterprise  of  the 
community ;  and  the  talent  and  the  activity 
which  at  first  convulsed  the  state  by  their 
unmeasured  and  misdirected  exertions,  ulti- 
mately bless  and  adorn  it,  under  a  more  en- 
lightened and  less  intemperate  guidance.  If 
we  may  estimate  the  amount  of  this  ultimate 
good  by  that  of  the  disorder  which  preceded 
it,  we  cannot  be  too  sanguine  in  our  calcula- 
tions of  the  happiness  that  awaits  the  rising 
generation.  The  fermentation,  it  will  readily 
be  admitted,  has  been  long  and  violent  enough 
to  extract  all  the  virtue  of  all  the  ingredients 
that  have  been  submitted  to  its  action ;  and 
enough  of  scum  has  boiled  over,  and  enough 
of  pestilent  vapour  been  exhaled,  to  afford  a 
reasonable  assurance  that  the  residuum  will 
be  both  ample  and  pure. 

If  this  delight  in  the  spectacle  and  the 
prospect  of  boundless  good,  be  ^/^e  /irsf  feeling 
that  is  excited  by  the  scene  before  us,  the 
second,  we  do  not  hesitate  to  say,  is  a  stern 
and  vindictive  joy  at  the  downfal  of  the  Tyrant 
and  the  tyranny  by  whom  that  good  had  been 
80  long  intercepted.  We  feel  no  compassion 
for  that  man's  reverses  of  fortune,  whose 
heart,  in  the  days  of  his  prosperity,  was 
steeled  against  that,  or  any  other  humanising 
emotion.  He  has  fallen,  substantially,  with- 
Oiit  the  pity,  as  he  rose  without  the  love,  of 
any  portion  of  mankind  ;  and  the  admiration 
which  was  excited  by  his  talents  and  activity 
and  success,  having  no  solid  stay  in  the  mag- 
nanimity or  generosity  of  his  character,  has 
been  turned,  perhaps  rather  too  eagerly,  into 
scorn  and  derision,  now  that  he  is  deserted 
by  fortune,  and  appears  without  extraordinary 
resources  in  the  day  of  his  calamity. — We  do 
not  think  that  an  ambitious  despot  and  san- 
^inary  conqueror  can  be  too  much  execrated, 
or  too  little  respected  by  mankind  ;  but  the 
popular  clamour,  at  this  moment,  seems  to  us 
to  be  carried  too  far,  even  against  this  very 
dangerous  individual.  It  is  now  discovered, 
it  seems,  that  he  has  neither  genius  nor  com- 
mon sense ;  and  he  is  accused  of  cowardice  for 
not  killing  himself,  by  the  very  persons  who 
woula  iiifallibly  have  exclaimed  against  his 
•uicide,  as  a  clear  proof  of  weakness  and 


folly.  History,  we  think,  will  not  class  hira 
quite  so  low  as  the  English  newspapers  of  the 
present  day.  He  is  a  creature  to  be  dreaded 
and  condemned,  but  not,  assuredly,  to  be 
despised  by  men  of  ordinary  dimensions.  His 
catastrophe,  so  far  tis  it  is  yet  visible,  seems 
unsuitable  indeed,  and  incongruous  with  the 
part  he  has  hitherto  sustained ;  but  we  have 
perceived  nothing  in  it  materially  to  alter  the 
estimate  which  we  formed  long  ago  of  his 
character.  He  still  seems  to  us  a  man  of 
consummate  conduct,  valour,  and  decision  in 
war,  but  without  the  virtues,  or  even  the 
generous  or  social  vices  of  a  soldier  of  fortune ; 
— of  matchless  activity  indeed,' and  boundless 
ambition,  but  entirely  without  principle,  feel- 
ing, or  affection ; — suspicious,  vindictive,  and 
overbearing ; — selfish  and  solitary  in  all  his 
pursuits  and  gratifications ; — proud  and  over- 
weening, to  the  very  borders  of  insanity  • — • 
and  considering  at  last  the  laws  of  honour  and 
the  principles  of  morality,  equally  beneath  his 
notice  with  the  interests  and  feelings  of  other 
men. — Despising  those  who  submitted  to  his 
pretensions,  and  pursuing,  with  implacable 
hatred,  all  who  presumed  to  resist  them,  he 
seems  to  have  gone  on  in  a  growing  confi- 
dence in  his  own  fortune,  and  contempt  for 
mankind. — till  a  serious  check  from  withont 
showed  him  the  error  of  his  calculation,  and 
betrayed  the  fatal  insecurity  of  a  career  which 
reckoned  only  on  prosperity. 

Over  the  downfal  of  such  a  man,  it  is  fitting 
that  the  world  should  rejoice ;  and  his  down- 
fal, and  the  circumstances  with  which  it  has 
been  attended,  seem  to  us  to  hold  out  three 
several  grounds  of  rejoicing. 

In  the  first  place,  we  think  it  has  establish- 
ed for  ever  the  impracticability  of  any  scheme 
of  universal  dominion ;  and  proved,  that  Eu- 
rope possesses  sufficient  means  to  maintain 
and  assert  the  independence  of  her  several 
states,  in  despite  of  any  power  that  can  be 
brought  against  them.  It  might  formerly  have 
been  doubted, — and  many  minds  of  no  abject 
cast  were  depressed  with  more  than  doubts 
on  the  subject, — whether  the  undivided  sway 
which  Rome  exercised  of  old,  by  means  of 
superior  skill  and  discipline,  might  not  be  re- 
vived in  modern  times  by  arrangement,  ac- 
tivity, and  intimidation, — and  whether,  in 
spite  of  the  boasted  intelligence  of  Europe  at 
the  present  day,  the  ready  communication 
between  all  its  parts,  and  the  supposed  weight 
of  its  public  opinion,  the  sovereign  of  one  or 
two  great  kingdoms  might  not  subdue  all  the 
rest,  by  rapidity  of  movement  and  decision 
of  conduct,  and  retain  them  in  subjection  by 
a  strict  system  of  disarming  and  espionage — 
by  a  constant  interchange  of  armies  and  sta- 
tions— and,  in  short,  by  a  dexterous  and  alert 
use  of  those  very  means,  of  extensive  intelli- 
gence and  communication,  which  their  civil- 
isation seemed  at  first  to  hold  out  as  their 
surest  protection.  The  experiment,  however, 
has  now  been  tried ;  and  the  result  is,  that 
the  nations  of  Europe  can  never  be  brought 
under  the  rule  of  one  conquering  sovereign. 
No  individual,  it  maybe  fairly  presumed,  will 
ever  try  that  fatal  experiment  again,  with  so 


RESTORATION  OF  THE  BOURBONS. 


579 


many  extraordinary  advantages,  and  chances 
of  success,  as  he  ip  whose  hands  it  has  now 
finally  miscarried.  The  different  states,  it  is 
to  be  hoped,  will  never  again  be  found  so 
shamefully  unprovided  for  defence — so  long 
insensible  to  their  danger  —  and,  let  us  not 
scruple  at  last  to  speak  the  truth,  so  little 
worthy  of  being  saved — as  most  of  them  were 
at  the  beginning  of  that  awful  period ;  while 
there  is  still  less  chance  of  any  military  sove- 
reign again  finding  himself  invested  with  the 
absolute  disposal  of  so  vast  a  population,  at 
once  habituated  to  war  and  victory  by  the 
energies  of  a  popular  revolution,  and  disposed 
to  submit  to  any  hardships  and  privations  for 
a  ruler  who  would  protect  them  from  a  re- 
currence of  revolutionary  horrors.  That  ruler, 
however,  and  that  population,  reinforced  by 
immense  drafts  from  the  countries  he  had 
already  overrun,  has  now  been  fairly  beaten 
down  by  the  other  nations  of  Europe  —  at 
length  cordially  united  by  a  sense  of  their 
common  danger.  Henceforward,  therefore, 
they  show  their  strength,  and  the  means  and 
occasions  of  bringing  it  into  action ;  and  the 
very  notoriety  of  that  strength,  and  of  the 
scenes  on  which  it  has  been  proved,  will  in 
all  probability  prevent  the  recurrence  of  any 
necessity  for  proving  it  again. 

The  second  ground  of  rejoicing  in  the  down- 
fal  of  Bonaparte  is  on  account  of  the  impres- 
sive lesson  it  has  read  to  Ambition,  and  the 
striking  illustration  it  has  afforded,  of  the  in- 
evitable tendency  of  that  passion  to  bring  to 
ruin  the  power  and  the  greatness  which  it 
seeks  so  madly  to  increase.  No  human  being, 
perhaps,  ever  stood  on  so  proud  a  pinnacle  of 
worldly  grandeur,  as  this  insatiable  conqueror, 
at  the  beginning  of  his  Russian  campaign. — 
He  had  done  more — he  had  acquired  more — 
and  he  possessed  more,  as  to  actual  power, 
influence,  and  authority,  than  any  individual 
that  ever  figured  on  the  scene  of  European 
story.  He  had  visited,  with  a  victorious  army, 
almost  every  capital  of  the  Continent;  and 
dictated  the  terms  of  peace  to  their  astonished 
princes.  He  had  consolidated  under  his  im- 
mediate dominion,  a  territory  and  population 
apparently  sufficient  to  meet  the  combination 
of  all  that  it  did  not  include ;  and  interwoven 
himself  with  the  government  of  almost  all 
that  was  left.  He  had  cast  down  and  erected 
thrones  at  his  pleasure ;  and  surrounded  him- 
self with  tributary  kings,  and  principalities 
jf  his  own  creation.  He  nad  connected  him- 
self by  marriage  with  the  proudest  of  the 
ancient  sovereigns ;  and  was  at  the  head  of 
the  largest  and  the  finest  army  that  was  ever 
assembled  to  desolate  or  dispose  of  the  world. 
Had  he  known  where  to  stop  in  his  aggres- 
sions upon  the  peace  and  independence  of 
mankind,  it  seems  as  if  this  terrific  sove- 
reignty might  have  been  permanently  es- 
tablished in  his  person.  But  the  demon  by 
whom  he  was  possessed  urged  him  on  to  his 
fate.  He  could  not  bear  that  any  power  should 
exist  which  did  not  confess  its  dependence  on 
him.  Without  a  pretext  for  quarrel,  he  at- 
tacked Russia — insulted  Austria — trod  con- 
lemptuously  on  the  fallen  fortunes  of  Prussia 


— and  by  new  aggressions,  and  the  menace 
of  more  intolerable-  evils,  drove  them  mto  that 
league  which  rolled  back  the  tide  of  ruin  on 
himself,  and  ultimately  hurled  him  into  the 
insignificance  from  which  he  originally  sprung. 

It  is  for  this  reason,  chiefly,  that  we  join  in 
the  feeling,  which  we  think  universal  in  this 
country,  of  joy  and  satisfaction  at  the  utter 
destruction  of  this  victim  of  Ambition, — and 
at  the  failure  of  those  negotiations,  which 
would  have  left  him,  though  humbled,  in 
possession  of  a  sovereign  state,  and  of  great 
actual  power  and  authority.  We  say  nothing 
at  present  of  the  policy  or  the  necessity,  that 
may  have  dictated  those  propositions ;  but  the 
actual  result  is  far  more  satisfactory,  than  any 
condition  of  their  acceptance.  Without  this, 
the  lesson  to  Ambition  would  have  been  im- 
perfect, and  the  retribution  of  Eternal  Justice 
apparently  incomplete.  It  was  fitting,  that 
the  world  should  see  it  again  demonstrated, 
by  this  great  example,  that  the  appetite  of 
conquest  is  in  its  own  nature  insatiable; — 
and  that  a  being,  once  abandoned  to  that 
bloody  career,  is  fated  to  pursue  it  to  the  end  j 
and  must  persist  in  the  work  of  desolation 
and  murder,  till  the  accumulated  wrongs  and 
resentments  of  the  harassed  world  sweep  him 
from  its  face.  The  knowledge  of  this  maj- 
deter  some  dangerous  spirits  from  entering  on 
a  course,  which  will  infallibly  bear  them  on 
to  destruction  ; — and  at  all  events  should  in- 
duce the  sufferers  to  cut  short  the  measure 
of  its  errors  and  miseries,  by  accomplishing 
their  doom  at  the  beginning.  Sanguinary 
conquerors,  we  do  not  hesitate  to  say,  should 
be  devoted  by  a  perpetual  proscription,  in 
mercy  to  the  rest  of  the  world. 

Our  last  cause  of  rejoicing  over  this  grand 
catastrophe,  arises  from  the  discredit,  and 
even  the  derision,  which  it  has  so  opportunely 
thrown  upon  the  character  of  conquerors  in 
general.  The  thinking  part  of  mankind  did 
not  perhaps  need  to  be  disabused  upon  this 
subject ; — but  no  illusion  was  ever  so  strong, 
or  so  pernicious  with  the  multitude,  as  that 
which  invested  heroes  of  this  description  with 
a  sort  of  supernatural  grandeur  and  dignity, 
and  bent  the  spirits  of  men  before  them,  as 
beings  intrinsically  entitled  to  the  homage  and 
submission  of  inferior  natures.  It  is  above 
all  things  fortunate,  therefore,  when  this  spell 
can  be  broken,  by  merely  reversing  the  opera- 
tion by  which  it  had  been  imposed  ;  when  the 
idols  that  success  had  tricked  out  in  the  mock 
attributes  of  divinity,  are  stripped  of  their 
disguise  by  the  rough  hand  of  misfortune,  and 
exhibited  before  the  indignant  and  wondering 
eyes  of  their  admirers,  in  the  naked  littleness 
of  humbled  and  helpless  men, — depending, 
for  life  and  subsistence,  on  the  pity  of  their 
human  conquerors, — and  spared  with  safety, 
in  consequence  of  their  insignificance. — Such 
an  exhibition,  we  would  fain  hope,  will  rescue 
men  for  ever  from  that  most  humiliating  devo- 
tion, which  has  hitherto  so  often  tempted  the 
ambition,  and  facilitated  the  progress  of  con- 
querors.— It  is  not  in  our  days,  at  least,  that 
it  will  be  forgotten,  that  Bonaparte  turned  out 
a  mere  mortal  in  the  end  ; — and  ne  \h.=»r  in  ou# 


580 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


days,  nor  in  those  of  our  children,  is  it  at  all 
likely,  that  any  other  adventurer  will  arise  to 
efface  the  impressions  connected  with  that 
recollection,  by  more  splendid  achievements, 
than  distinguished  the  greater  part  of  his 
career.  Tne  kind  of  shame,  too,  that  is  felt 
by  those  who  have  been  the  victims  or  the 
instruments  of  a  being  so  weak  and  fallible, 
will  make  it  difficult  for  any  successor  to  his 
ambition,  so  to  overawe  the  minds  of  the 
world  again ;  and  will  consequently  diminish 
the  dread,  while  it  exasperates  the  hatred, 
with  which  presumptuous  oppression  ought 
always  to  be  regarded. 

If  the  downfal  of  Bonaparte  teach  this 
lesson,  and  fix  this  feeling  in  the  minds  of 
men.  we  should  almost  be  tempted  to  say  that 
the  miseries  he  has  inflicted  are  atoned  for ; 
and  that  his  life,  on  the  whole,  will  have  been 
useful  to  mankind.  Undoubtedly  there  is  no 
other  single  source  of  wretchedness  so  prolific 
as  that  strange  fascination  by  which  atrocious 
guilt  is  converted  into  an  object  of  admiration, 
and  the  honours  due  to  the  benefactors  of  the 
human  race  lavished  most  profusely  on  their 
destroyers.  A  sovereign  who  pursues  schemes 
of  conquest  for  the  gratification  of  his  personal 
ambition,  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  a  being 
who  inflicts  violent  death  upon  thousands, 
and  miseries  still  more  agonising  on  millions, 
of  innocent  individuals,  to  relieve  his  own 
ennui,  and  divert  the  languors  of  a  base  and 
worthless  existence  : — and,  if  it  be  true  that 
the  chief  excitement  to  such  exploits  is  found 
in  the  false  Glory  with  which  the  madness 
of  mankind  has  surrounded  their  successful 
performance,  it  will  not  be  easy  to  calculate 
how  much  we  are  indebted  to  him  whose  his- 
tory has  contributed  to  dispel  it. 

Next  to  our  delight  at  the  overthrow  of 
Bonaparte,  is  our  exultation  at  the  glory  of 
England. — It  is  a  proud  and  honourable  dis- 
tinction to  be  able  to  say,  in  the  end  of  such 
a  contest,  that  we  belong  to  the  only  nation 
that  has  never  been  conquered  ', — to  the  nation 
that  set  the  first  example  of  successful  resist- 
ance to  the  power  that  was  desolating  the 
world, — and  who  always  stood  erect,  though 
she  sometimes  stood  alone,  before  it.  From 
England  alone,"  that  power,  to  which  all  the 
rest  had  successively  bowed,  has  won  no  tro- 
phies, and  extorted  no  submission;  on  the 
contrary,  she  has  been  constantly  baffled  and 
disgraced  whenever  she  has  grappled  directly 
with  the  might  and  energy  of  England.  Dur- 
ing the  proudest  part  of  her  continental  career, 
England  drove  her  ships  from  the  ocean,  and 
annihilated  her  colonies  and  her  commerce. 
The  first  French  army  that  capitulated,  capit- 
ulated to  the  English  forces  in  Egypt;  and 
Lord  Wellington  is  the  only  commander 
against  whom  six  Marshals  of  France  have 
successively  tried  in  vain  to  procure  any  ad- 
vantage. 

The  efforts  of  England  have  not  always 
been  well  directed, — nor  her  endeavours  to 
rouse  the  other  nations  of  Europe  very  wisely 
timefl : — But  she  has  set  a  magnificent  ex- 
ample of  unconquerable  fortitude  and  unalter- 
able constancy ;  and  she  may  claim  the  proud 


distinction  of  having  kept  alive  the  sacrert 
flame  of  liberty  and  the  spirit  of  national  in 
dependence,  when  the  chill  of  general  appre- 
hension, and  the  rushing  whirlwind  of  con- 
quest, had  apparently  extinguished  them  io\ 
ever,  in  the  other  nations  of  the  earth.  N(« 
course  of  prosperity,  indeed,  and  no  harves\ 
of  ultimate  success,  can  ever  extinguish  the 
regret  of  all  the  true  friends  of  our  national 
glory  and  happiness,  for  the  many  preposter- 
ous, and  the  occasionally  disreputable  expe- 
ditions, in  which  English  blood  was  more 
than  unprofitably  wasted;  and  English  char- 
acter more  than  imprudently  involved;  nor 
can  the  delightful  assurance  of  our  actual 
deliverance  from  danger  efface  the  remem- 
brance of  the  tremendous  hazard  to  which  we 
were  so  long  exposed  by  the  obstinate  mis- 
government  of  Ireland.  These,  however,  were 
the  sins  of  the  Government. — and  do  not  at 
all  detract  from  the  excellent  spirit  of  the 
People,  to  which,  in  its  main  bearings,  it  was 
necessary  for  the  government  to  conform. 
That  spirit  was  always,  and  we  believe  uni- 
versally, a  spirit  of  strong  attachment  to  the 
country,  and  of  stern  resolution  to  do  all 
things,  and  to  suffer  all  things  in  its  cause  ;— 
mingled  with  more  or  less  confidence,  or  more 
or  less  anxiety,  according  to  the  temper  or  the 
information  of  individuals, — but  sound,  steady 
and  erect  we  believe  upon  the  whole, — and 
equally  determined  to  risk  all  for  independ- 
ence, whether  it  was  believed  to  be  in  great 
or  in  little  danger. 

Of  our  own  sentiments  and  professions,  and 
of  the  consistency  of  our  avowed  principles, 
from  the  first  to  the  last  of  this  momentous 
period,  it  would  be  impertinent  to  speak  at 
large,  in  discussing  so  great  a  theme  as  the 
honour  of  our  common  country.  None  of  our 
readers,  and  none  of  our  censors,  can  be  more 
persuaded  than  we  are  of  the  extreme  insig- 
nificance of  such  a  discussion — and  not  many 
of  them  can  feel  more  completely  indifferent 
about  the  aspersions  with  which  we  have 
been  distinguished,  or  more  fully  convinced 
of  the  ultimate  justice  of  public  opinion.  We 
shall  make  no  answer  therefore  to  the  sneers 
and  calumnies  of  which  it  has  been  thought 
worth  while  to  make  us  the  subject,  except 
just  to  say,  that  if  any  man  can  read  what  we 
have  written  on  public  affairs,  and  entertain 
any  serious  doubt  of  oui*  zeal  for  the  safety, 
the  honour,  and  the  freedom  of  England,  he 
must  attach  a  different  meaning  to  all  these 
phrases  from  that  which  we  have  most  sin- 
cerely believed  to  belong  to  them ;  and  that, 
though  we  do  not  pretend  to  have  either  fore- 
seen or  foretold  the  happy  events  that  have  so 
lately  astonished  the  world,  we  cannot  fail  to 
see  in  them  the  most  gratifying  confirmation 
of  the  very  doctrines  we  have  been  the  longesi 
and  the  most  loudly  abused  for  asserting. 

The  last  sentiment  in  which  we  think  all 
candid  observers  of  the  late  great  events  must 
cordially  agree,  is  that  of  admiration  and  pure 
and  unmingled'  approbation  of  the  magnani- 
mity, the  prudence,  the  dignity  and  forbear- 
ance of  the  Allies.  There  has  been  some- 
thing in  the  manner  of  those  extraordinary 


RESTORATION  OF  THE  BOURBONS. 


681 


fransaclions  as  valuable  as  the  substance  of 
what  has  been  achieved, — and,  if  possible, 
still  more  meritorious.    History  records  no  in- 
stance of  union  so  faithful  and  complete — of 
councils  so  firm — of  gallantry  so  generous — 
of  moderation  so  dignified  and  wise.    In  read- 
ing the  addresses  of  the  Allied  Sovereigns  to 
the  people  of  Europe  and  of  France ;  and, 
above  all,  in  tracing  every  step  of  their  de- 
meanour after  they  got  possession  of  the  me- 
tropolis, we  seem  to  be  transported  from  the 
vulg-ar  and  disgusting  realities  of  actual  story, 
to  the  beautiful  imaginations  and  exalted  fic- 
tions of  poetry  and  romance.    The  proclama- 
tion of  the  Emperor  Alexander  to  the  military 
men  who  might  be  in  Paris  on  his  arrival — his 
address  to  the  Senate — the  terms  in  which  he 
has  always  spoken  of  his  fallen  adversary, 
are  all  conceived  in  the  very  highest  strain  of 
nobleness  and  wisdom.     They  have  all  the 
spirit,  the  courtesy,  the  generosity,  of  the  age 
of  chivalry;  and  all  the  liberality  and  mild- 
ness of  that  of  philosophy.     The  disciple  of 
Fenelon  could  not  have '  conducted  himself 
with  more  perfect  amiableness and  grandeur; 
and  the  fabulous  hero  of  the  loftiest  and  most 
philanthropic  of  moralists,  has  been  equalled, 
if  not  outdone,  by  a  Russian  monarch,  in  the 
1       first  flush  and'  tumult  of  victory.     The  sub- 
I       limity  of  the  scene  indeed,  and  the  merit  of 
I       the  actors,  will  not  be  fairly  appreciated,  if 
we  do  not  recollect  that  they  were  arbitrary 
sovereigns,  who  had  been  trained  rather  to 
consult  their  own  feelings  than  the  rights  of 
mankind — who  had  been  disturbed  on  their 
hereditary  thrones  by  the  wanton  aggressions 
of  the  man  who  now  lay  at  their  mercy — and 
had  seen  their  territories  wasted,  their  people 
butchered,  and  their  capitals  pillaged,  by  him 
they  had  at  last  chased  to  his  den,  and  upon 
whose  capital,  and  whose  people,  they  might 
now  repay  the  insults  that  had  been  offered 
to  theirs.   They  judged  more  magnanimously, 
however ;  and  they  judged  more  wisely — for 
their  own  glory,  for  the  objects  they  had  in 
view,  and  for  the  general  interests  of  humani- 
ty.    By  their  generous  forbearance,  and  sin- 
gular moderation,  they  not  only  put  their  ad- 
versary in  the  wrong  in  the  eyes  of  all  Europe, 
but  they  made  him  appear  little  and  ferocious 
in  comparison ;    and,  while  overbearing   all 
•    opposition  by  superior  force,  and  heroic  reso- 
lution, they  paid  due  honour  to  the  valour  by 
which  they  had  been  resisted,  and  gave  no 
avoidable  offence  to  that  national  pride  which 
might  have  presented  the  greatest  of  all  ob- 
stacles to  their  success.     From  the  beginning 
to  the  end  of  their  hostile  operations,  the.y 
avoided  naming   the   name   of  the   ancient 
family;  and  not  in  words  merely,  but  in  the 
whole  strain  and  tenor  of  their  conduct,  re- 
spected the  inherent  right  of  the  nation  to 
choose  its  own  government,  and  stipulated  for 
nothing  but  what  was  indispensable  for  the 
safety  of  its  neighbours.    Born,  as  they  were, 
to  unlimited  thrones,  and  accustomed  in  their 
own  persons  to  the  exercise  of  power  that  ad- 
mitted but  little  control,  they  did  not  scruple 
to  declare  publicly,  that  France,  at  least,  was 
entitled  to  a  larger  measure  of  freedom ;  and 


that  the  intelligence  of  its  population  entitled 
it  to  a  share  in  its  own  government.     The} 
exerted  themselves  sincerely  to  mediate  be- 
tween the  different  parties  that  might  be  sup- 
posed to  exist  in  the  state ;  and  treated  each 
with  a  respect  that  taught  its  opponents  that 
they  might  coalesce  without  being  dishonour- 
ed.    In  this  way  the  seeds  of  civil  discord, 
which  such  a  crisis  could  scarcely  have  failed 
to  quicken,  have,  we  trust,  been  almost  en- 
tirely destroyed ;  and  if  France  escapes  the 
visitation   of   internal   dissension,  it  will   be 
chiefly  owing  to  the  considerate  and  magnani- 
mous prudence  of  those  very  persons  to  whom 
Europe  has  been  indebted  for  her  deliverance. 
In  this  high  and  unqualified  praise,  it  is  a 
singular  satisfaction  to  us  to  be  able  to  say, 
that  our  ow'n  Government  seems  fully  entitled 
to  participate.    In  the  whole  of  those  most  im- 
portant proceedings,  the  Ministry  of  England 
appears  to  have  conducted  itself  with  wisdom, 
moderation,  and  propriety.     In  spite  of  the 
vehement  clamours  of  many  in   their  own 
party,  and  the  repugnance  which  was  said  to 
exist  in  higher  quarters  to  any  negotiation  with 
Bonaparte,  they  are  understood  to  have  ad- 
hered with  laudable  firmness  to  the  clear  po- 
licy of  not  disjoining  their  country  from  that 
great  confederacy,  through  which  alone,  either 
peace  or  victory,  was  rationally  to  be  expect 
ed: — and,   going  heartily   along  with    their 
allies,  both  in  their  unrivalled  eff'orts  and  in 
their  heroic  forbearance,  they  too  refrained 
from  recognising  the  ancient  family,  till  they 
were  invited  to  return  by  the    spontaneous 
voice  of  their  own  nation ;  and  thus  gave  them 
the  glory  of  being  recalled  by  the  appearance 
at  last  of  affection,  instead  of  being  replaced 
by  force ;  while  the  nation,  which  force  would 
either  have  divided,  or  disgusted  entire,  did 
all  that  was  wanted,  as  the  free  act  of  their 
own  patriotism  and  wisdom.    Considering  the 
temper  that  had  long  been  fostered,  and  the 
tone  that  had  been  maintained  among  their 
warmest  supporters  at  home,  we  think  this 
conduct  of  the  ministry  entitled  to  the  highest 
credit ;  and  we  give  it  our  praise  now,  with 
the  same  freedom  and  sincerity  with  which 
we  pledge  ourselves  to  bestow  our  censure, 
whenever  they  do  any  thing  that  seems  to  call 
for  that  less  grateful  exercise  of  our  duty. 

Having  now  indulged  ourselves,  by  express- 
ing a  few  of  the  sentiments  that  are  irresistibly 
suggested  by  the  events  that  lie  before  us, 
we  turn  to  our  more  laborious  and  appropriate 
vocation  of  speculating  on  the  nature  and  con- 
sequences of  those  events.  Is  the  restoration 
of  the  Bourbons  the  best  possible  issue  of  the 
long  struggle  that  has  preceded  ?  Will  it  lead 
to  the  establishment  of  a  free  government  in 
France  ?  Will  it  be  favourable  to  the  general 
interests  of  liberty  in  England  and  the  rest  of 
the  world  1  These  are  great  and  momentous 
questions, — which  we  are  far  from  presuming 
to  think  we  can  answer  explicitly,  without  the 
assistance  of  that  great  expositor — time.  Yet 
we  should  think  the  man  unworthy  of  the 
great  felicity  of  having  lived  to  the  present 
day,  who  could  help  asking  them  of  ain.self ; 


M2 


GENEKAL  POLITICS. 


and  we  seem  to  stand  in  the  particular  pre- 
dicament of  being  obliged  to  try  at  least  for 
an  answer. 

The  first,  we  think,  is  the  easiest ;  and  we 
scarcely  scruple  to  answer  it  at  once  in  the 
affirmative.  We  know,  indeed,  that  there  are 
many  who  think,  that  a  permanent  change  of 
dynasty  might  have  afforded  a  better  guarantee 
against  the  return  of  those  ancient  abuses 
which  first  gave  rise  to  the  revolution,  and  may 
again  produce  all  its  disasters ;  and  that  France, 
reduced  within  moderate  limits,  would,  under 
such  a  dynasty,  both  have  served  better  as  a 
permanent  warning  to  other  states  of  the  dan- 
ger of  such  abuses,  and  been  less  likely  to 
unite  itself  with  any  of  the  old  corrupt  govern- 
ments, in  schemes  against  the  internal  liberty 
ornational  independence  of  the  great  European 
communities.  And  we  are  far  from  under- 
rating the  value  of  these  suggestions.  But 
there  are  considerations  of  more  urgent  and 
immediate  importance,  that  seem  to  leave  no 
room  for  hesitation  in  the  present  position  of 
affairs. 

In  the  first  place,  the  restoration  of  the 
Bourbons  seems  the  natural  and  only  certain 
end  of  that  series  of  revolutionary  movements, 
and  that  long  and  disastrous  experiment  which 
has  so  awfully  overshadowed  the  freedom 
and  happiness  of  the  world.  It  naturally 
figures  as  the  final  completion  of  a  cycle  of 
convulsions  and  miseries;  and  presents  itself 
to  the  imagination  as  the  point  at  which  the 
tempest-shaken  vessel  of  the  state  again 
reaches  the  haven  of  tranquillity  from  the 
stormy  ocean  of  revolution.  Nor  is  it  merely 
to  the  imagination,  or  through  the  mediation 
of  such  figures,  that  this  truth  presents  itself. 
To  the  coldest  reason  it  is  manifest,  that  by 
the  restoration  of  the  old  line,  the  whole  tre- 
mendous evils  of  a  disputed  title  to  the  crown 
are  at  once  obviated :  For  when  the  dynasty 
of  Napoleon  has  once  lost  possession,  it  has 
lost  all  upon  which  its  pretensions  could  ever 
have  been  founded,  and  may  fairly  be  con- 
sidered as  annihilated  and  extinguished  for 
ever.  The  novelty  of  a  government  is  in  all 
cases  a  prodigious  inconvenience — but  if  it  be 
substantially  unpopular,  and  the  remnants  of 
an  old  government  at  hand,  its  insecurity  be- 
comes not  only  obvious  but  alarming :  Since 
nothing  but  the  combination  of  great  severity 
and  great  success  can  give  it  even  the  appear- 
ance of  stability.  Now,  the  government  i)f 
Napoleon  was  not  only  new  and  oppressive, 
and  consequently  insecure,  but  it  was  abso- 
lutely dissolved  and  at  an  end,  before  the  pe- 
riod had  arrived  at  which  alone  the  restoration 
of  the  Bourbons  could  be  made  a  subject  of 
deliberation. 

The  chains  of  the  Continent,  in  fact,  were 
broken  at  Leipsic ;  and  the  Despotic  sceptre 
of  the  great  nation  cast  down  to  the  earth,  as 
soon  as  the  allies  set  foot  as  conquerors  on  its 
ancient  territory.  If  the  Bourbons  were  not 
then  to  be  restored,  there  were  only  three 
other  ways  of  settling  the  government. — To 
leave  Bonaparte  at  the  head  of  a  limited  and 
reduced  monarchy — to  vest  the  sovereignty 
B  his  infant  Hon — or  to  call  or  permit  some 


ore        •^■HB 


new  adventurer  to  preside  over  an  entire 
constitution,    republican   or  monarchical, 
might  be  most  agreeable  to  his  supporters. 

The  first  would  have  been  fraught  with 
measureless  evils  to  France,  and  dangers  to 
all  her  neighbours ; — but,  fortunately,  though 
it  was  tried,  it  was  in  its  own  nature  imprac- 
ticable :  and  Napoleon  knew  this  well  enough, 
when  he  rejected  the  propositions  made  to  him 
at  Chatillon.  He  knew  well  enough  what 
stuff  his  Parisians  and  his  Senators  were  made 
of  J  and  what  were  the  only  terms  upon  which 
the  nation  would  submit  to  his  dominion.  He 
knew  that  he  had  no  real  hokl  of  the  Affec- 
tions of  the  people ;  and  ruled  but  in  their 
fears  and  their  Vanity — that  he  held  his  throne, 
in  short,  only  because  he  had  identified  his 
own  greatness  with  the  Glory  of  France,  and 
surrounded  himself  wath  a  vast  army,  drawn 
from  all  the  nations  of  Europe,  and  so  posted 
and  divided  as  to  be  secured  against  any 
general  spirit  of  revolt.  The  moment  this 
army  was  ruined  therefore,  and  he  came  back 
a  beaten  and  humbled  sovereign,  he  felt  that 
his  sovereignty  was  at  an  end.  To  rule  at 
all,  it  was  necessary  that  he  should  rule  with 
glory,  and  with  full  possession  of  the  means 
of  intimidation.  As  soon  as  these  left  him, 
his  throne  must  have  tottered  to  its  fall. 
Royalist  factions  and  Republican  factions 
would  have  arisen  in  every  part  of  the  na- 
tion— discontent  and  insurrection  would  have 
multiplied  in  the  capital,  and  in  the  pro- 
vinces— and  if  not  cut  off  by  the  arm  of 
some  new  competitor,  he  must  soon  have 
been  overwhelmed  in  the  tempest  of  civil 
commotion. 

The  second  plan  w^ould  have  been  less  dan- 
gerous to  other  states,  but  still  more  impracti- 
cable with  a  view  to  France  itself.  The 
nerveless  arm  of  an  infant  could  never  have 
wielded  the  iron  sceptre  of  Napoleon, — and 
his  weakness,  and  the  utter  want  of  native 
power  or  influence  in  the  members  of  his 
family,  would  have  invited  all  sorts  of  preten- 
sions, and  called  forth  to  open  day  all  the  wild 
and  terrific  factions  which  the  terror  of  his 
father's  power  had  chased  for  a  season  to  their 
dens  of  darkness.  Jealousy  of  the  influence 
of  Austria,  too,  would  have  facilitated  the  de- 
position of  the  baby  despot ; — and  even  if  his 
state  could  have  been  upheld,  it  is  plain  that 
it  could  have  been  only  by  the  faithful  energy 
of  his  predecessor's  ministers  of  oppression, — 
and  that  the  dynasty  of  Napoleon  could  only 
have  maintained  itself  by  the  arts  and  the 
crimes  of  its  founder. 

The  third  expedient  must  plainly  have  been 
the  most  inexpedient  and  unmerciful  of  all ; 
since,  after  the  experience  of  the  last  twenty 
years,  we  may  venture  to  say  with  confidence, 
that  it  could  only  have  led,  through  a  repeti- 
tion of  those  monstrous  disorders  over  which 
reason  has  blushed  and  humanity  sickened  so 
long,  to  the  dead  repose  of  another  military 
despotism. 

The  restoration  of  the  Bourbons,  therefore, 
we  conceive,  was  an  act,  not  merely  of  wis- 
dom, but  of  necessity, — or  of  that  strong  and 
obvioud   expediency,  with  a  view  either  t^ 


RESTORATION  OF  THE  BOURBONS. 


583 


neace  or  security,  which  in  politics  amounts 
to  necessity.  It  is  a  separate,  however,  or  at 
least  an  ulterior  question,  whether  this  res- 
toration is  likely  to  give  a  Free  Government 
to  France,  or  to  bring  it  back  to  the  condition 
of  its  old  arbitrary  monarchy  ?  a  question  cer- 
tainly of  great  interest  and  curiosity, — and 
upon  which  it  does  not  appear  to  us  that  the 
politicians  of  this  country  are  by  any  means 
agreed. 

There  are  many,  we  think,  who  cannot  be 
brought  to  understand  that  the  restoration  of 
the  ancient  line  can  mean  any  thing  else  but 
the  restoration  of  the  ancient  constitution  of 
the  monarchy, — who  take  it  for  granted,  that 
they  must  return  to  the  substantial  exercise 
of  all  their  former  functions,  and  conceive, 
that  all  restraints  upon  the  sovereign  authori- 
ty, and  all  stipulations  in  favour  of  public 
liberty,  must  be  looked  upon  with  contempt 
and  aversion,  and  be  speedily  swept  away,  as 
vestiges  of  that  tremendous  revolution,  the 
whole  brood  and  progeny  of  which  must  be 
held  in  abhorrence  at  the  Court  of  the  new 
Monarch: — And  truly,  when  we  remember 
what  Mr.  Fox  has  said,  with  so  much  solem- 
nity, upon  this  subject,  and  call  to  mind  the 
occasion,  with  reference  to  which  he  has  de- 
clared, that  "a  Restoration  is,  for  the  most  part, 
the  most  pernicious  of  all  Revolutions," — it  is 
not  easy  to  divest  ourselves  of  apprehensions, 
that  such  may  in  some  degree  be  the  conse- 
quence of  the  events  over  which  we  are  re- 
joicing. Yet  the  circumstances  of  the  present 
case,  we  will  confess,  do  not  seem  to  us  to 
warrant  such  apprehensions  in  their  full  ex- 
tent ;  and  our  augury,  upon  the  whole,  is  fa- 
vourable upon  this  branch  of  the  question  also. 

They  who  think  differently,  and  who  hope, 
or  fear,  that  things  are  to  go  back  exactly  to 
the  state  in  which  they  were  in  1788;  and 
that  all  the  sufferings,  and  all  the  sacrifices, 
of  the  intermediate  period,  are  to  be  in  vain, 
look  only,  as  it  appears  to  us,  to  the  naked 
fact,  that  the  old  line  of  kings  is  restored,  and 
the  ancient  nobility  re-established  in  their 
honours.  They  consider  the  case,  as  it  would 
have  been,  if  this  restoration  had  been  effect- 
ed by  the  triumphant  return  of  the  emigrants 
from  Coblentz  in  1792 — by  the  success  of  the 
Royalist  arms  in  La  Vendee — or  by  the  gene- 
ral prevalence  of  a  Royalist  party,  spontane- 
ously regenerated  over  the  kingdom: — For- 
getting that  the  ancient  family  has  only  been 
recalled  in  a  crisis  brought  on  by  foreign  suc- 
cesses; when  the  actual  government  was 
virtually  dissolved,  and  no  alternative  left  to 
the  nation,  but  those  which  we  have  just  enu- 
merated;—  forgetting  that  it  is  not  restored 
unconditionally,  and  as  a  matter  of  right,  but 
rather  called  anew  to  the  throne,  upon  terms 
and  stipulations,  propounded  in  the  name  of  a 
nation,  free  to  receive  or  to  reject  it ; — forget- 
ting that  an  interval  of  twenty-five  long  years 
has  separated  the  subjects  from  the  Sovereign ; 
and  broken  all  those  ties  of  habitual  loyalty, 
by  which  a  people  is  most  efTectually  bound 
to  an  hereditary  monarch ;  and  that  those 
years,  filled  with  ideas  (  f  democratic  license, 
or  despotic  oppression,  cannot  have  tended  to 


foster  associations  favourable  to  royalty,  or  t< 
propagate  kindly  conceptions  of  the  conne* 
tion  of  subject  and  king ; — forgetting,  above 
all,  that  along  with  her  ancienr  monarchy,  a 
new  legislative  body  is  associated  in  the  gov 
ernment  of  France, — that  a  constitution  has 
been  actually  adopted,  by  which  the  powers 
of  those  monarchs  maybe  effectually  control- 
led; and  that  the  illustrious  person  who  has 
ascended  the  throne,  has  already  bound  him- 
self to  govern  according  to  that  constitution, 
and  to  assume  no  power  with  which  it  does 
not  expressly  invest  him. 

If  Louis  XVIII.,  then,  trained  in  the  school 
of  misfortune,  and  seeing  and  feeling  all  the 
permanent  changes  which  these  twenty-five 
eventful  years  have  wrought  in  the  condition 
of  his  people ; — if  this  monarch,  mild  and  un- 
ambitious as  he  is  understood  to  be  in  his 
character,  is  but  faithful  to  his  oath,  grateful 
to  his  deliverers,  and  observant  of  the  coun- 
sels of  his  most  prudent  and  magnanimous 
Allies,  he  will  feel,  that  he  is  not  the  lawful 
inheritor  of  the  powers  that  belonged  to  his 
predecessor ;  that  his  crown  is  not  the  crown 
of  Louis  XVI. ;  and  that  to  assert  his  privi- 
leges, would  be  to  provoke  his  fate.  By  this 
time,  he  probably  knows  enough  of  the  nature 
of  his  countrymen,  perhaps  we  should  say  of 
mankind  in  general,  not  to  rely  too  much  on 
those  warm  expressions  of  love  and  loyalty, 
with  which  his  accession  has  been  hailed,  and 
which  would  probably  have  been  lavished 
with  equal  profusion  on  his  antagonist,  if  vic- 
tory had  again  attended  his  arms,  in  this  last 
and  decisive  contest.  It  is  not  improbable 
that  he  may  be  more  acceptable  to  the  body 
of  the  nation,  than  the  despot  he  has  supplant- 
ed ;  and  that  some  recollections  or  traditions 
of  a  more  generous  loyalty  than  the  sullen 
nature  of  that  ungracious  ruler  either  invited 
or  admitted,  have  mingled  themselves  with 
the  hopes  of  peace  and  of  liberty,  which  must 
be  the  chief  solid  ingredients  in  his  welcome  ; 
and  acting  upon  the  constitutional  vivacity  of 
the  people,  and  the  servility  of  mobs,  always 
ready  to  lackey  the  heels  of  the  successful, 
have  taken  the  form  of  ardent  affection,  and 
the  most  sincere  devotedness  and  attachment. 
But  we  think  it  is  very  apparent,  that  there  is 
no  great  love  or  spontaneous  zeal  for  the  Bour- 
bons in  the  body  of  the  French  nation  ;  that 
the  joy  so  tardily  manifested  for  their  return, 
is  mainly  grounded  upon  the  hope  of  conse- 
quential benefits  to  themselves;  and,  at  all 
events,  that  there  is  no  personal  attachment, 
which  will  lead  them  to  submit  to  any  thing 
that  may  be  supposed  to  be  encroaching,  or 
felt  to  be  oppressive.  It  will  probably  require 
great  temper  and  great  management  in  the 
new  sovereigns  to  exercise,  without  offence, 
the  powers  with  which  they  are  legitimately 
invested ;  but  their  danger  will  be  great  in- 
deed, if  they  suddenly  attempt  to  go  beyond 
them.  With  temper  and  circumspection,  they 
may  in  time  establish  the  solid  foundations  of 
a  splendid,  though  limited,  throne ;  if  they 
aspire  again  to  be  absolute,  the  probability  is 
that  they  will  soon  cease  to  reign 

The  restoration  of  the  old  Nobility  seems, 


.%84 


GENERAL  POLITICS 


at  first  sight,  a  more  hazardous  operation  than 
than  that  of  the  ancient  monarchs; — but  the 
danger,  there  also,  is  more  apparent  than  real. 
The  various  inclemencies  of  a  twenty-five 
years'  exile  have  sadly  thinned  the  ranks  of 
those  rash  and  sanguine  spirits  who  assem- 
bled at  Coblentz  in  1792,  and  may  be  pre- 
sumed to  have  tamed  the  pride  and  lowered 
the  pretensions  of  the  few  that  remain.  A 
great  multitude  of  families  have  become  ex- 
tmct, — a  still  greater  number  had  reconciled 
themselves  to  the  Imperial  Government, — and 
the  small  remnant  that  have  continued  faith- 
ful to  the  fortunes  of  their  Royal  Master,  will 
probably  be  satisfied  with  the  conditions  of 
his  return.  Thus  dwindled  in  number, — de- 
cayed in  fortune, — and  divided  by  diversities 
of  conduct  that  will  not  be  speedily  forgotten, 
we  do  not  think  that  there  is  any  great  hazard 
of  their  attempting  either  to  assert  those  priv- 
ileges as  a  body,  or  to  assume  that  tone,  by 
which  they  formerly  revolted  the  inferior 
classes  of  the  state,  and  would  now  be  con- 
sidered as  invading  the  just  rights  and  con- 
stitutional dignity  of  the  other  citizens. 

We  do  not  see  any  thing,  therefore,  in  the 
restoration  itself,  either  of  the  Prince  or  of  his 
nobles,  that  seems  to  us  very  dangerous  to  the 
freedom  of  the  people,  or  very  likely  to  per- 
vert those  constitutional  provisions  by  which 
it  is  understood  that  their  freedom  is  to  be 
secured.  Yet  we  did  not  need  the  example 
that  France  herself  has  so  often  afforded,  to 
make  us  distrustful  of  constitutions  on  paper ; 
— and  are  not  only  far  from  feeling  assured  of 
the  practical  benefits  that  are  to  result  from 
this  new  experiment,  but  are  perfectly  con- 
vinced that  all  the  benefit  that  does  result, 
must  be  ascribed,  not  to  the  wisdom  of  the 
actual  institutions,  but  to  the  continued  opera- 
tion of  the  extraordinary  circumstances,  by 
which  these  institutions  have  been  suggested, 
and  by  the  permanent  pressure  of  which  alone 
their  operation  can  yet  be  secured.  The  bases 
of  the  new  constitution  sound  well  certainly; 
and  may  be  advantageously  contrasted  with 
the  famous  declaration  of  the  rights  of  man, 
which  initiated  the  labours  of  the  Constituent 
Assembly.  But  the  truth  is,  that  the  bases 
of  most  paper  constitutions  sound  well ;  and 
that  principles  not  much  less  wise  and  liberal 
than  those  which  we  now  hope  to  see  reduced 
into  practice,  have  been  laid  down  in  most  of 
the  constitutions  which  have  proved  utterly 
ineffectual  within  the  last  twenty-five  years, 
to  repress  popular  disorder  or  despotic  usur- 
pation in  this  very  country.  The  constitution 
now  adopted  by  Louis  XVIII.  is  not  very  un- 
like that  which  was  imposed  on  his  unfortu- 
nate predecessor,  in  the  Champs  de  Mars  in 
1790 ;  and  it  certainly  leaves  less  power  to 
the  crown  than  was  conceded  by  that  first  ar- 
rangement. Yet  the  power  vested  in  Louis 
XVI.  was  found  quite  inadequate  to  protect 
the  regal  office  against  the  encroachments  of 
an  insane  democracy;  and  the  throne  was 
overthrown  by  the  sudden  irruption  of  the 
popular  part  of  the  government.  On  the  other 
:and,  it  is  still  more  remarkable  that  the  con- 
itituiion  now  abrit  to  be  put  on  its  trial,  is 


yet  more  like  the  co.istitution  adopted  by 
Bonaparte  on  his  accession  to  the  sovereign 
authority.  He  too  had  a  Senate  and  a  Legisla- 
tive Body, — and  trial  by  jury. — and  universa, 
eligibility, — and  what  was  pretended  to  be 
liberty  of  printing.  The  freedom  of  the  peo- 
ple, in  short,  was  as  well  guarded,  in  most 
respects,  by  the  words  and  the  forms  of  that 
constitution,  as  they  are  by  those  of  this  wliich 
is  now  under  eonsideration ;  and  yet  those 
words  and  forms  were  found  to  be  no  obstacle 
at  all  to  the  practical  exercise  and  systematic 
establishment  of  the  most  efficient  despotism 
that  Europe  has  ever  witnessed.' 

What  then  shall  we  say  1  Since  the  same 
institutions,  and  the  same  sort  of  balance  of 
power,  give  at  one  time  too  much  weight  to 
the  Crown,  and  at  another  too  much  indul- 
gence to  popular  feeling,  shall  we  conclude 
that  all  sorts  of  institutions  and  balances  are 
iBdifTerent  or  nugatory  1  or  only,  that  their 
efficacy  depends  greatly  on  the  circumstances 
to  which  they  are  applied,  and  on  the  actual 
balance  and  relation  in  which  the  different 
orders  of  the  state  previously  stood  to  each 
other  ?  The  last,  we  think,  is  the  only  sane 
conclusion  ;  and  it  is  by  attending  to  the  con- 
ditions which  it  involves,  that  we  shall  best 
be  enabled  to  conjecture,  whether  an  experi- 
ment, that  has  twice  failed  already  in  so  sig- 
nal a  manner,  is  now  likely  to  be  attended 
with  success. 

When  a  limited  monarchy  was  proposed  foi 
France  in  1790,  the  whole  body  of  the  natiop 
had  just  emancipated  itself  by  force  from  a 
state  of  political  vassalage,  and  had  begun  to 
feel  the  delight  and  intoxication  of  that  con- 
sciousness of  power,  which  always  tempts  at 
first  to  so  many  experiments  on  its  reality  and 
extent.  New  to  the  exercise  of  this  power, 
and  jealous  of  its  security  so  long  as  any  of 
those  institutions  remained  which  had  so  long 
repressed  or  withheld  it,  they  first  improvi- 
\lently  subverted  all  that  was  left  of- their  an- 
cient establishments;  and  then,  from  the  same 
impetuosity  of  inexperience,  they  split  into 
factions,  that  began  with  abuse,  and  ended  in 
bloodshed ;  and,  setting  out  with  an  extreme 
zeal  for  reason  and  humanity,  plunged  them- 
selves very  speedily  in  the  very  abyss  of 
atrocity  and  folly.  In  such  a  violent  state  of 
the  public  mind,  no  instUiitions  had  any  chance 
of  being  permanent.  The  root  of  the  evil  Avaa 
in  the  suddenness  of  the  extrication  of  such  a 
volume  of  political  energy, — or  rather,  perhaps, 
in  the  arrangements  by  which  it  had  been  so 
long  pent  up  and  compressed.  The  only  true 
policy  would  have  been  for  those  among  the 
ancient  leaders,  whose  interest  or  judgment 
enabled  them  to  see  the  hazards  upon  which 
the  new-sprung  enthusiasts  were  rushing — to 
have  thrown  themselves  into  their  ranks; — to 
have  united  cordially  with  those  who  were 
least  insane  or  intemperate;  and,  by  going  along 
with  them  at  all  hazards,  to  have  retarded  the 
impetuosity  of  their  movements,  and  watched 
the  first 'opportunity  to  bring  them  back  to  so- 
briety and  reason.  Instead  of  this,  they  aban- 
doned them,  with  demonstrations  of  contempt 
and  hostility,  to  the  career  upon  \v  hich  they 


RESTORATION  OF  THE  BOURBONS. 


68 .« 


hud  entered.  They  emigrated  from  the  ter- 
ritory— and  thus  threw  the  mass  of  the  popu- 
lation at  once  into  the  hands  of  the  incendia- 
ries of  the  capital.  Twenty-five  years  have 
nearly  elapsed  since  the  period  of  that  terrible 
explosion.  A  great  part  of  its  force  has  been 
wasted  and  finally  dissipated  in  that  long  in- 
terval ;  and  though  its  natural  flow  has  been 
again  repressed  in  the  latter  part  of  it,  there  is 
no  hazard  of  such  another  eruption,  now  that 
those  obstructions  are  again  thrown  off.  That 
was  produced  by  the  accumulation  of  all  the 
energj',  intelligence,  and  discontent,  that  had 
been  generated  among  a  people  deprived  of 
political  rights,  during  a  full  century  of  peace- 
ful pursuits  and  growing  intelligence,  Avithout 
any  experience  or  warning  of  the  perils  of  its 
sudden  expansion.  This  can  be  but  the  col- 
lection of  a  few  years  of  a  very  different  de- 
scription, and-  with  all  the  dreadful  conse- 
quences of  its  untempered  and  undirected  in- 
dulgence still  glaring  in  view.  We  do  not 
think,  therefore,  that  the  attempt  to  establish 
a  limited  monarchy  is  now  in  very  great  dan- 
ger of  miscarrying  in  the  same  way  as  in  1790 ; 
and  conceive,  that  the  conduits  of  an  ordinary 
representative  assembly,  if  instantly  prepared 
and  diligently  watched,  may  now  be  quite 
sufficient  to  carry  off  and  direct  all  the  popu- 
lar energy  that  is  generated  in  the  nation — 
though  the  quantity  was  then  so  great  as  to 
tear  all  the  machinery  to  pieces,  and  blow  the 
ancient  monarchy  to  the  clouds,  with  the  frag- 
ments of  the  new  constitution. 

With  regard  to  the  late  experiment  under 
Bonaparte,  it  is  almost  enough  to  observe,  that 
it  seems  to  us  to  have  been  from  the  begin- 
ning a  mere  piece  of  mockery  and  delusion. 
The  government  was  substantially  despotic 
and  military,  or,  at  all  events,  a  government 
of  undisguised  force,  ever  since  the  time  of 
the  triumvirs, — perhaps  we  might  say,  since 
that  of  Robespierre  ;  and  when  Bonaparte  as- 
sumed the  supreme  power,  the  nation  wil- 
lingly gave  up  its  liberty,  for  the  chance  of 
tranquillity  and  protection.  Wearied  out  with 
the  perpetual  succession  of  sanguinary  fac- 
tions, each  establishing  itself  by  bloody  pro- 
scriptions, deportations,  and  confiscations,  it 
gladly  threw  itself  into  the  arais  of  a  ruler 
who  seemed  sufficiently  strong  to  keep  all 
lesser  tyrants  in  subjection ;  and,  despairing 
of  freedom,  was  thankful  for  an  interval  of 
repose.  In  such  a  situation,  ihe  constitution 
was  dictated  by  the  master  of  the  state  for 
his  own  glory  and  convenience, — not  imposed 
upon  him  by  the  nation  for  his  direction  and 
control;  and,  with  whatever  names  or  pre- 
tences of  liberty  and  popular  prerogative  the 
members  of  it  might  be  adorned,  it  was  suffi- 
ciently known  to  all  parties  that  it  was  intend- 
ed substantially  as  an  instrument  of  Command, 
— that  the  only  effective  power  that  was  meant 
to  be  exercised  or  recognised  in  the  govern- 
ment, was  the  power  of  the  Emperor,  abetted 
oy  his  Army;  and  that  all  the  other  function- 
aries were  in  reality  to  be  dependent  upon 
lim.  That  the  Senate  and  Legislative  Body, 
therefore,  did  not  convert  the  inilitary  despot- 
ism upon  wLch  they  were  thus  engrafted  into 


a  free  government,  is  no  considerable  pre- 
sumption against  the  fitness  of  such  institu- 
tions  to  maintain  the  principles  of  freedom 
under  different  circumstances ;  nor  can  the 
fact  be  justly  regarded  as  a  new  example  of 
their  inefficiency  for  that  purpose.  In  this 
instance  they  were  never  intended  to  minister 
to  the  interests  of  liberty;  nor  instituted  with 
any  serious  expectation  that  they  would  have 
that  effect.  Here,  therefore,  there  was  truly 
no  failure,  and  no  disappointment.  They  ac- 
tually answered  all  the  ends  of  their  establish- 
ment ;  by  facilitating  the  execution  of  the  Im- 
perial will,  and  disguising,  to  those  who  chose 
to  look  no  farther,  the  naked  oppression  of  the 
government.  It  does  not  seem  to  us,  therefore, 
that  this  instance  more  than  the  other,  should 
materially  discourage  our  expectations  of  now- 
seeing  something  like  a  system  of  regulated 
freedom  in  that  country.  The  people  of  France 
have  lived  long  enough  under  the  capricious 
atrocities  of  a  crazy  democracy,  to  be  aware 
of  the  dangers  of  that  form  of  government, — 
to  feel  the  necessity  of  contriving  some  retard- 
ing machinery  to  break  the  impulse  of  the 
general  will,  and  providing  some  apparatus 
for  purifying,  concentrating,  and  cooling  the 
first  fiery  ninnings  of  popular  spirit  and  enthu- 
siasm ;  while  they  have  also  felt  enough  of 
the  oppressions  and  miseries  of  arbitrary  pow- 
er, to  instruct  them  in  the  value  of  some  regu- 
lar and  efficient  control.  In  such  a  situation, 
therefore,  when  a  scheme  of  government  that 
has  been  found  to  answer  both  these  purposes 
in  other  countries,  is  offered  by  the  nation  as 
the  accompaniment  and  condition  of  the  mon- 
archy, and  is  freely  accepted  by  the  Sovereign 
on  his  accession,  there  seems  to  be  a  reason- 
able hope  that  the  issue  will  at  length  be  for- 
tunate ; — and  that  a  free  and  stable  constitu- 
tion may  succeed  to  the  calamitous  experiments 
which  have  been  suggested  by  the  imperfec- 
tions of  that  which  was  originally  established. 
All  this,  however,  we  readily  admit,  is  but 
problematical ;  and  affords  ground  for  nothing 
more  than  expectation  and  conjecture.  There 
are  grounds  certainly  for  doubting,  whether 
the  French  are  even  yet  capable  of  a  i-egiila- 
ted  freedom  ; — and  for  believing,  at  all  events, 
that  they  will  for  a  good  while  be  but  awk- 
ward in  discharging  the  ordinary  offices  of 
citizens  of  a  limited  monarchy.  They  have 
probably  learned,  by  this  time,  that  for  a  na- 
tion to  be  free,  something  more  is  necessary 
than  that  it  should  wilUt.  To  be  practically 
and  tranquilly  free,  a  great  deal  more  is  neces- 
sary ;  and  though  we  do  not  ascribe  much  to 
positive  institutions,  we  ascribe  almost  every 
thing  to  temper  and  habit. — A  genuine  system 
of  national  representation,  for  example,  can 
neither  be  devised,  nor  carried  into  operation 
in  a  day.  The  practical  benefits  of  such  a 
system  depend  in  a  great  measure  upon  tlie 
internal  arrangements  of  the  society  in  which 
it  exists,  by  means  of  which  the  sentiments 
and  opinions  of  the  people  may  be  peacefully 
and  safely  trans^nitted  from  their  first  small 
and  elementary  gatherings,  to  the  great  publia 
depositories  of  national  energy  and  wisdom. 
The  structure,  which  answers  those  purposes, 


(86 


GENEKAL  POLITICS. 


however,  is  in  all  cases  more  the  work  of  time 
than  of  contrivance  j  and  can  never  be  im- 
pressed at  once  upon  a  society,  which  is  aim- 
ing for  the  first  time  at  these  objects. — With- 
out some  such  previous  and  internal  arrange- 
ment, however  —  and  without  the  familiar 
existence  of  a  long  gradation  of  virtual  and 
unelected  representatives,  no  pure  or  fair 
representation  can  ever  be  obtained.  Instead 
of  the  cream  of  the  society,  we  shall  have  the 
froth  only  in  the  legislature — or,  it  may  be, 
the  scum,  and  the  fiery  spirit,  instead  of  the 
rich  extract  of  all  its  strength  and  its  virtues. 
But  even  independent  of  the  common  hazards 
and  disadvantages  of  novelty,  there  are  strong 
grounds  of  apprehension  in  the  character  and 
habits  of  the  French  nation.  The  very  vi- 
vacity of  that  accomplished  people,  and  the 
raised  imagination  which  they  are  too  apt  to 
carry  with  them  into  projects  of  every  descrip- 
tion, are  all  against  them  m  those  political 
adventures.  They  are  too  impatient,  we  fear 
— too  ambitious  of  perfection — too  studious 
of  effect,  to  be  satisfied  with  the  attainable 
excellence  or  vulgar  comforts  of  an  English 
constitution.  If  it  captivate  them  in  the 
theory,  it  will  be  sure  to  disappoint  them  in 
the  working: — From  endeavouring  univer- 
sally, each  in  his  own  department,  to  top  their 
parts,  they  will  be  very  apt  to  go  beyond 
them ; — and  will  run  the  risk,  not  only  of  en- 
croaching upon  each  other,  but,  generally,  of 
missing  the  substantial  advantages  of  the  plan, 
through  disdain  of  that  sobriety  of  effort,  and 
calm  mediocrity  of  principle,  to  which  alone 
it  is  adapted. 

The  project  of  giving  them  a  free  constitu- 
tion, therefore,  may  certainly  miscarry, — and 
it  may  miscarry  in  two  ways.  If  the  Court 
can  effectually  attach  to  itself  the  Marshals 
and  Military  Senators  of  Bonaparte,  in  addi- 
tion to  the  old  Nobility  ] — and  if,  through  their 
means,  the  vanity  and  ambition  of  the  turbu- 
lent and  aspiring  spirits  of  the  nation  can  be 
turned  either  towards  military  advanceiyient, 
or  to  offices  and  distinction  about  the  Court, 
the  legislative  bodies  may  be  gradually  made 
subservient  in  most  things  to  the  will  of  the 
Government ; — and  by  skilful  management, 
may  be  rendered  almost  as  tractable  and  in- 
significant, as  they  have  actually  been  in  the 
previous  stages  of  their  existence.  On  the 
other  hand,  if  the  discordant  materials,  out 
of  which  the  higher  branch  of  the  legislature 
is  to  be  composed,  should  ultimately  arrange 
it  into  two  hostile  parties, — of  the  old  Noblesse 
on  the  one  hand,  and  the  active  individuals 
who  have  fought  their  way  to  disthiction 
through  scenes  of  democratic  and  imperial 
tyranny,  on  the  other,  it  is  greatly  to  be  feared, 
that  the  body  of  the  nation  will  soon  be  divi- 
ded into  the  same  factions ;  and  that  while 
the  Court  throws  all  its  influence  into  the 
scale  of  the  former,  the  latter  will  in  time 
unite  the  far  more  formidable  weight  of  the 
military  body — the  old  republicans,  and  all 
who  are  either  discontented  at  their  lot,  or 
Impatient  of  peaceful  times.  By  their  assist- 
ance, and  that  of  the  national  vehemence 
%ncl  love  of  change,  it  will  most  probably  get 


ch 

i 

)re^^ 


the  command  of  the  legislative  body  and  the 
capital ) — and  then,  unless  the  Prince  play  hie 
part  with  singular  skill,  as  well  as  temper^ 
there  will  be  imminent  hazard  of  a  revolu- 
tion,— not  less  disastrous  perhaps  than  thav 
which  has  just  been  completed. 

Of  these  two  catastrophes,  the  first,  which 
would  be  the  least  lamentable  or  hopele 
seems,  in  the  present  temper  of  the  times, 
be  rather  the  most  likely  to  happen; — an 
even  though  it  should  occur,  the  governmei 
would  most  probably  be  considerably  mo 
advanced  toward  freedom  than  it  has  ever  yet 
been  in  that  country— and  the  organisation 
would  remain  entire,  into  which  the  breath 
of  liberty  might  be  breathed,  as  soon  as  the 
growing  spirit  of  patriotism  and  intelligence 
had  again  removed  the  shackles  of  authority. 
Against  the  second  and  more  dreadful  catas 
trophe,  and  in  some  considerable  degree 
against  both,  there  seems  to  exist  a  reason- 
able security  in  the  small  numbers  and  general 
weakness  of  that  part  of  the  old  aristocracy 
which  has  survived  to  reclaim  its  privileges. 
One  of  the  bases  of  the  new  constitution,  and 
perhaps  the  most  important  of  them  all,  is, 
that  every  subject  of  the  kingdom  shall  be 
equally  capable  of  all  honours  or  employ- 
ments. Had  the  Sovereign,  however,  who  is 
the  fountain  of  honour  and  the  giver  of  em- 
ployment, returned  with  that  great  train  of 
nobility  which  waited  in  the  court  of  his  pre- 
decessor, this  vital  regulation,  we  fear,  might 
have  proved  a  mere  dead  letter  ]  and  the 
same  unjust  monopoly  of  power  and  distinc- 
tion that  originally  overthrew  the  throne, 
might  again  have  sapped  its  foundations. — 
As  things  now  are,  however,  there  are  far  too 
few  of  that  order  to  sustain  such  a  monopoly  j 
and  the  prince  must  of  necessity  employ  sub- 
jects of  all  ranks  and  degrees,  in  situations  of 
the  greatest  dignity  and  importance.  A  real 
equality  of  rights  will  thus  be  practically  re- 
cognised ;  and  a  fair  and  intelligent  distribu- 
tion of  power  and  consideration  will  go  far  to 
satisfy  the  wishes  of  every  party  in  the  state, 
or  at  least  to  disarm  those  who  would  foment 
discontents  and  disaffection,  of  their  most 
plausible  topics  and  pretexts. 

On  the  whole,  then,  we  think  France  has 
now  a  tolerable  prospect  of  obtaining  a  free 
government — and,  without  extraordinary  mis- 
management, is  almost  sure  of  many  great 
improvements  on  her  ancient  system.  Her 
great  security  and  ;^anacea  must  be  a  spirit  of 
general  mildness,  and  mutual  indulgence  and 
toleration.  All  parties  have  something  to 
forgive^  and  something  to  be  forgiven;  and 
there  is  much  in  the  history  of  the  last 
twenty-five  years,  which  it  would  be  for  the 
general  interest,  and  the  general  credit  of 
the  country,  to  consign  to  oblivion.  The  scene 
has  opened,  we  think,  under  the  happiest 
auguries  in  this  respect.  The  manner  of  the 
abdication,  and  the  manner  of  the  restoration, 
are  ominous,  we  think,  of  forbearance  and 
conciliation  in  all  the  quarters  from  which 
intractable  feelings  were  most  to  be  appre 
hended ;  and  the  commanding  example  of  the 
Emperor  Alexander,  will  go  further  to  diffn«* 


RESTORATION  vF  THE  BOURBONS. 


687 


and  coi.rtTHi  this  spirit,  than  the  professions 
or  exhortations  of  any  of  the  parties  more 
immediately  com'.erned.  The  blood  of  the 
Bourbons  too,  we  believe  to  be  mild  and  tem- 
perate ;  and  the  adversity  by  which  their 
illustrious  Chief  has  so  long  been  tried,  we 
are  persuaded,  has  not  altered  its  sweetness. 
He  is  more  anxious,  we  make  no  doubt,  to 
relieve  the  sufferings,  than  to  punish  the  of- 
fences, of  any  part  of  his  subjects — and  re- 
turns, we  trust,  to  the  impoverished  cities  and 
wasted  population  of  his  country,  with  feel- 
ings, not  of  vengeance,  but  of  pity.  If  to  the 
philanthropy  which  belongs  to  his  race,  he 
coald  but  join  the  firmness  and  activity  in 
which  they  have  been  supposed  to  be  want- 
bg,  he  might  be  the  most  glorious  king  of  the 
happiest  people  that  ever  escaped  from  ty- 
mnny ;  and,  we  fondly  hope  that  fortune  and 
prudence  will  combine  to  render  the  era  of 
his  accession  for  ever  celebrated  in  the  grate- 
ful memory  of  his  people.  In  the  mean  time, 
his  most  dangerous  enemies  are  the  Royalists ; 
and  the  only  deadly  error  he  can  commit,  is  to 
rely  on  his  own  popularity  or  personal  au- 
.thority. 

If  we  are  at  all  right  in  this  prognostication, 
there  should  be  little  doubt  on  the  only  re- 
maining subject  of  discussion.  It  must  be 
favourable  to  the  general  interests  of  free- 
dom, that  a  free  government  is  established  in 
France;  and  the  principles  of  liberty,  both 
here  and  elsewhere,  must  be  strengthened  by 
this  large  accession  to  her  domains.  There 
are  persons  among  us,  however,  who  think 
otherwise, — or  profess  at  least  to  see,  in  the 
great  drama  which  has  just  been  completed, 
no  other  moral  than  this  —  that  rebellion 
against  a  lawful  sovereign,  is  uniformly  fol- 
lowed with  great  disasters,  and  ends  in  the 
complete  demolition  and  exposure  of  the  in- 
surgents, and  the  triumphal  restoration  of  the 
rightful  Prince.  These  reasoners  find  it  con- 
venient to  take  a  very  compendious  and  sum- 
mary view  indeed  of  the  great  transactions  of 
which  they  thus  extract  the  essence  —  and 
positively  refuse  to  look  at  any  other  points  in 
the  eventful  history  before  them,  but  that  the 
line  of  the  Bourbons  was  expelled,  and  that 
great  atrocities  and  great  miseries  ensued — 
that  the  nation  then  fell  under  a  cruel  despo- 
tism, and  that  all  things  are  set  to  rights  again 
by  the  restoration  of  the  Bourbons  !  The  com- 
fartable  conclusion  which  they  draw,  or  wish 
&t  least  to  be  drawn,  from  these  premises,  is, 
that  if  the  lesson  have  its  proper  effect,  this 
restoration  will  make  every  king  on  the  Con- 
tinent more  absolute  than  ever ;  and  confirm 
every  old  government  in  an  attachment  to  its 
most  inveterate  abuses. 

It  is  not  worth  while,  perhaps,  to  combat 
hese  extravagancies  by  reasoning ; — Yet,  in 
iheir  spirit,  they  come  so  near  certain  opinions 
that  seem  to  have  obtained  currency  in  this 
country,  that  it  is  necessary  to  say  a  word  or 
two  with  regard  to  them.  We  shall  merely 
observe,  therefore,  that  the  Bourbons  were 
expelled,  on  account  of  great  faults  and  abuses 
"z  the  old  system  of  the  government;  and  that 
iney  have  only  been  restored  apon  condition 


that  these  abuses  shall  be  abolished.  Thej 
were  expelled,  in  short,  because  they  were 
Arbitrary  monarchs ;  and  they  are  only  re- 
stored, upon  paction  and  security  that  they 
shall  be  arbitrary  no  longer.  This  is  the  true 
summary  of  the  great  transaction  that  has 
just  been  completed ;  and  the  correct  result 
of  the  principles  that  regulated  its  begin 
ning  and  its  ending.  The  intermediate  pro- 
ceedings, too,  bear  the  very  same  charac- 
ter. After  the  abolition  of  the  old  royalty, 
the  nation  fell  no  doubt  into  great  disorders 
and  disasters, — not,  however,  for  want  of  the 
old  abuses, — or  even  of  the  old  line  of  sove- 
reigns,— but  in  consequence  of  new  abuses, 
crimes,  and  usurpations.  These  also  they 
strove  to  rectify  and  repress  as  they  best 
could,  by  expelling  or  cutting  off  the  delin- 
quents, and  making  provision  against  the  re- 
currence of  this  new  form  of  tyranny^; — at 
last,  they  fell  under  the  arbitrary  rule  of  a 
great  military  commander,  and  for  some  time 
rejoiced  in  a  subjection  which  insured  their 
tranquillity.  By  and  by,  however,  the  evils 
of  this  tyranny  were  found  far  to  outweigh  its 
advantages ;  and  when  the  destruction  of  his 
military  force  gave  them  an  opportunity  of 
expressing  their  sentiments,  the  nation  rose 
against  him  as  one  man,  and  expelled  him 
also,  for  his  tyranny^,  from  that  throne,  from 
which,  for  a  much  smaller  degree  of  the  same 
fault,  they  had  formerly  expelled  the  Bour- 
bons.— Awaking  then  to  the  advantages  of  an 
undisputed  title  to  the  crown,  and  recovered 
from  the  intoxication  of  their  first  burst  into 
political  independence,  they  ask  the  ancient 
line  of  their  kings,  whether  they  wull  renounce 
the  arbitrary  powers  which  had  been  claimed 
by  their  predecessors,  and  -  submit  to  a  con- 
stitutional control  from  the  representatives  of 
the  people  ?  and  upon  their  solemn  consent 
and  cordial  acquiescence  in  those  conditions, 
they  recal  them  to  the  throne,  and  enrol  them- 
selves as  their  free  and  loyal  subjects. 

The  lesson,  then,  which  is  taught  by  the 
whole  history  is,  that  oppressive  governments 
must  also  be  insecure ;  and  that,  after  nations 
have  attained  to  a  certain  measure  of  intel- 
ligence, the  liberty  of  the  people  is  necessary 
to  the  stability  of  the  throne.  We  may  dis- 
pute for  ever  about  the  immediate  or  acci- 
dental causes  of  the  French  revolution ;  but 
no  man  of  reflection  can  now  doubt,  that  its 
true  and  efficient  cause,  was  the  undue  limi- 
tation of  the  rights  and  privileges  of  the  great 
body  of  the  people,  after  their  wealth  and 
intelligence  had  virtually  entitled  them  to 
greater  consequence.  Embarrassments  in 
finance,  or  blunders,  or  ambition  in  particular 
individuals,  may  have  determined  the  time 
and  the  manner  of  the  explosion  ;  but  it  was 
the  system  which  withheld  all  honours  and 
distinctions  from  the  mass  of  the  people,  after 
nature  had  made  them  capable  of  them,  which 
laid  the  train,  and  filled  the  mine  that  pro- 
duced it.  Had  the  government  of  France 
been  free  in  1788,  the  throne  of  its  monarch 
might  have  bid  a  proud  defiance  to  deficits 
in  the  treasury,  or  disorderly  ambition  in  a 
thousand  Mirabeaus.      Had  the  people   en 


68t 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


joyed  their  due  weight  in  the  administra- 
lioii  of  the  government,  and  their  due  share 
in  the  distribution  of  its  patronage,  there 
would  have  been  no  democratic  insurrection, 
and  no  materials  indeed  for  such  a  catastrophe 
as  ensued.  That  movement,  hke  all  great 
national  movements,  was  produced  by  a  sense 
of  injustice  and  oppression;  -and  though  its 
immediate  consequences  were  far  more  dis- 
astrous than  the  evils  by  which  it  had  been 
provoked,  it  should  never  be  forgotten,  that 
those  evils  were  the  necessary  and  lamented 
causes  of  the  whole.  The  same  principle, 
indeed,  of  the  necessary  connection  of  oppres- 
sion and  insecurity,  may  be  traced  through 
all  the  horrors  of  the  revolutionary  period. 
What,  after  all,  was  it  but  theii-  tyranny  that 
supplanted  Marat  and  Robespierre,  and  over- 
threw the  tremendous  power  of  the  wretches 
for  whom  they  made  way  1  Or,  to  come  to  its 
last  and  most  conspicuous  application,  does 
any  one  imagine,  that  if  Bonaparte  had  been 
a  just,  mild,  and  equitable  sovereign,  under 
whom  the  people  enjoyed  equal  rights  and 
impartial  protection,  he  would  ever  have  been 
hurled  from  his  throne,  or  the  Bourbons  in- 
vited to  replace  him  ?  He,  too,  fell  ultimately 
a  victim  to  his  tyranny : — and  his  fall,  and 
their  restoration  on  the  terms  that  have  been 
stated,  concur  to  show,  that  there  is  but  one 
condition  by  which,  in  an  enlightened  age, 
the  loyalty  of  nations  can  be  secured — the 
condition  of  their  being  treated  with  kindness; 
and  but  one  bulwark  by  which  thrones  can 
now  be  protected — the  attachment  and  con- 
scious interest  of  a  free  and  intelligent  people. 
This  is  the  lesson  which  the  French  revo- 
lution reads  aloud  to  mankind ;  and  which,  in 
its  origin,  in  its  progress,  and  in  its  termina- 
tion, it  tends  equally  to  impress.  It  shows 
also,  no  doubt,  the  dangers  of  popular  insur- 
rection, and  the  dreadful  excesses  into  which 
a  people  will  be  hurried,  who  rush  at  once 
from  a  condition  of  servitude  to  one  of  un- 
bounded licentiousness.  But  the  state  of 
servitude  leads  necessarily  to  resistance  and 
insurrection,  when  the  measure  of  wrong  and 
of  intelligence  is  full ;  and  though  the  history 
before  us  holds  out  most  awful  warnings  as 
to  the  reluctance  and  the  precautions  with 
which  resistance  should  be  attempted,  it  is 
80  far  from  showing  that  it  either  can  or  ought 
to  be  repressed,  that  it  is  the  very  moral  of 
the  whole  tragedy,  and  of  each  of  its  separate 
acts,  that  resistance  is  as  inevitably  the  effect, 
as  it  is  immediately  the  cure  and  the  punish- 
ment of  oppression.  The  crimes  and  excesses 
with  which  the  revolution  may  be  attended, 
will  be  more  or  less  violent  in  proportion  to 
,the  severity  of  the  preceding  tyranny,  and 
the  degree  of  ignorance  and  degradation  in 
which  it  has  kept  the  body  of  the  people. 
The  rebellion  of  West  India  slaves  is  more 
atrocious  than  the  insurrection  of  a  Parisian 
populace; — and  that  again  far  more  fierce 
and  sanguinary  than  the  movements  of  an 
English  revolution.  But  in  all  cases,  the 
radical  guilt  is  in  the  tyranny  which  compels 
the  resistance ;  and  they  who  are  the  authors 
•f  the  misery  and  the  degradation,  are  also 


responsible  for  the  acty  of  passion  and  debase* 
ment  to  which  they  naturally  lead.  If  th^ 
natural  course  of  a  stream  be  obstructed,  the 
pent  up  waters  will,  to  a  certainty,  sooner  or 
later  bear  down  the  bulwarks  by  which  they 
are  confined.  The  devastation  which  may 
ensue,  however,  is  not  to  be  ascribed  to  the 
weakness  of  those  bulwarks,  but  to  the  funda- 
mental folly  of  their  erection.  The  stronger 
they  had  been  made,  the  more  dreadful,  and 
not  the  less  certain,  would  have  been  the 
ultimate  eruption ;  and  the  only  practical  les- 
son to  be  learned  from  the  catastrophe  is,  that 
the  great  agents  and  elementary  energies  of 
nature  are  never  dangerous  but  when  they 
are  repressed  ;  and  that  the  only  way  to  guide 
and  disarm  them,  is  to  provide  a  safe  and 
ample  channel  for  their  natural  operation. 
The  laws  of  the  physical  world,  however,  are 
not  more  absolute  than  those  of  the  moral; 
nor  is  the  principle  of  the  rebound  of  elastic 
bodies  more  strictly,  demonstrated  than  the 
reaction  of  rebellion  and  tyranny. 

If  there  ever  was  a  time,  however,  when  it 
might  be  permitted  to  doubt  of  this  principle, 
it  certainly  is  not  the  time  when  the  tyranny 
of  Napoleon  has  just  overthrown  the  mightiest 
empire  that  pride  and  ambition  ever  erected 
on  the  ruins  of  justice  and  freedom.  Pro- 
tected as  he  was  by  the  vast  military  sys- 
tem he  had  drawn  up  before  him,  a,iid  still 
more,  perhaps,  by  the  dread  of  that  chaotic 
and  devouring  gulf  of  Revolution  which  still 
yawned  behind  him,  and  threatened  to  swal- 
low up  all  who  might  drive  him  from  his 
place,  he  was  yet  unable  to  maintain  a  do- 
minion which  stood  openly  arrayed  against 
the  rights  and  liberties  of  mankind.  But  if 
tyranny  and  oppression,  and  the  abuse  of  im- 
perial power  have  cast  down  the  throne  of 
Bonaparte,  guarded  as  it  was  with  force  and 
terror,  and  all  that  art  could  devise  to  embar- 
rass, or  glory  furnish  to  dazzle  and  over-awe, 
what  tyrannical  throne  "can  be  expected  to 
stand  hereafter  1  or  what  contrivances  can  se- 
cure an  oppressive  sovereign  from  the  ven- 
geance of  an  insurgent  people  ?  Looking  only 
to  the  extent  of  his  resources,  and  the  skill 
and  vigour  of  his  arrangements,  no  sovereign 
on  the  Continent  seemed  half  so  firm  in  his 
place  as  Bonaparte  did  'but  two  years  ago. 
There  was  the  canker  of  tyranny,  however, 
in  the  full-blown  flower  of  his  greatness. 
With  all  the  external  signs  of  power  and  pros- 
perity, he  was  weak,  because  he  was  unjust 
— he  was  insecure,  because  he  was  oppressive 
— and  his  state  was  assailed  from  without,  and 
deserted  from  within,  for  no  other  reason  than 
that  his  ambitious  and  injurious  proceedings 
had  alienated  the  afiectionsof  his  people,  and 
alarmed  the  fears  of  his  neighbours. 

The  moral,  then,  of  the  grand  drama  which 
has  occupied  the  scene  of  civilised  Europe  for 
upwards  of  twenty  years,  is.  we  think,  at  last 
sufficiently  unfolded; — and  strange  indeed 
and  deplorable  it  certainly  were,  if  all  that 
labour  should  have  been  without  fruit,  and  all 
that  suffering  in  vain.  Something,  surely,  for 
our  own  guidance,  and  for  that  of  our  posteri- 
ty, we  oug'it  at  last  to  learn,  from  so  painfiiJ 


RESTORATION  OF  THE  BOURBONS. 


689 


and  so  cosily  an  experiment.  We  have  lived 
ages  in  these  twenty  years ;  and  have  seen 
condensed,  into  the  period  of  one  short  Hfe, 
the  experience  of  eventful  centuries.  All  the 
moral  and  all  the  political  elements  that  en- 
gender or  diversify  great  revolutions,  have 
been  set  in  action,  and  made  to  produce  their 
full  effect  before  us;  and  all  the  results  of 
misgovernment,  in  all  its  forms  and  in  all  its 
extremes,  have  been  exhibited,  on  the  grand- 
est scale,  in  our  view.  Whatever  quiescent 
indolence  or  empiric  rashness,  individual  am- 
bition or  popular  fury,  unrectified  enthusiasm 
or  brutal  profligacy,  could  do  to  disorder  the 
counsels  and  embroil  the  aflTairs  of  a  mighty 
nation,  has  been  tried,  without  fear  and  with- 
out moderation.  We  have  witnessed  the  full 
operation  of  every  sort  of  guilt,  and  of  every 
sort  of  energy — the  errors  of  strength  and  the 
errors  of  weakness — and  the  mingling  or  con- 
trasting effects  of  terror  and  vanity,  and  wild 
speculations  and  antiquated  prejudices,  on  the 
Vvhole  population  of  Europe.  There  has  been 
an  excitement  and  a  conflict  to  which  there 
is  nothing  parallel  in  the  history  of  any  past 
generation ;  and  it  may  be  said,  perhaps  with- 
out any  great  extravagance,  that  during  the 
few  years  that  have  elapsed  since  the  break- 
ing out  of  the  French  revolution,  men  have 
thought  and  acted,  and  sinned  and  suffered, 
more  than  in  all  the  ages  that  have  passed 
since  their  creation.  In  that  short  period, 
every  thing  has  been  questioned,  every  thing 
has  been  susgested — and  every  thing  has 
been  tried.  There  is  scarcely  any  conceiva- 
ble combination  of  circumstances  under  which 
men  have  not  been  obliged  to  act,  and  to  an- 
ticipate and  to  suffer  the  consequences  of 
their  acting.  The  most  insane  imaginations 
— the  most  fantastic  theories — the  most  hor- 
rible abominations,  have  all  been  reduced  to 
practice,  and  taken  seriously  upon  trial.  Noth- 
ing is  now  left,  it  would  appear,  to  be  projected 
or  attempted  in  government.  We  have  ascer- 
tained experimentally  the  consequences  of  all 
extremes ;  and  exhausted,  in  the  real  history 
of  twenty-five  years,  all  the  problems  that  can 
be  supplied  by  the  whole  science  of  politics. 
Something  must  have  been  learned  from 
this  great  condensation  of  experience ; — some 
leading  propositions,  either  positive  or  nega- 
tive, must  have  been  established  in  the  course 
of  it : — And  although  ive  perhaps  are  as  yet 
too  near  the  tumult  and  agitation  of  the  catas- 
trophe, to  be  able  to  judge  with  precision  of 
their  positive  value  and  amount,  we  can  hard- 
ly be  mistaken  as  to  their  general  tendency 
and  import.  The  clearest  and  most  indis- 
putable result  is,  that  the  prodigious  advan- 
ces made  by  the  body  of  the  people,  through- 
out the  better  parts  of  Europe,  in  wealth, 
consideration,  and  intelligence,  had  rendered 
the  ancient  institutions  and  exclusions"of  the 
old  continental  governments  altogether  un- 
suitable to  their  actual  condition ;  that  public 
opinion  had  tacitly  acquired  a  commanding 
and  uncontrollable  power  in  every  enlight- 
ened community ;  and  that,  to  render  its 
operation  in  any  degree  safe,  or  consistent 
with  any  regular  plan  of  administration,  it 


was  absolutely  necessary  o  contrive  some 
means  for  bringing  it  to  ajt  directly  on  the 
machine  of  government,  and  for  brniging  it 
regularly  and  openly  to  bear  on  the  public 
counsels  of  the  country.  This  was  not  ne- 
cessary while  the  bulk  of  the  people  were 
poor,  abject,  and  brutish, — and  tne  nobles 
alone  had  either  education,  property,  or  ac- 
quaintance with  affairs;  and  it  was  during 
that  period  that  the  institutions  were  adopted, 
which  were  maintained  too  long  for  the  peace 
and  credit  of  the  world.  Public  opinion  over- 
threw those  in  France ;  and  the  shock  was 
felt  in  every  feudal  monarchy  in  Europe. 
But  this  sudden  extrication  of  a  noble  and 
beneficent  principle,  produced,  at  first,  far 
greater  evils  than  those  which  had  proceeded 
from  its  repression.  "Th'  extravagant  and 
erring  spirit "  was  not  yet  enshrined  in  any 
fitting  organisation ;  and,  acting  without  bal- 
ance or  control,  threw  the  whole  mass  of 
society  into  wilder  and  more  terrible  disorder 
than  had  ever  been  experienced  before  its 
disclosure.  It  was  then  tried  to  compress  it 
again  into  inactivity.by  violence  and  intimida- 
tion :  But  it  could  not  be  so  over-mastered — 
nor  laid  to  rest,  by  all  the  powerful  conjura- 
tions of  the  reign  of  terror;  and,  after  a  long 
and  painful  struggle  under  the  pressure  of  a 
military  despotism,  it  has  again  broken  loose, 
and  pointed  at  last  to  the  natural  and  appro- 
priate remedy,  of  embodying  it  in  a  free  Rep- 
resentative Constitution,  through  the  medita- 
tion of  which  it  may  diffuse  life  and  vigour 
through  every  member  of  society. 

The  true  theory  of  that  great  revolution 
therefore  is,  that  it  was  produced  by  the  re- 
pression or  practical  disregard  of  public  opin- 
ion, and  that  the  evils  with  which  it  was 
attended,  were  occasioned  by  the  want  of 
any  institution  to  control  and  regulate  the 
application  of  that  opinion  to  the  actual  man- 
agement of  affairs : — And  the  grand  moral 
that  ma  J  be  gathered  from  the  whole  event- 
ful history,  seems  therefore  to  be,  that  in  an 
enlightened  period  of  society,  no  government 
can  be  either  prosperous  or  secure,  which 
does  not  provide  for  expressing  and  giving 
effect  to  the  general  sense  of  the  community. 

This,  it  must  be  owned,  is  a  lesson  worth 
buying  at  some  cost : — and,  looking  back  on 
the  enormous  price  we  have  paid  for  it,  it  is  no 
slight  gratification  to  perceive,  that  it  seems 
not  only  to  have  been  emphatically  taught, 
but  effectually  learned.  In  every  comer  ot 
Europe,  principles  of  moderation  and  liber- 
ality are  at  last  not  only  professed,  but,  to 
some  extent,  acted  upon ;  and  doctrines  equal- 
ly favourable  to  the  liberty  of  individuals, 
and  the  independence  of  nations,  are  univer 
sally  promulgated,  in  quarters  where  some' 
little  jealousy  of  their  influence  might  have 
been  both  expected  and  excused.  If  any  one 
doubts  of  the  progress  which  the  principles 
of  liberty  have  made  since  the  beginning  of 
the  French  revolution,  and  of  the  efficacy  of 
that  lesson  which  its  events  have  impressed 
on  every  court  of  the  Continent,  let  him  com- 
pare the  conduct  of  the  Allies  at  this  moment, 
with  that  which  they  held  in  1790- -let  him 


590 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


contrast  the  treaty  of  Pilnitz  with  the  decla- 
ration of  Frankfort — and  set  on  one  hand 
the  proclamation  of  the  Duke  of  Brunswick 
upon  entering  the  French  territories  in  1792, 
and  that  of  the  Emperor  of  Russia  on  the 
same  occasion  in  1814; — let  him  think  how 
La  Fayette  and  Dumourier  were  treated  at 
the  former  period,  and  what  honours  have 
been  lavished  on  Moreau  and  Bernadotte  in 
the  latter — or,  without  dwelling  on  particu- 
lars, let  him  ask  himself,  whether  it  would 
have  been  tolerated  among  the  loyal  Antigal- 
licans  of  that  day,  to  have  proposed,  in  a  mo- 
ment of  victory,  that  a  representative  assem- 
bly should  share  the  powers  of  legislation 
with  the  restored  sovereign — that  the  noblesse 
should  renounce  all  their  privileges,  except 
such  as  were  purely  honorary — that  citizens 
of  all  ranks  should  be  equally  eligible  to  all 
employments — that  all  the  officers  and  digni- 
taries of  the  revolutionary  government  should 
retain  their  rank — that  the  nation  should  be 
taxed  only  by  its  representatives — that  all 
sorts  of  national  property  should  be  ratified, 
md  that  perfect  toleration  in  religion,  liberty 
of  the  press,  and  trial  by  jury,  should  be  es- 
tablished. Such,  how-ever,  are  the  chief  bases 
of  that  constitution,  which  was  cordially  ap- 
proved by  the  Allied  Sovereigns,  after  they 
were  in  possession  of  Paris ;  and,  with  refer- 
ence to  which,  their  August  Chief  made  that 
remarkable  declaration,  in  the  face  of  Europe, 
•'  That  France  stood  in  need  of  strong  institu- 
tions, and  such  as  were  suited  to  the  intelli- 
gence of  the  age." 

Such  is  the  improved  creed  of  modern  courts, 
as  to  civil  liberty  and  the  rights  of  individuals. 
With  reg-ard  to  national  justice  and  independ- 
ence again, — is  there  any  one  so  romantic  as 
to  believe,  that  if  the  Allied  Sovereigns  had 
dissipated  the  armies  of  the  republic,  and 
entered  the  metropolis  as  conquerors  in  1792, 
they  would  have  left  to  France  all  her  ancient 
territories, — or  religiously  abstained  from  in- 
terfering in  the  settlement  of  her  government, 
— or  treated  her  baffled  warriors  and  states- 
men with  honourable  courtesies,  and  her 
humbled  and  guilty  Chief  with  magnanimous 
forbearance  and  clemency  ?  The  conduct  we 
have  just  witnessed,  in  all  these  particulars, 
is  wise  and  prudent,  no  doubt,  as  well  as  mag- 
nanimous 3 — and  the  splendid  successes  which 
have  crowned  the  arms  of  the  present  Deliv- 
erers of  Europe,  may  be  ascribed  even  more 
to  the  temper  than  to  the  force  with  which 
they  have  been  wielded  ', — certainly  more  to 
the  plain  justice  and  rationalty  of  the  cause 
in  which  tney  were  raised,  than  to  either. — 
Yet  those  very  successes  exclude  all  supposi- 
tion of  this  justice  and  liberality  being  assum- 
ed out  of  fear  or  necessity ; — and  establish  the 
sincerity  of  those  professions,  which  it  would 
no  doubt  have  been  the  best  of  all  policy  at 
any  rate  to  have  made.  It  is  equally  decisive, 
however,  of  the  merit  of  the  agents  and  of 
the  principles,  that  the  most  liberal  maxims 
were  held  out  by  the  most  decided  victors ; 
and  the  greatest  honours  paid  to  civil  and  to 
national  freedom,  when  it  was  most  in  their 
power  to  have  crushed  the  one,  and  invaded 


the  other.    Nothing,  in  short,  can  account  foi 

the  altered  tone  and  altered  policy  of  the  great 
Sovereigns  of  the  Continent,  but  their  growing 
conviction  of  the  necessity  of  regulated  free- 
dom to  the  peace  and  prosperity  of  the  world, 
— but  their  feeling  that,  in  the  more  enlight- 
ened parts  of  Europe,  men  could  no  longer  be 
governed  but  by  their  reason,  and  that  justice 
and  moderation  were  the  only  true  safeguards 
of  a  polished  throne.  By  this  high  testimony, 
we  think,  the  cause  of  Liberty  is  at  length  set 
up  above  all  hazard  of  calumny  or  discounte- 
nance ; — and  its  interests,  we  make  no  doubt, 
will  be  more  substantially  advanced,  by  being 
thus  freely  and  deliberately  recognised,  in  the 
face  of  Europe,  by  its  mightiest  and  most 
absolute  princes,  than  they  could  otherwise 
have  been  by  all  the  reasonings  of  philosophy, 
and  the  toils  of  patriotism,  for  many  succes- 
sive generations. 

While  this  is  the  universal  feeling  among 
those  who  have  the  best  opportunity,  and  the 
strongest  interest  to  form  a  just  opinion  on 
the  subject,  it  is  not  a  little  strange  and  mor- 
tifying, that  there  should  still  be  a  party  in 
this  country,  who  consider  those  great  trans- 
actions under  a  different  aspect ; — who  look 
with  jealousy  and  grudging  upon  all  that  has 
been  done  for  the  advancement  of  freedom; 
and  think  the  splendour  of  the  late  events 
considerably  tarnished  by  those  stipulations 
for  national  liberty,  which  form  to  other  eyes 
their  most  glorious  and  happy  feature.  We 
do  not  say  this  invidiously,  nor  out  of  any 
spirit  of  faction :  But  the  fact  is  unquestion- 
able ;— and  it  is  worth  while  both  to  record, 
and  to  try  to  account  for  it.  An  arrangement, 
which  satisfies  all  the  arbitrary  Sovereigns 
of  Europe,  and  is  cordially  adopted  by  the 
Monarch  w^ho  is  immediately  affected  by  it, 
is  objected  to  as  too  democratical,  by  a  party 
in  this  free  country!  The  Autocrator  of  all 
the  Russias — the  Imperial  Chief  of  the  Ger- 
manic principalities — the  Military  Sovereign 
of  Prussia — are  all  agreed,  that  France  should 
have  a  free  government :  Nay,  the  King  of 
France  himself  is  thoroughly  persuaded  of 
the  same  great  truth;  —  and  all  the  world 
rejoices  at  its  ultimate  acknowledgment — 
except  only  the  Tories  of  England  !  They 
cannot  conceal  their  mortification  at  this  final 
triumph  of  the  popular  cause;  and,  while 
they  rejoice  at  the  restoration  of  the  King  to 
the  throne  of  his  ancestors,  and  the  recal  of 
his  loyal  nobility  to  their  ancient  honours,  are 
evidently  not  a  little  hurt  at  the  advantages 
which  have  been,  at  the  same  time,  secured 
to  the  People.  They  are  very  glad,  certainly, 
to  see  Louis  XVIII.  on  the  throne  of  Napoleon, 
— but  they  would  have  liked  him  better  if  he 
had  not  spoken  so  graciously  to  the  Marshals 
of  the  revolution, — if  he  had  not  so  freely 
accepted  the  constitution  which  restrained  his 

Ererogative, — nor  so  cordially  held  out  the 
and  of  conciliation  to  all  descriptions  of  his 
subjects  : — if  he  had  been  less  magnanimous 
in  snort,  less  prudent,  and  less  amiable.  It 
would  have  answered  better  to  their  ideas  of 
a  glorious  restoration,  if  it  could  have  been 
accomplished  without  any  conditions ;  and  if 


RESTORATION  OF  THE  BCURBONS. 


591 


the  Prince  had  thrown  himself  entirely  into 
the  hands  of  those  bigotted  emigrantSj  who 
affect  to  be  displeased  with  his  acceptance 
of  a  limited  crown.  In  their  eyes,  the  thing 
would  have  been  more  complete,  if  the  no- 
blesse had  been  restored  at  once  to  all  their 
feudal  privileges,  and  the  church  to  its  ancient 
endowments.  And  we  cannot  help  suspect- 
ing, that  they  think  the  loss  of  those  vain  and 
oppressive  trappings,  but  ill  compensated  by 
the  increased  dignity  and  worth  of  the  whole 
population,  by  the  equalisation  of  essential 
rights,  and  the  provision  made  for  the  free 
enjoyment  of  life,  property,  and  conscience, 
by  the  great  body  of  the  people. 

Perhaps  we  exaggerate  a  little  in  our  rep- 
resentation of  sentiments  fti  which  we  do  not 
at  all  concur : — But,  certainly,  in  conversa- 
tion and  in  common  newspapers — those  light 
straws  that  best  show  how  the  wind  sits — 
one  hears  and  sees,  every  day,  things  that 
approach  at  least  to  the  spirit  we  have  at- 
tempted to  delineate, — and  afford  no  slight 
presumption  of  the  prevalence  of  such  opin- 
ions as  we  lament.  In  lamenting  them,  how- 
ever, we  would  not  indiscriminately  blame. 
— They  are  not  all  to  be  ascribed  to  a  spirit 
of  servility,  or  a  disregard  of  the  happiness 
of  mankind.  Here,  as  in  other  heresies,  there 
is  an  intermixture  of  errors  that  are  to  be 
pardoned,  and  principles  that  are  to  be  re- 
spected. There  are  patriotic  prejudices,  and 
illusions  of  the  imagination,  and  misconcep- 
tions from  ignorance,  at  the  bottom  of  this 
'innaturai  antipathy  to  freedom  in  the  citizens 
of  a  free  land ;  as  well  as  more  sordid  inter- 
ests, and  more  wilful  perversions.  Some 
iturdy  Englishmen  are  staunch  for  our  mo- 
lopoly  of  liberty;  and  feel  as  if  it  was  an 
.^isolent  invasion  of  British  privileges,  for  any 
6».her  n."\tion  to  set  up  a  free  constitution ! — 
Othtjrs  .ipprehend  serious  dangers  to  our  great- 
ness, ii"  this  mainspring  and  fountain  of  our 
prosperity  be  communicated  to  other  lands. — 
A  still  greater  proportion,  we  believe,  are  in- 
fluenced by  considerations  yet  more  fantasti- 
cal.— They  have  been  so  long  used  to  consider 
the  old  government  of  France  as  the  perfect 
model  of  a  feudal  monarchy,  softened  and 
adorned  by  the  refinements  of  modern  society, 
that  they  are  quite  sorry  to  part  with  so  fine 
a  specimen  of  chivalrous  manners  and  institu- 
tions ;  and  look  upon  it,  with  all  its  ciiaracter- 
istic  and  imposing  accompaniments,  of  a  bril- 
liant and  warlike  nobility, — a  gallant  court, — 
a  gorgeous  hierarchy, — a  gay  and  familiar 
vassalage,  with  the  same  sort  of  feelings  with 
which  they  would  be  apt  to  regard  the  sump- 
tuous pageantry  and  splendid  solemnities  of 
She  Romish  ritual.  They  are  very  good  Pro- 
testants themselves ;  and  know  too  well  the 
value  of  religious  truth  and  liberty,  to  wish 
for  any  less  simple,  or  more  imposing  system 
at  home ;  but  they  have  no  objection  that  it 
ghould  exist  among  their  neighbours,  that 
their  taste  may  be  gratified  by  the  magnificent 
spectacles  it  affords,  and  their  imaginations 
warmed  with  the  ideas  of  venerable  and 
pompous  antiquity,  which  it  is  so  well  fitted 
to  suggest.    The  case  is  nearly  the  same  with 


their  ideas  of  the  old  French  monarchy.  They 
have  read  Burke,  till  their  fancies  are  some- 
what heated  with  the  picturesque  image  of 
tempered  royalty  and  polished  aristocracy, 
which  he  has  held  out  in  his  splendid  pictures 
of  France  as  it  was  before  the  revolution ; 
and  have  been  so  long  accustomed  to  contiast 
those  comparatively  happy  and  prosperous 
days,  with  the  horrors  and  vulgar  atrocities 
that  ensued,  that  they  forget  the  many  real 
evils  and  oppressions  of  A\diich  that  brilliant 
monarchy  was  productive,  and  think  that  the 
succeeding  abominations  cannot  be  complete- 
ly expiated  till  it  be  restored  as  it  originally 
existed. 

All  these,  and  we  believe  many  other  illu- 
sions of  a  similar  nature,  slight  and  fanciful 
as  they  may  appear,  contribute  largely,  we 
have  no  doubt,  to  that  pardonable  feeling  of 
dislike  to  the  limitation  of  the  old  monarchy, 
which  we  conceive  to  be  very  discernible  in 
a  certain  part  of  our  population.  The  great 
source  of  that  feeling,  however,  and  that 
which  gives  root  and  nourishment  to  all  the 
rest,  is  the  Ignorance  which  prevails  in  this 
country,  both  of  the  evils  of  arbitrary  govern- 
ment, and  of  the  radical  change  in  the  feel- 
ings and  opinions  of  the  Continent,  which  has 
rendered  it  no  longer  practicable  in  its  more 
enlightened  quarters.  Our  insular  situation, 
and  the  measure  of  freedom  we  enjoy,  have 
done  us  this  injury ;  along  with  the  infinite 
good  of  which  they  have  been  the  occasions. 
We  do  not  know  either  the  extent  of  the  misery 
and  weakness  produced  by  tyranny,  or  the 
force  and  prevalence  of  the  conviction  which 
has  iftcently  arisen,  where  they  are  best  known, 
that  they  are  no  longer  to  be  tolerated.  On 
the  Continent,  experience  has  at  last  done 
far  mord  to  enlighten  public  opinion  upon 
these  subjects,  than  reflection  and  reasoning 
in  this  Island.  There,  nations  have  been 
found  irresistible,  when  the  popular  feeling 
was  consulted ;  and  absolutely  impotent  and 
indefensible  where  it  had  been  outraged  and 
disregarded :  And  this  necessity  of  consulting 
the  general  opinion,  has  led,  on  both  sides,  to 
a  great  relaxation  of  many  of  the  principles 
on  which  they  originally  went  to  issue. 

Of  this  change  in  the  terms  of  the  ques- 
tion— and  especially  of  the  great  abatement 
which  it  had  been  found  necessary  to  make 
in  the  pretensions  of  the  old  governments,  we 
were  generally  but  little  aware  in  this  country. 
Spectators  as  we  have  been  of  the  distant  and 
protracted  contest  between  ancient  institutions 
and  authorities  on  the  one  hand,  and  demo- 
cratical  innovation  on  the  other,  we  are  apt 
still  to  look  upon  the  parties  to  that  contest, 
as  occupying  nearly  the  same  positions,  and 
maintaining  the  same  principles,  they  did  at 
the  beginning;  while  those  who  have  been 
nearer  to  the  scene  of  action,  or  themselves 
partakers  of  the  fray,  are  aware  that,  in  the 
course  of  that  long  conflict,  each  party  haa 
been  obliged  to  recede  from  some  of  its  pre- 
tensions, and  to  admit,  in  some  degree,  the 
justice  of  those  that  are  made  against  it. 
Here,  where  we  have  been  but  too  apt  to  con 
sider  the  mighty  g-ame  which  has  been  play* 


592 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


ing  in  our  sight,  and,  partly  at  our  expense,  as 
an  occasion  for  exercising  our  own  party  ani- 
mosities, or  seeking  illustrations  for  our  pecu- 
liar theories  of  government,  we  are  still  as 
diametrically  opposed,  and  as  keen  in   our 
hostilities,  as  ever.     The  controversy  with  us 
being  in  a  great  measure  speculative,  would 
lose  its  interest  and  attraction,  if  anything 
like  a  compromise  were  admitted ;  and  we 
choose,  therefore,  to  shut  our  eyes  to  the  great 
and  visible  approximation  into  which  time, 
and  experience,  and  necessity  have  forced  the 
actual  combatants.     We  verily  believe,  that, 
except  in  the  imaginations  of  English  politi- 
cians, there  no  longer  exist  in  the  w^orld  any 
such  aristocrats  and   democrats  as  actually 
divided  all  Europe  in.  the  early  days  of  the 
French  revolution.     In  this  country,  however, 
we  still  speak  and  feel  as  if  they  existed;  and 
the  champions  of  aristocracy  in  particular,  con- 
tinue, with  very  few  exceptions,  both  to  main- 
tain pretensions  that  their  principals  have  long- 
ago  abandoned,  and  to  impute  to  their  adver- 
saries, crimes  and   absurdities   with   which 
they  have  long  ceased  to  be  chargeable.     To 
them,  therefore,  no  other  alternative  has  yet 
presented  itself  but  the  absolute  triumph  of 
one  or  other  of  two  opposite  and  irreconcile- 
able  extremes.     Whatever  is  taken  from  the 
sovereign,  they  consider  as  being  necessarily 
given  to  crazy  republicans ;  and  very  naturally 
dislike  all  limitations  of  the  royal  power,  be- 
cause  they  are  unable  to  distinguish  them 
from  usurpations  by  the  avowed  enemies  of  all 
subordination.  That  the  real  state  of  things  has 
long  been  extremely  different,  men  of  reflec- 
tion might  have  concluded  from  the  known 
principles  of  human  nature,  and  men  of  infor- 
mation must  have  learned  from  sources  of  un- 
doubted authority :  But  no. small  proportion  of 
our  zealous  politicians  belong  to  neither  of 
those  classes ;  and  we  ought  not,  perhaps,  to 
wonder,  if  they  are  slow  in  admitting  truths 
which   a   predominating  party  has   So   long 
thought  it  for  its  interest  to  misrepresent  or 
disguise.     The  time,  however,  seems  almost 
come,  when  conviction  must  be  forced  even 
upon  their  rekictant  understandings, — and  by 
the  sort  of  evidence  best  suited  to  their  capa- 
city.  They  would  probably  be  little  moved  by 
the  best  arguments  that  could  be  addressed  to 
them,  and  might  distrust  the  testimony  of  or- 
dinary observers ;  but  they  cannot  well  refuse 
to  yield  to  the  opinions  of  the  great  Sovereigns 
of  the  Continent,  and  must  even  give  faith  to 
their  professions,  when  they  find  them  con- 
firmed at  all  points  by  their  actions.     If  the 
establishment  of  a  limited  monarchy  in  France 
would  be  dangerous  to  sovereign  authority  in 
all  the  adjoining  regions,  it  is  not  easy  to  con- 
ceive that  it  should  have  met  with  the  cordial 
approbation  of  the  Emperors  of  Austria  and 
Russia,  and  the  King  of  Prussia,  in  the  day  of 
their  most  brilliant  success;  or  that  that  mo- 
ment of  triumph  on  the  part  of  the  old  princes 
of  Europe  should  have  been  selected  as  the 
period  when  the  thrones  of  France,  and  Spain, 
and  Holland,  were  to  be  surrounded  with  per- 
manent limitations, — imposed  wiih  their  cor- 
dial assent,  and  we  might  almost  say,  by  their 


hands.  Compared  with  acts  so  unequivoca!, 
all  declarations  may  justly  be  regarded  as  in- 
significant :  but  there  are  declarations  also  to 
the  same  purpose ; — made  freely  and  deliber- 
ately on  occasions  of  unparalleled  importance, 
— and  for  no  other  intelligible  purpose  but 
solemnly  to  announce  to  mankind  the  generous 
principle  on  which  those  mighty  actions  had 
been  performed. 

But  while  these  authorities  and  these  con- 
siderations may  be  expected,  in  due  time,  to 
overcome  that  pardonable  dislike  to  conti- 
nental liberty  which  arises  from  ignorance  or 
natural  prejudices,  we  will  confess  that  we 
by  no  means  reckon  on  the  total  disappear- 
ance of  this  illiberal  jealousy.  There  is,  and 
we  fear  there  will  always  be,  among  us,  a  set 
of  persons  who  conceive  it  to  be  for  their  in- 
terest to  decry  every  thing  that  is  favourable 
to  hberty, — and  who  are  guided  only  by  a  re- 
gard to  their  interest.  In  a  government  con- 
stituted like  ours,  the  Court  must  almost 
always  be  more  or  less  jealous,  and  perhapi 
justly,  of  the  encroachment  of  popular  prin- 
ciples, and  disposed  to  show  favour  to  those 
w^ho  would  diminish  the  influence  and  au- 
thority of  such  principles.  Without  intending 
or  wishing  to  render  the  British  crown  alto- 
gether arbitrary,  it  still  seems  to  them  to  be 
in  favour  of  its  constitutional  privileges,  that 
arbitrary  monarchies  should,  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent, be  defended ;  and  an  artful  apology  for 
tyranny  is  gratefully  received  as  an  argument 
a  fortiori  in  support  of  a  vigorous  preroga- 
tive. The  leaders  of  the  party,  therefore,  lean 
that  way ;  and  their  baser  followers  rush  cla- 
morously along  it — to  the  very  brink  of  servile 
sedition,  and  treason  agamst  the  constitution. 

Such  men  no  arguments  w^ill  silence,  and 
no  authorities  convert.  It  is  their  profession 
to  discredit  and  oppose  all  that  tends  to  pro- 
mote the  freedom  of  mankind;  and  in  that 
vocation  they  will  infallibly  labour,  so  long  as 
it  yields  them  a  profit.  At  the  present  mo- 
ment, too,  w^e  have  no  dolibt,  that  their  zeal 
is  quickened  by  their  alarm ;  since,  independ- 
ent of  the  general  damage  w^hich  the  cause 
of  arbitrary  government  must  sustain  from  the 
events  of  which  w^e  have  been  speaking,  their 
immediate  consequences  in  this  country  are 
likely  to  be  eminently  favourable  to  the  in- 
terests of  regulated  liberty  and  temperate  re- 
form. Next  to  the  actual  cessation  of  blood- 
shed and  sufi'ering,  indeed,  we  consider  this 
to  be  the  greatest  domestic  benefit  that  we 
are  likely  to  reap  from  the  peace,--and  the 
circumstance,  in  our  new  situation,  which  calls 
the  loudest  for  our  congratulation.  We  are 
perfectly  aware,  that  it  is  a  subject  of  regret 
to  many  patriotic  individuals,  that  the  brilliant 
successes  at  which  we  all  rejoice,  should  have 
occurred  a«der  an  administration  which  has 
not  manife,  id  any  extraordinary  dislike  to 
abuses,  nor  y  very  cordial  attachment  to  the 
rights  and  iberties  of  the  people;  and  w^e 
know,  tha.  it  has  been  an  opinion  pretty  cur- 
rent, both  with  them  and  their  antagonists, 
that  those  successes  will  fix  them  so  firmly  in 
power,  that  they  will  be  enabled,  if  they  should 
be  so  inclined,  to  deal  more  largely  in  abuses, 


RESTORATION  OF  THE  BOURBONS. 


593 


and  10  press  more  closely  on  our  liberties,  than 
any  of  their  predecessors.  For  our  own  part, 
however,  we  have  never  i)een  able  to  see 
things  in  this  inauspicious  light; — and  having 
no  personal  or  factious  quarrel  with  our  pres- 
ent ministers,  are  easily  comforted  for  the  in- 
creased chance  of  their  continuance  in  office, 
by  a  consideration  of  those  circumstances  that 
must  infallibly,  under  any  ministry,  operate 
to  facilitate  reform,  to  diminish  the  power  of 
the  Crown,  and  to  consolidate  the  liberties  of 
the  nation.  If  our  readers  agree  with  us  in 
our  estimate  of  the  importance  of  these  cir- 
cumstances, we  can  scarcely  doubt  that  they 
will  concur  in  our  general  conclusion. 
•  In  the  first  place,  then,  it  is  obvious,  that 
the  direct  patronage  and  indirect  influence  oi 
the  Crown  must  be  most  seriously  and  effect- 
ually abridged  by  the  reduction  of  our  army 
and  navy,  the  diminution  of  our  taxes,  and, 
generally  speaking,  of  all  our  establishments, 
upon  the  ratification  of  peace.  We  have 
thought  it  a  great  deal  gained  for  the  Consti- 
tation  of  late  years,  when  we  could  strike  off 
a  few  hundred  thousand  pounds  of  offices  in 
the  gift  of  the  Crown,  that  had  become  use- 
ess,  or  might  be  consolidated; — and  now  the 
peace  will,  at  one  blow,  strike  off"  probably 
thirty  or  forty  millions  of  government  expendi- 
ture, ordinary  or  extraordinary.  This  alone 
might  restore  the  balance  of  the  Constitution. 

In  the  next  place,  a  continuance  of  peace 
and  prospeyty  will  naturally  produce  a  greater 
diff'usion  of  wealth,  and  consequently  a  greater 
spirit  of  independence  in  the  body  of  the  peo- 
ple; which,  co-operating  with  the  diminished 
power  of  the  government  to  provide  for  its 
baser  adherents,  must  speedily  thin  the  ranks 
of  its  regular  supporters,  and  expose  it  far 
more  effectually  to  the  control  of  a  weightier 
and  more  impartial  public  opinion. 

In  the  third  place,  the  events  to  which  we 
have  alluded,  and  the  situation  in  which  they 
will  leave  us,  wiU  take  away  almost  all  those 
pretexts  for  resisting  inquiry  into  abuses,  and 
proposals  for  reform,  by  the  help  of  which, 
rather  than  of  any  serious  dispute  on  the  prin- 
ciple, these  important  discussions  have  been 
waived  for  these  last  twenty  years.  We  shall 
no  longer  be  stopped  with  the  plea  of  its  being 
no  fit  time  to  quarrel  about  the  little  faults  oi 
our  Constitution,  when  we  are  struggling  with 
a  ferocious  enemy  for  its  very  existence.  It 
will  not  now  do  to  tell  us,  that  it  is  both  dan- 
gerous and  disgraceful  to  show  ourselves  dis- 
united m  a  season  of  such  imminent  peril — or 
that  all  great  and  patriotic  minds  should  be 
entirely  engrossed  with  the  care  of  our  safety, 
and  can  have  neither  leisure  nor  energy  to 
bestow  upon  concerns  less  urgent  or  vital. 
The  restoration  of  peace,  on  the  contrary,  will 
soon  leave  us  little  else  to  do; — and  when  we 
have  no  invasions  nor  expeditions — nor  coali- 
tions nor  campaigns — ^nor  even  any  loans  and 
budgets  to  fill  the  minds  of  our  statesmen,  and 
the  ears  of  our  idle  politicians,  we  think  it  al- 
most certain  that  questions  of  reform  will  rise 
mto  paramount  importance,  and  the  redress 
af  abuses  become  the  most  interesting  of  pub- 
lic pursuits.  We  shall  be  once  more  entiffed, 
38 


too,  to  make  a  fair  and  natural  appeal  to  the 
analogous  acts  or  institutions  of  other  nations, 
without  being  met  by  the  cry  of  revolution 
and  democracy,  or  the  imputation  of  abetting 
the  proceedings  of  a  sanguinary  despot.  We 
shah  again  see  the  abuses  of  old  hereditary 
power,  and  the  evils  of  maladministration  in 
legitimate  hands;  and  be  permitted  to  argue 
from  them,  without  the  reproach  of  disaffec- 
tion to  the  general  cause  of  mankind.  Men 
and  things,  in  short,  we  trust,  will  again  re- 
ceive their  true  names,  on  a  fair  consideration 
of  their  merits ;  and  our  notions  of  political 
desert  be  no  longer  confounded  by  indiscrimi- 
nate praise  of  all  who  are  with  us,  and  in- 
tolerant abuse  of  all  who  are  against  us,  in  a 
struggle  that  touches  the  sources  of  so  many 
passions.  When  we  plead  for  the  emancipa- 
tion of  the  Catholics  of  Ireland,  we  shall  no 
longer  be  told  that  the  Pope  is  a  mere  puppet 
in  the  hands  of  an  inveterate  foe,: — nor  be  de- 
terred from  protesting  against  the  conflagration 
of  a  friendly  capital,  by  the  suggestion,  that 
no  other  means  were  lelt  to  prevent  that  same 
foe  from  possessing  himself  of  its  fleet.  Ex- 
ceptions and  extreme  cases,  in  short,  will  no 
longer  furnish  the  ordinary  rules  of  our  con- 
duct; and  it  will  be  impossible,  by  extraneous 
arguments,  to  baffle  every  attempt  at  a  fair  es- 
timate of  our  publicprinciples  and  proceedings. 

These,  we  think,  are  among  the  necessary 
consequences  of  a  peace  concluded  in  such 
circumstances  as  we  have  now  been  consider- 
ing; -and  they  are  but  a  specimen  of  the  kin- 
dred consequences  to  which  it  must  infallibly 
lead.  If  these  ensue,  however,  and  are  al- 
lowed to  produce  their  natural  effects,  it  is  a 
matter  of  indifference  to  us  whether  Lord 
Castlereagh  and  Lord  Liverpool,  or  Lord  Grey 
and  Lord  Grenville  are  at  the  head  of  the 
government.  The  former,  indeed,  may  prob- 
ably be  a  little  uneasy  in  so  new  a  posture  of 
affairs ;  but  they  will  either  conform  to  it,  or 
abandon  their  posts  in  despair.  To  control  or 
alter  it,  will  assuredly  be  beyond  their  power. 

With  these  pleasing  anticipations,  we  would 
wiUingly  close  this  long  review  of  the  State  and 
Prospects  of  the  European  Commonwealth, 
in  its  present  great  crisis,  of  restoration,  or  of 
new  revolutions.  But,  cheering  and  beautiful 
as  it  is,  and  disposed  as  we  think  we  have 
shown  ourselves  to  look  hopefully  upon  it,  it 
is  impossible  to  shut  our  eyes  on  two  dark 
stains  that  appear  on  the  bright  horizon,  and 
seem  already  to  tarnish  the  glories  with  which 
they  are  so  sadly  contrasted.  One  is  of  longer 
standing,  and  perhaps  of  deeper  dye. — But 
both  are  most  painful  deformities  on  the  face 
of  so  fair  a  prospect;  and  may  be  mentioned 
with  less  scruple  and  greater  hope,  from  the 
consideration,  that  those  who  have  now  the 
power  of  effacing  them  can  scarcely  be  charged 
with  the  guilt  of  their  production,  and  have 
given  strong  indications  of  dispositions  that 
must  lead  them  to  wish  for  their  removal.  We 
need  scarcely  give  the  key  to  these  observa- 
tions by  naming  the  names  of  Poland  and  o* 
Norway.  Nor  do  we  propose,  on  the  presen* 
occasion,  to  do  much  more  than  to  name  them 
Of  the  latter,  we  shall  piobablv  contrive  to 


594 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


epeak  fully  on  a  future  occasion.  Of  the  for- 
mer, many  of  our  readers  may  think  we  have, 
on  former  occasions,  said  at  least  enough. 
Our  zeal  in  that  cause,  we  know,  has  been 
made  matter  of  wonder,  and  even  of  derision, 
among  certain  persons  who  value  themselves 
on  the  character  of  practical  politicians  and 
men  of  the  world ;  and  we  have  had  the  satis- 
faction of  listening  to  various  witty  sneers  on 
the  mixed  simplicity  and  extravagance  of 
supposing,  that  the  kingdom  of  the  Poles  was 
to  be  re-established  by  a  dissertation  in  an 
English  journal.  It  would  perhaps  be  enough 
to  state,  that,  independent  of  any  view  to  an 
immediate  or  practical  result  in  other  regions, 
it  is  of  some  consequence  to  keep  the  obser- 
vation of  England  alive,  and  its  feelings  awake, 
upon  a  subject  of  this  importance:  But  we 
must  beg  leave  to  add,  that  such  dissertations 
are  humbly  conceived  to  be  among  the  legiti- 
mate means  by  which  the  English  public  both 
instructs  and  expresses  itself;  and  that  the 
opinion  of  the  English  public  is  still  allowed 
to  have  weight  with  its  government;  which 
again  cannot  well  be  supposed  to  be  altogether 
without  influence  in  the  councils  of  its  allies. 
Whatever  becomes  of  Poland,  it  is  most 
material,  we  think,  that  the  people  of  this 
country  should  judge  soundly,  and  feel  right- 
ly, on  a  matter  that  touches  on  principles  of 
such  general  application.  But  every  thing 
that  has  passed  since  the  publication  of  our 
former  remarks,  combines  to  justify  what  we 
then  stated;  and  to  encourage  us  to  make 
louder  and  more  energetic  appeals  to  the  jus- 
tice and  prudence  and  magnanimity  of  the 
parties  concerned  in  this  transaction.  The 
words  and  the  deeds  of  Alexander  that  have, 
since  that  period,  passed  into  the  page  of 
history — the  principles  he  has  solemnly  pro- 
fessed, and  the  acts  by  which  he  has  sealed 
that  profession — entitle  us  to  expect  from  him 
a  strain  of  justice  and  generosity,  which  vul- 
gar politicians  may  call  romantic  if  they  please, 
but  which  all  men  of  high  principles  and  en- 
larged understandings  will  feel  to  be  not  more 
heroic  than  judicious.  While  Poland  remains 
oppressed  and  discontented,  the  peace  of  Eu- 
rope will  always  be  at  the  mercy  of  any  am- 
bitious or  intriguing  power  that  may  think  fit 


to  rouse  its  vast  and  warlike  population  with 
the  vain  promise  of  independence ;  while  it  is 
perfectly  manifest  that  those,  by  whom  alone 
that  promise  could  be  eifectually  kept,  would 
gain  prodigiously,  both  in  security  and  in  sub- 
stantial influence,  by  its  faithful  performance. 
It  is  not,  however,  for  the  mere  name  of 
independence,  nor  for  the  lost  glories  of  an 
ancient  and  honourable  existence,  that  the 
people  of  Poland  are  thus  eager  to  array 
themselves  in  any  desperate  strife  of  which 
this  may  be  proclaimed  as  the  prize.  We 
have  shown,  in  our  last  number,  the  substan- 
tial and  intolerable  evils  which  this  extinction 
of  their  national  dignity — this  sore  and  un- 
merited wound  to  their  national  pride,  has 
necessarily  occasioned :  And  thinking,  as  we 
do,  that  a  people  without  the  feelings  of  na- 
tional pride  and  public  duty  must  be  a  people 
without  energy  and  without  enjoyments,  we 
apprehend  it  to  be  at  any  rate  indisputable,  ill 
the  present  instance,  that  the  circumstances 
which  have  dissolved  their  political  being, 
have  struck  also  at  the  root  of  their  individual 
happiness  and  prosperity ;  and  that  it  is  not 
merely  the  unjust  destruction  of  an  ancient 
kindom  that  we  lament,  but  the  condemnation 
of  fifteen  millions  of  human  beings  to  un- 
profitable and  unparalleled  misery. 

But  though  these  are  the  considerations  by 
which  the  feelings  of  private  individuals  are 
most  naturally  afl'ected,  it  should  never  be 
forgotten,  that  all  the  principles  -on  which  the 
great  fabric  of  national  independence  con- 
fessedly rests  in  Europe,  are  involved  in  the 
decision  of  this  question;  and  that  no  one 
nation  can  be  secure  in  its  separate  existence, 
if  all  the  rest  do  not  concur  in  disavowing 
the  maxims  which  were  acted  upon  in  the 
partition  of  Poland.  It  is  not  only  mournful 
to  see  the  scattered  and  bleeding  members  of 
that  unhappy  state  still  palpitating  and  ago- 
nising on  the  spot  where  it  lately  stood  erect 
in  youthful  vigour  and  beauty ;  but  it  is  unsafe 
to  breathe  the  noxious  vapours  which  this 
melancholy  spectacle  exhales.  The  whole- 
some neighbourhood  is  poisoned  by  their  dif- 
fusion ;  and  every  independence  within  their 
range,  sickens  and  is  endangered  by  the  con- 
tagion. 


(Icbrnarg,  ISH.) 


Speech  of  the  Right  Hon.  William  Windham,  in  the  House  of  Commons,  May  26,  1809,  on 
Mr.  Curwenh  Bill,  ^'for  better  securing  the  Independence  and  Purity  of  Parliament,  by 
preventing  the  procuring  or  obtaining  of  Seats  by  corrupt  Practices,''''  8vo.  pp.  43, 
London:  1810.* 


Mr.  Windham,  the  most  high-minded  and 
incorruptible  of  living  men,  can  see  no  harm 

*  The  passing  of  the  Reform  Bill  has  antiquated 
much  of  the  discussion  in  this  article,  as  originally 
written  ;  and  a  considerable  portion  of  it  is  now,  for 
this  reason,  omitted.  But  it  also  contains  answers 
U)  the  systematic  apologists  of  corruption,  and  op- 


in  selling  seats  in  pailiament  openly  to  the 
highest  bidder,'  or  for  excluding  public  trusts 

ponents  of  reform  principles — which  are  applicable 
to  all  times,  and  all  conditions  of  society ;  and  of 
which  recent  events  and  discussions  seem  to  show 
that  the  present  generation  may  still  need  to  be  re* 
minded. 


WINDHAM'S  SPEECH. 


£95 


generally  from  the  money  market ;  and  is  of 
^pinion  that  political  inflaence  arising  from 
property  shoukl  be  disposed  of  like  other 
property.  It  will  be  readily  supposed  that 
we  do  not  assent  to  any  part  of  this  doctrine  ; 
and  indeed  we  must  beg  leave  to  say,  that  to 
us  it  is  no  sort  of  argument  for  the  sale  of 
seats,  to  contend  that  such  a  transference  is 
no  worse  than  the  possession  of  the  property 
transferred ;  and  to  remind  us,  that  he  who 
objects  to  men  selling  their  influence,  must 
be  against  their  havmg  it  to  sell.  We  are 
decidedly  against  their  having  it — to  sell ! 
and,  as  to  what  is  here  considered  as  the 
necessary  influence  of  property  over  elections, 
we  should  think  there  could  be  no  great  diffi- 
culty in  drawing  the  line  between  the  legiti- 
mate, harmless,  and  even  beneficial  use  of 
property,  even  as  connected  with  elections; 
and  its  direct  employment  for  the  purchase 
of  parliamentary  influence .  Almost  all  men — 
indeed,  we  think,  all  men — admit,  that  some 
line  is  to  be  drawn ; — that  the  political  influ- 
ence of  property  should  be  confined  to  that 
which  is  essential  to  its  use  and  enjoyment ; 
— and  that  penalties  should  be  inflicted,  when 
it  is  directly  applied  to  the  purchase  of  votes ; 
though  that  is  perhaps  the  only  case  in  which 
the  law  can  interfere  vindictively,  without  in- 
troducing far  greater  evils  than  those  which 
it  seeks  to  remedy. 

To  those  who  are  already  familiar  with  the 
facts  and  the  reasonings  that  bear  upon  this 
great  question,  these  brief  suggestions  will 
probably  be  sufficient ;  but  there  are  many  to 
whom  the  subject  will  require  a  little  more 
explanation ;  and  for  whose  use,  at  all  events, 
the  argument  must  be  a  little  more  opened 
up  and  expanded. 

If  men  were  perfectly  wise  and  virtuous, 
they  would  stand  in  no  need  either  of  Govern- 
ment or  of  Representatives ;  and,  therefore, 
if  they  do  need  them,  it  is  quite  certain  that 
their  choice  will  not  be  influenced  by  con- 
siderations of  duty  or  wisdom  alone.  We 
may  assume  it  as  an  axiom,  therefore,  how- 
ever the  purists  may  be  scandalised,  that, 
even  in  political  elections,  some  other  feel- 
ings will  necessarily  have  play ;  and  that  pas- 
sions, and  prejudices,  and  personal  interests, 
will  always  interfere,  to  a  greater  or  less  ex- 
tent, with  the  higher  dictates  of  patriotism 
and  philanthropy.  Of  these  sinister  motives, 
individual  interest,  of  course,  is  the  strongest 
and  most  steady ;  and  wealth,  being  its  most 
common  and  appropriate  object,  it  is  natural 
to  expect  that  the  possession  of  property 
should  bestow  some  political  influence.  The 
question,  therefore,  is,  whether  this  influence 
can  ever  be  safe  or  tolerable — or  whether  it 
be  possible  to  mark  the  limits  at  which  it  be- 
comes so  pernicious  as  to  justify  legislative 
coercion.  Now,  we  are  so  far  from  thinking, 
with  Mr.  Windham,  that  there  is  no  room  for 
any  distinction  in  this  matter,  that  we  are  in- 
clined, on  the  whole,  to  be  of  opinion,  that 
what  we  would  term  the  natural  and  inevita- 
ble influence  of  property  in  elections,  is  not 
only  safe,  but  salutary;  while  its  artificial 
Ind    corrupt   influence  is  among  the  most 


pernicious  and  reprehensible  cf  all  political 
abuses. 

The  natural  influence  of  properly  is  that 
which  results  spontaneously  from  its  ordinary 
use  and  expenditure,  and  cannot  well  be  mis- 
understood. That  a  man  who  spends  a  large 
income  in  the  place  of  his  residence — who 
subscribes  handsomely  for  building  bridges, 
hospitals,  and  assembly-rooms,  and  generally 
to  all  works  of  public  charity  or  accommoda- 
tion in  the  neighbourhood — and  who,  more- 
over, keeps  the  best  table  for  the  gentry,  and 
has  the  largest  accounts  with  the  tradesmen 
— will,  without  thinking  or  caring  about  the 
matter,  acquire  more  influence,  and  find  more 
people  ready  to  oblige  him,  than  a  poorer  man, 
of  equal  virtue  and  talents — is  a  fact,  which 
we  are  as  little  inclined  to  deplore,  as  to  call 
in  question.  Neither  does  it  cost  us  any  pang 
to  reflect,  that,  if  such  a  man  was  desirous  of 
representing  the  borough  in  which  he  resided, 
or  of  having  it  represented  by  his  son  or  his 
brother,  or  some  dear  and  intimate  friend,  his 
recommendation  would  go  much  farther  with 
the  electors  than  a  respectable  certificate  of 
extraordinary  worth  and  abilities  in  an  oppos- 
ing candidate. 

Such  an  influence  as  this,  it  would  evidently 
be  quite  absurd  for  any  legislature  to  think 
of  interdicting,  or  even  for  any  refoimer  to  at- 
tempt to  discredit.  In  the  first  place,  because 
it  is  founded  in  the  very  nature  of  men  and 
of  human  affairs,  and  could  not  possibly  be 
prevented,  or  considerably  weakened,  by  any 
thing  short  of  an  universal  regeneiation;  se- 
condly, because,  though  originating  from  pro- 
perty, it  does  by  no  means  imply,  either  the 
baseness  of  venality,  or  the  g-uilt  of  corrup- 
tion; but  rests  infinitely  more  upon  feelings 
of  vanity,  and  social  instinctive  sympathy, 
than  upon  any  consciousness  of  dependence, 
or  paltry  expectation  of  personal  emolument; 
and,  thirdly,  because,  taking  men  as  they  ac- 
tually are,  this  mixed  feeling  is,  upon  the 
whole,  both  a  safer  and  a  better  feeling  than 
the  greater  part  of  those,  to  the  influence  of 
which  they  would  be  abandoned,  if  this  should 
be  destroyed.  If  the  question  were,  always, 
whether  a  man  of  wealth  and  family,  or  a  man 
of  sense  and  virtue,  should  have  the  greatest 
influence,  it  would  no  doubt  be  desirable  that 
the  preponderance  should  be  given  to  moral 
and  intellectual  merit.  But  this  is  by  no 
means  the  true  state  of  the  contest : — and 
when  the  question  is  between  the  influence 
of  property  and  the  influence  of  intriguing  am- 
bition and  turbulent  popularity,  we  own  that 
we  are  glad  to  find  the  former  most  frequently 
prevalent.  In  ordinary  life,  and  in  common 
affairs,  this  natural  and  indirect  influence  of 
property  is  vast  and  infallible,  even  upon  the 
best  and  most  enlightened  part  of  the  com- 
munity ;  and  nothing  can  conduce  so  surely  to 
the  stability  and  excellence  of  a  political  con- 
stitution, as  to  make  it  rest  upon  the  general 
principles  that  regulate  the  conduct  of  the 
better  part  of  the  individuals  who  live  under 
it,  and  tc  attach  ihem  to  t^jeir  government  by 
the  same  feelings  which  insure  their  affec- 
tion or  submission  in  their  private  capacity 


596 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


There  could  be  no  security,  in  short,  either 
for  property,  or  for  any  thing  else,  in  a  coun- 
try where  the  possession  of  property  did  not 
bestow  some  political  influence. 

This,  then,  is  the  natural  influence  of  pro- 
perty ]  which  we  would  not  only  tolerate,  but 
encourage.  We  must  now  endeavour  to  ex- 
plain that  corrupt  or  artificial  influence,  which 
we  conceive  it  to  be  our  duty  by  all  means  to 
resist  and  repress.  Under  this  name,  we  would 
comprehend  all  wilful  and  direct  employment 
of  property  to  purchase  or  obtain  political 
power,  in  whatever  form  the  transaction  might 
be  embodied :  but,  with  reference  to  the  more 
common  cases,  we  shall  exemplify  only  in  the 
instances  of  purchasing  votes  by  bribery,  or 
holding  the  property  of  those  votes  distinct 
from  any  other  property,  and  selling  and  trans- 
ferring this  for  a  price,  like  any  other  market- 
able commodity.  All  such  practices  are  stig- 
matized, in  common  language,  and  in  common 
feelings,  as  corrupt  and  discreditable ;  and 
the  slightest  reflection  upon  their  principles 
and  their  consequences,  will  show,  that  while 
they  tend  to  debase  the  character  of  all  who 
are  concerned  in  them,  they  lead  directly  to 
the  subversion  of  all  that  is  valuable  in  a 
representative  system  of  government.  That 
they  may,  in  some  cases,  be  combined  with 
that  indirect  and  legitimate  influence  of  pro- 
perty of  which  we  have  just  been  speaking, 
and,  in  others,  be  insidiously  engrafted  upon 
it,  it  is  impossible  to  deny  ]  but  that  they  are 
clearly  distinguishable  from  the  genuine  fruits 
of  that  influence,  both  in  their  moral  character 
and  their  political  effects,  we  conceive  to  be 
equally  indisputable. 

Upon  the  subject  of  direct  bribery  to  mr\i- 
vidual  voters,  indeed,  we  do  not  think  it  ne- 
cessary to  say  any  thing.  The  law,  and  the 
feeling  of  all  mankind  have  marked  that  prac- 
tice with  reprobation :  and  even  Mr.  Wind- 
ham, in  the  wantonness  of  his  controversial 
scepticism,  does  not  pretend  to  say,  that  the 
law  or  the  feeling  is  erroneous,  or  that  it  would 
not  be  better  that  both  should,  if  possible,  be 
made  still  stronger  than  they  are. 

Setting  this  aside,  however,  the  great  prac- 
tical evils  that  are  supposed  to  result  from  the 
influence  of  property  in  the  elections  of  this 
country,  are,  1st,  that  the  representation  of 
certain  boroughs  is  entirely,  necessarily  and 
perpetually,  at  the  disposal  of  certain  fami- 
lies, so  as  to  be  familiarly  considered  as  a 
part  of  their  rightful  property;  and,  2dly, 
that  certain  other  boroughs  are  held  and  ma- 
naged by  corrupt  agents  and  jobbers,  for  the 
express  purpose  of  being  sold  for  a  price  in 
ready  money,  either  through  the  intervention 
of  the  Treasury,  or  directly  to  the  candidate. 
That  both  these  are  evils  and  deformities  in 
our  system  of  representation,  we  readily  ad- 
mit ;  though  by  no  means  to  the  same  extent, 
leading  to  the  same  eff'ects,  or  produced  by 
the  operation  of  the  same  causes. 

With  regard  to  the  boroughs  that  are  per- 
manently in  possession  of  certain  great  pro- 
prietors, these  are,  for  the  most  part,  such 
Bmall  or  decayed  places,  as  have  fallen,  al- 
most insensi])ly,  under  their  control,  in  con- 


sequence of  the  extension  of  their  possessions, 
and  the  decline  of  the  population.  Consider- 
ed in  this  light,  it  does  not  appear  that  they 
can,  with  any  propriety,  be  regarded  either  as 
scenes  of  criminal  corruption,  or  as  examples 
of  the  reprehensible  influence  of  property.  If 
a  place  which  still  retains  (however  absurdly) 
the  right  of  sending  members  to  parliament^ 
comes  to  be  entirely  depopulated,  like  Old 
Sarum,  it  is  impossible  to  suppose  that  the 
nomination  of  its  members  should  vest  in  any 
one  but  the  Proprietor  of  the  spot  to  which 
the  right  is  attached :  and,  even  where  the 
decay  is  less  complete  than  in  this  instance, 
still,  if  any  great  family  has  gradually  acquir- 
ed the  greater  part  of  the  property  from  which 
the  right  of  voting  is  derived,  it  is  equally 
impossible  to  hold  that  there  is  any  thing  cor- 
rupt or  reprehensible  in  its  availing  itself  of 
this  influence.  Cases  of  this  sort,  therefore, 
we  are  inclined  to  consider  as  cases  of  the 
fair  influence  of  property;  and  though  we 
admit  them  to  be  both  contradictory  to  the 
general  scheme  of  the  Constitution,  and  sub- 
versive of  some  of  its  most  important  princi- 
ples, we  think  they  are  to  be  regarded  as  flaws 
and  irregularities  brought  on  by  time  and  the 
course  of  events,  rather  than  as  abuses  intro- 
duced by  the  vices  and  corruptions  of  men. 
The  remedy — and  we  certainly  think  a  verj' 
obvious  and  proper  remedy — would  be,  to 
take  the  right  of  election  from  all  places  so 
small  and  insignificant  as  to  have  thus  be- 
come, in  a  great  measure,  the  property  of  an 
individual — not  to  rail  at  the  individual  who 
avails  himself  of  the  influence  inseparMe 
from  such  property — or  to  dream  of  restrain- 
ing him  in  its  exercise,  by  unjust  penalties 
and  impossible  regulations. 

The  great  evil,  however,  is  in  the  other  de- 
scription of  boroughs — those  that  are  held  by 
agents  or  jobbers,  by  a  very  different  tenure 
from  that  of  great  proprietors  and  benefactors, 
and  are  regularly  disposed  of  by  them,  at 
every  election,  for  a  price  paid  down,  either 
through  the  mediation  of  the  ministry,  or 
without  any  such  mediation :  a  part  of  this 
price  being  notoriously  applied  by  such  agents 
in  direct  bribes  to  individual  voters — and  the 
remainder  taken  to  themselves  as  the  lawful 
proflts  of  the  transaction.  Now,  without  going 
into  any  sort  of  detail,  we  think  we  might  at 
once  venture  to  ask,  whether  it  be  possible  for 
any  man  to  shut  his  eyes  upon  the  individual 
infamy  and  the  public  hazard  that  are  involv- 
ed in  these  last-mentioned  proceedings,  or  for 
one  moment  to  confound  thenr..  even  in  his 
imagination,  with  the  innocent  ar>d  salutary  in- 
fluence that  is  inseparable-from  the  possession 
and  expenditure  of  large  property  ?  The  differ- 
ence between  them,  is  not  less  than  between 
the  influence  which  youth  and  manly  beauty, 
aided  by  acts  of  generosity  and  proofs  of  ho- 
nourable intentions  may  attain  over  an  object 
of  aff'ection,  and  the  control  that  may  be  ac- 
quired by  the  arts  of  a  hateful  procuress,  and 
by  her  transferred  to  an  object  of  natural  dis- 
gust and  aversion.  The  one  is  founded  upon 
principles  which,  if  they  are  not  the  most 
lofty  or  infallible,  are  still  among  the  most 


WINDHAM'S  SPEECH. 


597 


nmiable  that  belong  to  our  imperfect  nature, 
and  leads  to  consequences  eminently  favour- 
able to  the  harmony  and  stability  of  our  social 
institutions ;  ^vhile  the  other  can  only  be  ob- 
tained by  working  with  the  basest  instruments 
on  the  basest  passions;  and  tends  directly  to 
sap  the  foundations  of  private  honour  and  pub- 
lic freedom,  and  to  dissolve  the  kindly  cement 
by  which  nature  herself  has  knit  society  to- 
gether, in  the  bonds  of  human  sympathy,  and 
mutual  trust  and  dependence.  To  say  that 
both  sorts  of  influence  are  derived  from  pro- 
perty, and  are  therefore  to  be  considered  as 
identical,  is  a  sophism  scarcely  more  ingeni- 
ous, than  that  which  would  confound  the  oc- 
cupations of  the  highwayman  and  the  honour- 
able merchant,  because  the  object  of  both  was 
gain;  or  which  should  assume  the  philoso- 
phical principle,  that  all  voluntary  actions  are 
dictated  by  a  view  to  ultimate  gratification,  in 
order  to  prove  that  there  was  no  distinction 
between  vice  and  virtue ;  and  that  the  felon, 
who  was  led  to  execution  amidst  the  execra- 
tions of  an  indignant  multitude,  was  truly  as 
meritorious  as  the  patriot,  to  whom  his  grate- 
ful country  decreed  unenvied  honours  for  its 
deliverance  from  tyranny.  The  truth  is,  that 
there  is  nothing  more  dangerous  than  those 
metaphysical  inquiries  into  the  ultimate  con- 
stituents of  merit  or  delinquency :  and  that, 
in  every  thing  that  is  connected  with  practice, 
and  especially  with  public  conduct,  no  wise 
man  will  ever  employ  such  an  analytical  pro- 
cess to  counteract  the  plain  intimations  of 
conscience  and  common  sense,  unless  for  the 
purpose  of  confounding  an  antagonist,  or  per- 
plexing a  discussion,  to  the  natural  result  of 
which  he  is  unfriendly  on  other  principles. 

But  if  the  practices  to  which  we  are  alluding 
be  clearly  base  and  unworthy  in  the  eyes  of 
all  upright  and  honourable  men,  and  most 
pregnant  with  public  danger  in  the  eyes  of 
all  thinking  and  intelligent  men,  it  must  ap- 
pear still  more  strange  to  find  them  defended 
on  the  score  of  their  Antiquity,  .than  on  that 
of  their  supposed  affinity  to  practices  that  are 
held  to  be  innocent.  Yet  the  old  cry  of  Inno- 
vation !  has  been  raised,  with  more  than  usual 
vehemence,  against  those  who  ofi'er  the  most 
cautious  hints  for  their  correction ;  and  even 
Mr.  Windham  has  not  disdained  to  seek  some 
aid  to  his  argument  from  a  misapplication  of 
the  sorry  commonplaces  about  the  antiquity 
and  beauty  of  our  constitution,  and  the  hazard 
of  meddling  at  all  with  that  under  which  we 
have  so  long  enjoyed  so  much  glory  and  hap- 
piness. Of  the  many  good  answers  that  may 
be  made  to  all  arguments  of  this  character, 
we  shall  content  ourselves  w^ith  one,  which 
seems  sufficiently  conclusive  and  simple. 

The  abuses,  of  which  we  complain,  are  not 
old,  but  recent ;  and  those  who  seek  to  correct 
them,  are  not  innovating  upon  the  constitu- 
tion, but  seeking  to  prevent  innovation.  The 
practice  of  jobbing  in  boroughs  was  scarcely 
known  at  all  in  the  beginning  of  the  last  cen- 
tury ;  and  was  not  systematized,  nor  carried 
to  any  very  formidable  extent,  till  within  the 
last  forty  years.  At  all  events,  it  most  cer- 
tainly was  not  in  the  contemplation  of  those 


by  whom  the  frame  of  our  constitution  wag 
laid ;  and  it  is  confessedly  a  perversion  and 
abuse  of  a  system,  devised  and  established 
for  very  opposite  purposes.  Let  any  man  ask 
himself,  whether  such  a  scheme  of  represen- 
tation, as  is  now  actually  in  practice  in  many 
parts  of  this  country,  can  be  supposed  to  have 
been  intended  by  those  who  laid  the  founda- 
tions of  our  free  constitution,  or  reared  upon 
them  the  proud  fabric  of  our  liberties  1  Of 
let  him  ask  himself,  whether,  if  we  were  now 
devising  a  system  of  representation  for  such  a 
country  as  England,  there  is  any  human  being 
who  would  recommend  the  adoption  of  the 
system  that  is  practically  established  among 
us  at  this  moment, — a  system  under  which 
fifty  or  sixty  members  should  be  returned  by 
twenty  or  thirty  paltry  and  beggarly  hamlets, 
dignified  with  the  name  of  boroughs ;  while 
twenty  or  thirty  great  and  opulent  towns  had 
no  representation; — and  where  upwards  of  a 
hundred  more  publicly  bought  their  seats, 
partly  by  a  promise  of  indiscriminate  support 
to  the  minister,  and  partly  by  a  sum  paid 
down  to  persons  who  had  no  natural  influence 
over  the  electors,  and  controlled  them  noto- 
riously, either  by  direct  bribery,  or  as  the 
agents  of  ministerial  corruption?  If  it  be 
clear,  however,  that  such  a  state  of  things  is 
in  itself  indefensible,  it  is  still  clearer  that  it 
is  not  the  state  of  things  which  is  required  by 
the  true  principles  of  the  constitution  ;  that,  in 
point  of  fact,  it  neither  did  nor  could  exist  at 
the  time  when  that  constitution  was  estab- 
lished; and  that  its  correction  would  be  no 
innovation  on  that  constitution,  but  a  benefi- 
cial restoration  of  it,  both  in  principle  and  in 
practice. 

*  If  some  of  the  main  pillars  of  our  mansion 
have  been  thrown  down,  is  it  a  dangerous  in- 
novation to  rear  them  up  ag-ain  ?  If  the  roof 
has  grown  too  heavy  for  the  building,  by  re- 
cent and  injudicious  superstructures,  is  it  an 
innovation,  if  we  either  take  them  down,  or 
strengthen  the  supports  upon  which  they  de- 
pend ?  If  the  waste  of  time,  and  the  ele- 
ments, have  crumbled  away  a  part  of  the 
foundation,  does  it  show  a  disregard  to  the 
safety  of  the  whole  pile,  if  we  widen  the  basis 
upon  which  it  rests,  and  endeavour  to  place 
it  upon  deeper  and  firmer  materials  ■?  If  the 
rats  have  eaten  a  way  into  the  stores  and  the 
cellars;  or  if  knavish  servants  have  opened 
private  and  unauthorised  communications  in 
the  lower  parts  of  the  fabric,  does  it  indeed 
indicate  a  disposition  to  impair  the  comfort 
and  security  of  the  abode,  that  we  are  anxioua 
to  stop  up  those  holes,  and  to  build  across 
those  new  and  suspicious  approaches  ? — Is  it 
not  obvious,  in  short,  in  all  such  cases,  that 
the  only  true  innovators  are  Guilt  and  Time; 
and  that  they  who  seek  to  repair  what  time 
has  wasted ;  and  to  restore  what  guilt  has 
destroyed,  are  still  more^  unequivocafly  the 
enemies  of  innovation,  than  of  abuse  1  Those 
who  are  most  aware  of  the  importance  of  re 
form,  are  also  most  aware  of  the  hazards  of 
any  theoretical  or  untried  change  ;  and,  while 
they  strictly  confine  their  efibrts  to  the  restitu 
iion  of  what  all  admit  to  have  been  in  tha 


598 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


original  plan  of  our  representation,  and  to  have 
formed  a  most  essential  part  of  that  plan,  may 
reasonably  hope,  whatever  other  charges  they 
may  encounter,  to  escape  that  of  a  love  of 
innovation. 

There  is  another  topic,  on  which  Mr.  Wind- 
ham has  dwelt  at  very  great  length,  which 
appears  to  us  to  bear  even  less  on  the  merits 
of  the  question,  than  this  of  the  antiquity  of 
our  constitution.  The  abuses  and  corrup- 
tions which  Mr.  Curvven  aimed  at  correcting, 
ought  not,  he  says,  to  be  charged  to  the  ac- 
count of  ministers  or  members  of  Parliament 
alone.  The  greater  part  of  them  both  origi- 
nate and  end  with  the  people  themselves, — 
are  suggested  by  their  baseness  and  self-inter- 
est, and  terminate  in  their  corrupt  gain,  with 
very  little  voluntary  sin,  and  frequently  with 
very  little  advantage  of  any  sort  to  ministers 
or  candidates.  Now,  though  it  is  impossible  to 
forget  what  Mr.  Windham  has  himself  said, 
of  the  disgraceful  abuses  of  patronage  com- 
mitted by  men  in  power,  for  their  own  indi- 
vidual emolument,*  yet  we  are  inclined,  upon 
the  whole,  to  admit  the  truth  of  this  state- 
ment. It  is  what  we  have  always  thought  it 
our  duty  to  point  out  to  the  notice  of  those 
who  can  see  no  guilt  but  in  the  envied  pos- 
sessors of  dignity  and  power;  and  forms,  in- 
deed, the  very  basis  of  the  answer  we  have 
repeatedly  attempted  to  give  to  those  Utopian 
or  factious  reformers,  whose  intemperance  has 
done  more  injury  to  the  cause  of  reform,  than 
all  the  sophistry  and  all  the  corruption  of  their 
opponents.  But,  though  we  admit  the  premises 
of  Mr.  Windham's  argument,  we  must  utterly 
deny  his  conclusions.  When  we  admit,  that 
a  part  of  the  people  is  venal  and  corrupt,  as 
well  as  its  rulers,  we  really  cannot  see  that" 
we  admit  any  thing  in  defence,  or  even  in 
palliation,  of  venality  and  corruption : — Nor 
can  we  imagine,  how  that  melancholy  and 
most  humiliating  fact,  can  help  in  the  least  to 
make  out,  that  corruptioti  is  not  an  immoral 
and  pernicious  practice  ; — not  a  malum  in  se, 
as  Mr.  Windham  has  been  pleased  to  assert, 
nor  even  a  practice  which  it  would  be  just 
and  expedient,  if  it  were  practicable,  to  re- 
press and  abolish  !  The  only  just  inference 
from  the  fact  is,  that  ministers  and  members 
of  Parliament  are  not  the  only  guilty  persons 
in  the  traffic ; — and  that  all  remedies  will  be 
inefficient,  which  are  not  capable  of  being  ap- 
plied through  the  whole  range  of  the  malady. 
It  may  be  a  very  good  retort  from  the  gentle- 


*  "  With  respect  to  the  abuse  of  patronage,  one 
of  those  by  whir-h  the  interests  of  countries  do,  in 
reality,  most  suffer,  I  perfectly  agree,  that  it  is  like- 
wise one,  of  which  the  government,  properly  so 
called,  that  is  to  say,  persons  in  the  highest  offices, 
are  as  likely  to  be  guilty,  and  from  their  opportu- 
nities, more  likely  to  be  guilty,  than  any  others, 
And  nothing,  in  point  of  fact,  can  exceed  the  greedi- 
ness, the  selfishness,  the  insatiable  voracity,  the 
profligate  disregard  of  all  claims  from  merit  or  ser- 
vices, that  we  often  see  in  persons  in  high  official 
stations,  when  providing  for  themselves,  their  re- 
lations or  dependants.  I  am  as  little  disposed  as  any 
one  to  defend  them  in  this  conduct.  Let  it  be  repro- 
'^  bated  in  terms  as  harsh  as  any  one  pleases,  and 
touch  more  so  than  it  commonly  is." — Speech,  p.  28. 


men  within  doors  to  the  gentlemen  without . 
and  when  they  are  reproached  with  not  having 
clean  hands,  it  may  be  very  natural  for  them 
to  ask  a  sight  of  those  of  tlieir  accusers.  Bui 
is  this  any  answer  at  all,  to  those  who  insist 
upon  the  infamy  and  the  dangers  of  corrup- 
tion in  both  quarters  1  Or,  is  the  evil  really 
supposed  to  be  less  formidable,  because  it  ap- 
pears to  be  very  widely  extended,  and  to  be 
the  fair  subject,  not  only  of  reproach,  but  of 
recrimination  ?  The  seat  of  the  malady,  and 
its  extent,  may  indeed  vary  our  opinion  as  to 
the  nature  of  the  remedy  which  ought  to  be 
administered ;  but  the  knowledge  that  it  has 
pervaded  more  vital  parts  than  one,  certainly 
should  not  lead  us  to  think  that  no  remedy 
whatever  is  needed, — or  to  consider  the  symp- 
toms as  too  slight  to  require  any  particular 
attention. 

But-,  though  we  differ  thus  radically  from 
Mr.  Windham  in  our  estimate  of  the  nature 
and  magnitude  of  this  evil,  we  have  already 
said,  that  we  are  disposed  to  concur  with  him 
in  disapproving  of  the  measures  which  have 
been  lately  proposed  for  their  correction.  The 
bill  of  Mr.  Curwen,  and  all  bills  that  aim  only 
at  repressing  the  ultimate  traffic  in  seats,  by 
pains  and  penalties  to  be  imposed  on  those 
immediately  concerned  in  the  transaction,  ap- 
pears to  us  to  begin  at  the  wrong  end, — and 
to  aim  at  repressing  a  result  which  may  be 
regarded  as  necessary,  so  long  as  the  causes 
which  led  to  it  are  allowed  to  subsist  in  un- 
diminished vigour.  It  is  like  trying  to  save  a 
valley  from  being  flooded,  by  building  a  pal- 
try dam  across  the  gathered  torrents  that  flow 
into  it.  The  only  eflect  is,  that  they  will  ul- 
timately make  their  way,  by  a  more  destruc- 
tive channel,  to  worse  devastation.  The  true 
policy  is  to  drain  the  feeding  rills  at  their 
fountains,  or  to  provide  another  vent  for  the 
stream,  before  it  reaches  the  declivity  by 
which  the  flat  is  commanded.  While  the 
spirit  of  corruption  is  unchecked,  and  even 
fostered  in  the  bosom  of  the  country,  the  in- 
terdiction of  the  common  market  will  only 
throw  the  trade  into  the  hands  of  the  more 
profligate  and  daring, — or  give  a  monopoly  to 
the  privileged  and  protected  dealings  of  Ad- 
ministration ;  and  the  evil  will  in  both  ways 
be  aggravated,  instead  of  being  relieved. 

We  cannot  now  stop  to  point  out  the  actual 
evils  to  which  this  corruption  gives  rise ;  or 
even  to  dwell  on  the  means  by  which  we 
think  it  might  be  made  more  difficult :  though 
among  these  we  conceive  the  most  efficacious 
would  obviously  be  to  multiply  the  numbers, 
and,  in  some  cases,  to  raise  the  qualification 
of  voters — to  take  away  the  right  of  election 
from  decayed,  inconsiderable,  and  rotten  bo- 
roughs ;  and  to  bestow  it  on  large  towns  pos- 
sessing various  and  divided  wealth.  But, 
though  the  increased  number  of  voters  will 
make  it  more  difficult  to  bribe  them,  and  their 
greater  opulence  render  them  less  liable  to  be 
bribed  ;  still,  we  confess  that  the  chief  benefit 
which  we  e.xpect  from  any  pi^ir'isions  of  this 
sort,  is  the  security  which  we  think  they  will 
afford  for  the  improvement,  maintenniice,  and 
propagation  of  a  Free  Spirit  among  the  pe  :)])li 


WINDHAM'S  SPEECH. 


59y 


•  -a  fselingof  political  right,  and  of  individual 
interest,  among  so  great  a  number  of  persons, 
as  will  make  it  not  only  discreditable,  but  un- 
safe, to  invade  their  liberties,  or  trespass  upon 
their  rights.  It  is  never  to  be  forgotten,  that 
the  great  and  ultimate  barrier  against  oppres- 
sion, and  arbitrary  power,  must  always  be 
raised  on  public  opinion — and  on  opinion,  so 
valued  and  so  asserted,  as  to  point  resolutely 
to  resistance,  if  it  be  permanently  insulted,  or 
openly  set  at  defiance.  In  order  to  have  this 
public  opinion,  however,  either  sufficiently 
strong,  or  sufficiently  enlightened,  to  aff'ord 
such  a  security,  it  is  quite  necessary  that  a 
very  large  body  of  the  people  be  taught  to  set 
a  value  upon  the  rights  wliich  it  is  qualified  to 
protect, — that  their  reason,  their  moral  prin- 
ciples, their  pride,  and  habitual  feelings, 
should  all  be  engaged  on  the  side  of  their  po- 
litical independence, — that  their  attention 
should  be  frequently  directed  to  their  rights 
and  their  duties,  as  citizens  of  a  free  state, — 
and  their  eyes,  ears,  hearts,  and  affections  fa- 
miliarized with  the  spectacles,  and  themes, 
and  occasions,  that  remind  them  of  those 
rights  and  duties.  In  a  commercial  country 
like  England,  the  pursuit  of  wealth,  or  of  per- 
sonal comfort,  is  apt  to  engross  the  whole  care 
of  the  body  of  the  people  •  and,  if  property  be 
tolerably  secured  by  law,  and  a  vigilant  police 
repress  actual  outrage  and  disorder,  they  are 
likely  enough  to  fall  into  a  general  forgetful- 
ness  of  their  political  rights;  and  even  to  re- 
gard as  burdensome  those  political  functions, 
without  the  due  exercise  of  which  the  whole 
frame  of  our  liberties  would  soon  dissolve,  and 
fall  to  pieces.  It  is  of  infinite  and  incalcula- 
ble importance,  therefore,  to  spread,  as  widely 
as  possible,  among  the  people,  the  feelings 
and  the  love  of  their  political  blessings — to 
exercise  them  unceasingly  in  the  evolutions 
of  a  free  constitution — and  to  train  them  to 
those  sentiments  of  pride,  and  jealousy,  and 
self-esteem,  which  arise  naturally  from  their 
experience  of  their  own  value  and  importance 
in  the  great  order  of  society,  and  upon  which 
alone  the  fabric  of  a  free  government  can 
ever  be  safely  erected. 

We  indicate  all  these  things  very  briefly ; 
both  because  we  cannot  now  afford  room  for 
a  more  full  exposition  of  them,  and  because  it 
is  not  our  intention  to  exhaust  this  great  sub- 
ject on  the  present  occasion,  but  rather  to 
place  before  our  readers  a  few  of  the  leading 
principles  upon  which  we  shall  think  it  our 
duty  to  expatiate  at  other  opportunities.  We 
cannot,  however,  bring  even  these  preliminary 
and  miscellaneous  observations  to  a  close, 
without  taking  some  notice  of  a  topic  which 
seems,  at  present,  peculiarly  in  favour  with 
the  reasoning  enemies  of  reform ;  and  to  which 
we  cannot  reply,  without  developing,  in  a 
more  striking  manner  than  we  have  yet  done, 
the  nature  of  our  apprehensions  from  the  in- 
fluence of  the  Crown,  and  the  holders  of  large 
properties,  and  of  our  expectations  of  good 
from  the  increased  spirit  and  intelligence  of 
the  people. 

The  argument  to  which  we  allude,  proceeds 
»pon  the  concession,  that  the  patronage  of 


Government,  and  the  wealth  employed  to  ob- 
tain political  influence,  have  increased  vei^ 
greatly  within  the  last  fifty  years ;  and  consists 
almost  entirely  in  the  assertion,  that  this  in- 
crease, great  as  it  undoubtedly  is,  yet  has  not 
kept  pace  with  the  general  increase  which  haa 
taken  place,  in  the  same  period,  in  the  wealth, 
weight,  and  influence  of  the  people ;  so  that, 
in  point  of  fact,  the  power  of  the  Crown  and  Bo 
rough  proprietors,  although  absolutely  greater, 
is  proportionally  less  than  it  was  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  present  reign ;  and  ought 
to  be  aug-mented,  rather  than  diminished,  if 
our  object  be  to  preserve  the  ancient  balance 
of  the  constitution  !  We  must  do  Mr.  Wind- 
ham the  justice  to  say,  that  he  does  not  make 
much  use  of  this  argument :  but  it  forms  the 
grand  reserve  of  Mr.  Rose's  battle :  and,  we 
think,  is  more  frequently  and  triumphantly 
brought  forward  than  any  other,  by  those  who 
now  affect  to  justify  abuses  by  arg-umentation. 
The  first  answer  we  make  to  it,  consists  in 
denying  the  fact  upon  which  it  proceeds :  at 
least  in  the  sense  in  which  it  must  be  asserted, 
in  order  to  afford  any  shadow  of  colour  to  the 
conclusion.  There  is,  undoubtedly,  far  more 
wealth  in  the  country  than  there  was  fifty 
years  ago;  but  there  is  not  more  independence. 
There  are  not  more  men  whose  incomes  ex- 
ceed what  they  conceive  to  be  their  necessary 
expenditure ; — not  nearly  so  many  who  con- 
sider themselves  as  nearly  rich  enough,  and 
who  would  therefore  look  on  themselves  aa 
without  apology  for  doing  any  thing  against 
their  duty  or  their  opinions,  for  the  sake  of 
profit  to  themselves :  on  the  contrary,  it  is  no- 
torious, and  not  to  be  disputed,  that  our  luxury, 
and  habits  of  expense,  have  increased  con- 
siderably faster  than  the  riches  by  which  they 
should  be  supported — that  men,  in  general, 
have  now  far  less  to  spare  than  they  had  when 
their  incomes  were  smaller — and  that  if  out 
condition  may,  in  one  sense,  be  said  to  be  a 
condition  of  opulence,  it  is,  still  more  indis- 
putably, a  condition  of  needy  opulence.  It  is 
perfectly  plain,  however,  that  it  is  not  the  ab- 
solute amount  of  wealth  existing  in  a  nation, 
that  can  ever  contribute  to  render  it  politically 
independent  of  patronage,  or  intractable  to  the 
persuasive  voice  of  a  munificent  and  discern- 
ing ruler,  but  the  general  state  of  content  and 
satisfaction  which  results  from  its  wealth  being 
proportioned  to  its  occasions  of  expense.  It 
neither  is,  accordingly,  nor  ever  was,  among 
the  poor,  but  among  the  expensive  and  ex- 
travagant, that  corruption  looks  for  her  surest 
and  most  profitable  g-ame  ;  nor  can  her  influ- 
ence ever  be  anywhere  so  great,  as  in  a  coun- 
try where  almost  all  those  to  whom  she  can 
think  it  important  to  address  herself,  are 
straitened  for  money,  and  eager  for  preferment 
— dissatisfied  with  their  condition  as  to  fortune 
— and,  whatever  may  be  the  amount  of  their 
possessions,  practically  needy,  and  impatient 
of  their  embarrassments.  This  is  the  case 
with  the  greater  part  even  of  those  who  ac- 
tually possess  the  riches  for  which  this  coun 
try  is  so  distincuished.  But  the  efi'ect  of  theii 
prosperity  has  been,  to  draw  a  lar  greater  pro* 
portion  of  the  people  within  the   sphere  o< 


600 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


aejfisn  ambilion—to  diffuse  those  habits  of 
expense  which  give  corruption  her  chief  hold 
and  purchase,  among  multitudes  who  are 
spectators  only  of  the  splendour  m  w^hich 
the}-  cannot  participate,  and  are  infected  with 
the  cravings  and  aspirations  of  the  objects  of 
thei  r  envy,  even  before  they  come  to  be  placed 
in  their  circumstances.  Such  needy  adven- 
turers are  constantly  generated  by  the  rapid 
progress  of  wealth  and  luxury;  and  are  sure 
to  seek  atid  court  that  corruption  which  is 
obliged  to  seek  and  court,  though  with  too 
great  a  probability  of  success,  those  whose 
condition  they  miscalculate,  and  labour  to  at- 
tain. Such  a  state  of  things,  therefore,  is  far 
more  favourable  to  the  exercise  of  the  cor- 
rupt influence  of  government  and  wealthy 
ambition,  than  a  state  of  greater  poverty  and 
moderation;  and  the  same  limited  means  of 
seduction  will  go  infinitely  farther  among  a 
people  in  the  one  situation  than  in  the  other. 
The  same  temptations  that  were  repelled  by 
the  simple  poverty  of  Fabricius,  would,  in  all 
probability,  have  bought  half  the  golden  sa- 
traps of  the  Persian  monarch,  or  swayed  the 
counsels  of  wealthy  and  venal  Rome,  in  the 
splendid  days  of  Catiline  and  Caesar. 

This,  therefore,  is  our  first  answer;  and  it 
is  so  complete,  we  think,  as  not  to  require  any 
other  for  the  mere  purpose  of  confutation.  But 
the  argument  is  founded  upon  so  strange  and 
so  dangerous  a  misapprehension  of  the  true 
state  of  the  case,  that  we  think  it  our  duty  to 
unfold  the  w^hole  fallacy  upon  which  it  pro- 
ceeds; and  to  show  what  very  opposite  con- 
sequences are  really  to  be  drawn  from  the 
circumstances  that  have  been  so  imperfectly 
conceived,  or  so  perversely  viewed,  by  those 
who  contend  for  increasing  the  patronage  of 
the  Government  as  a  balance  to  the  increasing 
consequence  of  the  People. 

There  is  a  foundation,  in  fact,  for  some  part 
of  this  proposition  ;  but  a  foundation  that  has 
been  strangely  misunderstood  by  those  who 
have  sought  to  build  upon  it  so  revolting  a 
conclusion.  The  people  Aos  increased  in  con- 
sequence, in  power,  and  in  political  impor- 
tance. Over  all  Europe,  we  verily  believe, 
that  they  are  everywhere  growing  too  strong 
for  their  governments ;  and  that,  if  these  gov- 
ernments are  to  be  preserved,  some  measures 
must  be  taken  to  accommodate  them  to  this 
great  change  in  the  condition  and  interior 
structure  of  society.  But  this  increase  of 
consequence  is  not  owing  to  their  having 
grown  richer  ;  and  still  less  is  it  to  be  provi- 
ded against,  by  increasing  the  means  of  cor- 
ruption in  the  hands  of  their  rulers.  This  re- 
quires, and  really  deserves,  a  little  more  expla- 
nation. 

All  political  societies  may  be  considered  as 
divided  into  three  great  classes  or  orders.  In 
the  first  place,  the  governors,  or  those  who 
are  employed,  or  hope  to  be  employed  by  the 
governors, — and  who  therefore  either  have,  or 
expect  to  have,  profit  or  advantage  of  some 
sort  from  the  government,  or  from  subordinate 
patrons.  In  the  second  place,  those  who  are 
in  opposition  to  the  government,  who  feel  the 
burdens  and  restraints  which  it  imcoses,  are 


jealous  of  the  honours  and  emoluments  it  en 
joys  or  distributes,  and  grudge  the  expense 
and  submission  which  it  requires,  under  an 
apprehension,  that  the  good  it  accomplishes 
is  not  worth  so  great  a  sacrifice.  And,  thirdly 
and  finally,  those  who  may  be  counted  for 
nothing  in  all  political  arrangements  —  who 
are  ignorant,  indifferent,  and  quiescent — who 
submit  to  all  things  without  grumbling  or 
satisfaction — and  are  contented  to  consider  all 
existing  institutions  as  a  part  of  the  order  of 
nature  to  which  it  is  their  duty  to  accommo- 
date themselves. 

In  rude  and  early  ages,  this  last  division 
includes  by  far  the  greater  part  of  the  people : 
but,  as  society  advances,  and  intellect  begins 
to  develope  itself,  a  greater  and  a  greater  pro- 
portion is  withdrawn  from  it,  and  joined  to 
the  two  other  divisions.  These  drafts,  how- 
ever, are  not  made  indiscriminately,  or  in 
equal  numbers,  to  the  two  remaining  orders ; 
but  tend  to  throw  a  preponderating  weight, 
either  into  the  scale  of  the  government,  or 
into  that  of  its  opponents,  according  to  the 
character  of  that  government,  and  the  nature 
of  the  circumstances  by  which  they  have 
been  roused  from  their  neutrality.  The  dif- 
fusion of  knowledge,  the  improvements  of 
education,  and  the  gradual  descent  and  ex- 
pansion of  those  maxims  of  individual  or  po- 
litical wisdom  that  are  successively  estab- 
lished by  reflection  and  experience,  necessa- 
rily raise  up  more  and  more  of  the  mass  of 
the  population  from  that  state  of  brutish  ac- 
quiescence and  incurious  ignorance  in  w^hich 
they  originally  slumbered.  They  begin  to 
feel  their  relation  to  the  government  under 
which  they  live ;  and,  g-uided  by  those  feel- 
ings, and  the  analogies  of  their  private  in- 
terests and  affections,  they  begin  to  form,  or 
to  borrow.  Opinions  upon  the  merit  or  demerit 
of  the  institutions  and  administration,  to  the 
effects  of  which  they  are  subjected ;  and  to 
conceive  Sentiments  either  hostile  or  friendly 
to  such  institutions  and  administration.  If 
the  government  be  mild  and  equitable — if 
its  undertakings  are  prosperous,  its  imposi- 
tions easy,  and  its  patronage  just  and  impar- 
tial— the  greater  part  of  those  who  are  thus 
successively  awakened  into  a  state  of  political 
capacity  will  be  enrolled  among  its  support- 
ers ;  and  strengthen  it  ag-ainst  the  factious, 
ambitious,  and  disappointed  persons,  who 
alone-  will  be  found  in  opposition  to  it.  But 
if,  on  the  other  hand,  this  disclosure  of  intel- 
lectual and  political  sensibility  occur  at  a  pe- 
riod when  the  government  is  capricious  or  ,jM 
oppressive — when  its  plans  are  disastrous —  ^ 
its  exactions  burdensome — its  tone  repulsive 
— and  its  distribution  of  favours  most  corrupt 
and  unjust; — it  will  infallibly  happen,  that 
the  greater  part  of  those  who  are  thus  called 
into  political  existence,  will  take  part  against 
it,  and  be  disposed  to  exert  themselves  for  its 
correction,  or  utter  subversion. 

The  last  supposition,  we  think,  is  that  which 
has  been  realised  in  the  history  of  Europe  foi 
the  last  thirty  years  :  and  when  we  say  that 
the  people  has  almost  every  where  grown  tou 
strong  for  their  rulers,  we  mean  only  tc  say, 


WINDHAM'S  SPEECH. 


601 


that,  in  that  period,  there  has  been  a  prodi- 
gious development  in  the  .understanding  and 
intelligence  of  the  great  mass  of  the  popula- 
tion •  and  that  this  makes  them  much  less 
wilhng  than  formerly  to  submit  to  the  folly 
and  corruption  of  most  of  their  ancient  gov- 
ernments. The  old  instinctive  feelings  of 
loyalty  and  implicit  obedience,  have  pretty 
generally  given  way  to  shrewd  calculations 
as  to  their  own  interests,  their  own  powers, 
and  the  rights  which  arise  out  of  these  powers. 
They  see  now,  pretty  quickly,  both  the  weak- 
nesses and  the  vices  of  their  rulers;  and, 
having  learned  to  refer  their  own  sufferings 
or  privations,  with  considerable  sagacity,  to 
their  blunders  and  injustice,  they  begin  tacitly 
to  inquire,  what  right  they  have  to  a  sove- 
reignty, of  which  they  make  so  bad  a  use — 
and  how  they  could  protect  themselves,  if  all 
who  hate  and  despise  them  were  to  unite  to 
take  it  from  them.  Sentiments  of  this  sort, 
we  are  well  assured,  have  been  prevalent 
over  all  the  enlightened  parts  of  Europe  for 
the  last  thirty  years,  and  are  every  day  gain- 
ing strength  and  popularity.  Kings  and  nobles, 
and  ministers  and  agents  of  government,  are 
no  longer  looked  upon  with  veneration  and 
awe, — but  rather  with  a  mixture  of  contempt 
and  jealousy.  Their  errors  and  vices  are 
canvassed,  among  all  ranks  of  persons,  with 
extreme  freedom  and  severity.  The  corrup- 
tions by  which  thev  seek  to  fortify  them- 
selves, are  regardecl  with  indignation  and 
vindictive  abhorrence ;  and  the  excuses  with 
which  they  palliate  them,  with  disgust  and  de- 
rision. Their  deceptions  are  almost  universally 
seen  through;  and  their  incapacity  detected 
and  despised,  by  an  unprecedented  portion  of 
of  the  whole  population  which  they  govern. 

It  is  in  this  sense,  as  we  conceive  it,  that 
the  people  throughout  civilised  Europe  have 
grown  too  strong  for  their  rulers;  and  that 
some  alteration  in  the  balance  oj  administra- 
tion of  their  governments,  has  become  neces- 
sarv  for  their  preservation.  They  have  become 
'tOO  strong,  —  not  in  wealth  — .but  in  intellect, 
activity,  and  available  numbers;  and  the  tran- 
quillity of  their  governments  has  been  endan- 
gered, not  from  their  want  of  pecuniary  in- 
rluence,  but  from  their  want  of  moral  respec- 
tability and  intellectual  vigour. 

Such  is  the  true  state  of  the  evil ;  and  the 
cure,  according  to  the  English  opponents  of 
reform,  is  to  increase  the  patronage  of  the 
Crown  !  The  remote  and  original  cause  of 
the  danger,  is  the  improved  intelligence  And 
more  perfect  intercourse  of  the  people, — a 
cause  which  it  is  not  lawful  to  wish  removed, 
and  which,  at  any  rate,  the  proposed  remedy 
has  no  tendency  to  remove.  The  immediate 
and  proximate  cause,  is  the  abuse  of  patron- 
age and  the  corruptions  practised  by  the  gov- 
ernment and  their  wealthy  supporters : — and 
the  cure  that  is  seriously  recommended,  is  to 
increase  that  corruption ! — to  add  to  the  weight 
of  the  burdens  under  which  the  people  is  sink- 
ing,— and  to  multiply  the  examples  of  parti- 
ality, profusion,  and  profligacy,  by  which  they 
are  revolted ! 

An  absurdit}  so  extravagant,  howevf*    '-Mild 


not  have  suggested  itself,  even  to  tlie  personp 
by  whom  it  has  been  so  triumphantly  recom 
mended,  unless  it  had  been  palliated  by  some 
colour  of  plausibility  :  And  their  error  (which 
really  does  not  seem  very  unnatural  lor  men 
of  their  description)  seems  to  have  consisted 
merely  in  supposing  that  all  those  who  were 
discontented  in  the  country,  were  disappointed 
candidates  for  place  and  profit ;  and  that  the 
whole  clamour  which  had  been  raised  against 
the  misgovernment  of  the  modern  world,  origi- 
nated in  a  violent  desire  to  participate  in  the 
emoluments  of  that  misgovernment.  Upon 
this  supposition,  it  must  no  doubt  be  admitted 
that  their  remedy  was  most  judiciously  de- 
vised. All  the  discontent  was  among  those 
who  wished  to  be  bribed — all  the  clamour 
among  those  who  were  impatient  for  p  refer- 
ment.  Increase  the  patronage  of  tlie  (.'rown 
therefore — make  more  sinecures,  moic  jobs, 
more  nominal  and  real  posts  of  emolument 
and  honour, — and  you  will  allay  the  discon- 
tent, and  still  the  clamour,  which  are  now 
'•  frighting  our  isle  from  her  propriety  !"' 

This,  to  be  sure,  is  very  plausible  and  inge- 
nious— as  well  as  highly  creditable  to  the 
honour  of  the  nation,  and  the  moral  experience 
of  its  contrivers.  But  the  fact,  unfortunate^;'^ 
is  not  as  it  is  here  assumed.  There  are  two 
sets  of  persons  to  be  managed  and  appeased  ! 
and  the  misfortune  is,  that  what  might  gratify 
the  one  would  only  exasperate  the  discontents 
of  the  other.  The  one  wants  unmericed  hon- 
ours, and  unearned  emoluments — a  further 
abuse  of  patronage — a  more  shameful  misap- 
plication of  the  means  of  the  nation.  The 
other  wants  a  correction  of  abuses — an  abridg- 
ment of  patronage — a  diminution  of  the  pu dIjc 
burdens — a  more  just  distribution  of  its  trusts, 
dignities,  and  rewards.  This  last  party  is  still, 
we  are  happy  to  think,  by  far  the  strongest, 
and .  the  most  formidable  :  For  it  is  daily  re- 
cruited out  of  the  mass  of  the  population,  over 
which  reason  is  daily  extending  her  dominion ; 
and  depends,  for  its  ultimate  success,  upon 
nothing  less  than  the  irresistible  progress  of 
intelligence — of  a  true  and  enhghtened  sense 
of  interest — and  a  feeling  of  inherent  right, 
united  to  uridoubted  power.  It  is  difficult, 
then,  to  doubt  of  its  ultimate  triumph;  a::c  it 
must  appear  to  be  infinitely  foohsh  tc  ihink 
of  opposing  its  progress,  by  measures  which 
are  so  obviously  calculated  to  add  to  its 
strength.  By  increasing  the  patronage  or  in- 
fluence of  the  Crown,  a  few  more  venal 
spirits  may  be  attracted,  by  the  precarious  tie 
of  a  dishonest  interest,  to  withstand  all  at- 
tempts at  reform,  and  .to  clamour  in  behalf 
of  all  existing  practices  and  institutiais.  But, 
for  every  worthless  auxiliary  that  is  ihus  re- 
cruited ifor  the  defence  of  establishsc  abuses, 
is  it  not  evident  that  there  will  be  a  thousand 
new  enemies  called  forth,  by  the  additional 
abuse  exemplified  in  the  new  patronage  that 
is  created,  and  the  new  scene  of  corruption  that 
is  exhibited,  in  exchanging  this  patronage  for 
this  dishonourable  support  ? — For  a  nation  to 
endeavour  to  strengthen  itself  against  the 
attempts  of  reformers  by  a  deliberate  aug- 
mentation of  its  corruptions,  is  not  more  poli- 


602 


GENERAL  POLITICS, 


ticj  than  for  a  spendthrift  to  think  of  relieving- 
himself  of  his  debts,  by  borrowing  at  usurious 
interest  to  pay  what  is  demanded,  and  thus 
increasing  the  burden  which  he  affects  to  be 
throwing  off. 

The  only  formidable  discontent,  in  short, 
.hat  now  subsists  in  the  country,  is  that  of 
those  who  o-re  reasonably  discontented ;  and  the 
only  part  of  the  people  whose  growing  strength 
really  looks  menacingly  on  the  government, 
is  that  which  has  been  alienated  by  what  it 
believes  to  be  its  corruptions,  and  enabled,  by 
its  own  improving  intelligence,  to  unmask  its 
deceptions,  and  to  discover  the  secret  of  its 
selfishness  and  incapacity.  The  great  object 
of  its  jealousy,  is  the  enormous  influence  of 
the  Crown,  and  the  monstrous  abuses  of  pa- 
tronage to  which  that  influence  gives  occasion. 
It  is,  therefore,  of  all  infatuations,  the  wildest 
and  most  desperate,  to  hold  out  that  the  pro- 
gress of  this  discontent  makes  it  proper  to 
give  the  Crown  more  influence,  and  that  it 
can  only  be  effectually  conciliated,  by  putting 
more  patronage  in  the  way  of  abuse  ! 

In  stating  the  evils  and  dangers  of  corrup- 
tion and  profligacy  in  a  government,  we  must 
always  keep  it  in  view,  that  such  a  system 
can  never  be  universally  palatable,  even  among 
the  basest  and  most  depraved  people  of  which 
history  has  preserved  any  memorial.  If  this 
were  otherwise  indeed — if  a  whole  nation 
were  utterly  and  entirely  venal  aifd  corrupt, 
and  each  willing  to  wait  his  time  of  dishonour- 
able promotion,  things  might  go  on  with  suffi- 
cient smoothness  at  least ;  and  as  such  a  na- 
tion would  not  be  w^orth  mending,  on  the  one 
hand,  so  there  would,  in  fact,  be  much  less 
need,  on  the  other,  for  that  untoward  opera- 
tion. The  supposition,  however,  is  obviously 
impossible  •  and,  in  such  a  country  at  least  as 
England,  it  may  perhaps  be  truly  stated,  as 
the  most  alarming  consequence  of  corruption, 
that,  if  allowed  to  go  on  without  any  effectual 
check,  it  will  infallibly  generate  such  a  spirit 
of  discontent,  as  necessarily  to  bring  on  some 
dreadful  convulsion,  and  overturn  the  very 
foundations  of  the  constitution.  It  is  thus 
fraught  with  a  double  evil  to  a  country  enjoy- 
ing a  free  government.  In  the  first  place,  it 
gradually  corrodes  and  destroys  much  that  is 
truly  valuable  in  its  constitution ;  and,  secondly, 
it  insures  its  ultimate  subversion  by  the  tre- 
mendous crash  of  an  insurrection  or  revolution. 
It  first  makes  the  government  oppressive  and 
intolerable  ;  and  then  it  oversets  it  altogether 
by  a  necessary,  but  dreadful  calamity. 

These  two  evils  may  appear  to  be  opposite 
to  each  other ;  and  it  is  certain,  that,  though 
brought  on  by  the  same  course  of  conduct, 
they  cannot  be  inflicted  by  the  same  set  of 
persons.  Those  who  are  the  slaves  and  the 
ministers  of  corruption,  assuredly  are  not  those 
who  are  minded  to  crush  it,  with  a  visiting 
vengeance,  under  the  ruins  of  the  social  order ; 
and  it  is  in  forgetting  that  there  are  two  sets 
of  persons  to  be  conciliated  in  all  such  ques- 
tions, that  the  portentous  fallacy  which  we 
are  considering  mainly  consists.  The  govern- 
ment may  be  very  corrupt,  and  a  very  con- 
•iderable  part  of  the  nation  may  be  debased 


and  venal,  while  there  is  still  spirit  and  mine 
enough  left,  when  the  measure  of  provocation 
is  full,  to  inflict  a  signal  and  sanguinary  ven- 
geance, and  utterly  to  overthrow  the  fabric 
which  has  been  defiled  by  this  traffic  of  ini- 
quity. And  there  may  be  great  spirit,  and 
strength,  and  capacity  of  heroic  resentment  in 
a  nation,  which  will  yet  allow  its  institutions 
to  be,  for  a  long  time,  perverted,  its  legisla- 
ture to  be  polluted,  and  the  baser  part  of  its 
population  to  be  corrupted,  before  it  be  roused 
to  that  desperate  effort,  in  which  its  peace  and 
happiness  are  sure  to  suffer  along  with  the 
guilt  which  brings  down  the  thunder.  In  such 
an  age  of  the  world  as  the  present,  however, 
it  may  be  looked  upon  as  absolutely  certain, 
that  if  the  guilt  be  persisted  in,  the  vengeance 
will  follow ;  and  that  all  reasonable  discontent 
will  accumulate  and  gain  strength,  as  reason 
and  experience  advance ;  till,  at  the  last,  it 
works  its  own  reparation,  and  sweeps  the  of- 
fence from  the  earth,  with  the  force  and  the 
fury  of  a  whirlwind. 

In  such  a  view  of  the  moral  destiny  of  na- 
tions, there  is  something  elevating  as  well  as 
terrible.  Yet,  the  terror  preponderates,  for 
those  who  are  to  witness  the  catastrophe :  and 
all  reason,  as  well  as  all  humanity,  urges  us 
to  use  every  effort  to  avoid  the  crisis  and  the 
shock,  by  a  timely  reformation,  and  an  earnest 
and  sincere  attempt  to  conciliate  the  hostile 
elements  of  our  society,  by  mutual  concession 
and  indulgence. — It  is  for  this  reason,  chiefly, 
that  we  feel  such  extreme  solicitude  for  a 
legislative  reform  of  our  system  of  representa- 
tion,— in  some  degree  as  a  pledge  of  the  wil- 
lingness of  the  government  to  admit  of  reform 
where  it  is  requisite ;  but  chiefly,  no  doubt, 
as  in  itself  most  likely  to  stay  the  flood  of  ve- 
nality and  corruption, — to  reclaim  a  part  of 
those  who  had  begun  to  yield  to  its  seduc- 
tions,— and  to  reconcile  those  to  the  govern- 
ment and  constitution  of  their  country,  who 
had  begun  to  look  upon  it  with  a  mingled 
feeling  of  contempt,  hostility,  and  despair. 
That  such  a  reform  as  we  have  contemplated 
would  go  far  to  produce  those  happy  effects, 
we  think  must  appear  evident  to  all  who  agree 
with  us  as  to  the  nature  and  origin  of  the  evils 
from  which  we  sufl'er,  and  the  dangers  to 
which  we  are  exposed.  One  of  its  immediate, 
and  therefore  chief  advantages,  however,  will 
consist  in  its  relieving  and  abating  the  spirit 
of  discontent  which  is  generated  by  the  spec- 
tacle of  our  present  condition ;  both  by  giving 
it  scope  and  vent,  and  by  the  vast  facilities  it 
must  afford  to  future  labours  of  regeneration. 
By  the  extension  of  the  elective  franchise, 
many  of  those  who  are  most  hostile  to  the  ex- 
isting system,  because,  r.nder  it,  they  are  ex- 
cluded from  all  share  of  power  or  politica' 
importance,  will  have  a  part  assigned  them, 
both  more  safe,  more  honourable,  and  more 
active,  than  merely  murmuring,  or  meditating 
vengeance  against  such  a  scheme  of  exclusion. 
The  influence  of  such  men  will  be  usefully 
exerted  in  exciting  a  popular  spirit,  and  in 
exposing  the  base  and  dishonest  practices  that 
may  still  interfere  with  the  freedom  of  elec- 
tion.     By    some   alteration   in   the   bonjcgli 


WINDHAM'S  SPEECH. 


Goa 


qualifications,  the  body  of  electors  in  general 
will  be  invested  with  a  more  respectable  char- 
acter, and  feel  a  greater  jealousy  of  every 
thing  that  may  tend  to  degrade  or  dishonour 
them  :  but,  above  all,  a  rigid  system  of  econo- 
my, and  a  farther  exclusion  of  placemen  from 
the  legislature,  by  cutting  off  a  great  part  of 
the  minister's  most  profitable  harvest  of  cor- 
ruption, will  force  his  party  also  to  have  re- 
course to  more  honourable  means  of  popu- 
larity, and  to  appeal  to  principles  that  must 
ultimately  promote  the  cause  of  independ- 
ence. 

By  the  introduction,  in  short,  of  a  system 
of  reform,  even  more  moderate  and  cautious 
.han  that  which  we  have  ventured  to  indicate, 
we  think  that  a  wholesome  and  legitimate  play 
will  be  given  to  those  principles  of  opposition 
to  corruption,  monopoly,  and  abuse,  which,  by 
the  denial  of  all  reform,  are  in  danger  of  being- 
fomented  into  a  decided  spirit  of  hostility  to 
the  government  and  the  institutions  of  the 
country.  Instead  of  brooding,  in  sullen  and 
helpless  silence,  over  the  vices  and  errors 
which  are  ripening  into  intolerable  evil,  and 
seeing,  with  a  stern  and  vindictive  joy,  wrong 
accumulated  to  wrong,  and  corruption  heaped 
up  to  corruption,  the  Spirit  of  reform  will  be 
continually  interfering,  with  active  and  suc- 
cessful zeal,  to  correct,  restrain,  and  deter. 
Instead  of  being  the  avenger  of  our  murdered 
liberties,  it  Avill  be  their  living  protector ;  and 
the  censor,  not  the  executioner,  of  the  consti- 
tution. It  will  not  descend,  only  at  long  in- 
tervals, like  the  Avatar  of  the  Indian  mytho- 
logy, to  expiate,  with  terrible  vengeance,  a 
series  of  consummated  crimes ;  but,  like  the 
Providence  of  a  better  faith,  will  keep  watch 
perpetually  over  the  actions  of  corrigible  men, 
and  bring  them  back  from  their  aberrations, 
by  merciful  chastisement,  timely  admonition, 
and  the  blessed  experience  of  purer  principles 
of  action. 

Such,  according  to  our  conviction  of  the 
fact,  is  the  true  state  of  the  case  as  to  the 
increasing  weight  and  consequence  of  the 
people :  and  such  the  nature  of  the  policy 
which  we  think  this  change  in  the  structure 
of  oui  society  calls  upon  us  to  adopt.  The 
peopl<!  ^ni  grown  strong,  in  intellect,  reso- 
lution, and  mutual  reliance, — quick  in  the 
detection  of  the  abuses  by  which  they  are 
wronsed, — and  confident  in  the  powers  by 
which  they  may  be  compelled  ultimately  to 
seek  their  redress.  Against  this  strength,  it 
is  something  more  wild  than  madness,  and 
more  contemptible  than  folly,  to  think  of  ar- 
raying an  additional  phalanx  of  abuses,  and 
drawing  out  a  wider  range  of  corruptions  — 
In  that^ontest  the  issue  cannot  be  doubtful, 
nor  the  conflict  long ;  and,  deplorable  as  the 
victory  will  be,  which  is  gained  over  order, 
as  well  as  over  guilt,  the  blame  will  rest  hea- 
viest upon  those  whose  offences  first  provoked, 
what  may  very  probably  turn  out  a  sanguinary 
and  an  unjustifiable  vengeance. 

The  conclusions,  then,  which  we  would 
draw  from  the  facts  that  have  been  relied  on 
by  the  enemies  of  reform,  are  indeed  of  a 
rery  opposite  description  from  theirs :  and  the 


course  which  is  pojnted  out  by  these  new  cir- 
cumstances in  our  situation,  appears  to  us  na 
less  obvious,  than  it  is  safe  and  promising. — 
If  the  people  have  risen  into  greater  conse- 
quence, let  them  have  greater  power.  If  a 
greater  proportion  of  our  population  be  now 
capable  and  desirous  of  exercising  the  func- 
tions of  free  citizens,  let  a  greater  number 
be  admitted  to  the  exercise  of  these  fuiic- 
tions.  If  the  quantity  of  mind  and  of  will, 
that  must  now  be  represented  in  our  legisla- 
ture, be  prodigiously  increased  since  the  frame 
of  that  legislature  was  adjusted,  let  its  basis 
be  widened,  so  as  to  rest  on  all  that  intellect 
and  will.  If  there  be  a  new  power  and  energy 
generated  in  the  nation,  for  the  due  applica- 
tion of  which,  there  is  no  contrivance  in  the 
original  plan  of  the  constitution,  let  it  flow 
into  those  channels  through  which  all  similar 
powers  were  ordained  to  act  by  the  principles 
of  that  plan.  The  power  itself  you  can  nei- 
ther repress  nor  annihilate ;  and,  if  it  be  not 
assimilated  to  the  system  of  the  constitution, 
you  seem  to  be  aware  that  it  will  ultimately 
overwhelm  and  destroy  it.  To  set  up  against 
it  the  power  of  influence  and  corruption,  is  to 
set  up  that  by  which  its  strength  is  recruited, 
and  its  safe  application  rendered  infinitely 
more  difficult :  it  is  to  defend  your  establish- 
ments, by  loading  them  with  a  weight  which 
of  itself  makes  them  totter  under  under  its 
pressure,  and,  at  the  same  tim.e,  affords  a  safe 
and  inviting  approach  to  the  assailant. 

In  our  own  case,  too,  nothing  fortunately  is 
easier,  than  to  reduce  this  growuig  power  of 
the  people  within  the  legitimate  bounds  and 
cantonments  of  the  constitution  ;  and  nothing 
more  obvious,  than  that,  when  so  legalised 
and  provided  for,  it  can  tend  only  to  the  exal- 
tation and  improvement  of  our  condition,  and 
must  add  strength  and  stabihty  to  the  Throne, 
as  well  as  to  the  other  branches  of  the  legis- 
lature. It  seems  a  strange  doctrine,  to  be 
held  by  any  one  in  this  land,  and,  above  all, 
by  the  chief  votaries  and  advocates  of  royal 
power,  that  its  legal  security  consists  in  its 
means  of  corruption,  or  can  be  endangered  by 
the  utmost  freedom  and  intelligence  in  the 
body  of  the  people,  and  the  utmost  purity  and 
popularity  of  our  elections.  Under  an  arbi- 
trary government,  where  the  powers  of  the 
monarch  are  confessedly  unjust  and  oppres- 
sive, and  are  claimed,  and  openly  asserted, 
not  as  the  instruments  of  public  benefit,  but 
as  the  means  of  individual  gratification,  such 
a  jealousy  of  popular  independence  is  suffi- 
ciently intelligible  :  but,  in  a  government  like 
ours,  where  all  the  powers  of  the  Crown  are 
universally  acknowledged  to  exist  for  the  good 
of  the  people,  it  is  evidently  quite  extravagant 
to  fear,  that  any  increase  of  union  and  intelli- 
gence—  any  growing  love  of  freedom  and 
justice  in  tne  people  —  should  endanger,  or 
should  fail  to  confirm,  all  those  powers  and 
prerogatives. 

We  have  not  left  ourselves  room  to  enter 
more  at  large  into  this  interesting  question; 
but  we  feel  perfectly  assured,  and  ready  lo 
maintain,  that,  as  the  institution  of  a  limited, 
hereditary  monarchy,  must  always  appear  the 


604 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


wisest  and  most  reasonable  of  all  human  in-  i 
stitutions,  and  that  to  which  increasing  reflec-  j 
tion  and  experience  will  infallibly  attach  men 
more  and  more  as  the  world  advances ;  so,  the 
prerogatives  of  such  a  monarch  will  always 
oe  safer  and  more  inviolate,  the  more  the 
sentiment  of  liberty,  and  the  love  of  their 
political  rights,  is  diffused  and  encouraged 
among  his  people.     A  legitimate  sovereign, 


in  short,  who  reig.iS  b}'  the  fair  exercise  oi 
his  prerogative,  can  have  no  enemies  among 
the  lovers  of  regulated  freedom  ;  and  the  hos- 
tility of  such  men — b}'  far  the  most  terrible 
of  all  internal  hostility — can  only  be  directed 
towards  him,  when  his  throne  is  enveloped, 
by  treacherous  advisers,  with  the  hosts  of 
corruption ;  and  disguised,  for  their  end-s,  in 
the  borrowed  colours  of  tyranny. 


{3annaxvi,  1810.) 

Short.  Remarks  on  the  State  of  Parties  at  the  Close  of  the  Year  1809.    8vo.   pp.  30. 

London:  1809.* 


The  parties  of  which  we  now  wish  to  speak, 
are  not  the  parties  in  the  Cabinet, — nor  even 
the  parties  in  Parliament,  but  the  Parties  in 
the  Nation: — that  nation,  whose  opinions  and 
whose  spirit  ought  to  admonish  and  control 
both  Cabinet  and  Parliament,  but  which  now 
seems  to  us  to  be  itself  breaking  rapidly  into 
two  furious  and  irreconcileable  parties;  by 
whose  collision,  if  it  be  not  prevented,  our 
constitution  and  independence  must  be  ulti- 
mately destroyed.  We  have  said  before,  that  j 
the  root  of  all  our  misfortunes  was  in  the  state 
of  the  People,  and  not  in  the  constitution  of 
the  legislature;  and  the  more  we  see  and 
reflect,  the  more  we  are  satisfied  of  this  truth. 
It  is  in  vain  to  cleanse  the  conduits  and  reser- 
voirs, if  the  fountain  itself  be  tainted  and 
impure.  If  the  body  of  the  people  be  infatu- 
ated, or  corrupt  or  depraved,  it  is  vain  to  talk 
of  improving  their  representation. 

The  dangers,  and  the  corruptions,  and  the 
prodigies  of  the  times,  have  very  nearly  put 
an  end  to  ail  neutrality  and   moderation  in 
politics ;  and  the  great  body  of  tne  nation  ap-  ' 
pears  to  us  to  be  divided  into  two  violent  and  . 
most  pernicious  factions  : — the  courtiers,  \vho 
are  almost  for  arbitrary  power, — and  the  de-  | 
mocrats,  who  are  almost  for  revolution  and  I 
republicanism.   Between  these  stand  a  small,  I 
but  most  respectable   band — the   friends  of  | 
liberty  and  of  order — the  Old  Constitutional ; 
Whigs  of  England — with  the  best  talents  and  j 
the  best  intentions,  but  without  present  power 
or  popularity, — calumniated  and  suspected  by 

*  This,  I  fear,  is  too  much  in  the  style  of  a  sage 
and  solemn  Rebuke  to  the  madness  of  contending 
factions.  Yet  it  is  not  all  rhetorical  or  assuming  : 
And  the  observations  on  the  vast  importance  and 
high  and  difficult  duties  of  a  middle  party,  in  all 
great  national  contentions,  seem  to  me  as  univer- 
sally true,  and  as  applicable  to  the  present  position 
of  our  affairs,  as  most  of  the  other  things  I  have 
Tentured,  for  this  reason,  now  to  produce.  It  may 
be  right  to  mention,  that  it  was  written  at  a  time 
when  the  recent  failure  of  that  wretched  expedition 
to  Walcheren,  and  certain  antipopular  declarations 
in  Parliament,  had  excited  a  deeper  feeling  of  dis- 
content in  the  country,  and  a  greater  apprehension 
for  its  consequences,  than  had  been  witnessed  since 
the  first  great  panic  and  excitement  of  the  French 
revolution.  The  spirit  of  such  a  time  may,  per- 
■uips,  be  detected  in  some  of  the  following  pages. 


both  parties,  and  looking  on  both  with  too  visi- 
ble a  resentment,  aversion,  and  alarm.  The 
two  great  divisions,  in  the  mean  time,  are 
daily  provoking  each  other  to  greater  excesses, 
and  recruiting  their  hostile  ranks,  as  they  ad- 
vance, from  the  diminishing  mass  of  the  calm 
and  the  neutral.  Every  hour  the  rising  tides 
are  eating  away  the  narrow  isthmus  upon 
which  the  adherents  of  the  Constitution  now 
appear  to  be  stationed;  and  every  hour  it  be- 
comes more  necessary  for  them  to  oppose 
some  barrier  to  their  encroachments. 

If  the  two  extreme  parties  are  once  per- 
mitted to  shock  together  in  open  conflict,  there 
is  an  end  to  the  freedom,  and  almost  to  the 
existence  of  the  nation, — whatever  be  the  re- 
sult,— although  that  is  not  doubtful :  And  the 
only  human  means  of  preventing  a  consum- 
mation to  which  things  seem  so  obviously  ^ 
tending,  is  for  the  remaining  friends  of  the 
constitution  to  unbend  from  their  cold  and 
repulsive  neutrality,  and  to  join  themselves  to 
the  more  respectable  members  of  the  party 
to  which  they  have  the  greatest  affinity ;  and 
thus,  by  the  weight  of  their  character,  and 
the  force  of  their  talents,  to  temper  its  violence 
and  moderate  its  excesses,  till  it  can  be  guided 
in  safety  to  the  defence,  and  not  to  the  de- 
struction, of  our  liberties.  In  the  present 
crisis,  we  have  no  hesitation  in  saying,  that  it 
is  to  the  popular  side  that  the  friends  of  the 
constitution  must  turn  themselves;  and  that, 
if  the  Whig  leaders  do  not  first  conciliate,  and 
then  restrain  the  people, — if  they  do  not  save 
them  from  the  leaders  they  are  already  choos- 
ing in  their  own  body,  and  become  themselves 
their  leaders,  by  becoming  their  patrons,  and 
their  cordial,  though  authoritative,  advisers; 
they  will  in  no  long  time  sweep  away  the 
Constitution  itself,  the  Monarchy  of  Engiand, 
and  the  Whig  aristrocracy,  by  which  that 
Monarchy  is  controlled  and  confirmed,  and 
exalted  above  all  other  forms  of  polity. 

This  is  the  sum  of  our  doctrine ;  though  we 
are  aware  that,  to  most  readers,  it  will  re- 
quire more  development  than  we  can  now 
afford,  and  be  exposed  to  more  objections  than 
we  have  left  ourselves  room  to  answer.  To 
many,  we  are  sensible,  our  fears  will  appear 
altogether  chimerical  and  fantasric.  We  nave 


STATE  OF  PARTIES,  1809. 


605 


divvays  .lad  these  two  parties,  it  will  be  said — 
always  some  for  carrying  things  with  a  high 
hand  against  the  people — and  some  for  sub- 
jecting every  thing  to  their  nod  ;  but  the  con- 
liict  has  hitherto  afforded  nothing  more  than 
a  wholesome  and  invigorating  exercise  ]  and 
the  constitution,  so  far  from  being  endangered 
by  it,  has  hitherto  been  found  to  flourish,  in 
proportion  as  it  became  more  animated.  Why, 
then,  should  we  anticipate  such  tragical  effects 
from  its  continuance "? 

Now,  to  this,  and  to  all  such  questions,  we 
must  answer,  that  we  can  conceive  them  to 
proceed  only  from  that  fatal  ignorance  or  in- 
attention to  the  Signs  of  the  Times,  which 
has  been  the  cause  of  so  many  of  our  errors 
and  misfortunes.  It  is  quite  true,  that  there 
have  always  been  in  this  country  persons  who 
leaned  towards  arbitrary  power,  and  persons 
who  leaned  towards  too  popular  a  government. 
In  all  mixed  governments,  there  must  be  such 
men,  and  such  parties :  some  w^ll  admire  the 
monarchical,  and  some  the  democratical  part 
of  the  constitution;  and,  speaking  very  gener- 
ally, the  rich,  and  the  timid,  and  the  indolent, 
as  well  as  the  base  and  the  servile,  will  have 
a  natural  tendency  to  the  one  side;  and  the 
poor,  the  enthusiastic,  and  enterprising,  as 
well  as  the  envious  and  the  discontented,  will 
be  inclined  to  range  themselves  on  the  other. 
These  things  have  been  always  ;  and  always 
must  be.  They  have  been  hitherto,  too.  with- 
out mischief  or  hazard ;  and  might  be  fairly 
considered  as  symptoms  at  least,  if  not  as 
causes,  of  the  soundness  and  vigour  of  our 
political  organisation.  But  this  has  been  the 
case,  only  because  the  bulk  of  the  nation  has 
hitherto,  or  till  very  lately,  belonged  to  no 
party  at  all.  Factions  existed  only  among  a 
small  number  of  irritable  and  ambitious  iiidi- 
viduals ;  and,  for  want  of  partizans,  necessa- 
rily vented  themselves  in  a  few  speeches  and 
pamphlets — in  an  election  riot,  or  a  treasury 
prosecution.  The  partizans  of  Mr.  Wilkes, 
and  the  partizans  of  Lord  Bute,  formed  but  a 
very  inconsiderable  part  of  the  population.  If 
they  had  divided  the  whole  nation  ariiong 
them,  the  little  breaches  of  the  peace  and  of 
the  law  at  Westminster,  would  have  been 
changed  into  civil  war  and  mutual  proscrip- 
tions; and  the  constitution  of  the  country 
might  have  perished  hi  the  conflict.  In  those 
times,  therefore,  the  advocates  of  arbitrary 
power  and  of  popular  licence  were  restrained, 
not  merely  by  the  constitutional  principles  of 
80  many  men  of  weight  and  authority,  but  by 
the  absolute  neutrality  and  indifference  of  the 
great  body  of  the  people.  They  fought  like 
champions  in  a  ring  of  impartial  spectators; 
and  the  multitude  who  looked  on,  and  thought 
it  sport,  had  little  other  interest  than  to  see 
that  each  had  fair  play. 

Now,  however,  the  case  is  lamentably  dif- 
ferent ;  and  it  will  not  be  difficult,  we  think, 
to  point  out  the  causes  which  have  spread 
abroad  this  spirit  of  contention,  and  changed 
so  great  a  proportion  of  those  calm  spectators 
into  fierce  and  impetuous  combatants.  We 
have  formerly  endeavoured,  on  more  than  one 
occasion,  to  explain  the  nature  of  that  great 


and  gradual  change  in  tne  condition  of  Euro- 
pean society,  by  which  the  lower  and  mid- 
dling orders  have  been  insensibly  raised  into 
greater  impoitance  than  they  enjoyed  when 
their  place  in  the  political  scale  was  originally 
settled ;  and  attempted  to  show  in  what  way 
the  revolution  in  France,  and  the  revolutionary 
movements  of  other  countries,  might  be  re- 
ferred partly  to  the  progress,  and  partly  to  the 
neglect  of  that  great  movement.  We  cannot 
stop  now  to  resume  any  part  of  that  general 
discussion;  but  shall  merely  observe,  that  the 
events  of  the  last  twenty  years  are  of  them- 
selves sufficient  to  account  for  the  state  to 
which  this  country  has  been  reduced,  and  for 
the  increased  number  and  increased  acrimony 
of  the  parties  that  divide  it. 

The  success  of  a  plebeian  insurrection — the 
splendid  situations  to  which  low-bred  men 
have  been  exalted,  in  consequence  of  that 
success — the  comparative  weakness  and  in- 
efficiency of  the  sovereigns  and  nobles  who 
opposed  it,  and  the  contempt  and  rididile 
which  has  been  thrown  by  the  victors  upon 
their  order,  have  all  tended  to  excite  and  ag- 
gravate the  had  principles  that  lead  men  to 
despise  existing  authorities,  and  to  give  into 
wild  and  extravagant  schemes  of  innovation. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  long-continued  ill  suc- 
cess of  our  anti-jacobin  councils — the  sicken- 
ing uniformity  of  our  boastings  and  failures — 
the  gross  and  palpable  mismanagement  of  our 
government — the  growing  and  intolerable 
buithen  of  our  taxes — and,  above  all,  the  im- 
minent and  tremendous  peril  into  which  the 
whole  nation  has  been  brought,  have  made  a 
powerful  appeal  to  the  good  principles  that 
lead  men  into  similar  feelings;  and  roused 
those  who  were  lately  unwilling  to  disturb 
themselves  with  political  considerations,  to  cry 
out  in  vast  numbers  for  reformation  and  re- 
dress. The  number  of  those  who  have  been 
startled  out  of  their  neutrality  by  such  feel- 
ings, very  greatly  exceeds,  we  believe,  that 
of  those  who  have  been  tempted  from  it  by 
the  stirrings  of  an  irregular  ambition:  But 
both  are  alike  disposed  to  look  with  jealousy 
upon  the  advocates  of  power  and  prerog-ative — 
to  suspect  falsehood  and  corruption  in  every 
thing  that  is  not  clearly  explained — to  resent 
every  appearance  of  haughtiness  or  reserve- 
to  listen  with  eager  credulity  to  every  tale  of 
detraction  against  public  characters — and  lo 
believe  with  imphcit  rashness  whatever  ia 
said  of  the  advantages  of  popular  control. 

Such  are  the  natural  and  original  causes  of 
the  increase  of  that  popular  discontent  which 
has  of  late  assumed  so  formidable  an  aspect, 
and  is,  in  fact,  far  more  widely  spread  and 
more  deeply  rooted  in  the  nation,  than  the 
sanguine  and  contemptuous  wfll  believe.  The 
enumeration,  however,  would  be  quite  in- 
complete, if  we  were  not  to  add,  that  it  has 
been  prodigiously  helped  by  the  contempt, 
and  aversion,  and  defiance,  which  has  been 
so  loudly  and  unwisely  expressed  by  the  op- 
posite party.  Instead  of  endeavouring  to  avoid 
the  occasions  of  dissatisfaction,  and  to  soothe 
and  conciliate  those  whom  it  could  never  bp 
creditable  to  have  for  enemies,  it  has  been 


606 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


but  too  often  the  policy  of  the  advocates  for 
strong  government  to  exasperate  them  by 
menaces  and  abuse ; — to  defend,  with  inso- 
ience,  every  thing  that  was  attacked,  how- 
ever obviously  indefensible  5 — and  to  insult 
and  defy  their  opponents  by  a  needless  osten- 
tation of  their  own  present  power,  and  their 
resolution  to  use  it  in  support  of  their  most 
offensive  and  unjustifiable  measures.  This 
unfortunate  tone,  which  was  first  adopted  in 
the  time  of  Mr.  Pitt,  has  been  pretty  well 
maintained  by  most  of  his  successors;  and 
has  done  more,  we  are  persuaded,  to  revolt 
and  alienate  the  hearts  of  independent  and 
brave  men,  than  all  the  errors  and  incon- 
Bistencies  of  which  they  have  been  guilty. 

In  running  thus  rapidly  over  the  causes 
which  have  raised  the  pretensions  and  aggra- 
vated the  discontents  of  the  People,  we  have, 
in  fact,  stated  also,  the  sources  of  the  increased 
acrimony  and  pretensions  of  the  advocates  for 
power.  The  same  spectacle  of  popular  excess 
and  popular  triumph  which  excited  the  dan- 
gerous passions  of  the  turbulent  and  daring, 
in  the  way  of  Sympathy,  struck  a  correspond- 
ing alarm  into  the  breasts  of  the  timid  and 
prosperous, — and  excited  a  furious  Antipathy 
in  those  of  the  proud  and  domineering.  As 
fear  and  hatred  lead  equally  to  severity,  and 
are  neither  of  them  very  far-sighted  in  their 
councils,  they  naturally  attempted  to  bear 
down  this  rising  spirit  by  menaces  and  abuse. 
All  hot-headed  and  shallow-headed  persons 
of  rank,  with  their  parasites  and  dependants 
— and  indeed  almost  all  rich  persons,  of  quiet 
tempers  and  weak  intellects,  started  up  into 
furious  anti-jacobins ;  and  took  at  once  a  most 
violent  part  in  those  political  contentions,  as 
to  which  they  had,  in  former  times,  been  con- 
fessedly ignorant  and  indifferent.  When  this 
tone  was  once  given,  from  passion  and  mis- 
taken principle  among  the  actual  possessors 
of  power,  it  was  readily  taken  up  by  mere 
servile  venality.  The  vast  multiplication  of 
offices  and  occupations  in  the  gift  of  the  gov- 
ernment, and  the  enormous  patronage  and 
expectancy,  of  which,  it  has  recently  become 
the  centre,  has  drawn  a  still  greater  number, 
and  of  baser  natures,  out  of  the  political  neu- 
trality in  which  they  would  otherwise  have 
remained,  and  led  them  to  counterfeit,  for 
hire,  that  unfortunate  violence  which  neces- 
sarily produces  a  corresponding  violence  in 
its  objects. 

Thus  has  the  nation  been  set  on  fire  at  the 
four  corners !  and  thus  has  an  incredible  and 
most  alarming  share  of  its  population  been 
separated  into  two  hostile  and  irritated  parties, 
neither  of  which  can  now  subdue  the  other 
without  a  civil  war ;  and  the  triumph  of  either 
of  which  would  be  equally  fatal  to  the  consti- 
tution. 

The  force  and  extent  of  these  parties  is  but 
imperfectly  known,  we  believe,  even  to  those 
who  have  been  respectively  most  active  in  ar- 
raying them ;  and  the  extent  of  the  adverse 
party  is  rarely  ever  suspected  by  those  who 
are  zealously  opposed  to  it.  There  must  be 
least  error,  however,  in  the  estimate  of  the 
partizans  of  arbitrary  government.    They  are 


in  power,  and  show  themselves ; — but  for  this 
very  reason,  their  real  force  is  probably  a  great 
deal  less  than  it  appears  to  be.  Many  wear 
their  livery,  out  of  necessity  or  convenience, 
whose  hearts  are  with  their  adversaries ;  and 
many  clamour  loudly  in  their  cause,  who 
would  clamour  more  loudly  against  them,  the 
moment  they  thought  that  cause  was  going 
back  in  the  world.  The  democratic  party,  on 
the  other  hand,  is  scattered,  and  obscurely 
visible.  It  can  hardly  be  for  the  immediate 
interest  of  any  one  to  acknowledge  it;  and 
scarcely  any  one  is,  as  yet,  proud  of  its  badge 
or  denomination.  It  lurks,  however,  in  pri- 
vate dwellings, — it  gathers  strength  at  homely 
firesides, — it  is  confirmed  in  conferences  of 
friends, — it  breaks  out  in  pamphlets  and  jour- 
nals of  every  description, — and  shows  its  head 
now  and  then  in  the  more  tumultuous  assem- 
blies of  populous  cities.  In  the  metropolis 
especially,  where  the  concentration  of  num- 
bers gives  them  confidence  and  importance, 
it  exhibits  itself  very  nearly,  though  not  alto- 
gether, in  its  actual  force.  How  that  force 
now  stands  in  comparison  with  what  is  op- 
posed to  it,  it  would  not  perhaps  be  very  easy 
to  calculate.  Taking  the  whole  nation  over 
head,  we  should  conjecture,  that,  as  things 
now  are,  they  would  be  pretty  equally  bal- 
anced ;  but,  if  any  great  calamity  should  give 
a  shock  to  the  stability  of  government,  or  call 
imperiously  for  more  vigorous  councils,  we  are 
convinced  that  the  partizans  of  popular  gov- 
ernment would  be  found  to  outnumber  their 
opponents  in  the  proportion  of  three  to  two. 
When  the  one  party,  indeed,  had  failed  so  fa- 
tally, it  must  seem  to  be  a  natural  resource  to 
make  a  trial  of  the  other ;  and,  if  civil  war  or 
foreign  conquest  should  really  fall  on  us,  it 
would  be  a  movement  almost  of  instinctive 
wisdom,  to  displace  and  to  punish  those  under 
whose  direction  they  had  been  brought  on. 
Upon  any  such  serious  alarm,  too,  all  the  ve- 
nal and  unprincipled  adherents  of  the  prerog- 
ative would  inevitably  desert  their  colours, 
and  go  over  to  the  enemy, — while  the  Throne 
would  be  left  to  be  defended  only  by  its  regular 
forces  and  its  immediate  dependants, — rein- 
forced by  a  few  bands  of  devoted  Tories,  min- 
gled with  some  generous,  but  dowmcast  spirits, 
under  the  banner  of  the  Whig  aristocracy. 

But,  without  pretending  to  settle  the  nu- 
merical or  relative  force  of  the  two  opposing 
parties,  we  wish  only  to  press  it  upon  our 
readers,  that  they  are  both  so  strong  and  so 
numerous,  as  to  render  it  quite  impossible  that 
the  one  should  now  crush  or  overcome  the 
other,  without  a  ruinous  contention ;  and  that 
they  are  so  exasperated,  and  so  sanguine  and 
presumptuous,  that  they  will  push  forward  to 
such  a  contention  in  no'long  time,  unless  they 
be  separated  or  appeased  by  some  powerful 
interference.  That  the  number  of  the  demo- 
crats is  vast,  and  is  daily  increasing  with 
visible  and  dangerous  rapidity,  any  man  maj- 
satisfy  himself,  by  the  common  and  obvious 
means  of  information.  It  is  a  fact  which  he 
may  read  legibly  in  the  prodigious  sale,  and 
still  more  prodigious  circulation,  of  Cobbett's 
Register,  and  other  weekly  papers  of  the  same 


STATE  OF  PARTIES,  1809. 


<07 


general  description :  He  may  learn  it  in  every 
street  of  all  the  manufacturing  and  populous 
towns  in  the  heart  of  the  country;  and  may,  and 
must  hear  it  most  audibly,  in  the  public  and 
pnvate  talk  of  the  citizens  of  the  metropolis. 
All  these  afford  direct  and  palpable  proofs  of 
the  actual  increase  of  this  formidable  party. 
But  no  man,  who  understands  any  thing  of 
human  nature,  or  knows  any  thing  of  our  re- 
cent history,  can  need  direct  evidence  to  con- 
vince him,  that  it  must  have  experienced  a 
prodigious  increase.  In  a  country  where  more 
than  a  million  of  men  take  some  interest  in 
politics,  and  are  daily  accustomed  (right  or 
wrong)  to  refer  the  blessings  or  the  evils  of 
their  condition  to  the  conduct  of  their  rulers, 
is  it  possible  to  conceive,  that  a  third  part  at 
least  of  every  man's  income  should  be  taken 
from  him  in  the  shape  of  taxes, — and  that,  after 
twenty  years  of  boastful  hostility,  we  should 
be  left  without  a  single  ally,  and  in  imminent 
hazard  of  being  invaded  by  a  revolutionary 
foe,  without  producing  a  very  general  feeling 
of  disaffection  and  discontent,  and  spreading 
through  the  body  of  the  nation,  not  only  a 
great  disposition  to  despise  and  distrust  their 
governors,  but  to  judge  unfavourably  of  the 
form  of  government  itself  which  could  admit 
of  such  gross  ignorance  or  imposition '? 

The  great  increase  of  the  opposite  party, 
again,  is  but  too  visible,  we  are  sorry  to  say, 
in  the  votes  of  Parliament,  in  the  existence  of 
the  present  administration,  and  in  the  sale 
and  the  tenor  of  the  treasury  journals.  But, 
independent  of  such  proof,  this  too  might  have 
been  safely  inferred  from  the  known  circum- 
stances of  the  times.  In  a  nation  abounding 
with  wealth  and  loyalty,  enamoured  of  its  old 
institutions,  and  originally  indebted  for  its 
freedom,  in  a  great  degree,  to  the  spirit  of  its 
landed  Aristocracy,  it  was  impossible  that  the 
excesses  of  a  plebeian  insurrection  should  not 
have  excited  a  great  aversion  to  every  thing 
that  had  a  similar  tendency :  and  in  any  na- 
tion, alas !  that  had  recently  multiplied  its 
taxes',  and  increased  the  patronage  of  its  gov- 
ernment to  three  times  their  original  extent, 
it  could  not  but  happen,  that  multitudes  would 
be  found  to  barter  their  independence  for  their 
interest  \  and  to  exchange  the  language  of 
free  men  for  that  which  was  most  agreeable  to 
the  party  upon  whose  favour  they  depended. 
If  the  numbers  of  the  opposed  factions, 
however,  be  formidable  to  the  peace  of  the 
country,  the  acrimony  of  their  mutual  hostili- 
ty is  still  more  alarming.  If  the  whole  na- 
tion were  divided  into  the  followers  of  Mr. 
Cobbett  and  Sir  Francis  Burdett,  and  the  fol- 
lowers of  Mr.  John  Gifford  and  Mr.  John 
Bowles,  does  not  every  man  see  that  a  civil 
war  and  a  revolution  w^ould  be  inevitable? 
Now,  we  say,  that  the  factions  into  w^hich  the 
country  is  divided,  are  not  very  different  from 
the  followers  of  Mr.  Cobbett  and  Mr.  Gifford ; 
or,  at  all  events,  that  if  they  are  allowed  to 
defy  and  provoke  each  other  into  new  extrava- 
gance and  increased  hostility,  as  they  have 
-  been  doing  lately,  we  do  not  see  how  that 
Tiost  tremendous  of  all  calamities  is  to  be 
avoided.     If  those  who  have  influence  with 


the  people  go  on  a  little  longer  to  excite  in 
them  a  contempt  and  distrust  of  all  public 
characters,  and  of  all  institutions  of  authority, 
while  many  among  our  public  men  go  on  to 
justify,  by  their  conduct,  that  contempt  and 
distrust ; — if  the  people  are  taught  by  all  who 
now  take  the  trouble  to  \\m  their  confidence, 
that  Parliament  is  a  mere  assemblage  of  un- 
principled place-hunters,  and  that  ins  and  outs 
are  equally  determined  to  defend  corruption 
and  peculation ;  and  if  Parliament  continues 
to  busy  itself  with  personalities, — to  decline 
the  investigation  of  corruptions, — and  to  ap- 
prove, by  its  votes,  what  no  sane  man  in  the 
kingdom  can  consider  as  admitting  of  apolo- 
gy ; — if  those  to  whom  their  natural  leaderg 
have  given  up  the  guidance  of  the  people, 
shall  continue  to  tell  them  that  they  may 
easily  be  relieved  of  half  their  taxes,  and 
placed  in  a  situation  of  triumphant  security, 
while  the  government  continues  to  multiply 
its  impositions,  and  to  waste  their  blood  and 
treasure  in  expeditions  which  make  us  hate- 
ful and  ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  many  of  our 
neighbours,  while  they  bring  the  danger  nearei 
to  our  own  door : — if,  finally,  the  people  are  a 
little  more  persuaded  that,  without  a  radical 
change  in  the  constitution  of  the  Legislature, 
they  must  continue  in  the  condition  of  slaves 
to  a  junto  of  boroughmongers,  while  Parlia- 
ment rejects  with  disdain  every  proposal  to 
correct  the  most  palpable  defects  of  that  con- 
stitution ; Then  we  say  that  the  whole- 
some days  of  England  are  numbered, — that 
she  is  gliding  to  the  verge  of  the  most  dread- 
ful of  all  calamities, — and  that  all  the  freedom 
and  happiness  which  we  undoubtedly  still  en- 
joy, and  all  the  morality  and  intelligence,  and 
the  long  habits  of  sober  thinking  and  kindly 
affection  which  adorn  and  exalt  our  people, 
will  not  long  protect  us  from  the  horrors  of  a 
civil  war. 

In  such  an  unhallowed  conflict  it  is  scarcely 
necessary  to  say  that  the  triumph  of  either 
party  would  be  the  ruin  of  English  liberty, 
and  of  her  peace,  happiness,  and  prosperity. 
Those  who  have  merely  lived  in  our  times, 
must  have  seen,  and  they  who  have  read  of 
other  times,  or  reflected  on  what  Man  is  at 
all  times,  must  know,  independent  of  that  les- 
son, how  much  Chance^  and  how  much  Time^ 
must  concur  with  genius  and  patriotism,  to 
form  a  good  or  a  stable  government.  We  have 
the  frame  and  the  materials  of  such  a  govern- 
ment in  the  constitution  of  England ;  but  if  we 
rend  asunder  that  frame,  and  scatter  these 
materials — if  we  "put  out  the  ight"  of  cur 
living  polity, 

"  We  know  not  where  is  that  Promethean  fire, 
That  may  its  flame  relumine." 

The  stability  of  the  English  constitution  de- 
pends upon  its  monarchy  and  aristocracy ;  and 
their  stability,  again,  depends  very  much  on 
the  circumstance  of  their  having  grown  natu- 
rally out  of  the  frame  and  inward  structure  of 
our' society — upon  their  having  struck  their 
roots  deep  through  every  stratum  of  the  po- 
litical soil,  and  having  been  moulded  and  im- 
pressed, during  a  long  course  of  ages,  by  the 


608 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


usages,  institutions,  habits,  and  affections  of 
the  community.  A  popular  revolution  would 
overthrow  the  monarchy  and  the  aristocracy; 
and  even  if  it  were  not  true  that  revolution 
propagates  revolution,  as  waves  gives  rise  to 
\vaves,  till  the  agitation  is  stopped  by  the  iron 
boundary  of  despotism,  it  would  still  require 
ages  of  anxious  discomfort,  before  we  could 
build  up  again  that  magnificent  fabric,  which 
now  requires  purification  rather  than  repair; 
or  secure  that  permanency  to  our  new  estab- 
lishments, without  which  they  could  have  no 
other  good  quality. 

Such  w^e  humbly  conceive  to  be  the  course, 
and  the  causes,  of  the  evils  which  we  believe 
to  be  impending.  It  is  time  now  to  inquire 
whether  there  be  no  remedy.  If  the  whole 
nation  were  actually  divided  into  revolution- 
ists and  high-monarchy  men,  we  do  not  see 
how  they  could  be  prevented  from  fighting, 
and  giving  us  the  miserable  choice  of  a  des- 
potism or  a  tumultuary  democracy.  Fortu- 
nately, however,  this  is  not  the  case.  There 
is  a  third  party  in  the  nation — small,  indeed, 
in  point  of  numbers,  compared  with  either  of 
the  others — and,  for  this  very  reason,  low.  we 
fear,  in  present  popularity — but  essentially 
powerful  from  talents  and  reputation,  and  cal- 
culated to  become  both  popular  and  authori- 
tative, by  the  fairness  and  the  firmness  of  its 
principles.  This  is  composed  of  the  Whig 
Royalists  of  England. — men  who,  without  for- 
getting that  all  government  is  from  the  peo- 
ple, and  for  the  people,  are  satisfied  that  the 
rights  and  liberties  of  the  people  are  best 
maintained  by  a  regulated  hereditary  mon- 
archy, and  a  large,  open  aristocracy ;  and  who 
are  as  much  averse,  therefore,  from  every  at- 
tempt to  undermine  the  throne,  or  to  discredit 
the  nobles,  as  they  are  indignant  at  every  pro- 
ject to  insult  or  enslave  the  people.  In  the 
better  days  of  the  constitution,  this  party 
formed  almost  the  whole  ordinary  opposition, 
and  bore  no  inconsiderable  proportion  to  that 
of  the  courtiers.  It  might  be  said  too,  to  have 
with  it,  not  only  the  greater  part  of  those  who 
were  jealous  of  the  prerogative,  but  all  that 
great  mass  of  the  population  which  was  ap- 
parently neutral  and  indifferent  to  the  issue 
of  the  contest.  The  new-sprung  factions, 
however,  have  swallowed  up  almost  all  this 
disposable  body;  and  have  drawn  largely 
from  the  ranks  of  the  old  constitutionalists 
themselves.  In  consequence  of  this  change 
of  circumstances,  they  can  no  longer  act  with 
effect,  as  a  separate  party;  and  are  far  too 
weak  to  make  head,  at  the  same  time,  against 
the  overbearing  influence  of  the  Crown,  and 
the  rising  pretensions  of  the  people.  It  is  nec- 
essary, therefore,  that  they  should  now  leave 
this  attitude  of  stern  and  defying  mediation ; 
and,  if  they  would  escape  being  crushed 
along  with  the  constitution  on  the  collision 
of  the  two  hostile  bodies,  they  must  identify 
themselves  cordially  with  the  better  part  of 
one  of  them,  and  thus  soothe,  ennoble,  and 
control  it,  by  the  infusion  of  their  own  spirit, 
and  the  authority  of  iheir  own  wisdom  and 
experience.  Like  faithful  generals,  whose 
trocps  have   mutinied,  they  must  join   the 


march,  and  mix  with  the  ranks  of  the  offend 
ers,  that  they  may  be  enabled  to  leclaim  and 
repress  them,  and  save  both  them  and  them 
selves  from  a  sure  and  shameful  destruction 
They  have  nO  longer  strength  ta  overawe  o. 
repel  either  party  by  a  direct  and  forcible  at- 
tack ;  and  must  work,  therefore,  by  gentle 
and  conciliatory  means,  upon  that  which  is 
most  dangerous,  most  flexible,  and  most  capa- 
ble of  being  guided  to  noble  exertions.  Like  the 
Sabine  women  of  old,  they  must  throw  them- 
selves between  the  kindred  combatants;  and 
stay  the  fatal  feud,  by  praises  and  embraces, 
and  dissuasives  of  kindness  and  flattery. 

Even  those  who  do  not  much  love  or  care 
for  the  people,  are  now  called  upon  to  pacify 
them,  by  granting,  at  least,  all  that  can  reason- 
ably be  granted ;  and  not  only  to  redress  their 
Grievances,  but  to  comply  with  their  Desires, 
in  so  far  as  they  can  be  complied  with,  with 
less  hazard  than  must  evidently  arise  from 
disregarding  them. 

We  do  not  say,  therefore,  that  a  thorough 
reconciliation  between  the  Whig  royalists 
and  the  great  body  of  the  people  is  desirable 
merely — but  that  it  is  indispensable :  since  it 
is  a  dream — a  gross  solecism  and  absurdity, 
to  suppose,  that  such  a  party  should  exist, 
unless  supported  by  the  affections  and  appro- 
bation of  the  people.  The  advocates  of  pre- 
rogative have  the  support  of  prerogative ;  and 
they  who  rule  by  corruption  and  the  direct 
agency  of  wealth,  have  wealth  and  the  means 
of  corruption  in  their  hands: — But  the  friends 
of  national  freedom  must  be  recognised  by 
the  nation.  If  the  Whigs  are  not  supported 
by  the  people,  they  can  have  no  support; 
and,  therefore,  if  the  people  are  seduced  away 
from  them,  they  must  just  go  after  them  and 
bring  them  back :  And  are  no  more  to  be  ex- 
cused for  leaving  them  to  be  corrupted  by 
Demagogues,  than  they  w^ould  be  for  leaving 
them  to  be  oppressed  by  tyrants.  If  a  party 
is  to  exist  at  all,  therefore,  friendly  at  once  to 
the  liberties  of  the  people  and  the  integrity 
of  the  monarchy,  and  holding  that  liberty  is 
best  secured  by  a  monarchical  establishment, 
it  is  absolutely  necessary  that  it  should  pos- 
sess the  confidence  and  attachment  of  tbo 
people ;  and  if  it  appear  at  any  time  to  nave 
lost  it,  the  first  of  all  its  duties,  and  the  neces- 
sary prelude  to  the  discharge  of  all  the  rest, 
is  to  regain  it,  by  every  effort  consistent  with 
probity  and  honour. 

Now,  it  may  be  true,  that  the  present  alien- 
ation of  the  body  of  the  people  from  the  old 
constitutional  champions  of  their  freedom, 
originated  in  the  excesses  and  delusion  of  the 
people  themselves ;  but  it  is  not  less  true,  that 
the  Whig  royahsts  have  increased  that  alien- 
ation by  the  haughtiness  of  their  deportment 
— by  the  marked  displeasure  with  which  they 
have  disavowed  most  of  the  popular  proceed- 
ings— and  the  tone  of  needless  and  imprudent 
distrust  and  reprobation  with  which  they  have 
treated  pretensions  that  were  only  partly  in- 
admissible. They  have  given  too  much  way 
to  the  offence  which  they  naturally  received 
from  the  rudeness  and  irreverence  of  the  terma 
in  which   their  grievances  were   frequently 


STATE  OF  PARTIES,  1809. 


609 


stated ;  and  have  felt  too  proud  an  indignation 
when  they  saw  vulgar  and  turbulent  men  pre- 
sume to  lay  their  unpurged  hands  upon  the 
sacred  ark  of  the  constitution.  They  have 
disdained  too  much  to  be  associated  with 
coarse  coadjutors,  even  in  the  good  work  of 
resistance  and  reformation;  and  have  hated 
too  virulently  the  demagogues  who  have  in- 
flamed the  people,  and  despised  too  heartily 
the  people  who  have  yielded  to  so  gross  a  de- 
lusion. All  this  feeling,  however,  though  it 
may  be  natural,  is  undoubtedly  both  misplaced 
and  imprudent.  The  people  are,  upon  the 
whole,  both  more  moral  and  more  intelligent 
than  they  ever  were  in  any  former  period ;  and 
therefore,  if  they  are  discontented,  we  may  be 
sure  they  have  cause  for  discontent :  if  they 
have  been  deluded,  we  may  be  satisfied  that 
there  is  a  mixture  of  reason  in  the  sophistry 
by  which  they  have  been  perverted.  All 
their  demands  may  not  be  reasonable ;  and 
with  many,  which  may  be  just  in  principle,  it 
may,  as  yet,  be  impracticable  to  comply.  But 
all  are  not  in  either  of  these  predicaments; 
though  we  can  only  now  afford  to  make  par- 
ticular mention  of  one :  and  one,  we  are  con- 
cerned to  say,  on  which,  though  of  the  great- 
est possible  importance,  the  people  have  of 
late  found  but  few  abettors  among  the  old 
friends  of  the  constitution,  we  mean  that  of  a 
Reform  in  the  representation.  Upon  this 
point,  we  have  spoken  largely  on  former  oc- 
casions ;  and  have  only  to  add  that,  though  we 
can  neither  approve  of  such  a  reform  as  some 
very  popular  persons  have  suggested,  nor 
bring  ourselves  to  believe  that  any  reform 
would  accomplish  all  the  objects  that  have 
been  held  out  by  its  most  zealous  advocates, 
we  have  always  been  of  opinion  that  a  large 
and  liberal  reform  should  be  granted.  The 
reasons  of  policy  which  have  led  us  to  this 
conviction,  we  have  stated  on  former  occa- 
sions. But  the  chief  and  the  leading  reason 
for  supporting  the  proposal  at  present  is,  that 
the  people  are  zealous  for  its  adoption ;  and 
are  entitled  to  this  gratification  at  the  hands 
of  their  representatives.  We  laugh  at  the 
idea  of  there  being  any  danger  in  disfranchis- 
ing the  whole  mass  of  rotten  and  decayed 
boroughs,  or  communicating  the  elective  fran- 
chise to  a  great  number  of  respectable  citi- 
zens :  And  as  to  the  supposed  danger  of  the 
mere  example  of  yielding  to  the  desires  of 
the  people,  we  can  only  say,  that  we  are  far 
more  strongly  impressed  with  the  danger  of 
thwarting  them.  The  people  have  far  more 
wealth  and  far  more  intelligence  now,  than 
they  had  in  former  times ;  and  therefore  they 
ought  to  have,  and  they  must  have,  more  po- 
litical power.  The  danger  is  not  in  yielding 
to  this  swell,  but  in  endeavouring  to  resist  it. 
If  properly  watched  and  managed,  it  will  only 
bear  the  vessel  of  the  state  more  proudly  and 
steadily  along; — if  neglected,  or  rashly  op- 
posed, it  will  dash  her  on  the  rocks  and  shoals 
of  a  sanguinary  revolution. 


We,  in  short,  are  for  the  monarchy  arjd  tha 
aristocracy  of  England,  as  the  only  sure  sup- 
ports of  a  permanent  and  regulated  freedom  r 
But  we  do  not  see  how  either  is  now  to  be 
preserved,  except  by  surrounding  them  with 
the  affection  of  the  people.  The  admirers  of 
arbitrary  power,  blind  to  the  great  lesson 
which  all  Europe  is  now  holding  out  to  them, 
have  attempted  to  dispense  with  this  protec- 
tion; and  the  demagogues  have  taken  advan- 
tage of  their  folly  to  excite  the  people  to  with- 
draw it  altogether.  The  true  friends  of  the 
constitution  must  now  bring  it  back ;  and  must 
reconcile  the  people  to  the  old  monarchy  and 
the  old  Parliament  of  their  land,  by  restraining 
the  prerogative  within  its  legitimate  bounds, 
and  bringing  back  Parliament  to  its  naturai 
habits  of  sympathy  and  concord  with  its  con- 
stituents. The  people,  therefore,  though  it 
may  be  deluded,  must  be  reclaimed  by  gen- 
tleness, and  treated  with  respect  and  indul- 
gence. All  indications,  and  all  feelings  of 
jealousy  or  contempt,  must  be  abjured.  What- 
ever is^to  be  granted,  should  be  granted  •with 
cordial  alacrity;  and  all  denials  should  be 
softened  with  words  and  with  acts  of  kind- 
ness. The  wounds  that  are  curable,  should 
be  cured ;  those  that  have  festered  more  deeply 
should  be  cleansed  and  anointed;  and,  into 
such  as  it  may  be  impossible  to  close,  the 
patient  should  be  allowed  to  pour  any  inno- 
cent balsam,  in  the  virtues  of  which  he  be- 
lieves. The  irritable  state  of  the  body  politic 
will  admit  of  no  other  treatment. — Incisions 
and  cauteries  w^ould  infallibly  bring  on  con^ 
vulsions  and  insanity. 

We  had  much  more  to  say ;  but  we  must 
close  here:  Nor  indeed  could  any  warning 
avail  those  who  are  not  aware  already.  He 
must  have  gazed  with  idle  eyes  on  the  recent 
course  of  events,  both  at  home  and  abroad, 
who  does  not  see  that  no  government  can  now 
subsist  long  in  England,  that  is  not  bottomed 
in  the  affection  of  the  great  body  of  the  peo- 
ple ;  and  who  does  not  see,  still  more  clearly, 
that  the  party  of  the  people  is  every  day  gain- 
ing strength,  from  the  want  of  judgment  and 
of  feeling  in  those  who  have  defied  and  in- 
sulted it,  and  from  the  coldness  and  alienation 
of  those  who  used  to  be  their  patrons  and  de- 
fenders. If  something  is  not  done  to  concili- 
ate, these  heartburnings  must  break  out  into 
deadly  strife ;  and  impartial  history  will  as- 
sign to  each  of  the  parties  their  share  of  the 
great  guilt  that  will  be  incurred.  The  first 
and  the  greatest  outrages  will  probably  pro- 
ceed from  the  people  themselves;  but  a 
deeper  curse  will  fall  on  the  corrupt  and  su- 
percilious governir.ent  that  provoked  them; 
Nor  will  they  be  held  blameless,  who,  when 
they  might  have  repressed  or  moderated  the 
popular  impulse,  by  attempting  to  direct  it^ 
chose  rather  to  take  counsel  of  their  pride,  and 
to  stand  by,  and  see  the  constitution  lorn  to 
pieces,  because  they  could  not  approve  en- 
tirely of  either  of  the  combatants  ! 


89 


610 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


(©ctober,  1827.) 

TfiB  History  of  xreland.    By  John  O'Driscol.    In  two  vols.  8vo.    pp.  815.    London'  1827.* 


A  GOOD  History  of  Ireland  is  still  a  deside- 
rcUum  in  our  literature  ; — and  would  not  only 
be  interesting,  we  think,  but  invaluable. 
There  are  accessible  materials  in  abundance 
for  such  a  history ;  and  the  task  of  arranging 
them  really  seems  no  less  inviting  than  im- 
portant. It  abounds  with  striking  events,  and 
with  strange  revolutions  and  turns  of  fortane 
— brought  on,  sometimes  by  the  agency  of 
enterprising  men, — bat  more  frequently  by 
the  silent  progress  of  time,  unwatched  and 
unsuspected,  alike  by  those  who  were  to  suf- 
fer, and  those  who  were  to  gain  by  the  result. 
In  this  respect,  as  well  as  in  many  others,  it  is 
as  full  of  instruction  as  of  interest, — and  to  the 
people  of  this  country  especially,  and  of  this 
age,  it  holds  out  lessons  far  more  precious,  far 
more  forcible,  and  far  more  immediately  ap- 
plicable, than  all  that  is  elsewhere  recorded 
in  the  annals  of  mankind.  It  is  the  very  great- 
ness of  this  interest,  however,  and  the  dread, 
an  i  the  encouragement  of  these  applications, 
that  have  hitherto  defaced  and  even  falsified 
the  record — that  have  made  impartiality  al- 
most hopeless,  and  led  alternately  to  the  sup- 
pression and  the  exaggeration  of  suiferings 
and  atrocities  too  monstrous,  it  might  appear, 
in  themselves,  to  be  either  exaggerated  or 
disguised.  Party  rancour  and  religious  ani- 
mosity have  hitherto  contrived  to  convert 
what  should  have  been  their  antidote  into 
their  aliment, — and,  by  the  simple  ex-pedient 
of  giving  only  one  side  of  the  picture,  have 
pretty  generally  succeeded  in  making  the  his- 
tory of  past  enormities  not  a  warning  against, 
but  an  incitement  to,  their  repetition.  In  tell- 
ing the  story  of  those  lamentable  dissensions, 
each  party  has  enhanced  the  guilt  of  the  ad- 
versary, and  withheld  all  notice  of  their  own ; 
— and  seems  to  have  had  it  far  more  at  heart 
to  irritate  and  defy  each  other,  than  to  leave 


*  It  may  be  thought  that  this  should  rather  have 
been  brought  in  under  the  title  of  History  :  But  the 
truth  is,  that  I  have  now  omitted  all  that  is  properly 
historical,  and  retained  only  what  relates  to  the  ne- 
cessity of  maintaining  the  legislative  and  incorpo- 
rating union  of  the  two  countries  ;  a  topic  that  is 
purely  political :  and  falls,  I  think,  correctly  enough 
under  the  title  of  General  PoHtics,  since  it  is  at  this 
day  of  still  more  absorbing  interest  than  when  these 
observations  were  first  published  in  1827.  If  at  that 
time  I  thought  a  Separation,  or  a  dissolution  of  the 
union,  (for  they  are  the  same  thing,)  a  measure  not 
to  be  contemplated  but  with  horror,  it  may  be  sup- 
posed that  I  should  not  look  more  charitably  on  the 
proposition,  now  that  Catholic  emancipation  and 
Parliamentary  reform  have  taken  away  some,  at 
least,  of  the  motives  or  apologies  of  those  by  whom 
it  was  then  maintained.  Ti^e  example  of  Scotland, 
I  still  think,  is  well  put  for  the  argument:  And 
among  the  many  who  must  now  consider  this  ques- 
tion, it  may  be  gratifying  to  some  to  see  upon  what 
grounds,  and  how  decidedly,  an  opinion  was  then 
formed  upon  it,  by  one  certainly  not  too  much  dis- 
posed to  think  favourably  of  the  conduct  or  the  pre- 
tensions of  England. 


even  a  partial  memorial  of  the  truth.  That 
truth  is,  no  doubt,  for  the  most  i)art,  at  once 
j  revolting  and  pitiable  : — not  easily  at  first  to 
be  credited,  and  to  the  last  difficult  to  be 
tol^  with  calmness.  Yet  it  is  thus  only  that 
it  can  be  told  with  advantage — and  so  told, 
it  is  pregnant  with  admonition's  and  sugges- 
tions, as  precious  in  their  tenor,  as  irresisti- 
ble in  their  evidence,  when  once  fairly  re- 
ceived. 

Unquestionably,  in  the  main,  England  has 
been  the  oppressor,  and  Ireland  the  victim ; 
— not  always  a  guiltless  victim, — and  it  may 
be,  often  an  offender :  But  even  when  the 
guilt  may  have  been  nearly  balanced,  the 
weight  of  suffering  has  always  fallen  on  the 
weakest.  This  comparative  weakness,  in- 
deed, was  the  first  cause  of  Ireland's  misery 
— the  second,  her  long  separation.  She  had 
been  too  long  a  weak  neighbour,  to  be  easily 
admitted  to  the  rights  of  an  equal  ally.  Pre- 
tensions which  the  growing  strength  and  in- 
telligence of  the  one  country  began  to  feel 
intolerable,  were  sanctioned  in  the  eyes  of  the 
other  by  long  usage  and  prescription; — and 
injustice,  Avhich  never  could  have  been  first 
inflicted  when  it  w^as  first  complained  of,  waa 
yet  long  persisted  in,  because  it  had  been  long 
submitted  to  with  but  little  complaint.  No 
misgovernment  is  ever  so  bad  as  provincial 
misgovernment — and  no  provincial  misgov- 
ernment, it  would  seem,  as  that  which  is  ext 
ercised  by  a  free  people, — whether  arising 
from  a  jealous  reluctance  to  extend  that  proud 
distinction  to  a  race  of  inferiors,  or  from  that 
inherent  love  of  absolute  power,  which  gives 
all  rulers  a  tendency  to  be  despotic,  and  seeks, 
when  restrained  at  home,  for  vent  and  indem- 
nification abroad. 

The  actual  outline  of  the  story  is  as  clear 
as  it  is  painful.  Its  most  remarkable  and 
most  disgusting  feature  is,  that  while  Religion 
has  been  made  the  pretext  of  its  most  sangui- 
nary and  atrocious  contentions,  it  has  been, 
from  first  to  last,  little  else  than  a  cover  for 
the  basest  cupidity,  and  the  meanest  and  most 
unprincipled  ambition.  The  history  which 
concerns  the  present  times,  need  not  be  traced 
farther  back  than  to  the  days  of  Henry  VIII. 
and  Queen  Mary.  Up  to  that  period,  the  petty 
and  tyrannical  Parliaments  of  the  Pale  had, 
indeed,  pretty  uniformly  insulted  and  des- 
pised the  great  native  chiefs  among  whom  the 
bulk  of  the  island  was  divided — but  they  had 
also  feared  them,  and  mostly  let  them  alone. 
At  that  era.  however,  the  growing  strength 
and  population  of  England  inspired  it  with  a 
bolder  ambition ;  and  the  rage  of  proselytism 
which  followed  the  Reformation,  gave  Jt  both 
occasion  and  excuse.  The  passions,  which 
led  naturally  enough  to  hostilities  in  such  cir- 
cumstances, were  industriously  fostered  by 
the  cold-blooded  selfishness  of   those  who 


O'DRISCOL'S  IRELAND. 


61 


flrere  to  profit  by  the  result.  Insurrections 
were  now  regularly  followed  by  Forfeitures; 
and  there  were  by  this  time  men  and  enter- 
prise enough  in  England  to  meditate  the  oc- 
cupancy of  the  vast  domains  from  which  the 
rebel  chieftains  were  thus  first  to  be  driven. 
From  this  period,  accordingly,  to  that  of  the 
Restoration,  the  bloodiest  and  most  atrocious 
in  her  unhappy  annals,  the  history  of  Ireland 
may  be  summarily  described  as  that  of  a  se- 
ries of  sanguinary  wars,  fomented  for  purpo- 
ses of  Confiscation.  After  the  Restoration, 
and  down  till  the  Revolution,  this  was  suc- 
ceeded by  a  contest  equally  unprincipled  and 
mercenary,  between  the  settlers  under  Crom- 
well and  the  old  or  middle  occupants  whom 
they  had  .displaced.  By  the  final  success  of 
King  William,  a  strong  military  government 
was  once  more  imposed  on  this  unhappy  land  3 
under  which  its  spirit  seemed  at  last  to  be 
broken,  and  even  its  turbulent  activity  re- 
pressed. As  it  slowly  revived,  the  Protestant 
antipathies  of  the  English  government  seem 
to  have  been  reinforced,  or  replaced,  by  a 
more  extended  and  still  more  unworthy  Na- 
tional Jealousy — ^first  on  the  subject  of  trade, 
and  then  on  that  of  political  rights :  —  and 
since  a  more  enlightened  view  of  her  own 
interests,  aided  by  the  arms  of  the  volunteers 
of  1780,  have  put  down  those  causes  of  op- 
pression,— the  system  of  misgovernment  has 
been  maintained,  for  little  other  end,  that  we 
can  discern,  but  to  keep  a  small  junto  of  arro- 
gant individuals  in  power,  and  to  preserve  the 
supremacy  of  a  faction,  long  after  the  actual 
cessation  of  the  causes  that  lifted  them  into 
authority. 

This  is  '-'the  abstract  and  brief  chronicle  " 
of  the  political  or  external  history  of  the  sister 
island.  But  it  has  been  complicated  of  late, 
lind  all  its  symptoms  aggravated  by  the  sin- 
gularity of  its  economical  relations.  The  mar- 
vellous multiplication  of  its  people,  and  the 
growing  difliculty  of  supplying  them  with 
food  or  employment,  presenting,  at  the  pre- 
sent moment,  a  new  and  most  urgent  cause 
of  dissatisfaction  and  alarm.  For  this  last 
class  of  evils,  a  mere  change  in  the  policy  of 
the  Government  would  indeed  furnish  no  ef- 
fectual remedy :  and  to  find  one  in  any  degree 
available,  might  well  task  the  ingenuity  of  the 
most  enlightened  and  beneficent.  But  for  the 
greater  part  of  her  past  sufferings,  as  well  as 
ner  actual  degradation,  disunion,  and  most 
dangerous  discontent,  it  is  impossible  to  deny 
that  the  successive  Governments  of  England 
have  been  chiefly  responsible.  Without  pre- 
tending to  enumerate,  or  even  to  class,  the 
several  charges  which  might  be  brought 
against  them,  or  to  determine  what  weight 
should  be  allowed  to  the  temptations  or  pro- 
vocations by  which  they  might  be  palliated, 
we  think  it  easier  and  far  more  important 
to  remark,  that  the  only  secure  preventive 
would  have  been  an  early,  an  equal,  and  com- 
plete incorporating  Union  of  the  two  coun- 
tries : — and  that  the  only  effective  cure  for 
the  misery  occasioned  by  its  having  been  so 
long  delayed,  is  to  labour,  heartily  and  in  ear- 
nest; Swl-  to  render  it  equal  and  complete.    It 


is  in  vain  to  hope  that  a  provincial  govern 
ment  should  not  bo  oppressive — that  a  del* 
gated  power  should  not  be  abused — that  of 
two  separate  countries,  allied  )nly,  but  not  in 
corporated,  the  weaker  shojld  not  be  de- 
graded, and  the  stronger  unjust.  The  only 
remedy  is  to  identify  and  amalgamate  them 
througnout — to  mix  up  the  oppressors  and  the 
oppressed — to  take  away  all  privileges  and 
distinctions,  by  fully  communicating  them, — 
and  to  render  abuses  impossible,  by  confound- 
ing their  victims  with  their  authors. 

If  any  one  doubts  of  the  wretchedness  of 
an  unequal  and  unincorporating  alliance,  of 
the  degradation  of  being  subject  to  a  provin- 
cial parliament  and  a  distant  king,  and  of  the 
efficacy  of  a  substantial  union  in  curing  all 
these  evils,  he  is  invited  to  look  to  the  obvious 
example  of  Scotland .  While  the  crowns  only 
were  united,  and  the  governments  continued 
separate,  the  weaker  country  was  the  scene 
of  the  mo«t  atrocious  cruelties,  the  most  vio- 
lent injustice,  the  most  degrading  oppressions. 
The  prevailing  religion  of  the  people  was  pro- 
scribed and  persecuted  with  a  ferocity  greater 
than  has  ever  been  systematically  exercised, 
even  in  Ireland;  her  industry  was  crippled 
and  depressed  by  unjust  and  intolerable  re- 
strictions; her  parliaments  corrupted  and  over- 
awed into  the  degraded  instruments  of  a  dis- 
tant court,  and  her  nobility  and  gentry,  cut  off 
from  all  hope  of  distinction  by  vindicating 
the  rights  or  promoting  the  interests  of  their 
country  at  home,  were  led  to  look  up  to  the 
favour  of  her  oppressors  as  the  only  remain- 
ing avenue  to  power,  and  degenerated,  for  the 
most  part,  into  a  band  of  mercenary  adven- 
turers ; — the  more  considerable  aspiring  to  the 
wretched  honour  of  executing  the  tyrannical 
orders  which  were  dictated  from  the  South, 
and  the  rest  acquiring  gradually  those  habits 
of  subserviency  and  selfish  submission,  the 
traces  of  which  are  by  some  supposed  to  be 
yet  discernible  in  their  descendants.  The 
Revolution,  which  rested  almost  entirely  on 
the  prevailing  antipathy  to  Popery,  required, 
of  course,  the  co-operation  of  all  classes  of 
Protestants;  and,  by  its  success,  the  Scottish 
Presbyterians  were  relieved,  for  a  time,  from 
their  Episcopalian  persecutions.  But  it  M-aa 
not  till  after  the  Union  that  the  nation  was 
truly  emancipated  ;  or  lifted  up  from  the  ab- 
ject condition  of  a  dependant,  at  once  sus- 
pected and  despised.  The  effects  of  that 
happy  consolidation  were  not  indeed  immedi- 
ately apparent ;  For  the  vices  which  had  been 
generated  by  a  century  of  provincial  mis- 
government,  the  .meannesses  that  had  become 
habitual,  the  animosities  that  had  so  long  been 
fostered;  could  not  be  cured  at  once,  by  the 
mere  removal  of  their  cause.  The  generation 
they  had  degraded,  must  first  be  allowed  to 
die  out — and  more,  perhaps,  than  one  genera- 
tion :  But  the  poison  tree  was  cut  down — the 
fountain  of  bitter  waters  was  sealed  up,  and 
symptoms  of  returning  vigour  and  happiness 
were  perceived .  Vestiges  may  still  be  traced, 
perhaps,  of  our  long  degradation ;  but  for,  al 
least,  forty  years  back,  the  provinces  of  Scot- 
land have  been,  on  the  whole,  b^t  the  Nortl^ 


612 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


em  provinces  of  Great  Britain.  There  are 
no  local  oppressions,  no  national  animosities. 
Life,  and  liberty,  and  property,  are  as  secure  in 
Caithness  as  they  are  in  Middlesex — industry 
as  much  encouraged,  and  wealth  still  more 
rapidly  progressive ;  while  not  only  different 
religious  opinions,  but  different  religious  estab- 
lishments subsist  in  the  two  ends  of  the  same 
island  in  unbroken  harmony,  and  only  excite 
each  other,  by  a  friendly  emulation,  to  greater 
purity  of  life  and  greater  zeal  for  Christianity. 

If  this  happy  Union,  however,  had  been 
delayed  for  another  century — if  Scotland  had 
been  doomed  to  submit  for  a  hundred  years 
more  to  the  provincial  tyranny  of  the  Lauder- 
dales,  Rotheses,  and  Middletons,  and  to  meet 
the  cruel  persecutions  which  gratified  the  fe- 
rocity of  her  Dalzells  and  Drummonds,  and 
tarnished  the  glories  of  such  men  as  Mon- 
trose and  Dundee,  with  her  armed  conventi- 
cles and  covenanted  saints  militant — to  see 
her  patriots  exiled,  or  bleeding  on  the  scaffold 
— her  only  trusted  teachers  silenced  in  her 
churches  and  schools,  and  her  Courts  of  Jus- 
tice degraded  or  overawed  into  the  instru- 
ments of  a  cowardly  oppression,  can  any  man 
doubt,  not  only  that  she  would  have  presented, 
at  this  day,  a  scene  of  even  greater  misery 
and  discord  than  Ireland  did  in  1800  j  but 
that  the  corruptions  and  animosities  by  which 
she  had  been  desolated  would  have  been 
found  to  have  struck  so  deep  root  as  still  to 
encumber  the  land,  long  after  their  seed  had 
ceased  to  be  scattered  alDroad  on  its  surface, 
and  only  to  hold  out  the  hope  of  their  eradi- 
cation, after  many  years  of  patient  and  painful 
exertion  ? 

Such,  however,  is  truly  the  condition  of  Ire- 
land ;  and  such  are  the  grounds,  and  such  the 
aspect  of  our  hopes  for  her  regeneration.  So 
far  from  tracing  any  substantive  part  of  her 
miseries  to  the  Union  of  1800,  we  think  they 
are  to  be  ascribed  mainly  to  its  long  delay, 
and  its  ultimate  incompleteness.  It  is  not  by 
a  dissolution  of  the  Union  with  England  then, 
that  any  good  can  be  done,  but  by  its  im- 
provement and  consolidation.  Some  injury 
it  may  have  produced  to  the  shopkeepers  of 
Dublin,  and  some  inconsiderable  increase  in 
the  number  of  the  absentees.  But  it  has  shut 
up  the  main  fountain  of  corruption  and  dis- 
honour ;  and  palsied  the  arm  and  broken  the 
heart  of  local  insolence  and  oppression.  It 
has  substituted,  at  least  potentially  and  in 
prospect,  the  wisdom  and  honour  of  the  British 
Government  and  the  British  people^  to  the 
passions  and  sordid  interests  of  a  junto  of 
Irish  boroughmongers. — and  not  only  enabled, 
but  compelled,  all  parties  to  appeal  directly 
to  the  great  tribunal  of  the  British  public. 
While  the  countries  remained  apart,  the  actual 
depositaries  of  power  were  almost  unavoida- 
bly relied  on  by  the  general  government  for 
information,  and  employed  as  the  delegates 
of  its  authority — and,  as  unavoidably,  abused 
the  trust,  and  mislea  and  imposed  on  their 
employers.  Having  come  into  power  at  the 
time  when  the  Catholic  party,  by  its  support 
of  the  House  of  Stuart,  had  excited  against  it 
all  the  fears  and  antipathies  of  the  friends  of 


liberty,  they  felt  that  they  could  only  main, 
tain  themselves  in  possession  of  it,  by  keep- 
ing up  that  distrust  and  animosity,  after  iti 
causes  had  expired.  They  contrived,  there- 
fore, by  false  representations  and  unjust  laws, 
to  foster  those  prejudices,  which  would  other- 
wise have  gradually  disappeared — and,  un- 
luckily, succeeded  but  too  well.  As  their 
own  comparative  numbers  and  natural  con- 
sequence diminished,  they  clung  still  closer 
to  their  artificial  holds  on  authority  ',  and,  ex- 
asperated by  feeling  their  dignity  menaced, 
and  their  monopolies  endangered  by  the  grow- 
ing wealth,  population,  and  intelligence  of  the 
country  at  large,  they  redoubled  their  efforts, 
by  clamour  and  activity,  intimidation  and  de- 
ceit, to  preserve  the  unnatural  advantages 
they  had  accidentally  gained,  and  to  keep 
down  that  springtide  of  general  reason  and 
substantial  power  which  they  felt  rising  and 
swelling  all  around  them. 

Their  pretence  was,  that  they  were  the 
champions  of  the  Protestant  Ascendancy — and 
that  whenever  that  was  endangered,  there 
was  an  end  of  the  English  connection.  While 
the  alliance  of  the  two  countries  was  indeed 
no  more  than  a  connection^  there  might  be 
some  truth  in  the  assertion — or  at  least  it  was 
easy  for  an  Irish  Parliament  to  make  it  appear 
to  be  true.  But  the  moment  they  came  to 
be  incorporated^  its  falsehood  and  absurdity 
should  at  once  have  become  apparent.  Un- 
luckily, however,  the  incorporation  was  not  so 
complete,  or  the  union  so  entire,  as  it  should 
have  been.  There  still  was  need,  or  was 
thought  to  be  need,  of  a  provincial  manage- 
ment, a  domestic  government  of  Ireland ; — 
and  the  old  wretched  parliamentary  machi- 
nery, though  broken  up  and  disabled  for  its 
original  work,  naturally  supplied  the  materials 
for^its  construction.  The  men  still  survived 
who  had  long  been  the  exclusive  channels  of 
communication  with  the  supreme  authority ; 
and  though  other  and  wider  channels  were 
now  opened,  the  habit  of  employing  the  for- 
mer, aided  by  the  eagerness  with  which  thev 
sought  for  continued  employment,  left  with 
them  an  undue  share  of  its  support.  Still  more 
unluckily,  the  ancient  practice  of  misgovern- 
ment  had  left  its  usual  traces  on  the  character, 
not  only  of  its  authors,  but  its  victims.  Habit- 
ual oppression  had  produced  habitual  disaffec- 
tion ;  and  a  long  course  of  wrong  and  con- 
tumely, had  ended  in  a  desperate  indignation, 
and  an  eager  thirst  for  revenge. 

The  natural  and  necessary  consequences 
of  the  Union  did  not,  therefore,  immediately 
follow  its  enactment — and  are  likely  indeed 
to  be  longer  obstructed,  and  run  greater  haz- 
ard of  being  fatally  intercepted,  than  in  the 
case  of  Scotland.  Not  only  is  the  mutual 
exasperation  greater,  and  the  wounds  more 
deeply  rankled,  but  the  Union  itself  is  more 
incomplete,  and  leaves  greater  room  for  com- 
plaints of  inequality  and  unfairness.  The 
numerical  strength,  too,  of  the  Irish  people  is 
far  greater,  and  their  causes  of  discontent 
more  uniform,  than  they  ever  were  in  Scot- 
land ;  and,  above  all,  the  temper  of  the  race 
is  infinitely  more  eager,  sanguine,  and  reck 


I 


O'DRISCOL'S  IRELAND. 


613 


,Hgy^( 


,es8  of  consequences,  than  that  of  the  sober 
and  calculating  tribes  of  the  north.  The 
greatest  and  most  urgent  hazard,  therefore,  is 
that  which  arises  from  their  impatience; — and 
this  unhappily  is  such,  that  unless  some  early 
measure  of  conciliation  is  adopted,  it  would 
no  longer  be  matter  of  surprise  to  anyone,  if, 
upon  the  first  occasion  of  a  war  with  any  of 
the  great  powers  of  Europe,  or  America^  the 
great  body  of  the  nation  should  rise  in  final 
and  implacable  hostility^  and  endeavour  to 
throw  off  all  connection  with,  or  dependence 
on  Great  Britain,  and  to  erect  itself  into  an 
independent  state  ! 

To  us  it  certainly  appears  that  this  would 
be  a  most  desperate,  wild,  and  impracticable 
enterprise.  But  it  is  not  upon  this  account 
the  less  hkely  to  be  attempted  by  such  a 
nation  as  the  Irish: — and  it  cannot  be  dis- 
sembled that  the  mere  attempt  would  almost 
unavoidably  plunge  both  countries  in  the  most 
frightful  and  interminable  ruin.  Though  the 
separation  even  of  distant  and  mature  de- 
pendencies is  almost  always  attended  with 
terrible  convulsions,  separation,  in  such  cir- 
cumstances, is  unquestionably  an  ultimate 
good  ] — and  if  Ireland  were  a  mere  depend- 
ency, and  were  distant  enousrh  and  strong 
enough  to  subsist  and  flourish  as  an  independ- 
ent community,  we  might  console  ourselves, 
even  for  the  infinite  misery  of  the  struggle 
attending  on  the  separation,  by  the  prospect 
of  the  great  increase  of  happiness  that  might 
be  the  final  result.  But  it  is  impossible,  we 
think,  for  any  one  but  an  exasperated  and 
unthinking  Irishman,  not  to  see  and  feel  that 
this  neither  is,  nor  ever  can  be,  the  condition 
f  Ireland.  Peopled  by  the  same  race,  speak- 
ing the  same  language,  associated  in  the  same 
pursuits,  bound  together  and  amalgamated  by 
3ontinual  intermarriages,  joint  adventures  in 
trade,  and  every  sort  of  social  relation,  and, 
above  all,  lying  within  sight  and  reach  of 
each  other's  shores,  they  are  in  truth  as  inti- 
mately and  inseparably  connected  as  most 
of  the  internal  provinces  of  each  are  with  one 
another;  and  we  might  as  w^ell  expect  to 
see  two  independent  kingdoms  established  in 
friendly  neighbourhood,  in  Yorkshire  and  Lan- 
cashire, as  to  witness  a  similar  spectacle  on 
"  e  two  sides  of  the  Irish  Channel.  Two  such 
untries,  if  of  equal  strength,  and  exasperated 
by  previous  contentions,  never  could  maintain 
the  relations  of  peace  and  amity  with  each 
other,  as  separate  and  independent  states; — 
but  must  either  mingle  into  one — or  desolate 
each  other  in  fierce  and  exterminating  hos- 
tility, till  one  sinks  in  total  exhaustion  at  the 
feet  of  the  bleeding  and  exhausted  victor.  In 
e  actual  circumstances  of  the  two  countries, 
wever,  the  attempt  would  be  attended  with 
ill  more  deplorable  consequences.  Ireland, 
ith  whom  alone  it  can  originate,  is  decidedly 
e  weakest,  in  wealth,  population,  and  all 
"ective  resources — and  probably  never  will 
enture  on  the  experiment  without  foreign  as- 
tance.  But  it  must  be  at  once  apparent  how 
the  introduction  of  this  unhallowed  element 
darkens  all  the  horrors  of  the  prospect.  We 
are  far  from  making  light  of  the  advantages 


it  might  give  in  the  outset.  By  ihe  help  of  a 
French  army  and  an  American  fleet,  we  think 
it  by  no  means  improbable  that  the  separa- 
tion might  be  accomplished.  The  English 
armies  might  be  defeated  or  driven  from  ita 
shores — English  capitalists  might  be  butcher- 
ed— the  English  religion  extirpated — and  an 
Irish  Catholic  republic  installed  with  due  cere- 
mony in  Dublin,  and  adopted  with  acclama- 
tion in  most  of  the  provinces  of  the  land. 
Under  the  protection  of  their  foreign  deliver- 
ers this  state  of  triumph  might  even  be  for 
some  time  maintained.  But  how  long  would 
this  last  1  or  how  can  it  be  imagined  that  it 
would  end  ?  Would  the  foreign  allies  remain 
for  ever,  on  their  own  charges,  and  without  in- 
terfering with  the  independence  or  the  policy 
of  the  new  state  which  they  had  thus  been 
the  means  of  creating  ?  If  they  did,  it  would, 
after  all,  be  but  a  vassal  republic — a  depend- 
ency on  a  more  distant  and  still  more  impe- 
rious master — an  outlying  province  of  France 
— a  military  station  from  which  to  watch  and 
to  harass  England,  and  on  which  the  first 
burst  of  her  hostilities  must  always  be  broken 
— and  exposed,  of  course,  in  the  mean  time, 
to  all  the  license,  the  insolence,  the  rigour, 
of  a  military  occupancy  by  a  foreign  and 
alien  soldiery. 

But  this,  it  is  plain,  could  never  be  more 
than  a  temporary  measure.  The  defende  s 
and  keepers  of  the  Hibernian  republic  would,^ 
in  no  long  time,  make  peace  with  England, 
and  quarrel,  both  with  their  new  subjects,  and 
with  each  other — and  then  would  come  the 
renovated,  the  embittered,  the  unequal  strug- 
gle with  that  exasperated  power.  Weakened 
as  England  might  be  by  the  separation,  it 
would  be  absurd  to  suppose  that  she  would 
not  still  be  a  tremendous  overmatch  for  Ire- 
land, single-handed ; — or  that  this  new  state, 
wasted  and  exhausted  by  the  war  of  her  inde- 
pendence, could  supply  the  means  of  making 
and  equipping  a  fleet,  or  appointing  an  army, 
such  as  would  be  required  to  make  head 
against  this  formidable  antagonist.  Though 
the  numerical  majority  of  her  people,  too, 
might  be  zealous  for  maintaining  her  inde- 
pendence, it  is  obvious  that  England  would 
still  have  in  her  bosom  a  body  of  most  for- 
midable allies.  The  most  intelligent,  the  most 
wealthy,  the  most  politic  and  sagacious  of  her 
inhabitants,  are  at  this  moment  in  the  English 
interest; — and,  however  sweeping  and  bloody 
the  proscription  by  which  they  might  have 
been  overthrown,  multitudes  would  still  re- 
main, with  means  and  influence  sufficient  to 
render  their  co-operatian  most  perilous,  in  a 
contest  for  its  restoration.  Even  if  left  to  her 
own  resources,  we  have  little  doubt  that  the 
country  would  soon  be  a  prey  to  civil  wars, 
plots,  and  insurrections,  which  the  want  of* 
skill  and  experience  in  the  new  rulers,  as  well 
as  the  state  of  their  finances,  would  aggra-vate 
into  universal  disorder.  It  is  no  easy  thing 
to  settle  a  new  government  amicably,  even 
where  there  is  no  foreign  interference : — and, 
in  Ireland,  from  the  temper  of  the  people, 
and  the  circumstances  which  would  leave  lew 
than  an  ordinary  proportion  of  men  of  ranl^ 


•14 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


education,  and  personal  authority  in  the  bands 
of  the  successful  party,  the  difficulty  would 
probably  be  insurmountable.  It  is  impossible, 
however,  not  to  suppose  that  England  would 
eagerly  avail  herself  of  those  dissensions,  both 
by  intrigue,  corruption,  and  force ;  and  equally 
impossible  to  doubt  that  she  would  succeed, 
if  not  in  regaining  her  supremacy,  at  least  in 
embroiling  the  unhappy  country  which  was 
the  subject  of  it,  in  the  most  miserable  and 
interminable  disorders. 

The  sum  of  the  matter  then  is,  that  there 
could  be  no  peace,  and,  consequently,  no  pros- 
perity or  happiness  for  Ireland,  as  a  separate 
and  independent  neighbour  to  England.  Two 
such  countries,  after  all  that  has  passed  be- 
tween them,  could  no  more  live  in  quiet  and 
comfort  beside  each  other,  than  a  wife  who 
had  deserted  her  husband's  house  could  live 
again  in  his  society  and  that  of  his  family,  as 
a  friend  or  visitor — having  her  expenses  sup- 
plied, and  her  solitude  enlivened,  by  the  fre- 
quent visits  of  professing  admirers :  Nor  can 
any  lesson  of  prudence  be  addressed  to  the 
fiery  and  impatient  spirits  who  may  now 
meditate  in  Ireland  the  casting  off  of  their 
ties  with  the  sister  island,  more  precisely  ap- 
plicable to  their  prospects  and  condition,  than 
the  warnings  which  a  friendly  adviser  would 
address  to  an  exasperated  matron,  whose  do- 
mestic grievances  had  led  her  to  contemplate 
such  a  fatal  step.  And  can  any  one  doubt 
that  the  counsel  which  any  faithful  and  even 
partial  friend  would  give  her,  must  be,  to  bear 
much  from  her  husband,  rather  than  venture 
on  so  desperate  a  remedy ;  to  turn  her  thoughts 
rather  to  conciliation  than  recrimination  or  re- 
venge ;  to  avoid  as  much  as  possible  all  causes 
of  reasonable  or  unreasonable  offence — and, 
above  all,  firmly  and  temperately  to  assert 
the  interests  secured  by  the  provisions  of  her 
marriage  articles,  and  to  stimulate  and  insist 
on  the  resolute  interference  of  the  trustees 
appointed  to  enforce  them. 

Such  are  the  warnings  which  we  would  ad- 
dress to  the  offended  and  exasperated  party, 
in  whose  vindictive  and  rash  proceedings  the 
catastrophe  we  have  been  contemplating  must 
originate.  But  though  we  certainly  think  they 
must  appear  convincing  to  any  calm  specta- 
tor, it  is  not  the  less  probable  that  they  would 
be  of  little  avail  with  the  inflamed  and  ex- 
cited party,  unless  they  w^ere  seconded  by 
conciliatory  and  gentle  measures  on  the  part 
"of  the  supposed  offender.  Nor  are  there 
wanting  motives  sufficiently  urgent  and  im- 
perious to  make  such  measures,  in  all  sound 
reason,  indispensable.  In  the  event  of  a  war 
for  independence,  Ireland  would  probably  be 
the  scene  of  the  greatest  carnage,  havoc,  and 
devastation — and,  in  the  end,  we  think  her 
lot  would  be  by  far  the  most  deplorable.  But 
to  England  also,  it  is  obvious  that  such  a  con- 
test would  be  the  source  of  unspeakable  ca- 
lamity ;  and  the  signal,  indeed,  of  her  perma- 
nent weakness,  insecurity,  and  degradation. 
That  she  is  bound,  therefore,  for  her  own  sake 
to  avert  it,  by  every  possible  precaution  and 
every  possible  sacrifice,  no  one  will  be  hardy 
Bnough  to  deny — far  less  that  she  is  bound, 


in  the  first  instance,  to  diminish  tiie  tremei.- 
doQs  hazard,  by  simply  ^^  doing  Justice  ana 
showing  Mercy"'  to  those  whom  it  is,  in  aK 
other  respects,  her  interest,  as  well  as  hei 
duty,  to  cherish  and  protect. 

One  thing  we  take  to  be  evident,  and  it  i« 
the  substance  of  all  that  can  be  said  on  the 
subject,  that  things  are  fast  verging  to  a  crisis, 
and  cannot,  in  all  probability,  remain  long  as 
they  are.  The  Union,  in  short,  must  either 
be  made  equal  and  complete  on  the  part  of 
England — or  it  will  be  broken  in  pieces  and 
thrown  in  her  face  by  Ireland.  That  country 
must  either  be  delivered  from  the  domination 
of  an  Orange  faction,  or  we  must  expect,  in 
spite  of  all  our  warnings  and  remonstrances, 
to  see  her  seek  her  own  deliverance  by  the 
fatal  and  bloody  career  to  which  we  have 
already  alluded — and  from  which  we  hold  it 
to  be  the  height  of  guilt  and  of  folly  to  hesi- 
tate about  withholding  her,  by  the  sacrifice 
of  that  miserable  faction. 

Little,  however,  as  we  rely,  without  such 
co-operation,  on  the  effect  of  our  warnings, 
we  cannot  end  without  again  lifting  our  feeble 
voice  to  repeat  them — without  conjuring  the 
lovers  of  Ireland  to  consider  how  hopeless 
and  how  wretched  any  scheme  of  a  perma- 
nent separation  from  England  must  necessa- 
rily be,  and  how  certainly  their  condition  must 
be  ameliorated  by  the  course  of  events,  the 
gradual  extinction  of  the  generation  in  whom 
the  last  life-use  of  antiquated  oppressions  is 
now  centered,  and  the  spread  of  those  mild 
and  liberal  sentiments,  to  which  nothing  can 
so  much  contribute  as  a  spirit  of  moderation 
and  patience  in  those  who  have  so  long  suf- 
fered from  the  want  of  them.  By  the  Union, 
such  as  it  is,  we  think  the  axe  has  been  laid 
to  the  root  of  the  old  system  of  oppression 
and  misgovernment  in  Ireland — and  though 
its  branches  may  still  look  green,  and  still 
afford  shelter  to  the  unclean  birds  who  were 
bred  and  have  so  long  nestled  in  their  covert, 
the  sap  ascends  in  them  no  longer,  and  the 
whole  will  soon  cease  to  cumber  the  ground, 
or  obstruct  the  sight  of  the  sky.  In  these 
circumstances,  the  only  wise  and  safe  course 
is  to  watch,  and  gently  to  assist  the  progress 
of  their  natural  decay.  If,  in  some  fit  of  im- 
patience, the  brands  are  thrown  into  the  mou.- 
dering  mass,  and  an  attempt  made  to  subject 
the  land  at  once  to  the  fatal  Purgation  of  Fire, 
the  risk  is,  not  only  that  the  authors  will  per- 
ish in  the  conflagration,  but  that  another  and 
a  ranker  crop  of  abominations  will  spring  from 
its  ashes,  to  poison  the  dwellings  of  many  fu 
ture  generations. 

We  may  seem  to  have  forgotten  Mr.  O'Dris- 
col  in  these  general  observations:  and  yet 
they  are  not  so  foreign  to  his  merits,  as  they 
may  at  first  sight  appear.  His  book  certainlj' 
does  not  supply  the  desideraium  of  which  we 
spoke  at  the  outset,  and  will  not  pass  to  pos- 
terity as  a  complete  or  satisfactory  History  of 
Ireland.  But  it  is  written  at  least  in  a  good 
spirit ;  and  we  do  not  know  that  we  could 
better  describe  its  general  scope  and  tendency, 
than  by  saying,  that  they  coincide  almost  en- 
tirely with  the  sentiments  we  have  just  been 


O'DRISCOL'S  IRELAND. 


615 


IP' 


expressing.  The  author,  we  have  recently 
understood,  is  a  Catholic :  But  we  had  really 
read  through  his  work  without  discovering  it, 
— and  can  testify  that  he  not  only  gives  that 
party  their  full  share  of  blame  in  all  the  trans- 
actions which  deserve  it,  but  speaks  of  the 
besetting  sins  of  their  system,  with  a  freedom 
and  severity  which  no  Protestant,  not  abso- 
lutely Orange,  could  easily  improve  on.  We 
needed  no  extrinsical  lights,  indeed,  to  discover 
that  he  was  an  Irishman, — for,  independent 
of  the  pretty  distinct  intimation  conveyed  in 
his  name,  we  speedily  discovered  a  spirit  of 
nationality  about  him,  that  could  leave  no 
doubt  on  the  subject.  It  is  the  only  kind  of 
partiality,  however,  which  we  can  detect  in 
his  performance ;  and  it  really  detracts  less 
from  his  credit  than  might  be  imagined, — 

f)artly  because  it  is  so  little  disguised  as  to 
ead  to  no  misconceptions,  and  chiefly  because 
it  is  mostly  confined  to  those  parts  of  the  story 
in  which  it  can  do  little  harm.  It  breaks  out 
most  conspicuously  in  the  earlier  and  most 
problematical  portion  of  the  narrative ;  as  to 
which  truth  is  now  most  difficult  to  be  come 
at,  and  of  least  value  \vhen  ascertained.  He 
is  clear,  for  example,  that  the  Irish  M'ere.  for 
many  centuries  before  the  conquest  of  Henry 
II.,  a  very  polished,  learned,  and  magnificent 
people — that  they  had  colleges  at  Lismore 
and  Armagh,  where  thousands  upon  thousands 
of  studious  youth  imbibed  all  the  learning  of 
the  times — that  they  worked  beautifully  in 
gold  and  silver,  and  manufactured  exquisite 
fabrics  both  in  flax  and  wool — and,  finally, 
that  the  country  was  not  only  more  prosperous 
and  civilised,  but  greatly  more  populous,  in 
those  early  ages,  than  in  any  succeeding  time. 
We  have  no  wish  to  enter  into  an  idle  anti- 
quarian controversy — but  we  must  say  that  no 
sober  Saxon  can  adopt  these  legends  without 
very  large  allowances.  It  is  indubitable  that 
the  Irish,  or  some  of  them,  did  very  ariciently 
fabricate  linen,  and  probably  also  some  orna- 
ments of  gold ;  and  it  would  appear,  from  cer- 
tain ecclesiactical, writers  of  no  great  credit, 
that  they  had  among  them  large  seminaries 
for  priests, — a  body  possessing,  in  those  ages, 
no  very  extraordinary  learning,  even  in  more 
favoured  locahties.  But  it  is  at  least  equally 
certain,  that  they  were  entirely  a  Pastoral 
people,  unacquainted  with  agriculture,  hold- 
ing  their  herds  as  the  common  property  of  the 
clan,  dwelling  in  rude  huts  or  wigwams,  for 
the  most  part  deplorably  ignorant,  and,  in  spite 
of  their  priests,  generally  practising  polygamy 
and  other  savage  vices.  But  what  chiefl)' 
demonstrates  the  bias  under  which  our  author 
considers  those  early  times,  is  his  firm  belief 
in  the  great  populousness  of  ancient  Ireland, 
and  the  undoubting  confidence  with  which  he 
jects  all  the  English  accounts  of  their  bar- 
rism,  even  in  the  times  of  Henry  VIII.  and 
Elizabeth.  But  a  pastoral  country  never  can  be 
populous — and  one  overrun  with  unreclaim- 
^ed  bogs  and  unbroken  forests,  still  less  than 
"  ny  other.  More  than  two  thirds  of  the  present 
population  of  Ireland  undoubtedly  owe  their 
existence  to  the  potato ;  and  men  alive  can 
still  point  out  large  districts,  now  producing 


the  food  of  more  than  a  million  of  new  inhab- 
itants,  which  they  remember  in  their  primitive 
state  of  sterile  and  lonely  morasses.  Without 
potatoes,  without  corn,  turnips,  or  cultivated 
grasses — with  few  sheep,  and  with  nothing, 
in  short,  but  roving  herds  of  black  cattle,  if 
Ireland  had  a  full  million  of  inhabitants  in  the 
tenth  or  twelfth  century,  she  had  a  great  deal ; 
and  in  spite  of  her  theological  colleges,  and 
her  traditionary  churches,  we  doubt  whether 
she  had  as  many.*  But  whatever  may  have 
been  the  number  or  condition  of  her  people  in 
those  remote  ages,  of  which  we  have  no  sta- 
tistical memorial  and  no  authentic  account,  it 
is  a  little  bold  in  Mr.  O'Driscol  to  persuade 
us,  that  in  the  time  of  Elizabeth  they  were 
by  no  means  an  uncultivated  or  barbarous 
people.  To  the  testimony  afforded  by  all  the 
official  documents,  and  the  full  and  graphic 
accounts  of  Spenser,  Davis,  and  the  writers 
referred  to  by  Camden,  long  resident  in  the 
country,  and  eye-witnesses  of  all  they  de- 
scribe, we  really  do  not  know  what  Mr. 
O'Driscol  has  to  oppose,  but  his  own  patriotic 
prejudices;^  and  his  deep-rooted  conviction, 
that  no  English  testimony  is  to  be  trusted  on 
such  a  subject.  We  must  be  forgiven  for  not 
sharing  in  his  generous  incredulity. 

As  to  the  more  modern  parts  of  the  history, 
though  he  never  fails  to  manifest  an  amiable 
anxiety  to  apologise  for  Irish  excesses,  and  to 
do  justice  to  Irish  bravery  and  kindness,  we 
really  are  not  aware  that  this  propensity  has 
led  him  into  any  misrepresentation  of  facts  j 
and  are  happy  to  find  that  it  never  pdints,  in 
the  remotest  degree,  to  any  thing  so  absurd 
as  either  a  separation  from  England,  or  a  vin- 
dictive wish  for  her  distress  or  humiliation. 
He  is  too  wise,  indeed,  not  to  be  aware  of  that 
important  truth,  which  so  few  of  his  zealous 
countrymen  seem,  however,  able  to  compre- 
hend— that  there  are  no  longer  any  of  those 
injured  Irish  in  existence,  upon  whom  the 
English  executed  such  flagrant  oppressions 
two  hundred  years  ago  !  and  that  nine  tenths 
of  the  intelligent  Irish,  who  now  burn  with 
desire  to  avenge  the  wrongs  of  their  prede- 
cessors, are  truly  as  much  akin  to  those  who 
did,  as  to  those  who  sufi'ered,  the  injury.  We 
doubt  whether  even  the  O'Driscols  have  not, 
by  this  time,  nearly  as  much  English  as  Irisn 
blood  in  their  veins ;  and  are  quite  sure,  that 
if  the  lands  pillaged  from  their  original  Celtic 
owners,  in  the  days  of  Elizabeth  and  Crom- 
,.well,  were  to  be  given  back  to  the  true  heirs, 
scarcely  one  of  those  who  now  reprobate  the 
spoliation  in  good  English,  would  profit  by  the 
restitution.  The  living  Irishmen  of  the  pres- 
ent day  may  have  wrongs  to  complain  of,  and 
injuries  to  redress,  on  the  part  of  the  English 
Government :  But  it  is  absurd  to  imagine  that 
they  are  entitled  to  resent  the  wrongs  and  in- 

*  If  we  remember  rightly,  the  forces  actually  en- 
gaged in  the  conquest  or  defence  of  Ireland  in  iho 
nnie  of  Henry  the  Second  were  most  insignificant 
in  point  of  numbers.  Less  than  a  hundred  men-at- 
arms  easily  took  possession  of  a  whole  district  ;  and 
even  after  the  invaded  had  time  to  prepare  for  re- 
sistance, an  army  of  three  or  Innr  hundred  wai 
found  quite  sufficient  to  bear  down  all  opposition. 


«ie 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


juries  of  those  who  suffered  i/i  the  same  place 
centuries  ago.  They  are  rriDst  of  them  half 
English,  by  blood  and  lineage — and  much 
more  than  half  English,  in  speech,  training, 
character,  and  habits.  If  they  are  to  punish 
the  descendants  of  the  individual  English  who 
usurped  Irish  possessions,  and  displaced  true 
Irish  possessors,  in  foraier  days,  they  must 
punish  themselves; — for  undoubtedly  they 
are  far  more  nearly  connected  with  those 


spoilers  than  any  of  the  hated  English,  whose 
ancestors  never  adventured  to  the  neighbour- 
ing island.  Mr.  O'Driscol's  partiality  for  the 
ancient  Irish,  therefore,  is  truly  a  mere  pecu- 
liarity of  taste  or  feeling — or  at  best  but  an 
historical  predilection ;  and  in  reality  has  no 
influence,  as  it  ought  to  have  none,  on  hia 
views  as  to  what  constitutes  the  actual  griev- 
ances, or  is  likely  to  work  the  deliverance,  of 
the  existing  generation. 


(Oectmber,  1826.) 


Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  the  Right  Honourable  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan.    By  Thomas  Moore. 
Fourth  Edition.   2  vols.  8vo.     London :  Longman  and  Co.    1826.* 


We  have  frequently-  had  occasion  to  speak 
of  the  dangers  to  which  the  conflict  of  two 
extreme  parties  must  always  expose  the  peace 
and  the  liberties  of  such  a  country  as  England, 
and  of  the  hostility  with  which  both  are  apt 
to  regard  those  who  still  continue  to  stand 
neutral  between  them.  The  charges  against 
this  middle  party — which  we  take  to  be  now 
represented  by  the  old  constitutional  Whigs 
of  1688 — used  formerly  to  be  much  the  same, 
though  somewhat  mitigated  in  tone,  with 
those  which  each  was  in  the  habit  of  address- 
ing to  their  adversaries  in  the  opposite  ex- 
treme. When  the  high  Tories  wanted  to 
abuse  the  Whigs,  they  said  they  were  nearly 
as  bad  as  the  Radicals ;  and  when  these  wished 
in  their  turn  to  lessen  the  credit  of  the  same 
unfortunate  party,  the  established  form  of  re- 
proach was,  that  they  were  little  better  than 
the  Tories  !  Of  late  years,  however,  a  change 
seems  to  have  come  over  the  spirit,  or  the 
practical  tactics  at  least,  of  these  gallant  bel- 
ligerents. They  have  now  discovered  that 
there  are  vices  and  incapacities  peculiar  to 
the  Whigs,  and  inseparable  indeed  from  their 
middle  position  :  and  that  before  settling  their 
fundamental  differences  with  each  other,  it  is 
most  wise  and  fitting  that  the)'-  should  unite 
to  bear  down  this  common  enemy,  by  making 
good  against  them  these  heavy  imputations. 
It  has  now  become  necessary,  therefore,  for 
those  against  whom  they  are  directed,  to  in- 
quire a  little  into  the  nature  and  proofs  of 
these  alleged  enoraiities ;  the  horror  of  which 
has  thus  suspended  the  conflict  of  old  heredi- 
tary enemies,  and  led  them  to  proclaim  a 
truce,  till  the  field,  by  their  joint  eflbrts,  can 
be  cleared  for  fair  hostilities,  by  the  destruc- 
tion of  these  hated  intruders. 

Now,  the  topics  of  reproach  which  these 
two  opposite  parties  have  recently  joined  in 
diiecting  against  those  who  would  mediate 

*  What  is  here  given  forms  but  a  small  part  of 
the  article  originally  published  under  this  litlo,  in 
I8-2H.  But  It  exhibits  nearly  the  whole  of  the  Gen- 
eral Politics  contained  in  that  article ;  and  having 
been,  as  I  believe,  among  the  last  political  discus- 
sions, I  contributed  to  the  Review,  I  have  been 
tempted  to  close,  with  it,  this  most  anxious  and 
perilous  division  of  the  present  publication. 


between  them,  seem  to  be  chiefly  two: — 
First,  that  their  doctrines  are  timid,  vacillat- 
ing, compromising,  and  inconsistent ;  and, 
secondly,  that  the  party  which  holds  them  ia 
small,  weak,  despised,  and  unpopular.  These 
are  the  favourite  texts,  we  think,  of  those 
whose  vocation  it  has  lately  become  to  preach 
against  us,  from  the  pulpits  at  once  of  servility 
and  of  democratical  reform.  But  it  is  neces- 
sary to  open  them  up  a  little  farther,  before 
we  enter  on  our  defence. 

The  first  charge  then  is,  That  the  Whigs 
are  essentially  an  inefficient,  trimming,  half- 
way sort  of  party — too  captious,  penurious, 
and  disrespectful  to  authority,  to  be  useful 
servants  in  a  Monarchy,  and  too  aristocratical, 
cautious,  and  tenacious  of  old  institutions,  to 
deserve  the  confidence,  or  excite  the  sympa- 
thies, of  a  generous  and  enlightened  People. 
Their  advocates,  accordingly — and  we  our- 
selves in  an  an  especial  manner — are  accused 
of  dealing  in  contradictory  and  equivocating 
doctrines;  of  practising  a  continual  see-saw 
of  admissions  and  retractations;  of  saying  now 
a  word  for  the  people — now  one  for  the  aris- 
tocracy—now one  for  the  Crown ;  of  paralysing 
all  our  liberal  propositions  by  some  timid  and 
paltry  reservation,  and  never  being  betrayed 
into  a  truly  popular  sentiment  without  in- 
stantly chilling  and  neutralising  it  by  some 
cold  warning  against  excess,  some  cautious 
saving  of  the  privileges  of  rank  and  establish- 
ment. And  so  far  has  this  system  of  inculpa 
tion  been  lately  carried,  that  a  liberal  Journal, 
of  great  and  increasing  celebrity,  has  actually 
done  us  the  honour,  quarter  after  quarter,  of 
quoting  long  passages  from  our  humble  pages, 
in  evidence  of  this  sad  infirmity  in  our  party 
and  principles. 

Now,  while  we  reject  of  course  the  epithets 
which  are  here  applied  to  us,  we  admit,  at 
once,  the  facts  on  which  our  adversaries  pro- 
fess to  justify  them.  We  acknowledge  that 
we  are  l"airly  chargeable  with  a  fear  of  oppo- 
site excesses — a  desire  to  compromise  and 
reconcile  the  claims  of  all  the  great  parties  in 
the  State — an  anxiety  to  temper  and  qualify 
whatever  may  be  said  in  favour  of  one,  with 
a  steady  reservation  of  whatever  may  be  justly 
due  to  the  rest.     To  this  sort  of  trimming,  ti» 


MOORE'S  LIFE  OF  SHERIDAN. 


611 


this  inconsistency,  to  this  timidity,  we  dis- 
tinctly plead  guilty.  We  plead  guilty  to  a 
love  to  the  British  Constitution — and  to  all 
and  every  one  of  its  branches.  We  are  for 
King,  Lords,  and  Commons;  and  though  not 
perhaps  exactly  in  that  order,  we  are  proud 
to  have'it  said  that  we  have  a  word  for  each 
in  its  turn ',  and  that,  in  asserting  the  rights 
of  one,  we  would  not  willingly  forget  those 
of  the  others.  Our  jealousy,  we  confess,  is 
greatest  of  those  who  have  the  readiest  means 
of  persuasion  ',  and  therefore,  we  are  generally 
far  more  afraid  of  the  encroachments  of 
arbitrary  power,  under  cover  of  its  patron- 
age, and  the  general  love  of  peace,  security, 
and  distinction,  which  attract  so  strongly  to 
the  region  of  the  Court,  than  of  the  usurpa- 
tions of  popular  violence.  But  we  are  for  au- 
thority, as  well  as  for  freedom.  We  are  for 
the  natural  and  wholesome  influence  of  wealth 
and  rank,  and  the  veneration  which  belongs 
to  old  institutions,  without  which  no  govern- 
ment has  ever  had  either  stability  or  respect ; 
as  well  as  for  that  vigilance  of  popular  control, 
and  that  supremacy  of  public  opinion,  without 
which  none  could  be  long  protected  from 
abuse.  We  know  that,  when  pushed,  to  their 
ultimate  extremes,  those  principles  may  be 
said  to  be  in  contradiction.  But  the  escape 
from  inconsistency  is  secured  by  the  very  ob- 
vious precaution  of  stopping  short  of  such  ex- 
tremes. It  was  to  prevent  this,  in  fact,  that 
the  English  constitution,  and  indeed  all  good 
government  everywhere,  was  established. 
Every  thing  that  we  know  that  is  valuable  in 
the  ordinances  of  men,  or  admirable  in  the 
arrangements  of  Providence,  seems  to  depend 
on  a  compromise,  a  balance ;  or,  if  the  expres- 
sion is  thought  better,  on  a  conflict  and  strug- 
gle, of  opposite  and  irreconcileable  principles. 
Virtue — society — life  itself,  and,  in  so  far  as 
we  ^an  see,  the  grand  movements  and  whole 
order  of  the  universe,  are  maintained  only  by 
such  a  balance  or  contention. 

These,  we  are  afraid,  will  appear  but  idle 
truisms,  and  shallow  pretexts  for  foolish  self- 
commendation.  No  one,  it  will  be  said,  is 
for  any  thing  but  the  British  constitution ;  and 
nobody  denies  that  it  depends  on  a  balance 
of  opposite  principles.  The  only  question  is, 
whether  that  balance  is  now  rightly  adjusted ; 
and  whether  the  Whigs  are  in  the  proper 
central  position  for  correcting  its  obliquities. 
Now,  if  the  attacks  to  which  we  are  alluding 
had  been  reducible  to  such  a  principle  as  this, 
—if  we  had  been  merely  accused,  by  our 
brethren  of  the  Westminster,  for  not  going  far 
enough  on  the  popular  side,  and  by  our  breth- 
ren of  the  Quarterly,  for  going  too  far, — we 
should  have  had  nothing  to  complain  of,  be- 
yond what  is  inseparable  from  all  party  con- 
tentions ;  and  must  have  done  our  best  to  an- 
swer those  opposite  charges,  on  their  separate 
and  specific  merits, — taking  advantage,  of 
course,  as  against  each,  of  the  authority  of  the 
other,  as  a  proof,  a  fortiori,  of  the  safety  of 
our  own  intermediate  position.  But  the  pe- 
culiarity of  our  present  case,  and  the  hardship 
which  alone  induces  us  to  complain  of  it  is, 
Jiat  this  is  not  the  course  that  has  been  lately 


followed  with  regard  td  us,— that  our  adver- 
saries have  effected,  or  rather  pretended,  an 
unnatural  union  against  us, — and,  deserting 
not  only  the  old  rules  of  political  hostility, 
but,  as  it  humbly  appears  to  us,  their  own 
fundamental  principles,  have  combined  to  at- 
tack us,  on  the  new  and  distinct  ground  of 
our  moderation, — not  because  we  are  opposed 
to  their  extreme  doctrines  respectively,  but 
because  we  are  not  extremely  opposed  to  them  ! 
— and,  affecting  a  generous  indulgence  and 
respect  for  those  who  are  diametrically  against 
them,  seem  actually  to  have  agreed  to  join 
forces  with  them,  to  run  down  those  who  stand 
peacefully  between,  and  would  gladly  effect 
their  reconcilement.  We  understand  very 
well  the  feelings  which  lead  to  such  a  course 
of  proceeding;  but  we  are  not  the  less  con- 
vinced of  their  injustice, — and,  in  spite  of  all 
that  may  be  said  of  neutrals  in  civil  war,  or 
interlopers  in  matrimonial  quarrels,  we  still 
believe  that  the  Peacemakers  are  Blessed, — 
and  that  they  who  seek  conscientiously  to 
moderate  the  pretensions  of  contending  fac- 
tions, are  more  likely  to  be  right  than  either 
of  their  opponents. 

The  natural,  and,  in  our  humble  judgment, 
the  very  important  function  of  a  middle  party 
is,  not  only  to  be  a  check,  but  a  bulwark  lo 
both  those  that  are  more  decidedly  opposed; 
and  though  liable  not  to  be  very  well  looked 
on  by  either,  it  should  only  be  very  obnoxious, 
we  should  think,  to  the  stronger,  or  those  who 
are  disposed  to  act  on  the  offensive.  To  them 
it  naturally^  enough  presents  the  appearance 
of  an  advanced  post,  that  must  be  carried  be- 
fore the  main  battle  can  be  joined. — and  for 
the  assault  of  which  they  have  neither  the 
same  weapons,  the  same  advantages  of  posi- 
tion, nor  the  same  motives  of  action.  To  the 
weaker  party,  however,  or  those  who  stand 
on  their  defence,  it  must,  or  at  least  should, 
always  be  felt  to  be  a  protection, — though  re- 
ceived probably  with  grudging  and  ill  grace, 
as  a  sort  of  half-faced  fellowship,  yielded 
with  no  cordiality,  and  ready  enough  to  be 
withdrawn  if  separate  terms  can  be  made 
with  the  adversary.  With  this  scheme  of 
tactics  we  have  long  been  familiar ;  and  for 
those  feelings  we  were  prepared.  But  it  is 
rather  too  much,  we  think,  when  those  who 
are  irreconcileably  hostile,  and  whose  only 
quarrel  with  us  is,  that  we  go  half  the  lengtn 
of  their  hated  opponents, — have  the  face  to 
pretend  that  we  are  more  justly  hateful  to 
them,  than  those  who  go  the  whole  length, — 
that  they  have  really  no  particular  quarrel 
with  those  who  are  beyond  us,  and  that  we, 
in  fact,  and  our  unhappy  mid-way  position, 
are  the  only  obstacles  to  a  cordial  union  of 
those  whom  it  is,  in  truth,  our  main  object  to 
reconcile  and  unite ! 

Nothing,  we  take  it,  can  be  so  plain  as  that 
this  is  a  hollow,  and,  in  truth,  very  flimsy 
pretext :  and  that  the  real  reason  of  the  ani- 
mosity with  which  we  are  honoured  by  the 
more  eager  individuals  in  both  the  extreme 
parties  is,  that  we  afford  a  covering  and  a 
shelter  to  each — impede  the  assault  they  are 
impatient  mutually  to  make  on  each  other 


618 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


and  take  away  from  them  the  means  of  that 
direct  onset,  by  which  the  sanguine  in  both 
hosts  imagine  they  might  at  once  achieve  a 
decisive  victory.  If  there  w^ere  indeed  no 
belligerents,  it  is  plain  enough  that  there  could 
be  no  neutrals  and  no  mediators.  If  there 
was  no  natural  war  between  Democracy  and 
Monarchy,  no  true  ground  of  discord  between 
Tories  and  Radical  Reformers — we  admit 
there  would  be  no  vocation  for  Whigs :  for  the 
true  definition  of  that  party,  as  matters  now 
stand  in  England,  is,  that  it  is  a  middle  party, 
betw^een  the  two  extremes  of  high  monarchical 
principles  on  the  one  hand,  and  extremely 
popular  principles  on  the  other.  It  holds  no 
peculiar  opinions,  that  we  are  aware  of,  on  any 
other  points  of  policy, — and  no  man  of  com- 
mon sense  can  doubt,  and  no  man  of  common 
candour  deny,  that  it  differs  from  each  of  the 
other  parties  on  the  very  grounds  on  which 
they  differ  from  each  other. — the  only  distinc- 
tion being  that  it  does  not  differ  so  widely. 

Can  any  thing  be  so  preposterous  as  a  pre- 
tended truce  between  two  belligerents,  in 
order  that  they  may  fall  jointly  upon  those 
who  are  substantially  neutral  ? — a  dallying 
and  coquetting  with  mortal  enemies,  for  the 
purpose  of  gaining  a  supposed  advantage  over 
those  who  are  to  a  great  extent  friends  1  Yet 
this  is  the  course  that  has  recently  been  fol- 
lowed, and  seems  still  to  be  pursued.  It  is 
now  some  time  since  the  thorough  Reformers 
began  to  make  awkward  love  to  the  Royalists, 
by  pretending  to  bewail  the  obscuration  which 
the  Throne  had  suffered  from  the  usurpations 
of  Parliamentary  influence, — the  curtailment 
of  the  Prerogative  by  a  junto  of  ignoble  bo- 
roughmongers,  —  and  the  thraldom  in  which 
the  Sovereign  was  held  by  those  who  were 
truly  his  creatures.  Since  that  time,  the  more 
prevailing  tone  has  been,  to  sneer  at  the  Whig 
aristocracy,  and  to  declaim,  with  all  the  bit- 
terness of  real  fear  and  affected  contempt,  on 
the  practical  insignificance  of  men  of  fortune 
and  talents,  who  are  neither  Loyal  nor  Popu- 
lar— and,  at  the  same  time,  to  lose  no  oppor- 
tunity of  complimenting  the  Tory  possessors 
of  power,  for  every  act  of  liberality,  which 
had  been  really  forced  upon  them  by  those 
very  Whigs  whom  they  refuse  to  acknowledge 
as  even  co-operating  in  the  cause  !  The  high 
Tory  or  Court  party  have,  in  substance,  played 
the  same  game.  They  have  not  indeed  af- 
fected, so  barefacedly,  an  entire  sympathy,  or 
very  tender  regard  for  their  radical  allies :  but 
they  have  acted  on  the  same  principle.  They 
have  echoed  and  adopted  the  absurd  fiction 
of  the  unpopularity  o{  the  Whigs. — and,  speak- 
ing with  affected  indulgence  of  the  excesses 
into  which  a  generous  love  of  liberty  may  oc- 
casionally hurry  the  ignorant  and  unthinking, 
have  reserved  all  their  severity,  unfairness, 
and  intolerance,  for  the  more  moderate  oppo- 
nents with  whose  reasonings  they  find,  it  more 
difficult  to  cope,  and  whose  motives  and  true 
position  in  the  country,  they  are  therefore  so 
eager  to  misrepresent. 

Now,  though  all  this  maybe  natural  enough 
in  exaspeiated  disputants,  who  are  apt  to 
>vreak  their  vengeance  on  whatever  is  most 


within  their  reach,  it  is  not  the  less  ui  fair  an<l 
unworthy  in  itself,  nor  the  less  shortsighted 
and  ungrateful  in  the  parties  who  are  guilty 
of  it.  For  we  do  not  hesitate  to  say,  that  it 
is  substantially  to  this  calumniated  and  mu- 
tually reviled  Whig  party,  or  to  those  who  act 
on  its  principles,  that  the  country  is  truly  in- 
debted for  its  peace  and  its  constitution, — u.nd. 
one  at  least,  if  not  both  of  the  extreme  par- 
ties, for  their  very  existence  I  If  there  were 
no  such  middle  body,  who  saw  faults  and 
merits  in  both,  and  could  not  consent  to  the 
unqualified  triumph  or  unqualified  extirpation 
of  either — if  the  whole  population  of  the 
country  was  composed  of  intolerant  Tories 
and  fiery  reformers, — of  such  spirits,  in  short, 
to  bring  the  matter  to  a  plain  practical  bear- 
ing, as  the  two  hostile  parties  have  actually 
chosen,  and  now  support  as  their  leaders  and 
spokesmen,  does  any  man  imagine  that  its 
peace  or  its  constitution  could  be  maintained 
for  a  single  year "?  On  such  a  supposition,  it 
is  plain  that  they  must  enter  immediately  on 
an  active,  uncompromising,  relentless  con- 
tention ;  and,  after  a  short  defying  parley, 
must,  by  force  or  fear,  effect  the  entire  sub- 
version of  one  or  the  other  ]  and  in  either  case, 
a  complete  revolution  and  dissolution  of  the 
present  constitution  and  principle  of  govern- 
ment. Compromise,  upon  that  supposition, 
we  conceive,  must  be  utterly  out  of  the  ques- 
tion j  as  well  as  the  limitation  of  the  contest 
to  words,  eitner  of  reasoning  or  of  abuse. 
They  would  be  at  each  other'' s  Throats,  before 
the  end  of  the  year !  or,  if  there  was  any  com- 
promise, w^hat  could  it  be,  but  a  compromise 
on  the  middle  ground  of  Whiggism  1 — a  vir- 
tual conversion  of  a  majority  of  those  very 
combatants,  who  are  now  supposed  so  to  hate 
and  disdain  them,  to  the  creed  of  that  mod- 
erate and  liberal  party  ? 

What  is  it,  then,  that  prevents  such  a  mor- 
tal conflict  from  taking  place  at  the  present 
moment  between  those  who  represent  them- 
sent  themselves  respectively,  as  engrossing 
all  the  principle  and  all  the  force  of  the 
country  ?  what,  but  the  fact,  that  a  very  large 
portion  of  the  population  do  not  in  reality  be- 
long to  either ',  but  adhere,  and  are  known  to 
adhere,  to  those  moderate  opinions,  for  the 
profession  of  which  the  Whigs  and  their  ad- 
vocates are  not  only  covered  with  the  obloquy 
of  those  whom  they  save  from  the  perils  of 
such  frightful  extremities,  but  are  preposter- 
ously supposed  to  have  incurred  the  dislike 
of  those  with  whom  in  fact  they  are  identified, 
and  to  whom  they  belong  ] 

And  this  leads  us  to  say  a  few  words  on  the 
second  grand  position  of  the  Holy  Allies, 
against  whom  we  are  now  called  to  defend 
ourselves,  that  the  Whigs  are  not  only  incon- 
sistent and  vacillating  in  their  doctrines,  but, 
in  consequence  of  that  vice  or  error,  are,  in 
fact,  weak,  unpopular,  and  despised  in  the 
country.  The  very  circumstance  of  their  being 
felt  to  be  so  formidable  as  to  require  this 
strange  alliance  to  make  head  ag-ainst  tjiem, 
and  to  force  their  opponents  to  intermit  all 
other  contests,  and  expend  on  them  exclu 
sively  the  w^hole  treasures  of  their  sophisti} 


MOORE'S  LIFE  OF  SHERIDAN. 


619 


mK^ 


»ud  abuse,  might  go  far,  we  think,  to  refute 
this  desperate  allegation.  But  a  very  short 
resumption  of  the  principles  we  have  just 
been  unfolding  will  show  that  it  cannot  pos- 
sibly be  true. 

We  reckon  as  Whigs,  in  this  question,  all 
those  who  are  not  disposed  to  go  the  length 
of  either  of  the  extreme  parties  who  would 
now  divide  the  country  between  them, — all, 
in  other  words,  who  wish  the  Government  to 
be  substantially  more  popular  than  it  is,  or  is 
tending  to  be — but,  at  the  same  time,  to  re- 
lain  more  aristocratical  influence,  and  more 
deference  to  authority,  than  the  Radical  Re- 
formers will  tolerate : — and,  we  do  not  hesi- 
tate to  say,  that  so  far  from  being  weak  or 
inconsiderable  in  the  country,  we  are  perfectly 
convinced  that,  among  the  educated  classes, 
which  now  embrace  a  very  large  proportion 
of  the  whole,  it  greatly  outnumbers  both  the 
others  put  together.  It  should  always  be 
recollected,  that  a  middle  party  like  this  is 
invariably  much  stronger,  as  well  as  more 
determined  and  formidable,  than  it  appears. 
Extreme  doctrines  always  make  the  most 
noise.  'X'hey  lead  most  to  vehemence,  pas- 
sion, and  display, — they  are  inculcated  with 
most  clamour  and  exaggeration,  and  excite 
the  greatest  alarm.  In  this  way  we  hear  of 
them  most  frequently  and  loudly.  But  they 
are  not,  upon  that  account,  the  most  widely 
spread  or  generally  adopted ; — and,  in  an  en- 
lightened country,  M^here  there  are  two  oppo- 
site kinds  of  extravagance  thus  trumpeted 
abroad  together,  they  serve  in  a  good  degree 
as  correctives  to  each  other;  and  the  great 
body  of  the  people  w^ill  almost  inevitably  set- 
tle into  a  middle  or  moderate  opinion.  The 
champions,  to  be  sure,  and  ambitious  leaders 
on  each  side,  will  probably  only  be  exasperat- 
ed into  greater  bitterness  and  greater  confi- 
dence, by  the  excitement  of  their  contention. 
— But  the  greater  part  of  the  lookers-on  can 
scarcely  fail  to  perceive  that  mutual  wounds 
have  been  inflicted,  and  mutual  infinnities 
revealed,  —  and  the  continuance  and  very 
fierceness  of  the  combat  is  apt  to  breed  a 
general  opinion,  that  neither  party  is  right,  to 
the  height  of  their  respective  pretensions ; 
and  that  truth  and  justice  can  only  be  satis- 
fied by  large  and  mutual  concessions. 

Of  tne  two  parties — the  Thorough  Reformers 
are  most  indebted  for  an  appearance  of  greater 
strength  than  they  actually  possess,  to  their 
own  boldness  and  activity,  and  the  mere  curi- 
osity it  excites  among  the  idle,  co-operating 
with  the  sounding  alarms  of  their  opponents, 
— while  the  high  Tories  owe  the  same  advan- 
tage in  a  greater  degree  to  the  quiet  effect  of 
their  influence  and  wealth,  and  to  that  pru- 
dence which  leads  so  many,  who  in  their 
hearts  are  against  them,  to  keep  their  opinions 
to  themselves,  till  some  opportunity  can  be 
'  und  of  declaring  them  with  effect.  Both, 
owever,  are  conscious  that  they  owe  much 
to  such  an  illusion, — and  neither,  accordingly, 
has  courage  to  venture  on  those  measures  to 
which  they  would  infallibly  resort,  if  they 
trusted  to  their  apparent,  as  an  actual  o^  f'vail- 
Bt)le  strength.    The  Tories,  who  have  the  au- 


ministration  in  some  measure  in  their  nands- 
would  be  glad  enough  to  put  down  all  popu- 
lar interference,  whether  by  assemblies,  bj 
speech,  or  by  writing ;  and,  in  fact,  only  allow 
the  law  to  be  as  indulgent  as  it  is,  and  its  ad' 
ministration  to  be  so  much  more  indulgent, 
from  a  conviction  that  they  would  not  be  sup- 
ported in  more  severe  measures,  ehher  by 
public  opinion  without,  or  even  by  their  own 
majorities  within  the  walls  of  the  Legislature. 
They  know  very  well  that  a  great  part  of  their 
adherents  are  attached  to  Ihem  by  no  other 
tie  than  that  of  their  own  immediate  interest, 
— and  that,  even  among  them  as  they  now 
stand,  they  could  command  at  least  as  large 
a  following  for  Whig  measures  as  for  Tory 
measures,  if  only  proposed  by  an  administra- 
tion of  as  much  apparent  stability.  It  is  not 
necessary,  indeed,  to  go  farther  than  to  the 
common  conversation  of  the  more  open  or 
careless  of  those  who  vote  and  act  among  the 
Tories,  to  be  satisfied,  that  a  very  large  pro- 
portion, indeed,  of  those  who  pass  under  that 
title,  are  what  we  should  call  really  Whigs  in 
heart  and  conviction,  and  are  ready  to  declare 
themselves  such,  on  the  first  convenient  op- 
portunity. With  regard  to  the  Radical  Re- 
formers, again,  very  little  more,  we  think,  can 
be  necessary  to  show  their  real  weakness  in 
the  country,  than  to  observe  how  very  few 
votes  they  ever  obtain  at  an  election,  even  in 
the  most  open  boroughs,  and  the  most  popu- 
lous and  independent  counties.  We  count  for 
nothing  in  this  question  the  mere  physical 
force  which  may  seem  to  be  arrayed  on  theii 
side  in  the  manufacturing  districts,  on  occa- 
sions of  distress  and  suffering ;  though,  if  they 
felt  that  they  had  even  this  permanently  at 
their  command,  it  is  impossible  that  they 
should  not  have  more  nominations  of  parlia- 
mentary attorneys,  and  more  steady  and  im- 
posing exhibitions  of  theix  strength  and  union. 
At  the  present  moment,  then,  we  are  per- 
suaded that  the  proper  Whig  party  is  in  reality 
by  much  the  largest  and  the  steadiest  in  the 
country ;  and  we  are  also  convinced,  that  it  ia 
in  a  course  of  rapid  increase.  The  effect  of 
all  long-continued  discussion  is  to  disclose 
flaw^s  in  all  sw^eeping  arguments,  and  to  mul- 
tiply exceptions  to  all  general  propositions — 
to  discountenance  extravagance,  in  short,  to 
abate  confidence  and  intolerance,  and  thus  to 
lay  the  foundations  for  liberal  compromise  and 
mutual  concession.  Even  those  who  continue 
to  think  that  all  the  reason  is  exclusively  on 
their  side,  can  scarcely  hope  to  convert  their 
opponents,  except  by  degrees.  Some  few  rash 
and  fiery  spirits  may  contrive  to  pass  from  one 
extreme  to  the  other,  without  going  through 
the  middle.  But  the  common  course  undoubt- 
edly is  different ;  and  therefore  we  are  entitled 
to  reckon,  that  every  one  who  is  detached  from 
the  Tory  or  the  Radical  faction,  will  make  a 
stage  at  least,  or  half-way  house,  of  Whiggism  j 
and  may  probably  be  induced,  by  the  comfort 
and  respectability  of  the  establishment,  to  re- 
main :  As  the  temperate  regions  of  the  earth 
are  found  to  detain  the  greater  part  of  those 
who  have  been  induced  to  fly  from  the  heats 
of  the  Equator,  or  the  rigours  of  the  Pole. 


620 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


Though  it  is  natural  enough,  therefore,  for 
those  who  hold  extreme  opinions,  to  depreciate 
the  weight  and  power  of  those  who  take  their 
station  between  them,  it  seems  sufficiently 
certain,  not  only  that  their  position  must  at  all 
tim.es  be  the  safest  and  best,  but  that  it  is  des- 
tined ultimately  to  draw  to  itself  all  that  is 
truly  of  any  considerable  weight  upon  either 
hand ;  and  that  it  is  the  feeling  of  the  con- 
stant and  growing  force  of  this  central  attrac- 
tion, that  inflames  the  animosity  of  those 
whose  importance  would  be  lost  by  the  con- 
vergence. For  our  own  part,  at  least,  we  are 
satisfied,  and  we  believe  the  party  to  which 
we  belong  is  satisfied,  both  with  the  degree 
of  influence  and  respect  which  we  possess  in 
the  country,  and  with  the  prospects  which, 
we  think,  upon  reasonable  grounds,  we  may 
entertain  of  its  increase.  In  assuming  to  our- 
selves the  character  of  a  middle  party,  we 
conceive  that  we  are  merely  stating  a  fact, 
which  cannot  well  be  disputed  on  the  present 
occasion,  as  it  is  assumed  by  both  those  who 
are  now  opposed  to  us,  as  the  main  ground  of 
their  common  attack ;  and  almost  all  that  we 
have  said  follows  as  a  necessary  consequence 
of  this  assumption.  From  the  very  nature  of 
the  thing,  we  cannot  go  to  either  of  the  ex- 
treme parties  J  and  neither  of  them  can  make 
any  movement  to  increase  their  popularity  and 
substantial  power,  without  coming  nearer  to 
us.  It  is  but  fair,  however,  before  concluding, 
to  state,  that  though  we  do  occupy  a  position 
between  the  intolerant  Tories  and  the  thorough 
Reformers,  we  conceive  that  we  are  consider- 
ably nearer  to  the  latter  than  to  the  former.  In 
our  principles,  indeed,  and  the  ends  at  which 
we  aim,  we  do  not  materially  difi'er  from  what 
is  professed  by  the  more  sober  among  them ', 
though  we  require  more  caution,  more  securi- 
ties, more  exceptions,  more  temper,  and  more 
time. 

That  is  the  difference  of  our  theories.  In 
practice,  we  have  no  doubt,  we  shall  all  have 
time  enough : — For  it  is  the  lot  of  England, 
we  have  little  doubt,  to  be  ruled  in  the  main 
by  what  will  be  called  a  Tory  party,  for  as 
long  a  period  as  we  can  now  look  forward  to 
with  any  great  distinctness — by  a  Tory  party, 
however,  restrained  more  and  more  in  its  pro- 
pensities, by  the  growing  influence  of  Whig 
principles,  and  the  enlightened  vigilance  of 
that  party,  both  in  Parliament  and  out  of  it; 
and  now  and  then  admonished,  by  a  temporary 
expulsion,  of  the  necessity  of  a  still  greater 
conformity  with  the  progress  of  liberal  opin- 
ions, than  could  be  spontaneously  obtained. 
The  inherent  spirit,  however,  of  monarchy, 
and  the  natural  effect  of  long  possession  of 
power,  will  secure,  we  apprehend,  for  a  con- 


siderable time,  the  general  sway  of  men  pnv 
fessing  Tory  principles ;  and  their  speedy  res 
toration,  when  driven  for  a  season  from  theii 
places  by  disaster  or  general  discontent :  and 
the  Whigs,  during  the  same  period,  must  con- 
tent themselves  with  preventing  a  great  deal 
of  evil,  and  seeing  the  good  which  they  had 
suggested  tardily  and  imperfectly  effected,  by 
those  who  will  take  the  credit  of  originating 
what  they  had  long  opposed,  and  only  at  last 
adopted  with  reluctance  and  on  compulsion. 
It  is  not  a  very  brilliant  prospect,  perhaps,  nor 
a  very  enviable  lot.  But  we  believe  it  to  be 
what  awaits  us ;  and  we  embrace  it,  not  only 
cheerfully,  but  with  thankfulness  and  pride — 
thankfulness,  that  we  are  enabled  to  do  even 
so  much  for  the  good  and  the  liberties  of  our 
country — and  pride,  that  in  thus  seeking  her 
service,  we  cannot  well  be  suspected  of  selfish 
or  mercenary  views. 

The  thorough  Reformers  never  can  be  in 
power  in  this  country,  but  by  means  of  an  ac- 
tual revolution.  The  Whigs  may,  and  occa- 
sionally will,  without  any  disturbance  to  its 
peace.  But  these  occasions  might  be  multi- 
plied, and  the  good  that  must  attend  them 
accelerated  and  increased,  if  the  Reformers, 
aware  of  the  hopelessness  of  their  separate 
cause,  M^ould  throw  their  weight  into  the  scale 
of  the  Whigs,  and  so  far  modify  their  preten 
sions  as  to  make  it  safe  or  practicable  to  sup 
port  them.  The  Whigs,  we  have  alread}r 
said,  cannot  come  to  them;  both  because 
they  hold  some  of  their  principles,  and  thei. 
modes  of  asserting  them,  to  be  not  merely  m> 
reasonable,  but  actually  dangerous ;  and  be- 
cause, by  their  adoption,  they  would  at  once 
hazard  much  mischief,  and  unfit  themselves 
for  the  good  service  they  now  perform.  But 
the  Reformers  may  very  well  come  to  the 
Whigs;  both  because  they  can  practically  do 
nothing  (peaceably)  for  themselves,  and  be- 
cause the  measures  which  they  might  occa- 
sionally enable  the  Whigs  to  carry,  though 
not  in  their  eyes  unexceptionable  or  sufficient, 
must  yet  appear  to  them  better  than  those  of 
the  Tories — which  is  the  only  attainable  al- 
ternative. This  accordingly,  we  are  persuad- 
ed, will  ultimately  be  the  result;  and  is  al- 
ready, we  have  no  doubt,  in  a  course  of 
accomplishment ;  —  and,  taken  along  with 
the  gradual  abandonment  of  all  that  is  offen- 
sive in  Tory  pretensions,  and  the  silent  adop- 
tion of  most  ^f  the  Whig  principles,  even 
by  those  who  continue  to  disclaim  the  name, 
will  effect  almost  all  that  sober  lovers  of  their 
country  can  expect,  for  the  security  of  he! 
liberties,  and  the  final  extinction  of  all  ex« 
treme  parties,  in  the  liberal  rr,oderat:cn  of 
Whigfifism. 


MISCELLANEOUS 


(fttas,    1820.) 

4n  Appedfrom  the  Judgments  of  Great  Britain  respecting  the  United  States  of  America.  Pari 
First.  Containing  an  Historical  Outline  of  their  Merits  and  Wrongs  as  Colonies,  and  Stric- 
tures on  the  Calumnies  of  British  Writers.  By  Robert  Walsh,  Esq.  8vo.  pp.  505.  Phila- 
delphia and  London:  1819.* 


One  great  staple  of  this  book  is  a  vehe- 
mentj  and,  we  really  think,  a  singularly  un- 
just  attack,  on  the  principles  of  this  Journal. 
Vet  we  take  part,  on  the  whole,  with  the  au- 
thor : — and  heartily  wish  him  success  in  the 
great  object  of  vindicating  his  country  from 
unmerited  aspersions,  and  trying  to  make  us, 
in  England,  ashamed  of  the  vices  and  defects 
which  he  has  taken  the  trouble  to  point  out  in 
our  national  character  and  institutions.  In  this 
part  of  the  design  we  cordially  concur — and 
shall  at  all  times  be  glad  to  co-operate.  But 
there  is  another  part  of  it,  and  we  are  sorry  to 
say  a  principal  and  avowed  part,  of  which  we 
cannot  speak  in  terms  of  too  strong  regret  and 
reprobation — and  that  is,  a  design  to  excite 
and  propagate  among  his  countrymen,  a  gene- 
ral animosity  to  the  British  name,  by  way  of 
counteracting,  or  rather  revenging,  the  ani- 
mosity which  he  very  erroneously  supposes 
to  be  generally  entertained  by  the  English 
against  them. 

That  this  is,  in  itself,  and  under  any  circum- 
stances, an  unworthy,  an  unwise,  and  even  a 
criminal  object,  we  think  we  could  demon- 
strate to  the  satisfaction  of  Mr.  Walsh  him- 
self, and  all  his  reasonable  adherents  ;  but  it 
is  better,  perhaps,  to  endeavour,  in  the  first 
place,  to  correct  the  misapprehensions,  and 
dispel  the  delusions  in  which  this  disposition 
has  its  foundation,  and,  at  all  events,  to  set 
them  the  example  of  perfect  good  humour  and 
fairness,  in  a  discussion  where  the  parties 
perhaps  will  never  be  entirely  agreed ;  and 
where  those  who  are  now  to  be  heard  have  the 
ptrongest  conviction  of  having  been  injuriously 
misrepresented.     If  we  felt  any  soreness,  in- 


•  There  is  no  one  feeUng-;-having  inibKc  con- 
cerns for  its  object — with  which  I  have  been  so 
long  and  so  deeply  impressed,  as  that  of  the  vast 
importance  of  our  maintaining  friendly,  and  even 
cordial  relations,  with  the  free,  powerful,  moral,  and 
industrious  States  of  America : — a  condition  upon 
which  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  not  only  our  own 
freedom  and  prosperity,  but  that  of  the  better  part 
of  the  world,  will  ultimately  be  found  to  be  more 
and  more  dependent.  I  give  the  first  place,  there- 
fore, in  this  concluding  division  of  the  work,  to  an 
earnest  and  somewhat  importunate  exhortation  to 
(his  effect — which  I  believe  produced  some  impres- 
sion at  the  time,  and  I  trust  may  still  help  forward 
'he  good  end  to  which  it  was  directed. 


deed,  on  the  score  of  this  author's  imputa- 
tions, or  had  any  desire  to  lessen  the  just  effect 
of  his  representations,  it  would  have  been 
enough  for  us,  we  believe,  to  have  let  them 
alone.  For,  without  some  such  help  as  ours, 
the  work  really  does  not  seem  calculated  to 
make  any  great  impression  in  this  quarter  of 
the  world.  It  is  not  only,  as  the  author  has 
himself  ingenuously  observed  of  it,  a  very 
"  clumsy  book,"  heavily  written  and  abomina- 
bly printed, — but  the  only  material  part  of  it 
— the  only  part  about  which  anybody  can  now 
be  supposed  to  care  much,  either  here  or  in 
America  —  is  overlaid  and  buried  under  a 
huge  mass  of  historical  compilation,  which 
would  have  little  chance  of  attracting  readers 
at  the  present  moment,  even  if  much  better 
digested  than  it  is  in  the  volume  before  us. 

The  substantial  question  is,  what  has  been 
the  true  character  and  condition  of  the  United 
States  since  they  became  an  independent  na- 
tion,— and  what  is  likely  to  be  their  condition 
in  future  1  And  to  elucidate  this  question, 
the  learned  author  has  thought  fit  to  premise 
about  two  hundred  very  close-printed  pages, 
upon  their  merits  as  colonies,  and  the  harsh 
treatment  they  then  received  from  the  mother 
country  !  Of  this  large  historical  sketch,  we 
caimot  say,  either  that  it  is  very  correctly 
drawn,  or  very  faithfully  coloured.  It  pre- 
sents us  with  no  connected  narrative,  or  inter 
esting  deduction  of  events — but  is,  in  truth,  a 
mere  heap  of  indigested  quotations  from  com 
mon  books,  of  good  and  bad  authority — inar- 
tificially  cemented  together  by  a  loose  and 
angry  commentary.  We  are  not  aware,  in- 
deed, that  there  are  in  this  part  of  the  work 
either  any  new  statements,  or  any  new  views 
or  opinions;  the  facts  being  mostly  taken 
from  Chalmers'  Annals,  and  Burke's  European 
Settlements;  and  the  authorities  for  the  good 
conduct  and  ill  treatment  of  the  colonies, 
being  chiefly  the  Parliamentary  Debates  and 
Brougham's  Colonial  Policy. 

But,  m  good  truth,  these  histonca.  recollec- 
tions will  go  but  a  little  way  in  determining 
that  great  practical  and  most  important  ques- 
tion, which  it  is  Mr.  W.'s  intention,  as  well 
as  ours,  to  discuss — What  are,  and  what  ought 
to  be,  the  dispositions  of  England  and  Ameri- 
ca towards  each  other  ?  And  the  general  fact? 

621 


622 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


as  to  the  first  settlements  and  colonial  history 
of  the  latten  in  so  far  as  they  bear  upon  this 
question,  really  do  not  admit  of  much  dispute. 
The  most  important  of  those  settlements  were 
unquestionably  founded  by  the  friends  of  civil 
and  religious  liberty — who,  though  somewhat 
precise  and  puritanical;  and  we  must  add,  not 
a  little  intolerant,  were,  in  the  main,  a  sturdy 
and  sagacious  race  of  people,  not  readily  to 
be  cajoled  oat  of  the  blessings  they  had  sought 
through  so  many  sacrifices;  and  ready  at  all 
times  manfully  and  resolutely  to  assert  them 
against  all  invaders.  As  to  the  mother  coun- 
try, again,  without  claiming  for  her  any  ro- 
ra.antic  tenderness  or  generosity  towards  those 
hardy  ofi'sets,  we  think  we  may  say,  that  she 
oppressed  and  domineered  over  them  much 
less  than  any  other  modern  nation  has  done 
over  any  such  settlements — that  she  allowed 
them,  for  the  most  part,  liberal  charters  and 
constitutions,  and  was  kind  enough  to  leave 
them  very  much  to  themselves ; — and  although 
she  did  manifest,  now  and  then,  a  disposition 
to  encroach  on  their  privileges,  their  rights 
were,  on  the  whole,  very  tolerably  respected 
— so  that  they  grew  up  undoubtedly  to  a  state 
of  much  prosperity  and  a  familiarity  with 
freedom  in  all  its  divisions,  which  was  not 
only  without  parallel  in  any  similar  establish- 
ment, but  probably  would  not  have  been  at- 
tained had  they  been  earlier  left  to  their  own 
guidance  and  protection.  This  is  all  that  we 
ask  for  England,  on  a  review  of  her  colonial 
policy,  and  her  conduct  before  the  war ',  and 
this,  we  think,  no  candid  and  well-informed 
person  can  reasonably  refuse  her. 

As  to  the  War  itself,  the  motives  in  which 
it  originated,  and  the  spirit  in  which  it  was 
carried  on,  it  cannot  now  be  necessary  to  say 
any  thing — or,  at  least,  when  we  say  that  hav- 
ing once  been  begun,  we  think  that  it  termi- 
nated as  the  friends  of  Justice  and  Liberty 
must  have  wished  it  to  terminate,  we  con- 
ceive that  Mr.  Walsh  can  require  no  other 
explanation.  That  this  result,  however,  should 
have  left  a  soreness  upon  both  sides,  and 
especially  on  that  which  had  not  been  soothed 
by  success,  is  what  all  men  must  have  ex- 

f)ected.  But.  upon  the  whole,  we  firmly  be- 
ive  that  this  was  far  slighter  and  less  durable 
than  has  generally  been  imagined ;  and  was 
likely  very  speedily  to  have  been  entirely  ef- 
faced, by  those  ancient  recollections  of  kind- 
ness and  kindred  which  could  not  fail  to  recur, 
and  by  that  still  more  powerful  feeling,  to 
which  every  day  was  likely  to  add  strength, 
of  their  common  interests,  as  free  and  as  com- 
mercial countries,  and  of  the  substantial  con- 
formity of  their  national  character,  and  of 
their  sentiments  upon  most  topics  of  public 
and  of  private  right.  The  healing  operation, 
however,  of  these  causes  was  unfortunately 
thwarted  and  retarded  by  the  heats  that  rose 
oui  of  the  French  revolution,  and  the  new  in- 
terests and  new  relations  which  it  appeared 
for  a  time  to  create  : — And  the  hostilities  in 
which  we  were  at  last  involved  with  America 
herself — though  the  opinions  of  her  people,  as 
well  as  our  own,  Mere  deeply  divided  upon 
both  Questions — served  still  further  to  embit- 


ter the  general  feeling,  and  to  keep  alive  the 
memory  of  animosities  that  ought  not  to  have 
been  so  long  remembered.  At  last  came  peace, 
— and  the  spirit,  we  verily  believe,  but  unfor- 
tunately not  the  prosperity  of  peace ;  and  the 
distresses  and  commercial  embarrassments  of 
both  countries  threw  both  into  bad  humour ; 
and  unfortunately  hurried  both  into  a  system 
of  jealous  and  illiberal  policy,  by  which  that 
bad  humour  was  aggravated,  and  received  an 
unfortunate  direction. 

In  this  exasperated  state  of  the  national 
temper,  and  we  do  think,  too  much  under  its 
influence,  Mr.  Walsh  has  now  thought  him- 
self called  upon  to  vindicate  his  country  from 
the  aspersions  of  English  writers;  and  after 
arraigning  them,  generally,  of  the  most  in- 
credible ignorance,  and  atrocious  malignity, 
he  proceeds  to  state,  that  the  Edinburgh  ana 
Quarterly  Reviews,  in  particular,  have  been 
incessantly  labouring  to  traduce  the  character 
of  America,  and  have  lately  broken  out  into 
such  -'excesses of  obloquy,'"  as  can  no  longer 
be  endured ;  and,  in  particular,  that  the  pros- 
pect of  a  large  emigration  to  the  United  States 
has  thrown  us  all  into  such  "  paroxysms  of 
spite  and  jealousy,"  that  we  have  eng-aged  in 
a  scheme  of  systematic  defamation  that  sets 
truth  and  consistency  alike  at  defiance.  To 
counteract  this  nefarious  scheme,  Mr.  W.  has 
taken  the  field — not  so  much  to  refute  as  to 
retort — not  for  the  purpose  of  pointing  out  our 
errors,  or  exposing  our  unfairness,  but,  rather, 
if  we  understand  him  aright,  of  retaliating  on 
us  the  unjust  abuse  we  have  been  so  long  pour- 
ing on  others.  In  his  preface,  accordingly,  he 
fairly  avows  it  to  be  his  intention  to  act  on  the 
ofiensive — to  carry  the  war  into  the  enemy's 
quarters,  and  to  make  reprisals  upon  the  hon- 
our and  character  of  England,  in  revenge  for 
the  insults  which,  he  will  have  it,  her  writers 
have  heaped  on  his  country.  He  therefore 
proposes  to  point  out, — not  the  natural  com- 
plexion, or  genuine  features,  but  '•  the  sores 
and  blotches  of  the  British  nation,"  to  the 
scorn  and  detestation  of  his  countrymen;  and 
having  assumed,  that  it  is  the  •'  intention  of 
Great  Britain  to  educate  her  youth  in  senti- 
ments of  the  most  rancorous  hostility  to  Amer- 
ica," he  assures  us,  that  this  design  will,  and 
must  be  met  with  corresponding  sentiments,  on 
his  side  of  the  water ! 

Now,  though  we  cannot  applaud  the  gen- 
erosity, or  even  the  common  humanity  of 
these  sentiments — though  we  think  that  the 
American  government  and  people,  if  at  all 
deserving  of  the  eulogy  which  Mr.  W.  has 
here  bestowed  upon  them,  might,  like  Crom- 
well, have  felt  themselves  too  strong  to  care 
about  paper  shot — and  though  we  cannot  but 
feel  that  a  more  temperate  and  candid  tone 
would  have  carried  more  weight,  ac*  ^ell  as 
more  magnanimity  with  it,  we  must  yet  begin 
by  admitting,  that  America  has  cause  of  com- 
plaint ; — and  that  nothing  can  be  more  despi- 
cable and  disgusting,  than  the  scurrility  with 
which  she  has  been  assailed  by  a  portion  of 
the  press  of  this  country — and  that,  disgrace- 
ful as  these  publications  are,  they  speak  the 
sense,  if  not  of  a  considerable,  at  least  of  a 


WALSH'S  APPEAL. 


623 


conspicuous  and  active  party  in  the  nation.* 
All  this,  and  more  than  this,  we  have  no  wish, 
and  no  intention  to  deny.  But  we  do  wish 
most  anxiously  to  impress  upon  Mr.  W.  and 
his  adherents,  to  beware  how  they  believe 
that  this  party  speaks  the  sense  of  the  British 
Nation — or  that  their  sentiments  on  this,  or  on 
many  other  occasions,  are  in  any  degree  in 
accordance  with  those  of  the  great  body  of 
our  people.  On  the  contrary,  we  are  firmly 
persuaded  that  a  very  large  majority  of  the 
nation,  numerically  considered,  and  a  still 
larger  majority  of  the  intelligent  and  enlight- 
ened persons  whose  'influence  and  authority 
cannot  fail  in  the  long  run  to  govern  her  coun- 
cils, would  disclaim  all  sympathy  with  any 
part  of  these  opinions ;  and  actually  look  on 
the  miserable  libels  in  question,  not  only  with 
the  scorn  and  disgust  to  which  Mr.  W.  would 
consign  them,  but  wnth  a  sense  of  shame  from 
which  his  situation  fortunately  exempts  him, 
and  a  sorrow  and  regret,  of  which  unfortu- 
nately he  seems  too  little  sus'ceptible. 

It  is  a  fact  which  can  require  no  proof,  even 
ill  America,  that  there  is  a  party  in  this  coun- 
try not  friendly  to  political  liberty,  and  deci- 
dedly hostile  to  all  extension  of  popular  rights, 
— which,  if  it  does  not  grudge  to  its  own  peo- 
ple the  powers  and  privileges  which  are  be- 
sto  vved  on  them  by  the  Constitution,  is  at  least 
for  confining  their  exercise  within  the  narrow- 
est limits — which  never  thinks  the  peace  and 
w^ell-being  of  society  in  danger  from  any  thing 
but  popular  encroachments,  and  holds  the 
only  safe  or  desirable  government  to  be  that 
of  a  pretty  pure  and  unincumbered  Monarchy, 
supported  by  a  vast  revenue  and  a  powerful 
army,  and  obeyed  by  a  people  just  enhghtened 
enough  to  be  orderly  and  industrious,  but  no 
way  curious  as  to  questions  of  right  —  and 
never  presuming  to  judge  of  the  conduct  of 
their  superiors. 

Now,  it  is  quite  true  that  this  Party  dislikes 
America,  and  is  apt  enough  to  decry  and  in- 
sult her.  Its  adherents  never  have  forgiven 
the  success  of  her  w^ar  of  independence — the 
loss  of  a  nominal  sovereignty,  or  perhaps  of  a 
real  power  of  vexing  and  oppressing — her 
supposed  rivalry  in  trade — and.  above  all,  the 
happiness  and  tranquillity  which  she  now 
enjoys  under  a  republican  form  of  govern- 
ment. Such  a  spectacle  of  democratical  pros- 
perity is  unspeakably  mortifying  to  their  high 
monarchical  principles,  and  is  easily  imagined 
to  be  dangerous  to  their  security.  Their  first 
wish,  and,  for  a  time,  their  darling  hope,  w-as, 
that  the  infant  States  w^ould  quarrel  among 
themselves,  and  be  thankful  to  be  again  re- 


*  Things  are  much  mended  in  this  respect  since 
1820  ;  persons  of  rank  and  influence  in  this  country 
now  speaking  of  America,  in  private  as  well  as  in 
public,  with  infinitely  greater  respect  and  friendli- 
ness than  was  then  common  ;  and  evincing,  I  think, 
a  more  general  desire  to  be  courteous  to  individuals 
of  that  nation,  than  to  foreigners  of  any  other  de- 
scription. There  are  still,  however,  publications 
among  us,  and  some  proceeding  from  quarters 
where  I  should  not  have  looked  for  them,  that  con- 
tinue  to  keep  up  the  tone  alluded  to  in  the  text,  and 
consequently  to  do  mischief,  which  it  is  still  a  duty 
Uierefor«  to  endeavour  to  counteract. 


ceived  under  our  protection,  as  a  refuge  from 
military  despotism.  Since  that  hope  was  lost, 
it  would  have  satisfied  them  to  find  that  theii 
repubhcan  institutions  had  made  them  poor, 
and  turbulent,  and  depraved — incapable  of 
civil  wnsdom,  regardless  of  national  honour, 
and  as  intractable  to  their  own  elected  rulers 
as  they  had  been  to  their  hereditary  sove- 
reign. To  those  who  were  capable  of  sucii 
wishes  and  such  expectations,  it  is  easy  ti 
conceive,  that  the  happiness  and  good  ordei 
of  the  United  States — the  wisdom  and  au- 
thority of  their  government  —  and  the  un- 
paralleled rapidity  of  their  progress  in  wealth 
population,  and  refinement,  must  have  been 
but  an  ungrateful  spectacle ;  and  most  especi- 
ally, that  the  splendid  and  steady  success  of 
by  far  the  most  truly  democratical  govern- 
ment that  ever  was  established  in  the  world, 
must  have  struck  the  most  lively  alarm  into 
the  hearts  of  all  those  who  were  anxious  to 
have  it  believed  that  the  People  could  never 
interfere  in  politics  but  to  their  ruin,  and  that 
the  smallest  addition  to  the  democratical  in- 
fluence, recognised  in  the  theory  at  least  of 
the  British  Constitution,  must  lead  to  the  im- 
mediate destruction  of  peace  and  property, 
morality  and  religion. 

That  there  are  journals  in  this  country,  and 
journals  too  of  great  and  deserved  reputation 
in  other  respects,  who  have  spoken  the  Ian 
guage  of  the  party  we  have  now  described, 
and  that  in  a  tone  of  singular  intemperance 
and  offence,  we  most  readily  admit.  But  need 
we  tell  Mr.  W.,  or  any  ordinarily  well-in- 
formed individual  of  his  countrymen,  that 
neither  this  party  nor  their  journalists  can  be 
allowed  to  stand  for  the  People  of  England  1 
— that  it  is  notorious  that  there  is  among  that 
people  another  and  a  far  more  numerous 
party,  whose  sentiments  are  at  all  points  op- 
posed to  those  of  the  former,  and  who  are, 
by  necessary  consequence,  friends  to  America, 
and  to  all  that  Americans  most  value  in  their 
character  and  institutions — who,  as  English- 
men, are  more  proud  to  have  great  and  glo- 
rious nations  descended  from  them,  than  to 
have  discontented  colonies  uselessly  subjected 
to  their  caprice — who,  as  Freemen  rejoice  to 
see  freedom  advancing,  with  giant  footsteps^ 
over  the  fairest  regions  of  the  earth,  and  na- 
tions flourishing  exactly  in  proportion  as  they 
are  free — and  to  know  that  when  the  drivel- 
ling advocates  of  hierarchy  and  legitimacy 
vent  their  paltry  sophistries  with  some  shadow 
of  plausibility  on  the  history  of  the  Old  World, 
they  can  now  turn  with  decisive  triumph  to 
the  unequivocal  example  of  the  New^ — and 
demonstrate  the  unspeakable  advantages  of 
free  government,  by  the  unprecedented  pros- 
perity of  America?  Such  persons,  too,  can 
be  as  little  suspected  of  entertaining  any 
jealousy  of  the  commercial  prosperity  of  the 
Americans  as  of  their  political  freedom ,  since 
it  requires  but  a  very  moderate  share  of  un- 
derstanding to  see,  that  the  advantages  of 
trade  must  always  be  mutual  and  reciprocal 
— that  one  great  trading  country  is  of  necessity 
the  best  customer  to  another — and  that  the 
trade  of  America,  consisting  chiefly  m  the  ex« 


$u 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


portatlon  of  raw  produce  and  the  importation 
of  manufactured  commodities,  is,  of  all  others, 
the  most  beneficial  to  a  country  like  England. 

That  such  sentiments  were  naturally  to  be 
expected  in  a  country  circumstanced  like 
England,  no  thinking  man  will  deny.  But 
Mr.  Walsh  has  been  himself  among  us ;  and 
was,  we  have  reason  to  believe,  no  idle  or  in- 
curious observer  of  our  men  and  cities  j  and 
we  appeal  with  confidence  to  him,  whether 
these  were  not  the  prevailing  sentiments 
among  the  intelligent  and  well  educated  of 
every  degree  ?  If  he  thinks  as  we  do,  as  to 
their  soundness  and  importance,  he  cannot 
well  doubt  that  they  must  sooner  or  later  in- 
fluence the  conduct  even  of  our  Court  and 
Cabinet.  But,  in  the  mean  time,  the  fact  is 
certain,  that  the  opposite  sentiments  are  con- 
fined to  a  very  small  portion  of  the  people  of 
Great  Britain — and  that  the  course  of  events, 
as  well  as  the  force  of  reason,  is  every  day 
bringing  them  more  and  more  into  discredit. 
Where  then,  we  would  ask,  is  the  justice  or 
the  policy  of  seeking  to  render  a  quarrel  Na- 
tional, when  the  cause  of  quarrel  is  only 
with  an  inconsiderable  and  declining  party  of 
the  nation  ? — and  why  labour  to  excite  ani- 
mosity against  a  whole  people,  the  majority  of 
whom  are,  and  must  be,  your  sincere  friends, 
merely  because  some  prejudiced  or  inter- 
ested persons  among  them  have  disgusted  the 
great  body  of  their  own  countrymen,  by  the 
senselessness  and  scurrility  of  their  attacks 
upon  yours  ? 

The  Americans  are  extremely  mistaken, 
too,  if  they  suppose  that  they  are  the  only 
persons  who  are  abused  by  the  only  party  that 
does  abuse  them.  They  have  merely  their 
share  of  that  abuse  along  with  all  the  friends 
and  the  advocates  of  Liberty  in  every  part  of 
the  world.  The  Constitutionalists  of  France, 
including  the  King  and  many  of  his  ministers, 
meet  with  no  better  treatment; — and  those 
who  hold  liberal  opinions  in  this  country,  are 
assailed  with  still  greater  acrimony  and  fierce- 
ness. Let  Mr.  Walsh  only  look  to  the  lan- 
guage held  by  our  ministerial  journals  for  the 
last  twelvemonth,  on  the  subjects  of  Reform 
and  Alarm — and  observe  in  what  way  not 
only  the  whole  class  of  our  own  reformers 
and-  conciliators,  but  the  names  and  persons 
of  such  men  as  Lords  Lansdowne,  Grey,  Fitz- 
william,  and  Erskine,  Sir  James  Mackintosh^ 
and  Messrs.  Brougham,  Lambton,  Tierney, 
and  others,  are  dealt  with  by  these  national 
oracles,  —  and  he  will  be  satisfied  that  his 
countrymen  neither  stand  alone  in  the" mis- 
fortune of  which  he  complains  so  bitterly, 
nor  are  subjected  to  it  in  very  bad  company. 
We,  too,  he  may  probably  be  aware,  have  had 
our  portion  of  the  abuse  which  he  seems  to 
think  reserved  for  America — and,  what  is  a 
little  remarkable,  for  being  too  much  her 
advocate.  For  what  we  have  said  of  her  pre- 
sent power  and  future  greatness — her  wisdom 
in  peace  and  her  valour  in  war — and  of  all  the 
invaluable  advantages  of  her  representative 
system — her  freedom  from  taxes,  sinecures, 
and  standing  armies — we  have  been  subjected 
to  far  more  virulent  attacks  than  any  of  which 


he  now  complains  for  his  country — and  tlial 
from  the  same  party  scribblersj  with  whom 
we  are  here,  somewhat  absurdly,  confoundea 
and  supposed  to  be  leagued.  It  is  really,  we 
think,  some  little  presumption  of  our  fairness, 
that  the  accusations  against  us  should  be  thus 
contradictory — and  that  for  one  and  the  same 
set  of  writings,  we  should  be  denounced  by 
the  ultra-royalists  of  England  as  little  better 
than  American  republicans,  and  by  the  ultra- 
patriots  of  America  as  the  jealous  defamers 
of  her  Freedom. 

This,  however,  is  of  very  little  consequence. 
What  we  wish  to  impress  on  IMr.  W.  is,  that 
they  who  daily  traduce  the  largest  and  ablest 
part  of  the  English  nation,  cannot  possibly  be 
supposed  to  speak  the  sense  of  that  nation — 
and  that  their  offences  ought  not,  in  reason,  to 
be  imputed  to  her.  If  there  be  any  reliance 
on  the  principles  of  human  nature,  the  friends 
of  liberty  in  England  must  rejoice  in  the  pros- 
perity of  America.  Every  selfish,  concurs 
with  every  generous  motive,  to  add  strength 
to  this  sympathy ;  and  if  any  thing  is  certain 
in  our  late  internal  history,  it  is  that  the 
friends  of  liberty  are  rapidly  increasing  among 
us;  —  partly  from  increased  intelligence  — 
partly  from  increased  suffering  and  impa- 
tience— partly  from  mature  conviction,  and 
instinctive  prudence  and  fear. 

There  is  another  consideration,  also  arising 
from  the  aspect  of  the  times  before  us,  which 
should  go  far,  we  think,  at  the  present  mo- 
ment, to  strengthen  those  bonds  of  affinity. 
It  is  impossible  to  look  to  the  state  of  the  Old 
World  without  seeing,  or  rather  feeling,  that 
there  is  a  greater  and  more  momentous  con- 
test impending,  than  ever  before  agitated 
human  society.  In  Germany — in  Spain — in 
France — in  Italy,  the  principles  of  Reform 
and  Liberty  are  visibly  arraying  themselves 
for  a  final  struggle  with  the  principles  of  Es- 
tablished Abuse, — Legitimacy,  or  Tyranny — 
or  whatever  else  it  is  called,  by  its  friends  or 
enemies.  Even  in  England,  the  more  modi- 
fied elements  of  the  same  principles  are  stir- 
ring and  heaving,  around,  above  and  beneath 
us,  with  unprecedented  force,  activity,  and 
terror;  and  every  thing  betokens  an  approach- 
ing crisis  in  the  great  European  common- 
wealth, by  the  result  of  which  the  future 
character  of  its  governments,  and  the  stmc- 
ture  and  condition  of  its  society,  will  in  all 
probability  be  determined.  The  ultimate  re- 
sult, or  the  course  of  events  that  are  to  lead 
to  it,  we  have  not  the  presumption  to  predict. 
The  struggle  may  be  long  or  transitory — san- 
guinary or  bloodless;  and  it  may  end  in  a 
great  and  signal  amelioration  of  all  existing 
institutions,  or  in  the  establishment  of  one  vast 
federation  of  military  despots,  domineering  as 
usual  in  the  midst  of  sensuality,  barbarism, 
and  gloom.  The  issues  of  all  these  things 
are  in  the  hand  of  Providence  and  the  womb 
of  time  I  and  no  human  eye  can  yet  foresee 
the  fashion  of  their  accomplishment.  But 
great  changes  are  evidently  preparing :  and 
in  fifty  years — most  probably  in  a  far  shortel 
time — some  material  alterations  must  have 
taken  place  in  most  of  the  established  govern- 


WALSH'S  APPEAL. 


625 


ments  of  Europe,  and  the  rights  of  the  Euro- 
pean nations  been  established  on  a  surer  and 
more  durable  basis.  Half  a  century  cannot 
pass  away  in  growing  discontents  on  the  part 
of  the  people,  and  growing  fears  and  precau- 
tions on  that  of  their  rulers.  Their  preten- 
sions must  at  last  be  put  clearly  in  issue ;  and 
abide  the  settlement  offeree,  or  fear,  or  reason. 
Looking  back  to  what  has  already  happened 
in  the  world,  both  recently  and  in  ancient 
times,  we  can  scarcely  doubt  that  the  cause  of 
Liberty  will  be  ultimately  triumphant.  But 
through  what  trials  and  sufferings — what  mar- 
tyrdoms and  persecutions  it  is  doomed  to 
work  out  its  triumph — we  profess  ourselves 
unable  to  conjecture.  The  disunion  of  the 
lower  and  the  higher  classes,  which  was 
gradually  disappearing  with  the  increasing 
intelligence  of  the  former,  but  has  lately  been 
renewed  by  circumstances  which  we  cannot 
now  stop  to  examine,  leads,  we  must  confess, 
to  gloomy  auguries  as  to  the  character  of  this 
contest ;  and  fills  us  with  apprehensions,  that 
it  may  neither  be  peaceful  nor  brief.  But  in 
this,  as  in  every  other  respect,  we  conceive 
that  much  will  depend  on  the  part  that  is 
taken  by  America  j  and  on  the  dispositions 
which  she  may  have  cultivated  towards  the 
different  parties  concerned.  Her  great  and 
growing  wealth  and  population — her  univer- 
sal commercial  relations — her  own  impregna- 
ble security — and  her  remoteness  from  the 
scene  of  dissension — must  give  her  prodigious 
power  and  influence  in  such  a  crisis,  either  as 
a  mediator  or  umpire,  or,  if  she  take  a  part,  as 
an  auxiliary  and  ally.  That  she  must  wish 
well  to  the  cause  of  Freedom,  it  would  be  in- 
decent, and  indeed  impious,  to  doubt — and 
that  she  should  take  an  active  part  against  it, 
is  a  thing  not  even  to  be  imagined : — But  she 
may  stand  aloof,  a  cold  and  disdainful  spec- 
tator :  and,  counterfeiting  a  prudent  indiffer- 
ence to  scenes  that  neither  can  nor  ought  to 
be  indifferent  to  her,  may  see,  unmoved,  the 

Erolongation  of  a  lamentable  contest,  which 
er  interference  might  either  have  prevented, 
or  brought  to  a  speedy  and  happy  termination. 
And  this  course  she  will  most  probably  follow, 
if  she  allows  herself  to  conceive  antipathies  to 
nations  for  the  faults  of  a  few  calumnious  in- 
dividuals :  And  especially  if,  upon  grounds  so 
trivial,  she  should  nourish  such  an  animosity 
towards  England,  as  to  feel  a  repugnance  to 
make  common  cause  with  her,  even  in  behalf 
of  their  common  inheritance  of  freedom. 

Assuredly,  there  is  yet  no  other  country  in 
Europe  where  the  principles  of  liberty,  and 
the  rights  and  duties  of  nations,  are  so  well 
understood  as  with  us — or  in  which  so  great  a 
number  of  men,  qualified  to  write,  speak,  and 
act  with  authority,  are  at  all  times  ready  to 
take  a  reasonable,  liberal,  and  practical  view 
of  those  principles  and  duties.  The  Govern- 
ment, indeed,  has  not  always  been  either  wise 
or  generous,  to  its  own  or  to  other  countries; — 
but  it  has  partaken,  or  at  least  has  been  con- 
trolled by  the  general  spirit  of  freedom ;  and 
we  have  no  hesitation  in  saying,  that  the  Free 
Constitution  of  England  has  been  a  blessing 
and  protection  to  the  remotest  nations  of  Eu- 
40 


rope  for  the  last  two  liundred  years.  Had 
England  not  been  free,  the  worst  despotism 
in  Europe  would  have  been  far  worse  than  it 
is,  at  this  moment.  If  our  world  had  been 
parcelled  out  among  arbitrary  monarchs,  they 
would  have  run  a  race  of  oppression,  and  en- 
couraged each  other  in  all  sorts  of  abuses. 
But  the  existence  of  one  powerful  and  flour- 
ishing State,  where  juster  maxims  were  ad- 
mitted, has  shamed  them  out  of  their  worst 
enormities,  giv^en  countenance  and  encourage- 
ment to  the  claims  of  their  oppressed  subjects, 
and  gradually  taught  their  rulers  to  under- 
stand, that  a  certain  measure  of  liberty  waa 
not  only  compatible  with  national  greatness 
and  splendour,  but  essential  to  its'support. 
In  the  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  England  was 
the  champion  and  asylum  of  Religious  Free- 
dom— in  those  of  King  William,  of  National 
Independence.  If  a  less  generous  spirit  has 
prevailed  in  her  Cabinet  since  the  set-^Sd  pre- 
dominance of  Tory  principles  in  he'^  -^^^iicils, 
still;  the  effects  of  her  Parliamentalf  Oppo- 
sition— the  artillery  of  her  Free  Press — the 
voice,  in  short,  of  her  People,  which  Mr.  W. 
has  so  strangely  mistaken,  have  not  been 
without  their  effects ; — and,  though  some  fla- 
grant acts  of  injustice  have  stained  her  recent 
annals,  we  still  venture  to  hope  that  the  dread 
of  the  British  Public  is  felt  as  far  as  Peters- 
burgh  and  Vienna;  and  would  fain  indulge 
ourselves  with  the  belief,  that  it  may  yet  scare 
some  Imperial  spoiler  from  a  part  of  his  prey, 
and  lighten,  if  not  break,  the  chains  of  many 
distant  captives. 

It  is  in  aid  of  this  generous,  though  perhaps 
decaying  influence — it  is  as  an  associate  or 
successor  in  the  noble  office  of  patronising  ai  2 
protecting  General  Liberty,  that  we  now  call 
upon  America  to  throw  from  her  the  memory 
of  all  petty  differences  and  nice  offences,  and 
to  unite  herself  cordially  with  the  liberal  and 
enlightened  part  of  the  English  nation,  at  a 
season  when  their  joint  efforts  may  be  aH  little 
enough  to  crown  the  good  cause  with  success, 
and  when  their  disunion  will  give  dreadful 
advantages  to  the  enemies  of  improvement 
and  reform.  The  example  of  America  has 
already  done  much  for  that  cause ;  and  the 
very  existence  of  such  a  country,  under  such 
a  government,  is  a  tower  of  strength,  and  a 
standard  of  encouragement,  for  all  who  may 
hereafter  have  to  struggle  for  the  restoration 
or  the  extension  of  their  rights.  It  show? 
within  what  wide  limits  popular  institutions 
are  safe  and  practicable;  and  what  a  large 
infusion  of  democracy  is  consistent  with  the 
authority  of  government,  and  the  good  order 
of  society.  But  her  injluence,  as  well  as  her 
example,  will  be  wanted  in  the  crisis  which 
seems  to  be  approaching : — and  that  influence 
must  be  paralysed  and  inoperative,  if  she 
shall  think  it  a  duty  to  divide  herself  from 
England ;  to  look  with  jealousy  upon  her  pro- 
ceedings, and  to  judge  unfavourably  of  all  the 
parties  she  contains.  We  do  not  ask  her  to 
think  well  of  iJiat  party,  whether  in  power  or 
out  of  it,  which  has  always  insulted  anc!  re- 
viled her,  because  she  is  free  and  independ 
ent,  and  democratic  and  prosperous  • — But  wr 


626 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


do  confidently  lay  claim  to  her  favourable 
opinion  for  that  great  majority  of  the  nation 
which  has  always  been  opposed  to  this  party 
— which  has  partaken  with  her  in  the  honour 
of  its  reproaches,  and  is  bound,  by  every  con- 
sideration of  interest  and  duty,  consistency 
and  common  sense,  to  maintain  her  rights  and 
her  reputation,  and  to  promote  and  proclaim 
her  prosperity. 

To  which  of  these  parties  we  belong,  and  to 
whi3.i  our  pen  has  been  devoted,  we  suppose 
it  is  unnecessary  for  us  to  announce,  even  in 
America:  and  therefore,  without  recapitulat- 
ing any  part  of  what  has  just  been  said,  we 
think  we  may  assume,  in  the  outset,  that  the 
charge  exhibited  against  us  by  Mr.  W.  is,  at 
least,  and  on  its  face,  a  very  unlucky  and  im- 
probable one — that  we  are  actuated  by  jeal- 
ousy and  spite  towards  America,  and  have 
joined  in  a  scheme  of  systematic  defamation, 
in  ofd^'-  to  diffuse  among  our  countrymen  a 
genepg  ti^ntiment  of  hostility  and  dislike  to 
herl"^  thflevous  as  this  charge  is,  we  should 
scarcely  have  thought  it  necessary  to  reply  to 
it,  had  not  the  question  appeared  to  us  to  re- 
late to  something  of  far  higher  importance 
than  the  character  of  our  Journal,  or  the  jus- 
tice or  injustice  of  an  imputation  on  the  prin- 
ciples of  a  few  anonymous  writers.  In  that 
case,  we  should  have  left  the  matter,  as  all 
the  world  knows  we  have  uniformly  left  it  in 
other  cases,  to  be  determined  by  our  readers 
upon  the  evidence  before  them.  But  Mr.  W. 
has  been  pleased  to  do  us  the  honour  of  identify- 
ing us  with  the  great  Whig  party  of  this  coun- 
try, or,  rather,  of  considering  us  as  the  expo- 
nents of  those  who  support  the  principles  of 
liberty,  as  it  is  understood  in  England : — and 
to  think  his  case  sufficiently  made  out  against 
the  Nation  at  large,  if  he  can  prove  that  both 
the  Edinburgh  and  the  Quarterly  Review 
had  given  proof  of  deliberate  malice  and 
shameful  unfairness  on  the  subject  of  Ameri- 
ca. Now  this,  it  must  be  admitted,  gives  the 
question  a  magnitude  that  would  not  other- 
wise belong  to  it ;  and  makes  what  might  in 
itself  be  a  mere  personal  or  literary  alterca- 
tion, a  matter  of  national  moment  and  con- 
cernment. If  a  sweeping  conviction  of  mean 
jealousy  and  rancorous  hostility  is  to  be  en- 
tered up  against  the  whole  British  nation,  and 
a  corresponding  spirit  to  be  conjured  up  in  the 
breast  of  America,  because  it  is  alleged  that 
the  Edinburgh  Review,  as  well  as  the  Quar- 
terly, has  given  proof  of  such  dispositions, — 
then  it  becomes  a  question  of  no  mean  or  or- 
dinary importance,  to  determine  whether  this 
charge  has  been  justly  brought  against  that 
unfortunate  journal,  and  whether  its  accuser 
has  made  out  enough  to  entitle  him  to  a  ver- 
dict leading  to  such  consequences. 

It  will  be  understood,  that  we  deny  alto- 
gether the  justice  of  the  charge  : — But  we 
wish  distinctly  to  say  in  the  beginning,  that  if 
it  should  appear  to  any  one  that,  in  the  course 
of  a  great  deal  of  hasty  writing,  by  a  variety 
of  hands,  m  the  course  of  twenty  long  years, 
some  rash  or  petulant  expressions  had  been 
admitted,  at  which  the  national  pride  of  our 
Transatlantic  brethren  might  be  justly  offend- 


ed, we  shall  most  certainly  feel  no  anxxety  t« 

justify  these  expressions, — nor  any  fea^'  that, 
with  the  liberal  and  reasonable  part  of  the 
nation  to  which  they  relate,  our  avowal  of  re- 
gret for  having  employed  them  will  not  be 
received  as  a  sufficient  atonement.  Even  in 
private  life,  and  without  the  provocation  of 
public  controversy,  there  are  not  many  men 
who,  in  half  the  time  we  have  mentioned,  do 
not  say  some  things  to  the  slight  or  disparage- 
ment of  their  best  friends ;  which,  if  all  "  set 
in  a  note-book,  conned  and  got  by  rote,"  it 
might  be  hard  to  answer : — and  yet,  among 
people  of  ordinary  sense  or  temper,  such  things 
never  break  any  squares — and  the  dispositions 
are  judged  of  by  the  general  tenor  of  one's 
life  and  conduct,  and  not  by  a  set  of  peevish 
phrases,  curiously  culled  and  selected  out  of 
his  whole  conversation.  But  we  really  do  not 
think  that  we  shall  very  much  need  the  bene- 
fit of  this  plain  consideration,  and  shall  pro-* 
ceed  straightway  to  our  answer. 

The  sum  of  it  is  this — That,  in  point  of  fact, 
we  have  spoken  far  more  good  of  America 
than  ill — that  in  nine  instances  out  of  ten, 
where  we  have  mentioned  her,  it  has  been 
for  praise — and  that  in  almost  all  that  is  essen 
tial  or  of  serious  importance,  we  have  spoken 
nothing  hut  good ; — while  our  censures  have 
been  wholly  confined  to  matters  of  inferior 
note,  and  generally  accompanied  with  an 
apology  for  their  existence,  and  a  prediction 
of  their  speedy  disappearance. 

Whatever  we  have  written  seriously  and 
with  earnestness  of  America,  has  been  with 
a  view  to  conciliate  towards  her  the  respect 
and  esteem  of  our  own  country ;  and  we  have 
scarcely  named  her,  in  any  deliberate  man- 
ner, except  for  the  purpose  of  impressing  upon 
our  readers  the  signal  prosperity  she  has  en- 
joyed— the  magical  rapidity  of  her  advances 
in  wealth  and  population — and  the  extraordi- 
nary power  and  greatness  to  which  she  is  evi- 
dently destined.  On  these  subjects  we  have 
held  but  one  language,  and  one  tenor  of  sen- 
timent ;  and  have  never  missed  an  opportu- 
nity of  enforcing  our  views  on  our  readers — 
and  that  not  feebly,  coldly,  or  reluctantly,  but 
with  all  the  earnestness  and  energy  of  which 
we  were  capable ;  and  we  do  accordingly  take 
upon  us  to  say,  that  in  no  European  publica- 
tion have  those  views  been  urged  with  the 
same  force  or  frequency,  or  resumed  at  every 
season,  and  under  every  change  of  circum- 
stances, with  such  steadiness  and  uniformity. 
We  have  been  equally  consistent  and  equally 
explicit,  in  pointing  out  the  advantages  which 
that  country  has  derived  from  the  extent  of 
her  elective  system — the  lightness  of  her  pub- 
lic burdens — the  freedom  of  her  press — and 
the  independent  spirit  of  her  people.  The 
praise  of  the  Government  is  implied  in  the 
praise  of  these  institutions ',  but  we  have  not 
omitted  upon  every  occasion  to  testify,  in  ex- 
press terms,  to  its  general  wisdom,  equity,  and 
prudence.  Of  the  character  of  the  people, 
too,  in  all  its  more  serious  aspects,  w^e  have 
spoken  with  the  same  undeviating  favour; 
and  have  always  represented  them  as  brave, 
enterprising,  acute,  industrious,  and  patriotic. 


WALSH'S  APPEAL. 


627 


IVe  need  not  load  our  pages  with  quotations 
io  prove  the  accuracy  of  this  representation 
— our  whole  work  is  full  of  them ;  and  Mr. 
W.  himself  has  quoted  enough,  both  in  the 
outset  of  his  book  and  in  the  body  of  it,  to 
satisfy  even  such  as  may  take  their  informa- 
tion from  him,  that  such  have  always  been 
our  opinions.  Mr.  W.  indeed  seems  to  ima- 
gnie,  that  other  passages,  which  he  has  cited, 
import  a  contradiction  or  retractation  of  these ; 
and  that  we  are  thus  involved,  not  only  in  the 
guilt  of  malice,  but  the  awkwardness  of  in- 
consistency. Now  this,  as  we  take  it,  is  one 
of  the  radical  and  almost  unaccountable  errors 
with  which  the  work  before  us  is  chargeable. 
There  is  no  such  retractation,  and  no  contradic- 
tion. We  can  of  course  do  no  more,  on  a  point 
like  thisjthan  make  a  distinct  asseferation;  but, 
after  having  perused  Mr.  W.'s  book,  and  with 
a  pretty  correct  knowledge  of  the  Review,  we 
do  say  distinctly,  that  there  is  not  to  be  found 
in  either  a  single  passage  inconsistent,  or  at 
all  at  variance  with  the  sentiments  to  which 
we  have  just  alluded.  We  have  never  spoken 
but  in  one  way  of  the  prosperity  and  future 
greatness  of  America,  and  of  the  importance 
of  cultivating  amicable  relations  with  her — 
never  but  in  one  way  of  the  freedom,  cheap- 
ness, and  general  wisdom  of  her  government 
— ^never  but  in  one  way  of  the  bravery,  intelli- 
gence, activity,  and  patriotism  of  her  people. 
The  points  on  which  Mr.  W.  accuses  us  of 
malice  and  unfairness,  all  relate,  as  we  shall 
see  immediately,  to  other  and  far  less  con- 
siderable matters. 

Assuming,  then,  as  we  must  now  do,  th'at 
upon  the  subjects  that  have  been  specified, 
our  testimony  has  been  eminently  and  exclu- 
sively favourable  to  America,  and  that  we  have 
never  ceased  earnestly  to  recommend  the  most 
cordial  and  friendly  relations  with  her,  how, 
it  may  be  asked,  is  it  possible  that  we  should 
have  deserved  to  be  classed  among  the  chief 
■     and  most  malignant  of  her  calumniators,  or 
j    accused  of  a  design  to  excite  hostility  to  her 
;    in  the  body  of  our  nation  ?  and  even  repre- 
'    sented  as  making  reciprocal  hostility  a  point 
of  duty  in  her,  by  the  excesses  of  our  oblo- 
*    quy  1  For  ourselves,  we  profess  to  be  as  little 
able  to  answer  this  question,  as  the  most  ig- 
!    norant  of  our  readers ; — but  we  shall  lay  be- 
fore them  some  account  of  the  proofs  on  which 
Mr.   W.   relies  for  our  condemnation ;  and 
cheerfully  submit  to  any  sentence  which  these 
may  seem  to  justify.     There  are  a  variety  of 
counts  in  our  indictment ;  but,  in  so  far  as  we 
have  been  able  to  collect,  the  heads  of  our 
offending  are  as  follows.     1st,  That  we  have 
,    noticed,  with  uncharitable  and  undue  severity, 
the  admitted  want  of  indigenous  literature  in 
America,  and  the  scarcity  of  men  of  genius ; 
2d,  as  an  illustration  of  that  charge,  That  we 
have  laughed  too  ill-naturedly  at  the  affecta- 
tions of  Joel  Barlow's  Columbiad,  made  an  un- 
fair estimate  of  the  merits  of  Marshall's  His- 
tory, and  Adams'  Letters,  and  spoken  illiber- 
ally of  the  insignificance  of  certain  American 
Philosophical  Transactions;   3dly,  That  we 
have  represented  the  manners  of  the  fashion- 
ihle  society  of  America  as  less  poiished  and 


agreeable  than  those  of  Europe — the  lower 
orders  as  impertinently  inquisitive,  and  the 
whole  as  too  vaui  of  their  country ;  4th,  and 
finally.  That  we  have  reproached  them  too 
bitterly  with  their  negro  slavery. 

These,  we  think,  are  the  whole,  and  certainly 
they  are  the  chief,  of  the  charges  against  us ; 
and,  before  saying  any  thing  as  to  the  particu- 
lars,  we  should  just  like  to  ask,  whether,  if 
they  were  all  admitted  to  be  true,  they  would 
afford  any  sufficient  grounds,  especially  when 
set  by  the  side  of  the  favourable  representa- 
tions we  have  made  with  so  much  more  earn- 
estness on  points  of  much  more  importance, 
for  imputing  to  their  authors,  and  to  the  whole 
body  of  their  countrymen,  a  systematic  de- 
sign to  make  America  odious  and  despicable 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world  ?  This  charge,  we 
will  confess,  appears  to  us  most  extravagant 
— and,  when  the  facts  already  stated  are  taken 
into  view,  altogether  ridiculous.  Though  we 
are  the  friends  and  well-wishers  of  the  Ameri- 
cans— though  we  think  favourably,  and  even 
highly,  of  many  things  in  their  institutions, 
government,  and  character, — we  are  not  their 
stipendiary  Laureates  or  blind  adulators  ;  and 
must  insist  on  our  right  to  take  notice  of  what 
we  conceive  to  be  their  errors  and  defects, 
with  the  same  freedom  which  we  use  to  our 
own  and  to  all  other  nations.  It  has  already 
been  shown,  that  we  have  by  no  means  con- 
fined ourselves  to  this  privilege  of  censure ; 
and  the  complaint  seems  to  be,  that  we  should 
ever  have  presumed  to  use  it  at  all.  We  really 
do  not  understand  this.  We  have  spoken  much 
more  favourably  of  their  government  and  in- 
stitutions than  we  have  done  of  our  own.  We 
have  criticised  their  authors  with  at  least  as 
much  indulgence,  and  spoken  of  their  national 
character  in  terms  of  equal  respect :  But  be- 
cause w^e  have  pointed  out  certain  imdeniahle 
defects,  and  laughed  at  some  indefensible  ab- 
surdities, we  are  accused  of  the  most  partial 
and  unfair  nationality,  and  represented  as  en- 
gaged in  a  conspiracy  to  bring  the  whole  nation 
into  disrepute  !  Even  if  we  had  the  misfor- 
tune to  differ  in  opinion  with  Mr.  W.,  or  the 
majority  of  his  countrymen,  on  most  of  the 
points  to  which  our  censure  has  been  directed, 
instead  of  having  his  substantial  admission  of 
their  justice  in  most  instances,  this,  it  humbly 
appears  to  us,  would  neither  be  a  good  ground 
for  questioning  our  good  faith,  nor  a  reason- 
able occasion  for  denouncing  a  general  hos- 
tility against  the  country  to  which  we  belongs 
Men  may  differ  conscientiously  in  their  taste 
in  literature  and  manners,  and  in  their  opinions 
as  to  the  injustice  or  sinfulness  of  domestic 
slavery;  and  may  express  their  opinions  in 
public — or  so  at  least  we  have  fancied — with- 
out being  actuated  by  spite  or  malignity.  But 
a  very  slight  examination  of  each  of  the  arti- 
cles of  charge  will  show  still  more  clearly 
upon  what  slight  grounds  they  have  been 
hazarded,  and  how  much  more  of  spleen  than 
of  reason  there  is  in  the  accusation. 

1 .  Upon  the  first  head,  Mr.  W.  neither  does, 
nor  can  deny,  tnat  our  statements  are  perfectly 
correct.  The  Americans  have  scarcely  any 
literature  cf  their  own  growth — and  scarcely 


628 


MISCELLANEOUS 


any  authors  of  celebrity.*  The  fact  is  too 
remarkable  not  to  have  been  noticed  by  all 
who  have  occasion  to  speak  of  them ; — and 
we  have  only  to  add,  that,  so  far  from  bringing 
it  forward  in  an  insulting  or  invidious  manner. 
we  have  never,  we  believe,  alluded  to  it  with- 
out adding  such  explanations  as  in  candour 
we  thought  due,  and  as  were  calculated  to 
take  from  it  all  shadow  of  offence.  So  early 
as  in  our  third  Number  (printed  in  1802),  we 
observed  that  "Literature  was  one  of  those 
finer  Manufactures  which  a  new  country  will 
always  find  it  better  to  import  than  to  raise  3" 
— and,  after  showing  that  the  want  of  leisure 
and  hereditary  wealth  naturally  lead  to  this 
arrangement,  we  added,  that  "  the  Americans 
had  shown  abundance  of  talent,  wherever  in- 
ducements had  been  held  out  for  its  exertion ; 
that  their  party-pamphlets  were  written  with 
great  keenness  and  spirit ;  and  that  their  ora- 
tors frequently  displayed  a  vehemence,  cor- 
rectness, and  animation,  that  would  command 
the  adniiration  of  any  European  audience." 
Mr.  W.  has  himself  quoted  the  warm  testi- 
mony we  bore,  in  our  twelfth  Volume,  to  the 
merits  of  the  papers  published  under  the  title 
of  The  Federalist : — And  in  our  sixteenth,  we 
observe,  that  when  America  once  turned  her 
attention  to  letters,  "we  had  no  doubt  that 
her  authors  would  improve  and  multiply,  to  a 
degree  that  would  make  all  our  exertions 
necessary  to  keep  the  start  we  have  of  them." 
In  a  subsequent  Number,  we  add  the  import- 
ant remark,  that  "  among  them,  the  men  who 
write  bear  no  proportion  to  those  who  read;^' 
and  that,  though  they  have  as  yet  but  few 
native  authors,  "  the  individuals  are  innumer- 
able who  make  use  of  literature  to  improve 
their  understandings,  and  add  to  their  happi- 
ness." The  very  same  ideas  are  expressed 
in  a  late  article,  which  seems  to  have  given 
Mr.  W.  very  great  offence — though  we  can 
discover  nothing  in  the  passage  in  question. 
except  the  liveliness  of  the  style,  that  can 
afford  room  for  misconstruction.  "  Native  lite- 
rature," says  the  Reviewer,  "  the  Americans 
have  none :  It  is  all  imported.  And  why 
should  they  write  books,  when  a  six  weeks' 
passage  brings  them,  in  their  own  tongue,  our 
sense,  science,  and  genius,  in  bales  and  hogs- 
heads'?" — Now,  what  is  the  true  meaning  of 
this,  but  the  following — "The  Amerinans  do 
not  write  books ;  but  it  must  not  be  inferred, 
from  this,  that  they  are  ignorant  or  indifferent 
about  literature. — The  true  reason  is,  that  they 
get  books  enough  from  us  in  their  own  lan- 
guage ;  and  are,  in  this  respect,  just  in  the 
condition  of  any  of  our  great  trading  or  manu- 
facturing districts  at  home,  within  the  locaUty 
of  which  there  is  no  encouragement  [ot  authors 
to  settle,  though  there  is  at  least  as  much 
reading  and  thinking  as  in  other  places." 
This  has  all  along  been  our  meaning — and 
we  think  it  has  been  clearly  enough  express- 
ed.    The  Americans,  in  fact,  are  at  least  as 


*  This  might  require  more  qualification  now, 
than  in  1820,  when  it  was  written — or  rather,  than 
in  1810,  befoie  which  almost  all  the  reviews  con- 
Uining  the  assertion  had  appeared. 


great  readers  as  the  English,  and  lake  off  u» 
mense  editions  of  all  our  popular  works; — 
and  while  we  hive  repeatedly  stated  thti 
causes  that  have  probably  withheld  them 
from  becoming  authors  in  great  numbers 
themselves,  we  confidently  deny  that  we  have 
ever  represented  them  as  illiterate,  or  neg- 
ligent of  learning. 

2.  As  to  our  particular  criticisms  on  Ameri- 
can works,  we  cannot  help  feeling  that  our 
justification  will  be  altogether  as  easy  as  in 
the  case  of  our  general  remarks  on  their  rarity. 
Nothing,  indeed,  can  more  strikingly  illustrate 
the  unfortunate  prejudice  or  irritation  under 
which  Mr.  W.  has  composed  this  part  of  his 
work,  than  the  morose  and  angry  remarks  he 
has  made  on  our  very  innocent  and  good- 
natured  critique  of  Barlow's  Columbiad.  It  is 
very  true  that  we  have  laughed  at  its  strange 
neologisms,  and  pointed  out  some  of  its  other 
manifold  faults.  But  is  it  possible  for  any  one 
seriously  to  believe,  that  this  gentle  castigation 
was  dictated  by  national  animosity  ? — or  does 
Mr.  W.  really  believe  that,  if  the  same  work 
had  been  published  in  England,  it  would  have 
met  with  a  milder  treatment  ?  If  the  book  was 
so  bad,  however,  he  insinuates,  why  take  any 
notice  of  it,  if  not  to  indulge  your  malignity  ? 
To  this  we  answer,  first,  That  a  handsome 
quarto  of  verse,  from  a  country  which  pro- 
duces so  few,  necessarily  attracted  our  atten- 
tion more  strongly  than  if  it  had  appeared 
among  ourselves;  secondly,  That  its  faults 
were  of  so  peculiar  and  amusing  a  kind,  as  to 
call  for  animadversion  rather  than  neglect; 
and,  thirdly,  what  no  reader  of  Mr.  W.'s 
remarks  would  indeed  anticipate.  That,  in 
spite  of  these  faults,  the  book  actually  had 
merits  that  entitled  it  to  notice ;  and  that  a 
very  considerable  part  of  our  article  is  ac- 
cordingly employed  in  bringing  those  merits 
into  view.  In  common  candour,  we  must  say, 
Mr.  W.  should  have  acknowledged  this,  when 
complaining  of  the  illiberal  severity  with 
which  Mr.  Barlow's  work  had  been  treated. 
For,  the  truth  is,  that  we  have  given  it  fully 
as  much  praise  as  he,  or  any  other  intelligent 
American,  can  say  it  deserves ;  and  have  been 
at  some  pains  in  vindicating  the  author's  sen- 
timents from  misconstruction,  as  well  as  res 
cuing  his  beauties  from  neglect.  Yet  Mr.  W 
is  pleased  to  inform  his  reader,  that  the  work 
"  seems  to  have  been  committed  to  the  Mo 
mus  of  the  fraternity  for  especial  diversion ;" 
and  is  very  surly  and  austere  at  "the  exquisite 
jokes"  of  which  he  says  it  consists.  We  cer- 
tainly do  not  mean  to  dispute  with  him  about 
the  quality  of  our  jokes: — though  we  take 
leave  to  appeal  to  a  gayer  critic — or  to  him- 
self in  better  humour — from  his  present  sen- 
tence of  reprobation.  But  he  should  have  re- 
collected, that,  besides  stating,  in  distinct 
terms,  that  "his  versification  was  generally 
both  soft  and  sonorous,  and  that  there  were 
many  passages  of  rich  and  vigorous  descrip- 
tion, and  some  that  might  lay  claim  even  to 
the  praise  of  magnificence,"  the  critics  had 
summed  up  their  observations  by  saying, 
"  that  the  author's  talents  were  evidently  re- 
spectable ;  and  that,  severely  as  they  had 


WALSH'S  APPEAL. 


62f 


been  oliiiged  to  speak  of  his  taste  and  his  dic- 
tion, in  a  great  part  of  the  volume,  they  con- 
sidered him  as  a  giant  in  comparison  with 
many  of  the  paUry  and  puling  rhymsters  who 
disgraced  our  English  literature  by  their  oc- 
casional success;  and  that,  if  he  would  pay 
some  attention  to  purity  of  style  and  simpli- 
city of  composition,  they  had  no  doubt  that  he 
might  produce  something  which  English  poets 
would  envy,  and  English  critics  applaud." 

Are  there  any  traces  here,  we  would  ask, 
of  national  spite  and  hostility'? — or  is  it  not 
true,  that  our  account  of  the  poem  is,  on  the 
whole,  not  only  fair  but  favourable,  and  the 
tone  of  our 'remarks  as  good-humoured  and 
friendly  as  if  the  author  had  been  a  whlggish 
Scotchman  1  As  to  ''  Marshall's  Life  of  Wash- 
ington," we  do  not  think  that  Mt.  W.  differs 
very  much  from  the  Reviewers.  He  says, 
"  he  does  not  mean  to  affirm  that  the  story  of 
their  Revolution  has  been  told  absolutely  well 
by  this  author;"  and  we,  after  complaining  of 
its  being  cold,  heavy,  and  tedious,  have  dis- 
tinctly testified,  that  '•  it  displayed  industry, 
good  sense,  and,  in  so  far  as  we  could  judge, 
laudable  impartiality;  and  that  the  style, 
though  neither  elegant  nor  impressive,  was 
yet,  upon  the  whole,  clear  and  manly."  Mr. 
W.,  however,  thinks  that  nothing  but  national 
spite  and  illiberality  can  account  for  our  say- 
ing, "  that  Mr.  M.  must  not  promise  himself 
a  reputation  commensurate  with  the  dimen- 
sions of  his  work;"  and  "that  what  passes 
with  him  for  dignity,  will,  by  his  readers,  be 

Eronounced  dulness  and  frigidity :"  And  then 
e  endeavours  to  show,  that  a  passage  in 
which  we  say  that  "Mr.  Marshall's  narrative 
is  deficient  in  almost  every  thing  that  con- 
stitutes historical  excellence,"  is  glaringly  in- 
consistent with  the  favourable  sentence  we 
have  transcribed  in  the  beginning;  not  see- 
ing, or  not  choosing  to  see,  that  in  the  one 
place  we  are  speaking  of  the  literary  merits 
of  the  work  as  an  historical  composition,  and 
in  the  other  of  its  value  in  respect  of  the 
views  and  information  it  supplies.  But  the 
question  is  not,  whether  our  criticism  is  just 
and  able,  or  otherwise ;  but  whether  it  indi- 
cates any  little  spirit  of  detraction  and  national 
rancour — and  this  it  would  seem  not  very  dif- 
ficult to  answer.  If  we  had  taken  the  occasion 
of  this  publication  to  gather  together  all  the 
foolish,  and  awkward,  and  disreputable  things 
that  occurred  in  the  conduct  of  the  revolu- 
tionary councils  and  campaigns,  and  to  make 
the  history  of  this  memorable  struggle,  a 
vehicle  for  insinuations  against  the  courage 
or  integrity  of  many  who  took  part  in  it,  we 
might,  with  reason,  have  been  subjected  to 
the  censure  we  now  confidently  repel.  But 
there  is  not  a  word  in  the  article  that  looks 
that  way ;  and  the  only  ground  for  the  impu- 
tation is,  that  we  have  called  Mr.  Marshall's 
book  dull  and  honest,  accurate  and  heavy, 
valuable  and  tedious,  while  neither  Mr.  Walsh, 
uor  any  body  else,  ever  thought  or  said  any 
ihing  else  of  it.  It  is  his  style  only  that  we 
vbject  to.  Of  his  general  sentiments — of  the 
condjct  and  character  of  his  hero — and  of 
^  prospects  of  his  country,  we  speak  as  the 


warmest  friends  of  America  and  the  warmest 
admirers  of  American  virtue,  would  wish  ua 
to  speak.  We  shall  add  but  one  short  passage 
as  a  specimen  of  the  real  tone  of  this  insolent 
and  illiberal  production. 

"  History  has  no  other  example  of  so  happy  an 
issue  to  a  revolution,  consummated  by  a  long  civil 
war.  Indeed  it  seems  to  be  very  near  a  maxim  in 
political  philosophy,  that  a  free  government  cannot 
be  obtained  where  a  long  employment  of  military 
force  has  been  necessary  to  establish  it.  In  the 
case  of  America,  however,  the  military  power  was, 
by  a  rare  felicity,  disarmed  by  that  very  influence 
which  makes  a  revolutionary  army  so  formidable 
to  liberty  :  For  the  images  oi  Grandeur  and  Power 
— those  meteor  lights  that  are  exhaled  in  the  stormy 
atmosphere  of  a  revolution,  to  allure  the  ambi- 
tious and  dazzle  the  weak — made  no  impression 
on  the  firm  and  virtuous  soul  of  the  American 
commander." 

As  to  Adams'  Letters  on  Silesia,  the  case  ia 
nearly  the  same.  We  certainly  do  not  run 
into  extravagant  compliments  to  the  author, 
because  he  happens  to  be  the  son  of  the 
American  President :  But  he  is  treated  with 
sufficient  courtesy  and  respect ;  and  Mr.  W. 
cannot  well  deny  that  the  book  is  very  fairly 
rated,  according  to  its  intrinsic  merits.  There 
is  no  ridicule,  nor  any  attempt  at  sneering, 
throughout  the  article.  The  work  is  described 
as  "  easy  and  pleasant,  and  entertaining," — ag 
containing  some  excellent  remarks  on  Educa- 
tion,— and  indicating,  throughout,  "that  set- 
tled attachment  to  freedom  which  is  worked 
into  the  constitution  of  every  man  of  virtue 
who  has  the  fortune  to  belong  to  a  free  and 
prosperous  community."  As  to  the  style,  we 
remark,  certainly  in  a  very  good-natured  and 
inoffensive  manner,  that  "  though  it  is  re- 
markably free  from  those  affectations  and 
corruptions  of  phrase  that  overmn  the  com- 
positions of  his  country,  a  few  national,  per- 
haps we  might  still  venture  to  call  them  pro- 
vincial, peculiarities,  might  be  detected;" 
and  then  we  add,  in  a  style  which  we  do  not 
think  can  appear  impolite,  even  to  a  minister 
plenipotentiary,  "that  if  men  of  birth  and 
education  in  that  other  England  which  they 
are  building  up  in  the  West,  will  not  dili- 
gently study  the  great  authors  who  fixed  and 
purified  the  language  of  our  common  fore- 
fathers, we  must  soon  lose  the  only  badge 
that  is  still  worn  of  our  consanguinity."  Un- 
less the  Americans  are  really  to  set  up  a 
new  standard  of  speech,  we  conceive  tliat 
these  remarks  are  perfectly  just  and  unan- 
swerable; and  we  are  sure,  at  all  events,  tnat 
nothing  can  be  farther  from  a  spirit  of  insult 
or  malevolence. 

Our  critique  on  the  volume  of  American 
Transactions  is  perhaps  more  liable  to  objec- 
tion ;  and,  on  looking  back  to  it,  we  at  once 
admit  that  it  contains  some  petulant  and  rash 
expressions  which  had  better  have  been  omit- 
ted— and  that  its  general  tone  is  less  hberal 
and  courteous  than  might  have  been  desired. 
It  is  remarkable,  however,  that  this,  which  ,« 
by  far  the  most  offensive  of  our  discussiouH 
on  American  literature,  is  one  of  the  earliest, 
and  that  the  sarcasms  with  which  it  is  sea- 
soned  have    never    been    repeated — a  *b.cX 


630 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


which,  with  maiijr  others,  may  serve  to  ex- 
pose the  singular  inaccuracy  with  which  Mr. 
W.  nas  been  led,  throughout  his  work,  to  as- 
sert that  we  began  our  labours  with  civility 
and  kindness  towards  his  country,  and  have 
only  lately  changed  our  tone,  and  joined  its 
inveterate  enemies  in  all  the  extravagance  of 
abuse.  The  substance  of  our  criticism,  it  does 
not  seem  to  be  disputed,  w^as  just — the  volume 
containing  very  little  that  was  at  all  interest- 
ing, and  a  good  part  of  it  being  composed  in 
a  style  very  ill  suited  for  such  a  publication. 

Such  are  the  perversions  of  our  critical 
office,  which  Mr.  W.  can  only  explain  on  the 
supposition  of  national  jealousy  and  malice. 
As  proofs  of  an  opposite  disposition,  we  beg 
leave  just  to  refer  to  our  lavish  and  reiterated 
praise  of  the  writings  of  Franklin — to  our 
high  and  distinguished  testimony  to  the  merits 
of  The  Federalist — to  the  terms  of  commend- 
ation in  which  we  have  spoken  of  the  Journal 
of  Messrs.  Lewis  and  Clarke ;  and  in  an  espe- 
cial manner,  to  the  great  kindness  with  which 
we  have  treated  a  certain  American  pamphlet 
published  at  Philadelphia  and  London  in  1810, 
and  of  which  we  shall  have  a  word  to  say 
hereafter, — though  each  and  all  of  those  per- 
formances touched  much  more  nearly  on  sub- 
jects of  national  contention,  and  were  far 
more  apt  to  provoke  feelings  of  rivalry,  than 
any  thing  in  the  Philosophical  Transactions, 
or  the  tuneful  pages  of  the  Columbiad. 

3.  We  come  now  to  the  ticklish  Chapter  of 
Manners ',  on  which,  though  we  have  said  less 
than  on  any  other,  we  suspect  we  have  given 
more  offence — and,  if  possible,  with  less  rea- 
son.  We  may  despatch  the  lower  orders  first, 
before  we  come  to  the  people  of  fashion.  The 
charge  here  is,  that  we  have  unjustly  libelled 
those  persons,  by  saying,  in  one  place,  that 
they  were  too  much  addicted  to  spirituous  li- 
quors ;  in  another,  that  they  were  rudely  in- 
quisitive ;    and   in   a  third,   that   they  were 
absurdly  vain  of  their  free  constitution,  and 
offensive  in  boasting  of  it.   Now,  we  may  have 
been  mistaken  in  making  these  imputations ; 
but  we  find  them  stated  in  the  narrative  of 
every  traveller  who  has  visited  their  country  ; 
and  most  of  them  noticed  by  the  better  wri- 
ters   among  themselves,   from    Franklin   to 
Cooper  inclusive.     We  have  noticed  them, 
too,  without  bitterness  or  insult,  and  generally 
in  the  w^ords  of  the  authors  upon  whose  au- 
thority they  are  stated.     Neither  are  the  im- 
putations themselves  very  grievous,  or  such 
as  can  be  thought  to  bespeak  any  great  ma- 
lignity in  their  authors.   Their  inquisitiveness, 
and  the  boast  of  their  freedom,  are  but  ex- 
cesses of  laudable  qualities;  and  intemper- 
ance, though  it  is  apt  to  lead  further,  is,  in 
itself,  a  sin  rather  against  prudence  than  mo- 
rality.    Mr.  W.  is  infinitely  offended,  too,  be- 
cause we  have  said  that  "  the  people  of  the 
Western  States  are  very  hospitable  to  strangers 
—because  they  are  seldom  troubled  with  them, 
3.nd  because  they  have  always  plenty  of  maize 
and  hams ;"  as  if  this  were  not  the  rationale 
of  all   hospitality  among   the   lower   orders, 
;hroughout  the  world,  —and  familiarly  applied, 
iimong  ourselves,  to  the  case  of  our  Highland- 


ers and  remote  Irish,  But  slight  as  thes« 
charges  are,  we  may  admit,  that  Mr.  W.  would 
have  had  some  reason  to  complain  if  they  had 
included  all  that  we  had  ever  said  of  the  great 
bulk  of  his  nation.  But  the  truth  is,  that  we 
have  all  along  been  much  more  careful  to  no- 
tice their  virtues  than  their  faults,  and  have  lost 
no  fair  opportunity  of  speaking  well  of  them. 
In  our  twenty-third  Number,  we  have  said 
'•'  The  great  body  of  the  American  people  is 
better  educated^  and  more  comfortably  situated, 
than  the  bulk  of  any  European  community  ] 
and  possesses  all  the  accomplishments  that 
are  anywhere  to  be  found  in  persons  of  the 
same  occupation  and  condition.'^  And  more 
recently,  ^'  The  Americans  are  about  as  pol- 
ished as  ninety-nine  out  of  one  hundred  of  our 
own  countrymen,  in  the  upper  ranks;  and 
quite  as  moral,  and  well  educated,  in  the  lower 
Their  virtues  too  are  such  as  we  ought  to  ad- 
mire ;  for  they  are  those  on  which  we  value 
ourselves  most  highly."  We  have  never  said 
any  thing  inconsistent  with  this : — -and  if  this 
be  to  libel  a  whole  nation,  and  to  villify  and 
degrade  them  in  comparison  of  ourselves,  we 
have  certainly  been  guilty  of  that  enormity. 

As  for  the  manners  of  the  upper  classes,  we 
have  really  said  very  little  about  them,  and 
can  scarcely  recollect  having  given  any  posi- 
tive opinion  on  the  subject.  We  have  lately 
quoted,  with  warm  approbation.  Captain  Hall's 
strong  and  very  respectable  testimony  to  their 
agreeableness — and  certainly  have  never  con- 
tradicted it  on  our  own  authority.  We  have 
made  however  certain  hypothetical  and  con- 
jectural observations,  which,  we  gather  from 
Mr.  W.,  have  given  some  offence — we  must 
say,  we  think,  very  unreasonably.  We  have 
said,  for  example,  as  already  quoted,  that  "the 
Americans  are  about  as  polished  as  ninety- 
nine  in  one  hundred  of  our  own  countrymen 
in  the  upper  ranks."  Is  it  the  reservation  of 
this  inconsiderable  fraction  in  our  own  favour 
that  is  resented  ?  Why,  our  very  seniority,  we 
think,  might  have  entitled  us  to  this  prece- 
dence :  and  we  must  say  that  our  monarchy 
— our  nobility — our  greater  proportion  of  he- 
reditary w^ealth,  and  our  closer  connection  with 
the  old  civilised  world,  might  have  justified  a 
higher  percentage.  But  we  will  not  dispute 
with  Mr.  W.  even  upon  this  point.  Let  him 
set  down  the  fraction,  if  he  pleases,  to  the 
score  merely  of  our  national  partiality  ] — and 
he  must  estimate  that  element  very  far  indeed 
below  its  ordinary  standard,  if  he  does  not  find 
it  sufficient  for  it,  without  the  supposition  of 
intended  insult  or  malignity.  Was  there  ever 
any  great  nation  that  did  not  prefer  its  own 
manners  to  those  of  any  of  its  neighbours  1 — 
or  can  Mr.  W.  produce  another  instance  in 
which  it  M^as  ever  before  allowed,  that  a  rival 
came  so  near  as  to  be  within  one  hundreth 
of  its  own  excellence  1 

But  there  is  still  something  worse  than  this. 
Understanding  that  the  most  considerable  per- 
sons in  the  chief  cities  of  America,  were  their 
opulent  merchants,  we  conjectured  that  their 
society  was  probably  much  of  the  same  des- 
cription with  that  of  Liverpool,  Manchester, 
and  Glasgow  : — And  does  Mr.  W. :  eally  thinK 


WALSH'S  APPEAL. 


tttl 


tLe,re  is  any  disparagement  in  this? — Does  he 
not  know  that  these  places  have  been  graced, 
for  generations,  by  some  of  the  most  deserving 
and  enlightened  citizens,  and  some  of  the  most 
learned  and  accomplished  men  that  have  ever 
adorned  our  nation  1  Does  he  not  know  that 
Adam  Smith,  and  Reid.  and  Miller,  spent  their 
happiest  days  in  Glasgow;  that  Roscoe  and 
Currie  illustrated  the  society  of  Liverpool — 
and  Priestley  and  Ferriar  and  Darwin  that  of 
Manchester?  The  wealth  and  skill  and  enter- 
prise of  all  the  places  Is  equally  indisputable 
— and  we  confess  we  are  yet  to  learn  in  which 
of  the  elements  of  respectability  they  can  be 
imagined  to  be  inferior  to  New  York,  or  Bal- 
timore, or  Philadelphia. 

But  there  is  yet  another  passage  in  the  Re- 
view which  Mr.  W.  has  quoted  as  insulting 
and  vituperative — for  such  a  construction  of 
which  we  confess  ourselves  still  less  able  to 
divine  a  reason.  It  is  part  of  an  honest  and 
very  earnest  attempt  to  overcome  the  high 
monarchical  prejudices  of  a  part  of  our  own 
country  against  the  Americans,  and  notices 
this  objection  to  their  manners  only  collaterally 
and  hypothetically.  Mr.  W.  needs  not  be  told 
that  all  courtiers  and  zealots  of  monarchy  im- 
pute rudeness  and  vulgarity  to  republicans. 
The  French  used  to  describe  an  ineleg-ant 
person  as  having  '^  Les  manieres  d'un  Suisse, 
En  Hollande  civilise  ,*" — and  the  Court  faction 
among,  ourselves  did  not  omit  this  reproach 
when  we  went  to  war  with  the  Americans. 
To  expose  the  absurdity  of  such  an  attack, 
we  expressed  ourselves  in  1814  as  follows. 

"  The  complaint  respecting  America  is,  that  there 
are  no  people  of  fashion, — that  their  column  still 
wants  its  Corinthian  capital,  or,  in  other  words,  that 
those  who  are  rich  and  idle,  have  not  yet  existed  so 
long,  or  in  such  numbers,  as  to  have  brought  to  full 
perfection  that  system  of  ingenious  trifling  and  ele- 
gant dissipation,  by  means  of  which  it  has  been  dis- 
covered that  wealth  and  leisure  may  be  most  agree- 
ably disposed  of.  Admitting  the  fact  to  be  so,  and 
in  a  country  where  there  is  no  court,  no  nobility, 
and  no  monument  or  tradition  of  chivalrous  usages, 
— and  where,  moreover,  the  greatest  number  of 
those  who  are  rich  and  powerful  have  raised  them- 
selves to  that  eminence  by  mercantile  indiistrv,  we 
really  do  not  see  how  it  could  well  be  otherwise  ; 
we  would  still  submit,  that  this  is  no  lawful  cause 
either  for  national  contempt,  or  for  national  hostility. 
It  is  a  peculiarity  in  the  structure  of  society  among 
that  people,  which,  we  take  it,  can  only  give  offence 
to  their  visiting  acquaintance  ;  and,  while  it  does  us 
no  sort  of  harm  while  it  subsists,  promises,  we  think, 
very  soon  to  disappear  altogether,  and  no  longer  to 
afflict  even  our  imagination.  The  number  of  indi- 
viduals born  to  the  enjoyment  of  hereditary  wealth 
is,  or  at  least  was,  daily  increasing  in  that  country  ; 
and  it  is  impossible  that  their  multiphcation  (with 
all  the  models  of  European  refinement  before  them, 
ani  all  the  advantages  resulting  from  a  free  govern- 
ment and  a  general  system  of  good  education)  should 
fail,  within  a  very  short  period,  to  give  birth  to  a  better 
tone  of  conventation  and  society,  and  to  jnanners 
mzre  dignified  and  refilled.  Unless  we  are  very 
much  misinformed,  indeed,  the  symptoms  of  such  a 
change  may  already  be  traced  in  their  cities.  Their 
youths  of  fortune  already  travel  over  all  the  coun- 
tries of  Europe  for  their  improvement ;  and  speci- 
mens are  occasionally  met  with,  even  in  these 
islands,  which,  with  all  our  prejudices,  we  must  ad- 
mit, would  do  no  discredit  to  the  best  blood  of  the 
land  from  which  ihey  originally  sprung." 


Now,  is  there  really  any  matter  of  ofTenca 
in  this  1 — In  the  first  place,  is  it  not  substan- 
tially true  1 — in  the  next  place,  is  it  not  mildlj 
and  respectfully  stated  1   Is  it  not  true,  that 
the  greater  part  of  those  who  compose  the 
higher  society  of  the  American  cities,  have 
raised  themselves  to  opulence  by  commercial 
pursuits'? — and  is  it  to  be  imagined  that,  in 
America  alone,  this  is  not  to  produce  its  usual 
effects  upon  the  style  and  tone  of  society  ? 
As  families  become  old,  and  hereditary  wealth 
comes  to  be  the  portion  of  many,  it  cannot  but 
happen  that  a  change  of  manners  will  take 
place ; — and  is  it  an  insult  to  suppose  that  this 
change  will  be  an  improvement  ?  Surely  they 
cannot  be  perfect^  both  as  they  are,  and  as 
they  are  to  be ;  and,  while  it  seems  impossi- 
ble to  doubt  that  a  considerable  change  is  in- 
evitable, the  offence  seems  to  be,  that  it  is 
expected  to  be  for  the  better  !  It  is  impossible, 
we  think,  that  Mr.  W.  can  seriously  imagine 
that  the  manners  of  any  country  upon  earth 
can  be  so  dignified  and  refined — or  their  tone 
of  conversation  and  society  so  good,  when  the 
most  figuring  persons  come  into  company  from 
the  desk  and  the  counting-house,  as  when 
they  pass  only  from  one  assembly  to  another, 
and  have  had  no  other  study  or  employment 
from  their  youth  up,  than  to  render  society 
agreeable,  and  to  cultivate  those  talents  and 
manners  which  give  its  charm  to  polite  con 
versation.  If  there  are  any  persons  in  America 
who  seriously  dispute  the  accuracy  of  these 
opinions,  we  are  pretty  confident  that  they 
will  turn  out  to  be  those  whom  the  rest  of  the 
country  would  refer  to  in  illustration  of  their 
truth.     The  truly  polite,  we  are  persuaded, 
will  admit  the  case  to  be  pretty  much  as  we 
have  stated  it.     The  upstarts  alone  will  con- 
tend for  their  present  perfection.     If  we  have 
really  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  give  any  of- 
fence by  our  observations,  we  suspect  that 
offence  will  be  greater  at  Cincinnati  than  at 
New  York, — and  not  quite  so  slight  at  New 
York  as  at  Philadelphia  or  Boston. 

But  we  have  no  desire  to  pursue  this  topic 
any  further — nor  any  interest  indeed  to  con- 
vince those  who  may  not  be  already  satisfied. 
If  Mr.  W.  really  thinks  us  wrong  in  the  opin- 
ions we  have  now  expressed,  we  are  willing 
for  the  present  to  be  thought  so :  But  surely 
we  have  said  enough  to  show  that  we  had 
plausible  grounds  for  those  opinions;  and 
surely,  if  we  did  entertain  them,  it  was  im- 
possible to  express  them  in  a  manner  less  of- 
fensive. We  did  not  even  recur  to  the  topic 
spontaneously — but  occasionally  took  it  up  in 
a  controversy  on  behalf  of  America,  with  a 
party  of  our  own  countrymen.  What  we  said 
was  not  addressed  to  America — but  said  of 
her;  and,  most  indisputably,  with  friendly 
intentions  to  the  people  of  both  countries. 

But  we  have  dwelt  too  long  on  this  subject. 
The  manners  of  fashionable  life,  and  the  ri 
valry  of  hon  ton  between  one  country  and 
another,  is,  after  all,  but  a  poor  affair  to  oc- 
cupy the  attention  of  philosophers,  or  affect 
the  peace  of  nations. — Of  what  real  conse- 
quence is  it  to  the  happiness  or  glory  of  a 
country.  ho\v  a  few  thousand   idle  people-— 


632 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


probably  neither  the  most  virtuous  nor  the 
most  useful  of  ihjir  fellow-citizens — pass 
their  time,  or  divert  the  ennui  of  their  inac- 
tivity?— And  men  must  really  have  a  great 
propensity  to  hate  each  other,  when  it  is 
thought  a  reasonable  ground  of  quarrel,  that 
the  rich  desmuvres  of  one  country  are  accused 
of  not  knowing  how  to  get  through  their  day 
so  cleverly  as  those  of  another.  Manners 
alter  from  age  to  age,  and  from  country  to 
country^  and  much  is  at  all  times  arbitrary 
and  conventional  in  that  which  is  esteemed 
the  best.  What  pleases  and  amuses  each 
people  the  most,  is  the  best  for  that  people : 
And,  where  states  are  tolerably  equal  in  power 
and  wealth,  a  great  and  irreconcileable  diver- 
sity is  often  maintained  with  suitable  arro- 
gance and  inflexibility,  and  no  common  stan- 
dard recognised  oi*  dreamed  of.  The  bon  ton 
of.  Pekin  has  no  sort  of  affinity,  we  suppose, 
with  the  bon  ton  of  Paris — and  that  of  Con- 
stantinople but  little  resemblance  to  either. 
The  difference,  to  be  sure,  is  not  so  complete 
within  the  limits  of  Europe ;  but  it  is  suffi- 
ciently great,  to  show  the  folly  of  being  dog- 
matical or  intolerant  upon  a  subject  so  inca- 
pable of  being  reduced  to  principle.  The 
Fiench  accuse  us  of  coldness  and  formality, 
and  we  accuse  them  of  monkey  tricks  and 
impertinence.  The  good  company  of  Rome 
would  be  much  at  a  loss  for  amusement  at 
Amsterdam;  and  that  of  Brussels  at  Madrid. 
The  manners  of  America,  then,  are  probably 
the  best  for  America :  But,  for  that  very  rea- 
pori,  they  are  not  the  best  for  us :  And  when 
we  hinted  that  they  probably  might  be  im- 
proved, we  spoke  with  reference  to  the  Euro- 
pean standard,  and  to  the  feelings  and  judg- 
ment of  strangers,  to  whom  that  standard 
alone  was  familiar.  When  their  circum- 
stances, and  the  structure  of  their  society, 
come  to  be  more  like  those  of  Europe,  their 
manners  will  be  more  like — and  they  will 
suit  better  with  those  altered  circumstances. 
When  the  fabric  has  reached  its  utmost  ele- 
vation, the  Corinthian  capital  may  be  added  : 
For  the  present,  the  Doric  is  perhaps  more 
suitable ;  and,  if  the  style  be  kept  pure,  we 
are  certain  it  will  be  equally  graceful. 

4.  It  only  remains  to  notice  what  is  said 
with  regard  to  Negro  Slavery; — and  on  this 
we  shall  be  very  short.  We  have  no  doubt 
spoken  very  warmly  on  the  subject  in  one  of 
our  late  Numbers; — but  Mr.  W.  must  have 
read  what  we  there  said,  with  a  jaundiced 
eye  indeed,  if  he  did  not  see  that  our  warmth 
proceeded,  not  from  any  animosity  against  the 
people  among  whom  this  miserable  institution 
existed,  but  against  the  institution  itself — and 
was  mainly  excited  by  the  contrast  that  it 
presented  to  the  freedom  and  prospeiity  upon 
which  it  was  so  strangely  engrafted ; — thus 
appearing 

"  Like  a  stain  upon  a  Vestal's  robe, 

The  worse  for  what  it  soils." 

Accorf'ingly,  we  do  not  call  upon  other 
nations  to  hate  and  despise  America  for  this 
practice;  but  upon  (he  Americans  themselves 
to  wipe  away  this  foul  blot  from  their  charac- 


ter. We  have  a  hundred  times  used  the  same 
language  to  our  own  countrymen — and  re- 
peatedly on  the  subject  of  the  Slave  Trade ) — 
and  Mr.  W.  cannot  be  ignorant,  that  many 
pious  and  excellent  citizens  of  his  own  coun- 
try have  expressed  themselves  in  similar 
terms  with  regard  to  this  very  institution. 
As  to  his  recriminations  on  England,  we  shall 
explain  to  Mr.  W.  immediately,  that  they 
have  no  bearing  whatever  on  the  question 
now  at  issue  between  us;  and,  though  nobody 
can  regret  more  than  we  do  the  domesti-c 
slavery  of  our  West  Indian  islands,  it  is  quite 
absurd  to  represent  the  difficulties  of  the  abo- 
lition as  at  all  parallel  in  the  case  of  America. 
It  is  still  confidently  asserted  that,  without 
slaves,  those  islands  could  not  be  maintained ; 
and,  independent  of  private  interests,  the 
trade  of  England  cannot  afford  to  part  with 
them.  But  will  any  body  pretend  to  say, 
that  the  great  and  comparative  temperate  re- 
gions over  which  the  American  Slavery  ex- 
tends, would  be  deserted,  if  all  their  inhabit- 
ants were  free — or  even  that  they  would  be 
permanently  less  populous  or  less  productive'? 
We  are  perfectly  aware,  that  a  sudden  or  im- 
mediate emancipation  of  all  those  who  are 
now  in  slavery,  might  be  attended  with  fright- 
ful disorders,  as  well  as  intolerable  losses; 
and,  accordingly,  we  have  nowhere  recom- 
mended any  such  measure:  But  we  must  re- 
peat, that  it  is  a  crime  and  a  shame,  that  the 
freest  nation  on  the  earth  should  keep  a  mil- 
lion and  a  half  of  fellow-creatures  in  actual 
chains,  within  the  very  territory  and  sanc- 
tuary of  their  freedom ;  and  should  see  them 
multiplying,  from  day  to  day,  without  think- 
ing of  any  provision  for  their  ultimate  libera- 
tion.. When  we  say  this,  we  are  far  from 
doubting  that  there  are  many  amiable  and 
excellent  individuals  among  the  slave  propri- 
etors. There  were  many  such  among  the 
importers  of  slaves  in  our  West  Indies:  Yet, 
it  is  not  the  less  true,  that  that  accursed  traffic 
w^as  a  crime — and  it  was  so  called,  in  the 
most  emphatic  language,  and  with  general 
assent,  year  after  year,  in  Parliament,  without 
any  one  ever  imagining  that  this  imported  a 
personal  attack  on  those  individuals,  far  less 
a  malignant' calumny  upon  the  nation  which 
tolerated  and  legalized  their  proceedings. 

Before  leaving  this  topic,  we  have  to  thank 
Mr.  W.  for  a  great  deal  of  curious,  and,  to  us, 
original  information,  as  to  the  history  of  the 
American  Slave  trade,  and  the  measures  pur- 
sued by  the  different  States  with  regard  to  the 
institution  of  slavery :  From  which  we  learn, 
among  other  things,  that,  so  early  as  1767,  the 
legislature  of  Massachussets  brought  in  a  bill 
for  prohibiting  the  importation  of  negroes  into 
that  province,  which  was  rejected  by  the 
British  governor,  in  consequence  of  express 
instructions; — and  another  in  1774  shared  the 
same  fate.  We  learn  also,  that,  in  1770.  two 
years  befo7-c  the  decision  of  Somerset's  case  in 
England;  the  courts  of  the  same  distinguished 
province' decided,  upon  solemn  arg-ument,  that 
no  person  could  be  held  in  slavery  within  their 
jurisdiction ;  and  awarded  not  only  their  free- 
dom, but  wages  for  their  past  services,  to  a 


WALSH'S  APPEAL. 


633 


mriety  of  negro  suitors.  These,  indeed,  are 
fa:'-  subjects  of  pride  and  exultation )  and  we 
ftaii  them,  without  grudging,  as  bright  trophies 
m  the  annals  of  the  States  to  which  they  re- 
late. But  do  not  their  glories  cast  a  deeper 
shade  on  those  who  have  refused  to  follow  the 
example — and  may  ice  not  now  be  allowed  to 
speak  of  the  guilt  and  unlawfulness  of  slavery, 
as  their  own  countrymen  are  praised  and 
boasted  of  for  having  spoken,  so  many  years 
ago? 

We  learn  also  from  Mr.  W.,  that  Virginia 
abolished  the  foreign  slave  trade  so  early  as 
1778 — Pennsylvania  in  1780 — Massachusetts 
in  1787 — and  Connecticut  and  Rhode  Island 
in  1788.  It  was  finally  interdicted  by  the 
General  Congress  in  1794 ;  and  made  punish- 
able as  a  crime,  seven  years  before  that 
measure  was  adopted »in  England.  We  have 
great  pleasure  in  stating  these  facts.  But 
they  all  appear  to  us  not  only  incongruous 
with  the  permanent  existence  of  slavery,  but 
as  indicating  those  very  feelings  with  regard 
to  it  which  we  have  been  so  severly  blamed 
for  expressing. 

We  here  close  our  answer  to  Mr.  W.'s 
charges.  Oar  readers,  we  fear,  have  been  for 
some  time  tired  of  it :  And,  indeed,  we  have 
felt  all  along,  that  there  was  something  ab- 
surd in  answering  gravely  to  such  an  accusa- 
tion. If  any  regular  reader  of  our  Review 
could  be  of  opinion  that  we  were  hostile  to 
Amej-ica,  and  desirous  of  fomenting  hostility 
between  her  and  this  country,  we  could 
scarcely  hope  that  he  would  change  that  opin- 
ion for  any  thing  we  have  now  been  saying. 
But  Mr.  W.'s  book  may  fall  into  the  hands  of 
many,  in  his  owni  country  at  least,  to  whom 
our  WTitings  are  but  little  known ;  and  the 
imputations  it  contains  may  become  known  to 
many  who  never  inquire  into  their  grounds : 
On  such  persons,  the  statements  we  have  now 
made  may  produce  some  impression — and  the 
spirit  in  which  they  are  made  perhaps  still 
more.  Our  labour  will  not  have  been  in  Vain, 
if  there  are  any  that  rise  up  from  the  perusal 
of  these  pages  with  a  better  opinion  of  their 
Transatlantic  brethren,  and  an  increased  de- 
sire to  live  with  them  in  friendship  and  peace. 

There  still  remains  behind,  a  fair  moiety 
of  Mr.  W.'s  book ;  containing  his  recrimina- 
tions on  England — his  expositions  of  ''her 
sores  and  blotches" — and  his  retort  courteous 
for  all  the  abuse  which  her  writers  have  been 
pouring  on  this  country  for  the  last  hundred 
years.  The  task,  we  should  think,  must  have 
been  rather  an  afflicting  one  to  a  man  of  much 
moral  sensibility : — But  it  is  gone  through  very 
resolutely,  and  with  a  marvellous  industry. 
The  learned  author  has  not  only  ransacked 
forgotten  histories  and  files  of  old  newspapers 
in  search  of  disreputable  transactions  and  de- 
grading crimes — but  has  groped  for  the  mate- 
rials of  our  dishonour,  among  the  filth  of  Dr. 
Colquhoun's  Collections,  and  the  Reports  of 
our  Prison  and  Police  Committees — culled  vi- 
tuperative exaggerations  from  the  records  of 
iugry  debates — and  produced,  as  incontro- 
rertible  evidence  of  the  excess  of  our  guilt 

id  misery,  the  feivid  declamations  of  moral- 


ists exhorting  to  amendment,  or  of  satinsts 
endeavouring  to  deter  from  vice.  Provincia. 
misgovernment  from  Ireland  to  Hindostan — 
cruel  amusements — inci easing  pauperism — 
disgusting  brutality — shameful  ignorance — 
perversion  of  law — grinding  taxation — brutal 
debauchery,  and  many  other  traits  equally 
attractive,  are  all  heaped  together,  as  the  char- 
acteristics of  English  society ;  and  unsparingly 
illustrated  by  "loose  extracts  from  English 
Journals," — quotations  from  Espriella's  Let- 
ters— and  selections  from  the  Parliamentary 
Debates.  Accustomed,  as  we  have  long  been, 
to  mark  the  vices  and  miseries  of  our  country- 
men, we  really  cannot  say  that  we  recognise 
any  likeness  in  this  distorted  representation  j 
which  exhibits  our  fair  England  as  one  great 
Lazar-house  of  moral  and  intellectual  disease 
— one  hideous  and  bloated  mass  of  sin  and 
suffering — one  festering  heap  of  corruption, 
infecting  the  wholesome  air  which  breathes 
upon  it,  and  diffusing  all  around  the  contagion 
and  the  terror  of  its  example. 

We  have  no  desire  whatever  to  argue 
against  the  truth  or  the  justice  of  this  picture 
of  our  country ;  which  we  can  assure  Mr.  W. 
we  contemplate  with  perfect  calmness  and 
equanimity:  but  w^e  are  tempted  to  set  against 
it  the  judgment  of  another  foreigner,  with 
whom  he  cannot  complain  of  being  confront- 
ed, and  whose  authority  at  this  moment  stands 
higher,  perhaps  with  the  whole  civilised 
world,  than  that  of  any  othei  'udividual.  We 
allude  to  Madame  de  Stael — anJ  to  the  splen- 
did testimony  she  has  borne  to  the  character 
and  happiness  of  the  English  nation,  in  her 
last  admirable  book  on  the  Revolution  of  her 
own  country.  But  we  have  spoken  of  this 
work  so  lately,  that  we  shall  not  now  recal 
the  attention  of  our  readers  to  it,  further  than 
by  this  general  reference.  We  rather  wish, 
at  present,  to  lay  before  them  an  American 
authority. 

In  a  work  of  great  merit,  entitled  "  A  Letter 
on  the  Genius  and  Dispositions  of  the  French 
Government,"  published  at  Philadelphia  in 
1810,  and  which  attracted  much  notice,  both 
there  and  in  this  country,  the  author,  in  a 
strain  of  great  eloquence  and  powerful  rea- 
soning, exhorts  his  country  to  make  common 
cause  with  Englarfd  in  the  great  struggle  in 
M'hich  she  was  then  engaged  with  the  giant 
power  of  Bonaparte,  and  points  out  the  many 
circumstances  in  the  character  and  condition 
of  the  two  countries  that  invited  them  to  a 
cordial  alliance.  He  was  well  aware,  too,  of 
the  distinction  we  have  endeavoured  to  point 
out  between  the  Court,  or  the  Tory  rulers  of 
the  State,  and  the  body  of  our  People :  and, 
after  observing  that  the  American  Govern- 
ment, by  following  his  councils,  might  retrieve 
the  character  of  their  country,  he  adds,  "They 
will,  I  am  quite  sure,  be  seconded  by  an  en- 
tire correspondence  of  feeling,  not  only  on 
our  part,  but  on  that  of  the  People  of  Eng- 
land-^whatever  may  be  the  narrow  policy,  or 
illiberal  prejudices  of  the  British  Ministry  ;" 
and,  in  the  body  of  his  work,  he  gives  an 
ample  and  glowing  description  of  the  char- 
acter and  condition  of  that  England  of  which 


634 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


we  have  just  seen  so  lamentable  a  representa- 
tion. The  whole  passage  is  too  long  for  in- 
sertion ;  but  the  following  extracts  will  afford 
a  sufficient  specimen  of  its  tone  and  tenor. 

*'  A  peculiar  masculine  character,  and  the  utmost 
energy  of  feehng  are  communicated  to  all  orders  of 
men, — by  the  abundance  which  prevails  so  univer- 
sally,— the  consciousness  of  equal  rights, — the  ful- 
ness of  power  and  frame  to  which  the  nation  has 
attained, — and  the  beauty  and  robustness  of  the 
Bpecies  under  a  climate  highly  favourable  to  the 
animal  economy.  The  dignity  of  the  rich  is  with- 
out insolence, — the  subordination  of  the  poor  with- 
out servility.  Their  freedom  is  well  guarded  both 
from  the  dangers  of  popular  licentiousness,  and 
from  the  encroachments  of  authority. — I'heir  na- 
tional pride  leads  to  national  sympathy,  and  is  built 
upon  the  most  legitimate  of  all  foundations — a  sense 
of  pre-eminent  merit  and  a  body  of  illustrious  an- 
nals. 

"  Whatever  may  be  the  representations  of  those 
who,  with  little  knowledge  of  facts,  and  still  less 
soundness  or  impartiality  of  judgment,  affect  to  de- 
plore the  condition  of  England, — it  is  nevertheless 
true,  that  there  does  not  exist,  and  never  has  ex- 
isted elsewhere, — so  beautiful  and  perfect  a  model 
of  public  and  private  prosperity, — so  magnificent, 
and  at  the  same  time,  so  solid  a  fabric  of  social  hap- 
piness and  national  grandeur.  1  pay  this  just  tri- 
bute of  admiration  with  the  more  pleasure,  as  it  is 
to  me  in  the  light  of  an  Atonement  for  the  errors 
and  prejudices,  under  which  I  laboured,  on  this  sub- 
ject, before  I  enjoyed  the  advantage  of  a  personal 
experience.  A  residence  of  nearly  two  years  in 
that  country, — during  which  period,  I  visited  and 
studied  almost  every  part  of  it, — with  no  other  view 
or  pursuit  than  that  of  obtaining  correct  informa- 
tion, and,  I  may  add,  with  previous  studies  well 
fitted  to  promote  my  object, — convinced  me  that  I 
had  been  egregiously  deceived.  I  saw  no  instances 
of  individual  oppression,  and  scarcely  any  individual 
misery  but  that  which  belongs,  under  any  circum- 
stances of  our  being,  to  the  infirmity  of  all  human 
institutions." — 

"  The  agriculture  of  England  is  confessedly  su- 
perior to  that  of  any  other  part  of  the  world,  and 
the  condition  of  those  who  are  engaged  in  the  cul- 
tivation of  the  soil,  incontestibly  preferable  to  that 
of  the  same  class  in  any  other  section  of  Europe. 
An  inexhaustible  source  of  admiration  and  delight 
is  found  in  the  unrivalled  beauty,  as  well  as  rich- 
ness and  fruitfulness  of  their  husbandry  ;  the  effects 
♦f  which  are  heightened  by  the  magnificent  parks 
and  noble  mansions  of  the  opulent  proprietors  :  by 
picturesque  gardens  upon  the  largest  scale,  and 
disposed  with  the  most  exquisite  taste:  and  by 
Gothic  remains  no  less  admirable  in  their  structure 
than  venerable  for  their  antiquity.  The  neat  cot- 
tage, the  substantial  farm-house,  the  splendid  villa, 
are  constantly  rising  to  the  sight,  surrounded  by  the 
most  choice  and  poetical  attributes  of  the  landscape. 
The  vision  is  not  more  delightfully  recreated  by 
the  rural  scenery,  than  the  moral  sense  is  gratified, 
and  the  understanding  elevated  by  the  institutions 
of  this  great  country.  The  first  and  continued  ex- 
clamation of  an  American  who  contemplates  them 
with  unbiassed  judgment,  is — 

Salve !  magna  Parens  frugum,  Saturnia  tellus ! 
Magna  viruni. 

"It  appears  something  wo<  less  than  Impious  to 
desire  the  ruin  of  this  people,  when  you  view  the 
height  to  which  they  have  carried  the  comforts,  the 
knowledge,  and  the  virtue  of  our  species  :  the  ex- 
lent  and  number  of  their  foundations  of  charity  ; 
their  skill  in  the  mechanic  arts,  by  the  improvement 
of  which  alone  they  have  conferred  inestimable 
benefits  on  mankind;  the  masculine  morality,  the 
lofty  sense  of  independence,  the  sober  and  rational 
oiety  which  are  found  in  all  classes  ;  their  impar- 
nal,  decorous,  and  able  administration  of  a  code  of 


laws,  than  which  none  more  just  and  perfect  hai 
ever  been  in  operation  ;  their  seminaries  of  educa- 
tion yielding  more  solid  and  profitable  instruction 
than  any  other  whatever  ;  their  eminence  in  litera> 
ture  and  science — the  urbanity  and  learning  of  their 
privileged  orders — their  deliberative  assemblies, 
illustrated  by  so  many  profound  statesmen,  and 
brilliant  orators.  It  is  worse  than  Ingratitude  in 
us  not  to  sympathise  with  them  in  iheir  present 
struggle,  when  we  recollect  that  it  is  from  them  we 
derive  the  principal  merit  of  our  own  character — 
the  best  of  our  ow7i  institutions — the  sources  of  our 
highest  e7ijoyments — and  the  light  of  Freedom  itself, 
wliich,  if  they  should  be  destroyed,  will  not  long 
shed  its  radiance  over  this  cou7itry.'^ 

What  will  Mr.  Walsh  say  to  this  picture  of 
the  country  he  has  so  laboured  to  degrade  1 — 
and  what  will  our  readers  say,  when  they  are 
told  that  Mr.  Walsh  himself  is  the  author  of 
this  picture ! 

So,  however,  the  fact  unquestionably  stands. 
— The  book  from  which  we  have  made  the 
preceding  extracts,  was  written  and  published, 
in  1810,  by  the  very  same  individual  who  has 
now  recriminated  upon  England  in  the  vol- 
ume which  lies  before  us, — and  in  which  he 
is  pleased  to  speak  with  extreme  severity  of 
the  inconsistencies  he  has  detected  in  our  Re- 
view ! — That  some  discordant  or  irreconcile- 
able  opinions  should  be  found  in  the  miscel- 
laneous writing  of  twenty  years,  and  thirty  or 
forty  individuals  under  no  effective  control, 
may  easily  be  imagined,  and  pardoned,  we 
should  think,  without  any  great  stretch  of 
liberality.  But  such  a  transmutation  of  senti- 
ments on  the  same  identical  subject — such  a 
reversal  of  the  poles  of  the  same  identical 
head,  we  confess  has  never  before  come  under 
our  observation  ]  and  is  parallel  to  nothing  that 
we  can  recollect,  but  the  memorable  trans- 
formation oi  Bottom,  in  the  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream.  Nine  years,  to  be  sure,  had  intervened 
between  the  first  and  the  second  publication. 
But  all  the  guilt  and  all  the  misery  which  is 
so  diligently  developed  in  the  last,  had  been 
contracted  before  the  first  was  thought  of;  and 
all  the  injuries,  and  provocations  too,  by  which 
the  exposition  of  them  has  lately  become  a 
duty.  Mr.  W.  knew  perfectly,  in  1810,  how 
England  had  behaved  to  her  American  colonies 
before  the  war  of  independence,  and  in  what 
spirit  she  had  begun  and  carried  on  that  war : 
— our  Poor-rates  and  taxes,  our  bull-baitings 
and  swindlings.  were  then  nearly  as  visible  as 
now.  Mr.  Colquhoun,  had,  before  that  time,  put 
forth  his  Political  Estimate  of  our  prostitutes 
and  pickpockets ;  and  the  worthy  Laureate  his 
authentic  Letters  on  the  bad  state  of  our  par- 
liaments and  manufactures.  Nay,  the  Edin- 
burgh Review  had  committed  the  woj-st  of 
those  offences  which  now  make  hatred  to 
England  the  duty  of  all  true  Americans,  and 
had  expressed  little  of  that  zeal  for  her  friend- 
ship which  appears  in  its  subsequent  Numbers. 
The  Reviews  of  the  American  Transactions, 
and  Mr.  Barlow's  Epic,  of  Adams'  Letters,  and 
Marshall's  History,  had  all  appeared  before 
this  time — and  but  very  few  of  the  articles  in 
which  the  future  greatness  of  that  country  is 
predicted,  and  her  singular  prosperity  extolled. 

How  then  is  it  to  be  accounted  for,  that  Mr. 
W.  should  have  taken  such  a  favourable  view 


WALSH'S  APPEAL. 


sf  our  state  and  merits  in  1810,  and  so  very 
different  a  one  in  1819 "?  There  is  but  one 
explanation  that  occurs  to  us.  —  Mr.  W.,  as 
appears  from  the  passages  just  quoted,  had 
been  originally  very  much  of  the  opinion  to 
which  he  has  now  returned — For  he  tells  us, 
that  he  considers  the  tribute  of  admiration 
which  he  there  offers  to  our  excellence,  as  an 
Atonement  for  the  errors  and  prejudices  under 
which  he  laboured  till  he  came  among  us, — 
and  hints  pretty  plainly,  that  he  had  formerly 
Deen  ungrateful  enough  to  disown  all  obliga- 
tion to  our  race,  and  impious  enough  even  to 
wish  for  our  ruin.  Now,  from  the  tenor  of  the 
work  before  us,  compared  with  these  passages, 
it  is  pretty  plain,  we  think,  that  Mr.  W.  has 
just  relapsed  into  those  damnable  heresies, 
which  we  fear  are  epidemic  in  his  part  of  the 
countr}' — and  from  which  nothing  is  so  likely 
to  deliver  him,  as  a  repetition  of  the  same 
remedy  by  which  they  were  formerly  removed. 
Let  him  come  ag-ain  then  to  England,  and  try 
the  effect  of  a  second  course  of  "personal 
experience  and  observation" — let  him  make 
another  pilgrimage  to  jVlecca,  and  observe 
whether  his  faith  is  not  restored  and  confirmed 
-  let  him,  like  the  Indians  of  his  own  world, 
visit  the  Tombs  of  his  Fathers  in  the  old  land, 
and  see  whether  he  can  there  abjure  the  friend- 
ship of  their  other  children  ?•  If  he  will  ven- 
ture himself  among  us  for  another  two  years' 
residence,  we  can  promise  him  that  he  will 
find  in  substance  the  same  England  that  he 
left : — Our  laws  and  our  landscapes — our  in- 
dustry and  urbanity ; — our  charities,  our  learn- 
ing, and  our  personal  beauty,  he  will  find 
unaltered  and  unimpaired ; — and  we  think  we 
can  even  engage,  that  he  shall  find  also  a  still 
greater  "  correspondence  of  feeling  in  the  body 
of  our  People,"  and  not  a  less  disposition  to 
welcome  an  accomplished  stranger  who  comes 
to  get  rid  of  errors  and  prejudices,  and  to  learn 
—or,  if  he  pleases,  to  teach,  the  great  lessons 
of  a  generous  and  indulgent  philanthropy. 

We  have  done,  however,  with  this  topic. — 
We  have  a  considerable  contempt  for  the  ar- 
gumentum  ad  hominem  in  any  case — and  have 
no  desire  to  urge  it  further  at  present.  The 
truth  is,  that  neither  of  Mr.  W.'s  portraitures 
of  us  appears  to  be  very  accurate.  We  are 
painted  en  beau  in  the 'one,  and  en  laid  in  the 
other.  The  particular  traits  in  each  may  be 
given  with  tolerable  truth  —  but  the  whole 
truth  most  certainly  is  to  be  found  in  neither; 
and  it  will  not  even  do  to  take  them  together 
— any  more  than  it  would  do  to  make  a  correct 
likeness,  by  patching  or  compounding  together 
a  flattering  portrait  and  a  monstrous  carica- 
ture.   We  have  but  a  word  or  two,  indeed, 

to  add  on  the  general  subject,  before  we  take 
a  final  farewell  of  this  discussion. 

We  admit,  that  many  of  the  charges  which 
Mr.  W.  has  here  made  against  our  country, 
are  justly  made  —  and  that  for  many  of  the 
things  with  which  he  has  reproached  us,  there 
is  just  cause  of  reproach.  It  would  be  strange, 
indeed,  if  we  were  to  do  otherwise — consi- 
dering that  it  is  from  our  pages  that  he  has  on 
many  occasions  borrowed  the  charge  and  the 
reproach.     If  he  had  stated  them  therefore, 


with  any  degree  of  fairness  or  temper,  and 
had  not  announced  that  they  were  brought 
forward  as  incentives  to  hostility  and  national 
alienation,  we  should  have  been  so  far  from 
complaining  of  him,  that  we  should  have  been 
heartily  thankful  for  the  services  of  such  an 
auxiliary  in  our  holy  war  against  vice  and 
corruption  ;  and  rejoiced  to  obtain  the  testi- 
mony of  an  impartial  observer,  in  corrobora- 
tion of  our  own  earnest  admonitions.  Even 
as  it  is,  we  are  inclined  to  think  that  this  ex- 
position of  our  infirmities  will  rather  do  good 
than  harm,  so  far  as  it  produces  any  effect  at 
all,  in  this  country.  Among  our  national  vices, 
we  have  long  reckoned  an  insolent  and  over- 
weening opinion  of  our  own  universal  superi- 
ority ;  and  though  it  really  does  not  belong  to 
America  to  reproach  us  with  this  fault,  and 
though  the  ludicrous  exaggeration  of  Mr.  W.'s 
charge  is  sure  very  greatly  to  weaken  his  au- 
thority, still  such  an  alarming  catalogue  of 
our  faults  and  follies  may  have  some  effect, 
as  a  wholesome  mortification  of  our  vanity. — 
It  is  with  a  view  to  its  probable  effect  in  his 
own  country,  and  to  his  avowal  of  the  effect 
he  wishes  it  to  produce  there,  that  we  consider 
it  as  deserving  of  all  reprobation; — and  there- 
fore beg  leave  to  make  one  or  two  very  short 
remarks  on  its  manifest  injustice,  and  indeed 
absurdity,  in  so  far  as  relates  to  ourselves,  and 
that  great  majority  of  the  country  whom  we 
believe  to  concur  in  our  sentiments.  The  ob- 
ject of  this  violent  invective  on  England  is, 
according  to  the  author's  own  admission,  to 
excite  a  spirit  of  animosity  in  America,  to 
meet  and  revenge  that  which  other  invectives 
on  our  part  are  said  to  indicate  here  ;  and  also 
to  show  the  flagrant  injustice  and  malignity 
of  the  said  invectives  : — And  this  is  the  shape 
of  the  argument — What  right  have  you  to 
abuse  us  for  keeping  and  whipping  slaves, 
when  you  yourselves  whip  your  soldiers,  and 
were  so  slow  to  give  up  your  slave  trade,  and 
use  your  subjects  so  ill  in  India  and  Ireland  1 
— or  what  right  have  you  to  call  our  Marshall 
a  dull  historian,  when  you  have  a  Belsham  and 
a  Giffbrd  who  are  still  duller  ?  Now,  though 
this  argument  would  never  show  that  whipping 
slaves  was  a  right  thing,  or  that  JNlr.  Marshall 
was  not  a  dull  writer,  it  might  be  a  very  smart 
and  embarrassing  retort  to  those  among  us 
who  had  defended  our  slave  trade  or  our 
military  floggings,  or  our  treatment  of  Ireland 
and  India — or  who  had  held  out  Messrs.  Bel- 
sham  and  Gifford  as  pattern  historians,  and 
ornaments  of  our  national  literature.  But  what 
meaning  or  effect  can  it  have  when  addressed 
to  those  who  have  always  testified  against  the 
wickedness  and  the  folly  of  the  practices 
complained  of?  and  who  have  treated  the 
Ultra-Whig  and  the  Ultra-Tory  historian  with 
equal  scorn  and  reproach  ?  We  have  a  right 
to  censure  cruelty  and  dulness  abroad,  because 
we  have  censured  them  with  more  and  more 
frequent  severity  at  home ; — and  their  homo 
existence,  though  it  may  prove  indeed  that 
our  censures  have  not  yet  been  effectual  in 
producing  amendment,  can  afford  no  sort  of 
reason  for  not  extending  them  w-^ero  *hej 
might  be  more  ittended  to. 


6S6 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


We  have  generally  blamed  what  we  thought 
worthy  cf  blame  in  America,  without  any  ex- 
press reference  to  parallel  cases  in  England, 
or  any  invidious  comparisons.  Their  books 
we  have  criticised  just  as  should  have  done 
those  of  any  other  country ;  and  in  speaking 
more  generally  of  their  literature  and  man- 
ners, we  have  rather  brought  them  into  com- 
petition with  those  of  Europe  in  general,  than 
those  of  our  own  country  in  particular.  When 
we  have  made  any  comparative  estimate  of  our 
own  advantages  and  theirs,  we  can  say  with 
confidence,  that  it  has  been  far  oftener  in  their 
favour  than  against  them , — and.  after  repeat- 
edly noticing  their  preferable  condition  as  to 
taxes,  elections,  sufficiency  of  employment, 
public  economy,  freedom  of  publication,  and 
many  other  points  of  paramount  importance, 
it  surely  was  but  fair  that  we  should  notice, 
in  their  turn,  those  merits  or  advantages  which 
might  reasonably  be  claimed  for  ourselves, 
and  bring  into  view  our  superiority  in  eminent 
authors,  and  the  extinction  and  annihilation 
of  slavery  in  every  part  of  our  realm. 

We  would  also  remark,  that  while  we  have 
thus  praised  America  far  more  than  we  have 
blamed  her — and  reproached  ourselves  far 
more  bitterly  than  we  have  ever  reproached 
her.' Mr.  W.,  while  he  affects  to  be  merely 
following  our  example,  has  heaped  abuse  on 
us  without  one  grain  of  commendation — and 
praised  his  own  country  extravagantly,  with- 
out admitting  one  fault  or  imperfection.  Now, 
this  is  not  a  fair  way  of  retorting  the  proceed- 
ings, even  of  the  Quarterly;  for  they  have 
occasionally  given  some  praise  to  America, 
and  have  constantly  spoken  ill  enough  of  the 
paupers,  and  radicals,  and  reformers  of  Eng- 
land. But  as  to  us,  and  the  great  body  of  the 
nation  which  thinks  with  us,  it  is  a  proceeding 
without  the  colour  of  justice  or  the  shadow 
of  apology — and  is  not  a  less  flagrant  indica- 
tion of  impatience  or  bad  humour,  than  the 
marvellous  assumption  which  runs  through 
the  whole  argument,  that  it  is  an  unpardon- 
able insult  and  an  injury  to  find  any  fault  with 
any  thing  in  America, — must  necessarily  pro- 
ceed from  national  spite  and  animosity,  and 
affords,  whether  true  or  false,  sufficient  reason 
for  endeavouring  to  excite  a  corresponding 
animosity  against  our  nation.  Such,  however, 
is  the  scope  and  plan  of  Mr.  W.'s  whole  work. 
Whenever  he  thinks  that  his  country  has  been 
erroneously  accused,  he  points  out  the  error 
with  sufficient  keenness  and  asperity; — but 
when  he  is  aware  that  the  imputation  is  just 
and  unanswerable,  instead  of  joining  his  re- 
buke or  regret  to  those  of  her  foreign  censors, 
he  turns  fiercely  and  vindictively  on  the 
parallel  infirmities  of  this  country — as  if 
those  also  had  not  been  marked  with  repro- 
bation, and  without  admitting  that  the  cen- 
sure was  merited,  or  hoping  that  it  might 
work  amendment,  complains  in  the  bitterest 
terms  of  malignity,  and  arouses  his  country 
to  revenge ! 

Which,  then,  we  would  ask,  is  the  most 
fair  and  reasonable,  or  which  the  most  truly 
patriotic  ? — We.  who,  admitting  our  own  mani- 
oia  faults  and  corruptions,  testifying  loudly 


against  them,  and  feeling  grateful  to  a..iy  fo« 
reign  auxiliary  who  will  help  us  to  reason,  to 
rail,  or  to  shame  our  countrymen  out  of  them, 
are  willing  occasionally  to  lend  a  similar  as- 
sistance to  others,  and  speak  freely  and  fairly 
of  what  appear  to  us  to  be  the  faults  and  er 
rors,  as  well  as  the  virtues  and  merits,  of  aU 
who  may  be  in  any  way  affected  by  our  ob- 
servations;— or  Mr.  Walsh,  who  will  admit  no 
faults  in  his  own  country,  and  no  good  quali- 
ties in  ours — sets  down  the  mere  extension 
of  our  domestic  censures  to  their  corresponding 
objects  abroad,  to  the  score  of  national  rancour 
and  partiality ;  and  can  find  no  better  use  for 
those  mutual  admonitions,  which  should  lead 
to  mutual  amendment  or  generous  emulation, 
than  to  improve  them  into  occasions  of  mutual 
animosity  and  deliberate  hatred  ? 

This  extreme  impatience,  even  of  merited 
blame  from  the  mouth  of  a  stranger — this  still 
more  extraordinary  abstinence  from  any  hint 
or  acknowledgTnent  of  error  on  the  part  of 
her  intelligent  defender,  is  a  trait  too  remark- 
able not  to  call  for  some  observation ; — and 
we  think  we  can  see  in  it  one  of  the  worst  and 
most  unfortunate  consequences  of  a  republican 
government.  It  is  the  misfortune  of  Sove- 
reigns in  general,  that  they  are  fed  with  flat- 
tery till  they  loathe  the  wholesome  truth,  and 
come  to  resent,  as  the  bitterest  of  all  offences, 
any  insinuation  of  their  errors,  or  intimation 
of  their  dangers.  But  of  all  sovereig-ns,  the 
Sovereign  People  is  most  obnoxious  to  this  cor- 
ruption, and  most  fatally  injured  by  its  preva- 
lence. In  America,  every  thing  depends  on 
their  suffrages,  and  their  favour  and  support  j 
and  accordingly  it  would  appear,  that  they  are 
pampered  with  constant  adulation,  from  the 
rival  suitors  to  their  favour — so  that  no  one 
will  venture  to  tell  them  of  their  faults ;  and 
moralists,  even  of  the  austere  character  of 
IMr.  W.,  dare  not  venture  to  whisper  a  syllable 
to  their  prejudice.  It  is  thus,  and  thus  only, 
that  we  can  account  for  the  strange  sensitive- 
ness which  seems  to  prevail  among  them  on 
the  lightest  sound  of  disapprobation,  and  for 
the  acrimony  with  which,  what  would  pass 
anywhere  else  for  very  mild  admonitions,  are 
repelled  and  resented.  It  is  obvious,  how- 
ever, that  nothing  can  be  so  injurious  to  the 
character  either  of  an  individual  or  a  nation, 
as  this  constant  and  paltry  cockering  of  praise; 
and  that  the  want  of  any  native  censor,  makes 
it  more  a  duty  for  the  moralists  of  other  coun- 
tries to  take  them  under  their  charge,  and  let 
them  know  now  and  then  what  other  people 
think  and  say  of  them. 

We  are  anxious  to  part  with  Mr.  W.  in  good 
humour; — but  we  must  say  that  we  rather 
wish  he  would  not  go  on  with  the  work  he  has 
begun — at  least  if  it  is  to  be  pursued  in  the 
spirit  which  breathes  in  the  part  now  before 
us.  Nor  is  it  so  much  to  his  polemic  and  vin- 
dictive tone  that  we  object,  as  this  tendency 
to  adulation,  this  passionate,  vapouring,  rhe- 
torical style  of  amplifying  and  exaggerating 
the  felicities  of  his  country.  In  point  of  talent 
and  knowledge  and  industry,  we  have  no 
doubt  that  he  is  eminently  qualified  for  the 
task — (though  we  must  tell  him  that  he  doei 


BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 


•37 


not  write  so  well  now  as  when  he  left  Eng- 
land)—but  no  man  will  ever  write  a  book  of 
authority  on  the  institutions  and  resources  of 
his  country,  who  does  not  add  some  of  the 
virtues  of  a  Censor  to  those  of  a  Patriot — or 
rather,  who  does  not  feel,  that  the  noblest,  as 
well  as  the  most  difiicult  part  of  patriotism  is 
that  which  prefers  his  country's  Good  to  its  \ 
Favour,  and  is  more  directed  to  reform  its  \ 
vices,  than  to  cherish  the  pride  of  its  virtues,  i 
With  foreign  nations,  too,  this  tone  of  fondness  I 
and  self-admiration  is  always  suspected;  and 
most  commonly  ridiculous — while  calm  and 
steady  claims  of  merit,  interspersed  with  ac- 
knowledgments of  faults,  are  sure  to  obtain 
credit,  and  to  raise  the  estimation  both  of  the 
writer  and  of  his  country.  The  ridicule,  too, 
which  naturally  attaches  to  this  vehement  self- 
laudation,  must  insensibly  contract  a  darker 
shade  of  contempt,  when  it  comes  to  be  sus- 
pected that  it  does  not  proceed  from  mere 
honest  vanity,  but  from  a  poor  fear  of  giving 
ofTence  to  power — sheer  want  of  courage,  in 
short  (in  the  wiser  part  at  least  of  the  popu- 
lation), to  let  their  foolish  AHMOS  know  what 
in  their  hearts  they  think  of  him. 

And  now  we  must  at  length  close  tjiis  very 
long  article — the  very  length  and  earnestness 
of  which,  we  hope,  will  go  some  way  to  satisfy 
our  American  brethren  of  the  importance  we 


attach  to  their  good  opinion,  and  the  anxietjf 
we  feel  to  prevent  any  national  repulsion  from 
being  aggravated  by  a  misapprehension  of  oui 
sentiments,  or  rather  of  those  of  that  great 
body  of  the  English  nation  of  which  we  are 
here  the  organ.  In  what  we  have  now  written, 
there  may  be  much  that  requires  explanation 
— and  much,  we  fear,  that  is  liable  to  miscon- 
struction.— The  spirit  in  which  it  is  written, 
however,  cannot,  we  think,  be  misunderstood 
We  cannot  descend  to  little  cavils  and  alter- 
cations; and  have  no  leisure  to  maintain  a 
controversy  about  words  and  phrases.  We 
have  an  unfeigned  respect  and  affection  for 
the  free  people  of  America;  and  we  mean 
honestly  to  pledge  ourselves  for  that  of  the 
better  part  of  our  own  country.  We  are  very 
proud  of  the  extensive  circulation  of  our  Jour- 
nal in  that  great  country,  and  the  importance 
that  is  there  attached  to  it.  But  we  should 
be  undeserving  of  this  favour,  if  we  could 
submit  to  seek  it  by  any  mean  practices, 
either  of  flattery  or  of  dissimulation ;  and  feel 
persuaded  that  we  shall  not  only  best  deserve, 
but  most  surely  obtain,  the  confidence  and  re- 
spect of  Mr.  W.  and  his  countrymen,  by 
speaking  freely  what  we  sincerely  think  of 
them, — and  treating  them  exactly  as  we  treat 
that  nation  to  which  we  are  here  accused  o*" 
being  too  favourable. 


{HSovtmbtv,  1S22.) 

Bracebridge  Hall;  or,  the  Humorists.    By  GEOFrREV  Crayon,  Gent.  Author  of  "The  Sketch 
2  vols.  8vo.  pp.800.     Murray.     London:   1822.* 


We  have  received  so  much  pleasure  from 
this  bock,  that  we  think  ourselves  bound  in 
gratitude,  as  well  as  justice,  to  make  a  public 
acknowledgment  of  it, — and  seek  to  repay,  by 
a  little  kind  notice,  the  great  obligations  we 
shall  ever  feel  to  ihe  author.  These  amiable 
sentiments,  however,  we  fear,  will  scarcely 
furnish  us  with  materials  for  an  interesting 
article ; — and  we  suspect  we  have  not  much 
else  to  say,  that  has  not  already  occurred  lo 
most  of  our  readers — or,  indeed,  been  said  by 
ourselves  with  reference  to  his  former  publi- 
cation. For  nothing  in  the  world  can  be  so 
complete  as  the  identity  of  the  author  in  these 
two  productions — identity  not  of  style  merely 
and  character,  but  of  merit  also,  both  in  kind 
and  degree,  and  in  the  sort  and  extent  of  popu- 
larity which  that  merit  has  created — not  mere- 
ly the  same  good  sense  and  the  same  good 
humour  directed  to  the  same  good  ends,  and 

*  My  heart  is  still  so  much  in  the  subject  of  the 
preceding  paper,  that  I  am  tempted  to  add'this  to  it ; 
chiefly  for  the  sake  of  the  powerful  backing  which 
my  Bnglish  exhortation  to  amity  among  brethren, 
is  there  shown  to  have  received  from  the  most  amia- 
ble and  elegant  of  American  writers.  I  had  said 
nearly  the  same  things  in  a  previous  review  of 
*'  The  SketcE  Book,'"  and  should  have  reprinted 
that  article  also,  had  it  not  been  made  up  chiefly  of 
•xtracts,  with  which  I  do  not  think  it  quite  fair  to 
bU  up  this  publication. 


with  the  same  happy  selection  and  limited 
variety,  but  the  same  proportion  of  things  that 
seem  scarcely  to  depend  on  the  individual — 
the  same  luck,  as  well  as  the  same  labour,  and 
an  equal  share  of  felicities  to  enhance  the 
fair  returns  of  judicious  industry.  There  are 
few  things,  we  imagine,  so  rare  as  this  sus- 
tained level  of  excellence  in  the  works  of  a 
popular  writer — or,  at  least,  if  it  does  exist 
now  and  then  in  rerum  natura,  there  is  scarce- 
ly any  thing  that  is  so  seldom  allowed.  When 
an  author  has  once  gained  a  large  share  of 
public  attention, — when  his  name  is  once  up 
among  a  herd  of  idle  readers,  they  can  never 
be  brought  to  believe  that  one  who  has  risen 
so  far  can  ever  remain  stationary.  In  their 
estimation,  he  must  either  rise  farther,  or  be- 
gin immediately  to  descend;  so  that,  when 
he  ventures  before  these  prepossessed  judges 
with  a  new  work,  it  is  always  discovered, 
either  that  he  has  infinitely  surpassed  him- 
self, or,  in  the  far  greater  number  of  cases, 
that  there  is  a  sad  falling  off",  and  that  he  is 
hastening  to  the  end  of  his  career.  In  this 
way  it  may  in  general  be  presumed,  that 
an  author  who  is  admitted  by  the  public  not 
to  have  fallen  off  in  a  second  work,  has  in  re- 
ality improved  upon  his  first ;  and  has  truly 
proved  his  title  to  a  higher  place,  by  mere- 
ly maintaining  that  which  he  had  formerlv 


6?8 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


earned.  We  would  not  have  Mr.  Crayonj 
however,  plume  himself  too  much  upon  this 
*;age  observation :  for  though  wc^  and  other 
great  lights  of  public  judgment,  have  decided 
that  his  former  level  has  been  maintained  in 
this  work  with  the  most  marvellous  precision, 
we  must  whisper  in  his  ear  that  the  million 
are  not  exactly  of  that  opinion ;  and  that  the 
common  buzz  among  the  idle  and  impatient 
V  critics  of  the  drawing-room  is,  that,  in  com- 
^  parison  with  the  Sketch  Book,  it  is  rather 
^*  monotonous  and  languid;  and  there  is  too 
little  variety  of  characters  for  two  thick  vol- 
umes; and  that  the  said  few  characters  come 
on  so  often,  and  stay  so  long,  that  the  gentlest 
reader  detects  himself  in  rejoicing  at  being 
done  with  them.  The  premises  of  this  en- 
thymem,  we  do  not  much  dispute;  but  tEe 
conclusion,  for  all  that,  is  wrong:  For,  in 
spite  of  these  defects,  Bracebridge  Hall  is 
quite  as  good  as  the  Sketch  Book ;  and  Mr.  C. 
may  take  comfort, — if  he  is  humble  enough 
to  bs  comforted  with  such  an  assurance — and 
trust  to  us  that  it  will  be  quite  as  popular,  and 
•  that  he  still  holds  his  own  with  the  efficient 
body  of  his  Enghsh  readers. 

The  great  charm  and  peculiarity  of  this 
work  consists  now,  as  on  former  occasions,  in 
the  singular  sweetness  of  the  composition,  and 
the  mildness  of  the  sentiments, — sicklied  over 
perhaps  a  little,  now  and  then,  with  that  cloy- 
ing heaviness  into  which  unvaried  sweetness 
is  too  apt  to  subside.  The  rythm  and  melody 
of  the  sentences  is  certainly  excessive  :  As  it 
not  only  gives  an  air  of  mannerism,  from  its 
uniformity,  but  raises  too  strong  an  impres- 
sion of  the  labour  that  must  have  been  be- 
stowed, and  the  importance  which  must  have 
been  attached  to  that  which  is,  after  all,  but 
a  secondary  attribute  to  good  writing.  It  is 
very  ill-natured  in  us,  however,  to  object  to 
what  has  given  us  so  much  pleasure ;  for  we 
happen  to  be  very  intense  and  sensitive  ad- 
mirers of  those  soft  harmonies  of  studied 
speech  in  which  this  author  is  so  apt  to  in- 
dulge; and  have  caught  ourselves,  oftener 
than  we  shall  confess,  neglecting  his  excellent 
matter,  to  lap  ourselves  in  the  liquid  music  of 
his  periods — and  letting  ourselves  float  pas- 
sively down  the  mellow  falls  and  windings  of 
his  soft-flowing  sentences,  with  a  delight  not 
inferior  to  that  which  we  derive  from  fine 
versification. 

We  should  reproach  ourselves  still  more, 
however,  and  with  better  reason,  if  we  were 
to  persist  in  the  objection  which  we  were  also 
at  first  inclined  to  take,  to  the  extraordinary 
kindliness  and  disarming  gentleness  of  all  this 
author's  views  and  suggestions ;  and  we  only 
refer  to  it  now,  for  the  purpose  of  answering, 
and  discrediting  it,  with  any  of  our  readers  to 
whom  also  it  may  happen  to  have  occurred. 

It  first  struck  us  as  an  objection  to  the  au- 
thor's courage  and  sincerity.  It  was  quue 
unnatural,  we  said  to  ourselves,  for  any  body 
to  be  always  on  such  <rery  amiable  terms  with 
R  jihis  feilow-creatures ;  and  this  air  of  eternal 
philanthropy  could  be  nothing  but  a  pretence 
put  on  to  bring  himself  into  favour ;  and  then 
we  proceeded  to  assimilate  him  to  those  silken 


parasites  who  are  in  raptures  with  every  bodj 
they  meet,  and  ingratiate  themselves  in  gene- 
ral society  by  an  unmanly  suppression  of  all 
honest  indignation,  and  a  timid  avoidance  of 
all  subjects  of  disagreement.  Upon  due  con* 
sideration,  however,  we  are  now  satisfied  that 
this  was  an  unjust  and  unworthy  interpreta- 
tion. An  author  who  comes  deliberately  be- 
fore the  public  with  certain  select  monologues 
of  doctrine  and  discussion,  is  not  at  all  in  the 
condition  of  a  man  in  common  society;  on 
whom  various  overtures  of  baseness  and  folly 
are  daily  obtruded,  and  to  whose  sense  and 
honour  appeals  are  perpetually  made,  which 
must  be  manfully  answered,  as  honour  and 
conscience  suggest.  The  author,  on  the 
other  hand,  has  no  questions  to  answer,  and 
no  society  to  select :  his  professed  object  is  to 
instruct  and  improve  the  world — and  his  leal 
one,  if  he  is  tolerably  honest,  is  nothing  worse 
than  to  promote  his  own  fame  and  fortune  by 
succeeding  in  that  which  he  professes.  No^v^ 
there  are  but  two  ways  that  we  have  ever 
heard  of  by  which  men  may  be  improved — 
either  by  cultivating  and  encouraging  their, 
amiable  propensities,  or  by  shaming  and\ 
frightening  them  out  of  those  that  are  vicious;  ,' 
and  there  can  be  but  little  doubt,  we  should : 
imagine,  which  of  the  two  oflices  is  the  high-  \ 
est  and  most  eligible — since  the  one  is  left  in  j 
a  great  measure  to  Hell  and  the  hangman, — 
and  for  the  other,  we  are  taught  chiefly  to/ 
look  to  Heaven^  and  all  that  is  angelic  upga 
earth.  The  most  perfect  moral  discipline 
would  be  that,  no  doubt,  in  which  both  were 
combined ;  but  one  is  generally  as  much  as 
human  energy  is  equal  to  ;  and,  in  fact,  they 
have  commonly  been  divided  in  practice,  with- 
out surmise  of  blame.  And  truly,  if  men  have 
been  hailed  as  great  public  benefactors,  mere- 
ly for  having  beat  tyrants  into  moderation,  or 
coxcombs  into  good  manners,  we  must  be  per- 
mitted to  think,  that  one  whose  vocation  is 
difl^'erent  may  be  allowed  to  have  deserved 
well  of  his  kind,  although  he  should  have 
confined  his  efforts  to  teaching  them  mutual 
charity  and  forbearance,  and  only  sought  to 
repress  their  evil  passions,  by  strengthening 
the  springs  and  enlarging  the  sphere  of  those 
that  are  generous  and  kindly. 

The  objection  in  this  general  form,  there- 
fore, we  soon  found  could  not  be  maintained : 
— But,  as  we  still  felt  a  little  secret  spite  lin- 
gering within  us  at  our  author's  universal 
aflJability,  we  set  about  questioning  ourselves 
more  strictly  as  to  its  true  nature  and  tenden- 
cy; and  think  we  at  last  succeeded  in  tracing 
it  to  an  eager  desire  to  see  so  powerful  a  pen 
and  such  great  popularity  employed  in  de- 
molishing those  errors  and  abuses  to  which 
we  had  been  accustomed  to  refer  most  of  the 
unhappiness  of  our  country.  Though  we  love 
his  gentleness  and  urbanity  on  the  whole,  we 
should  have  been  very  well  pleased  to  see 
him  a  little  rude  and  surly,  now  and  then,  to 
our  particular  opponents ;  and  could  not  but 
think  it  showed  a  want  of  spirit  and  discrimi- 
nation that  he  did  not  mark  his  sense  of  their 
demerits,  by  making  them  an  exception  to  hia 
general  system  of  toleration  and  indulgence. 


13RACEBRIDGE  HALL. 


639 


Being  Whigs  ourselves,  for  example,  we  could 
not  Dut  take  it  a  little  amiss,  that  one  bom 
and  bred  a  republican,  and  writing  largely  on 
the  present  condition  of  England,  should  make 
so  little  distinction  between  that  party  and  its 
opponents — and  should  even  choose  to  attach 
himself  to  a  Tory  family,  as  the  proper  type 
and  emblem  of  the  old  English  character.  Nor 
could  we  well  acquit  him  of  being  "  pigeon- 
livered — and  lacking  gall,"  when  we  found 
that  nothing  could  provoke  him  to  give  a  pal- 
pable hit  to  the  Ministry,  or  even  to  employ 
his  pure  and  powerful  eloquence  in  reproving 
the  shameful  scurrilities  of  the  ministerial 
press.  We  were  also  a  little  sore,  too,  we  be* 
lieve,  on  discovering  that  he  took  no  notice  of 
Scotland !  and  said  absolutely  nothing  about 
our  Highlanders,  our  schools,  and  our  poetry. 
Now,  though  weJiaYfijnagnanimously  cho- 
sen to  illustrate  this  grudge  at  his  neutrality 
Iri  our  own  persons,  it  is  obvious  that  a  dis- 
satisfaction of  the  same  kind  must  have  been 
felt  by  all  the  other  great  and  contending  par- 
ties into  which  this  and  all  free  countries  are 
necessarily  divided.  Mr.  Crayon  has  rejected 
the  alliance  of  any  one  of  these  ;  and  reso- 
lutely refused  to  take  part  with  them  in  the 
struggles  to  which  they  attach  so  much  im- 
portance ;  and  consequently  has,  to  a  certain 
extent,  offended  and  disappointed  them  all. 
But  we  must  carry  our  magnanimity  a  step 
farther,  and  confess,  for  ourselves,  and  for 
others,  that,  upon  reflection,  the  offence  and 
disappointment  seem  to  us  altogether  unrea- 
sonable and  unjust.  The  ground  of  complaint 
is,  that  we  see  talents  and  influence — inno- 
cently, we  must  admit,  and  even  beneficially 
employed — ^but  not  engaged  on  our  side,  or  in 
the  particular  contest  which  we  may  feel  it 
our  duty  to  wage  against  the  errors  or  delu- 
sions of  our  contemporaries.  Now,  in  the  first 
place,  is  not  this  something  like  the  noble  in- 
dignation of  a  recruiting  serjeant,  who  thinks 
'it  a  scandal  that  any  stout  fellow  should  de- 
grade himself  by  a  pacific  employment,  and 
takes  offence  accordingly  at  every  pair  of 
broad  shoulders  and  good  legs  which  he  finds 
in  the  possession  of  a  priest  or  a  tradesman '? 
But  the  manifest  absurdity  of  the  grudge  con- 
sists in  this.  First,  That  it  is  equally  reason- 
able in  all  the  different  parties  who  sincerely 
believe  their  own  cause  to  be  that  which  ought 
to  prevail ;  while  it  is  manifest,  that,  as  the 
desired  champion  could  only  side  with  one, 
all  the  rest  would  be  only  worse  off  by  the 
termination  of  his  neutrality;  and  secondly, 
That  the  weight  and  authority,  for  the  sake  of 
,  which  his  assistance  is  so  coveted,  and  which 
each  party  is  now  so  anxious  to  have  thrown 
into  its  scale,  having  been  entirely  created  by 
virtues  and  qualities  which  belong  only  to  a 
state  of  neutrality,  are,  in  reality,  incapable 
of  being  transferred  to  contending  parties,  and 
would  utterly  perish  and  be  annihilated  in  the 
attempt.  A  good  part  of  Mr.  C.'s  reputation, 
and  certainly  a  very  large  share  of  his  in- 
fluence and  popularity  with  all  parties,  has 
been  acquired  by  the  indulgence  with  which 
he  has  treated  all,  and  his  abstinence  from  all 
Borts  of  virulence  and  hostility  3  and  it  is  no 


doubt  chiefly  on  account  of  this  nfl  aence  and 
favour  that  we  and  others  are  rashly  desirj)ua 
to  see  him  take  part  against  our  adversaries — 
forgetting  that  those  very  qualities  which  ren- 
der his  assistance  valuable,  would  infallibly 
desert  him  the  moment  that  he  complied  with 
our  desire,  and  vanish  in  the  very  act  of  his 
compliance. 

The  question  then  comes  to  be,  not  properly 
whether  there  should  be  any  neutrals  in  great 
national  contentions — but  whether  any  man 
should  be  allowed  to  aspire  to  distinction  by 
acts  not  subservient  to  party  purposes'? — a 
question  which,  even  in  this  age  of  party  and 
polemics,  we  suppose  there  are  not  many 
who  would  have  the  hardihood  seriously  to 
propound.  Yet  this,  we  must  be  permitted  to 
repeat,  is  truly  the  question : — For  if  a  man 
may  lawfully  devote  his  talents  to  music,  or 
architecture,  or  drawing,  or  metaphysics,  or 
poetry,  and  lawfully  challenge  the  general  ad- 
miration of  his  age  for  his  proficiency  in  those 
pursuits,  though  totally  disjoined  from  all  po- 
litical application,  we  really  do  not  see  why 
he  may  not  write  prose  essays  on  national 
character  and  the  ingredients  of  private  hap- 
piness, wuth  the  same  large  and  pacific  pur 
poses  of  pleasure  and  improvement.  To  Mr. 
C.  especially,  who  is  not  a  citizen  of  this  coun- 
try, it  can  scarcely  be  proposed  as  a  duty  to 
take  a  share  in  our  internal  contentions;  and 
though  the  picture  which  he  professes  to  give 
of  our  country  may  be  more  imperfect,  and 
the  estimate  he  makes  of  our  character  less 
complete,  from  the  omission  of  this  less  tract- 
able element,  the  value  of  the  parts  that  he 
has  been  able  to  finish  will  not  be  lessened, 
and  the  beneficial  effect  of  the  representation 
will,  in  all  probability,  be  increased.  For  our 
own  parts,  we  have  ventured,  on  former  occa- 
sions, to  express  our  doubts  whether  the  po- 
lemical parts,  even  of  a  statesman's  duty,  do 
not  hold  too  high  a  place  in  public  esteem — 
and  are  sure,  at  all  events,  that  they  ought  not 
to  engross  the  attention  of  those  to  whom  such 
a  station  has  not  been  intrusted.  It  should 
never  be  forgotten,  that  good  political  institu- 
tions, the  sole  end  and  object  of  all  our  party 
contentions,  are  only  valuable  as  means  of 
promoting  the  general  happiness  and  virtue 
of  individuals ; — and  that,  important  as  they 
are,  there  are  other  means,  still  more  direct 
and  indispensable  for  the  attainment  of  that 
great  end.  The  cultivation  of  the  kind  affec- 
tions, we  humbly  conceive,  to  be  of  still  more 
importance  to  private  happiness,  than  the 
good  balance  of  the  constitution  under  which 
we  live ;  and,  if  it  be  true,  as  we  most  firmly 
believe,  that  it  is  the  natural  effect  of  political 
freedom  to  fit  and  dispose  the  mind  for  all 
gentle  as  well  as  generous  emotions,  we  hold 
it  to  be  equally  true,  that  habits  of  benevo- 
lence, and  sentiments  of  philanthropy,  are  the 
surest  foundations  on  which  a  love  of  liberty 
can  rest.  A  man  must  love  his  fellows  before 
he  loves  their  liberty ;  and  if  he  has  not  learned 
to  interest  himself  in  their  enjoyments,  it  ia 
impossible  that  he  can  have  any  genuine  pon- 
cern  for  that  liberty,  which,  after  all,  is  only 
valuable  as  a  means  of  enjoyment.    We  coj> 


640 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


sideFj  therefore,  the  writers  who  seek  to  soften 
and  improve  our  social  affections,  not  only  as 
aiming  directly  at  the  same  great  end  which 
politicians  more  circuitously  pursue,  but  as 
preparing  those  elements  out  of  which  alone 
a  generous  and  enlightened  love  of  political 
freedom  can  ever  be  formed — and  without 
which  it  could  neither  be  safely  trusted  in  the 
hands  of  individuals,  nor  prove  fruitful  of  in- 
dividual enjoyment.  We  conclude,  therefore, 
that  Mr.  Crayon  is  in  reality  a  better  friend  to 
Whig  principles  than  if  he  had  openly  attacked 
♦he  Tories — and  end  this  long,  and  perhaps 
nesdlass  apology  for  his  neutrality,  by  discov- 
er'i'j^j  that  such  neutrality  is  in  effect  the  best 
nursery  for  the  only  partisans  that  ever  should 
be  encouraged — the  partisans  of  whatever  can 
be  shown  to  be  clearly  and  unquestionably 
right.  And  now  we  must  say  a  word  or  two 
more  of  the  book  before  us. 

There  are  not  many  of  our  readers  to  whom 
it  can  be  necessary  to  mention,  that  it  is  in 
substance,  and  almost  in  form,  a  continuation 
of  the  Sketch  Book ;  and  consists  of  a  series 
of  little  descriptions,  and  essays  on  matters 
principally  touching  the  national  character 
and  old  habits  of  England.  The  author  is 
supposed  to  be  resident  at  Bracebridge  Hall, 
the  Christmas  festivities  of  which  he  had 
commemorated  in  his  former  publication, 
and  among  the  inmates  of  which,  most  of  the 
familiar  incidents  occur  which  he  turns  to 
account  in  his  lucubrations.  These  incidents 
can  scarcely  be  said  to  make  a  story  in  any 
sense,  and  certainly  not  one  which  would 
admit  of  being  abstracted;  and  as  we  are 
under  a  vow  to  make  but  short  extracts  from 
popular  books,  we  must  see  that  we  choose 
well  the  few  passages  upon  which  we  may 
venture.  There  is  a  short  Introduction,  and 
a  Farewell,  by  the  author ;  in  both  which  he 
alludes  to  the  fact  of  his  being  a  citizen  of 
America  in  a  way  that  appears  to  us  to  de- 
serve a  citation.  The  first  we  give  chiefly 
for  the  beauty  of  the  writing. 

"  England  is  as  classic  ground  to  an  American,  as 
Italy  is  to  an  Englishman  ;  and  old  London  teems 
with  as  much  historical  association  as  mighty  Rome. 

"  But  what  more  especially  attracts  his  notice, 
are  those  peculiarities  which  distinguish  an  old 
country,  and  an  old  state  of  society,  from  a  new 
one.  I  have  never  yet  grown  famihar  enough  with 
the  crumbling  monuments  of  past  ages,  to  blunt 
the  intense  interest  with  which  I  at  first  beheld 
them.  Accustomed  always  to  scenes  where  history 
was,  in  a  manner,  in  anticipation ;  where  every 
thing  in  art  was  new  and  progressive,  and  pointed 
to  the  future  rather  than  to  the  past ;  where,  in 
short,  the  works  of  man  gave  no  ideas  but  those  of 
young  existence,  and  prospective  improvement ; 
there  was  something  inexpressibly  touching  in  the 
sight  of  enormous  piles  of  architecture,  grey  with 
antiquity,  and  sinking  to  decay.  I  cannot  describe 
the  mute  but  deep-felt  enthusiasm  with  which  I 
have  contemplated  a  vast  monastic  ruin,  like  Tin- 
tern  Abbey,  buried  in  the  bosom  of  a  quiet  valley, 
and  shut  up  from  the  world,  as  though  it  had  existed 
merely  for  itself;  or  a  warrior  pile,  like  Conway 
Castle,  standing  in  stern  loneliness,  on  its  rocky 
heigiit,  a  mere  hollow,  yet  threatening  phantom  of 
departed  power.  They  spread  a  grand  and  melan- 
choly, and,  to  me.  an  unusual  charm  over  the  land- 
scape. I  for  the  first  time  beheld  signs  of  national 
9td  age,  and  empire's  decay  ;  and  proofs  of  the  tran- 


sient and  perishing  glories  of  art,  amidst  the  ever 
springing  and  reviving  fertihty  of  nature. 

"But,  in  fact,  to  me  every  thing  was  full  of 
matter :  The  footsteps  of  history  were  every  whera 
to  be  traced ;  and  poetry  had  breathed  over  and 
sanctified  the  land.  I  experienced  the  delightful 
freshness  of  feehngof  a  child,  to  whom  every  thing 
is  new.  I  pictured  to  myself  a  set  of  inhabitants 
and  a  mode  of  life  for  every  habitation  that  I  saw  ; 
from  the  aristocratical  mansion,  amidst  the  lordly 
repose  of  stately  groves  and  sohtary  parks,  to  the 
straw -thatched  cottage,  with  its  scanty  garden  and 
its  cherished  woodbine.  I  thought  1  never  could 
be  sated  with  the  sweetness  and  freshness  of  a 
country  so  completely  carpeted  with  verdure ; 
where  every  air  breathed  of  the  balmy  pasture  and 
the  honeysuckled  hedge.  I  was  continually  coming 
upon  some  little  document  of  poetry,  in  the  blos- 
somed hawthorn,  the  daisy,  the  cowslip,  the  prim- 
rose, or  some  other  simple  object  that  has  received 
a  supernatural  value  from  tfie  Muse.  The  first 
time  that  I  heard  the  song  of  the  nightingale,  I  was 
intoxicated  more  by  the  delicious  crowd  of  remem- 
bered associations,  than  by  the  melody  of  its  notes  ; 
and  I  shall  never  forget  the  thrill  of  ecstasy  with 
which  I  first  saw  the  lark  rise,  almost  from  beneath 
my  feet,  and  wing  its  musical  flight  up  into  the 
morning  sky." — Vol.  i.  pp.  6 — 9. 

We  know  nothing  more  beautiful  than  the 
melody  of  this  concluding  sentence ;  and  if 
the  reader  be  not  struck  with  its  music,  we 
think  he  has  no  right  to  admire  the  Vision  of 
Mirza^  or  any  of  the  other  delicious  cadences 
oT  Acldison. 

The  Farewell  we  quote  for  the  matter ;  and 
it  is  matter  to  which  we  shall  miss  no  fit  oc- 
casion to  recur, — being  persuaded  not  only 
that  it  is  one  of  higher  moment  than  almost 
any  other  to  which  we  can  now  apply  our- 
selves, but  one  upon  which  the  honest  perse- 
verance, even  of  such  a  work  as  ours  may  in 
time  produce  practical  and  beneficial  effects. 
We  allude  to  the  animosity  which  intemperate 
writers  on  both  sides  are  labouring  to  create, 
or  exasperate,  between  this  country  and 
America,  and  which  we,  and  the  writer  be- 
fore us,  are  most  anxious  to  allay.  There  is 
no  word  in  the  following  quotation  in  which 
we  do  not  most  cordially  concur.  We  receive 
with  peculiar  satisfaction  the  assurances  of 
the  accomplished  author,  as  to  the  kindly 
disposition  of  the  better  part  of  his  country- 
men ;  and  are  disposed  to  place  entire  confi- 
dence in  it,  not  only  from  our  reliance  on  his 
judgment  and  means  of  information,  but  from 
the  accuracy  of  his  representation  of  the  sort 
of  persons  to  whom  the  fashion  of  abusing  the 
Americans  has  now  gone  down,  on  this  side 
of  the  Atlantic.  Nothing,  we  think,  can  b^ 
more  handsome,  persuasive,  or  grateful,  than^ 
the  whole  following  passage.  ^.^ 

"  And  here  let  me  acknowledge  my  warm,  my 
tnankful  feelings,  at  the  effect  produced  by  one  of 
my  trivial  lucubrations.  I  allude  to  the  essay  in 
the  Sketch-Book,  on  the  subject  of  the  Hterary 
feuds  between  England  and  America.  I  cannot 
express  the  heartfelt  delight  I  have  experienced  at 
the  unexpected  sympathy  and  approbation  with 
which  those  remarks  have  been  received  on  both 
sides  of  the  Atlantic.  I  speak  this  not  from  any 
paltry  feelings  of  gratified  vanity  ;  for  I  attribute 
the  effect  to  no  merit  of  mv  pen.  The  paper  in 
question  was  brief  and  casual,  and  the  ideas  it  con- 
veyed were  simple  and  obvious.  '  It  was  the  cause 
it  was  the  cause '  alone.    There  was  a  predisposi- 


BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 


«4] 


tion  on  \hc  part  of  my  reaaers  to  be  favourably  af- 
fected. .Uy  countrymen  responded  in  heart  to  the 
filial  teelings  I  had  avowed  in  their  name  towards 
the  parent  country  ;  and  there  was  a  generots 
sympathy  in  every  English  bosom  towards  a  soli- 
tary individual,  lifting  up  his  voice  in  a  strange  land, 
to  vindicate  the  injured  character  of  his  nation. — 
There  are  some  causes  so  sacred  as  to  carry  with 
them  ah  irresistible  appeal  to  every  virtuous  bosom ; 
and  he  needs  but  little  power  of  eloquence,  who 
defends  the  honour  of  his  wife,  his  mother,  or  his 
country. 

"  I  hail,  therefore,  the  success  of  that  brief  paper, 
as  showing  how  much  good  may  be  done  by  a  kind 
word,  however  feebi'e,  when  spoken  in  season — as 
showing  how  much  dormant  good  feeling  actually 
exists  in  each  country,  towards  the  other,  which 
only  wants  the  slightest  spark  to  kindle  it  into  a 
genial  flame — as  showing,  in  fiict,  what  I  have  all 
along  believed  and  asserted,  that  the  two  nations 
would  grow  together  in  esteem  and  amity,  if  med- 
dling and  malignant  spirits  would  but  throw  by  their 
mischievous  pens,  and  leave  kindred  hearts  to  the 
kindly  impulses  of  nature. 

"I  once  more  assert,  and  I  assert  it  with  in- 
creased conviction  of  its  truth,  that  there  e.xists, 
among  the  great  majority  of  my  countrymen,  a 
favourable  feeling  towards  England.  I  repeat  this 
assertion,  because  I  think  it  a  truth  that  cannot  too 
often  be  reiterated,  and  because  it  has  met  with 
some  contradiction.  Among  all  the  liberal  and  en- 
lightened minds  of  my  countrymen,  among  all  those 
which  eventually  give  a  tone  to  national  opinion, 
there  exists  a  cordial  desire  to  be  on  terms  of  cour- 
tesy and  friendship.  But,  at  the  same  time,  there 
unfortunately  exists  in  those  very  minds  a  distrust 
of  reciprocal  goodwill  on  the  part  of  England. 
They  have  been  rendered  morbidly  sensitive  by  the 
attacks  made  upon  their  country  by  the  English 
press  ;  and  their  occasional  irritability  on  this  sub- 
ject has  been  misinterpreted  into  a  settled  and  un- 
natural hostility. 

*'  For  my  part,  I  consider  this  jealous  sensibility 
as  belonging  to  generous  natures.  I  should  look 
upon  my  countrymen  as  fallen  indeed  from  that 
independence  of  spirit  which  is  their  birth-gift ;  as 
fallen  indeed  from  that  pride  of  character,  which 
they  inherit  from  the  proud  nation  from  which  they 
sprung,  oould  they  tamely  sit  down  under  the  in- 
fliction of  contumely  and  insult.  Indeed,  the  very 
impatience  which  they  show  as  to  the  misrepre- 
sentations of  the  press,  proves  their  respect  for  Eng- 
lish opinion,  and  their  desire  for  English  amity  ;  for 
there  is  never  jealoury  where  there  is  not  strong 
regard. 

"  To  the  magnanimous  spirits  of  both  countries 
must  we  trust  to  carry  such  a  natural  alliance  of 
affection  into  full  effect.  To  pens  more  powerful 
than  mine  1  leave  the  noble  task  of  promoting  the 
cause  of  national  amity.  To  the  intelligent  and 
enlightened  of  my  own  country,  I  address  my 
parting  voice,  entreating  them  to  show  themselves 
superior  to  the  petty  attacks  of  the  ignorant  and  the 
worthless,  and  still  to  look  with  a  dispassionate  and 
philosophic  eye  to  the  moral  character  of  England, 
as  the  intellectual  source  of  our  own  rising  great- 
ness; while  I  appeal  to  every  generous-minded 
Englishman  from  the  slanders  which  disgrace  the 
press,  insult  the  understanding,  and  belie  the  mag- 
nanimity of  his  country  :  and  I  mvite  him  to  look 
to  America,  as  to  a  kindred  nation,  worthy  of  its 
origin  ;  giving,  in  the  healthy  vigour  of  its  growth, 
the  best  of  comments  on  its  parent  stock  ;  and  re- 
flecting, in  the  dawning  brightness  of  its  fame,  the 
moral  effulgence  of  British  glory. 

"/  am  sure,  too,  that  such  appeal  will  not  be 
made  in  vain.  Indeed  I  have  noticed,  for  some 
rime  past,  an  essential  change  in  English  sentiment 
with  regard  to  America.  In  Parliament,  that  foun- 
tain-head of  public  opinion,  there  seems  to  be  an 
emulation,  on  both  sides  of  the  House,  in  holding 
tlu  language  of  courtesy  and  friendship.  The  same 
41 


spirit  is  daily  becoming  more  and  more  prevalent  in 
good  socieiy.  There  is  a  growing  curiosity  con- 
cerning my  country  ;  a  cravmg  desire  lor  correct 
infonnation,  that  cannot  fail  to  lead  to  a  favourable 
understanding.  The  scoffer,  I  trust,  has  had  his 
day;  the  time  of  the  slanderer  is  gone  by.  The 
ribald  jokes,  the  stale  commonplaces,  which  have 
so  long  passed  current  when  America  was  the 
theme,  are  now  banished  to  the  ignorant  and  the 
vulgar,  or  only  perpetuated  by  the  hireling  scrib- 
blers and  traditional  jesters  of  the  press.  The  in- 
telligent and  high-minded  now  pride  themselves 
upon  making  America  a  study. 

Vol.  ii.  pp.  396—403. 

From  the  body  of  the  work,  we  must  in- 
dulge om'selves  with  very  few  citations.  But 
we  cannot  resist  the  following  exquisite  de- 
scription of  a  rainy  Sunday  at  an  inn  in  a 
country  town.  It  is  part  of  the  admirable 
legend  of  "  the  Stout  Gentleman,"  of  which 
we  will  not  trust  ourselves  with  saying  one 
word  more.  The  following,  however,  is  per- 
fect, independent  of  its  connections. 

"It  was  a  rainy  Sunday,  in  the  gloomy  month 
of  November.  I  had  been  detained,  in  the  course 
of  a  journey,  by  a  slight  indisposition,  froiB  which 
I  was  recovering;  but  I  was  still  feverish,  and 
was  obliged  to  keep  within  doors  all  day,  in  an  inn 
of  the  small  town  of  Derby.  A  wet  Sunday  in  a 
country  inn  !  whoever  has  had  the  luck  to  experi- 
ence one  can  alone  judge  of  my  situation.  The 
rain  pattered  against  the  casements ;  the  bells 
tolled  for  church  with  a  melancholy  sound.  I 
went  to  the  windows  in  quest  of  something  to 
amuse  the  eye ;  but  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  been 
placed  completely  out  of  the  reach  of  all  amuse- 
ment. The  windows  of  my  bed-room  looked  out 
among  tiled  roofs  and  stacks  of  chimneys,  while 
those  of  my  sitting-room  commanded  a  full  view 
of  the  stable-yard.  I  know  of  nothing  more  calcu- 
lated to  make  a  man  sick  of  this  world  than  a  stable- 
yard  on  a  rainy  day.  The  place  was  littered  with 
wet  straw  that  had  been  kicked  about  by  travellers 
and  stable-boys.  In  one  corner  was  a  stagnant 
pool  of  water,  surrounding  an  island  of  muck. 
There  were  several  half-drowned  fowls  crowded 
together  under  a  cart,  among  which  was  a  misera- 
ble, crest-fallen  cock,  drenched  out  of  all  life  and 
spirit ;  his  drooping  tail  matted,  as  it  were,  into  a 
single  feather,  along  which  the  water  trickled  from 
his  back.  Near  the  cart  was  a  half-dozing  cow, 
chewing  the  cud,  and  standing  patiently  to  be  rained 
on,  with  wreaths  of  vapour  rising  from  her  reeking 
hide.  A  wall-eyed  horse,  tired  of  the  loneliness 
of  the  stable,  was  poking  his  spectral  head  out  of 
a  window,  with  the  rain  dripping  on  it  from  the 
eaves.  An  unhappy  cur,  chained  to  a  dog-house 
hard  by,  uttered  something  every  now  and  tnen, 
between  a  bark  and  a  yelp.  A  drab  of  a  kitchen 
wench  tramped  backwards  and  forwards  through 
the  yard  in  pattens,  looking  as  sulky  as  the  weather 
itself.  Every  thing,  in  short,  was  comfortless  and 
forlorn — excepting  a  crew  of  hard-drinking  ducks, 
assembled  hke  boon  companions  round  a  puddle, 
and  making  a  riotous  noise  over  their  liquor. 

"  I  sauntered  to  the  window  and  stood  gazing  at 
the  people,  picking  their  way  to  church,  with  petti- 
coats hoisted  mid-leg  high,  and  dripping  umbrellas. 
The  bells  ceased  to  toll,  and  the  streets  became 
silent.  I  then  amused  myself  with  watching  the 
daughters  of  a  tradesman  opposite  ;  who,  being  con- 
fined to  the  house  for  fear  of  wetting  their  Sunday 
finery,  played  off  their  charms  at  the  front  win 
dows,  to  fascinate  the  chance  tenants  of  the  inn 
They  at  length  were  summoned  away  by  a  vignan. 
vinegar-faced  mother,  and  I  had  nothing  further 
from  without  to  amuse  me. 

"  The  day  continued  lowerine  and  gloomy.  The 
slovenly,  ragged,  spongy  clouds,  drifted  heavily 


642 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


along.  There  was  no  variety  even  in  the  rain  ;  it 
was  one  dull,  continued,  monotonous  patter — pat- 
ter— patter,  exceptinj^  i  liat  now  and  then  I  was 
enlivened  by  the  idea  ot  a  brisk  shower,  from  the 
rattling  of  the  drops  upon  a  passing  umbrella.  It 
was  quite  refreshing  (if  I  may  be  allowed  a  hack- 
neyed phrase  of  the  day)  when,  in  the  course  of  the 
morning,  a  horn  blew,  and  a  stage  coach  whirled 
through  the  street,  with  outside  passengers  stuck 
all  over  it,  cowering  under  cotton  umbrellas,  and 
seethed  together,  and  reeking  wiii  the  steams  of 
wet  box-coats  and  upper  Benjamins.  The  sound 
brought  out  from  their  lurking-places  a  crew  of 
vagabond  boys,  and  vagabond  dogs,  and  the  car- 
roty-headed hostler,  and  that  nondescript  animal 
ycleped  Boots,  and  all  the  other  vagabond  race  that 
mfest  the  purlieus  of  an  inn  ;  but  the  bustle  was 
transient.  The  coach  again  whirled  on  its  way  , 
and  boy  and  dog,  and  hostler  and  Boots,  all  slunk 
back  again  to  their  holes.  The  street  again  became 
silent,  and  the  rain  continued  to  rain  on. 

"  The  evening  gradually  wore  away.  The  travel- 
lers read  the  papers  two  or  three  times  over.  Some 
drew  round  the  fire,  and  told  long  stories  about 
their  horses,  about  their  adventures,  their  overturns, 
and  breakings-down.  They  discussed  the  credits  of 
different  merchants  and  different  inns  ;  and  the  two 
wags  told  several  choice  anecdotes  of  pretty  cham- 
bermaids and  kind  landladies.  All  this  passed  as 
they  were  quietly  taking  what  they  called  their 
night-caps,  that  is  to  say,  strong  glasses  of  brandy 
and  water  and  sugar,  or  some  other  mixture  of  the 
kind  ;  after  which,  they  one  after  another  rang  for 
"Boots"  and  the  chambermaid,  and  walked  off  to 
bed,  in  old  shoes,  cut  down  into  marvellously  un- 
comfortable slippers. 

"  There  was  only  one  man  left ;  a  short-legged, 
long-bodied,  plethoric  fellow,  with  a  very  large 
sandy  head.  He  sat  by  himself  with  a  glass  of  port 
wine  negus,  and  a  spoon  ;  sipping  and  stirring,  and 
meditating  and  sipping,  until  nothing  was  left  but 
the  spoon.  He  gradually  fell  asleep  bolt  upright  in 
his  chair,  with  the  empty  glass  standing  before  him  ; 
and  the  candle  seemed  to  fall  asleep  too  !  for  the 
wick  grew  long,  and  black,  and  cabbaged  at  the 
end,  and  dimmed  the  little  light  that  remained  in 
the  chamber.  The  gloom  that  now  prevailed  was 
contagious.  Around  hung  the  shapeless,  and  almost 
spectral  box-coats  of  departed  travellers,  long  since 
buried  in  deep  sleep.  I  only  heard  the  ticking  of 
the  clock,  with  the  deep-drawn  breathings  of  the 
sleeping  toper,  and  the  drippings  of*  the  rain,  drop 
— drop — drop,  from  the  eaves  of  the  house." 

Vol.  i.  pp.  112—130. 

The  whole  description  of  the  Lady  Lilly- 
craft  is  equally  good  in  its  way;  but  we  can 
only  make  room  for  the  portraits  of  her  canine 
attendants. 

"  8Tie  has  brought  two  dogs  with  her  also,  out 
of  a  number  of  pets  which  she  maintains  at  home. 
One  is  a  fat  spaniel,  called  Zephyr — though  heaven 
defend  me  from  such  a  zephyr  I  He  is  fed  out  of 
all  shape  and  comfort ;  his  eyes  are  nearly  strained 
out  of  his  head  ;  he  wheezes  with  corpulency,  and 
cannot  walk  without  great  difficulty.  The  other 
is  a  little,  old,  grey-muzzled  curmudgeon,  with  an 
unhappy  eye,  that  kindles  like  a  coal  if  you  only 
look  at  him  ;  his  nose  turns  up  ;  his  mouth  is  drawn 
into  wrinkles,  so  as  to  show  his  teeth  ;  in  short,  he 
has  altogether  the  look  of  a  dog  far  gone  in  misan- 
thropy, and  totally  sick  of  the  world.  When  he 
walks,  he  has  his  tail  curled  up  so  tight  that  it  seems 
to  lift  his  hind  feet  from  the  ground  ;  and  he  seldom 
makes  use  of  more  than  three  legs  at  a  time,  keep- 
ing the  other  drawn  up  as  a  reserve.  This  last 
wretch  is  called  Beauty. 

"  These  dogs  are  full  of  elegant  ailments  un- 
known to  vulgar  dogs  ;  and  are  petted  and  nursed 
by  Lady  Lillycraft  with  the  tenderest  kindness. 
They  have  cushions  for  their  express  use,  on  which 
ihev  lie  before  ihe  fire,  and  yet  are  apt  to  shiver 


and  moan  if  there  is  the  least  draught  of  air  When 
any  one  enters  the  room,  they  make  a  most  tyran- 
nical barking  that  is  absolutely  deafening.  They 
are  insolent  to  all  the  other  dogs  of  the  establish- 
ment. There  is  a  noble  stag-hound,  a  great  favourite 
of  the  squire's,  who  is  a  privileged  visitor  to  the 
parlour  ;  but  the  moment  he  makes  his  appearance, 
these  intruders  fly  at  him  with  furious  rage  ;  and  I 
have  admired  the  sovereign  indifference  and  con- 
tempt with  which  he  seems  to  look  down  upon  hia 
puny  assailants.  When  her  ladyship  drives  out, 
these  dogs  are  generally  carried  with  her  to  take 
the  air  ;  when  they  look  out  of  each  window  of  the 
carriage,  and  bark  at  all  vulgar  pedestrian  dogs." 
Vol,  i.  pp.  75 — 77. 

We  shall  venture  on  but  one  extract  more 
— and  it  shall  be  a  specimen  of  the  author's 
more  pensive  vein.  It  is  from  the  chapter 
of  "  Family  Reliques ;"  and  affords,  especially 
in  the  latter  part,  another  striking  instance  of 
the  pathetic  melody  of  his  style.  The  intro- 
ductory part  is  also  a  good  specimen  of  his 
sedulous,  and  not  altogether  unsuccessful 
imitation  of  the  inimitable  diction  and  collo- 
quial graces  of  Addison. 

"  The  place,  however,  which  abounds  most  with 
mementos  of  past  times,  is  the  picture  gallery  ;  and 
there  is  something  strangely  pleasing,  though  mel- 
ancholy, in  considering  the  long  rows  of  portraits 
which  compose  the  greater  part  of  the  collection. 
They  furnish  a  kind  of  narrative  of  the  hves  of  the 
family  worthies,  which  I  am  enabled  to  read  with 
the  assistance  of  the  venerable  housekeeper,  who 
is  the  family  chronicler,  prompted  occasionally  by 
Master  Sinion.  There  is  the  progress  of  a  fine 
lady,  for  instance,  through  a  variety  of  portraits. 
One  represents  her  as  a  little  girl,  with  a  long  waist 
and  hoop,  holding  a  kitten  in  her  arms,  and  ogling 
the  spectator  out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes,  as  i? 
she  could  not  turn  her  head.  In  another  we  find 
her  in  the  freshness  of  youthful  beauty,  when  she 
was  a  celebrated  belle,  and  so  hard-hearted  as  to 
cause  several  unfortunate  gentlemen  to  run  despe- 
rate and  write  bad  poetry.  In  another  she  is  de- 
picted as  a  stately  dame,  in  the  maturity  of  her 
charms,  next  to  the  portrait  of  her  husband,  a  gal- 
lant colonel  in  full-bottomed  wig  and  gold-laced  hat, 
who  was  killed  abroad  :  and,  finally,  her  monument 
is  in  the  church,  the  spire  of  which  may  be  seen 
from  the  window,  where  her  effigy  is  carved  in 
marble,  and  represents  her  as  a  venerable  dame  of 
seventy-six. — There  is  one  group  that  particularly 
interested  me.  It  consisted  of  fdur  sisters  of  nearly 
the  same  age,  who  flourished  about  a  century  since, 
and,  if  I  may  judge  from  their  portraits,  were  ex- 
tremely beautiful.  I  can  imagine  what  a  scene  of 
gaiety  and  romance  this  old  mansion  must  have 
been,  when  they  were  in  the  hey-day  of  their 
charms ;  when  they  passed  like  beautiful  visions 
through  its  halls,  or  stepped  daintily  to  music  in  the 
revels  and  dances  of  the  cedar  gallery  ;  or  printed, 
with  delicate  feet,  the  velvet  verdure  of  these 
lawns,"  &.C. 

"  When  I  look  at  these  faint  records  of  gallantry 
and  tenderness ;  when  I  contemplate  the  fading 
portraits  of  these  beautiful  girls,  and  think  that 
they  have  long  since  bloomed,  reigned,  grown  old, 
died,  and  passed  away,  and  with  them  all  thejr 
graces,  their  triumphs,  their  rivalries,  their  admi- 
rers ;  the  whole  empire  of  love  and  pleasure  in  which 
they  ruled—'  all  dead,  all  buried,  all  forgotten,'— 
I  find  a  cloud  of  melancholy  stealing  over  the  pres- 
ent gaieties  around  me.  I  was  gazing,  in  a  musing 
mood,  this  very  morning,  at  the  portrait  of  the  lady 
whose  husband  was  killed  abroad,  when  the  fair 
Julia  entered  the  gallery,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  the 
captain.  The  sun  shone  through  the  row  of  win- 
dows on  her  as  she  passed  along,  and  she  seemed 
to  beam  out  each  time  into  brightness,  and  relapse 


CLARKSON  ON  QUAKEfllSM. 


643 


igain  into  shade,  until  the  door  at  the  bottom  of  the 
gallery  finally  closed  after  her.  I  felt  a  sadness  of 
heart  at  the  idea,  that  this  was  an  emblem  of  her 
lot ;  a  few  more  years  of  sunshine  and  shade,  and 
all  this  life,  and  loveliness,  and  enjoyment,  will 
have  ceased,  and  nothing  be  left  to  commemorate 
this  beautiful  being  but  one  more  perishable  por- 
trait :  to  awaken,  perhaps,  the  trite  speculations  of 
some  future  loiterer,  like  myself,  when  I  also  and 
my  scribblings  shall  have  lived  through  our  brief 
existence  and  been  forgotten." — Vol.  i.  pp.  64,  65. 

We  can  scarcely  afford  room  even  to  al- 
lude to  the  rest  of  this  elegant  miscellany. 
"  Ready-money  Jack"  is  admirable  through- 
out— and  the  old  General  very  good.  The 
lovers  are,  as  usual,  the  most  insipid.  The 
Gypsies  are  sketched  with  great  elegance  as 
well  as  spirit — and  Master  Simon  is  quite  de- 
lightful, in  all  the  varieties  of  his  ever  versa- 
tile character.  Perhaps  the  most  pleasing 
thing  about  all  these  personages,  is  the  perfect 
innocence  and  singleness  of  purpose  which 
seems  to  belong  to  them — and  which,  even 
when  it  raises  a  gentle  smile  at  their  expense, 
breathes  over  the  whole  scene  they  inhabit 
an  air  of  attraction  and  respect — like  that 
which  reigns  in  the  De  Coverley  pictures  of 


Addison.  Of  the  exotic  Tales  which  serve  tc 
fill  up  the  volume?,  that  of  "Dolph  Heyliger'- 
is  incomparably  die  best — and  is  more  char- 
acteristic, perhaps,  both  of  the  author's  turn 
of  imagination  and  cast  of  humour,  than  any 
thing  else  in  the  work.  '-The  Student  of 
Salamanca"  is  too  long;  and  deals  rather 
largely  in  the  commonplaces  of  romantic  ad- 
venture : —  while  -'Annette  de  la  Barbe," 
though  pretty  and  pathetic  in  some  passages, 
is,  on  the  whole,  rather  fade  and  finical — and 
too  much  in  the  style  of  the  sentimental  after- 
pieces which  we  have  lately  borrowed  from 
the  Parisian  theatres. 

On  the  whole,  we  are  very  sorry  to  receive 
Mr.  Crayon's  farewell — and  we  return  it  with 
the  utmost  cordiality.  We  thank  him  most 
sincerely,  for  the  pleasure  he  has  given  us — 
for  the  kindness  he  has  shown  to  our  country 
— and  for  the  lessons  he-  has  taught,  both  , 
here  and  in  his  native  land,  of  good  taste, 
good  nature,  and  nationalliberality.  We  hope 
he  will  come  back  among  us  soon — and  re- 
member us  while  he  is  away ;  and  can  assure 
him,  that  he  is  in  no  danger  of  being  speedily 
forgotten. 


(aprtl,    1807.) 

A  Portraiture  of  Quakerism,  as  taken  from  a  View  of  the  Moral  Educatiori,  Discipline,  Peculiar 
Customs,  Religious  Principles,  Political  and  Civil  Economy,  and  Character  of  the  Society  of 
Friends.  By  Thomas  Clarkson,  M.  A.  Author  of  several  Essays  on  the  Subject  of  the 
Slave  Trade.     8vo.     3  vols.     London :  1806. 


This,  we  think,  is  a  book  peculiarly  fitted 
ibr  reviewing :  For  it  contains  many  things 
(vhich  most  people  will  have  some  curiosity 
to  hear  about :  and  is  at  the  same  time  so  in- 
tolerably dull  and  tedious,  that  no  voluntary 
reader  could  possibly  get  through  with  it. 

The  author,  whose  meritorious  exertions  for 
the  abolition  of  the  slave  trade  brought  him 
hito  public  notice  a  great  many  years  ago, 
was  recommended  by  this  circumstance  to 
the  favour  and  the  confidence  of  the  Quakers, 
who  had  long  been  unanimous  in  that  good 
cause ;  and  was  led  to  such  an  extensive  and 
cordial  intercourse  with  them  in  all  parts  of 
the  kingdom,  that  he  came  at  last  to  have  a 
more  thorough  knowledge  of  their  tenets  and 
living  manners  than  any  other  person  out  of 
the  society  could  easily  obtain.  The  effect 
of  this  knowledge  has  evidently  been  to  ex- 
cite in  him  such  an  affection  and  esteem 
for  those  worthy  sectaries,  as  we  think  can 
scarcely  fail  to  issue  in  his  public  conversion ; 
and,  in  the  mean  time,  has  produced  a  more 
minute  exposition,  and  a  more  elaborate  de- 
fence of  their  doctrines  and  practices,  than 
has  recently  been  drawn  from  any  of  their 
own  body. 

The  book,  which  is  full  of  repetitions  and 
plagiarisms,  is  distributed  into  a  number  of 
oeedless  sections,  arranged  in  a  most  unna- 
tural and  inconvenient  order.  All  that  any 
body  can  want  to  know  about  the  Quakers, 


might  evidently  have  been  told,  either  under 
the  head  of  their  Doctrinal  tenets,  or  of  their 
peculiar  Practices ;  but  Mr.  Clarkson,  with  a 
certain  elaborate  infelicity  of  method,  chooses 
to  discuss  the  merits  of  this  society  under  the 
several  titles,  of  their  moral  education — their 
discipline — their  peculiar  customs — their  re- 
ligion— their  great  tenets — and  their  charac- 
ter; and  not  finding  even  this  ample  distribu- 
tion sufficient  to  include  all  he  had  to  say  on 
the  subject,  he  fills  a  supplemental  half-vo- 
lume, with  repetitions  and  trifles,  under  the 
humiliating  name  of  miscellaneous  particulars. 
Quakerism  had  certainly  undergone  a  con- 
siderable change  in  the  quality  and  spirit  of 
its  votaries,  from  the  time  when  George  Fox 
went  about  pronouncing  woes  against  cities, 
attacking  priests  in  their  pulpits,  and  exhort- 
ing justices  of  the  peace  to  do  justice,  to  the 
time  when  such  men  as  Penn  and  Barclay 
came  into  the  society  "by  convincement," 
and  published  such  vindications  of  its  doc- 
trine, as  few  of  its  opponents  have  found  it 
convenient  to  answer.  The  change  since 
their  time  appears  to  have  been  much  less 
considerable.  The  greater  part  of  these  vo- 
lumes may  be  considered,  indeed,  as  a  wilful 
deterioration  of  Barclay's  Apology :  and  it  is 
only  where  he  treats  of  the  private  manners 
and  actual  opinions  of  the  modem  Quakers, 
that  Mr.  Clarkson  communicates  any  thing 
which  a  curious  reader  might  not  have  learnt 


M4 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


from  that  celebrated  production.  The  lauda- 
tory and  argumentative  tone  which  he  main- 
tains throughout,  gives  an  air  of  partiality  to 
his  statements  which  naturally  diminishes 
our  reliance  on  their  accuracy:  and  as  the 
argument  is  often  extremely  bad,  and  the 
praise  apparently  unmerited,  we  are  rather 
inclined  to  think  that  his  work  will  make  a 
less  powerful  impression  in  favour  of  the 
"  friends,"  than  might  have  been  effected  by 
a  more  moderate  advocate.  With  many  praise- 
worthy maxims  and  principles  for  their  moral 
conduct,  the  Quakers,  we  think,  have  but  little 
to  say  for  most  of  their  peculiar  practices ;  and 
make  a  much  better  figure  when  defending 
their  theological  mysteries,  than  when  vindi- 
cating the  usages  by  which  they  are  separated 
from  the  rest  of  the  people  in  the  ordinary  in- 
tercourse of  life.  It  will  be  more  convenient, 
however,  to  state  out  observations  on  their 
reasonings,  as  we  attend  Mr.  Clarkson  through 
his  account  of- their  principles  and  practice. 

He  enters  upon  his  task  with  such  a  wretch- 
ed display  of  false  eloquence,  that  we  were 
very  near  throwing  away  the  book.  Our 
readers  will  scarcely  accuse  us  of  impatience, 
when  we  inform  them  that  the  dissertation 
on  the  moral  education  of  the  Quakers  begins 
with  the  following  sentence  : — 

"  When  the  blooming  spring  sheds  abroad  its 
benign  influence,  man  feels  it  equally  with  the  rest 
of  created  nature.  The  blood  circulates  more  freely, 
and  a  new  current  of  life  seems  to  be  diffused  in  his 
veins.  The  aged  man  is  enlivened,  and  the  sick 
man  feels  himself  refreshed.  Good  spirits  and 
cheerful  countenances  succeed.  But  as  the  year 
changes  in  its  seasons,  and  rolls  round  to  its  end, 
the  tide  seems  to  slacken,  and  the  current  of  feehng 
to  return  to  its  former  level." — Vol.  i.  p.  13. 

This  may  serve,  once  for  all,  as  a  specimen 
of  Mr.  Clarkson's  taste  and  powers  in  fine 
writing,  and  as  an  apology  for  our  abstaining, 
in  our  charity,  for  making  any  further  ob- 
servations on  his  style.  Under  the  head  of 
moral  education,  we  are  informed  that  the 
Quakers  discourage,  and  strictly  prohibit  in 
their  youth,  all  games  of  chance,  music,  dan- 
cing, novel  reading,  field  sports  of  every  de- 
scription, and,  in  general,  the  use  of  idle 
words  and  unprofitable  conversation.  The 
motives  of  these  several  prohibitions  are  dis- 
cussed in  separate  chapters  of  extreme  dul- 
ness  and  prolixity.  It  is  necessary,  however, 
in  order  to  come  to  a  right  understanding 
with  those  austere  persons  and  their  apologist, 
10  enter  a  little  into  the  discussion. 

The  basis  of  the  Quaker  morality  seems 
evidently  to  be,  that  gaiety  and  merriment 
ought,  upon  all  occasions,  to  be  discouraged ; 
that  everything  w^hich  tends  merely  to  ex- 
hilaration or  enjoyment,  has  in  it  a  taint  of 
criminality ;  and  that  one  of  the  chief  duties 
of  man  is  to  be  always  serious  and  solemn, 
ani  constantly  occupied,  either  with  his 
worldly  prosperity,  or  his  eternal  welfare.  If 
it  were  not  for  the  attention  which  is  thus 
permitted  to  the  accumulation  of  wealth,  the 
Quakers  would  scarcely  be  distinguishable 
from  the  other  gloomy  sectaries,  who  main- 
tain, that  man  was  put  into  this  w^orld  for  no 


other  purpose,  but  to  mortify  himself  mti»  a 
proper  condition  for  the  nextj — that  ail  oui 
feelings  of  ridicule  and  sociality,  and  all  the 
spring  and  gaiety  of  the  animal  spirits  of 
youth,  were  given  us  only  for  our  temptation  j 
and  that,  considering  the  shortness  of  this  life, 
and  the  risk  he  runs  of  damnation  after  it, 
man  ought  evidently  to  pass  his  days  in  de- 
jection and  terror,  and  to  shut  his  heart  to 
every  pleasurable  emotion  which  this  transi- 
tory scene  might  hold  out  to  the  unthinking. 
The  fundamental  folly  of  these  ascetic  max- 
ims has  prevented  the  Quakers  from  adopt- 
ing them  in  their  full  extent;  but  all  the 
peculiarities  of  their  manners  m.ay  evidently 
be  referred  to  this  source ;  and  the  qualifica- 
tions and  exceptions  under  which  they  main- 
tain the  duty  of  abstaining  from  enjoyment, 
serve  only,  in  most  instances,  to  bring  upon 
their  reasonings  the  additional  charge  of  in- 
consistency. 

Their  objection  to  cards,  dice,  wagers,  horse- 
races, &c.  is  said  to  be,  first,  that  they  may 
lead  to  a  spirit  of  gaming,  which  leads,  again, 
to  obvious  unhappiness  and  immorality;  but 
chiefly,  that  they  are  sources  of  amusement 
unworthy  of  a  sober  Christian,  and  tend,  by 
producing  an  unreasonable  excitement,  to  dis- 
turb that  tranquillity  and  equanimity  which 
they  look  upon  as  essential  to  moral  virtue 

"  They  believe,"  says  Mr.  Clarkson,  "  that  si  11- 
ness  and  quietness  both  of  spirit  and  of  body,  are 
necessary,  as  far  as  they  can  be  obtained.  Hence, 
Quaker  children  are  rebuked  for  all  expressions  of 
anger,  as  tending  to  raise  those  feelings  which 
ought  to  be  suppressed :  a  raising  even  of  the  voice 
beyond  due  bounds,  is  discouraged  as  leading  to 
the  disturbance  of  their  minds.  They  are  taught 
to  rise  in  the  morning  in  quietness  ;  to  go  about 
their  ordinary  occupation  with  quietness;  and  to 
retire  in  quietness  to  their  beds." 

Now  this,  we  think,  is  a  very  miserable 
picture.  The  great  curse  of  life,  we  believe, 
in  all  conditions  above  the  lowest,  is  its  ex- 
cessive stillness  and  quietness,  and  the  want 
of  interest  and  excitement  which  it  aflfords : 
and  though  we  certainly  do  not  approve  of 
cards  and  wagers  as  the  best  exhilarators  of 
the  spirits,  we  cannot  possibly  concur  in  the 
principle  upon  which  they  are  rejected  with 
such  abhorrence  by  this  rigid  society.  A  re- 
mark which  Mr.  Clarkson  himself  makes  af- 
terwards,'might  have  led  him  to  doubt  of  the 
soundness  of  their  petrifying  principles. 

"  It  has  often  been  observed,"  he  says,  "  that  a 
Quaker  Boy  has  an  unnatural  appearance.  The 
idea  has  arisen  from  his  dress  and  his  sedateness, 
which,  taken  together,  have  produced  an  appear- 
ance of  age  above  the  youth  in  his  countenance.  I 
have  often  been  surprised  to  hear  young  Quakers 
talk  of  the  folly  and  vanity  of  pursuits  in  which  per- 
sons, older  than  themselves,  were  then  embarking 
in  pursuit  of  pleasure."  &.c. 

We  feel  no  admiration,  we  will  confess,  foi 
prodigies  of  this  description ;  and  think  that 
the  world  is  but  little  indebted  to  those  moral- 
ists, who,  in  their  efforts  to  ameliorate  our 
condition,  begin  with  constraining  the  volatile 
spirit  of  childhood  into  sedateness,  and  extin- 
guishing the  happy  carelessness  and  anima- 
tion of  youth,  by  lessons  of  eternal  quietness. 


CLARKSON  ON  QUAKERISM. 


C46 


The  next  chapter  is  against  mus"-'. ;  and  is, 
as  might  bo  expected,  one  of  the  most  absurd 
and  extravagant  of  the  whole.  This  is  Mr. 
Clarkson's  statement  of  the  Quaker  reasoning 
against  this  dehghtful  art. 

"  Providence  gave  originally  to  man  a  beautiful 
and  a  perfect  world..  He  filled  it  wit.h  things  neces- 
sary, and  things  delightful:  and  yet  man  lias  often 
turned  these  from  their  true  and  original  design. 
The  very  wood  on  the  surface  of  the  earth  he  has 
cut  down,  and  the  very  stone  and  metal  in  its  bowels 
he  has  hewn  and  cast,  and  converted  into  a  graven 
image,  and  worshipped  in  the  place  of  his  benefi- 
cent Creator.  The  food  which  he  has  given  him 
for  his  nourishment,  he  has  frequently  converted 
by  his  intemperance  into  the  means  of  injuring  his 
health.  The  wine,  that  was  designed  to  make  his 
heart  glad,  on  reasonable  and  necessary  occasions, 
he  has  used  often  to  the  stupefaction  of  his  senses, 
and  the  degradation  of  his  moral  character.  The 
very  raiment,  which  has  been  aflforded  him  for  his 
body,  he  has  abused  also,  so  that  it  has  frequently 
become  a  source  for  the  excitement  of  his  pride. 

"  Just  so  it  has  been,  and  so  it  is,  with  Music,  at 
the  present  day." 

We  do  not  think  we  ever  before  met  with 
an  argument  so  unskilfully,  or  rather  so  pre- 
posterously put :  Since,  if  it  follows,  from  these 
premises,  that  music  ought  to  be  entirely  re- 
lected  and  avoided,  it  must  follow  also,  that 
we  should  go  naked,  and  neither  eat  nor  drink ! 
and  as  to  the  arguments  that  follow  against 
the  cultivation  of  music,  because  there  are 
some  obscene  and  some  bacchanalian  songs, 
which  it  would  be  improper  for  young  persons 
to  learn,  they  are  obviously  capable  of  being 
used,  with  exactly  the  same  force,  against 
their  learning  to  read,  because  there  are  im- 
moral and  heretical  books,  which  may  possi- 
bly fall  into  their  hands.  The  most  authentic 
and  sincere  reason,  however,  we  believe,  is 
one  which  rests  immediately  upon  the  gene- 
ral ascetic  principle  to  which  we  have  already 
made  reference,  viz.  that  "music  tends  to 
self- gratification,  which  is  not  allowable  in  the 
Christian  system."  Now,  as  this  same  self- 
denying  principle  is  really  at  the  bottom  of 
most  of  the  Quaker  prohibitions,  it  may  be 
worth  while  to  consider,  in  a  few  words,  how 
far  it  can  be  reconciled  to  reason  or  morality. 
All  men,  we  humbly  conceive,  are  under 
the  necessity  of  pursuing  their  own  happiness ; 
and  cannot  even  be  conceived  as  ever  pursu- 
ing any  thing  else.  The  only  difference  be- 
tween the  sensualist  and  the  ascetic  is,  that 
the  former  pursues  an  immediate,  and  the 
other  a  remote  happiness ;  or,  that  the  one 
pursues  an  intellectual,  and  the  other  a  bodily 
gratification.  The  penitent  who  passes  his 
days  in  mortification,  does  so  unquestionably 
from  the  love  of  enjojTnent ;  either  because 
he  thinks  this  the  surest  way  to  attain  eternal 
happiness  in  a  future  world,  or  because  he 
finds  the  admiration  of  mankind  a  sufficient 
compensation,  even  in  this  life,  for  the  hard- 
ships by  which  he  extorts  it.  It  appears, 
therefore,  that  self-gratification,  so  far  from 
being  an  unlawful  object  of  pursuit,  is  neces- 
sarily the  only  object  which  a  rational  being 
can  be  conceived  to  pursue ;  and  consequently, 
that  to  argue  against  any  practice,  merely  that 
t  is  attended  with  enjoyment,  is  to  give  it  a 


recommendation  which  must  operate  in  its  fa. 
vour,  in  the  first  instance  at  least,  even  with 
the  most  rigid  moralist.  The  only  sound  or 
consistent  form  of  the  argument,  in  short,  is 
that  which  was  manfully  adopted  by  the  mor- 
tified hermits  of  the  early  ages;  but  is  ex- 
pressly disclaimed  for  the  Quakers  by  theii 
present  apologist,  viz.  that  our  well-being  in 
this  world  is  a  matter  of  so  very  little  con- 
cern, that  it  is  altogether  unworthy  of  a  rea- 
sonable being  to  bestow  any  care  upon  it ;  and 
that  our  chance  of  well-being  in  another  world 
depends  so  much  upon  our  anxious  endeavours 
after  piety  upon  earth,  that  it  is  our  dut}-  to 
employ  every  moment  of  our  fleeting  and 
uncertain  lives  in  meditation  and  prayer;  and 
consequently  altogether  sinful  and  imprudent 
to  indulge  any  propensities  which  may  inter- 
rupt those  holy  exercises,  or  beget  in  us  any 
interest  in  sublunary  things. 

There  is  evidently  a  tacit  aspiration  after 
this  sublime  absurdity  in  almost  all  the  Qua- 
ker prohibitions;  and  we  strongly  suspect, 
that  honest  George  Fox,  when  he  inhabited  a 
hollow  tree  in  the  vale  of  Beevor,  taught  noth- 
ing less  to  his  disciples.  The  condemnation 
of  music  and  dancing,  and  all  idle  speaking, 
was  therefore  quite  consistent  in  him;  but 
since  the  permission  of  gainful  arts,  and  of 
most  of  the  luxuries  which  wealth  can  pro- 
cure, to  his  disciples,  it  is  no  longer  so  easy  to 
reconcile  these  condemnations,  either  to  rea- 
son, or  to  the  rest  of  their  practice.  A  Quaker 
may  suspend  all  apparent  care  of  his  salva- 
tion, and  occupy  himself  entirely  Avith  his 
worldly  business,  for  six  days  in  the  week, 
like  any  other  Christian.  It  is  even  thought 
laudable  in  him  to  set  an  example  of  diligence 
and  industry  to  those  around  him;  and  the 
fruits  of  this  industry  he  is  by  no  means  re- 
quired to  bestow  in  relieving  the  poor,  or  for 
the  promotion  of  piety.  He  is  allowed  to  em- 
ploy it  for  self-gratification,  in  almost  every 
way — but  the  most  social  and  agreeable  !  He 
may  keep  an  excellent  table  and  garden,  and 
be  driven  about  in  an  easy  chariot  by  a  pious 
coachman  and  two,  or  even  four,  plump  horses; 
but  his  plate  must  be  without  carving,  and  his 
carriage  and  horses  (perhaps  his  flowers  also] 
of  a  dusky  colour.  His  guests  may  talk  ot 
oxen  and  broadcloth  as  long  as  they  think  fil^ 
but  wit  and  gaiety  are  entirely  proscribed, 
and  topics  of  literature  but  rarely  allowed. 
His  boys  and  girls  are  bred  up  to  a  premature 
knowledge  of  bargaining  and  housekeeping ; 
but  wheii  their  bounding  spirits  are  struggling 
in  every  limb,  they  must  not  violate  theii  se- 
datenesshy R  single  skip; — their  stillnessmnst 
not  be  disturbed  by  raising  their  voices  be- 
yond their  common  pilch; — and  they  would 
be  disowned,  if  they  were  to  tune  their  inno- 
cent voices  in  a  hymn  to  their  great  Benefac- 
tor !  We  cannot  help  saying,  that  all  this  is 
absurd  and  indefensible.  Either  let  the  Qua- 
kers renounce  all  the  enjoyments  of  this  life, 
or  take  all  that  are  innocent.  The  pursuit  of 
wealth  surely  holds  out  a  greater  temptation 
to  immorality,  than  the  study  of  music.  Let 
them,  then,  either  disown  those  who  accurna- 
late  more  than  is  necessary  for  their  subsist 


<46 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


ence,  or  permit  those  who  have  leisure,  to 
employ  it  in  something  better  than  money - 
getting.  To  allow  a  man  to  have  a  house  and 
retinue,  from  the  expenses  of  which  fifty  poor 
families  might  be  supported,  and  ar  the  same 
time  to  interdict  a  fold  in  his  coat,  or  a  ruffle 
to  his  shirt,  on  account  of  their  costliness  and 
vanity,  is  as  ridiculous,  and  as  superstitious, 
as  it  is  for  the  Church  of  Rome  to  permit  one 
of  her  cardinals  to  sit  down,  on  a  meagre  day, 
to  fifty  costly  and  delicious  dishes  of  fish  and 
pastry,  while  it  excommunicates  a  peasant  for 
breaking  through  the  holy  abstinence  with  a 
morsel  of  rusty  bacon.  With  those  general 
impressions,  we  shall  easily  dispose  of  their 
other  peculiarities. 

The  amusements  of  the  theatre  are  strictly 
forbidden  to  Quakers  of  every  description; 
and  this,  partly  because  many  plays  are  im- 
moral, but  chiefly  because,  on  the  stage, 
"  men  personate  characters  that  are  not  their 
own ;  and  thus  become  altogether  sophisti- 
cated in  their  looks,  words,  and  actions,  which 
is  contrary  to  the  simplicity  and  truth  requir- 
ed by  Christianity!"  We  scarcely  think  the 
Quakers  will  be  much  obliged  to  Mr.  Clarkson 
for  imputing  this  kind  of  reasoning  to  them  : 
•  And,  for  our  own  parts,  we  would  much  rather 
hear  at  once  that  the  play-house  was  the  Devil's 
drawing-room,  and  that  the  actors  painted 
their  faces,  and  therefore  deserved  the  fate  of 
Jezebel.  As  to  the  sin  of  personating  charac- 
ters not  their  own,  and  sophisticating  their 
looks  and  words,  it  is  necessarily  committed 
by  every  man  who  reads  aloud  a  Dialogue 
from  the  New  Testament,  or  who  adopts, 
from  the  highest  authority,  a  dramatic  form 
in  his  preaching.  As  to  the  other  objection, 
that  theatrical  amusements  produce  too  high 
a  degree  of  excitement  for  the  necessary  se- 
dateness  of  a  good  Christian,  we  answer,  in 
the  first  place,  that  we  do  not  see  why  a  good 
Christian  should  be  more  sedate  than  his  inno- 
cence and  natural  gaiety  may  dispose  him  to 
be ;  and,  in  the  second  place,  that  the  objection 
proves  Mr.  Clarkson  to  be  laudably  ignorant  of 
the  state  of  the  modern  drama, — which,  we 
are  credibly  informed,  is  by  no  means  so  ex- 
tremely interesting,  as  to  make  men  neglect 
their  business  and  their  duties  to  run  after  it. 

Next  comes  dancing. — The  Quakers  pro- 
hibit this  strictly;  1st,  because  it  implies  the 
accompaniment  of  musiq,  which  has  been 
already  interdicted;  2dly, because  "it  is  use- 
less, and  below  the  dignity  of  the  Christian 
character ;"  3dly,  because  it  implies  assem- 
blies of  idle  persons,  which  lead  to  thought- 
lessness as  to  the  important  duties  of  life; 
4thly,  because  it  gives  rise  to  silly  vanity,  and 
envying,  and  malevolence.  The  lovers  of 
dancing,  we  think,  will  be  able  to  answer 
those  objections  without  our  farther  assist- 
ance ;  such  of  them  as  have  not  been  already 
obviated,  are  applicable,  and  are  in  fact  ap- 
plied by  the  Quakers,  to  every  species  of  ac- 
complishment. They  are  applicable  also, 
though  the  Quakers  do  not  so  apply  them,  to 
all  money-getting  occupations  in  which  there 
is  room  for  rival; y  and  competition. 

The  reading  of  novels  is  next  prohibited, 


not  so  much,  Mr.  Clarkson  assures  us,  on  a»' 
count  of  their  fictitious  nature,  though  that  i« 
ground  enough  for  the  abhorrence  of  many 
Quakers,  but  on  account  of  their  general  im- 
morality, and  their  tendency  to  produce  an 
undue  excitement  of  mind,  and  to  alienate 
the  attention  from  objects  of  serious  import- 
ance. These  are  good  reasons  against  the 
reading  of  immoral  novels,  and  against  mak- 
ing them  our  sole  or  our  principal  study. 
Other  moralists  are  contented  with  selecting 
and  limiting  the  novels  they  allow  to  be  read. 
The  Quakers  alone  make  it  an  abomination  to 
read  any ;  which  is  like  prohibiting  all  use  of 
wine  or  animal  food,  instead  of  restricting  our 
censures  to  the  excess  or  abuse  of  them. 

Last  of  all,  the  sports  of  the  field  are  pro- 
hibited, partly  on  account  of  the  animal  suf- 
fering they  produce,  and  partly  from  the  hab- 
its of  idleness  and  ferocity  which  they  are 
supposed  to  generate.  This  is  Mr.  Clarkson's 
account  of  the  matter ;  but  we  shall  probably 
form  a  more  correct  idea  of  the  true  Quaker 
principle,  from  being  told  that  George  Fox 
•■  considered  that  man  in  the  fall,  or  the  apos- 
tate man,  had  a  vision  so  indistinct  and  vitia- 
ted, that  he  could  not  see  the  animals  of  the 
creation  as  he  ought ;  but  that  the  man  who 
was  restored,  or  the  spiritual  Christian,  had  a 
new  and  clear  discernment  concerning  them, 
which  would  oblige  him  to  consider  and  treat 
them  in  a  proper  manner."  The  Quakers, 
however,  allow  the  netting  of  animals  foi 
food;  and  cannot  well  object  therefore  t(? 
shooting  them,  provided  it  be  done  about  for 
the  same  economical  purpose,  and  not  for 
self-gratification, — at  least  in  the  act  of  killing. 

Mr.  Clarkson  proceeds  next  to  discuss  the 
discipline,  as  he  cafls  it,  or  interior'  govern- 
ment of  the  Quaker  society ;  but  we  think  it 
more  natural  to  proceed  to  the  consideration 
of  what  he  announces  as  their  peculiar  cus- 
toms, which,  for  any  thing  we  see,  might  all 
have  been  classed  among  the  prohibitions 
which  constitute  their  moral  education. 

The  first,  is  the  peculiarity  of  their  dress. 
The  original  rule,  he  says,  was  only  that  it 
should  be  plain  and  cheap.  He  vindicates 
George  Fox,  we  think  very  successfully,  from 
the  charge  of  having  gone  about  in  a  leathern 
doublet ;  and  maintains,  that  the  present  dress 
of  the  Quakers  is  neither  more  nor  less  than 
the  common  dress  of  grave  and  sober  persons 
of  the  middling  rank  at  the  first  institution  of 
the  society ;  and  that  they  have  retained  it, 
not  out  of  any  superstitious  opinion  of  its 
sanctity,  but  because  they  thought  it  would 
indicate  a  frivolous  vanity  to  change  it,  unless 
for  some  reason  of  convenience.  We  should 
have  thought  it  convenience  enough  to  avoid 
singularity  and  misconstruction  of  motives. 
Except  that  the  men  now  wear  loops  to  their 
hats,  and  that  the  women  have  in  a  great 
measure  given  up  their  black  hoods  and  green 
aprons,  their  costume  is  believed  to  be  almost 
exactly  the  same  as  it  was  two  hundred  years 
ago.  They  have  a  similar  rule  as  to  their 
furniture ;  which,  though  sometimes  elegant 
and  costly,  is  uniformly  plain,  and  free  from 
glare  or  ostentation.     In  conformity  with  thi? 


CLARKSON  ON  QUAKERISM. 


647 


principle, they  do  not  decorate  their  houses  with 
pictures  or  prints,  and  in  general  discourage 
the  practic*?  of  taking  portraits;  for  which 
piece  of  abstinence  Mr.  Clarkson  gives  the  fol- 
lowing simple  reason.  "  The  first  Quakers  con- 
sidering themselves  as  poor  helpless  creatures, 
and  as  little  better  than  dust  and  ashes,  had 
but  a  mean  idea  of  their  own  images  !" 

One  of  the  most  prominent  peculiarities  in 
the  Quaker  customs,  relates  to  their  language. 
They  insist,  in  the  first  place,  upon  saying 
thou  instead  of  you  ;  and  this  was  an  innova- 
tion upon  which  their  founder  seems  to  have 
valued  himself  at  least  as  much  as  upon  any 
other  part  of  his  system.  "  The  use  of  thou," 
says  honest  George  Fox,  wnth  visible  com- 
placency, "was  a  sore  cut  to  proud  flesh!" 
and  many  beatings,  and  revilings,  and  hours 
of  durance  in  the  stocks,  did  he  triumphantly 
endure  for  his  intrepid  adherence  to  this  gram- 
matical propriety.  Except  that  it  is  (or  rather 
was)  grammatically  correct,  we  really  can  see 
no  merit  in  this  form  of  speech.  The  chief 
Quaker  reason  for  it,  however,  is,  that  the  use 
of  "  you  "  to  a  single  person  is  a  heinous  piece 
of  flattery,  and  an  instance  of  the  grossest 
and  meanest  adulation.  It  is  obvious,  how- 
ever, that  what  is  applied  to  all  men  without 
exception,  cannot  well  be  adulation.  If  princes 
and  patrons  alone  were  called  '-you,"  while 
"  thou  "  was  still  used  to  inferiors  or  equals, 
we  could  understand  why  the  levelling  prin- 
ciple of  the  Quakers  should  set  itself  against 
the  distinction;  but  if  "you"  be  invariably 
and  indiscriminately  used  to  the  very  lowest 
of  mankind, — to  negroes,  felons,  and  toad- 
eaters, — it  is  perfectly  obvious,  that  no  per- 
son's vanity  can  possibly  be  pufl'ed  up  by  re- 
ceiving it  ]  and  that  the  most  contemptuous 
misanthropist  may  employ  it  without  any 
scruple.  Comparing  the  said  pronouns  to- 
gether, indeed,  in  this  respect,  it  is  notorious, 
that  '•  thou  "  is,  with  us,  by  far  the  most  flat- 
tering compellation  of  the  two.  It  is  the  form 
in  which  men  address  the  Deity ;  and  in  which 
all  tragical  love  letters,  and  verses  of  solemn 
adulation,  are  conceived.  "You"  belongs 
unquestionably  to  familiar  and  equal  conver- 
sation. In  truth,  it  is  altogether  absurd  to 
consider  "you"  as  exclusively  a  plural  pro- 
noun in  the  modern  English  language.  It  may 
be  a  matter  of  history  that  it  was  originally 
used  as  a  plural  only ;  and  it  may  be  a  matter 
of  theory  that  it  was  first  applied  to  individu- 
als on  a  principle  of  flattery  ]  but  the  fact  is, 
that  it  is  now  our  second  person  singular. 
When  applied  to  an  individual,  it  never  ex- 
cites any  idea  either  of  plurality  or  of  adula- 
tion; but  excites  precisely  and  exactly  the 
idea  that  was  excited  by  the  use  of  "  thou  " 
in  an  earlier  stage  of  the  language.  There  is 
no  more  impropriety  in  the  use  of  it,  there- 
fore, than  in  the  use  of  any  modern  term 
which  has  superseded  an  obsolete  one ;  nor 
any  more  virtue  in  reviving  the  use  of  "thou," 
than  there  would  be  in  reviving  any  other  an- 
tiquated word.  It  would  be  just  as  reasonable 
to  talk  always  of  our  doublets  and  hose,  and 
eschew  all  mention  of  coats  or  stockings^  as  a 
tearful  abomination. 


I  The  same  observations  apply  to  the  other 
Quaker  principle  of  refusing  to  call  any  man 
Mr.  or  Sir,  or  to  subscribe  themselves  in  their 
letters,  as  any  man's  humble  servant.  Their 
reasons  for  this  refusal,  are,  first,  that  the 
common  phrases  import  a  falsehood;  and, 
secondly,  that  they  puff"  up  vain  man  with 
conceit.  Now,  as  to  the  falsehood,  we  have 
to.  observe,  that  the  words  objected  to,  really 
do  not  mean  any  thing  about  bondage  or  do- 
minion when  used  on  those  occasions;  anc' 
neither  are  so  understood,  nor  are  in  danger 
of  being  so  understood,  by  any  one  who  hears 
them.  Words  are  significant  sounds;  and, 
beyond  question,  it  is  solely  in  consequence 
of  the  meaning  they  convey,  that  men  can  be 
responsible  for  using  them.  Now  the  only 
meaning  which  can  be  inquired  after  in  this 
respect,  is  the  meaning  of  the  person  who 
speaks,  and  of  the  person  who  hears ;  but 
neither  the  speaker  nor  the  hearer,  with  us, 
understand  the  appellation  of  Mr.,  prefixed  to 
a  man's  name,  to  import  any  mastership  or 
dominion  in  him  relatively  to  the  other.  It  is 
merely  a  customary  addition,  which  means 
nothing  but  that  you  wish  to  speak  of  the  in- 
dividual with  civility.  That  the  word  em 
ployed  to  signify  this,  is  the  same  word,  or 
very  near  the  same  word,  with  one  which,  on 
other  occasions,  signifies  a  master  over  ser- 
vants, does  not  at  all  affect  its  meaning  upon 
this  occasion.  It  does  not,  in  fact,  signify  any 
such  thing  when  prefixed  to  a  man's  propei 
name ;  and  though  it  might  have  been  used 
at  first  out  of  servility,  with  a  view  to  that  re- 
lation, it  is  long  since  that  connection  has  been 
lost ;  and  it  now  signifies  nothing  but  what  is 
perfectly  true  and  correct. 

Etymology  can  point  out  a  multitude  of 
words  which,  wdth  the  same  sound  and  ortho- 
graphy, have  thus  come  to  acquire  a  variety 
of  significations,  and  which  even  the  Quakers 
think  it  sufficiently  lawful  to  use  in  them  all. 
A  stage^  for  example,  signifies  a  certain  dis- 
tance on  the  road — or  a  raised  platform — or  a 
carriage  that  travels  periodically — or  a  certain 
point  in  the  progress  of  any  affair.  It  could 
easily  be  shown,  too,  that  all  these  diff'erent 
meanings  spring  from  each  other,  and  were 
gradually  attributed  to  what  was  originally 
one  and  the  same  word.  The  words,  how 
ever,  are  now  substantially  multiplied,  to  cor 
respond  with  the  meanings ;  and  though  they 
have  the  same  sound  and  orthography,  are 
never  confounded  by  any  one  who  is  ac- 
quainted with  the  language.  But  there  is,  in 
fact,  the  same  difference  between  the  word 
master,  implying  power  and  authority  over 
servants,  and  the  word  Master  or  Mister  pre- 
fixed to  a  proper  name',  and  implying  merely 
a  certain  degree  of  respect  and  civility.  That 
there  is  no  deception  either  intended  or  effect- 
ed, must  be  admitted  by  the  Quakers  them- 
selves :  and  it  is  not  easy  to  conceive  how  the 
guilt  of  falsehood  can  be  incurred  without 
some  such  intention.  Upon  the  very  same 
principle,  they  would  themselves  be  guilty 
of  falsehood,  "if  they  called  a  friend  by  his 
name  of  Walker^  when  he  was  mounted  in 
his  one-horse    chaise,  or  by  his  name   of 


648 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Smith,  if  he  did  not  happen  to  be  a  worker  in 
metal. 

The  most  amusing  part  of  the  matter,  how- 
ever, is,  that  in  their  abhorrence  of  this  ety- 
mological falsehood,  they  have  themselves 
adopted  a  practice,  which  is  liable,  on  the 
same  principles,  to  more  serious  objections. 
Though  they  will  not  call  any  body  Sir,  or 
Master,  they  call  everybody  "Friend;"  al- 
though it  is  evident  that,  to  a  stranger,  this 
must  be  mere  civility,  like  the  words  they  re- 
ject, and  to  an  enemy  must  approach  nearly 
to  insincerity.  They  have  rejected  an  estab- 
lished phraseology,  therefore,  to  adopt  one 
much  more  proper  to  fill  them  with  scruples. 
We  have  dwelt  too  long,  however,  on  this 
paltry  casuistry ;  and  must  leave  our  readers 
to  apply  these  observations  to  our  common 
epistolary  salutations,  which  are  exactly  in 
the  same  predicament. 

For  similar,  or  rather  for  more  preposterous 
reasons,  the  Quakers  have  changed  the  names 
of  the  months  and  of  the  days  of  the  week. 
Some  of  them  are  named,  it  seems,  after  the 
Heathen  gods ;  and  therefore  the  use  of  them 
"  seemed  to  be  expressive  of  a  kind  of  idola- 
trous homage."  If  such  a  new  calendar  had 
been  devised  by  the  origmal  Christians,  when 
March  and  June  were  not  only  named  after 
Mars  and  Juno,  but  distinguished  by  particu- 
lar festivals  in  their  honour,  we  could  have 
comprehended  the  motive  of  the  innovation ; 
but,  now-a-days,  when  ]Mars  and  Juno  are  no 
more  thought  of  than  Hector  or  Kecuba,  and 
when  men  would  as  soon  think  of  worshipping 
an  ape  or  a  crocodile  as  either  of  them,  it 
does  appear  to  us  the  very  acme  of  absurdity 
to  suppose  that  there  can  be  any  idolatry  in 
naming  their  names.  In  point  of  fact,  what- 
ever the  matter  may  be  etymologically  or 
historically,  we  conceive  that  Wednesday  and 
Thursday  are  words  in  modern  English  that 
have  no  sort  of  reference  to  the  gods  Woden 
and  Thor :  Since  they  certainly  raise  no  ideas 
connected  with  those  personages,  and  are 
never  used  with  the  intention  of  raising  any 
such  ideas.  As  they  are  used  at  present, 
therefore,  they  do  not  sign  if}'  days  dedicated 
to  these  divinities ;  but  merely  the  days  that 
come  between  Tuesday  and  Friday  in  our 
calendar.  Those  who  think  otherwise  must 
maintain  also,  that  the  English  word  expedient 
actually  signifies  untying  of  feet,  and  the  word 
consideration  a  taking  of  stars  together. 

Another  of  their  peculiar  customs  is,  that 
they  will  not  pull  off  their  hats,  or  make  a 
bow  to  any  body.  This  is  one  of  their  most 
ancient  and  respected  canons.  "  George  Fox," 
Mr.  Clarkson  assures  us,  "  was  greatly  grieved 
about  these  idle  ceremonies.  He  lamented 
'hat  men  should  degrade  themselves  by  the 
use  of  them,  and  that  they  should  encourage 
habits  that  were  abhorrent  of  the  truth." 
Honest  George  I  He  was  accordingly  repeat- 
edly beaten  and  abused  for  his  refractoriness 
in  this  particular;  and  a  long  story  is  told  in 
this  volume,  of  a  controversy  he  had  with 
Judge  Glynn,  whom  he  posea  with  a  citation 
from  Daniel,  purporting,  that  the  three  children 
were  f«.st  in^o  the  fierv  furnace  ••  with  their 


hats  on."  Is  it  possible  however  to  Delie^e, 
that  any  rational  being  can  imagine  that  there 
is  any  sin  in  lifting  off  one's  hat,  or  bendiii^ 
the  body  "?  It  is  an  easy  and  sufficientlv  con- 
venient way  of  showing  our  respect  or  atten- 
tion. A  good-natured  man  could  do  a  great 
deal  more  to  gratify  a  mere  stranger ;  and  if 
there  be  one  individual  who  would  take  the 
omission  amiss,  that  alone  would  be  a  suffi- 
cient reason  for  persisting  in  the  practice. 

Mr.  Clarkson  next  discusses  the  private 
manners  of  this  rigid  sect,  and  admits  that 
they  are  rather  dull,  cold,  and  taciturn.  Their 
principles  prohibit  them  from  the  use  of  idle 
words;  under  which  they  include  every  sort 
of  conversation  introduced  merely  for  gaiety 
or  amusement.  Their  neglect  of  classical 
literature  cuts  off  another  great  topic.  Poli- 
tics are  proscribed,  as  leading  to  undue 
warmth;  and  all  sorts  of  scandal  and  gossip, 
and  allusion  to  public  spectacles  or  amuse- 
ments, for  a  more  fundamental  reason.  Thus, 
they  have  little  to  talk  about  but  their  health, 
their  business,  or  their  rehgion  ;  and  all  these 
things  they  think  it  a  duty  to  discuss  in  a 
concise  and  sober  manner.  They  say  no 
graces;  but  when  their  meal  is  on  the  table, 
they  sit  silent,  and  in  a  thoughtful  posture  for 
a  short  time,  waiting  for  an  iJlapse  of  the 
spirit.  If  they  are  not  moved  to  make  any 
ejaculation,  they  begin  to  eat  without  more 
ado.  They  drink  no  healths,  nor  toasts: 
though  not  so  much  from  the  inconvenience 
of  the  thing,  as  because  they  conceive  this  to 
have  been  a  bacchanalian  practice  borrowed 
from  the  Heathens  of  antiquity.  They  are 
very  sober;  and  instead  of  sitting  over  theii 
wine  after  dinner,  frequently  propose  to  theii 
guests  a  walk  before  tea ;  the  females  do  not 
leave  the  party  during  this  interval.  Theii 
marriages  are  attended  with  no  other  cere- 
mony, than  that  of  taking  each  other  by  the 
hand  in  a  public  meeting,  and  declaring  their 
willingness  to  be  united.  Notice,  however, 
must  be  given  of  this  intention  at  a  previous 
meeting,  when  the  consent  of  their  parents  is 
required,  and  a  deputation  appointed  to  in- 
quire whether  they  are  free  from  all  previous 
engagements.  Quakers  marrying  out  of  the 
society  are  disowned,  though  they  may  be 
again  received  into  membership,  on  express- 
ing their  repentance  for  their  marriage  ;  a  de- 
claration M'hich  cannot  be  very  flattering  tc 
the  infidel  spouse.  There  are  many  more 
women  than  men  disowned  for  this  transgres- 
sion. The  funerals  of  the  Quakers  are  as 
free  from  solemnity  as  their  marriages.  They 
wear  no  mourning,  and  do  not  even  cover 
their  coffins  with  black ; — they  use  no  prayers 
on  such  occasions; — the  body  is  generally 
carried  to  the  meeting-house,  before  it  is  com- 
mitted to  the  earth,  and  a  short  pause  is  made, 
during  which  any  one  who  feels  himself 
moved  to  speak,  may  address  the  congrega- 
tion;— it  is  set  down  for  a  little  time,  also,  at 
the  edge  of  the  grave,  for  the  same  opportu- 
nity; — it  is  then  interred,  and  the  friends  and 
relations  walk  away.  They  use  no  vaults,  and 
erect  no  monuments, — though  tney  some- 
times collect  and  preserve  some  ac  count  of 


CLARKSON  ON  QUAKERISM. 


649 


the  lives  and  sayings  of  their  more  eminent 
and  pious  brethren. 

Oil  the  subject  of  trade  there  is  a  good  deal 
of  casuistry  among  the  Quakers.  They  strictly 
prohibit  the  slave-trade,  and  had  the  merit  of 
passing  a  severe  cens-i^ire  upon  it  so  long  ago 
as  1727.  They  also  prohibit  privateering, 
smuggling,  and  all  traffic  in  weapons  of  war. 
Most  other  trades  they  allow ;  but  mider  cer- 
tain limitations.  A  Quaker  may  be  a  book- 
seller, but  he  must  not  sell  any  immoral 
book.  He  may  be  a  dealer  in  spirits ;  but  he 
must  not  sell  to  those  whom  he  knows  to  be 
drunkards.  He  may  even  be  a  silversmith  j 
but  he  must  not  deal  in  splendid  ornaments 
for  the  person.  In  no  case  may  he  recom- 
mend his  goods  as  fashionable.  It  is  much  and 
learnedly  disputed  in  this  volume,  whether 
he  may  make  or  sell  ribands  and  other  fine- 
ries of  this  sort;  or  whether,  as  a  tailor  or 
hatter,  he  may  furnish  any  other  articles  than 
such  as  the  society  patronises.  Mention  is 
also  made  of  a  Quaker  tailor  well  known  to 
King  James  II.,  who  was  so  scrupulous  in 
this  respect,  that  "he  would  not  allow  his 
servants  to  put  any  corruptive  finery  upon 
the  clothes  M-hich  he  had  been  employed  to 
furnish ;"  and  of  one  John  Woolman,  who 
'•  found  himself  sensibly  w^eakened  as  a  Chris- 
tian, whenever  he  traded  in  things  that  served 
chiefly  to  please  the  vain  mind,  or  people." 
Apart  from  these  fopperies,  however,  the 
Quaker  regulations  for  trade  are  excellent. 
They  discourage  all  hazardous  speculations, 
and  all  fictitious  paper  credit.  If  a  member 
becomes  bankrupt,  a  committee  is  appointed 
to  inspect  his  affairs.  If  his  insolvency  is  re- 
ported to  have  been  produced  by  misconduct, 
he  is  disowned,  and  cannot  be  received  back 
till  he  has  paid  his  whole  debts,  even  although 
he  may  have  been  discharged  on  a  composition. 
If  he  has  failed  through  misfortune,  he  conti- 
nues in  the  society,  but  no  contributions  are 
received  from  him  till  his  debts  are  fully 
paid. 

When  Quakers  disagree,  they  seldom  scold ; 
and  never  fight  or  go  to  law.  George  Fox 
recommended  them  to  settle  all  their  differ- 
ences by  arbitration ;  and  they  have  adhered 
to  this  practice  ever  since.  Where  the  arbi- 
trators are  puzzled  about  the  law.  they  may 
agree  on  a  case,  and  consult  counsel.  When 
a  Quaker  disagrees  with  a  person  out  of  the 
society,  he  generally  proposes  arbitration  in 
the  first  instance ;  if  this  be  refused,  he  has  no 
scruple  of  going  to  law. 

We  should  now  proceed  to  give  some  ac- 
count of  what  Mr.  Clarkson  has  called  the 
four  Great  Tenets  of  the  Quakers;  but  the 
iengih  to  which  we  have  already  extended 
these  remarks  must  confine  our  observations 
to  very  narrow  limits.  The  first  is,  That  the 
civil  magistrate  has  no  right  to  interfere  in  re- 
ligious matters,  so  as  either  to  enforce  attend- 
ance on  one  mode  of  worship,  or  to  interdict 
any  other  which  is  harmless.  In  this,  cer- 
tainly, their  doctrine  is  liable  to  very  little 
objection.  Their  second  great  tenet  is,  That 
.1  is  unlawful  to  swear  upon  any  occasion 
w^hatsoever.    We  have  not  leisure  now  to 


discuss  this  point  with  Mr.  Clarkson  ;  indeed, 
from  the  obstruction  which  this  scruple  has  so 
often  occasioned  to  law  proceedings,  it  has 
been  discussed  much  oftener  than  any  of  the 
rest.  Those  who  want  to  see  a  neat  and  forci- 
ble abstract  of  the  Quaker  reasoning  on  the 
subject,  had  better  look  into  Barclay  at  once, 
instead  of  wading  through  the  amplification 
of  Mr.  Clarkson. 

Their  third  great  tenet  is.  That  it  is  unlaw- 
ful to  engage  in  the  profession  of  arms.  Thia 
is  founded  entirely  upon  a  literal  interpretation 
of  certain  texts  of  scripture,  requiring  men  to 
love  and  bless  their  enemies,  and  to  turn  one 
cheek  to  him  who  had  smitten  the  other,  &c. 
It  is  commonly  supposed,  we  believe,  thtit 
these  expressions  were  only  meant  to  shadow 
out,  by  a  kind  of  figure,  that  amicable  and 
gentle  disposition  by  which  men  should  be 
actuated  in  their  ordinary  intercourse  with 
each  other,  and  by  no  means  as  a  literal  and 
peremptory  directory  for  their  conduct  through 
life.  In  any  other  sense,  indeed,  they  would 
evidently  amount  to  an  encouragement  to  all 
sorts  of  violence  and  injustice ;  and  would  en- 
tirely disable  and  annihilate  all  civil  govern- 
ment, or  authority  among  men.  If  evil  is  not 
to  be  resisted,  and  if  the  man  who  takes  a 
cloak  is  to  be  pressed  to  a  coat  also,  it  is  plain 
that  the  punishment  of  thieves  and  robbers 
must  be  just  as  unlawful  as  the  resisting  of 
invaders.  It  is  remarkable,  indeed,  that  the 
Quakers  do  not  carry  their  literal  submission 
to  the  scripture  quite  this  length.  They  would 
struggle  manfully  for  their  cloaks;  and,  in- 
stead of  giving  the  robber  their  coats  also, 
would  be  very  glad  to  have  him  imprisoned 
and  flogged.  If  they  can  get  rid  of  the  letter 
of  the  law,  however,  in  any  case,  it  does  ap- 
pear to  us,  that  there  are  occasionally  stronger 
reasons  for  dispensing  with  the  supposed  pro- 
hibition of  M-ar  than  with  any  of  the  others. 
If  they  would  be  justified  in  killing  a  wild 
beast  that  had  rushed  into  their  habitation, 
they  must  be  justified  in  killing  an  invader 
who  threatens  to  subject  them  and  the  whole 
community  to  his  bnatal  lust,  rapacity,  and 
cruelty.  We  must  call  it  a  degrading  super- 
stition that  vvould  withhold  the  hands  of  a 
man  in  such  an  emergency.  The  last  great 
tenet  is,  That  it  is  unlawful  to  give  pecuniary 
hire  to  a  gospel  ministry.  This,  ag-ain,  is  en- 
tirely a  Wj.r  of  texts;  aided  by  a  confused 
reference  to  the  history  of  tithes,  from  which 
the  folio  wing  most  logical  deductions  are  made. 

"First,  that  they  are  not  in  equity  dues  of  the 
Church, — secondly,  that  the  payment  of  tiiem  being 
compulsory,  it  would,  if  acceded  to.  be  an  acknow- 
ledgment that  the  civil  magistrate  had  a  right  to  use 
force  in  matters  of  religion — and,  thirdly,  that,  being 
claimed  upon  an  act  which  holds  them  forth  as  of 
divine  right,  any  payment  of  them  would  be  an  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  Jewish  religion,  and  thai 
Christ  had  not  yet  actually  come  !" — III.  141. 

After  perusing  all  that  we  have  now  ab- 
stracted, Mr.  Clarkson's  readers  might  per- 
haps have  been  presumed  capable  of  fomiing 
some  conclusion  for  themselves  as  to  ihe 
Quaker  character;  but  the  author  choose?  to 
make  the  r  iference  for  them,  in  a  dissertation 


650 


MrSCELLANEOUS. 


of  one  hundred  and  fifty  pages ;  to  which  we 
must  satisfy  ourselves,  for  the  present,  with 
making-  this  general  reference.  We  must  use 
the .  same  liberty  with  the  "miscellaneous 
particulars,"  which  fill  nearly  as  many  pages 
with  an  attempt  to  prove  that  the  Quakers  are 
a  very  "happy  people,  that  they  have  done 
good  by  the  example  of  their  virtues,  and  that 
those  who  have  thoughts  of  leaving  the  so- 
ciety, had  better  think  twice  before  they  take 
a  step  of  so  much  consequence. 
\  We  come  now  to  say  a  few  words  on  the 
subject  of  their  interior  government ',  which 
appears  to  us  to  be  formed  very  much  upon 
the  model  of  the  Presbyterian  churches  so 
long  established  in  this  part  of  the  kingdom. 
The  basis  of  the  whole  system  is,  that  every 
member  of  the  society  is  not  only  entitled,  but 
bound  in  duty,  to  watch  over  the  moral  and 
religious  deportment  of  any  other  whom  he 
has  an  opportunity  of  observing,  and  to  inter- 
fere for  his  admonition  and  correction  when 
he  sees  cause.  Till  the  year  1698,  this  duty 
was  not  peculiarly  imposed  upon  any  indivi- 
dual; but,  since  that  time,  four  or  five  persons 
are  named  in  each  congregation,  under  the 
title  of  overseers,  who  are  expected  to  watch 
over  the  conduct  of  the  flock  with  peculiar 
anxiety.  The  half  of  these  are  women,  who 
take  charge  of  their  own  sax  only.  Four  or 
five  congregations  are  associated  together,  and 
hold  a  general  monthly  meeting  of  deputies, 
of  both  sexes,  from  each  congregation.  Two 
or  more  of  each  sex  are  deputed  from  these 
monthly  meetings  to  the  general  quarterly 
meeting ;  which  reunites  all  the  congregations 
of  a  county,  or  larger  district,  according  to  the 
extent  of  the  Quaker  population ;  and  those, 
again,  send  four  of  each  sex  to  the  great  yearly 
meeting  or  convocation  ;  which  is  regularly 
assembled  in  London,  and  continues  its  sitting 
for  ten  or  twelve  days. 

The  method  of  proceeding,  where  the  con- 
duct of  a  member  has  been  disorderly,  is,  first, 
by  private  admonition,  either  by  individuals, 
or  by  the  overseers ;  where  this  is  not  effectual, 
the  case  is  reported  to  the  monthly  meeting; 
who  appoint  a  committee  to  deal  with  him, 
and,  upon  their  report,  either  receive  him  back 
into  communion,  or  expel  him  from  the  so- 
ciety by  a  wTitten  document,  entitled,  A  Tes- 
timony of  Disownment.  From  this  sentence, 
however,  he  may  appeal  to  the  quarterly 
meeting,  and  from  that  to  the  yearly.  These 
courts  of  review  investigate  the  case  by  means 
of  committees ;  of  which  none  of  those  who 
pronounced  the  sentence  complained  of  can 
be  members. 

In  the  monthly  meetings,  all  presentations 
of  marriages  are  received,  and  births  and  fu- 
nerals registered  ; — contributions  and  arrange- 
ments are  made  for  the  relief  of  the  poai ; — 
persons  are  disowned,  or  received  back ; — and 
cases  of  scruples  are  stated  and  discussed. 
They  likewise  prepare  answers  to  a  series  of 
standing  queries  as  to  the  state  and  condition 
of  their  several  congregations,  which  they 
transmit  to  the  quarterly  meeting.  The  quar- 
terly meeting  hears  appeals, — receives  the 
reports  in  answer  to  these  queries, — and  pre- 


pares, in  its  turn,  a  more  general  and  compre- 
hensive report  for  the  great  annual  meeting 
in  London.  This  assembly,  again,  hears  ap- 
peals from  the  quarterly  meetings,  and  re- 
ceives their  reports ;  and,  finally,  di-aw\s  up  a 
public  or  pastoral  letter  to  the  whole  society, 
in  which  it  communicates  the  most  interesting 
particulars,  as  to  its  general  state  and  condi 
tion,  that  have  been  collected  from  the  reports 
laid  before  it, — ^makes  such  suitable  admoni- 
tions and  exhortations  for  their  moral  and  civil 
conduct,  as  the  complexion  of  the  times,  or 
the  nature  of  these  reports  have  suggested, — 
and  recommends  to  their  consideration  any 
project  or  proposition  that  may  have  been  laid 
before  it,  for  the  promotion  of  religion,  and 
the  good  of  mankind.  The  slave-trade  has, 
of  late  years,  generally  formed  one  of  the 
topics  of  this  general  epistle,  which  is  printed 
and  circulated  throughout  the  society.  In  all 
their  meetings,  the  male  and  female  deputies 
assemble,  and  transact  their  business,  in  sep- 
arate apartments ;  meeting  together  only  for 
worship,  or  for  making  up  their  general  reports. 
The  wants  of  the  poor  are  provided  for  by  the 
monthly  meetings,  who  appoint  certain  over- 
seers to  visit  and  relieve  them :  The  greater 
part  of  these  overseers  are  women ;  and  what- 
ever they  find  wanting  in  the  course  of  their 
visits,  money,  clothes,  or  medicines,  they  or- 
der, and  their  accounts  are  settled  by  the 
treasurer  of  the  monthly  meeting.  Where  it 
happens  that  there  are  more  poor  in  any  one 
district  than  can  easily  be  reheved  by  the  more 
opulent  brethren  within  it,  the  deficiency  is 
supplied  by  the  quarterly  meeting  to  which  it 
is  subjected.  The  children  of  the  poor  are  all 
taught  to  read  and  write  at  the  public  ej;penge, 
and  afterwards  bound  apprentice  to  trades;  — 
the  females  are  generally  destined  for  sernce, 
and  placed  in  Quaker  families. 

"  Such,"  says  Mr.  Clarkson,  with  a  very  natural 
exultation  on  the  good  management  of  hig  favour- 
ites, "  such  is  the  organisation  of  the  discipline  or 
government  of  the  Quakers.  Nor  may  it  improp- 
erly be  called  a  Government,  when  we  consider, 
that,  besides  all  matters  relating  to  the  church,  it 
takes  cognisance  of  the  actions  of  Quakers  to 
Quakers,  and  of  these  to  their  fellow-citizens  ;  and 
of  these,  again,  to  the  state  ;  in  fact,  of  all  actions 
of  Quakers,  if  immoral  in  the  eye  of  the  society,  a» 
soon  as  they  are  known.  It  gives  out  its  prohibi 
tions.  It  marks  its  crimes.  It  imposes  offices  on 
its  subjects.  It  calls  them  to  disciplinary  duties. 
This  government,  however,  notwithstanding  its 
power,  has,  as  I  observed  before,  no  president  or 
head,  either  permanent  or  temporary.  There  is  no 
first  man  through  the  whole  society.  Neither  has 
it  anv  badge  of  office — or  mace,  or  constable's  staff, 
or  sword.  It  may  be  observed,  also,  that  it  has  no 
ofhce  of  emolument  by  which  its  hands  can  be 
strengthened — neither  minister,  elder,  clerk,  over- 
seer, or  deputy,  being  paid  :  and  yet  its  administra- 
tion is  firmly  conducted,  and  its  laws  are  better 
obeyed  than  laws  by  persons  under  any  other  de- 
nomination or  government."     I.  246,  247. 

We  have  nothing  now  to  discuss  wdtn  these 
good  people,  but  their  religion  :  and  w'ith  this 
we  will  not  meddle.  It  is  quite  clear  to  us, 
that  their  founder  George  Fox  was  exceedingly 
insane  ;  and  though  we  by  no  means  suspect 
many  of  his  present  followers  of  the  same 
malady,  we  cannot  help  saying  that  most  of 


CLAKKSON'S  LIFE  OF  PENN. 


651 


flieir  peculiar  doctrines  are  too  high-flown  for 
Dur  humble  apprehension.  They  hold  that  God 
has  at  all  times  communicated  a  certain  por- 
tion of  the  Spiritj  or  wordj  or  light,  to  mankind  ', 
but  has  given  very  different  portions  of  it  to 
different  individuals :  that,  in  consequence  of 
this  inward  illuminatiouj  not  only  the  ancient 

Eatriarchs  and  prophets,  but  many  of  the  old 
eathen  philosophers,  were  very  good  Chris- 
tians :  that  no  kind  of  worship  or  preaching 
can  be  acceptable  or  profitable,  unless  it  flow 
from  the  immediate  inspiration  and  movement 
of  this  inward  spirit ;  and  that  all  ordination, 
or  appointment  of  priests,  is  therefore  impious 
and  unavailing.  They  are  much  attached  to 
the  Holy  Ghost ;  but  are  supposed  to  reject 
the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity ;  as  they  certainly 
reject  the  sacraments  of  Baptism  and  the 
Lord's  Supper,  with  all  other  rites,  ordinances, 
and  ceremonies,  known  or  practised  in  any 
other  Christian  church.  These  tenets  they 
justify  by  various  citations  from  the  New 
Testament,  and  the  older  fathers ;  as  any  one 
may  see  in  the  works  of  Barclay  and  Penn, 
with  rather  more  satisfaction  than  in  this  of 
Mr.  Clarkson.  We  enter  not  at  present  into 
these  disputations. 

Upon  the  w^hole,  we  are  inclined  to  believe 
the  Quakers  to  be  a  tolerably  honest,  pains- 
taking, and  inoffensive  set  of  Christians.  Very 
Btupid,  dull,  and  obstinate,  we  presume,  in 
conversation  ',  and  tolerably  lumpish  and  fa- 
tiguing in  domestic  society:  active  and  me- 
thodical in  their  business,  and  narrow-minded 
and  ill-informed  as  to  most  other  particulars : 
beneficent  from  habit  and  the  discipline  of  the 


society;  but  cold  in  their  affections,  and  in- 
wardly chilled  into  a  sort  of  Chinese  apathy, 
by  the  restraints  to  which  they  are  continually 
subjected  ]  childish  and  absurd  in  their  reli- 
gious scruples  and  peculiar  usages,  and  sin- 
gularly unlearned  as  a  sect  of  theologians) 
but  exemplary,  above  all  other  sects,  for  the 
decency  of  their  lives,  for  their  charitable  in- 
dulgence to  all  other  persuasions,  for  their  care 
of  their  poor,  and  for  the  liberal  participation 
they  have  afforded  to  their  women  in  all  the 
duties  and  honours  of  the  society. 

We  would  not  willingly  insinuate  any  thing 
against  the  general  sincerity  of  those  who  re- 
main in  communion  with  this  body ;  but  Mr. 
Clarkson  has  himself  noticed,  that  when  they 
become  opulent,  they  are  very  apt  to  fall  off 
from  it ;  and  indeed  we  do  not  recollect  ever 
to  have  seen  either  a  Quaker  gentleman  of 
fortune,  or  a  Quaker  day-labourer.  The  truth 
is,  that  ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred  of  theni 
are  engaged  in  trade  ;  and  as  they  all  deal  and 
correspond  with  each  other,  it  is  easy  to  see 
w^hat  advantages  they  must  have  as  traders, 
from  belonging  to  so  great  a  corporation.  A 
few  follow  the  medical  profession  j  and  a  still 
smaller  number  that  of  conveyancing;  but 
they  rely,  in  both,  almost  exclusively  on  the 
support  of  their  brethren  of  the  society.  It  ia 
rather  remarkable,  that  Mr.  Clarkson  has  not 
given  us  any  sort  of  estimate  or  calculation  of 
their  present  numbers  in  England;  though, 
from  the  nature  of  their  government,  it  must 
be  known  to  most  of  their  leading  members. 
It  is  the  general  opinion,  it  seems,  that  they 
are  gradually  diminishing. 


(JJnla,  1S13.) 

Memoirs  of  the  Private  and  Public  Life  of  William  Penn.    By  Thomas  Clarkson,  M.  A. 
8vo.  2  vols.  pp.  1020.     London:  1813. 


It  is  impossible  to  look  into  any  of  Mr. 
Clarkson's  books,  without  feeling  that  he  is  an 
excellent  man — and  a  very  bad  writer.  Many 
of  the  defects  of  his  composition,  indeed,  seem 
to  be  directly  referrible  to  the  amiableness  of 
his  disposition.  An  earnestness  for  truth  and 
virtue,  that  does  not  allow  him  to  waste  any 
thought  upon  the  ornaments  by  which  they 
may  be  recommended — and  a  simplicity  of 
character  which  is  not  aware  that  what  is 
substantially  respectable  may  be  made  dull 
or  ridiculous  by  the  manner  in  which  it  is 
presented — are  virtues  which  we  suspect  not 
to  have  been  very  favourable  to  his  reputation 
8.8  an  author.  Feeling  in  himself  not  only  an 
entire  toleration  of  honest  tediousness,  but  a 
decided  preference  for  it  upon  all  occasions 
over  mere  elegance  or  ingenuity,  he  seems  to 
have  transferred  a  little  too  hastily  to  books 
inose  principles  of  judgment  which  are  admi- 
rable when  applied  to  men ;  and  to  have  for- 
gotten, that  though  dulness  may  be  a  very 
venia.  fault  in  a  good  man,  it  is  such  a  fault 
«i  a  book  as  to  render  its  goodness  of  no  avail 


whatsoever.  Unfortunately  for  Mr.  Clarkson, 
moral  qualities  alone  will  not  make  a  good 
writer ;  nor  are  they  even  of  the  first  import- 
ance on  such  an  occasion :  And  accordingly, 
with  all  his  philanthropy,  piety,  and  inflexible 
honesty,  he  has  not  escaped  the  sin  of  tedious- 
ness,— and  that  to  a  degree  that  must  render 
him  almost  illegible  to  any  but  Quakers,  Re- 
viewers, and  others,  who  make  public  profes- 
sion of  patience  insurmountable.  He  has  no 
taste,  and  no  spark  of  vivacity — not  the  vestige 
of  an  ear  for  harmony — and  a  prolixity  of 
which  modem  times  have  scarcely  preserved 
any  other  example.  He  seems  to  have  a  suffi- 
ciently sound  and  clear  judgment,  but  no  great 
acuteness  of  understanding ;  and,  though  visi- 
bly tasking  himself  to  judge  charitably  and 
speak  candidly  of  all  men,  is  evidently  beset 
with  such  antipathy  to  all  who  persecute 
Quakers,  or  maltreat  negroes,  as  to  make  him 
very  unwilling  to  report  any  thing  in  their  fa- 
vour. On  the  other  hand,  he  has  great  in- 
dustry— scrupulous  veracity — and  that  serious 
and  sober  enthusiasm  for  his  subject,  vhicb 


652 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


b  sine  in  the  long  run  to  disarm  ridicule,  and 
win  upon  inattention — and  is  frequently  able 
to  render  vulgarity  impressive^  and  simplicity 
sublime.  Moreover,  and  above  all,  he  is  per- 
fectly free  from  affectation ;  so  that,  though 
we  may  be  wearied,  we  are  never  disturbed 
or  offended — and  read  on,  in  tranquillity,  till 
we  find  it  impossible  to  read  any  more. 

It  will  be  guessed,  however,  that  it  is  not  on 
account  of  its  literary  merits  that  we  are  in- 
duced to  take  notice  of  the  work  before  us. 
William  Penn,  to  whose  honour  it  is  wholly 
devoted,  was,  beyond  all  doubt,  a  personage 
of  no  ordinary  standard — and  ought,  before  this 
time,  to  have  met  with  a  biographer  capable 
of  doing  him  justice.  He  is  most  known,  and 
most  deserving  of  being  known,  as  the  settler 
of  Pennsylvania;  but  his  private  character 
also  is  interesting,  and  full  of  those  peculiari- 
ties which  distinguished  the  temper  and  man- 
ners of  a  great  part  of  the  English  nation  at 
the  period  in  which  he  lived.  His  theological 
and  polemical  exploits  are  no  less  character- 
istic of  the  man  and  of  the  times ; — though 
all  that  is  really  edifying  in  this  part  of  his 
history  might  have  been  given  in  about  one- 
twentieth  part  of  the  space  which  is  allotted 
to  it  in  the  volumes  of  Mr.  Clarkson. 

William  Penn  was  born  in  1644,  the  only 
son  of  Admiral  Sir  W.  Penn,  the  representa- 
tive of  an  ancient  and  honourable  family  in 
Buckingham  and  Gloucestershire.  He  was 
regularly  educated;  and  entered  a  Gentle- 
man Commoner  at  Christ's  Church,  Oxford, 
where  he  distinguished  himself  very  early  for 
his  proficiency  both  in  classical  learning  and 
athletic  exercises.  When  he  was  only  about 
sixteen,  however,  he  was  roused  to  a  sense  of 
the  corruptions  of  the  estabhshed  faith,  by  the 
preaching  of  one  Thomas  Loe,  a  Quaker — and 
immediately  discontinued  his  attendance  at 
chapel ;  and,  with  some  other  youths  of  his 
own  way  of  thinking,  began  to  hold  prayer 
meetings  in  their  private  apartments.  This, 
of  course,  gave  great  scandal  and  offence  to 
his  academical  superiors;  and  a  large  fine, 
with  suitable  admonitions,  were  imposed  on 
■-.he  young  nonconformist.  Just  at  this  critical 
period,  an  order  was  unluckily  received  from 
Court  to  resume  the  use  of  the  surplice,  which 
it  seems  had  been  discontinued  almost  ever 
since  the  period  of  the  Reformation ;  and  the 
sight  of  this  unfortunate  vestment,  "opera- 
ted," as  Mr.  Clarkson  expresses  it,  "  so  dis- 
agreeably on  William  Penn,  that  he  could  not 
bear  it !  and,  joining  himself  with  some  other 
young  gentlemen,  he  fell  upon  those  students 
who  appeared  in  surplices,  and  tore  them 
every  where  over  their  heads."  This,  we 
conceive,  was  not  quite  correct,  even  as  a 
Quaker  proceeding;  and  was  but  an  unpro- 
mising beginning  for  the  future  champion  of 
religious  liberty.  Its  natural  consequence, 
nowever,  was,  that  he  and  his  associates  were, 
without  further  ceremony,  expelled  from  the 
University;  and  when  he.  went  home  to  his 
father,  and  attempted  to  justify  by  argument 
the  measures  he  had  adopted,  it  was  no  less  na- 
tural that  the  good  Admiral  should  give  him  a 
i^ood  box  on  the  ear,  and  turn  him  to  the  door. 


This  course  of  discipline,  however,  not 
proving  immediately  effectual,  he  was  sent 
upon  his  travels,  along  with  some  other  young 
gentlemen,  and  resided  for  two  years  in  France, 
and  the  Low  Countries;  but  without  any 
change  either  in  those  serious  views  of  reli- 
gion, or  those  austere  notions  of  morality,  by 
which  his  youth  had  been  so  prematurely  dis- 
tinguished. On  his  return,  his  father  again 
endeavoured  to  subdue  him  to  a  more  worldly 
frame  of  mind ;  first,  by  setting  him  to  study 
law  at  Lincoln's  Inn ;  and  afterwards,  by  send- 
ing him  to  the  Duke  of  Ormond's  court  at 
Dublin,  and  giving  him  the  charge  of  his  large 
possessions  in  that  kingdom.  These  expedi- 
ents might  perhaps  have  been  attended  with 
success,  had  he  not  accidentally  again  fallen 
in  (at  Cork)  with  his  old  friend  Thomas  Loe, 
the  Quaker, — who  set  before  him  such  a  view 
of  the  dangers  of  his  situation,  that  he  seems 
from  that  day  forward  to  have  renounced  all 
secular  occupations,  and  betaken  himself  to 
devotion,  as  the  main  business  of  his  life. 

The  reign  of  Charles  II.,  however,  was  not 
auspicious  to  dissenters;  and  in  those  evil 
days  of  persecution,  he  was  speedily  put  in 
prison  for  attending  Quaker  meetings;  but 
was  soon  liberated,  and  again  came  back  to 
his  father's  house,  where  a  long  disputation 
took  place  upon  the  subject  of  his  new  creed. 
It  broke  up  with  this  moderate  and  very  loyal 
proposition  on  the  part  of  the  Vice-Admiral — 
that  the  young  Quaker  should  consent  to  sit 
with  his  hat  off,  in  presence  of  the  King — the 
Duke  of  York — and  the  Admiral  himself!  in 
return  for  which  slight  compliance,  it  was 
stipulated  that  he  should  be  no  longer  molest- 
ed for  any  of  his  opinions  or  practices.  The 
heroic  convert,  however,  would  listen  to  no 
terms  of  composition ;  and,  after  taking  some 
days  to  consider  of  it,  reported,  that  his  con- 
science could  not  comport  with  any  species 
of  Hat  worship — and  M^as  again  turned  out  of 
doors  for  his  pains. 

He  now  took  openly  to  preaching  in  the 
Quaker  meetings ;  and  shortly  after  began  that 
course  of  theological  and  controversial  pub- 
lications, in  which  he  persisted  to  his  dying 
days ;  and  which  has  had  the  effect  of  over- 
whelming his  memory  with  two  vast  folio 
volumes  of  Puritanical  pamphlets.  His  most 
considerable  work  seems  to  have  been  that 
entitled,  '-'No  Cross,  no  Crown  ;"  in  which  he 
not  only  explains  and  vindicates,  at  great 
length,  the  grounds  of  the  peculiar  doctrines 
and  observances  of  the  Society  to  which  he 
belonged, — but  endeavours  to  show,  by  a  very 
large  and  entertaining  induction  of  instances 
from  profane  history,  that  the  same  general 
principles  had  been  adopted  and  acted  upon 
by  the  wise  and  good  in  every  generation ;  and 
were  suggested  indeed  to  the  reflecting  mind 
by  the  iriward  voice  of  conscience,  and  the 
analogy  of  the  whole  visible  scheme  of  God's 
providence  in  the  government  of  the  world. 
The  intermixture  of  worldly  learning,  and  the 
larger  and  bolder  scope  of  this  performance, 
render  it  far  more  legible  than  the  pious  ex- 
hortations and  pertinacious  polemics  which 
fill  the  greater  part  of  his  subsequent  publica- 


CLARKSON'S  LIFE  OF  PENN. 


653 


tions.  In  his  love  of  controversy  and  of  print- 
ing, indeed,  this  worthy  sectary  seems  to  have 
been  the  very  Priestley  of  the  17th  century. 
He  not  only  responded  in  due  form  to  every 
work  in  which  the  principles  of  his  sect  w^ere 
directly  or  indirectly  attacked, — but  whenever 
he  heard  a  sermon  that  he  did  not  like,- 
or  learned  that  any  of  the  Friends  had  been 
put  in  the  stocks ; — whenever  he  was  pre- 
vented from  preaching, — or  learned  any  edi- 
fying particulars  of  the  death  of  a  Quaker,  or  i 
of  a  persecutor  of  Quakers,  he  was  instantly 
at  the  press,  with  a  letter,  or  a  narrative,  or 
an  admonition — and  never  desisted  from  the 
contest  till  he  had  reduced  the  adversary  to 
silence. 

The  members  of  the  established  Church, 
indeed,  were  rarely  so  unwary  as  to  make  any 
rejoinder ;  and  most  of  his  disputes,  accord- 
ingly, were  with  rival  sectaries ;  in  whom  the 
spirit  of  proselytism  and  jealous  zeal  is  always 
stronger  than  in  the  members  of  a  larger  and 
more  powerful  body.  They  were  not  always 
contented  indeed  with  the  regular  and  general 
war  of  the  press,  but  frequently  challenged 
each  other  to  personal  combat,  in  the  form  of 
solemn  and  public  disputations.  William  Penn 
had  the  honour  of  being  repeatedly  appointed 
the  champion  of  the  Quakers  in  these  theo- 
logical duels  ',  and  never  failed,  according  to 
his  partial  biographer,  completely  to  demolish 
his  opponent ; — though  it  appears  that  he  did 
not  always  meet  with  perfectly  fair  play,  and 
that  the  chivalrous  law  of  arms  was  by  no 
means  correctly  observed  in  these  ghostly  en- 
counters. His  first  set  to,  was  wnth  one  Vincent, 
the  oracle  of  a  neighbouring  congregation  of 
Presbyterians  5  and  affords  rather  a  ludicrous 
example  of  the  futility  and  indecorum  which 
are  apt  to  characterise  all  such  exhibitions. — 
After  the  debate  had  gone  on  for  some  time, 
Vincent  made  a  long  discourse,  in  which  he 
openly  accused  the  Quakers  of  blasphemy ; 
and  as  soon  as  he  had  done,  he  made  off,  and 
desired  all  his  friends  to  follow  him.  Penn 
insisted  upon  being  heard  in  reply :  but  the 
Presbyterian  troops  pulled  him  dow^n  by  the 
skirts ;  and  proceeding  to  blow  out  the  can- 
dles, (for  the  battle  had  already  lasted  till 
midnight,)  left  the  indignant  orator  in  utter 
darkness  !  He  was  not  to  be  baffled  or  ap- 
palled, however,  by  a  privation  of  this  de- 
scription ;  and  accordingly  went  on  to  argue 
and  retort  in  the  dark,  with  such  force  and 
effect,  that  it  was  thought  advisable  to  send 
out  for  his  fugitive  opponent,  who,  after  some 
time;  reappeared  with  a  candle  in  his  hand, 
and  begged  that  the  debate  might  be  adjourn- 
ed to  another  day.  But  he  could  never  be 
prevailed  on,  Mr.  Clarkson  assures  us,  to  re- 
new the  combat ;  and  Penn,  after  going  and 
defying  him  in  his  own  meeting-house,  had 
recourse,  as  usual,  to  the  press ;  and  put  forth 
"  The  Sandy  Foundation  Shaken,"  for  which 
ne  had  the  pleasure  of  being  committed  to 
the  Tower,  on  the  instigation  of  the  Bishop 
"f  London ;  and  solaced  himself,  during  his 
confinement,  by  writing  six  other  pamphlets. 

Soon  after  his  deliverance,  he  w-as  again 
«aken  up,  and  brought  ^o  trial  before  the  Lord 


Mayor  and  Recorder  for  preaching  in  a  Qua- 
ker meeting.  He  afterwards  published  ah  ac- 
count of  this  proceeding; — and  it  is  in  our 
opinion  one  of  the  most  curious  and  instruc« 
five  pieces  that  ever  came  from  his  pen.  The 
times  to  which  it  relates,  are  sufficiently 
known  to  have  been  times  of  gross  oppression 
and  judicial  abuse ; — but  the  brutality  of  the 
Court  upon  this  occasion  seems  to  us  to  ex- 
ceed any  thing  that  is  recorded  elsewhere  ; — 
and  the  noble  firmness  of  the  jury  still  de- 
serves to  be  rememberedj  for  example  to  hap- 
pier days.  The  prisoner  came  into  court,  ac- 
cording to  Quaker  costume,  with  his  hat  on 
his  head  ; — but  the  doorkeeper,  with  a  due 
zeal  for  the  dignity  of  the  place,  pulled  it  off 
as  he  entered. — Upon  this,  however,  the  Lord 
Mayor  became  quite  furious,  and  ordered  the 
unfortunate  beaver  to  be  instantly  replaced — 
which  was  no  sooner  done  than  he  fined  the 
poor  culprit  for  appearing  covered  in  his  pre- 
sence !  —  William  Penn  now  insisted  upon 
knowing  what  law  he  was  accused  of  having 
broken, — to  w^hich  simple  question  the  Re- 
corder was  reduced  to  answ-er,  '•'  that  he  was 
an  impertinent  fellow, — and  that  many  had 
studied  thirty  or  forty  years  to  understand  the 
law,  which  he  was  for  having  expounded  in  a 
moment  1"  The  learned  controversiahst  how- 
ever was  not  to  be  silenced  so  easily ; — he 
quoted  Lord  Coke  and  Magna  Cliarta  on  his 
antagonist  in  a  moment :  and  chastised  his  in- 
solence by  one  of  the  best  and  most  charac- 
teristic repartees  that  we  recollect  ever  to  have 
met  with.  '•  I  tell  you  to  be  silent,"  cried  the 
Recorder,  in  a  great  passion  ;  "  if  \\e  should 
suffer  you  to  ask  questions  till  to-morrow 
morning,  you  will  be  never  the  wiser!" — 
^^  That,"  replied  the  Quaker,  with  his  immov- 
able tranquillity,  '-that  is,  according  as  the 
ansivers  are." — "Take  him  away,  take  him 
away?"  exclaimed  the  Mayor  and  the  Re- 
corder in  a  breath — "  turn  him  into  the  Bale 
Dock  /' — and  into  the  Bale  Dock,  a  filthy  and 
pestilent  dungeon  in  the  neighbourhood,  he 
was  accordingly  turned — discoursing  calmly 
all  the  way  on  Magna  Charter  and  the  rights 
of  Englishmen; — while  the  courtly  Recorder 
delivered  a  very  animated  charge  to  the  Jury, 
in  the  absence  of  the  prisoner. 

The  Jury,  however,  after  a  short  consulta- 
tion, brought  in  a  verdict,  finding  him  merely 
"guilty  of  speaking  in  Grace-Church  Street." 
For  this  cautious  and  most  correct  deliverance, 
they  were  loaded  with  reproaches  by  the 
Court,  and  sent  out  to  amend  their  verdict, — 
but  in  half  an  hour  they  returned  with  the 
same  ingenious  finding,  written  out  at  large, 
and  subscribed  wdth  all  their  names.  The 
Court  now  became  more  furious  than  ever,  and 
shut  them  up  without  meat,  drink,  or  fire,  till 
next  morning;  when  they  twice  over  came 
back  w4th  the  same  verdict ; — upon  which  they 
were  reviled,  and  threatened  so  outrageously 
by  the  Recorder,  that  William  Penn  protest 
ed  against  this  plain  intimidation  of  the  per- 
sons, to  whose  free  suffrages  the  law  had  en- 
trusted his  cause.  The  answer  of  the  Recoider 
was,  "Stop  his  mouth,  jailor — bring  fetterfi 
and  stake  him  to  the  ground."  William  Penn 


654 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


replied  with  the  temper  of  a  Quaker,  and  the 
spirit  of  a  martyr,  "  Do  your  pleasure — I  mat- 
ter not  your  fetters  !"  And  Ihe  Recorder  took 
occasion  to  observe,  "  that,  till  now,  he  had 
never  understood  the  policy  of  the  Spaniards 
in  suffering  the  Inquisition  among  them.  But 
now  he  saw  that  it  would  never  be  well  with 
us,  till  we  had  something  like  the  Spanish  In- 
quisition in  England  !"  After  this  sage  re- 
mark, the  Jury  were  again  sent  back, — and 
kept  other  twenty-four  hours,  without  food  or 
refreshment.  On  the  third  day,  the  natural 
and  glorious  effect  of  this  brutality  on  the 
spirits  of  Englishmen  was  at  length  produced. 
Instead  of  the  special  and  unmeaning  form  of 
their  first  verdict,  they  now,  all  in  one  voice, 
declared  the  prisoner  Not  Guilty.  The  Re- 
corder again  broke  out  into  abuse  and  menace  ] 
and,  after  "praying  God  to  keep  his  life  out 
of  such  hands,"  proceeded,  we  really  do  not 
see  on  what  pretext,  to  fine  every  man  of  them 
in  forty  marks,  and  to  order  them  to  prison  till 
payment.  WiUiam  Penn  then  demanded  his 
liberty ;  but  was  ordered  into  custody  till  he 
paid  the  fine  imposed  on  him  for  wearing  his 
hat ;  and  was  forthwith  dragged  away  to  his 
old  lodging  in  the  Bale  Dock,  while  in  the 
very  act  of  quoting  the  twenty-ninth  chapter 
the  Great  Charter,  '' Nullus  liber  homo,^'  &c. 
As  he  positively  refused  to  acknowledge  the 
legality  of  this  infliction  by  paying  the  fine, 
he  might  have  lain  long  enough  in  this  dun- 
Sjeon ;  but  his  father,  who  was  now  reconciled 
to  him,  sent  the  money  privately ;  and  he  was 
at  last  set  at  liberty. 

The  spirit,  however,  which  had  dictated 
these  proceedings  was  not  likely  to  cease  from 
troubling;  and,  within  less  than  a  year,  the 
poor  Quaker  was  again  brought  before  the 
Magistrate  on  an  accusation  of  illegal  preach- 
ing; and  was  again  about  to  be  dismissed  for 
want  of  evidence,  when  the  worthy  Justice 
ingeniously  bethought  himself  of  tendering  to 
the  prisoner  the  oath  of  allegiance,  which,  as 
well  as  every  other  oath,  he  well  knew  that 
his  principles  would  oblige  him  to  refuse.  In- 
stead of  the  oath,  W.  Penn,  accordingly  offer- 
ed to  give  his  reasons  for  not  swearing;  but 
the  Magistrate  refused  to  hear  him :  and  an 
altercation  ensued,  in  the  course  of  which  the 
Justice  having  insinuated,  that,  in  spite  of  his 
sanctified  exterior,  the  young  preacher  was  as 
bad  as  other  folks  in  his  practice,  the  Quaker 
forgot,  for  one  moment,  the  systematic  meek- 
ness and  composure  of  his  sect,  and  burst  out 
into  this  triumphant  appeal — 

"  I  make  this  bold  challenge  to  all  men,  women, 
and  children  upon  earth,  justly  to  accuse  me  with 
having  seen  me  drunk,  heard  me  swear,  utter  a 
curse,  or  speak  one  obscene  word,  much  less  that  I 
ever  made  it  my  practice.  I  speaic  this  lo  God's 
giory,  who  has  ever  preserved  me  from  the  power 
of  these  pollutions,  and  who  from  a  child  begot  an 
hatred  in  me  towards  them.  Thy  words  shall  be 
thy  burthen,  and  I  trample  thy  slander  as  dirt  un- 
der my  feet !" — pp.  99,  100. 

The  greater  part  of  the  audience  confirmed 
triis  statement;  and  the  judicial  calumniator 
had  nothing  for  it,  but  to  sentence  this  unrea- 
Bonabie  Puritan  to  six  months'  imprisonment 


in  Newgate;  where  he  amused  him§ejf,  af 
usual,  by  writing  and  publishing  four  pam- 
phlets in  support  of  his  opinions. 

It  is  by  no  means  our  intention,  however, 
to  digest  a  chronicle  either  of  his  persecutions 
or  his  publications.  In  the  earlier  part  of  his 
career,  he  seems  to  have  been  in  prison  every 
six  months;  and,  for  a  very  considerable  pe- 
riod of  it,  certainly  favoured  the  woild  with 
at  least  six  new  pamphlets  every  year.  In  all 
these,  as  well  as  in  his  public  appearances, 
there  is  a  singular  mixture  of  earnestness  and 
sobriety — a  devotedness  to  the  cause  in  which 
he  was  engaged,  that  is  almost  sublime ;  and 
a  temperance  and  patience  towards  his  oppo- 
nents, that  is  truly  admirable :  while  in  the 
whole  of  his  private  life,  there  is  redundant 
testimony,  even  from  the  .mouths  of  his  ene- 
mies, that  his  conduct  was  pure  and  philan- 
thropic in  an  extraordinary  degree,  and  distin- 
guished at  the  some  time  for  singular  pru- 
dence and  judgrnent  in  all  ordinary  affairs. 
His  virtues  and  his  sufferings  appear  at  last  to 
have  overcome  his  father-s  objections  to  his 
peculiar  tenets ,  and  a  thorough  and  cordial 
reconciliation  took  place  previous  to  their  final 
separation.  On  his  death-bed,  indeed,  the  ad- 
miral is  said  to  have  approved  warmly  of 
every  part  of  his  son's  conduct ;  and  to  have 
predicted,  that  "  if  he  and  his  friends  kept  to 
their  plain  way  of  preaching  and  of  living, 
they  would  speedily  make  an  end  of  the 
priests,  to  the  end  of  the  world." — By  his 
father's  death  he  succeeded  to  a  handsome  es- 
tate, then  yielding  upwards  of  1500Z.  a  year; 
but  made  no  change  either  in  his  professions 
or  way  of  life.  He  was  at  the  press  and  in 
Newgate,  after  this  event,  exactly  as  before  : 
and  defied  and  reviled  the  luxury  of  the  age, 
just  as  vehemently,  when  he  was  in  a  condi- 
tion to  partake  of  it,  as  in  the  days  of  his  po- 
verty. Within  a  short  time  after  his  succes- 
sion, he  made  a  pilgrimage  to  Holland  and 
Germany  in  company  with  George  Fox;  where 
it  is  said  that  they  converted  many  of  all 
ranks,  including  young  ladies  of  quality  and 
old  professors  of  divinity.  They  were  ill 
used,  however,  by  a  surly  Graf  or  two,  who 
sent  them  out  of  their  dominions  under  a  cor- 
poral's guard ;  an  attention  which  they  repaid^ 
by  long  letters  of  expostulation  and  advice, 
which  the  worthy  Grafs  were  probably  neither 
very  able  nor  very  willing  to  read. 

In  the  midst  of  these  labours  and  trials,  he 
found  time  to  marry  a  lady  of  great  beaut)' 
and  accomplishments;  and  settled  himself  ir 
a  comfortable  and  orderly  house  in  the  coun 
try — but,  at  the  same  time,  remitted  nothing 
of  his  zeal  and  activity  in  support  of  the  cauw. 
in  which  he  had  embarked.  When  the  penal 
statutes  against  Popish  recusants  were  about 
to  be  passed,  in  1678,  by  the  tenor  of  whichj 
certain  grievous  punishments  were  inflictec 
upon  all  who  did  not  frequent  the  established 
church,  or  purge  themselves  upon  oath,  from 
Popery,  William  Penn  was  allowed  to  be  heara 
before  a  Committee  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
in  support  of  the  Quakers'  application  fw 
some  exemption  from  the  unintended  severity 
of  these  edicts ; — and  what  has  been  preserved 


CLARKSON'S  LIFE  OF  PENN. 


65b 


01  his  speech,  upon  that  occasion,  certainly  is 
not  the  least  respectable  of  his  performances. 
Jt  required  no  ordinary  magnanimity  for  any 
one,  in  the  very  height  of  the  frenzy  of  the 
Popish  plot,  boldly  to  tell  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, ^'that  it  was  unlawful  to  inflict  punish- 
ment upon  Catholics  themselves,  on  account 
of  a  conscientious  dissent."  This,  however, 
William  Penn  did,  with  the  firmness  of  a  true 
philosopher ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  with  so 
much  of  the  meekness  and  humility  of  a 
Quaker,  that  he  was  heard  without  offence  or 
interruption : — and  having  thus  put  in  his  pro- 
test against  the  general  principle  of  intoler- 
ance, he  proceeded  to  plead  his  own  cause, 
and  that  of  his  brethren,  with  admirable  force 
and  temper  as  follows  : — 

"  I  was  bred  a  Protestant,  and  that  strictly  too. 
I  lost  nothing  by  time  or  study.  For  years,  read- 
ing, travel,  and  observation,  made  the  religion  of 
my  education  the  religion  of  my  judgment.  My 
alteration  hath  brought  none  to  that  belief;  and 
though  the  posture  I  am  in  may  seem  odd  or  strange 
to  you,  yet  I  am  conscientious;  and,  till  you  know 
me  better,  I  hope  your  charity  will  call  it  rather  my 
unhappiness  than  my  crime.  I  do  tell  you  again, 
and  here  solemnly  declare,  in  the  presence  of  the 
Almighty  God,  and  before  you  all,  that  the  profes- 
sion I  now  make,  and  the  Society  I  now  adhere  to, 
have  been  so  far  from  altering  that  Protestant  judg- 
ment I  had,  that  I  am  not  conscious  to  myself  of 
having  receded  from  an  iota  of  any  one  principle 
maintained  by  those  first  Protestants  and  Reformers 
of  Germany,  and  our  own  martyrs  at  home,  against 
the  see  of  Rome  :  And  therefore  it  is,  we  think  it 
hard,  that  though  we  deny  in  common  with  you 
those  doctrines  of  Rome  so  zealously  protested 
against,  (from  whence  the  name  of  Protestants,) 
yet  that  we  should  be  so  unhappy  as  to  suffer,  and 
that  with  extreme  severity,  by  laws  made  only 
against  the  maintainers  of  those  doctrines  which  we 
do  so  deny.  We  choose  no  suffering ;  for  God 
knows  what  we  have  already  suffered,  and  how 
many  sufficient  and  trading  families  are  reduced  to 
great  poverty  by  it.  We  think  ourselves  an  useful 
people.  We  are  sure  we  are  a  peaceable  people  ; 
yet,  if  we  must  still  suffer,  let  us  not  suffer  as 
Popish  Recusants,  but  as  Protestant  Dissenters." 

pp.  220,  221. 

About  the  same  period  w-e  find  him  closely 
leagued  with  no  less  a  person  than  Algernon 
Sydney,  and  busily  employed  in  canvassing 
for  him  in  the  burgh  of  Guildford.  But  the 
most  important  of  his  occupations  at  this  time 
were  those  which  connected  him  with  that 
region  which  was  destined  to  be  the  scene 
of  his  greatest  anjl  most  memorable  exertions. 
An  accidental  circumstance  had  a  few  years 
before  engaged  him  in  some  inquiries  with 
regard  to  the  state  of  that  district  in  North 
America,  since  called  New  Jersey,  and  Penn- 
sylvania. A  great  part  of  this  territory  had 
been  granted  by  the  Crown  to  the  family  of 
Lord  Berkeley,  who  had  recently  sold  a  large 
part  of  it  to  a  Quaker  of  the  name  of  Billynge  : 
and  this  person  having  fallen  into  pecuniary 
embarrassments,  prevailed  upon  William  Penn 
to  accept  of  a  conveyance  of  this  property, 
and  to  undertake  the  management  of  it,  as 
trustee  for  his  creditors.  The  conscientious 
trustee  applied  himself  to  the  discharge  of  this 
duty  with  his  habitual  scrupulousness  and  ac- 
tivity;— and  having  speedily  made  himself 
acquaivte«i  with  the  condition  and  capabilities 


of  the  great  province  in  question,  was  immei 
diately  struck  with  the  opportunity  it  afforded 
both  for  a  beneficent  arrangement  of  the  inte« 
rests  of  its  inhabitants,  and  for  providing  a 
pleasant  and  desirable  retreat  for  such  of  hia 
own  communion  as  might  be  willing  to  leave 
their  native  land  in  pursuit  of  religious  liberty: 
The  original  charter  had  vested  the  proprietor, 
under  certain  limitations,  with  the  power  oi 
legislation ;  and  one  of  the  first  works  of  Wil- 
liam Penn  was  )o  draw  up  a  sort  of  constitu- 
tion for  the  land  vested  in  Billynge — the  car- 
dinal foundation  of  which  was,  that  no  man 
should  be  troubled,  molested,  or  subjected  to 
any  disability,  on  account  of  his  religion.  He 
then  superintended  the  embarkation  of  two  or 
three  ship-loads  of  Quakers,  who  set  off  for 
this  land  of  promise; — and  continued,  from 
time  to  time,  both  to  hear  so  much  of  their 
prosperity,  and  to  feel  how  much  a  larger  pro- 
prietor might  have  it  in  his  power  to  promote 
and  extend  it,  that  he  at  length  conceived  the 
idea  of  acquiring  to  himself  a  much  larger 
district,  and  founding  a  settlement  upon  a  still 
more  Lberal  and  comprehensive  plan.  The 
means  of  doing  this  were  providentially  placed 
in  his  hands,  by  the  circumstance  of  his  father 
having  a  claim  upon  the  dissolute  and  needy 
government  of  the  day,  for  no  less  than 
16,000^., — in  lieu  of  which  W.  Penn  proposed 
that  the  district,  since  called  Pennsylvania, 
should  be  made  over  to  him,  with  Sucn  ample 
powers  of  administration,  as  made  him  little 
less  than  absolute  sovereign  of  the  country. 
The  right  of  legislation  was  left  entirely  to 
him,  and  such  councils  as  he  might  appoint , 
with  no  other  limitation,  than  that  his  laws 
should  be  liable  to  be  rescinded  by  the  Privy 
Council  of  England,  within  six  months  after 
they  were  reported  to  it.  This  memorable 
charter  was  signed  on  the  4th  of  March,  1681. 
He  originally  intended,  that  the  country  should 
have  been  called  New  Wales ;  but  the  Under- 
Secretary  of  State,  being  a  Welshman,  thought, 
it  seems,  that  this  was  using  too  much  liberty 
with  the  ancient  principality,  and  objected  to 
it  1  He  then  suggested  Sylvania ;  but  the 
king  himself  insisted  upon  adding  Penn  to  it, 
— and  after  some  struggles  of  modesty, -it  was 
found  necessary  to  submit  to  his  gracious 
desires. 

He  now  proceeded  to  encourage  settlers  of 
all  sorts, — but  especially  such  sectaries  as 
were  impatient  of  the  restraints  and  persecu- 
tions to  which  they  were  subjected  in  Eng- 
land ;  and  published  certain  conditions  and 
regulations,  "  the  first  fundamental  of  which," 
as  he  expresses  it,  was,  '•  That  every  person 
should  enjoy  the  free  profession  of  his  faith, 
and  exercise  of  worship  towards  God,  in  such 
a  way  as  he  shall  in  his  conscience  believe  is 
most  acceptable ;  and  should  be  protected  in 
this  liberty  by  the  authority  of  the  civil  magis- 
trate." With  regard  to  the  native  inhabitants, 
he  positively  enacted,  that  "whoever  should 
hurt,  wrong,  or  offend  any  Indian,  should  in- 
cur the  same  penalty  as  if  he  had  offended  in 
like  manner  against  his  fellow  planter ;"  and 
that  the  planters  should  not  be  tl  eir  ouni 
judges  in  case  of  any  difference  with  the  Ir 


656 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


dians,  but  that  all  such  differences  should  be 
settled  by  twelve  referees,  six  Indians  and  six 
planters  3  under  the  direction,  if  need  were, 
of  the  Governor  of  the  province,  and  the  Chief, 
or  King  of  the  Indians  concerned.  Under 
these  wise  and  merciful  regulations,  three 
ships  full  of  passengers  sailed  for  the  new 
province  in  the  end  of  1681.  v  In  one  of  these 
was  Colonel  Markham,  a  relation  of  Penn's, 
and  intended  to  act  as  his  secretary  when  he 
should  himself  arrive.  He  was  the  chief  of 
several  commissioners,  who  were  appointed  to 
confer  with  the  Indians  with  regard  to  the  ces- 
sion or  purchase  of  their  lands,  and  the  terms 
of  a  perpetual  peace, — and  was  the  bearer  of 
the  following  letter  to  them  from  the  Governor, 
a  part  of  which  we  think  worthy  of  being 
transcribed,  for  the  singular  plainness,  and 
engaging  honesty,  of  its  manner. 

"  Now,  I  would  have  you  well  observe,  that  I 
am  very  sensible  of  the  unkindness  and  injustice 
which  have  been  too  much  exercised  toward  you 
by  the  people  of  these  parts  of  the  world,  who  have 
sought  themselves  to  make  great  advantages  by  you, 
rather  than  to  be  examples  of  goodness  and  patience 
unto  you.  This  I  hear  hath  been  a  matter  of  trouble 
to  you,  and  caused  great  grudging  and  animosities, 
sometimes  to  the  shedding  of  blood.  But  I  am  not 
such  a  man ;  as  is  well  known  in  my  own  country. 
I  have  great  love  and  regard  toward  you,  and  desire 
to  win  and  gain  your  love  and  friendship  by  a  kind, 
just,  and  peaceable  life  ;  and  the  people  I  send  are 
of  the  same  mind,  and  shall  in  all  things  behave 
themselves  accordingly  ;  and  if  in  any  thing  any 
shall  offend  you  or  your  people,  you  shall  have 
a  full  and  speedy  satisfaction  for  the  same,  by  an 
equal  number  of  just  men  on  both  sides,  that  by  no 
means  you  may  have  just  occasion  of  being  offended 
against  them. 

"  I  shall  shordy  come  to  see  you  myself,  at 
which  time  we  may  more  largely  and  freely  confer 
and  discourse  of  these  matters.  In  the  mean  time 
I  have  sent  my  Commissioners  to  treat  with  you, 
about  land,  and  a  firm  league  of  peace.  Let  me 
desire  you  to  be  kind  to  them  and  to  the  people, 
and  receive  the  presents  and  tokens,  which  I  have 
sent  you,  as  a  testimony  of  my  good  will  to  you, 
and  of  my  resolution  to  live  justly,  peaceably,  and 
friendly  with  you.      I  am,  your  loving  Friend, 

"  William  Penn." 

In  the  course  of  the  succeeding  year,  he 
prepared  to  follow  .these  colonists ;  and  ac- 
cordingly embarked,  with  about  an  hundred 
other  Quakers,  in  the  month  of  September, 
1682.  Before  separating  himself,  however, 
from  his  family  on  this  long  pilgrimage,  he 
addressed  a  long  letter  of  love  and  admoni- 
tion to  his  wife  and  children,  from  which  we 
are  tempted  to  make  a  pretty  large  extract 
for  the  entertainment  and  edification  of  our 
readers.  There  is  something,  we  think,  very 
touching  and  venerable  in  the  affectionateness 
of  its  whole  strain,  and  the  patriarchal  sim- 

f)licity  in  which  it  is  conceived ;  while  the 
anguage  appears  to  us  to  be  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  specimens  of  that  soft  and  mellow 
•English,  which,  with  all  its  redundancy  and 
cumbrous  volame,  has,  to  our  ears,  a  far  richer 
and  more  pathetic  sweetness  than  the  epigrams 
and  apothegms  of  modern  times.  The  letter 
begins  in  this  manner — 

"  My  dear  Wife  and  Children, 
•'  My  love,  which  neither  sea,  nor  land,  nor  death 
itself,  can  extinguish  or  lessen  toward  you,  most 


endearedly  visits  you  with  eternal  embraces,  and 
will  abide  with  you  for  ever :  and  may  the  God  of 
my  life  watch  over  you,  and  bless  you,  and  do  you 
good  in  this  world  and  for  ever  I — Some  things  aro 
upon  my  spirit  to  leave  with  you  in  your  respective 
capacities,  as  I  am  to  one  a  husband,  and  to  the 
rest  a  father,  if  I  should  never  see  you  more  in  this 
world. 

' '  My  dear  wife  !  remember  thou  w.st  the  love 
of  my  youth,  and  much  the  joy  of  my  life  ;  the 
most  beloved,  as  well  as  most  worthy  of  all  my 
earthly  comforts :  and  the  reason  of  that  love  was 
more  thy  inward  than  thy  outward  excellencies, 
which  yet  were  many.  God  knows,  and  thou 
knowest  it,  I  can  say  it  was  a  match  of  Providence's 
making  ;  and  God's  image  in  us  both  was  the  first 
thing,  and  the  most  amiable  and  engaging  orna- 
ment in  our  eyes.  Now  I  am  to  leave  thee,  and 
that  without  knowing  whether  I  shall  ever  see  thee 
more  in  this  world,  take  my  counsel  into  thy  bosom, 
and  let  it  dwell  with  thee  in  my  stead  while  thou 
livest." 

Then,  after  some  counsel  about  godlinesfl 
and  economy,  he  proceeds — 

"  And  now,  my  dearest,  let  me  recommend  to 
thy  care  my  dear  children  ;  abundantly  beloved  of 
me,  as  the  Lord's  blessings,  and  the  sweet  pledges 
of  our  mutual  and  endeared  affection.  Above  all 
things  endeavour  to  breed  them  up  in  the  love  of 
virtue,  and  that  holy  plain  way  of  it  which  we  havo 
lived  in,  that  the  world  in  no  part  of  it  get  into 
my  family.  I  had  rather  they  were  homely  than 
finely  bred  as  to  outward  behaviour ;  yet  I  love 
sweetness  mixed  with  gravity,  and  cheerfulness 
tempered  with  sobriety.  Religion  in  the  heart  leads 
into  this  true  civility,  teaching  men  and  women  to 
be  mild  and  courteous  in  their  behaviour ;  an  ac- 
complishment worthy  indeed  of  praise. 

"  Next  breed  them  up  in  a  love  one  of  another : 
tell  them  it  is  the  charge  I  left  behind  me  ;  and 
that  it  is  the  way  to  have  the  love  and  blessing  of 
God  upon  them.  Somp'.mies  separate  them,  but 
not  long  ;  and  allow  them  to  send  and  give  each 
other  small  things,  to  endear  one  another  with. 
Once  more  I  say,  tell  them  it  was  my  counsel  they 
should  be  tender  and  affectionate  one  to  another. 
For  their  learning  be  liberal.  Spare  no  cost;  for 
by  such  parsimony  all  is  lost  that  is  saved  :  but  let 
it  be  useful  knowledge,  such  as  is  consistent  with 
truth  and  godliness,  not  cherishing  a  vain  conversa- 
tion or  idle  mind  ;  but  ingenuity  mixed  with  indus- 
try is  good  for  the  body  and  the  mind  too.  Rather 
keep  an  ingenious  person  in  the  house  to  teach 
them,  than  send  them  to  schools ;  too  many  evil 
impressions  being  commonly  received  there.  Be 
sure  to  observe  their  genius,  and  do  not  cross  it  as 
to  learning;  let  them  not  dwell  too  long  on  one 
thing ;  but  let  their  change  be  agreeable,  and  all 
their  diversions  have  some  little  bodily  labour  in 
them.  When  grown  big,  have  most  care  for  them  ; 
for  then  there  are  more  snares,  both  within  and 
without.  When  marriageable,  see  that  they  have 
worthy  persons  in  their  eye,  of  good  life,  and  good 
fame  for  piety  and  understanding.  I  desire  no 
wealth,  but  sufficiency ;  and  be  sure  their  love  be 
dear,  fervent,  and  mutual,  that  it  may  be  happy  for 
them.  I  choose  not  they  should  be  married  to 
earthly,  covetous  kindred  :  and  of  cities  and  towns 
of  concourse,  beware :  the  world  is  apt  to  stick 
close  to  those  who  have  lived  and  got  wealth  there : 
a  country  life  and  estate  I  like  best  for  my  children. 
I  prefer  a  decent  mansion  of  a  hundred  pounds  per 
annum,  before  ten  thousand  pounds  in  London,  or 
such  like  place,  in  a  way  of  trade." 

He  next  addresses  himself  to  his  children. 

"  Be  obedient  to  your  dear  mother,  a  woman 
whose  virtue  and  good  name  is  an  honour  to  you ; 
for  she  hath  been  exceeded  by  none  in  her  time  for 
her  integrity,  humanity,  virtue,  and  good  under- 


CLARKSON'S  LIFE  OF  PENN. 


667 


Btanding.;  qiralhles  not  usual  among  women  of  her 
worldly  condition  and  quality.  Therefore  honour 
and  obey  her,  my  dear  children,  as  your  mother, 
and  your  father's  love  and  delight ;  nay,  love  her 
too,  for  she  loved  your  father  with  a  deep  and 
upright  love,  choosing  him  before  all  her  many 
suitors:  and  though  she  be  of  a  delicate  constitu- 
tion and  noble  spirit,  yet  she  descended  to  the  ut- 
most tenderness  and  care  for  you,  performing  the 
painfuUest  acts  of  service  to  you  in  your  infancy, 
as  a  mother  and  a  nurse  too.  I  charge  you,  before 
the  Lord,  honour  and  obey,  love  and  cherish  your 
dear  mother." 

After  a  great  number  of  other  afTectionate 
counsels,  he  turns  particularly  to  his  elder 
boys. 

"  And  as  for  you,  who  are  likely  to  be  concerned 
in  the  government  of  Pennsylvania,  I  do  charge 
you  before  the  Lord  God  and  his  holy  angels,  that 

}^ou  be  lowly,  diligent,  and  tender;  fearing  God, 
oving  the  people,  and  hating  covetousness.  Let 
justice  have  its  impartial  course,  and  the  law  free 
passage.  Though  to  your  loss,  protect  no  man 
against  it ;  for  you  are  not  above  the  law,  but  the 
law  above  you.  Live  therefore  the  lives  yourselves 
vou  would  have  the  people  hve,  and  then  shall  you 
have  right  and  boldness  to  punish  the  transgressor. 
Keep  upon  the  square,  for  God  sees  you  :  therefore 
do  your  duty,  and  be  sure  you  see  with  your  own 
eyes,  and  hear  with  your  own  ears.  Entertain  no 
lurchers  ;  cherish  no  informers  for  gain  or  revenge  ; 
use  no  tricks ;  fly  to  no  devices  to  support  or  cover 
injustice  ;  but  let  your  hearts  be  upright  before  the 
Lord,  trusting  in  him  above  the  contrivances  of  men, 
and  none  shall  be  able  to  hurt  or  supplant  you." 

We  should  like  to  see  any  private  letter  of 
instructions  from  a  sovereign  to  his  heir-appa- 
rent, that  will  bear  a  comparison  with  the 
injunctions  of  this  honest  Sectary.  He  con- 
cludes as  follows : — 

"  Finally,  my  children,  love  one  another  with  a 
true  endeared  love,  and  your  dear  relations  on  both 
sides,  and  take  care  to  preserve  tender  affection  in 
your  children  to  each  other,  often  marrying  within 
themselves,  so  as  it  be  without  the  bounds  forbidden 
in  God's  law,  that  so  they  may  not,  like  the  forget- 
ting unnatural  world,  grow  out  of  kindred,  and  as 
cold  as  strangers ;  but,  as  becomes  a  truly  natural 
and  Christian  stock,  you  and  yours  after  you,  may 
live  in  the  pure  and  fervent  love  of  God  towards 
one  another,  as  becoming  brethren  in  the  spiritual 
and  natural  relation. 

"So  farewell  to  my  thrice  dearly  beloved  wife 
and  children  ! 

"Yours,  as  God  pleaseth,  in  that  which  no 
waters  can  quench,  no  time  forget,  nor  distance 
wear  away,  but  remains  for  ever, 

"  William  Penn." 
'*  Worminghurst,  fourth  of 
sixthmonth,  1682." 

Immediately  after  writing  this  letter,  he 
embarked,  and  arrived  safely  in  the  Dela- 
ware with  all  his  companions.  The  country 
assigned  to  him  by  the  royal  charter  was  yet 
full  of  its  original  inhabitants ;  and  the  prin- 
ciples of  William  Penn  did  not  allow  him 
to  look  upon  that  gift  as  a  warrant  to  dis- 
possess the  first  proprietors  of  the  land.  He 
had  accordingly  appointed  his  commissioners, 
the  preceding  year,  to  treat  with  them  for 
the  fair  purchase  of  a  part  of  their  lands,  and 
for  their  joint  possession  of  the  remainder; 
and  the  terms  of  the  settlement  being  now 
nearly  agreed  upon,  he  proceeded,  very  soon 
after  his  arrival,  to  conclude  tne  transac- 
42 


tion,  and  solemnly  to  pledge  his  faith,  and 
to  ratify  and  confirm  the  treaty,  in  sight  both 
of  the  Indians  and  Planters.  For  this  pur- 
pose a  grand  convocation  of  the  tribes  had 
been  appointed  near  the  spot  where  Philadel- 
phia now  stands;  and  it  was  agreed  that  he 
and  the  presiding  Sachems  should  meet  and 
exchange  faith,  under  the  spreading  branches 
of  a  prodigious  elm-tree  that  grew  on  the  bank 
of  the  river.  On  the  day  appointed,  accord- 
ingly, an  innumerable  multitude  of  the  In- 
dians assembled  in  that  neighbourhood  ;  and 
were  seen,  with  their  dark  visages  and  brand 
ished  arms,  moving,  in  vast  swarms,  in  the 
depth  of  the  woods  which  then  overshadowed 
the  whole  of  that  now  cultivated  region.  On 
the  other  hand,  William  Penn,  with  a  mode- 
rate attendance  of  Friends,  advanced  to  meet 
them.  He  came  of  course  unarmed — in  his 
usual  plain  dress — without  banners,  or  mace, 
or  guards,  or  carriages ;  and  only  distinguished 
from  his  companions  by  wearing  a  blue  sash 
of  silk  network  (which  it  seems  is  still  pre- 
served by  Mr.  Kett  of  Seething-hall,  near 
Norwich),  and  by  having  in  his  hand  a  roll 
of  parchment,  on  which  was  engrossed  the 
confirmation  of  the  treaty  of  purchase  and 
amity.  As  soon  as  he  dfrew  near  the  spot 
where  the  Sachems  were  assembled,  the 
whole  multitude  of  Indians  threw  down  their 
weapons,  and  seated  themselves  on  the  ground 
in  groups,  each  under  his  own  chieftain  ;  and 
the  presiding  chief  intimated  to  William  Penn, 
that  the  nations  were  ready  to  hear  him.  Mr. 
Clarkson  regrets,  and  we  cordially  join  in  the 
sentiment,  that  there  is  no  written,  contenipo- 
rary  account  of  the  particulars  attending  this 
interesting  and  truly  novel  transaction.  He 
assures  us,  how^ever,  that  they  are  still  in  a 
great  measure  preserved  in  oral  tradition,  and 
that  both  what  we  have  just  stated,  and  what 
follows,  may  be  relied  on  as  perfectly  accu- 
rate.    The  sequel  we  give  in  his  own  words. 

"  Having  been  thus  called  upon,  he  began.  The 
Great  Spirit,  he  said,  who  made  him  and  them,  who 
ruled  the  Heaven  and  the  Earth,' and  who  knew 
the  innermost  thoughts  of  man,  knew  that  he  and 
his  friends  had  a  hearty  desire  to  live  in  peace  and 
friendshif)  with  them,  and  to  serve  them  to  the 
utmost  of  their  power.  It  was  not  their  custom  to 
use  hostile  weapons  against  their  fellow-creaturea, 
for  which  reason  they  had  come  unarmed.  Their 
object  was  not  to  do  injury,  and  thus  provoke  the 
Great  Spirit,  but  to  do  good.  They  were  then  met 
on  the  broad  pathway  of  good  faith  and  good  will, 
so  that  no  advantage  was  to  be  taken  on  either 
side,  but  all  was  to  be  openness,  brotherhood,  and 
love.  After  these  and  other  words,  he  unrolled 
the  parchment,  and  by  means  of  the  same  inter- 
preter conveyed  to  them,  article  by  article,  the  con- 
ditions  of  the'Purchnse,  and  the  Words  of  the  Com- 
pact then  made  for  their  eternal  Union.  Among 
other  things,  they  were  not  to  be  molested  in  theit 
lawful  pursuits,  even  in  the  territory  they  had  alien- 
ated, for  it  was  to  be  common  to  them  and  the 
English.  They  were  to  have  the  same  liberty  to 
do  "all  things  therein  relating  to  the  improvement 
of  their  grounds,  and  providing  sustenance  for  their 
families,  which  the  English  had.  If  any  disputes 
should  arise  between  the  two,  they  should  be  set- 
tled by  twelve  persons,  half  of  whom  should  be 
English,  and  half  Indians.  He  then  paid  them  for 
the  land  ;  and  made  them  many  presents  besides, 
from  the  merchandize  which  had  been  snread  before 


«58 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


them.  Having  done  this,  he  laid  the  roll  of  parch- 
ment on  the  ground,  observing  aeain,  that  the 
ground  should  be  common  to  botli  people.  He 
then  added,  that  he  would  not  do  as  the  Maryland- 
ers  did,  that  is,  call  them  Children  or  Brothers 
only  ;  for  often  parents  were  apt  to  chastise  their 
children  too  severely,  and  Brothers  sometimes 
would  differ :  neither  would  he  compare  the  Friend- 
ship between  him  and  them  to  a  Chain,  for  the 
rain  might  sometimes  rust  it,  or  a  tree  misht  fall 
and  break  it ;  but  he  should  consider  them" as  the 
same  flesh  and  blood  with  the  Christians,  and  the 
same  as  if  one  man's  body  were  to  be  divided  into 
two  parts.     He  then  took  up  the  parchment,  and 

Presented  it  to  the  Sachem,  who  wore  the  horn  in 
is  chaplet,  and  desired  him  and  the  other  Sachems 
to  preserve  it  carefully  for  three  generations;  that 
their  children  might  know  what  had  passed  between 
them,  just  as  if  he  had  remained  himself  with  them 
to  repeat  it."— pp.  341—343. 

The  Indians,  in  return,  made  long  and 
stately  harangues — of  which,  however,  no 
^  more  seems  to  have  been  remembered,  but 
that  "they  pledged  themselves  to  live  in  love 
with  William  Penn  and  his  children,  as  long 
as  the  sun  and  moon  should  endure."  And 
thus  ended  this  famous  treaty; — of  which 
Voltaire  has  remarked,  with  so  much  truth 
and  severity,  "  that  it  was  the  only  one  ever 
concluded  between  savages  and  Christians 
that  was  not  ratified  by  an  oath — and  the  only 
one  that  never  was  broken  !" 

Such,  indeed,  was  the  spirit  in  which  the 
negotiation  was  entered  into,  and  the  corres- 
ponding settlement  conducted,  that  for  the 
epace  of  more  than  seventy  years — and  so 
long  indeed  as  the  Quakers  retained  the  chief 
povyer  in  the  government,  the  peace  and  amity 
which  had  been  thus  solemnly  promised  and 
concluded,  never  was  violated ; — and  a  large 
and  most  striking,  though  solitary  example 
afforded,  of  the  facility  with  which  they  who 
are  really  sincere  and  friendly  in  their  own 
views,  may  live  in  harmony  even  with  those 
who  are  supposed  to  be  peculiarly  fierce  and 
faithless.  We  cannot  bring  ourselves  to  wish 
that  there  were  nothing  but  Quakers  in  the 
world — becau,se  we  fear  it  would  be  insup- 
portably  dull ; — but  when  we  consider  what 
tremendous  evils  daily  arise  from  the  petu- 
lance and  profligacy,  and  ambition  and  irri- 
tability, of  Sovereigns  and  Ministers,  we  can- 
not help  thinking  that  it  would  be  the  most 
efficacious  of  all  reforms  to  choose  all  those 
ruling  personages  out  of  that  plain,  pacific, 
and  sober-minded  sect. 

William  Penn  now  held  an  assembly,  in 
which  fifty-nine  important  laws  were  passed 
in  the  course  of  three  days.  The  most  re- 
markable were  those  which  limited  the  num- 
ber of  capital  crimes  to  two — murder  and 
high  treason — and  which  provided  for  the 
reformation,  as  well  as  the  punishment  of 
offenders,  by  making  the  prisons  places  of 
compulsive  industry,  sobriety,'  ancl  instruc- 
tion. It  was  likewise  enacted,  that  all  chil- 
dren, of  whatever  rank,  should  be  instructed 
in  some  art  or  trade.  The  fees  of  law  pro- 
ceedings were  fixed,  and  inscribed  on  public 
tables ;— and  the  amount  of  fines  to  be  levied 
for  ofTences  also  limited  by  legislative  aa- 
thority      Many  admirable  regulations  were 


added,  for  the  en.-^uragemeiit  of  industry, 
and  mutuax  usefulness  and  esteem.  There 
is  something  very  agreeable  in  the  content- 
ment, and  sober  and  well-earned  self-com 
placency,  which  breathe  in  the  following  bet- 
ter of  this  great  colonist — written  durir^  his 
first  rest  from  those  great  labours. 

"I  am  now  casting  the  country  into  townships 
for  large  lots  of  land.  I  have  held  an  Assembly, 
in  which  many  good  laws  are  passed.  We  could 
not  stay  safely  till  the  spring  for  a  Government.  I 
have  annexed  the  Territories  lately  obtained  to  the 
Province,  and  passed  a  general  naturalization  for 
strangers;  which  hath  much  pleased  the  people.— 
As  to  outward  things,  we  are  satisfied ;  the  land 
good,  the  air  clear  and  sweet,  the  springs  plentiful, 
and  provision  good  and  easy  to  come  at  ;  an  innu- 
merable quantity  of  wild  fowl  and  fish  :  in  fine, 
here  is  what  an  Abraham,  Isaac,  and  Jacob  would 
be  well  contented  with;  and  service  enough  for 
God,  for  the  fields  are  here  white  for  harvest.  O, 
how  sweet  is  the  quiet  of  these  parts,  freed  from 
the  anxious  and  troublesome  solicitations,  hurries, 
and  perplexities  of  woful  Europe  !" — pp.  350,  351.' 

We  cannot  persuade  ourselves,  however, 
to  pursue  any  farther  the  details  of  thisedify^ 
ing  biography.  W.  Penn  returned  to  England 
after  a  residence  of  about  two  years  in  his 
colony — got  into  great  favour  with  James  II. 
— ^and  was  bitterly  calumniated  as  a  Jesuit, 
both  by  churchmen  and  sectaries — went  on 
doing  good  and  preaching  Quakerism — was 
sorely  persecuted  and  insulted,  and  deprived 
of  his  Government,  but  finally  acquitted,  and 
honourably  restored,  under  King  William — 
lost  his  wife  and  son — travelled  and  married 
again — returned  to  Pennsylvania  in  1699  foi 
two  years  longer — came  finally  home  to  Eng- 
land—continued to  preach  and  publish  as 
copiously  as  ever — was  reduced  to  a  state  of 
kindly  dotage  by  three  strokes  of  apoplexy— 
and  died  at  last  at  the  age  of  seventy-two,  in 
the  year  1718. 

He  seems  to  have  been  a  man  of  kind  affec- 
tions, singular  activity  and  perseverance,  and 
great  practical  wisdom.  Yet  we  can  well 
believe  with  Burnet,  that  he  was  "  a  little 
puffed  up  with  vanity;"  and  that  "he  had  a 
tedious,  luscious  way  of  talking,  that  was  apt 
to  tire  the  patience  of  his  hearers."  He  was 
very  neat  in  his  person ;  and  had  a  great  hor- 
ror at  tobacco,  which  occasionally  endangered 
his  popularity  in  his  American  domains.  He 
was  mighty  methodical,  too,  in  ordering  his 
household ;  and  had  stuck  up  in  his  hall  a 
written  directory,  or  General  Order,  for  the 
regulation  of  his  family,  to  which  he  exacted 
the  strictest  conformity.  According  to  this 
rigorous  system  of  discipline,  he  required — 

' '  That  in  that  quarter  of  the  year  which  included 
part  of  the  winter  and  part  of  the  spring,  the  mem- 
bers of  it  were  to  rise  at  seven  in  the  morning,  in 
the  next  at  six.  in  the  next  at  five,  and  in  the  last 
at  six  again.  Nine  o'clock  was  the  hour  for  break- 
fast, twelve  br  dinner,  seven  for  supper,  and  ten 
to  retire  to  bed.  The  whole  family  were  to  assem- 
ble every  morning  for  worship.  They  were  to  be 
called  together  at  eleven  again,  that  each  might 
read  in  turn  some  portion  of  the  holy  Scripture,^or 
of  the  Martyrology,  or  of  Friends'  books  ;  and 
finally  they  were  Fo  meet  again  for  worship  at  siz 
in  the  evening.  On  the  days  of  public  meeting,  no 
one  was  to  be  absent,  except  on  the  plea  of  health 


I 


ADMIRAL  LORD  Co^LjNGWOOD. 


65L 


of  unavoidable  engagement.  The  servants  were 
to  be  caiied  up  after  supper  to  render  to  their  mas- 
ter and  mistress  an  account  of  what  they  had  done 
in  the  day,  and  to  receive  instructions  for  the  next ; 
and  were  particularly  exhorted  to  avoid  lewd  dis- 
courses and  troublesome  noises." 

We  shall  not  stop  to  examine  what  dregs 
of  ambitionj  or  what  hankerings  after  worldly 
prosperityj  may  have  mixed  themselves  with 


the  pious  and  philanthropic  principles  that 
were  undoubtedly  his  chief  guides  in  forming 
that  great  settlcinent  which  still  bears  his 
name,  and  profits  by  his  example.  Human 
virtue  does  not  challenge,  nor  admit  of  such 
a  scrutiny  !  And  it  should  be  sufficient  for 
the  glory  of  William  Penn,  that  he  stands 
upon  record  as  the  most  humane,  the  most 
moderate,  and  the  most  pacific  of  all  rulers. 


(Maj),    1828.) 


A  Selection  from  the  Public  and  Private  Correspondence  of  Vice-Admiral  Lord  Collingwood : 
interspersed  with  3Iemoirs  of  his  Life. ,  By  G.  L.  Newnham  Collingwood,  Esq.  F.  R.  S. 


2  vols.  8vo.     Ridgway.     London :   1828. 

We  do  not  know  when  we  have  met  with 
80  delightful  a  book  as  this,— or  one  with 
which  we  are  so  w^ell  pleased  with  ourselves 
for  being  delighted.  Its  attraction  consists 
almost  entirely  in  its  moral  beauty;  and  it 
has  the  rare  merit  of  filling  us  with  the  deep- 
est admiration  for  heroism,  without  suborning 
our  judgments  into  any  approbation  of  the 
vices  and  weaknesses  with  which  poor  mortal 
heroism  is  so  often  accompanied.  In  this  re- 
spect, it  is  not  only  more  safe,  but  more  agree- 
able reading  than  the  Memoirs  of  Nelson; 
where  the  lights  and  shadows  are  often  too 
painfully  contrasted,  and  the  bane  and  the 
antidote  exhibited  in  proportions  that  cannot 
but  be  hazardous  for  the  ardent  and  aspiring 
spirits  on  which  they  are  both  most  calculated 
to  operate. 

It  is  a  mere  illusion  of  national  vanity 
\^hich  prompts  us  to  claim  Lord  Collingwood 
as  a  character  peculiarly  English  1  Certainly 
we  must  admit,  that  we  have  few  English- 
men left  who  resemble  him ;  and  even  that 
our  prevailing  notions  and  habits  make  it 
likely  that  we  shall  have  still  fewer  hereafter. 
Yet  we  do  not  knew  where  such  a  character 
could  have  been  formed  but  in  England ; — 
and  feel  quite  satisfied,  that  it  is  there  only 
that  it  can  be  properly  valued  or  understood. 
The  combination  of  the  loftiest  daring  with 
the  most  watchful  humanity,  and  of  the  no- 
blest ambition  with  the  greatest  disdain  of 
personal  advantages,  and  the  most  generous 
sympathy  with  rival  merit,  though  rare  enough 
to  draw  forth  at  all  times  the  loud  applause 
of  mankind,  have  not  been  without  example, 
in  any  race  that  boasts  of  illustrious  ances- 
tors. But,  for  the  union  of  those  high  quali- 
ties wdth  unpretending  and  almost  homely 
simplicity,  sweet  temper,  undeviating  recti- 
tude, and  all  the  purity  and  sanctity  of  do- 
mestic affection  and  humble  content — we  can 
look,  we  think,  only  to  England, — or  to  the 
fabulous  legends  of  uncorrupted  and  unin- 
structed  Rome.  All  these  graces,  however, 
and  more  than  these,  were  united  in  Lord 
Collingwood:  For  he  had  a  cultivated  and 
even  elegant  mind,  a  taste  for  all  simple  en- 
joyments, and  a  rectitude  of  understanding — 
vhich  seemed  in  him  to  be  but  the  emanation  i 


of  a  still  higher  rectitude.  Inferior,  perhaps, 
to  Nelson,  in  original  genius  and  energy,  and 
in  that  noble  self-confidence  in  great  emer- 
gencies which  these  qualities  usually  inspire, 
he  was  fully  his  equal  in  seamanship  and  the 
art  of  command ;  as  well  as  in  that  devoted- 
ness  to  his  country  and  his  profession,  and 
that  utter  fearlessness  and  gallantry  of  soul 
which  exults  and  rejoices  in  scenes  of  tre- 
mendous peril,  w^hich  have  almost  ceased  to 
be  remarkable  in  the  character  of  a  British 
sailor.  On  the  other  hand,  we  think  it  will 
scarcely  be  disputed,  that  he  was  superior  to 
that  great  commander  in  general  information 
and  accomplishment,  and  in  those  thoughtful 
habits,  and  that  steadiness  and  propriety  of 
personal  deportment,  which  are  their  natural 
fruit.  His  greatest  admirers,  however,  can 
ask  no  higher  praise  for  him  than  that  he  stood 
on  the  same  lofty  level  with  Nelson,  as  to  that 
generous  and  cordial  appreciation  of  merit  in 
his  brother  officers,  by  which,  even  more,  per- 
haps, than  by  any  of  his  other  qualities,  that 
great  man  was  distinguished.  It  does  one's 
heart  good,  indeed,  to  turn  from  the  petty 
cabals,  the  paltry  jealousies,  the  splendid  de- 
tractions, the  irritable  vanities,  which  infest 
almost  every  other  walk  of  public  life,  and 
meet  one,  indeed,  at  every  turn  in  all  scenes 
of  competition,  and  among  men  otherwise 
eminent  and  honourable, — to  the  brother-like 
frankness  and  open-hearted  simplicity,  even 
of  the  official  communications  between  Nelson 
and  Collingwood  ;  and  to  the  father-like  in- 
terest with  which  they  both  concurred  in  fos- 
tering the  glory,  and  cheering  on  the  fortunes 
of  their  younger  associates.  In  their  noble 
thirst  for  distinction,  there  seems  to  be  abso- 
lutely no  alloy  of  selfishness;  and  scarcely 
even  a  feeling  of  rivalry.  If  the  opportunity 
of  doing  a  splendid  thing  has  not  come  to 
them,  it  has  come  to  some  one  who  deserved 
it  as  well,  and  perhaps  needed  it  more.  Ii 
will  come  to  them  another  day — and  then  the 
heroes  of  this  will  repay  their  hearty  congra- 
tulations. There  is  something  inexpressibly 
beautiful  and  attractive  in  this  spirit  of  rrag- 
nanimous  fairness ;  and  if  we  could  only  be- 
lieve it  to  be  general  in  the  navy,  we  she  uld 
gladly  recant  all  our  heretical  doubts  as  to  the 


660 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Buperior  virtues  of  men  at  sea,  join  chorus  to 
all  the  slang  songs  of  Dibdin  on  the  subject, 
and  applaud  to  the  echo  all  the  tirades  about 
British  tars  and  wooden  walls,  which  have  so 
often  nauseated  us  at  the  playhouses. 

We  feel  excessively  obliged  to  the  editor 
of  this  book ;  both  for  making  Lord  Colling- 
wood  known  to  us,  and  for  the  very  pleasing, 
modest,  and  effectual  vray  he  has  taken  to  do 
it  in.  It  is  made  up  almost  entirely  of  his 
Lordship's  correspondence ;  and  the  few  con- 
necting statements  and  explanatory  observa- 
tions are  given  with  the  greatest  clearness  and 
brevity ;  and  very  much  in  the  mild,  concili- 
atory, and  amiable  tone  of  the  remarkable 
peison  to  whom  they  relate.  When  we  say 
that  this  publication  has  made  Lord  Colling- 
wood  known  to  us,  we  do  not  mean  that  we, 
or  the  body  of  the  nation,  were  previously 
ignorant  that  he  had  long  served  with  distinc- 
tion in  the  navy,  and  that  it  fell  to  his  lot,  as 
second  in  command  at  Trafalgar,  to  indite  that 
eloquent  and  touching  despatch  which  an- 
nounced the  final  ruin  of  the  hostile  fleets, 
and  the  death  of  the  Great  Admiral  by  whose 
might  they  had  been  scattered.  But  till  this 
collection  appeared,  the  character  of  the  man 
was  known,  we  believe,  only  to  those  who 
had  lived  with  him ;  and  the  public  was  gene- 
rally ignorant  both  of  the  detail  of  his  ser- 
vices, and  the  high  principle  and  exemplary 
diligence  which  presided  over  their  perform- 
ance. Neither  was  it  known,  we  are  per- 
suaded, that  those  virtues  and  services  actually 
cost  him  his  life  !  and  that  the  difficulty  of 
finding,  in  our  large  list  of  admirals,  any  one 
fit  to  succeed  him  in  the  important  station 
which  he  filled  in  his  declining  years,  induced 
the  government, — most  ungenerously,  we 
must  say,  and  unjustly, — to  refuse  his  earnest 
desire  to  be  relieved  of  it ;  and  to  insist  on 
his  remaining  to  the  last  gasp,  at  a  post  which 
he  would  not  desert  so  long  as  his  country 
required  him  to  maintain  it,  but  at  which,  it 
was  apparent  to  himself,  and  all  the  world, 
that  he  must  speedily  die.  The  details  now 
before  us  will  teach  the  profession,  we  hope, 
by  what  virtues  and  what  toils  so  great  and 
80  pure  a  fame  can  alone  be  won ;  and  by 
rendering  in  this  way  such  characters  less 
rare,  will  also  render  the  distinction  to  which 
they  lead  less  fatal  to  its  owners :  While  they 
cannot  fail,  we  think,  to  awaken  the  govern- 
ment to  a  sense  of  its  own  ingratitude  to  those 
who  have  done  it  the  noblest  service,  and  of 
the  necessity  of  at  last  adopting  some  of  the 
suggestions  which  those  great  benefactors 
have  so  long  pressed  on  its  attention. 

We  have  not  much  concern  with  the  gene- 
alogy or  early  history  of  Lord  CoUingvvood. 
He  was  born  in  1750,  of  an  honourable  and 
ancient  family  of  Ncrthumberland,  but  of 
slender  patrimony;  and  went  to  sea,  under 
the  care  of  his  relative,  Captain,  afterwards 
Admiral  Brathwaite,  when  only  eleven  years 
old.  He  used,  himself,  to  tell,  as  an  instance 
of  his  youth  and  simplicity  at  this  time, 
"  that  as  he  was  sitting  crying  for  his  sepa- 
lation  from  home,  the  first  lieutenant  ob- 
served him ,  and  pitying  the  tender  years  of 


the  poor  child,  spoke  to  him  in  terms  of  much 
encouragement  and  kindness;  which,  as  Lor^i 
Collingwood  said,  so  won  upon  his  heart,  that, 
taking  this  officer  to  his  box,  he  ofiered  him 
in  gratitude  a  large  piece  of  plumcake  which 
his  mother  had  given  him!^'  Almost  from 
this  early  period  he  was  the  intimate  friend 
and  frequent  associate  of  the  brave  Nelson; 
and  had  his  full  share  of  the  obscure  perils 
and  unknown  labours  M^hich  usually  form  the 
noviciate  of  naval  eminence.  He  was  made 
commander  in  1779 ;  and  being  sent  to  the 
West  Indies  after  the  peace  of  1783,  was  only 
restored  to  his  family  in  1786.  He  married 
in  1791;  and  was  again  summoned  upon 
active  service  on  the  breaking  out  of  the  war 
with  France  in  1793;  from  which  period  to 
the  end  of  his  life,  in  1810,  he  was  continually 
in  employment,  and  never  permitted  to  see 
that  happy  home,  so  dear  to  his  heart,  and  so 
constantly  in  his  thoughts,  except  for  one  short 
interval  of  a  year,  during  the  peace  of  Amiens. 
During  almost  the  whole  of  this  period  he 
was  actually  afloat ;  and  was  frequently,  for 
a  year  together,  and  once  for  the  incredible 
period  of  twenty-two  months,  without  drop- 
ping an  anchor.  He  was  in  almost  all  the 
great  actions,  and  had  more  that  his  share  of 
the  anxious  blockades,  which  occurred  in  that 
memorable  time;  and  signalised  himself  in 
all,  by  that  mixture  of  considerate  vigilance 
and  brilliant  courage,  which  may  be  said  to 
have  constituted  his  professional  character. 
His  first  great  battle  was  that  which  ended  in 
Lord  Howe's  celebrated  victory  of  the  1st  of 
June,  1794;  and  we  cannot  resist  the  tempta- 
tion of  heading  our  extracts  with  a  part  of 
the  account  he  has  given  of  it,  in  a  letter  to 
his  father-in-law,  Mr.  Blackeit — not  so  much 
for  the  purpose  of  recalling  the  proud  feelings 
which  must  ever  cling  to  the  memory  of  our 
first  triumph  over  triumphant  France,  as  for 
the  sake  of  that  touching  mixture  it  presents, 
of  domestic  affection  and  family  recollections, 
with  high  professional  enthusiasm,  and  the 
kindling  spirit  of  war.  In  this  situation  he 
says : — 

"  We  cruised  for  a  few  days,  like  disappointed 
people  looking  for  what  we  could  not  find,  until  the 
morning  of  little  Sarah's  birth-day,  between  eight 
and  nine  o'clock,  when  the  French  fleet,  of  twenty- 
five  sail  of  the  line  was  discovered  to'  windward. 
We  chased  them,  and  they  bore  down  within  about 
five  miles  of  us.  The  night  was  spent  in  watching 
and  preparation  for  the  succeeding  day  ;  and  many 
a  blessing  did  I  send  forth  to  my  Sarah,  lest  I  should 
never  bless  her  more  !  At  dawn,  we  made  our  ap- 
proach on  the  enemy,  then  drew  up,  dressed  our 
ranks,  and  it  was  about  eight  when  the  Admiral 
made  the  signal  for  each  ship  to  engage  her  oppo- 
nent, and  bring  her  to  close  action, — and  then  down 
we  went  under  a  crowd  of  sail,  and  in  a  manner 
that  would  have  animated  the  coldest  heart,  and 
struck  terror  into  the  most  intrepid  enemy.  The 
ship  we  were  to  engage  was  two  a-head  of  the 
French  Admiral,  so  that  we  had  to  go  through  his 
fire  and  that  of  the  two  ships  next  him,  and  received 
all  their  broadsides  two  or  three  times  before  we 
fired  a  gun.  It  was  then  near  ten  o'clock.  I  ob- 
served to  the  Admiral,  that  about  that  time  our 
wives  were  going  to  church,  but  that  I  thought  that 
the  peal  we  should  ring  about  the  Frenchman's  ears 
would  outdo  their  parish  bells !     Lord  Howe  began 


ADMIRAL  LORD  COLLINGWOOD. 


661 


bis  fire  some  time  before  we  iid  ;  and  he  is  not  in 
the  habit  of"  firing  soon.  We  got  very  near  indeed, 
and  then  began  such  a  fire  as  would  have  done  you 
good  to  have  heard  !  During  the  whole  action  the 
most  exact  order  was  preserved,  and  no  accident 
happened  but  what  was  inevitable,  and  the  conse- 
quence of  the  enemy's  shot.  In  ten  minutes  the 
Admiral  was  wounded ;  I  caught  him  in  my  arms 
before  he  fell:  the  first  lieutenant  was  shghtiy 
wounded  by  the  same  shot,  and  I  thought  I  was  in 
a  fair  way  of  being  left  on  deck  by  myself;  but  the 
lieutenant  got  his  head  dressed,  and  came  up  again. 
Soon  after,  they  called  from  the  forecastle  that  the 
Frenchman  was  sinking ;  at  which  the  men  started 
up  and  gave  three  cheers.  I  saw  the  French  ship 
dismasted  and  on  her  broadside,  but  in  an  instant 
she  was  clouded  with  smoke,  and  I  do  not  know 
whether  she  sunk  or  not.  All  the  ships  in  our 
neighbourhood  were  dismasted,  and  are  taken,  ex- 
cept the  French  Admiral,  who  was  driven  out  of  the 
line  by  Lord  Howe,  and  saved  himself  by  flight." 

In  1796  he  writes  to  the  same  gentleman, 
from  before  Toulon — 

"  II  is  but  dull  work,  lying  off  the  enemy's  port: 
they  cannot  move  a  ship  without  our  seeing  them, 
which  must  be  very  mortifying  to  them ;  but  we 
have  the  mortification  also  to  see  their  merchant - 
vessels  going  along  shore,  and  cannot  molest  them. 
It  is  not  a  service  on  which  we  shall  get  fat ;  and 
often  do  I  wish  we  had  some  of  those  bad  potatoes 
which  Old  Scott  and  William  used  to  throw  over 
the  wall  of  the  garden,  for  we  feel  the  want  of  vege- 
tables more  than  anything ! 

"  The  accounts  I  receive  of  my  dear  girls  give 
me  infinite  pleasure.  How  happy  I  shall  be  to  see 
them  again  !  but  God  knows  when  the  blessed  day 
will  come  in  which  we  shall  be  again  restored  to  the 
comforts  of  domestic  life  ;  for  here,  so  far  from  any 
prospect  of  peace,  the  plot  seems  to  thicken,  as  if 
the  most  serious  part  of  the  war  were  but  beginning." 

In  1797  he  had  a  great  share  in  the  splendid 
victory  off  Cape  St.  Vincent,  and  writes,  as 
usual,  a  simple  and  animated  account  of  it  to 
Mr.  Blackett.  We  omit  the  warlike  details, 
however,  and  give  only  these  characteristic 
sentences : —  ^ 

"  I  wrote  to  Sarah  the  day  after  the  action  with 
the  Spaniards,  but  I  am  afraid  I  gave  her  but  an 
imperfect  account  of  it.  It  is  a  very  difficult  thing 
for  those  engaged  in  such  a  scene  to  give  the  de- 
tail of  the  whole,  because  all  the  powers  they  have 
are  occupied  in  their  own  part  of  it.  As  to  myself, 
I  did  my  duty  to  the  utmost  of  my  ability,  as  I  have 
ever  done  :  That  is  acknowledged  now  ;  and  that 
is  the  only  real  difference  between  this  and  the 
former  action.  One  of  the  great  pleasures  I  have 
received  from  this  glorious  event  is,  that  I  expect  it 
will  enable  me  to  provide  handsomely  for  those  who 
serve  me  well.  Give  my  love  to  my  wife,  and 
blessing  to  my  children.  What  a  day  it  will  be  to 
me  when  I  meet  them  again !  The  Spaniards 
always  carry  their  patron  saint  to  sea  with  them, 
and  I  have  given  St.  Isidro  a  berth  in  my  cabin :  It 
was  the  least  I  could  do  for  him,  after  he  had  con- 
signed his  charge  to  me.  It  is  a  good  picture,  as 
you  will  see  when  he  goes  to  Morpeth."  .  .  . 

By  some  extraordinary  neglect,  Captain 
Collingwood  had  not  received  one  of  the 
medals  generally  distributed  to  the  officers 
who  distinguished  themselves  in  Lord  Howe's 
action ;  and  it  is  to  this  he  alludes  in  one  of 
the  passages  we  have  now  cited.  His  efforts, 
however,  on  this  last  occasion,  having  been 
the  theme  of  universal  admiration  throughout 
the  fleet,  and  acknowledged  indeed  by  a  va- 
riety of  grateful  and  congratulary  letters  from 


the  admirals,  and  fro^ft  Captain  Ntilson,  tc 
whose  aid  he  came  most  gallantly  in  a  mo- 
ment of  great  peril,  it  was  at  last  thought  nec- 
essary to  repair  this  awkward  omission. 

"  When  Lord  St.  Vincent  informed  Captain  Col- 
lingwood that  he  was  to  receive  one  of  the  medals 
which  wer«3  distributed  on  this  occasion,  he  told  the 
Admiral,  with  great  feeling  and  firmness,  that  he 
could  not  consent  to  receive  a  medal,  while  that  for 
the  1st  of  June  was  withheld.  'Ifeel,'  said  ne, 
'  that  I  was  then  improperly  passed  over  ;  and  to  re- 
ceive such  a  distinction  now,  would  be  to  acknow 
ledge  the  propriety  of  that  injustice.' — '  That  is  pre- 
cisely the  answer  which  I  expected  from  you,  Cap- 
tain Collingwood,'  was  Lord  St.  Vincent's  reply. 

"  The  two  medals  were  afterwards — und  as  Cup- 
tain  Collingwood  seems  to  have  thought,  by  desire 
of  the  King — transmitted  to  him  at  the  same  time 
by  Lord  Spencer,  the  then  First  Lord  of  the  Admi- 
ralty, with  a  civil  apology  for  the  former  omission. 
'  I  congratulate  you  most  sincerely,'  said  his  Lord- 
ship, 'on  having  had  the  good  fortune  to  bear  so 
conspicuous  a  part  on  two  such  glorious  occasions  ; 
and  have  troubled  you  with  this  letter,  only  to  say, 
that  the  former  medal  would  have  been  transmitted 
to  you  some  months  ago,  if  a  proper  conveyance 
had  been  found  for  it.'  " 

We  add  the  following  little  trait  of  the  un- 
daunted Nelson,  from  a  letter  of  the  same 
year : — 

"  My  friend  Nelson,  whose  spirit  is  equal  to  aii 
undertakings,  and  whose  resources  are  fitted  to  all 
occasions,  was  sent  with  three  sail  of  the  fine  and 
some  other  ships  to  Teneriffe,  to  surprise  and  cap- 
ture it.  After  a  series  of  adventures,  tragic  and 
comic,  that  belong  to  romance,  they  were  obliged 
to  abandon  the  enterprise.  Nelson  was  shot  in  the 
right  arm  when  landing,  and  was  obliged  to  be  car- 
ried on  board.  He  himself  hailed  the  ship,  and  de- 
sired the  surgeon  would  get  his  instruments  ready 
to  dis-arm  him ;  and  in  halt  an  hour  after  it  was  off", 
he  gave  all  the  orders  necessary  for  carrying  on  their 
operations,  as  if  nothing  had  happened  to  him.  In 
three  weeks  after,  when  he  joined  us,  he  went  on 
board  the  Admiral,  and  I  think  exerted  himself  to 
a  degree  of  great  imprudence." 

The  following  letter  to  Captain  Ball,  on  oc- 
casion of  the  glorious  victory  of  the  Nile,  may 
serve  to  illustrate  w^hat  we  have  stated,  as  to 
the  generous  and  cordial  sympathy  with  rival 
glory  and  fortune,  which  breathes  throughout 
the  whole  correspondence : — 

"  I  cannot  express  to  you  how  great  niy  joy  was 
when  the  news  arrived  of  the  complete  and  unparal- 
leled victory  which  you  obtained  over  the  French ; 
or  what  were  my  emotions  of  thankfulness,  that  the 
life  of  my  worthy  and  much-respected  friend  was , 
preserved  through  such  a  day  of  danger,  to  hia 
family  and  his  country.  I  congratulate  you,  my 
dear  friend,  on  your  success.  Oh,  my  dear  Ball, 
hovv  I  have  lamented  that  I  was  not  one  of  you! 
Many  a  victory  has  been  won,  an<^  I  hope  many 
are  yet  to  come,  but  there  never  hass  Heen,  nor  will 
be  perhaps  again,  one  in  which  the  fruns  have  been 
so  completely  gathered,  the  blow  so  nobly  followed 
up,  and  the  consequences  so  fairly  brought  to  ac- 
count. I  have  heard  with  great  pleasure,  that  your 
squadron  has  presented  Sir  H.  Nelson  with  a  sword ; 
it  is  the  honours  to  which  he  led  you  reflected  back 
upon  himself, — the  finest  testimony  of  his  merits  for 
having  led  you  to  a  field  in  which  you  all  so  nobly 
displayed  your  own.  The  expectation  of  the  peopl* 
of  England  was  raised  to  the  highest  pitch;  tne 
event  has  exceeded  all  expectation." 

After  this  he  is  sent,  for  repairs,  foi  a  few 
weeks  to  Portsmouth,  and  writes  to  his  feather 
in-law  as  follows : — 


S62 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


"  We  never  know,  till  it  is  too  late,  whether  we 
are  going  too  fast  or  too  slow  ;  but  I  am  now  re- 
penting that  I  did  not  persuade  my  dear  Sarah  to 
come  to  me  as  soon  as  1  knew  I  was  not  to  go  from 
this  port ;  but  the  length  of  the  journey,  the  inclem- 
ency of  the  weather,  and  the  little  prospect  of  my 
staying  here  half  this  time,  made  me  think  it  an  un- 
necessary fatigue  for  her.  I  am  now  quite  sick  at 
heart  with  disappointment  and  vexation  ;  and  though 
I  hope  every  day  for  relief,  yet  I  find  it  impossible 
to  say  when  I  shall  be  clear. 

"Last  night  I  went  to  Lady  Parker's  twelfth- 
night,  where  all  the  gentlemen's  children  of  the 
town  were  at  dance  and  revelry :  But  I  thought  of 
my  own  !  and  was  so  completely  out  of  spirits  that 
I  left  them  in  the  middle  of  it.  My  wife  shall  know 
all  my  movements,  even  the  very  hour  in  which  I 
shall  be  able  to  come  to  you,  I  hope  they  will  not 
hurry  me  to  sea  again,  for  my  spirit  requires  some 
respite  from  the  anxieties  which  a  ship  occasions. 

"Bless  my  precious  girls  for  me,  and  their  be- 
loved mother." 

The  following  are  in  the  same  tone  of  ten- 
derness and  considerate  affection ;  and  coming 
from  the  hand  of  the  fiery  warrior^  and  de- 
voted servant  of  his  country,  are  to  us  ex- 
tremely touching : — 

"  Would  to  God  that  this  war  were  happily  con- 
cluded !  It  is  anguish  enough  to  me  to  be  thus  for 
ever  separated  from  my  family ;  but  that  my  Sarah 
should,  in  my  absence,  be  suffering  from  illness, 
is  complete  misery.  Pray,  my  dear  sir,  have  the 
goodness  to  write  a  line  or  two  very  often,  to  tell 
me  how  she  does.  I  am  quite  pleased  at  the  ac- 
count you  give  me  of  my  girls.  If  it  were  peace,  I  do 
not  think  there  would  be  a  happier  set  of  creatures 
'n  Northumberland  than  we  should  be  !  .  .  .  . 

"  It  is  a  great  comfort  to  me,  banished  as  I  am 
*rom  all  that  is  dear  to  me,  to  learn  that  my  beloved 
Sarah  and  her  girls  are  well.  Would  to  Heaven  it 
were  peace  !  that  I  might  come,  and  for  the  rest  of 
my  life  be  blessed  in  their  c%#Jction.  Indeed,  this 
unremitting  hard  service  is  a  great  sacrifice  ;  giving 
up  all  that  is  pleasurable  to  the  soul,  or  soothing  to 
the  mind,  and  engaging  in  a  constant  contest  with 
the  elements,  or  with  tempers  and  dispositions  as 
boisterous  and  untractable.  Great  allowance  should 
be  made  for  us  when  we  come  on  shore :  for  being 
long  in  the  habits  of  absolute  command,  we  grow 
impatient  of  contradiction,  and  are  unfitted,  I  fear, 
for  the  gentle  intercourse  of  quiet  life.  I  am  really 
in  great  hopes  that  it  will  not  be  long  before  the  ex- 
periment will  be  made  upon  me — for  I  think  we 
shall  soon  have  peace  ;  and  I  assure  you  that  I  will 
endeavour  to  conduct  myself  with  as  much  modera- 
tion as  possible !  I  have  come  to  another  resolution, 
which  is,  when  this  war  is  happily  terminated,  to 
think  no  more  of  ships,  but  pass  the  rest  of  my  days 
in  the  bosom  of  my  family,  where  I  think  my  pros- 
pects of  happiness  are  equal  to  any  man's."  .  .  .  . 

"  You  have  been  made  happy  this  winter  in  the 
visit  of  your  daughter.  How  glad  should  I  have 
been  could  I  have  joined  you  I  but  it  will  not  be 
long;  two  year?  more  will,  I  think,  exhaust  me 
completely,  ar,  j  then  I  shall  be  fit  only  to  be  nursed. 
God  knows  now  little  claim  I  have  on  anybody  to 
take  that  trouble.  My  daughters  can  never  be  to 
me  what  yours  have  been,  M'hose  affections  have 
been  nurtured  by  daily  acts  of  kindness.  They  may 
be  told  that  it  is  a  duty  to  regard  me,  but  it  is  not 
reasonable  to  expect  that  they  should  have  the  same 
feeling  for  a  person  of  whom  they  have  only  heard  : 
But  if  they  are  good  and  virtuous,  as  I  hope  and  be- 
lieve they  will  be,  I  may  share  at  least  in  their  kind- 
ness with  the  rest  of  the  world." 

He  decides  at  last  on  sending  for  his  wife  and 
child,  in  the  hope  of  being  allowed  to  remain 
for  some  months  at  Portsmouth,'  but  is  sud- 
denly ordered  off  on  the  very  day  they  are  ex- 


■ 

jrosuci 


pected !  It  is  delightful  to  have  to  recoirc 

a  letter  as  the  following,  on  occasion  of  such 

an  affliction,  from  such  a  man  as  Nelson: — 

"  My  dear  Friend, — I  truly  feel  for  you,  and  as 
much  for  poor  Mrs.  CoUingwood.  How  sorry  1 
am!  For  Heaven's  sake,  do  not  think  I  had  the 
gift  of  foresight ;  but  something  told  me,  so  it  would 
be.  Can't  you  contrive  and  stay  to-night?  it  will 
be  a  comfort  if  only  to  see  your  family  one  hour. 
Therefore,  had  you  not  better  stay  on  shore  and 
wait  for  her?  Ever,  my  dear  CoUingwood,  believe 
me,  your  affectionate  and  faithful  friend, 

"  Nelson  and  Bronte. 

"  If  they  would  only  have  manned  me  and  sent 
me  off",  it  would  have  been  real  pleasure  tome.  How 
cross  are  the  fates  !'' 

He  does  stay  accordingly,  and  sees  those 
beloved  pledges  for  a  few  short  hours.  We 
will  not  withhold  from  our  readers  his  account 
ofit;— 

"Sarah  will  have  told  you  how  and  when  we 
met;  it  was  a  joy  tome  that  I  cannot  describe,  and 
repaid  me,  short  as  our  interview  was,  for  a  world 
of  woe  which  I  was  suffering  on  her  account.  I  had 
been  reckoning  on  the  possibility  of  her  arrival  that 
Tuesday,  when  about  two  o'clock  I  received  an 
express  to  go  to  sea  immediately  with  all  the  ships 
that  were  ready,  and  had  we  not  then  been  engaged 
at  a  court  martial,  I  might  have  got  out  that  day; 
but  this  business  delaying  me  till  near  night,  I  de- 
termined to  wait  on  shore  until  eight  o'clock  for  the 
chance  of  their  arrival.  I  went  to  dine  with  Lord 
Nelson  ;  and  while  we  were  at  dinner  their  arrival 
was  announced  to  me.  I  flew  to  the  inn  where  I 
had  desired  my  wife  to  come,  and  found  her  and 
little  Sarah  as  well  after  their  journey  as  if  it  had 
lasted  only  for  the  day.  No  greater  happiness  is 
human  nature  capable  of  than  was  mine  that  even- 
ing ;  but  at  dawn  we  parted — and  I  went  to  sea  !" 

And  afterwards — 

"  You  will  have  heard  from  Sarah  what  a  meet- 
ing we  had,  how  short  our  interview,  and  how  sud- 
denly we  parted.  It  is  grief  to  me  to  think  of  il 
now ;  it^lmost  broke  my  heart  then.  After  such  a 
journe3^o  see  me  but  for  a  few  hours,  with  scarce 
time  for  her  to  relate  the  incidents  of  her  journey, 
and  no  time  forme  to  tell  herhalf  that  my  heartfelt 
at  such  a  proof  of  her  affection  :  But  I  am  thankful 
that  I  did  see  her,  and  my  sweet  child.  It  was  a 
blessing  to  me,  and  composed  my  mind,  which  was 
before  very  much  agitated.  I  have  little  chance  of 
seeing  her  again,  unless  a  storm  should  drive  us  into 
port,  for  the  French  fleet  is  in  a  state  of  prepara- 
tion, which  makes  it  necessary  for  us  to  watch  them 
narrowly. 

"  I  can  still  talk  to  you  ofnothing  but  the  dehght 
I  experienced  in  the  little  I  have  had  of  the  company 
of  my  beloved  wife  and  of  my  little  Sarah.  What 
comfort  is  promised  to  me  in  the  affections  of  that 
child,  if  it  should  please  God  that  we  ever  again  re- 
turn to  the  quiet  domestic  cares  of  peace  !  I  should 
be  much  obliged  to  you  if  you  would  send  Scott  a 
guinea  for  me,  for  these  hard  times  must  pinch  the 
poor  old  man,  and  he  will  miss  my  wife,  who  was 
very  kind  to  him  !" 

Upon  the  peace  of  Amiens  he  at  last  got 
home,  about  the  middle  of  1802.  The  follow- 
ing brief  sketch  of  his  enjoyment  there,  is 
from  the  hand  of  his  affectionate  editor : — 

"  During  this  short  period  of  happiness  and  rest, 
he  was  occupied  in  superintending  the  education  of 
his  daughters,  and  in  continuing  those  habits  of 
study  which  had  long  been  familiar  to  him.  His 
reading  was  extensive,  particularly  in  history;  atid 
it  was  his  constant  practice  to  exercise  himself  in 
cwnposition,  by  making  abstracts  from  the  booki 


ADMIRAL  LORD  Lox.i.iiNGWOOD. 


603 


<vhich  he  read  ;  and  some  of  his  abridgments,  with 
the  observations  by  which  he  illustrated  them,  are 
written  with  singular  conciseness  and  power.  '  I 
know  not,'  said  one  of  the  most  eminent  English 
diplomatists,  with  whom  he  had  afterwards  very 
frequent  communications,  'I  know  not  whore  Lord 
Collingwood  got  his  style,  but  he  writes  better 
than  any  of  us.'  His  amusements  were  found  in 
the  intercourse  with  his  family,  in  drawing,  plant- 
ing, and  the  cultivation  of  his  garden,  which  was  on 
the  bank  of  the  beautiful  river  Wansbeck.  This  was 
his  favourite  employment ;  and  on  one  occasion,  a 
brother  Admiral,  who  had  sought  him  through  the 
garden  in  vain,  at  last  discovered  him  with  his  gar- 
dener, old  Scott,  to  whom  he  was  much  attached, 
in  the  bottom  of  a  deep  trench,  which  they  were 
both  busily  occupied  in  digging." 

In  spring  1803,  however,  he  was  again  call- 
ed upon  duty  by  his  ancient  commanderj 
Admiral  Cornwallis,  who  hailed  him  as  he  ap- 
proached, by  saying,  "Here  comes  Colling- 
wood ! — the  last  to  leave,  and  the  first  to  re- 
join me  !"  His  occupation  there  was  to  watch 
and  blockade  the  French  fleet  at  Brest,  a  duty 
which  he  performed  with  the  most  unwearied 
and  scrupulous  anxiety. 

"  During  this  time  he  frequently  passed  the  whole 
night  on  the  quarter-deck, — a  practice  which,  in 
circumstances  of  difficulty,  he  continued  till  the 
latest  years  of  his  life.  When,  on  these  occasions, 
he  has  told  his  friend  Lieutenant  Clavell,  who  had 
gained  his  entire  confidence,  that  they  must  not 
leave  the  deck  for  the  night,  and  that  officer  has 
endeavoured  to  persuade  him  that  there  was  no  oc- 
casion for  it,  as  a  good  look-out  was  kept,  and  re- 
presented that  he  was  almost  exhausted  with  fa- 
tigue ;  the  Admiral  would  reply,  'I  fear  t/ow  are. 
You  have  need  of  rest ;  so  go  to  bed,  Clavell,  and 
I  will  watch  by  myself.'  Very  frequently  have 
they  slept  together  on  a  gun ;  from  which  Admiral 
Collingwood  would  rise  from  time  to  time,  to  sweep 
the  horizon  with  his  night-glass,  lest  the  enemy 
should  escape  in  the  dark." 

In  1805  he  was  moved  to  the  station  off 
Cadiz,  and  condemned  to  the  same  weary 
task  of  watching  and  observation.  He  here 
writes  to  his  father-in-law  as  follows : — 

"  How  happy  should  I  be.  could  I  but  hear  from 
home,  and  know  how  my  dear  girls  are  going  on  ! 
Bounce  is  my  only  pet  now,  and  he  is  indeed  a  good 
fellow  ;  he  sleeps  by  the  side  of  my  cot,  whenever 
I  lie  in  one,  until  near  the  time  of  tacking,  and  then 
marches  off,  to  be  out  of  the  hearing  of  the  guns, 
for  he  is  not  reconciled  to  them  yet.  I  am  fully  de- 
termined, if  I  can  get  home  and  manage  it  properly, 
to  go  on  shore  next  spring  for  the  rest  of  my  life,  for 
I  am  very  w^eary.  There  is  no  end  to  my  business  ; 
I  am  at  work  from  morning  till  even  ;  but  I  dare 
say  Lord  Nelson  will  be  out  next  month.  He  told 
me  he  should ;  and  then  what  will  become  of  me  I 
do  not  know.  I  should  wish  to  go  home :  but  I  must 
go  or  stay  as  the  exigencies  of  the  times  require." 

At  last,  towards  the  close  of  the  year,  the 
enemy  gave  some  signs  of  an  intention  to 
come  oat — and  the  day  of  Trafalgar  was  at 
hand.  In  anticipation  of  it.  Lord  Nelson  ad- 
dressed the  following  characteristic  note  to  his 
friend,  which  breathes  in  every  line  the  noble 
frankness  and  magnanimous  confidence  of  his 
soul : — 

"They  surely  cannot  escape  us.  I  wish  we 
could  get  a  fine  day.  I  send  you  my  plan  of  attack, 
as  far  as  a  man  dare  venture  to  guess  at  the  very 
uncertain  position  the  enemy  may  be  found  in  :  but, 
jay  dear  friend,  it  is  to  place  you  perfectly  at  ease 


respecting  my  intentions,  and  to  give  full  scope  td 
your  judgment  for  carrying  them  into  effect.  We 
can,  my  dear  Coll.,  have  no  little  jealousies:  we 
have  only  one  great  object  in  view — that  of  anni- 
hilating our  enemies,  and  getting  a  glorious  peace 
for  our  country.  No  man  has  more  confidence  in 
another  than  I  have  in  you  ;  and  no  man  will  ren- 
der your  services  more  justice  than  your  very  old 
friend.  Nelson  and  Bronte." 

The  day  at  last  came;  and  though  it  is 
highly  characteristic  of  its  author,  we  will  not 
indulge  ourselves  by  transcribing  any  part  of 
the  memorable  despatch,  in  which  Lord  Col- 
lingwood, after  the  fall  of  his  heroic  command- 
er, announced  its  result  to  his  country.  We 
cannot,  however,  withhold  from  our  readers 
the  following  particulars  as  to  his  persona] 
conduct  and  deportment,  for  which  they 
would  look  in  vain  in  that  singularly  modesC 
and  generous  detail.  The  first  part,  the  editor 
informs  us,  is  from  the  statement  of  his  confi- 
dential servant. 

"  'I  entered  the  Admiral's  cabin,'  he  observed, 
'  about  daylight,  and  found  him  already  up  and 
dressing.  He  asked  if  I  had  seen  the  French  fleet ; 
and  on  my  replying  that  I  had  not,  he  told  me  to 
look  out  at  them,  adding,  that,  in  a  very  short  time, 
wo  should  see  a  great  deal  more  of  them.  1  then 
obaerved  a  crowd  of  shipfe  to  leeward  ;  but  I  could 
not  help  looking,  with  still  greater  interest,  at  the 
Admiral,  who,  during  all  this  time,  was  shaving 
himself  with  a  composure  that  quite  astonished 
me!'  Admiral  Collingwood  dressed  himself  that 
morning  with  peculiar  care  ;  and  soon  after,  meet- 
ing Lieutenant  Clavell,  advised  him  -to  pull  off  his 
boots,  '  You  had  better,'  he  said,  '  put  on  silk 
stockings,  as  I  have  done :  for  if  one  should  get  a 
shot  in  the  leg,  they  would  be  so  much  more 
manageable  for  the  surgeon.'  He  then  proceeded 
to  visit  the  decks,  encouraged  the  men  to  the  dis- 
charge of  their  duty,  and  addressing  the  officers, 
said  to  them,  '  Now,  gentlemen,  let  us  do  some- 
thing to-day  which  the  world  may  talk  of  hereafter.' 

"He  had  changed  his  flag  about  ten  days  before 
the  action,  from  the  Dreadnought;  the  crew  of 
which  had  been  so  constantly  practised  in  the  exer- 
cise of  the  great  guns,  under  his  daily  superinten- 
dence, that  few  ships'  companies  could  equal  them 
in  rapidity  and  precision  of  firing.  He  had  begun 
by  telling  them,  that  if  they  could  fire  three  well- 
directed  broadsides  in  five  minutes,  no  vessel  could 
resist  them  ;  and,  from  constant  practice,  they  were 
enabled  to  do  so  in  three  minutes  and  a  half.  But 
though  he  left  a  crew  which  had  thus  been  disci- 
plined under  his  own  eye,  there  was  an  advantage 
in  the  change  ;  for  the  Royal  Sovereign,  into  which 
he  went,  had  lately  returned  from  England,  and  as 
her  copper  was  quite  clean,  she  much  outsailed  the 
other  ships  of  the  lee  division.  While  they  were 
running  down,  the  well-known  telegraphic  signal 
was  made  of  '  England  expects  every  man  to  do  his 
duty.'  When  the  Admiral  observed  it  first,  he  said 
that  he  wished  Nelson  would  make  no  more  signals, 
for  they  all  understood  what  they  were  to  do :  but 
when  the  purport  of  it  was  communicated  to  him  he 
expressed  great  delight  and  admiration,  and  made 
it  known  to  the  officers  and  ship's  company.  Lord 
Nelson  had  been  requested  by  Captain  Blackwood 
(who  was  anxious  for  the  preservation  of  so  invalu- 
able a  life)  to  allow  some  other  vessel  to  take  the 
lead,  and  at  last  gave  permission  that  the  Temeraire 
should  go  a-head  of  him  ;  but  resolving  to  defeat 
the  order  which  he  had  given,  he  crowded  rnore 
sail  on  the  Victory,  and  maintained  his  place.  The 
Royal  Sovereign  was  far  in  advance  when  Lieute- 
nant Clavell  observed  that  the  Victory  was  setting 
her  studding  sails,  and  with  that  spirit  of  honour- 
able emulation  which  prevailed  between  the  squad- 
rons, and  particularly  between  these  two  ships,  in 


664 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


poinf(,cl  it  out  to  Admiral  Collingwood,  and  re- 
quested his  permission  to  do  the  same.  '  The  ships 
of  our  division,'  replied  the  Admiral,  '  are  not  yet 
sufficiently  up  for  us  to  do  so  now  ;  but  you  may  be 
getting  ready.'  The  studding  sail  and  royal  halliards 
were  accordingly  manned,  and  in  about  ten  minutes 
the  Admiral,  observing  Lieutenant  Clavell's  eyes 
fixed  upon  him  with  a  look  of  expectation,  gave  him 
a  nod ;  on  which  that  officer  went  to  Captain 
Rotherham  and  told  him  that  the  Admiral  desired 
him  to  make  ail  sail.  The  order  was  then  given  to 
rig  out  and  hoist  away,  and  in  one  instant  the  ship 
was  under  a  crowd  of  sail,  and  went  rapidly  a-head. 
The  Admiral  then  directed  the  officers  to  see  that 
all  the  men  lay  down  on  the  decks,  and  were  kept 
quiet.  At  this  time  the  Fougueux,  the  ship  astern 
of  the  Santa  Anna,  had  closed  up  with  the  intention 
of  preventing  the  Royal  Sovereign  from  going 
through  the  line  ;  and  when  Admiral  Collingwood 
observed  it,  he  desired  Captain  Rotherham  to  steer 
immediately  for  the  Frenchman  and  carry  away  his 
bowsprit.  To  avoid  this  the  Fougueux  backed  her 
main  top  sail,  and  suffered  the  Royal  Sovereign  to 
pass,  at  the  same  time  beginning  her  fire  ;  when 
the  Admiral  ordered  a  gun  to  be  occasionally  fired 
at  her.  to  cover  his  ship  with  smoke. 

"  The  nearest  of  the  English  ships  was  now  dis- 
tant about  a  mile  from  the  Royal  Sovereign  ;  and 
it  was  at  this  time,  while  she  was  pressing  alone 
into  the  midst  of  the  combined  fleets,  that  Lord 
Nelson  said  to  Captain  Blackwood,  '  See  how  that 
noble  fellow,  Collingwood,  takes  his  ship  into 
action.  How  I  envy  him  !'  On  the  other  hand, 
Admiral  Collingwood,  well  knowing  his  comman- 
der and  friend,  observed,  '  What  would  Nelson 
give  to  be  here !'  and  it  was  then,  too,  that  Admiral 
Villeneuve,  struck  with  the  daring  manner  in  which 
the  leading  ships  of  the  English  squadrons  came 
down,  despaired  of  the  issue  of  the  contest.  In 
passing  the  Santa  Anna,  the  Royal  Sovereign  gave 
her  a  broadside  and  a  half  into  her  stern,  tearing  it 
down,  and  killing  and  wounding  400  of  her  men  ; 
then,  with  her  helm  hard  a-starboard,  she  ranged 
up  alongside  so  closely  that  the  lower  yards  of  the 
two  vessels  were  locked  together.  The  Spanish 
admiral,  having  seen  that  it  was  the  intention  of  the 
Royal  Sovereign  to  engage  to  leeward,  had  col- 
lected all  his  strength  on  the  starboard;  and  such 
was  the  weight  of  the  Santa  Anna's  metal,  that  her 
first  broadside  made  the  Sovereign  heel  two  streaks 
out  of  the  water.  Her  studding-sails  and  halliards 
were  now  shot  away ;  and  as  a  top-gallant  studding- 
sail  was  hanging  over  the  gangway  hammocks, 
Admiral  Collingwood  called  out  to  Lieutenant 
Clavell  to  come  and  help  him  to  take  it  in,  observ- 
ing that  they  should  want  it  again  some  other  day. 
These  two  officers  accordinsly  rolled  it  carefully 
up  and  placed  it  in  the  boat."* 

We  shall  add  only  what  he  says  in  his  let- 
ter to  Mr.  Blackett  of  Lord  Nelson: — 

"When  my  dear  friend  received  his  wound,  he 
immediately  sent  an  officer  to  me  to  tell  me  ofit,— 
and  give  his  love  to  me  !  Though  the  officer  was 
directed  to  say  the  wound  was  not  dangerous,  I  read 
in  his  countenance  what  I  had  to  fear ;  and  before 
the  action  was  over.  Captain  Hardy  came  to  inform 
niP  of  his  death.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  deeply  I  was 
affected  ;  my  friendship  for  him  was  unlike  any- 
thing that  I  have  left  in  the  navy ;  a  brotherhood  of 


*  "  Of  his  economy,  at  all  times,  of  the  ship's 
Btores,  an  instance  was  often  mentioned  in  the  navy 
ns  having  occurred  at  the  battle  of  St.  Vincent. 
The  Excellent  shortly  before  the  action  had  bent  a 
new  fore-topsail :  and  when  she  was  closely  en- 
gacrod  with  the  St.  Isidro,  Captain  Collingwood 
called  out  to  his  boatswain,  a  very  gallant  man, 
who  was  shortly  afterwards  killed,  'Bless  me! 
Mr.  PefTers,  how  came  we  to  forget  to  bend  our 
o'd  top-sail?  They  will  quite  ruin  that  new  one.  It 
*-ll  nev^  be  worth  a  farthing  again.'  " 


more  than  thirty  years.  In  this  affair  he  did  nothmg 
without  my  counsel :  we  made  our  line  of  battlr 
together,  and  concerted  the  mode  of  attack,  which 
was  put  in  execution  in  the  most  admirable  style 
I  shall  grow  very  tired  of  the  sea  soon  ;  my  healtn 
has  suffered  so  much  from  the  anxious  state  I  have 
been  in,  and  the  fatigue  I  have  undergone,  that  1 
shall  be  unfit  for  service.  The  severe  gales  which 
immediately  followed  the  day  of  victory  ruined  our 
prospect  of  prizes." 

He  was  now  elevated  to  the  peerage,  and  a 
pension  of  2000L  M-as  settled  on  him  by  parlia- 
ment for  his  own  life,  with  1000/.  in  case  of  his 
death  to  Lady  Collingwood,  and  500/.  to  each 
of  his  daughters.  His  Royal  Highness  the  Duke 
of  Clarence  also  honoured  him  with  a  very  kind 
letter,  and  presented  him  with  a  sword.  The 
way  in  which  he  received  all  those  honours, 
is  as  admirable  as  the  services  by  which  they 
were  earned.  On  the  first  tidings  of  his  peer- 
age he  writes  thus  to  Lady  Collingwood  : — 

"  It  would  be  hard  if  I  could  not  find  one  hour  to 
write  a  letter  to  my  dearest  Sarah,  to  congratulate 
heron  the  high  rank  to  which  she  has  been  advanc- 
ed by  my  success.  Blessed  may  you  be,  my  dear- 
est love,  and  may  you  long  live  the  happy  wife  of 
your  happy  husband  !  I  do  not  know  how  you  bear 
your  honours  ;  but  I  have  so  much  business  on  my 
hands,  from  dawn  till  midnight,  that  I  have  hardly 
time  to  think  of  mine,  except  it  be  in  gratitude  to 
my  King,  who  has  so  graciously  conferred  them 
upon  me.  But  there  are  many  things  of  which  I 
might  justly  be  a  little  proud — for  extreme  pride  is 
folly — that  I  must  share  my  gratification  with  you. 
The  first  is  the  letter  from  Colonel  Taylor,  his  Ma- 
jesty's private  secretary  to  the  Admiralty,  to  be 
communicated  to  me.  I  enclose  you  a  copy  of  it.^ 
It  is  considered  the  highest  compliment  the  King 
can  pay  ;  and,  as  the  King's  personal  compliment, 
I  value  it  above  everything.  But  I  will  tell  you 
what  I  feel  nearest  to  my  heart,  after  the  honour 
which  his  Majesty  has  done  me,  and  that  is  the 
praise  of  every  officer  of  the  fleet.  There  is  a  thing 
which  has  made  a  considerable  impression  upon  me. 
A  week  before  the  war,  at  Morpeth,  I  dreamed  dis- 
tinctly many  of  the  circumstances  of  our  late  battle 
off  the  enemy's  port,  and  I  believe  I  told  you  of  it 
at  the  time :  but  I  never  dreamed  that  I  was  to  be  a 
peer  of  the  realm  !  How  are  my  darlings  ?  I  hope 
they  will  take  pains  to  make  themselves  wise  and 
good,  and  fit  for  the  station  to  which  they  are  raised." 

And  again,  a  little  after : — 

"  I  labour  from  dawn  till  midnight,  till  I  can  hard- 
ly see ;  and  as  my  hearing  fails  me  too,  you  will 
have  but  a  mass  of  infirmities  in  your  poor  Lord, 
whenever  he  returns  to  you.  I  suppose  I  must  not 
be  seen  to  work  in  my  garden  now  !  but  tell  old 
Scott  that  he  need  not  be  unhappy  on  that  account. 
Though  we  shall  never  again  be  able  to  plant  the 
Nelson  potatoes,  we  will  have  them  of  some  other 
sort,  and  right  noble  cabbages  to  boot,  in  great  per- 
fection. You  see  I  am  styled  of  Hethpoole  and 
Caldburne.  Was  that  by  your  direction  ?  I  should 
prefer  it  to  any  other  title  if  it  was ;  and  I  rejoice, 
my  love,  that  we  are  an  instance  that  there  are  other 
and  better  sources  of  nobility  than  wealth." 

At  this  time  he  had  not  heard  that  il  "waa 
intended  to  accompany  his  dignity  with  any 
pension ;  and  though  the  editor  assures  us 
that  his  whole  income,  even  including  his  full 
pay,  was  at  this  time  scarcely  1100/.  a  year, 
he  never  seems  to  have  wasted  a  thougnt  on 
such  a  consideration.  Not  that  he  was  not  at 
all  times  a  prudent  and  considerate  person, 
but,  with  the  high  spirit  of  a  gentleman,  and 
an  independent  Englisliman,  who  had  made 


ADMIRAL  LORD  COLLINGWOOD. 


66!f 


h:s  ovm  way  in  the  world,  he  disdained  all 
sordid  considerations.  Nothing  can  be  nobler, 
or  more  natural,  than  the  way  in  which  he  ex- 
presses this  sentiment,  in  another  letter  to  his 
wife,  written  a  few  weeks  after  the  prece- 
ding:— 

"  Many  of  the  Captains  here  have  expressed  a 
desire  that  I  would  give  them  a  general  notice  when- 
ever I  go  to  court ;  and  if  they  are  within  five  hun- 
dred miles,  they  will  come  up  to  attend  me  !  Now 
all  this  is  very  pleasing  ;  but,  alas  !  my  love,  until 
we  have  peace,  I  shall  never  be  happy:  and  yet, 
how  we  are  to  make  it  out  in  peace,  I  know  not, — 
with  high  rank  and  no  fortune.  At  all  events,  we 
can  do  as  we  did  before.  It  is  true  I  have  the  chief 
command,  but  there  are  neither  French  nor  Span- 
iards on  the  sea,  and  our  cruisers  find  nothing  but 
neutrals,  who  carry  on  all  the  trade  of  the  enemy. 
Our  prizes  you  see  are  lost.  Villeneuve's  ship  had 
a  great  deal  of  money  in  her,  but  it  all  went  to  the 
bottom.  I  am  afraid  the  fees  for  this  patent  will  be 
large,  and  pinch  me:  But  never  mind;  let  others 
solicit  pensions,  I  am  an  Englishman,  and  will  never 
ask  for  money  as  a  favour.  How  do  my  darlings 
go  on  ?  I  wish  you  would  make  ihem  write  to  me 
by  turns,  and  give  me  the  whole  history  of  their 
proceedings.  Oh!  how  1  shall  rejoice,  when  I 
come  home,  to  find  them  as  much  improved  in 
knowledge  as  I  have  advanced  them  in  station  in 
the  world :  But  take  care  they  do  not  give  them- 
selves foolish  airs.  Their  excellence  should  be  in 
knowledge,  in  virtue,  and  benevolence  to  all;  but 
most  to  those  who  are  humble,  and  require  their  aid. 
This  is  true  nobility,  and  is  now  become  an  incum- 
bent duty  on  them.  I  am  out  of  all  patience  with 
Bounce.  The  consequential  airs  he  gives  himself 
since  he  became  a  Right  Honourable  dog,  are  insuf- 
ferable. He  considers  it  beneath  his  dignity  to  play 
with  Commoners'  dogs,  and,  truly,  thinks  that  he 
does  them  grace  when  he  condescends  to  lift  up  his 
leg  against  them.  This,  I  think,  is  carrying  the  in- 
solence of  rank  to  the  extreme  ;  but  he  is  a  dog  that 
does  it. — 25th  December.  This  is  Christmas-day  ; 
a  merry  and  cheerful  one,  I  hope,  to  all  my  darlings. 
May  God  bless  us,  and  grant  that  we  may  pass  the 
next  together.  Everybody  is  very  good  to  me  ;  but 
his  Majesty's  letters  are  my  pride  :  it  is  there  I  feel 
the  object  of  my  life  attained." 

And  again,  in  the  same  noble  spirit  is  the 
following  to  his  father-in-law : — 

"  I  have  only  been  on  shore  once  since  I  left 
England,  and  do  not  know  when  I  shall  go  again. 
I  am  unceasingly  writing,  and  the  day  is  not  long 
enough  for  me  to  get  through  my  business.  I  hope 
my  children  are  every  day  acquiring  some  know- 
ledge, and  wish  them  to  write  a  French  letter  every 
day  to  me  or  their  mother.  I  shall  read  them  all 
when  T  come  home.  If  there  were  an  opportunity, 
I  should  like  them  to  be  taught  Spanish,  which  is 
the  most  elegant  language  in  Europe,  and  very  easy. 
I  hardly  know  how  we  shall  be  able  to  support  the 
dignity  to  which  his  Majesty  has  been  pleased  to 
raise  me.  Let  others  plead  for  pensions  ;  1  can  be 
rich  without  money,  by  endeavouring  to  be  supe- 
rior to  everything  poor.  I  would  have  my  services 
to  my  country  unstained  by  any  interested  motive  ; 
and  old  Scott  and  I  can  go  on  in  our  cabbage-garden 
without  much  greater  expense  than  formerly.  But 
I  have  had  a  great  destruction  of  my  furniture  and 
stock  ;  I  have  hardly  a  chair  that  has  not  a  shot  in 
it,  and  many  have  lost  both  legs  and  arms — without 
hope  of  pension  !  My  wine  broke  in  moving,  and 
my  pigs  slain  in  battle  ;  and  these  are  heavy  losses 
where  they  cannot  be  replaced 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  have  great  demands  on  me  for 

Patents  and  fees  :  But  we  must  pay  for  being  great, 
get  no  prize-money.  Since  I  left  England,  I  have 
received  only  183Z.,  which  has  not  quite  paid  for  my 
wine  ;  but  I  do  not  care  about  being  rich,  if  we  can 


but  keep  a  good  fire  in  winter.  How  I  long  to  have 
a  peep  into  my  own  house,  and  a  walk  in  my  own 
garden  !   It  is  the  pleasing  object  of  all  my  hopes." 

In  the  midst  of  all  those  great  concerns,  it 
is  delightful  to  find  the  noble  Admiral  writing 
thus,  from  the  Mediterranean,  of  his  daugh- 
ter's sick  governess,  and  inditing  this  post- 
script to  the  little  girls  themselves : — 

"  How  sorry  am  I  for  poor  Miss I  I  am 

sure  you  will  spare  no  pains  for  her  ;  and  do  not 
lose  sight  of  her  when  she  goes  to  Edinburgh.  Tell 
her  that  she  must  not  want  any  advice  or  any  com- 
fort ;  but  I  need  not  say  this  to  you,  my  beloved, 
who  are  kindness  itself.  I  am  much  obliged  to  the 
Corporation  of  Newcastle  for  every  mark  which 
they  give  of  their  esteem  and  approbation  of  my 
service.  But  where  shall  we  find  a  place  in  our 
small  house  for  all  those  vases  and  epergnes  ?  A 
kind  letter  from  them  would  have  graiified  me  as 
much,  and  have  been  less  trouble  to  them." 
••  My  darlings,  Sarah  and  Mary, 

"  I  was  delighted  with  your  last  letters,  rny  bless- 
ings, and  desire  you  to  write  to  me  very  often,  and 
tell  me  all  the  news  of  the  city  of  Newcastle  and 
town  of  Morpeth.  I  hope  we  shall  have  many  happy 
days,  and  many  a  good  laugh  together  yet.  Be 
kind  to  old  Scott ;  and  when  you  see  him  weeding 
my  oaks,  give  the  old  man  a  shilling  ! 

"  May  God  Almighty  bless  you." 

The  patent  of  his  peerage  was  limited  to 
the  heirs  male  of  his  body ;  and,  having  only 
daughters,  he  very  early  expressed  a  wish 
that  it  might  be  extended  to  them  and  their 
male  heirs.  But  this  was  not  attended  to. 
When  he  heard  of  his  pension,  he  wrote,  in 
the  same  lofty  spirit,  to  Lord  Barham,  that  if 
the  title  could  be  continued  to  the  heirs  of  his 
daughters,  he  did  not  care  for  the  pension  at 
all !  and  in  urging  his  request  for  the  change, 
he  reminded  his  Lordship,  with  an  amusing 
naivete,  that  government  ought  really  to  show 
some  little  favour  to  his  daughters,  considering 
that,  if  they  had  not  kept  him  constantly  at 
sea  since  1793,  he  would  probably  have  had 
half  a  dozen  sons  by  this  time,  to  succeed  him 
in  his  honours ! 

It  is  delightful  to  read  and  extract  passages 
like  these ;  but  we  feel  that  we  must  stop ; 
and  that  we  have  already  exhibited  enough 
of  this  book,  both  to  justify  the  praises  we 
have  bestowed  on  it,  arid  to  give  our  readers 
a  full  impression  of  the  exalted  and  most 
amiable  character  to  which  it  relates.  Wc 
shall  add  no  more,  therefore,  that  is  merely 
personal  to  Lord  Collingwood,  except  what 
belongs  to  the  decay  of  his  health,  his  applica- 
tions  for  recall,  and  the  death  that  he  magnani- 
mously staid  to  meet,  when  that  recall  was  so 
strangely  withheld.  His  constitution  had  been 
considerably  impaired  even  before  the  action 
of  Trafalgar;  but  in  1808  his  heahh  seemed 
entirely  to  give  way ;  and  he  wrote,  in  August 
of  that  year,  earnestly  entreating  to  be  allowed 
to  come  home.  The  answer  to  his  application 
was,  that  it  was  so  difficult  to  supply  his  place, 
that  his  recall  must,  at  all  events,  be  suspend- 
ed. In  a  letter  to  Lady  Collingwood,  he  refers 
to  this  correspondence,  and  after  mentioning 
his  official  application  to  the  Admiralty,  he 
says : — 

"  What  their  answer  will  be,  I  do  not  know  ye' 
but  I  had  before  mentioned  my  declining  health  ta 


666 


MISCELLANEOUS 


Lord  Mulgrave,  and  he  tells  me  in  reply,  that  he 
hopes  I  will  stay,  for  he  knows  not  how  to  supply 
my  place.  The  impression  which  his  letter  made 
upon  me  was  one  of  grief  and  sorrow  :  first,  that 
with  such  a  list  as  we  have — including  more  than  a 
hundred  admirals — there  should  be  thought  to  be 
any  difficulty  in  finding  a  successor  of  superior  ability 
to  me  ;  and  next,  that  there  should  be  any  obstacle 
in  the  way  of  the  only  comfort  and  happiness  that  I 
have  to  look  forward  to  in  this  world." 

In  answer  to  Lord  Mulgrave's  statement, 
he  afterwards  writes,  that  his  infirmities  had 
sensibly  increased  :  but  "  I  have  no  object  in 
the  world  that  I  pat  in  competition  with  my 
pubHc  duty  ]  and  so  long  as  your  lordship  thinks 
it  proper  to  continue  me  in  this  command,  my 
utmost  efforts  shall  be  made  to  strengthen  the 
impression  which  you  now  have ;  but  I  still 
hope,  that  whenever  it  may  be  done  w^ith  con- 
venience, your  lordship  will  bear  in  mind  my 
request."  Soon  after  he  writes  thus  to  his 
family: — "I  am  an  unhappy  creature — old 
and  worn  out.  I  wish  to  come  to  England  ] 
but  some  objection  is  ever  made  to  it."  And, 
again,  "  I  have  been  very  unwell.  The  phy- 
sician tells  me  that  it  is  the  effect  of  constant 
confinement — which  is  not  very  comfortable, 
as  there  seems  little  chance  of  its  being  other- 
wise. Old  age  and  its  infirmities  are  coming 
on  me  very  fast ;  and  I  am  weak  and  tottering 
on  my  legs.  It  is  high  time  I  should  return 
to  England ;  and  I  hope  I  shall  be  allowed  to 
do  it  before  long.  It  will  otherwise  be  too  late." 

And  it  was  too  late  !  He  was  not  relieved — 
and  scorning  to  leave  the  post  assigned  to  him, 
while  he  had  life  to  maintain  it,  he  died  at  it, 
in  March,  1810,  upwards  of  eighteen  months 
after  he  had  thus  stated  to  the  government  his 
reasons  for. desiring  a  recall.  The  following 
is  the  editor's  touching  and  affectionate  ac- 
count of  the  closing  scene — full  of  pity  and  of 
grandeur — and  harmonising  beautifully  with 
the  noble  career  which  was  destined  there  to 
be  arrested : — 

"Lord  Collingwood  had  been  repeatedly  urged 
by  his  friends  to  surrender  his  command,  and  to 
seek  in  England  that  repose  which  had  become  so 
necessary  in  his  declining  health  ;  but  his  feelings 
on  the  subject  of  discipline  were  peculiarly  strong, 
and  he  had  ever  exacted  the  most  implicit  obedience 
from  others.  He  thought  it  therefore  his  duty  not 
to  quit  the  post  which  had  been  assigned  to  him, 
until  he  should  be  duly  relieved, — and  replied,  '  that 
his  life  was  his  country's,  in  whatever  voay  it  might 


be  required  ofhm.'  When  he  moored  in  tne  har- 
bour of  Port  Mahon,  on  the  25th  of  l^ebruary,  n« 
was  in  a  state  of  great  suffering  and  debility  ;  and 
having  been  strongly  recommended  by  his  medicai 
attendants  to  try  the  effect  of  gentle  exercise  on 
horseback,  he  went  immediately  on  shore,  accom- 
panied by  his  friend  Captain  Hallowell,  who  left  liia 
ship  to  attend  him  in  his  ilness  :  but  it  was  then  too 
late.  He  became  incapable  of  bearing  the  slightest 
fatigue  ;  and  as  it  was  represented  to  him  that  his 
return  to  England  was  indispensably  necessary  ibr 
the  preservation  of  his  life,  he,  on  the  3d  of  March, 
surrendered  his  command  to  Rear  Admiral  Martin. 
The  two  following  days  were  spent  in  unsuccessful 
attempts  to  warp  the  Ville  de  Paris  out  of  Port  Ma- 
hon ;  but  on  the  6th  the  wind  came  round  to  the 
westward,  and  at  sunset  the  ship  succeeded  in  clear- 
ing the  harbour,  and  made  sail  for  England.  When 
Lord  Collingwood  was  informed  that  he  was  again 
at  sea,  he  rallied  for  a  time  his  exhausted  strength, 
and  said  to  those  around  him,  *  Then  I  may  yet  live 
to  meet  the  French  once  more.'  On  the  morning 
of  the  7th  there  was  a  considerable  swell,  and  his 
friend  Captain  Thomas,  on  entering  his  cabin,  ob- 
served, that  he  feared  the  motion  of  the  vessel  dis- 
turbed him.  '  No,  Thomas,'  he  replied  ;  '  I  am  now 
in  a  state  in  which  nothing  in  this  world  can  disturb 
me  more.  I  am  dying ;  and  I  am  sure  it  must  be 
consolatory  to  you,  and  all  who  love  me,  to  see  how 
comfortably  I  am  coming  to  my  end.'  He  told  one 
of  his  attendants  that  he  had  endeavoured  to  review, 
as  far' as  was  possible,  all  the  actions  of  his  past  life, 
and  that  he  had  the  happiness  to  say,  that  nothing 
gave  him  a  moment's  uneasiness.  He  spoke  at 
times  of  his  absent  family,  and  of  the  doubtful  con- 
test in  which  he  was  about  to  leave  his  country  in- 
volved, but  ever  with  calmness  and  perfect  resigna- 
tion to  the  will  of  God  ;  and  in  this  blessed  state  of 
mind,  after  taking  an  affectionate  farewell  of  his  at. 
tendants,  he  expired  without  a  struggle  at  six  o'clock 
in  the  evening  of  that  day,  having  attained  the  age 
of  fifty-nine  years  and  six  months.  • 

"  After  his  decease,  it  was  found  that,  with  the 
exception  of  the  stomach,  all  the  other  organs  of 
life  were  peculiarly  vigorous  and  unimpaired  ;  and 
from  this  inspection,  and  the  age  which  the  surviving 
members  of  his  family  have  attained,  there  is  every 
reason  to  conclude  that  if  he  had  been  earlier  re- 
lieved from  his  command,  he  would  still  have  been 
in  the  enjoyment  of  the  honours  and  rewards  which 
would  doubtless  have  awaited  him  on  his  return  to 
England." 


The  remainder  of  this  article,  containing 
discussions  on  the  practices  of  flogging  in  the 
Navy,  and  of  Impressment  (to  both  which 
Lord  Collingwood,  as  well  as  Nelson,  were 
opposed),  is  now  omitted ;  as  scarcely  possess- 
ing sufficient  originality  to  justify  its  republi- 
cation, even  in  this  Miscellany. 


(Btctmbtv,  1S28.) 

Narrativ2  of  a  Journey  through  the  Upper  Provinces  of  India  from  Calcutta  to  Bombay,  1824, 
IS25  {with  Notes  upon  Ceylon);  an  Account  of  a  Journey  to  Madras  and  the  Southern 
Provinces,  1826 ;  and  Letters  written  in  India.  By  the  late  Right  Reverend  Reginald 
Heber,  Lord  Bishop  of  Calcutta.     Second  Edition.     2  vols.  8vo.     London:   1828. 


This  is  another  book  for  Englishmen  ^lo  be 
proud  of— almost  as  delightful  as  the  Memoirs 
of  Lord  Collingwood,  and  indebted  for  its  at- 
tractions mainly  to  the  same  cause — the  sin- 
gularly amiable  and  exalted  character  of  the 


person  to  whom  it  relates — and  that  combina- 
tion of  gentleness  with  heroic  ambition,  and 
simplicity  with  high  station,  which  we  would 
still  fondly  regard  as  characteristic  of  our  own 
nation.     To  us  in  Scotland  the  combination 


BISHOP  HEBER'S  INDIA. 


667 


seems,  in  this  instance,  even  more  admirable  | 
than  in  that  of  the  great  Admiral.  We  have 
no  Bishops  on  our  establishment;  and  have 
been  accustomed  to  think  that  we  are  better 
without  them.  But  if  we  could  persuade  our- 
selves that  Bishops  in  general  were  at  all  like 
Jiishop  Heber,  we  should  tremble  for  our  Pres- 
byterian orthodoxy ;  and  feel  not  only  venera- 
tion, but  something  very  like  envy  for  a  com- 
munion which  could  number  many  such  men 
among  its  ministers. 

The  notion  entertained  of  a  Bishop,  in  our 
antiepiscopal  latitudes,  is  likely  enough,  we 
admit,  not  to  be  altogether  just: — and  we  are 
far  from  upholding  it  as  correct,  when  we  say, 
that  a  Bishop,  among  us,  is  generally  supposed 
to  be  a  stately  and  pompous  person,  clothed 
in  purple  and  fine  linen,  and  faring  sumptu- 
ously every  day — somewhat  obsequious  to 
persons  in  power,  and  somewhat  haughty  and 
imperative  to  those  who  are  beneath  him — 
with  more  authority  in  his  tone  and  manner, 
than  solidity  in  his  learning;  and  yet  with 
much  more  learning  than  charity  or  humility 
—very  fond  of  being  called  my  Lord,  and 
driving  about  in  a  coach  with  mitres  on  the 
panels,  but  little  addicted  to  visiting  the  sick 
and  fatherless,  or  earning  for  himself  the 
blessing  of  those  who  are  ready  to  perish — 


Familiar  with  a  round 


Of  Ladyships — a  stranger  to  the  poor  "— 

iecorous  in  manners,  but  no  foe  to  luxurious 
indulgences^— rigid  in  maintaining  discipline 
among  his  immediate  dependents,  and  in  ex- 
icting  the  homage  due  to  his  dignity  from  the 
andignified  mob  of  his  brethren ;  but  perfectly 
willing  to  leave  to  them  the  undivided  privi- 
leges of  teaching  and  of  comforting  their  peo- 
»le,  and  of  soothing  the  sins  and  sorrows  of 
iheir  erring  flocks  —  scornful,  if  not  openly 
hostile,  upon  all  occasions,  to  the  claims  of 
the  People,  from  w^hom  he  is  generally  sprung 
— and  presuming  every  thing  in  favour  of  the 
royal  will  and  prerogative,  by  which  he  has 
been  exalted — setting,  indeed,  in  all  cases,  a 
much  higher  vahie  on  the  privileges  of  the 
few,  than  the  rights  that  are  common  to  all, 
and  exerting  himself  strenuously  that  the 
former  may  ever  prevail — caring  more,  ac- 
cordingly, for  the  interests  of  his  order  than 
the  geneial  good  of  the  church,  and  far  more 
for  the  Church  than  for  the  Religion  it  was 
established  to  teach — hating  dissenters  still 
mere  bitterly  than  infidels  —  but  combating 
both  rather  with  obloquy  and  invocation  of 
civil  penalties,  than  wath  the  artillery  of  a 
paverful  reason,  or  the  reconciling  influences 
of  \  -^  humble  and  holy  life — uttering  new 
and  4ien  haughty  professions  of  humility, 
and  f^^Tilarly  bewailing,  at  fit  seasons,^  the 
seven'.  /  of  those  Episcopal  labours,  which 
saddei ,  and  even  threaten  to  abridge  a  life, 
which  '-»  all  other  eyes  appears  to  flow"  on  in 
almost  imbroken  leisure  and  continued  in- 
dulgenc  < !  ^ 

This,  or  something  like  this,  we  take  to  be 
the  notion  that  most  of  us  Presbyterians  have 
been  used  to  entertain  of  a  modern  Bishop : 
and  it  is  mainly  because  they  believed  that 


the  rank  and  opulence  which  the  station  im- 
plied, were  likely  to  realise  this  character  ii; 
those  who  should  be  placed  in  it,  that  oui 
ancestors  contended  so  strenuously  for  tho 
abrogation  of  the  order,  and  thought  their 
Reformation  incomplete  till  it  was  finally  put 
down — till  all  the  ministers  of  the  Gospei 
were  truly  pastors  of  souls,  and  stood  in  no 
other  relation  to  each  other  than  as  fellow- 
labourers  in  the  same  vineyard. 

If  this  notion  be  utterly  erroneous,  the 
picture  which  Bishop  Heber  has  here  drawn 
of  himself,  must  tend  powerfully  to  correct 
it.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  it  be  in  any  respec: 
just,  he  must  be  allowed,  at  all  events,  tc 
have  been  a  splendid  exception.  We  are 
willing  to  take  it  either  way.  Though  we 
must  say  that  we  incline  rather  to  the  latter 
alternative — since  it  is  difficult  to  suppose, 
with  all  due  allowance  for  prejudices,  that 
our  abstract  idea  of  a  Bishop  should  be  in 
such  flagrant  contradiction  to  the  truth,  that 
one  who  was  merely  a  fair  specimen  of  the 
order,  should  be  most  accurately  character- 
ised by  precisely  reversing  every  thing  that 
entered  into  that  idea.  Yet  this  is  manifestly 
the  case  with  Bishop  Heber — of  whom  we  do 
not  know  at  this  moment  how  we  could  give 
a  better  description,  than  by  merely  reading 
backwards  all  we  have  now  ventured  to  set 
down  as  characteristic  of  his  right  reverend 
brethren.  Learned,  polished,  and  dignified, 
he  was  undoubtedly;  yet  far  more  conspicu- 
ously kind,  humble,  tolerant,  and  laborious — 
zealous  for  his  church  too,  and  not  forgetful  of 
his  station ;  but  remembering  it  more  for  the 
duties  than  for  the  honours  that  were  attached 
to  it,  and  infinitely  more  zealous  for  the  re- 
ligious improvement,  and  for  the  happiness, 
and  spiritual  and  worldly  good  of  his  fellow- 
creatures,  of  every  tongue,  faith,  and  com- 
plexion :  indulgent  to  all  errors  and  infirmi- 
ties— liberal,  in  the  best  and  truest  sense  of 
the  word — humble  and  conscientiously  diffi- 
dent of  his  own  excellent  judgment  and  never- 
failing  charity — looking  on  all  men  as  the 
children  of  one  God,  on*  all  Christians  as  the 
redeemed  of  one  Saviour,  and  on  all  Christian 
teachers  as  fellow-labourers,  bound  to  help 
and  encourage  each  other  in  their  arduous 
and  anxious  task.  His  portion  of  the  work, 
accordingly,  he  wrought  faithfully,  zealously, 
«nd  well ;  and,  devoting  himself  to  his  duty 
with  a  truly  apostolical  fervour,  made  no 
scruple  to  forego,  for  its  sake,  not  merely  hia 
personal  ease  and  comfort,  but  those  domestic 
affections  which  were  ever  so  much  more 
valuable  in  his  eyes,  and  in  the  end,  we  fear, 
consummating  the  sacrifice  with  his  life  !  If 
such  a  character  be  common  among  the  dig- 
nitaries of  the  English  Church,  we  sincerely 
congratulate  them  on  the  fact,  and  bow  oui 
heads  in  homage  and  veneration  before  them. 
If  it  be  rare,  as  we  fear  it  must  be  in  any 
church,  we  trust  we  do  no  unworthy  service 
in  pointing  it  out  for  honour  and  imitation  to 
all ;  and  in  praying  that  the  example,  in  all 
its  parts,  may  promote  the  growth  of  similai 
virtues  among  all  denominatior/s  o^  Christians, 
in  every  region  of  the  world- 


668 


MrsCELLANEOUS. 


But  though  th  3  great  charm  of  the  book  be 
derived  from  tlie  character  of  its  lamented 
auttior,  we  are  not  sure  that  this  is  by  any 
means  what  will  give  it  its  great  or  most  per- 
manent value,  independently  of  its  moral 
attraction,  we  are  inclined  to  think  it,  on  the 
whole,  the  most  instructive  and  important 
publication  that  has  ever  been  given  to  the 
world,  on  the  actual  state  and  condition  of  our 
Indian  Empire :  Not  only  exhibiting  a  more 
clear,  graphic,  and  intelligible  account  of  the 
country,  and  the  various  races  by  which  it  is 
peopled,  by  presenting  us  wnth  more  candid, 
judicious,  and  reasonable  views  of  all  the 
great  questions  relating  to  its  destiny,  and  our 
interests  and  duties  with  regard  to  it,  than  are 
any  where  else  to  be  met  wdth.  It  is  the  result, 
no  doubt,  of  a  hasty  and  somewhat  superficial 
survey.  But  it  embraces  a  very  wide  and 
various  range,  and  thus  affords  the  means  of 
correcting  errors,  which  are  almost  insepara- 
ble from  a  narrower  observation;  and  has, 
above  all^  the  inestimable  advantage  of  being 
given  while  the  freshness  of  the  first  impres- 
sion was  undiminished,  and  the  fairness  of 
the  first  judgment  unperverted  by  the  gradual 
accumulation  of  interests,  prejudices,  and  de- 
ference to  partial  authorities ;  and  given  by 
a  man  not  only  free  from  all  previous  bias, 
but  of  such  singular  candour,  calmness,  and 
deliberation  of  judgment,  that  we  would,  in 
almost  any  case,  take  his  testimony,  even 
on  a  superficial  view,  against  that  of  a  much 
cleverer  person,  who,  with  ampler  opportuni- 
ties, had  surveyed  or  reported  with  the  feel- 
ings, consciously  or  unconsciously  cherished, 
of  an  advocate,  a  theorist,  a  bigot,  or  a  partisan. 

Unhappily,  almost  all  who  have  hitherto 
had  the  means  of  knowing  much  about  India, 
have  been,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  subject 
to  these  influences ;  and  the  consequence  has 
been,  that  though  that  great  country  is  truly 
a  portion  of  our  own — and  though  we  may 
find,  in  every  large  town,  whole  clubs  of  in- 
telligent men,  returned  after  twenty  or  thirty 
years'  residence  in  it  in  high  situations,  it  is 
nearly  impossible  to  ^et  any  distinct  notion 
of  its  general  condition,  or  to  obtain  such  in- 
formation as  to  its  institutions  and  capacities 
as  may  be  furnished  by  an  ordinary  book  of 
travels,  as  to  countries  infinitely  less  important 
or  easy  of  access.  Various  causes,  besides 
the  repulsions  of  a  hostile  and  jealous  reli-. 
gion,  have  conspired  to  produce  this  effect. 
In  the  first  place,  the  greater  part  of  our  reve- 
nans  have  been  too  long  in  the  other  world, 
to  be  able  to  describe  it  in  such  a  way  as  to 
be  either  interesting  or  intelligible  to  the  in- 
habitants of  this.  They  have  been  too  long 
familiar  with  its  aspect  to  know  how  they 
would  strike  a  stranger ;  and  have  confounded, 
in  their  passive  and  incurious  impressions,  the 
most  trivial  and  insignificant  usages,  with 
practices  and  principles  that  are  in  the  highest 
degree  curious,  and  of  the  deepest  moral  con- 
uernment.  In  the  next  place,  by  far  the  greater 
part  of  these  experienced  and  authoritative 
residents  have  seen  but  a  very  small  portion 
of  the  mighty  regions  with  which  they  are 
too  hastil}'  presumed  to  be  generally  acquaint- 


ed; and  have  for  the  most  part  seen  even 
those,  only  in  t.he  course  of  some  limited  pro- 
fessional  or  official  occupation,  and  only  with 
the  eyes  of  their  peculiar  craft  or  profession. 
They  have  been  traders,  or  soldiers,  or  tax- 
gatherers — wdth  here  and  there  a  diplomatic 
agent,  an  engineer,  or  a  naturalist — all,  to* 
busy,  and  too  much  engrossed  with  the  special 
object  of  their  several  missions,  to  have  time 
to  look  to  the  general  condition  of  the  country — 
and  almost  all  moving  through  it,  with  a  reti- 
nue and  accompaniment  of  authority,  which 
excluded  all  actual  contact  with  the  People, 
and  even,  in  a  great  degree,  the  possibility  of 
seeing  them  in  their  natural  slate.  We  have 
historical  memoirs  accordingly,  and  accounts 
of  military  expeditions,  of  great  value  and 
accuracy;  and  are  beginning  to  have  reports 
of  the  culture  of  indigo,  of  the  general  profits 
of  trade,  and  of  the  heights  and  structure  of 
mountains,  that  may  be  depended  on.  But, 
with  the  exception  of  Mr.  Elphinstone's  Cau- 
bul  and  Sir  John  Malcolm's  Central  India-^ 
both  relating  to  very  limited  and  peculiar  dis- 
tricts— we  have  no  good  account  of  the  country 
or  the  people.  But  by  far  the  worst  obstruc- 
tion to  the  attainment  of  correct  information 
is  to  be  found  in  the  hostility  which  has  pre- 
vailed for  the  last  fifteen  or  twenty  j'ears,  be- 
tween the  adversaries  and  the  advocates  of 
the  East  India  Company  and  its  monopoly; 
and  which  has  divided  almost  all  who  are  now 
able  and  willing  to  enlighten  us  on  its  con- 
cerns, into  the  champions  of  opposite  factions; 
characterised,  w^e  fear  we  must  add,  with  a 
full  share  of  the  partiality,  exaggeration,  and 
inaccuracy,  which  has  at  all  times  been 
chargeable  upon  such  champions.  In  so  large 
and  complicated  a  subject,  there  is  room  of 
course,  for  plausible  representations  on  both 
sides ;  but  what  we  chiefly  complain  of  is, 
that  both  parties  have  been  so  anxious  to 
make  a  case  for  themselves,  that  neither  of 
them  have  thought  of  stating  the  ivhole  factSj 
so  as  to  enable  the  public  to  judge  between 
them.  They  have  invariably  brought  forward 
only  what  they  thought  peculiarly  favourable 
for  themselves,  or  peculiarly  unfavourable  for 
the  adversary,  and  have  fought  to  the  utter- 
ance upon  those  high  grounds  of  quarrel ;  bui; 
have  left  out  all  that  is  not  prominent  and  re- 
markable— that  is,  all  that  is  truly  character- 
istic of  the  general  state  of  the  country,  and 
the  ordinary  conduct  of  its  government;  by 
reference  to  which  alone,  however,  the  real 
magnitude  of  the  alleged  benefits  or  abuses, 
can  ever  be  truly  estimated. 

It  is  chiefly  for  these  reasons  that  we  have 
hitherto  been  shy,  perhaps  to  a  blamable  ex- 
cess, in  engaging  with  the  great  questions  of 
Indian  policy,  which  have  of  late  years  en- 
grossed so  much  attention.  Feeling  the  ex- 
treme difficulty  of  getting  safe  materials  foi 
our  judgment,  we  have  been  conscientiously 
unwilling  to  take  a  decided  or  leading  part  in 
discussions  which  did  not  seem  to  us  to  bfc 
conducted,  on  either  part,  in  a  spirit  of  per 
feet  fairness,  on  a  sufficient  view  of  well-es- 
tablished facts,  or  on  a  large  and  comprehen 
sive  perception  of  the  principles  to  whicl 


BISHOP  HEBER'S  INDIA, 


they  referred.  With  a  strong  general  leaning 
ngainst  all  monopoly  and  arbitrary  restrictions, 
we  could  not  but  leel  that  the  case  of  India 
was  peculiar  in  many  respects ;  and  that  more 
than  usual  deliberation  was  due,  not  only  to 
its  vast  practical  importance,  but  to  the  weight 
of  experience  and  authority  that  seemed  ar- 
rayed against  our  predilections;  and  we  long- 
ed, above  all  things,  for  a  calm  and  dispas- 
sionate statement  of  facts,  from  a  recent  and 
intelligent  observer,  unconnected,  if  possible, 
either  by  interest  or  any  other  tie,  with  either 
of  the  parties,  and  untainted  even  by  any 
preparatory  study  of  their  controvers^s ;  but 
applying  his  mind  with  perfect  freedom  and 
fairness  to  what  fell  under  his  own  immediate 
observation,  and  recording  his  impressions 
with  that  tranquil  sincerity  which  can  scarcely 
ever  be  relied  on  but  where  the  record  is 
meant  to  be  absolutely  private,  and  is  conse- 
quently made  up  without  any  feeling  of  re- 
sponsibility, ambition,  or  deference. 

Such  a  statement,  and  much  more  than 
Buch  a  statement,  we  have  in  the  work  before 
us;  and  both  now,  and  on  all  future  occasions, 
we  feel  that  it  has  relieved  us  from  the  chief 
difficulty  we  have  hitherto  experienced  in 
forming  our  opinions,  and  supplied  the  most 
valuable  elements  for  the  discussions  to  which 
we  have  alluded.  The  author,  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted, was  more  in  connection  with  the  Gov- 
ernment than  with  any  party  or  individual 
opposed  to  it,  and  was  more  exposed,  there- 
fore, to  a  bias  in  that  direction.  But  he  was, 
at  the  same  time,  so  entirely  independent  of 
its  favours,  and  so  much  more  removed  from 
its  influence  than  any  one  with  nearly  the 

k'  ,  same  means  of  observation,  and  was  withal 
of  a  nature  so  perfectly  candid,  upright,  and 
conscientious,  that  he  may  be  regarded,  we 
think,  as  altogether  impartial ;  and  we  verily 
believe  has  set  dow^n  nothing  in  this  private 
journal,  intended  only  for  his  own  eye  or  that 
of  his  wife,  not  only  that  he  did  not  honestly 
think,  but  that  he  would  not  have  openly 
stated  10  the  Governor  in  Council,  or  to  the 
Court  of  Directors  themselves. 

The  Bishop  sailed  for  India  with  his  family, 
in  1823;  and  in  June  1824,  set  out  on  tlie 
visitation  of  his  Imperial  Diocese,  having  been 
obliged,  much  against  his  will,  to  leave  his 
wife  and  children,  on  account  of  their  health, 
behind  him.  He  ascended  the  Ganges  to 
Dacca  and  Benares,  and  proceeded  by  Oude 
and  Lucknow  to  Delhi  and  Agra,  and  to  Al- 
morah  at  the  base  of  the  Himalaya  mountains, 
and  so  onward  through  the  newly-acquired 
provinces  of  Malwah,  to  Guzerat  and  Bombay, 
where  he  had  the  happiness  of  rejoining  Mrs. 
Heber.  They  afterwards  sailed  together  to 
Ceylon ;  and  after  some  stay  in  that  island,  re- 
turned, in  October  1825,  to  Calcutta.  In  Jan- 
uary 1826.  the  indefatigable  prelate  sailed 
again  for  Madras,  and  proceeded  in  March  to 
the  visitation  of  the  southern  provinces ;  but 
had  only  reached  Tanjore,  when  his  arduous 
and  exemplary  career  was  cut  short,  and  all 
his  labours  of  love  and  duty  brought  to  an  end, 
by  a  sudden  and  most  unexpected  death — 
^H  having  been  seized  with  a  fit  in  stepping  into 


the  bath,  after  having  spent  the  morning  in 
the  offices  of  religion,  on  the  3d  of  April  of 
that  year. 

The  work  before  us  consists  of  a  very  co- 
pious journal,  written  for  and  transmitted  to 
his  wife,  during  his  long  peregrinations;  and 
of  several  most  valuable  and  interesting  let- 
ters, addressed  to  her,  and  to  his  friends  in 
England,  in  the  course  of  the  same  journey ; 
all  written  in  a  very  pleasing,  and  even  ele- 
gant, though  familiar  style,  and  indicating  in 
every  line  not  only  the  clear  judgment  and 
various  accomplishments  of  the  writer,  but 
the  singular  kindness  of  heart  and  sweetness 
of  temper,  by  which  he  seems  to  have  been 
still  more  distinguished.  He  surveys  every 
thing  with  the  vigilance  and  delight  of  a  cul- 
tivated and  most  active  intellect — with  the 
eye  of  an  artist,  an  antiquary,  and  a  naturalist 
— the  feelings  and  judgment  of  an  English 
gentleman  and  scholar — the  sympathies  of  a 
most  humane  and  generous  man — and  the 
piety,  charity,  and  humility  of  a  Christian. 
The  work  is  somewhat  diffuse,  and  exhibits 
some  repetitions,  and  perhaps  some  inconsis- 
tencies. It  is  not  such  a  work,  in  short,  as 
the  author  w^ould  himself  have  offered  to  the 
public.  But  we  do  not  know  whether  it  is 
not  more  interesting  than  any  that  he  could 
have  prepared  for  publication.  It  carries  U3 
more  completely  into  the  very  heart  of  the 
scenes  he  describes  than  any  such  work  could 
have  done,  and  it  admits  us  more  into  his  in- 
timacy. We  pity  those,  we  confess,  who  find 
it  tedious  to  accompany  such  a  man  on  such 
a  journey. 

It  is  difficult  to  select  extracts  from  a  work 
like  this ;  or,  rather,  it  is  not  worth  while  to 
stand  on  selection.  We  cannot  pretend  to 
give  any  abstract  of  the  w^hole,  or  to  transfer 
to  our  pages  any  reasonable  proportion  of  the 
beauty  or  instruction  it  contains.  We  can 
only  justify  our  account  of  it  by  a  few  speci- 
mens, taken  very  much  at  random.  The  fol- 
lowing may  serve  to  show  the  unaffected  and 
considerate  kindness  with  which  he  treated 
his  attendants,  and  all  -the  inferior  persons 
who  came  in  contact  with  him ;  and  the  effects 
of  that  kindness  on  its  objects. 

•  "  Two  of  my  sepoys  had  been  ill  for  several  days, 
in  much  the  same  way  with  myself.  I  had  treated 
them  in  a  similar  manner,  and  they  were  now  doing 
well :  But  being  Brahmins  of  high  caste,  I  had 
much  difficulty  m  conquering  their  scruples  and 
doubts  about  the  physic  which  I  gave  them.  They 
both  said  that  they  would  rather  die  than  taste  wine. 
They  scrupled  at  my  using  a  spoon  to  measure  their 
castor-oil,  and  insisted  that  the  water  in  which  their 
medicines  were  mixed,  should  be  poured  by  them- 
selves only.  They  were  very  grateful  however, 
particularly  for  the  care  I  took  of  them  when  I  was 
myself  ill,  and  said  repeatedly  that  the  sight  of  me 
in  good  health  woula  be  better  to  them  than  all 
medicines.  They  seemed  now  free  from  disease, 
but  recovered  their  strength  more  slowly  than  I  did ; 
and  I  was  glad  to  find  that  the  Soubahdar  said  he 
was  authorized,  under  such  circumstances,  to  engage 
a  hackery  at  the  Company's  expense,  to  carry  theni 
till  they  were  fit  to  march.  He  mentioned  this  in 
consequence  of  my  offering  them  a  lift  on  a  cameU 
which  they  were  afraid  of  trying." 

"  I  had  a  singular  instance  this  evening  of  the 
fact  how  mere  children  all  soldiers,  and  1  think  par 


670 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


ticularly  sepoys,  are,  when  put  a  little  out  of  their 
usual  way.  On  going  to  the  fi\ace  where  my  es- 
cort was  hutted,  I  found  that  theft  was  not  room  for 
them  all  under  its  snelter,  and  that  four  were  pre- 
paring to  sleep  on  the  open  field.  Within  a  hun- 
dred yards  stood  another  similar  hut  unoccupied,  a 
little  out  of  repair,  but  tolerably  tenantable.  '  Why 
do  you  not  go  thither  V  was  my  question.  '  We 
like  to  sleep  altogether,'  was  their  answer.  '  But 
why  not  bring  the  branches  here,  and  make  your 
own  hut  larger?  see,  I  will  show  you  the  way.' 
They  started  up  immediately  in  great  apparent  de- 
light; every  man  brought  a  bough,  and  the  work 
was  done  in  five  minutes — being  only  interrupted 
every  now  and  then  by  exclamations  of  '  Good, 
good,  poor  man's  provider !'  " 

"  A  little  before  five  in  the  morning,  the  servants 
came  to  me  for  directions,  and  to  say  that  the  good 
careful  old  Soubahdar  was  very  ill,  and  unable  to 
leave  his  tent.  I  immediately  put  on  my  clothes 
and  went  down  to  the  camp,  in  my  way  to  which 
they  told  me,  that  he  had  been  taken  unwell  at 
night,  and  that  Dr.  Smith  had  given  him  medicine. 
He  opened  a  vein,  and  with  much  humane  patience, 
continued  to  try  diflferent  remedies  while  any  chance 
remained  ;  but  no  blood  flowed,  and  no  sign  of  life 
could  be  detected  from  the  time  of  his  coming  up, 
except  a  feeble  flutter  at  the  heart,  which  soon 
ceased.  He  was  at  an  advanced  age,  at  least  for 
an  Indian,  though  apparently  hale  and  robust.  I 
felt  it  a  comfort  that  I  had  not  urged  him  to  any  ex- 
ertion, and  that  in  fact  I  had  endeavoured  to  persuade 
him  to  lie  still  till  he  was  quite  well.  But  I  was 
necessarily  much  shocked  by  the  sudden  end  of  one 
who  had  travelled  with  me  so  far,  and  whose  con- 
duct had,  in  every  instance,  given  me  satisfaction. 
Nor,  while  writing  this,  can  I  recollect  without  a 
real  pang,  his  calm  countenance  and  grey  hairs,  as 
he  sate  in  his  tent  door,  teUing  his  beads  in  an  after- 
noon, or  walked  with  me,  as  he  seldom  failed  to 
do,  through  the  villages  on  an  evening,  with  his 
own  silver-hilted  sabre  under  his  arm,  his  loose  cot- 
ton mantle  folded  round  him,  and  his  golden  neck- 
lace and  Rajpoot  string  just  visible  above  it. 

"  The  death  of  the  poor  Soubahdar  led  to  the 
question,  whether  there  would  be  still  time  to  send 
on  the  baggage.  All  the  Mussulmans  pressed  our 
immediate  departure  ;  while  the  Hindoos  begged 
that  they  might  be  allowed  to  stay,  at  least,  till 
sunset.  I  determined  on  remaining,  as,  in  my  opin- 
ion, more  decent  and  respectful  to  the  memory  of  a 
good  and  aged  officer." 

"  In  the  way,  at  Futtehgunge,  I  passed  the  tents 
pitched  for  the  large  party  which  were  to  return  to- 
wards Cawnpoor  next  day,  and  I  was  much  pleased 
and  gratified  by  the  Soubahdar  and  the  greater 
number  of  the  sepoys  of  my  old  escort  running  into 
the  middle  of  the  road  to  bid  me  another  farewell, 
and  again  express  their  regret  that  they  were  not 
going  on  with  me  '  to  the  world's  end.'  They  who 
talk  of  the  ingratitude  of  the  Indian  character, 
phould,  I  think,  pay  a  little  more  attention  to  cases 
of  this  sort.  These  men  neither  got  nor  expected 
anything  by  this  little  expression  of  good-will.  If 
I  had  offered  them  money,  they  would  have  been 
bound,  by  the  rules  of  the  service,  and  their  own 
dignity,  not  to  take  it.  Sufficient  civility  and  re- 
spect would  have  been  paid  if  any  of  them  who 
happened  to  be  near  the  road  had  touched  their 
caps,  and  I  really  can  suppose  them  actuated  by  no 
motive  but  good-will.  It  had  not  been  excited,  so 
far  as  I  know,  by  any  particular  desert  on  my  part : 
but  I  had  always  spoken  to  them  civilly,  had  paid 
some  attention  to  their  comforts  in  securing  them 
tents,  firewood,  and  camels  for  their  knapsacks,  and 
had  ordered  them  a  dinner,  after  their  own  fashion, 
on  their  arrival  at  Lucknow,  at  the  expense  of,  I 
believe,  not  more  than  four  rupees !  Surely  if 
good-will  is  to  be  bought  by  these  sort  of  attentions, 
it  is  a  pity  that  any  body  should  neglect  them." 

"  In  crossing  a  nuddee,  which  from  a  ford  had 
ntcowe  a  ferry,  we  eaw  some  characteristic  groups 


and  occurrences ;  the  price  of  passage  in  tne  boat 
was  only  a  few  cowries  ;  but  a  number  of  country 
folk  were  assembled,  who  could  not,  or  would  not, 
pay,  and  were  now  sitting  patiently  by  the  brink, 
waiting  till  the  torrent  should  subside,  or,  what  was 
far  less  likely  to  happen,  till  the  boatmen  should 
take  compassion  on  them.  Many  of  these  poor 
people  came  up  to  beg  me  to  make  the  boatmen 
take  them  over,  one  woman  pleading  that  her 
'  malik  our  bucher,'  (Uterally  master,  or  lord,  and 
young  one)  had  run  away  from  her,  and  she  wanted 
to  overtake  them ;  another  that  she  and  her  two 
grandchildren  were  following  her  son,  who  was  a 
Havildar  in  the  regiment  which  we  had  passed  jus( 
before ;  and  some  others,  that  they  had  been  inter- 
cepted the  previous  day  by  this  torrent,  and  had 
neither  money  nor  food  till' they  had  reached  their 
homes.  Four  anas  purchased  a  passage  for  the 
whole  crowd,  of  perhaps  thirty  people,  and  they 
were  really  very  thankful.  I  bestowed  two  anaa 
more  on  the  poor  deserted  woman,  and  a  whimsical 
scene  ensued.  She  at  first  took  the  money  with 
eagerness,  then,  as  if  she  recollected  herself,  she 
blushed  very  deeply,  and  seemed  much  confused, 
then  bowed  herself  to  my  feet,  and  kissed  my  hands, 
and  at  last  said,  in  a  very  modest  tone,  'it  was  not 
fit  for  so  great  a  man  as  I  was,  to  give  her  two  anas, 
and  she  hoped  that  I  and  the  *  chota  Sahib,'  (little 
lord)  would  give  her  a  rupee  each!'  She  was  an 
extremely  pretty  little  woman,  but  we  were  inexor- 
able ;  partly,  I  believe,  in  my  own  case  at  least, 
because  we  had  only  just  rupees  enough  to  take  us 
to  Cawnpoor,  and  to  pay  for  our  men's  provisions ; 
however,  I  gave  her  two  more  anas,  my  sole  re- 
maining stock  of  small  change." 

These  few  traits  will  do,  we  believe ;  but 
we  must  add  a  few  more,  to  let  the  reader 
fully  into  the  noble  humanity  and  genuine 
softness  of  this  man's  heart. 

"In  the  course  of  this  evening  a  fellow,  who 
said  he  was  a  gao-wala  brought  me  two  poor  little 
leverets,  which  he  said  he  had  just  found  in  a  field. 
They  were  quite  unfit  to  eat,  and  bringing  them 
was  an  act  of  criielty  of  which  there  are  few  in- 
stances among  the  Hindoos,  who  are  generally 
humane  to  wild  animals.  In  this  case,  on  my  scold- 
ing the  man  for  bringing  such  poor  little  things  from 
their  mother,  all  the  crowd  of  camel-drivers  and 
camp-followers,  of  whom  no  inconsiderable  number 
were  around  us,  expressed  great  satisfaction  and  an 
entire  concurrence  in  my  censure.  It  ended  in  the 
man  promising  to  take  them  back  to  the  very  spot 
(which  he  described)  where  he  had  picked  them  up, 
and  in  my  promising  him  an  ana  if  he  did  so.  To 
see  him  keep  his  word  two  stout  waggoner's  boys 
immediately  volunteered  their  services,  and  I  have 
no  doubt  kept  him  to  his  contract. 

"  The  same  adviser  wanted  me  to  take  off  a  joint 
of  Cabul's  tail,  under  the  hair,  so  as  not  to  injure 
his  appearance.  '  It  was  known,'  he  said,  '  that  by 
how  much  the  tail  was  made  shorter,  so  much  the 
taller  the  horse  grew.'  I  said  '  I  could  not  believe 
that  God  gave  any  animal  a  limb  too  much,  or  one 
which  tended  to  its  disadvantage,  and  that  as  He 
had  made  my  horse,  so  he  should  remain.'  This 
speech,  such  as  it  was,  seemed  to  chime  in  wonder- 
fully with  the  feelings  of  most  of  my  hearers  ;  and 
one  old  man  scid,  that  'during  all  the  twenty-two 
years  that  the  English  held  the  country,  he  had  not 
heard  so  grave  and  godly  a  saying  from  any  of  them 
before.'  I  thought  of  Sancho  Panza  and  his  wise 
apophthegms! 

"  Our  elephants  were  receiving  their  drink  at  a 
well,  and  I  gave  the  largest  some  bread,  which, 
before  my  illness,  I  had  often  been  in  the  habit  of 
doing.  'He  is  glad  to  see  you  again,'  observed  the 
goomashta,  and  1  certainly  was  much  struck  by  the 
calm,  clear,  attentive,  intelligent  eye  which  he  fixed 
on  me,  both  while  he  was  eating,  and  afterwards 
while  I  was  patting  his  trunk  and  talking  about  him 


BISHOP  HEBER'S  INDIA. 


671 


He  was,  he  said,  a  fine-tempered  beast,  but  the  two 
others  were  '  great  rascals.'  One  of  them  had  once 
almost  killed  his  keeper.  I  have  got  these  poor 
beasts'  allowance  increased,  in  consideration  of  their 
long  march  ;  and  that  they  may  not  be  wronged, 
have  ordered  the  mohout  to  give  them  all  their  gram 
in  presence  of  a  sentry.  Tlae  gram  is  made  up  in 
cakes,  about  as  large  as  the  top  of  a  hat-box,  and 
baked  on  an  earthen  pot.  Each  contains  a  seer, 
and  sixteen  of  them  are  considered  as  sufficient  for 
one  day's  food  for  an  elephant  on  a  march.  The 
Buwarree  elephant  had  only  twelve,  but  I  ordered 
him  the  full  allowance,  as  well  as  an  increase  to  the 
others.    If  they  knew  this,  they  would  indeed  be 

glad  to  see  me." 

"  The  morning  was  positively  cold,  and  the  whole 
scene,  with  the  exercise  of  the  march,  the  pictur- 
esque groups  of  men  and  animals  round  mc, — the 
bracing  air,  the  singing  of  birds,  the  light  mist  hang- 
ing on  the  trees,  and  the  glistening  dew,  had  some- 
thing at  once  so  Oriental  and  so  EngHsh,  I  have 
seldom  found  any  thing  better  adapted  to  raise  a 
man's  animal  spirits,  and  put  him  in  good  temper 
with  himself  and  all  the  world.  How  I  wish  those 
I  love  were  with  me  !  How  much  my  wife  would 
enjoy  this  sort  of  life, — its  exercise,  its  cleanliness, 
and  purity  ;  its  constant  occupation,  and  at  the  same 
time  its  comparative  freedom  from  form,  care,  and 
vexation  !  At  the  same  time  a  man  who  is  curious 
m  his  eating  had  better  not  come  here.  Lamb  and 
kid  (and  we  get  no  other  flesh)  most  people  would 
soon  tire  of.  The  only  fowls  which  are  attainable 
are  as  tougli^nd  lean  as  can  be  desired ;  and  the 
milk  and  butter  are  generally  seasoned  with  the 
never-faihng  condiments  of  Hindostan — smoke  and 
soot.  These,  however,  are  matters  to  which  it  is 
not  difficult  to  become  reconciled  ;  and  all  the  more 
serious  points  of  warmth,  shade,  cleanliness,  air, 
and  water,  are  at  this  season  nowhere  enjoyed  belter 
than  in  the  spacious  and  well-contrived  "tents,  the 
ample  means  of  transport,  the  fine  climate,  and 
fertile  regions  of  Northern  Hindostan.  Another 
time,  by  God's  blessing,  I  will  not  be  alone  in  this 
Eden  ;  yet  I  confess  that  there  are  few  people  whom 
I  greatly  wish  to  have  as  associates  in  such  a  jour- 
ney. It  is  only  a  wife,  or  a  friend  so  intimate  as  to 
be  quite  another  self,  whom  one  is  really  anxious  to 
be  w^iih  one  while  travelling  through  anew  country." 

Instead  of  wishing,  as  we  should  have  ex- 
pected a  Bishop  to  do,  to  move  in  the  digni- 
fied and  conspicuous  circle  at  the  seat  of 
Government,  it  is  interesting  to  find  this  ex- 
emplary person  actually  languishing  for  a 
more  retired  and  obscure  situation. 

*'  Do  you  know,  dearest,  that  I  sometimes  think 
we  should  be  more  useful,  and  happier,  if  Cawn- 
poor  or  Benares,  not  Calcutta,  were  our  home  ? — 
My  visitations  would  be  made  with  far  more  con- 
venience, the  expense  of  house  rent  would  be  less 
to  the  Company,  and  our  own  expenses  of  living 
would  be  reduced  very  considerably.  The  air,  even 
of  Cawnpoor,  is,  I  apprehend,  better  than  that  of 
Bengal,  and  that  of  Benares  decidedly  so.  The 
greater  part  of  my  business  with  government  may 
be  done  as  well  by  letters  as  personal  interviews ; 
and,  if  the  Archdeacon  of  Calcutta  were  resident 
there,  it  seems  more  natural  that  the  Bishop  of 
India  should  remain  in  the  centre  of  his  diocese. — 
Tne  only  objection  is  the  great  number  of  Christians 
in  Calcutta,  and  the  consequent  probability  that  my 
preaching  is  more  useful  there  than  it  would  be  any 
where  else.  We  may  talk  these  points  over  when 
we  meet." 

One  of  the  most  characteristic  passages  in 
ihe  book,  is  the  account  of  his  interview  with 
R  learned  and  very  liberal  Brahmin  in  Guzerat, 
ndiom  he  understood  to  teach  a  far  purer  mo- 
rality than  is  usually  enjoined  by  his  brethren, 
and  also  to  discountenance  the  distinction  of 


castes,  and  to  inculcate  a  signal  toleration 
We  can  now  afford,  however,  to  give  little 
more  than  the  introductory  narrative. 

"  About  eleven  o'clock  I  had  the  expected  visit 
from  Swaamee  Narain,  to  my  interview  with  whom 
I  had  looked  forward  with  an  anxiety  and  eagerness 
which,  if  he  had  known  it,  would  perhaps  have 
flattered  him.  He  came  in  a  somewhat  different 
style  from  what  I  expected ;  having  with  him  neatly 
two  hundred  horsemen,  mostly  well-armed  with 
matchlocks  and  swords,  and  several  of  them  with 
coats  of  mail  and  spears.  Besides  them  he  had  a 
large  rabble  on  foot,  with  bows  and  arrows  ;  and 
when  I  considered  that  I  had  myself  more  than  fifty 
horse,  and  fifty  muskets  and  bayonets,  I  could  not 
help  smiling,  though  my  sensations  were  in  some 
degree  painful  and  humiliating,  at  the  idea  of  two 
religious  teachers  meeting  at  the  head  of  little 
armies !  and  filling  the  city,  which  was  the  scene 
of  their  interview,  with  the  rattling  of  quivers,  the 
clash  of  shields,  and  the  tramp  of  the  war-horso. 
Had  our  troops  been  opposed  to  each  other,  mine, 
though  less  numerous,  would  have  been  doubtless 
far  more  effective,  from  the  superiority  of  arni.o  «nd 
discipline.  But,  in  moral  grandeur,  what  a  differ, 
ence  was  there  between  his  troop  and  mine  !  Mine 
neither  knew  me  nor  cared  for  me.  They  escorted 
me  faithfully,  and  would  have  defended  me  bravely, 
because  they  were  ordered  by  their  superiors  to  do 
so ;  and  as  they  would  have  done  for  any  other 
stranger  of  sufficient  worldly  rank  to  make  such 
attendance  usual.  The  guards  of  Swaamee  Narain 
were  his  own  disciples  and  enthusiastic  admirers  ; 
men  who  had  voluntarily  repaired  to  hear  his  les- 
sons, who  now  took  a  pride  in  doing  him  honour, 
and  who  would  cheerfully  fight  to  the  last  drop  of 
blood  rather  than  suffer  a  fringe  of  his  garment  to 
be  handled  roughly.  In  the  parish  of  Hodnet  there 
were  once  perhaps  a  few  honest  countrymen  who 
felt  something  like  this  for  me  ;  but  how  long  a  time 
must  elapse  before  any  Christian  teacher  in  India 
can  hope  to  be  thus  lovjsd  and  honoured  ! 

"  After  the  usual  mutual  compliments,  I  said  that 
I  had  heard  much  good  of  him,  and  the  good  doc- 
trine \vhich  he  preached  among  the  poor  people  of 
Guzerat,  and  that  I  greatly  desired  his  acquaint- 
ance; that  I  regretted  that  I  knew  Hindost»iiee  so 
imperfecdy,  but  that  I  should  be  very  glad,  so  far 
as  my  knowledge  of  the  language  allowed,  and  by 
the  interpretation  of  frtends,  to  learn  what  he  be- 
lieved on  rehgious  matters,  and  to  tell  him  what  I 
myself  believed  ;  and  that  if  he  would  come  and  see 
me  at  Kairah,  where  we  should  have  more  leisure, 
I  would  have  a  tent  pitched  for  him  and  treat  him 
like  a  brother.  I  said  this,  because  I  was  very 
earnestly  desirous  of  getting  him  a  copy  of  the 
Scriptures,  of  which  I  had  none  with  me,  in  the 
Nagree  character,  and  persuading  him  to  read 
them  ;  and  because  I  had  some  further  hopes  of 
inducing  him  to  go  with  me  to  Bombay,  where  I 
hoped  that,  by  conciliatory  treatment,  and  the 
conversations  to  which  I  might  introduce  him  with 
the  Church  Missionary  Society  established  in  that 
neighbourhood,  I  might  do  him  more  good  than  I 
could  otherwise  hope. 

"  I  saw  that  both  he,  and,  still  more,  his  disciples, 
were  highly  pleased  by  the  invitation  which  I  gave 
him  ;  but  he  said,  in  reply,  that  his  life  was  on*-  of 
very  little  leisure  ;  that  he  had  five  thousand  disciples 
now  attending  on  his  preaching  in  the  neighbouring 
villages,  and  nearly  fifty  thousand  in  different  parts 
of  Guzerat ;  that  a  great  number  of  these  were  to 
assemble  together  in  the  course  of  next  week,  on 
occasion  of  his  brother's  son  coming  of  age  to  re- 
ceive the  Brahminical  string  ;  but  that  if  I  staid 
long  enough  in  the  neighbourhood  to  allow  him  to 
get  this  engagement  over,  he  would  gladly  come 
again  to  see  me.  '  In  the  meantime,'  I  said,  '  have 
you  any  objection  to  communicate  some  part  of 
your  doctrine  now  ?'  It  was  evidently  what  he 
came  to  do  ;  and  his  disciples  very  visibly  exulted 
in  the  opportunity  of  his  perhaps  converting  me.' ' 


672 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


The  conference  is  too  long  to  extract,  but 
it  is  very  curious ;  though  the  result  fell  some- 
thing short  of  what  the  worthy  Bishop,  in  the 
zeal  of  his  benevolence,  had  anticipated. — 
We  should  now  leave  the  subject  of  the  au- 
thor's personal  character ;  but  it  shines  out  so 
strongly  in  the  account  of  the  sudden  death 
of  one  of  his  English  friends  and  fellow-tra- 
vellers, that  we  cannot  refrain  from  gratifying 
our  readers  and  ourselves  with  one  other  ex- 
tract. Mr.  Stowe,  the  individual  alluded  to, 
died  after  a  short  illness  at  Dacca.  The  day 
after  his  burial,  the  Bishop  writes  to  his  wife 
as  follows : — 

"  Sincerely  as  I  have  mourned,  and  do  mourn 
him  continually,  the  moment  perhaps  at  which  I 
felt  his  loss  most  keenly  was  on  my  return  to  this 
house.  I  had  always  after  airings,  or  other  short 
absences,  been  accustomed  to  run  up  immediately 
to  his  room  to  ask  about  his  medicines  and  his 
nourishment,  to  find  if  he  had  wanted  any  thing 
during  my  absence,  and  to  tell  him  what  I  had  seen 
and  heard.  And  now,  as  I  went  up  stairs,  I  feh 
most  painfully  that  the  object  of  my  solicitude  was 
gone,  and  that  there  was  nobody  now  to  derive 
comfort  or  help  from  my  coming,  or  whose  eyes 
would  faintly  sparkle  as  I  opened  the  door. 

"It  will  be  long  before  I  forget  the  guilelessness 
of  his  nature,  the  interest  which  he  felt  and  ex- 
pressed in  all  the  beautiful  and  sequestered  scenery 
which  we  passed  through ;  his  anxiety  to  be  useful 
fo  me  in  any  way  which  I  could  point  out  to  him, 
(he  was  indeed  very  useful,)  and  above  all,  the  un- 
affected pleasure  which  he  took  in  discussing  reli- 
gious subjects  ;  his  diligence  in  studying  the  Bible, 
and  the  fearless  humanity  with  which  he  examined 
the  case,  and  administered  to  the  wants,  of  nine 
poor  Hindoos,  the  crew  of  a  salt-barge,  whom,  as 
I  mentioned  in  my  Journal,  we  found  lying  sick 
together  of  a  jungle  fever,  unable  to  leave  the  place 
where  they  lay,  and  unaided  by  the  neighbouring 
villagers.  I  then  little  thought  how  soon  he  in  his 
turn  would  require  the  aid  he  gave  so  cheerfully." 

On  the  day  after,  he  writes  in  these  terms 
to  Miss  Stowe,  the  sister  of  his  departed 
friend ; — 

"  With  a  heavy  heart,  my  dear  Miss  Stowe,  I 
send  you  the  enclosed  keys.  How  to  offer  you 
consolation  in  your  present  grief,  I  know  not ;  for 
by  my  own  deep  sense  of  the  loss  of  an  excellent 
friend,  I  know  how  much  heavier  must  be  your 
burden.  Separation  of  one  kind  or  another  is,  in- 
deed, one  of  the  most  frequent  trials  to  which 
affectionate  hsarts  are  exposed.  And  if  you  can 
only  regard  your  brother  as  removed  for  his  own 
advantage  to  a  distant  country,  you  will  find,  per- 
haps, some  of  that  misery  alleviated  under  which 
you  are  now  suffering.  Had  you  remained  in  Eng- 
land when  he  came  out  hither,  you  would  have 
been,  for  a  time,  divided  no  less  effectually  than 
you  are  now.  The  difference  of  hearing  from  him 
is  almost  all ;  and  though  you  now  have  not  that 
comfort,  yet  even  without  hearing  from  him  you 
may  be  well  persuaded  (which  there  you  could  not 
always  have  been)  that  he  is  well  and  happy  ;  and, 
above  all,  you  may  be  persuaded,  as  your  dear  bro- 
ther was  most  fully  in  his  time  of  severest  suffering, 
that  God  never  smites  his  children  in  vain,  or  out 
of  cruelty. 

"  So  long  as  you  choose  to  remain  with  us,  we 
will  be,  to  our  power,  a  sister  and  a  brother  to  you. 
And  it  may  be  worth  your  consideration  whether, 
H  your  present  state  of  health  and  spirits,  a  jour- 
ney, in  my  wife's  society,  will  not  be  better  for  you 
than  a  dreary  voyage  home.  But  this  is  a  point 
on  which  you  must  decide  for  yourself;  I  would 
scarcely  venture  to  advise,  far  less  dictate,  where  I 


am  cnly  anxious  to  serve.  In  my  dear  Emily  yo<i 
will  already  have  had  a  most  affeciionate  and  sen 
sible  counsellor." 

We  dare  not  venture  on  any  part,  either  of 
the  descriptions  of  scenery  and  antiquities,  or 
of  the  persons  and  presentations  at  the  several 
native  courts.  But  we  have  no  hesitation  in 
recommending  them  as  by  far  the  best  and 
most  interesting,  in  both  sorts,  that  we  have 
ever  met  with.  The  account  of  his  journey- 
mgs  and  adventures  in  the  mountain  region  at 
rhe  foot  of  the  Himalaya  is  peculiarly  striking, 
from  the  affecting  resemblance  the  author  is 
continuayy  tracing*  to  the  scenery  of  his  be- 
loved Eiiirland,  his  more  beloved  Wales,  or 
his  most  leeloved  Hodnet !  Of  the  natives, 
in  all  their  orders,  he  is  a  most  indulgent  and 
liberal  judge,  as  well  as  a  very  exact  observer. 
He  estimates  their  civilisation  higher,  we 
think,  than  any  other  traveller  who  has  given 
an  account  of  them,  and  is  very  much  struck 
with  the  magnificence  of  their  architecture — 
though  very  sceptical  as  to  the  high  antiquity 
to  which  some  of  its  finest  specimens  pretend. 
We  cannot  afford  to  give  any  of  the  splendid 
and  luminous  descriptions  in  which  the  work 
abounds.     In  a  private  letter  he  says, — 

"  I  had  heard  much  of  the  airy  arti  gaudy  stylo 
of  Oriental  architecture  ;  a  notion,  I  apprehend 
taken  from  that  of  China  only,  since  solidity,  solem 
nity,  and  a  richness  of  ornament,  so  well  managei 
as  not  to  interfere  with  solemnity,  are  the  charac- 
teristics of  all  the  ancient  buildings  which  I  have 
met  with  in  this  country.  1  recollect  no  correspond- 
ing parts  of  Windsor  at  all  equal  to  the  entrance 
of  the  castle  of  Delhi  and  its  marble  hall  of  au- 
dience ;  and  even  Delhi  falls  very  short  of  Agra  in 
situation,  in  majesty  of  outhne,  in  size,  and  the 
costUness  and  beauty  of  its  apartments." 

The  following  is  a  summary  of  his  opinion 
of  the  people,  w^hich  follows  in  the  same  letter 

"  Of  the  people,  so  far  as  their  natural  character 
is  concerned,  I  have  been  led  to  form,  on  the  whole, 
a  very  favourable  opinion.  They  have,  unhappily, 
many  of  the  vices  arising  from  slavery,  from  an  un- 
settled state  of  society,  and  immoral  and  erroneous 
systems  of  religion.  But  they  are  men  of  high  and 
gallant  courage,  courteous,  intelligent,  and  most 
eager  after  knowledge  and  improvement,  with  a  re- 
markable aptitude  for  the  abstract  sciences,  geome- 
try, astronomy,  &c.,  and  for  the  imitative  arts, 
painting  and  sculpture.  They  are  sober,  indus- 
trious, dutiful  to  their  parents,  and  affectionate  to 
their  children,  of  tempers  almost  uniformly  gentle 
and  patient,  and  more  easily  affected  by  kindness 
and  attention  to  their  wants  and  feelings  than  almost 
any  men  whom  I  have  met  with.  Their  faults 
seem  to  arise  from  the  hateful  superstitions  to  which 
they  are  subject,  and  the  unfavourable  slate  of 
society  in  which  they  are  placed. 

"  More  has  been  done,  and  more  successfully,  to 
obviate  these  evils  in  the  Presidency  of  Bombay, 
than  in  any  part  of  India  which  I  have  yet  visited, 
through  the  wise  and  liberal  policy  of  Mr.  Elphin- 
stone  ;  to  whom  this  side  of  the  Peninsula  is  also 
indebted  for  some  very  important  and  efficient  im- 
provements in  the  administration  of  justice,  and 
who,  both  in  amiable  temper  and  manners,  exten- 
sive and  various  information,  acute  good  sense, 
energy,  and  application  to  business,  is  one  of  the 
most  extraordinary  men,  as  he  is  quite  the  most 
popular  governor,  that  I  have  fallen  in  with." 

The  following  is  also  very  important ;  ancf 
gives  more   new  and   valuable   information 


BISHOP  HEBER'S  INDIA. 


671 


than  many  pretenamg  volumes,  by  men  who 
nave  been  half  their  lives  in  the  countries  to 
which  they  relate  : — 

"  Of  the  people  of  this  country,  and  the  manner 
in  which  they  are  governed,  I  have,  is  yet,  hardly 
seen  enough  to  form  an  opinion.  I  have  seen 
enough,  however,  to  find  that  the  customs,  the 
habits,  and  prejudices  of  the  former  are  much  mis- 
understood in  England.  We  have  all  heard,  for 
instance,  of  the  humanity  of  the  Hindoos  towards 
brute  creatures,  their  horror  of  animal  food,  &c. ; 
and  you  may  be,  perhaps,  as  much  surprised  as  I 
was,  to  find  that  those  who  can  afford  it  are  hardly 
less  carnivorous  than  ourselves  ;  that  even  the 
purest  Brahmins  are  allowed  to  eat  mutton  and 
venison  ;  that  fish  is  permitted  to  many  castes,  and 
pork  to  many  others  ;  and  that,  though  they  con- 
sider it  a  grievous  crime  to  kill  a  cow  or  bullock 
for  the  purpose  of  eating,  yet  they  treat  their  draft 
oxen,  no  less  than  their  horses,  with  a  degree  of 
barbarous  severity  which  would  turn  an  English 
hackney  coachman  sick.  Nor  have  iheir  religious 
prejudices,  and  the  unchangeableness  of  their  habits, 
been  less  exaggerated.  Some  of  the  best  informed 
of  their  nation,  with  whom  I  have  conversed,  assure 
me  that  half  their  most  remarkable  customs  of  civil 
and  domestic  life  are  borrowed  from  their  Mahom- 
medan  conquerors  ;  and  at  present  there  is  an  ob- 
vious and  increasing  disposition  to  imitate  the  Eng- 
lish in  every  thing,  which  has  already  led  to  very 
remarkable  changes,  and  will,  probably,  to  still 
35ore  important.  The  wealthy  natives  now  all 
affect  to  have  their  houses  decorated  with  Corin- 
thian pillars,  and  filled  with  English  furniture.  They 
drive  the  best  horses  and  the  most  dashing  carriages 
in  Calcutta.  Many  of  them  speak  English  fluently, 
and  are  tolerably  read  in  Engfish  literature ;  and 
the  children  of  one  of  our  friends  I  saw  one  day 
dressed  in  jackets  and  trousers,  with  round  hats, 
shoes  and  stockings.  In  the  Bengalee  newspapers, 
of  which  there  are  two  or  three,  politics  are  can- 
vassed, with  a  bias,  as  I  am  told,  inchning  to  Whig- 
fism  ;  and  one  of  their  leading  men  gave  a  great 
hiner  not  long  since  in  honour  of  the  Spanish  Revo- 
mtion.  Among  the  lower  orders  the  same  feeling 
shows  itself  more  beneficially,  in  a  growing  neg- 
lect of  caste — in  not  merely  a  willingness,  but  an 
anxiety,  to  send  their  children  to  our  schools,  and 
a  desire  to  learn  and  speak  English,  which,  if 
properly  encouraged,  might,  I  verily  believe,  in 
fifty  years'  time,  make  owr  language  what  the 
Oordoo,  or  court  and  camp  language  of  the  country 
(the  Hindostanee),  is  at  present.  And  though  in- 
stances of  actual  conversion  to  Christianity  are,  as 
yet,  very  uncommon,  yet  the  number  of  children, 
both  male  and  female,  who  are  now  receiving  a  sort 
of  Christian  education,  reading  the  New  Testa- 
ment, repeating  the  Lord's  Prayer  and  Command- 
ments, and  all  with  the  consent,  or  at  least  without 
the  censure,  of  their  parents  or  spiritual  guides, 
have  increased,  during  the  last  two  years,  to  an 
amount  which  astonishes  the  old  European  resi- 
dents, who  were  used  to  tremble  at  the  name  of  a 
Missionary,  and  shrink  from  the  common  duties  of 
Christianity,  lest  they  should  give  offence  to  their 
heathen  neighbours.  So  far  from  that  being  a  con- 
sequence of  the  zeal  which  has  been  lately  shown, 
many  of  the  Brahmins  themselves  express  admira- 
tion of  the  moraUty  of  the  Gospel,  and  profess  to 
entertain  a  better  opinion  of  the  English  since  they 
have  found  that  they  too  have  a  religion  and  a  Shas- 
ter.  All  that  seems  necessary  for  the  best  effects 
to  follow  is,  to  let  things  take  their  course  ;  to  make 
the  Missionaries  discreet ;  to  keep  the  government 
as  it  now  is,  strictly  neuter ;  and  to  place  our  confi- 
dence in  a  general  diffusion  of  knowledge,  and  in 
making  ourselves  really  useful  to  the  temporal  as 
well  as  spiritual  interests  of  the  people  among  whom 
we  live. 

"  In  all  these  points  there  is,  indeed,  great  room 
for  improvement :  But  I  do  not  by  any  means  as- 
43 


sent  to  the  pictures  of  depravity  and  general  worth 
lessness  which  some  have  drawn  of  the  Hindoos 
They  are  decidedly,  by  nature,  a  mild,  pleasing, 
and  intelligent   race ;    sober,    parsimonious,    and. 
where  an  object  is  held  out  to  them,  most  Indus 
irious  and  persevering.     But  the  magistrates  and 
lawyers  all  agree  that  in  no  country  are  lying  and 
perjury  so  common,  and  so  little  regarded  ;  and 
notwithstanding  the  apparent  mildness  of  their  man- 
ners, the  criminal  calendar  is  generally  as  full  as  in 
Ireland,  with  gang-robberies,  setting  fire  to  build- 
ings, slacks,  &c.;  and  the  number  of  children  who 
are  decoyed  aside  and  murdered,  for  the  sake  of 
their  ornaments,   Lord  Amherst   assures   me,  is 
dreadful." 

We  may  add  the  following  direct  testimony 
on  a  point  of  some  little  curiosity,  which  has 
been  alternately  denied  and  exaggerated : — 

"  At  Broach  is  one  of  those  remarkable  institu- 
tions which  have  made  a  good  deal  of  noise  in  Eu- 
rope, as  instances  of  Hindoo  benevolence  to  inferior 
animals.  I  mean  hospitals  for  sick  and  infirm 
beasts,  birds,  and  insects.  I  was  not  able  to  visit 
it ;  but  Mr.  Corsellis  described  it  as  a  very  dirty 
and  neglected  place,  which,  though  it  has  consider- 
able endowments  in  land,  only  serves  to  enrich 
the  Brahmins  who  manage  it.  They  have  really 
animals  of  several  different  kinds  there,  not  only 
those  which  are  accounted  sacred  by  the  Hindoos, 
as  monkeys,  peacocks,  &.C.,  but  horses,  dogs,  and 
cats;  and  they  have  also,  in  httle  boxes,  an  assort- 
ment of  lice  and  fleas  !  It  is  not  true,  however, 
that  they  feed  those  pensioners  on  the  flesh  of  beg- 
gars hired  for  the  purpose.  The  Brahmins  say  thai 
these  insects,  as  well  as  the  other  inmates  of  their 
infirmary,  are  fed  with  vegetables  only,  such  as 
rice,  &c.  How  the  insects  thrive,  I  did  not  hear ; 
but  the  old  horses  and  dogs,  nay  the  peacocks  and 
apes,  are  allowed  to  starve  ;  and  the  only  creatures 
said  to  be  in  any  tolerable  plight  are  some  miich 
cows,  which  may  be  kept  from  other  motives  than 
charity." 

He  adds  afterwards, — 

*'  I  have  not  been  led  to  believe  that  our  Govern- 
ment is  generally  popular,  or  advancing  towards 
popularity.  It  is,  perhaps,  impossible  that  we  should 
be  so  in  any  great  degree  ;  yet  I  really  think  there 
are  some  causes  of  discontent  which  it  is  in  our 
own  power,  and  which  it  is  our  duty  to  remove  or 
diminish.  One  of  these  is  the  distance  and  haugh- 
tiness with  which  a  very  large  proportion  of  the 
civil  and  milhary  servants  of  the  Company  treat 
the  upper  and  middling  class  of  natives.  Against 
their  mixing  much  with  us  in  society,  there  are  cer- 
tainly many  hindrances  ;  though  even  their  objec 
tion  to  eating  with  us  might,  so  far  as  the  Mussul 
mans  are  concerned,  I  think,  be  conquered  by  any 
popular  man  in  the  upper  provinces,  who  made  the 
attempt  in  a  right  way.  But  there  are  some  of  our 
amusements,  such  as  private  theatrical  entertain 
ments  and  the  sports  of  the  field,  in  which  the> 
would  be  delighted  to  share,  and  invitations  to  which 
would  be  regarded  by  them  as  extremely  flattering, 
if  they  were  not,  perhaps  with  some  reason,  voted 
bores,  and  treated  accordingly.  The  French,  under 
Perron  and  Des  Boi^rnes,  who  in  more  serious  mat- 
ters left  a  very  bad  name  behind  them,  had,  in  this 
particular,  a  great  advantage  over  us  ;  and  the  easy 
and  friendly  intercourse  in  which  they  lived  with 
natives  of  rank,  is  still  often  regretted  in  Agra  and 
the  Dooab.  This  is  not  all,  however.  The  foolish 
pride  of  the  English  absolutely  leads  them  to  set  at 
nought  the  injunctions  of  their  own  Government 
The  Tussildars,  for  instance,  or  principal  active 
officers  of  revenue,  ought,  by  an  order  of  council, 
to  have  chairs  always  offered  them  in  the  presence 
of  their  European  superiors;  and  the  same,  by  ihe 
standing  orders  of  the  army,  should  be  done  to  ine 
Soubahdars.     Yet  there  are  hardly  six  collectors  in 


€74 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


India  who  observe  the  former  etiquette :  and  the 
latter,  which  was  fiiteen  years  ago  i;ever  orrii.ted 
in  the  army,  is  now  conT,j4etely  in  disuse.  At  the 
same  time,  the  regulations  of  which  I  speak  are 
known  to  every  Tussildar  and  Soubahdar  in  India, 
and  they  feel  themselves  aggrieved  every  time 
these  civilities  are  neglected."' 

Of  the  state  of  the  Schools,  and  of  Education 
in  general,  he  speaks  rather  favourably  ]  and 
is  very  desirous  that,  without  any  direct  at- 
tempt at  conversion,  the  youth  should  be  ge- 
nerally exposed  to  the  humanising  influence 
of  the  New  Testament  morality,  by  the  gene- 
ral introduction  of  that  holy  book,  as  a  lesson 
book  in  the  schools;  a  matter  to  which  he 
states  positively  that  the  natives,  and  even 
their  Brahminical  pastors,  have  no  sort  of  ob- 
jection. Talking  of  a  female  school,  lately 
established  at  Calcutta,  under  the  charge  of  a 
very  pious  and  discreet  lady,  he  observes,  that 
"Rhadacant  Deb,  one  of  the  wealthiest  natives 
in  Calcutta,  and  regarded  as  the  most  austere 
and  orthodox  of  the  worshippers  of  the  Ganges, 
bade,  some  time  since,  her  pupils  go  on  and 
prosper;  and  added,  that  'if  they  practised 
the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  as  well  as  they  re- 
peated it,  he  would  choose  all  the  handmaids 
for  his  daughters,  and  his  wives,  from  the 
English  school.'  " 

He  is  far  less  satisfied  with  the  administra- 


I  tion  of  Justice ;  especially  in  the  local  or  dis« 
trict  courts,  called  Adawlut.  which  the  costli« 
ness  and  intricacy  of  the  proceedings,  and  the 
needless  introduction  of  the  Persian  language, 
have  made  sources  of  great  practical  oppres- 
sion, and  objects  of  general  execration  through- 
out the  country.  At  the  Bombay  Presidency 
Mr.  Elphinstone  has  discarded  the  Persian, 
and  appointed  every  thing  to  be  done  in  the 
ordinary  language  of  the  place. 

And  here  w^e  are  afraid  we  must  take  leave 
of  this  most  instructive  and  delightful  publi- 
cation ;  which  we  confidently  recommend  to 
our  readers,  not  only  as  more  likely  to  amuse 
them  than  any  book  of  travels  w- ith  w^hich  w^e 
are  acquainted,  but  as  calculated  to  enlighten 
their  understandings,  and  to  touch  their  hearts 
W'ith  a  purer  flame  than  they  generally  catch 
from  most  professed  works  of  philosophy  or 
devotion.     It  sets  before  us,  in  every  page, 
j  the  most  engaging  example  of  devotion  to 
j  God  and  good-will  to  man ;  and,  touching  every 
'  object  with  the  light  of  a  clear  judgment  and 
a  pure  heart,  exhibits  the  rare  spectacle  of  a 
I  w^ork  written  by  a  priest  upon  religious  creeds 
I  and  establishments,  without  a  shade  of  in- 
j  tolerance ;    and  bringing  under  review   the 
j  characters  of  a  vast  multitude  of  eminent  in- 
!  dividuals,  without  one  trait  either  of  sarcasm 
!  or  adulation. 


(©ctobtr,  1824.) 


1.  Sketches  of  India.    Written  by  an  Officer,  for  Fire-Side  Travellers  at  Home.     Second 

Edition,  with  Alterations.     Svo.  pp.  358.     London :  1824. 

2.  Scenes  and  Impressions  in  Egypt  and  Italy.     By  the  Author  of  Sketches  of  India,  and 

Recollections  of  the  Peninsula.     Svo.  pp.  452.     London:   1824. 


These  are  very  amiable  books  : — and,  be- 
sides the  good  sentiments  they  contain,  they 
are  very  pleasing  specimens  of  a  sort  of  travel- 
writing,  to  which  we  have  often  regretted 
that  so  few  of  those  who  roam  loose  about  the 
world  will  now  condescend — we  mean  a  brief 
and  simple  notice  of  what  a  person  of  ordinary 
information  and  common  sensibility  may  see 
and  feel  in  passing  through  a  new^  country, 
which  he  visits  without  any  learned  prepara- 
tioiu  iad  traverses  without  any  particular  ob- 
jeei.  There  are  individuals,  no  doubt,  who 
travel  to  better  purpose,  and  collect  more 
weighty  information — exploring,  and  record- 
ing as  they  go,  according  to  their  several 
habits  and  measures  of  learning,  the  mineral- 
og)  antiquities,  or  statistics  of  the  different 
regions  they  survey.  But  the  greater  part, 
even  of  intelligent  wanderers,  are  neither  so 
ambitious  in  their  designs,  nor  so  industrious 
in  their  execution; — and,  as  most  of  those 
who  travel  for  pleasure,  and  find  pleasure  in 
travelling,  are  found  to  decline  those  tasks, 
which  mi^ht  enrol  them  among  the  contribu- 
tors to  science,  while  they  turned  all  their 
movements  into  occasions  of  laborious  study. 
It  seems  reasonable  to  think  that  a  lively  and 
wccinct  account  of  what  actually  delighted 


them,  will  be  more  generally  agreeable  than 
a  digest  of  the  information  they  might  have 
acquired.  We  would  by  no  means  undervalue 
the  researches  of  more  learned  and  laborious 
persons,  especially  in  countries  rarely  visited : 
But,  for  common  readers,  their  discussions 
require  too  much  previous  knowledge,  and 
too  painful  an  effort  of  attention.  They  are 
not  books  of  travels,  in  short,  but  works  of 
science  and  philosopny;  and  as  the  principal 
delight  of  travelling  consists  in  the  impressions 
which  w^e  receive,  almost  passively,  from  the 
presentment  of  new  objects,  and  the  reflec- 
tions to  which  they  spontaneously  give  rise, 
so  the  most  delightful  books  of  travels  should 
be  those  that  give  us  back  those  impressions 
in  their  first  freshness  and  simplicity,  and  ex- 
cite us  to  follow^  out  the  train  of  feelings  and 
reflection  into  which  they  lead  us,  by  the  di- 
rect and  unpretending,  manner  in  which  they 
are  suggested.  By  aiming  too  ambitiously  at 
instruction  and  research,  this  charm  is'  lost , 
and  we  often  close  these  copious  dissertations 
and  details,  needlessly  digested  in  the  form 
of  a  journal,  without  having  the  least  idea 
how  we,  or  any  other  ordinary  person,  would 
have  felt  as  companions  of  the  journey — tho- 
roughly convinced,  certainly,  that  w^e  should 


SKETCHES  OF  INDIA— EGYPT  AND  ITALY. 


675 


not  have  occupied  ourselves  as  the  writers 
before  us  seem  to  have  been  occupied ;  and 
pretty  well  satisfied,  after  all,  that  they  them- 
selves were  not  so  occupied  during  the  most 
agreeable  hours  of  their  wanderings,  and  had 
omitted  in  their  books  what  they  would  most 
frequently  recall  in  their  moments  of  enjoy- 
ment and  leisure. 

Nor  are  these  records  of  superficial  obser- 
vation to  be  disdained  as  productive  of  enter- 
tainment only,  or  altogether  barren  of  instruc- 
tion. Very  often  the  surface  presents  all  that 
is  really  worth  considering — or  all  that  we  are 
capable  of  understanding; — and  our  observer, 
we  are  taking  it  for  granted,  is,  though  no 
great  philosopher,  an  intelligent  and  educated 
m.an — looking  curiously  at  all  that  presents 
itself,  and  making  such  passing  inquiries  as 
may  satisfy  a  reasonable  curiosity,  without 
greatly  disturbing  his  indolence  or  delaying 
his  progress.  Many  themes  of  reflection  and 
topics  of  interest  will  be  thus  suggested,  which 
more  elaborate  and  exhausting  discussions 
would  have  strangled  in  the  birth — while,  in 
the  variety  and  brevity  of  the  notices  which 
such  a  scheme  of  writing  implies,  the  mind 
of  the  reader  is  not  only  more  agreeably  ex- 
cited, but  is  furnished,  in  the  long  run,  with 
more  materials  for  thinking,  and  solicited  to 
more  lively  reflections,  than  by  any  quantity 
of  exact  knowledge  on  plants,  stones,  ruins, 
manufactures,  or  history. 

Such,  at  all  events,  is  the  merit  and  the 
charm  of  the  volumes  before  us.  They  place 
us  at  once  by  the  side  of  the  author — and 
bring  before  our  eyes  and  minds  the  scenes 
he  has  passed  through,  and  the  feelings  they 
suggested.  In  this  last  particular,  indeed,  we 
are  entirely  at  his  mercy ;  and  we  are  afraid 
he  sometimes  makes  rather  an  unmerciful 
use  of  his  power.  It  is  one  of  the  hazards 
of  this  way  of  writing,  that  it  binds  us  up  in 
the  strictest  intimacy  and  closest  companion- 
ship with  the  author.  Its  attraction  is  in  its 
direct  personal  sympathy — and  its  danger  in 
the  temptation  it  holds  out  to  abuse  it.  It 
enables  us  to  share  the  grand  spectacles  with 
which  the  traveller  is  delighted — but  compels 
us  in  a  manner  to  share  also  in  the  sentiments 
with  which  he  is  pleased  to  connect  them. 
For  the  privilege  of  seeing  with  his  eyes,  we 
must  generally  renounce  that  of  using  our 
own  judgment  —  and  submit  to  adopt  im- 
plicitly the  tone  of  feeling  which  he  has  found 
most  congenial  with  the  scene. 

On  the  present  occasion,  we  must  say,  the 
reader,  on  the  whole,  has  been  fortunate. 
The  author,  though  an  officer  in  the  King's 
service,  and  not  without  professional  predi- 
lections, is,  generally  speaking,  a  speculative, 
sentimental,  saintly  sort  of  person — with  a 
taste  for  the  picturesque,  a  singularly  poeti- 
cal cast  of  diction,  and  a  mind  deeply  imbued 
with  principles  of  philanthropy  and  habits  of 
affection  : — And  if  there  is  something  of  fa- 
daise  now  and  then  in  his  sentiments,  and 
Bomething  of  affectation  in  his  style,  it  is  no 
more  than  we  can  easily  forgive,  in  con- 
sideration of  his  brevity,  his  amiableness,  and 
rariety. 


"  The  "  Sketches  of  India,"  a  loose-printeC 
octavo  of  350  padres,  is  the  least  interesting 
perhaps  of  the  t\\o  volumes  now  before  us — 
though  sufficiently  marked  with  all  that  is 
characteristic  of  the  author.  It  may  be  as 
well  to  let  him  begin  at  the  beginning. 

"  On  the  afternoon  of  July  the  10th,  1818,  our 
vessel  dropped  anchor  in  Madras  Roads,  after  a  fine 
run  of  three  months  and  ten  days  from  the  Mother- 
bank. — How  changed  the  scene  I  how  great  the 
contrast ! — Ryde,  and  its  little  snug  dwellings,  with 
slated  or  thatched  roofs,  its  neat  gardens,  its  green 
and  sloping  shores.  —  Madras  and  its  naked  fort, 
noble-looking  buildings,  tall  columns,  lofty  veran- 
dahs, afid  terraced  roofs.  The  city,  large  and 
crowded,  on  a  flat  site ;  a  low  sandy  beach,  and  a 
foaming  surf.  The  roadstead,  there,  alive  with 
beautiful  yachts,  light  wherries,  and  tight-built 
fishing  barks.  Here,  black,  shapeless  Massoolah 
boats,  with  their  naked  crews,  singing  the  same 
wild  (yet  not  unpleasing)  air,  to  which,  for  ages, 
the  dangerous  surf  they  fearlessly  ply  over  has  been 
rudely  responsive. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  the  sweet  and  strange  sen- 
sations which,  as  I  went  peacefully  forward,  the  new 
objects  in  nature  excited  in  my  bosom.  The  rich 
broad-leaved  plantain;  the  gracefully  drooping 
bamboo;  the  cocoa  nut,  with  that  mat-like-looking 
binding  for  every  branch ;  the  branches  themselves 
waving  with  a  feathery  motion  in  the  wind  ;  the 
bare  lofty  trunk  and  fan-leaf  of  the  tall  palm  ;  the 
slender  and  elegant  stem  of  the  areca ;  the  large 
aloes ;  the  prickly  pear ;  the  stately  banian  with 
drop-branches,  here  fibrous  and  pliant,  there  strong 
and  columnar,  supporting  its  giant  arms,  and  form- 
ing around  the  parent  stem  a  grove  of  beauty  ;  and 
among  these  wonders,  birds,  all  strange  in  plumage 
and  in  note,  save  the  parroquet  (at  home,  the  lady's 
pet-bird  in  a  gilded  cage),  here  spreading  his  bright 
green  wings  in  happy  fearless  flight,  and  giving  his 
natural  and  untaught  scream. 

"  It  was  late  and  dark  when  we  reached  Poona- 
mallee  ;  and  during  the  latter  part  of  our  march  we 
had  heavy  rain.  We  found  no  fellow-countryman 
to  welcome  us:  But  the  mess-room  was  open  and 
lighted,  a  table  laid,  and  a  crowd  of  smart,  roguish- 
looking  natives,  seemed  wailing  our  arrival  to  seek 
service. — Drenched  to  the  skin,  without  changes  of 
linen,  or  any  bedding,  we  sat  down  to  the  repast 
provided  ;  and  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  have 
found  in  India,  perhaps,  at  the  moment,  a  more 
cheerful  party  than  ours. — Four  or  five  clean-look- 
ing natives,  in  white  dresses,  with  red  or  white 
turbans,  ear-rings  of  gold,  or  with  emerald  drops, 
and  large  silver  signet  rings  on  their  fingers,  crowded 
round  each  chair,  and  watched  our  every  glance,  to 
anticipate  our  wishes.  Curries,  vegetables,  and 
fruits,  all  new  to  us,  were  tasted  and  pronounced 
upon  ;  and  after  a  meal,  of  which  every  one  seemed 
to  partake  with  grateful  good  humour,  we  lay  down 
for  the  night.  One  attendant  brought  a  small  carpet, 
another  a  mat,  others  again  a  sheet  or  counterpane, 
till  all  were  provided  with  something ;  and  thus 
closed  our  first  evening  in  India.  —  The  morning 
scene  was  very  ludicrous.  Here,  a  barber  uncalled 
for,  was  shaving  a  man  as  he  still  lay  dozing!  there, 
another  was  cracking  the  joints  of  a  man  half 
dressed ;  here  were  two  servants,  one  pouring  water 
on,  the  other  washing,  a  Saheb's  hands.  In  spite 
of  my  efforts  to  prevent  them,  two  well-dressed 
men  were  washing  my  feel ;  and  near  me  was  a 
lad  dexterously  putting  on  the  clothes  of  a  sleepy 
brother  officer,  as  if  he  had  been  an  infant  undei 
his  care  I — There  was  much  in  all  this  to  amuse 
the  mind,  and  a  great  deal,  I  confess,  to  pain  the 
heart  of  a  free-born  Englishman." 

Sketches  of  India,  pp.  3 — 10. 

With  all  this  profusion  of  attendance,  the 
march  of  a  British  officer  in  India  seems  a 
matter  rather  of  luxury  than  fatigue. 


676 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


"  Marching  m  this  country  is  certainly  pleasant ; 
although  perhaps  you  rise  too  early  for  comfort. 
An  hour  before  daybreak  you  mount  your  horse  ; 
and,  travelling  at  an  easy  pace,  reach  your  ground 
before  the  sun  has  any  power ;  and  find  a  small 
tent  pitched  with  breakfast  ready  on  the  table. — 
Your  large  tent  follows  with  couch  and  baggage, 
carried  by  bullocks  and  coolies  ;  and  before  nine 
o'clock,  you  may  be  washed,  dressed,  and  em- 
ployed with  your  books,  pen,  or  pencil.  Mats, 
made  of  the  fragrant  roots  of  the  Cuscus  grass,  are 
hung  before  the  doors  of  your  tent  to  windward ; 
and  being  constant  wetted,  admit,  during  the  hottest 
winds,  a  cool  refreshing  air. 

"  VVhile  our  forefathers  were  clad  in  wolf-skin, 
dwelt  in  caverns,  and  lived  upon  the  produce  of 
the  chase,  the  Hindoo  lived  as  now.  As  ribw,  his 
princes  were  clothed  in  soft  raiment,  wore  jewelled 
turbans.,  and  dwelt  in  palaces.  As  now,  his  haughty 
half-naked  priests  received  his  ofTerings  in  temples 
ofhewn  and  sculptured  granite,  and  summoned  him 
to  rites  as  absurd,  but  yet  more  splendid  and  de- 
bauching, than  the  present.  His  cottage,  garments, 
household  utensils,  and  implements  of  husbandry 
or  labour,  the  same  as  now.  Then,  too,  he  wa- 
tered the  ground  with  his  foot,  by  means  of  a  plank 
balanced  transversely  on  a  lofty  pole,  or  drew  from 
the  deep  bowerie  by  the  labour  of  his  oxen,  in  large 
bags  of  leather,  supplies  of  water  to  flow  through 
the  little  channels  by  which  their  fields  and  gardens 
are  intersected.  His  children  were  then  taught  to 
shape  letters  in  the  sand,  and  to  write  and  keep 
accounts  on  the  dried  leaves  of  the  palm,  by  the 
village  schoolmaster.  His  wife  ground  corn  at  the 
same  mill,  or  pounded  it  in  a  rude  mortar  with  her 
neighbour.  He  could  make  purchases  in  a  regular 
bazaar,  change  money  at  a  shroff's,  or  borrow  it 
at  usury,  for  the  expenses  of  a  wedding  or  festival. 
In  short,  all  the  traveller  sees  around  him  of  social 
or  civiUzed  life,  of  useful  invention  or  luxurious 
refinement,  is  of  yet  higher  antiquity  than  the  days 
of  Alexander  the  Great.  So  that,  in  fact,  the  eye 
of  the  Brirish  officer  looks  upon  the  same  forms  and 
dresses,  the  same  buildings,  manners,  and  customs, 
on  which  the  Macedonian  troops  gazed  with  the 
same  astonishment  two  thousand  years  ago." 

Sketches  of  India,  pp.  23— 26. 

If  the  traveller  proceeds  in  a  palanquin,  his 
comforts  are  not  less  amply  provided  for. 

"  You  generally  set  off  after  dark ;  and,  habited 
in  loose  drawers  and  a  dressing  gown,  recline  at 
full  length  and  slumber  away  the  night.  If  you 
are  wakeful,  you  may  draw  back  the  sliding  panel 
of  a  lamp  fixed  behind,  and  read.  Your  clothes 
are  packed  in  large  neat  baskets,  covered  with 
green  oil-cloth,  and  carried  by  palanquin  boys ;  two 
pairs  will  contain  two  dozen  complete  changes. 
Your  palanquin  is  fitted  up  with  pockets  and 
drawers.  You  can  carry  in  it,  without  trouble,  a 
writing  desk  and  two  or  three  books,  with  a  few 
canteen  conveniences  for  your  meals, — and  thus 
you  may  be  comfortably  provided  for  many  hundred 
miles'  travelUng.  You  stop  for  half  an  hour,  morn- 
ing and  evening,  under  the  shade  of  a  tree,  to  wash 
and  take  refreshment ;  throughout  the  day  read, 
think,  or  gaze  round  you.  The  relays  of  bearers 
lie  ready  every  ten  or  twelve  miles ;  and  the  aver- 
age of  your  run  is  about  four  miles  an  hour." 

Ibid.  pp.  218,  219. 

We  cannot  make  room  for  his  descriptions, 
though  excellent,  of  the  villages,  the  tanks, 
the  forest — and  the  dresses  and  deportment 
of  the  different  classes  of  the  people  ;  but  we 
must  give  this  little  sketch  of  the  Elephant 
and  Camel. 

"  While  breakfast  was  getting  ready,  I  amused 
myself  with  looking  at  a  baggage-elephant  and  a 
few  camels,  which  some  servants,  returning  with  a 


general's  tents  from  the  Deccan,  were  in  the  ac( 
of  loading.  The  intelligent  obedience  of  tne  ele- 
phant is  well  known ;  but  to  look  upon  this  huge 
and  powerful  monster  kneeling  down  at  the  mere 
bidding  of  the  human  voice  ;  and,  when  he  has 
risen  again,  to  see  him  protrude  his  trunk  for  the 
foot  of  his  mahout  or  attendant,  to  help  him  into 
his  seat ;  or,  bending  the  joint  of  his  hind  leg, 
make  a  step  for  him  to  climb  up  behind  ;  and  then, 
if  any  loose  cloths  or  cords  fall  off,  with  a  dog-like 
docility  pick  them  up  with  his  proboscis  and  put 
them  up  again,  will  delight  and  surprise  long  after 
it  ceases  to  be  novel.  When  loaded,  this  creature 
broke  off  a  large  branch  from  the  lofty  tree  near 
which  he  stood,  and  quietly  fanned  and  fly -flapped 
himself,  with  all  the  nonchalance  of  an  indolent 
woman  of  fashion,  till  the  camels  were  ready. 
These  animals  also  kneel  to  be  laden.  When  in 
motion,  they  have  a  very  awkward  gait,  and  seem 
to  travel  at  a  much  slower  pace  than  they  really 
do.  Their  tall  out-stretched  necks,  long  sinewy 
Umbs,  and  broad  spongy  feet; — their  head  furni- 
ture, neck-bells,  and  the  rings  in  their  nostrils, 
with  their  lofty  loads,  and  a  driver  generally  on  the 
top  of  the  leading  one,  have  a  strange  appearance." 
Ibid.  pp.  46—48. 

We  must  add  the  following  very  clear  des- 
cription of  a  Pagoda. 

"  A  high,  solid  wall,  encloses  a  large  area  in  the 
form  of  an  oblong  square  ;  at  one  end  is  the  gate- 
way, above  which  is  raised  a  large  pyramidal  tower ; 
its  breadth  at  the  base  and  height  proportioned  to 
the  magnitude  of  the  pagoda.  This  tower  is  as- 
cended by  steps  in  the  inside,  and  divided  into 
stories ;  the  central  spaces  on  each  are  open,  and 
smaller  as  the  tower  rises.  The  light  is  seen  di- 
rectly through  them,  producing,  at  times,  a  very 
beautiful  effect,  as  when  a  fine  sky,  or  trees,  form 
the  back  ground.  The  front,  sides,  and  top  of  this 
gateway  and  tower,  are  crowded  with  sculpture  ; 
elaborate,  but  tasteless.  A  few  yards  from  the 
gate,  on  the  outside,  you  often  see  a  lofty  octagonal 
stone  pillar,  or  a  square  open  building,  supported 
by  tall  columns  of  stone,  with  the  figure  of  a  bull 
couchant,  sculptured  as  large,  or  much  larger  than 
life,  beneath  it. 

"  Entering  the  gateway,  you  pass  into  a  spacious 
paved  court,  in  the  centre  of  which  stands  the  inner 
temple,  raised  about  three  feet  from  the  ground, 
open,  and  supported  by  numerous  stone  pillars.  An 
enclosed  sanctuary  at  the  far  end  of  this  central 
buildinw,  contains  the  idol.  Round  the  whole  court 
runs  a  large  deep  verandah,  also  supported  by  col' 
umns  of  stone,  the  front  rows  of  which  are  often 
shaped  by  the  sculptor  into  various  sacred  animals 
rampant,  rode  by  their  respective  deities.  All  the 
other  parts  of  the  pagoda,  walls,  basements,  entab- 
latures, are  covered  with  imagery  and  ornament  of 
all  sizes,  in  alto  or  demi-relievo." 

The  following  description  and  reflections 
among  the  ruins  of  Bijanagur,  the  last  capital 
of  the  last  Hindu  empire,  and  finally  over- 
thrown in  1564,  are  characteristic  of  the  au- 
thor's most  ambitious,  perhaps  most  question- 
able, manner. 

"  You  cross  the  garden,  where  imprisoned  beauty 
once  strayed.  You  look  at  the  elephant-stable  and 
the  remaining  gateway,  with  a  mind  busied  in  con- 
juring up  some  associations  of  luxury  and  magnifi- 
cence.— Sorrowfully  I  passed  on.  Every  stone  be- 
neath my  feet  bore  the  mark  of  chisel,  or  of  human 
skill  and  labour.  You  tread  continually  on  steps, 
pavement,  pillar,  capital,  or  cornice  of  rude  relief, 
displaced,  or  fallen,  and  mingled  in  confusion.  Here, 
large  masses  of  such  materials  have  already  formed 
bush-covered  rocks, — there,  pagodas  are  still  stand- 
ing entire.  You  may  for  miles  trace  the  city  walls, 
and  can  often  discover,  by  the  fallen  pillars  of  th« 


SKETCHES  OF  INDIA— EGYPT  AND  ITALY. 


o7' 


^♦ng  piazza,  wr.ore  't  has  been  adorned  by  streets 
.:f  uncommon  width.  One,  indeed,  yet  remains 
.early  perfect;  at  one  end  of  it  a  few  poor  ryots, 
•vho  contrive  to  cultivate  some  patches  of  rice,  cot- 
ton, or  su2:ar-cane,  in  detached  spots  near  the  river, 
have  formed  mud-dwellings  under  the  piazza. 

"  VVhile,  with  a  mind  thus  occupied,  you  pass  on 
through  this  wilderness,  the  desolating  judgments 
on  other  renowned  cities,  so  solemnly  foretold,  so 
dreadfully  fulfilled,  rise  naturally  to  your  recollec- 
tion. I  climbed  the  very  loftiest  rock  at  day-break, 
on  the  morrow  of  my  first  visit  to  the  ruins,  by  rude 
and  broken  steps,  winding  between  and  over  im- 
mense and  detached  masses  of  stone ;  and  seated 
myself  near  a  small  pagoda,  at  the  very  summit. 
From  hence  I  commanded  the  whole  extent  of  what 
was  once  a  city,  described  by  Cccsar  Frederick  as 
twenty-four  miles  in  circumference.  Not  above 
eight  or  nine  pagodas  are  standing:  but  there  are 
choultries  innumerable.  Fallen  columns,  arches, 
piazzas,  and  fragments  of  all  shapes  on  every  side 
for  miles. — Can  there  have  been  streets  and  roads 
in  these  choked-up  valleys?  Has  the  war-horse 
pranced,  the  palfrey  ambled  there?  Have  jewelled 
turbans  once  glittered  where  those  dew-drops  now 
sparkle  on  the  thick-growing  bamboos  ?  H  ive  the 
delicate  small  feet  of  female  dancers  practised  their 
graceful  steps  where  that  rugged  and  thorn-covered 
ruin  bars  up  the  pat/v  ?  Have  their  soft  voices,  and 
the  Indian  guitar,  and  the  gold  bells  on  their  an- 
kles, ever  made  music  in  so  lone  and  silent  a  spot  ? 
They  have ;  but  otUer  sights,  and  other  sounds, 
have  also  been  seen  and  heard  among  these  ruins. 
— There,  near  that  beautiful  banyan-tree,  whole 
families,  at  the  will  of  a  merciless  prince,  have  been 
thrown  to  trampUng  elephants,  kept  for  a  work  so 
Bavage  that  they  learn  it  with  reluctance,  and  must 
be  taught  by  man.  Where  those  cocoas  wave,  once 
stood  a  vast  seraglio,  filled  at  the  expense  of  tears 
and  crimes  ;  there,  within  that  retreat  of  voluptu- 
ousness, have  poison,  or  the  creese,  obeyed,  often 
anticipated,  the  sovereign's  wish.  By  those  green 
banks,  near  which  ftie  sacred  wafers  of  the  Toom- 
budra  flow,  many  aged  parents  have  been  carried 
forth  and  exposed  to  nerish  by  those  whose  infancy 
they  fostered." — S7i\,tches  of  India. 

The  following  reflections  are  equally  just 
and  important . — 

"  Nothing,  perhaps,  so  much  damps  the  ardour 
of  a  traveller  in  India,  as  to  find  that  he  may  wan- 
dfl-  league  after  league,  visit  city  after  city,  village 
njtfcr  village,  and  still  only  see  the  outside  of  Indian 
«  'iety.  The  house  he  cannot  enter,  the  group  he 
'"".rmot  join,  the  domestic  circle  he  cannot  gaze  upon, 
the  free  unrestrained  converse  of  the  natives  he  can 
never  listen  to.  He  may  talk  with  his  moonshee  or 
his  pundit ;  ride  a  few  miles  with  a  Mahometan 
sirdar ;  receive  and  return  visits  of  ceremony  among 
petty  nawibs  and  rajahs;  or  be  presented  at  a 
native  couit:  But  behind  the  scenes  in  India  he 
cannot  advauce  one  step.  All  the  natives  are,  in 
comparative  rank,  a  few  far  above,  the  many  far 
below  him :  and  the  bars  to  intercourse  with  Ma- 
hometans as  well  as  Hindoos,  arising  from  our  faith, 
are  so  many,  that  to  live  upon  terms  of  intimacy  or 
acquaintance  with  them  is  impossible.  Nay,  in  this 
particular,  when  our  establishments  were  young 
*nd  small,  our  officers  few,  necessarily  active,  nec- 
essarily linguists,  and  unavoidably,  as  well  as  from 
policy,  conforming  more  to  native  manners,  it  is 
probable  that  more  was  known  about  the  natives 
from  practical  experience  than  is  at  present,  or  may 
be  again."— /6irf.  pp.  213,  214. 

The  author  first  weat  up  the  country  as  far 
as  Agra,  visiting,  and  musing  over,  all  the  re- 
markable places  in  his  way — and  then  return- 
ed through  the  heart  of  India — the  country  of 
Scindiah  and  the  Deccan,  to  the  Mysore. 
Though  travelling  only  as  a  British  regimental 


oflicer,  and  without  public  character  of  anj 
kind,  it  is  admirable  to  see  with  what  uniform 
respect  and  attention  he  was  treated,  even  by 
the  lawless  soldiery  among  whom  he  had  fre- 
quently to  pass.  The  indolent  and  mercenary 
Brahmins  seem  the  only  class  of  persons  from 
whom  he  experienced  any  sort  of  incivility. 
In  an  early  part  of  his  route  he  had  the  good 
luck  to  fall  in  with  Scindiah  himself;  and  the 
picture  he  has  given  of  that  turbulent  leader 
and  his  suite  is  worth  preserving. 

"  First  came  loose  light-armed  horse,  either  in 
the  road,  or  scrambling  and  leaping  on  the  rude 
banks  and  ravines  near  ;  then  some  better  clad,  with 
the  quiltedposhauk  ;  and  one  in  a  complete  suit  of 
chain-armour  ;  then  a  few  elephants,  among  them 
the  hunting  elephant  of  Scindiah,  from  which  he 
had  dismounted.  On  one  small  elephant,  guiding 
it  himself,  rode  a  fine  boy,  a  foundhng  protege  of 
Scindiah,  called  the  Jungle  Rajah;  then  came, 
slowly  prancing,  a  host  of  fierce,  haughty  chieftains, 
on  fine  horses,  showily  caparisoned.  They  darted 
forward,  and  all  took  their  proud  stand  behind  and 
round  us,  planting  their  long  lances  on  the  earth, 
and  reining  up  their  eager  steeds  to  see,  I  suppose, 
our  salaam.  Next,  in  a  common  native  palkee.  its 
canopy  crimson,  and  not  adorned,  came  Scindiah 
himself.  He  was  plainly  dressed,  with  a  reddish 
turban,  and  a  shawl  over  his  vest,  and  lay  reclined, 
smoking  a  small  gilt  or  golden  calean. 

"  I  looked  down  on  the  chiefs  under  us,  and  saw 
that  they  eyed  us  most  haughtily,  which  very  much 
increased  the  effect  they  would  otherwise  have  pro 
duced.  They  were  armed  with  lance,  scimitar  and 
shield,  creese  and  pistol ;  wore  some  shawls,  some 
tissues,  some  plain  muslin  or  cotton  ;  were  all  much 
wrapped  in  clothing;  and  wore,  almost  all,  a  large 
fold  of  muslin,  tied  over  the  turban  top,  which  they 
fasten  under  the  chin  ;  and  which,  strange  as  it  may 
sound  to  those  who  have  never  seen  it,  looks  war- 
like, and  is  a  very  important  defence  to  the  sides 
of  the  neck. 

"  How  is  it  that  we  can  have  a  heart-stirring  sort 
of  pleasure  in  gazing  on  brave  and  armed  men, 
though  we  know  them  to  be  fierce,  lawless,  and 
cruel  ? — though  we  know  stern  ambition  to  be  the 
chief  feature  of  many  warriors,  who,  from  the  cra- 
dle to  the  grave,  seek  only  fame  ;  and  to  which,  in 
such  as  I  write  of,  is  added  avarice  the  most  piti- 
less? I  cannot  tell.  But  I  recollect  often  before,  in 
my  life,  being  thus  moved.  Once,  especially,  I 
stood  over  a  gateway  in  France,  as  a  prisoner,  and 
saw  file  in,  several  squadrons  of  gens-d'arrnerie 
d'elite,  returning  from  the  fatal  field  of  Leipsic. 
They  were  fine,  noble-looking  men,  with  warUke 
helmets  of  steel  and  brass,  and  drooping  plumes  of 
black  horse-hair ;  belts  handsome  and  broad  ;  heavy 
swords ;  were  many  of  them  decorated  with  the 
cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honour.  Their  trumpets 
flourished ;  and  I  felt  my  heart  throb  with  an  ad- 
miring delight,  which  found  relief  only  in  an  invol- 
untary tear.  What  an  inconsistent  riddle  is  the 
human  heart  V'—Ibid.  pp.  260—264. 

In  the  interior  of  the  country  there  are  large 
tracts  of  waste  lands,  and  a  very  scanty  and 
unsettled  population. 

"  On  the  route  I  took,  there  was  only  one  inhab- 
ited village  in  fifty-five  miles  ;  the  spots  named  for 
halting-places  were  in  small  valleys,  green  with 
young"  corn,  and  under  cultivation,  but  neglected 
sadly.  A  ^cw  straw  huts,  blackened  and  beat  down 
by  raiU;  rilh  rude  and  broken  implements  of  hus 
bandry  lying  about,  and  a  few  of  those  round  harden 
ed  thrashing-floors,  tell  the  traveller  that  some  wan- 
dering families,  of  a  rude  unsettled  people,  visit 
these'vales  at  sowing  time  and  harvest';  and  labouf 
indolently  at  the  necessary,  but  despised,  tasV  of 
the  peaceful  ryot:'— -Ibid.  p.  "^00 


678 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


"  I  enjoyed  my  march  through  these  wilds  great- 
ly. Now  you  wound  through  narrow  and  deeply 
wooded  glens ;  now  ascended  ghauts,  or  went  down 
the  mouths  of  passes  ;  now  skirted  the  foot  of  a 
mountain  ;  now  crossed  a  small  plain  covered  with 
the  tali  jungled-grass,  from  which,  roused  by  your 
horse  tramp,  the  neelgau  looked  upon  you ;  then 
flying  with  active  bound,  or  pausing  doubtful  trot, 
joined  the  more  distant  herd.  You  continually 
cross  clear  sparkhng  rivulets,  with  rocky  or  pebbly 
beds  ;  and  you  hear  the  voice  of  waters  among  all 
the  woody  hills  around  you.  There  was  a  sort  of 
thrill,  too,  at  knowing  these  jungles  were  filled 
with  all  the  ferocious  beasts  known  in  India  (except 
iplephants,  which  are  not  found  here),  and  at  night, 
Jn  hearing  their  wild  roars  and  cries.  1  saw,  one 
"morning,  on  the  side  of  a  hill,  about  five  hundred 
yards  from  me,  in  an  open  glade  near  the  summit, 
a  lioness  pass  along,  and  my  guide  said  there  were 
many  in  these  jungles." — Sketches  of  India. 

We  should  like  to  have  added  his  brilliant 
account  of  several  native  festivals,  both  Hindu 
and  Mahometan,  and  his  admirable  descrip- 
tions of  the  superb  monuments  at  Agra,  and 
the  fallen  grandeur  of  Goa :  But  the  extracts 
we  have  now  given  must  suffice  as  specimens 
of  the  "  Sketches  of  India" — and  the  length  of 
them,  indeed,  we  fear,  will  leave  us  less  room 
than  we  could  have  wished  for  the  "  Scenes 
*^.d  Impressions  in  Egypt  and  in  Italy." 

This  volume,  which  is  rather  larger  than 
the  other,  contains  more  than  the  title  prom- 
ises :  and  embraces,  indeed,  the  whole  history 
of  the  author's  peregrinations,  from  his  em- 
barkation at  Bombay  to  his  landing  at  Dover. 
It  is  better  written,  we  think,  than  the  former. 
The  descriptions  are  better  finished,  the  re- 
flections bolder,  and  the  topics  more  varied. 
There  is  more  of  poetical  feeling,  too,  about 
jt;  and  a  more  constant  vein  of  allusion  to 
subjects  of  interest.  He  left  India  in  Decem- 
ber 1822,  in  an  Arab  vessel  for  the  Red  Sea — 
and  is  very  happy,  we  think,  in  his  first 
sketches  of  the  ship  and  the  voyage. 

"  Our  vessel  was  one,  rude  and  ancient  in  her 
construction  as  those  which,  in  former  and  succes- 
sive ages,  carried  the  rich  freights  of  India  for  the 
Ptolemies,  the  Roman  prefects,  and  the  Arabian 
caHphs  of  Egypt.  She  had,  indeed,  the  wheel  and 
the  compass ;  and  our  nakhoda,  with  a  beard  as 
black  arid  long,  and  a  solemnity  as  great  as  that  of 
a  magician,  daily  performed  the  miracle  of  taking 
an  observation  !  But  although  these  "  peeping  con- 
trivances "  of  the  Giaours  have  been  admitted,  yet 
they  build  their  craft  with  the  same  clumsy  inse- 
curity, and  rig  them  in  the  same  inconvenient  man- 
ner as  ever.  Our  vessel  had  a  lofty  broad  stern, 
unmanageable  in  wearing ;  one  enormous  sail  on  a 
heavy  yard  of  immense  length,  which  was  tardily 
hoisted  by  the  efforts  of  some  fifty  men  on  a  stout 
mast,  placed  a  little  before  midships,  and  raking 
forwards ;.  her  head  low,  without  any  bowsprit; 
and,  on  the  poop,  a  inizen  uselessly  small,  with 
hardly  canvass  enough  for  a  fishing-boat.  Our 
lading  was  cotton,  and  the  bales  were  piled  up  on 
her  decks  to  a  height  at  once  awkward  and  unsafe. 
In  short,  she  looked  like  part  of  a  wharf,  towering 
with  bales,  accidentally  detached  from  its  quay,  and 
.floating  on  the  waters." — Scenes  in  Egypt,  pp.  3,  4. 

He  then  gives  a  picturesque  description  of 
the  crew,  and  the  motley  passengers — among 
whom  there  were  some  women,  who  were 
never  seen  or  heard  during  the  whole  course 
of  the  voyage.     So  jealous,  indeed,  and  vom- 


plete  was  their  seclusion,  that  thougli  one  ot 
them  died  and  was  committed  to  the  sea  durj-u 
the  passage,  the  event  was  not  known  to  tht 
crew  or  passengers  for  several  days  after  it 
had  occurred.  ''Not  even  a  husband  entered 
their  apartment  during  the  voyage — because 
the  women  were  mixed :  an  eunuch  who 
cooked  for  them,  alone  had  access." 

"Abundantly,  however,"  he  adds,  "was  I 
amused  in  looking  upon  the  scenes  around  mc, 
and  some  there  were  not  readily  to  be  forgotten  : — 
when,  at  the  soft  and  still  hour  of  sunset,  while  the 
full  sail  presses  down  the  vessel's  bows  on  th*- 
golden  ocean-path,  which  swells  to  meet,  and  then 
sinks  beneath  them, — then,  when  these  Arabs 
group  for  their  evening  sacrifice,  bow  down  with 
their  faces  to  the  earth,  and  prostrate  their  bodies 
in  the  act  of  worship — when  the  broad  ameen, 
deeply  intoned  from  many  assembled  voices,  strikes 
upon  the  listener's  ear — the  heart  responds,  and 
throbs  with  its  own  silent  prayer.  There  is  a  so- 
lemnity and  a  decency  in  their  worship,  belonging, 
in  its  very  forms,  to  the  age  and  the  country  of  the 
Patriarchs ;  and  it  is  necessary  to  call  to  mind  all 
that  the  Mohammedans  are  and  have  been — all  thai 
their  prophet  taught,  and  that  their  Koran  enjoins 
and  promises,  before  we  can  look,  without  being 
strongly  moved,  on  the  Mussulman  prostrate  before 
his  God."— i6i(i.  pp.  13,  14. 

They  land  prosperously  at  Mocha,  of  which 
he  gives  rather  a  pleasing  account,  and  again 
embark  with  the  same  fine  weather  for  Djidda 
— anchoring  every  night  under  the  rocky 
shore,  and  generally  indulging  the  passengers 
with  an  hour's  ramble  among  its  solitudes. 
The  following  poetical  and  graphic  sketch  of 
the  camel  is  the  fruit  of  one  of  these  excur- 
sions : — 

"The  grazing  camel,  at  that  hour 'when  the 
desert  reddens  with  the  setting  sun,  is  a  fine  object 
to  the  eye  which  seeks  and  feeds  on  the  picturesque 
— his  tall,  dark  form — his  indolent  leisurely  walk — 
his  ostrich  neck,  now  lilted  to  its  full  height,  now 
bent  slowly,  and  far  around,  with  a  look  of  un- 
alarmed  inquiry.  You  cannot  gaze  upon  him  with- 
out, by  the  readiest  and  most  natural  suggestions, 
reverting  in  thought  to  the  world's  infancy — to  the 
times  and  possessions  of  the  shepherd  kings,  their 
tents  and  raiment,  their  journeyings  and  settUngs. 
The  scene,  too,  in  the  distance,  and  the  hour,  even- 
tide, and  the  uncommon  majesty  of  that  dark,  lofty, 
and  irregular  range  of  rocky  mountain,  which  ends 
in  the  black  cape  of  Ras  el  Askar,  formed  an  as- 
semblage not  to  be  forgotten." — Ibid.  p.  42. 

At  Djidda  they  had  an  audience  of  the  Aga, 
v/hich  is  well  described  in  the  following  short 
passage : — 

"  Rustan  Aga  himself  was  a  fine-looking,  haughty, 
martial  man,  with  mustachios,  but  no  beard;  he 
wore  a  robe  of  scarlet  cloth,  Hussein  Aga,  who 
sat  on  his  left,  had  a  good  profile,  a  long  grizzled 
beard,  with  a  black  ribbon  bound  over  one  eye,  to 
conceal  its  loss.  He  wore  a  robe  of  pale  blue.  Thfc 
other  person,  Araby  Jellauny,  was  an  aged  and  a 
very  plain  man.  The  attendants,  for  the  most  part, 
wore  large  dark  brown  dresses,  fashioned  into  the 
short  Turkish  vest  or  jacket,  and  the  large,  full 
Turkish  trowsers  ;  their  sashes  were  crimson,  an-, 
the  heavy  ornamented  buts  of  their  pistols  protru- 
ded from  them ;  their  crooked  scimitars  hung  in 
silken  cords  before  them ;  they  had  white  turbans, 
large  mustachios,  but  the  cheek  and  cb**^  .,eanly 
shaven.  Their  complexions  were  in  general  very 
pale,  as  of  men  who  pass  their  lives  in  confinement. 
They  stood  with  their  arms  folded,  and  their  eyea 
fixed  on  us.     I  shall  never  forget  them.     Therf 


SKETCHES  OF  INDIA— EGYPT  AND  ITALY. 


679 


were  a  dozen  or  more.  I  saw  nothing  like  this 
after,  not  even  in  Egypt ;  lor  Djidda  is  an  excellent 
government,  both  on  account  of  its  port,  and  its 
vicinity  to  Mecca ;  and  Rustan  Aga  had  a  large 
establishment,  and  was  something  of  a  magnifico. 
He  has  the  power  of  Hfe  and  death.  A  word,  a 
sign  from  him,  and  these  men,  who  stand  before 
you  in  an  attitude  so  respectful,  with  an  aspect  so 
calm,  30  pale,  would  smile — and  slay  you  ! — Here 
I  first  saw  the  true  scribe  ;  well  robed,  and  dressed 
m  turban,  trowsers,  and  soft  slipper,  like  one  of  rank 
among  the  people :  his  inkstand  with  its  pen-case 
has  the  look  of  a  weapon,  and  is  worn  like  a  dagger 
in  the  folds  of  the  sash  ;  it  is  of  silver  or  brass — this 
was  of  silver.  When  summoned  to  use  it,  he  takes 
Rome  paper  out  of  his  bosom,  cuts  it  into  shape 
with  scissors,  then  writes  his  letter  by  dictation,  pre- 
sents it  for  approval ;  it  is  tossed  back  to  him  with 
a  haughty  and  careless  air,  and  the  ring  drawn  off 
and  and  passed  or  thrown  to  him,  to  affix  the  seal. 
He  does  every  thing  on  his  knees,  which  are  tucked 
up  to  serve  him  as  a  desk." — Scenes  in  E<rypt, 
pp.  47—49. 

They  embark  a  third  time,  for  Kosseir,  and 
then  proceed  on  camels  across  the  Desert  to 
Thebes.  The  following  account  of  their  pro- 
gress is  excellent — at  once  precise,  pictur- 
esque, and  poetical : — 

"  The  road  through  the  desert  is  most  wonderful 
in  its  features:  a  finer  cannot  be  imagined.  It  is 
wide,  hard,  firm,  winding,  for  at  least  two-thirds  of 
the  way,  from  Kosseir  to  Thebes,  between  ranges 
of  rocky  hills,  rising  often  perpendicularly  on  either 
side,  as  if  they  had  been  scarped  by  art ;  here,  again, 
rather  broken,  and  overhanging,  as  if  they  were 
the  lofty  banks  of  a  mighty  river,  and  you  travers- 
ing its  dry  and  naked  bed.  Now  you  are  quite 
landlocked  ;  now  again  you  open  on  small  valleys, 
and  see,  upon  heights  beyond,  small  square  towers. 
It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  we  came  to  our 
ground,  a  sort  of  dry  bay  ;  sand,  burning  sand,  with 
rock  and  chff,  rising  in  jagged  points,  all  around — a 
spot  where  the  waters  of  ocean  might  sleep  in  still- 
ness, or,  with  the  soft  voice  of  their  gentlest  ripple, 
lull  the  storm-worn  mariner.  The  dew  of  the  night 
before  had  been  heavy ;  we  therefore  pitched  our 
tent,  and  decided  on  starting,  in  future,  at  a  very 
early  hour  in  the  morning,  so  as  to  accomplish  our 
march  before  noon.  It  was  dark  when  we  moved 
off,  and  even  cold.  Your  camel  is  impatient  to  rise 
ere  you  are  well  seated  on  him  ;  gives  a  shake,  too, 
to  warm  his  blood,  and  half  dislodges  you  ;  marches 
rather  faster  than  by  day,  and  gives  occasionally,  a 
hard  quick  stamp  with  his  callous  foot.  Our  moon 
was  far  in  her  wane.  She  rose,  however,  about  an 
hour  after  we  started,  all  red,  above  th^^ark  hills 
on  our  left ;  yet  higher  rose,  and  paler  grew,  till  at 
last  she  hung  a  silvery  crescent  in  the  deep  blue  sky. 

"  Who  passes  the  desert  and  says  all  is  barren, 
all  hfeless  ?  In  the  grey  morning  you  may  see  the 
common  pigeon,  and  the  partridge,  and  the  pigeon 
of  the  rock,  alight  before  your  very  feet,  and  come 
upon  the  beaten  camel-paths  for  food.  They  are 
tame,  for  they  have  not  learned  to  fear,  or  to  distrust 
the  men  who  pass  these  solitudes.  The  camel-driver 
would  not  lift  a  stone  to  them ;  and  the  sportsman 
could  hardly  find  it  in  his  heart  to  kill  these  gentle 
tenants  of  the  desert.  The  deer  might  tempt  him  ; 
I  saw  but  one ;  far,  very  far,  he  caught  the  distant 
camel  tramp,  and  paused,  and  raised  and  threw 
back  his  head  to  listen,  then  away  to  the  road  in- 
stead of  from  it ;  but  far  ahead  he  crossed  it,  and 
then  away  up  a  long  slope  he  fleetly  stole,  and  off 
to  some  solitary  spring  which  wells,  perhaps,  where 
no  traveller,  no  human  being  has  ever  trod." — 
Ihid.  pp.  71 — 74. 

The  emerging  from  this  lonely  route  is  given 
i?ith  equal  spirit  and  freshness  of  colouring. 

*'  It  was  soon  after  daybreak,  on  the  morrow,  just 


as  the  sun  was  beginning  to  give  his  rich  colourina 
of  golden  yellow  to  the  white  pale  sand,  that  as 
was  walking  alone  at  some  distance  far  ahead  of  m) 
companions,  my  eyes  bent  on  the  ground,  and  lost 
in  thought,  their  kind  and  directing  shout  made  me 
stopj  and  raise  my  head,  when  lo !  a  green  vale, 
looking  through  the  soft  mist  of  morning,  rather  a 
vision  than  a  reality,  lay  stretched  in  its  narrow 
length  before  me.  The  Land  of  Egypt  !  We 
hurried  panting  on,  and  gazed  and  were  silent.  In 
an  hour  we  reached  the  village  of  Hejazi,  situated 
on  the  very  edge  of  the  Desert.  We  alighted  at  a 
cool,  clean  serai,  having  its  inner  room,  with  a  large 
and  small  bath  for  the  Mussulmans'  ablutions,  its 
kiblah  in  the  wallt  and  a  large  brimming  water- 
trough  in  front  far  the  thirsting  camel.  We  walked 
forth  into  the  fields,  saw  luxuriant  crops  of  green 
bearded  wheat,  waving  with  its  lights  and  shadows  ; 
stood  under  the  shade  of  trees,  saw  fluttering  and 
chirping  birds  ;  went  down  to  a  well  and  a  water- 
wheel,  and  stood,  Hke  children,  listening  to  the 
sound  of  the  abundant  and  bright-flashing  water, 
as  it  fell  from  the  circling  pots ;  and  marked  all 
around,  scattered  individually  or  in  small  groups, 
many  people  in  the  fields,  oxen  and  asses  grazing, 
and  camels  too  among  them." — Ihid.  pp.  80,  81. 

All  this,  however,  is  inferior  to  his  first  elo- 
quent account  of  the  gigantic  ruins  of  Luxore, 
and  the  emotions  to  which  they  gave  rise. 
We  know  nothing,  indeed,  better,  in  its  way, 
than  most  of  the  following  passages : — 

"  Before  the  grand  entrance  of  this  vast  edifice, 
which  consists  of  many  separate  structures,  formerly 
united  in  one  harmonious  design,  two  lofty  obelisks 
stand  proudly  pointing  to  the  sky,  fair  as  the  daring 
sculptor  left  them.  The  sacred  figures  and  hiero- 
glyphic characters  which  adorn  them,  are  cut  beauti- 
fully into  the  hard  granite,  and  have  the  sharp  finish 
of  yesterday.  The  very  stone  looks  not  discoloured. 
You  see  them,  as  Cambyses  saw  them,  when  he 
stayed  his  chariot  wheels  to  gaze  at  them,  and  the 
Persian  war-cry  ceased  before  these  acknowledged 
symbols  of  the  sacred  element  of  fire. — Behind  them 
are  two  colossal  figures,  in  part  concealed  by  the 
sand ;  as  is  the  bottom  of  a  choked-up  gateway,  the 
base  of  a  massive  propylon,  and,  indeed,  their  own. 
— Very  noble  are  all  these  remains;  and  on  the 
propylon  is  a  war-scene,  much  spoken  of;  but  my 
eyes  were  continually  attracted  to  the  aspiring  obe- 
lisks, and  again  and  again  you  turn  to  look  at  them, 
with  increasing  wonder  and  silent  admiration." — 
Ibid.  pp.  86,  87. 

"  With  a  quick-beating  heart,  and  steps  rapid  aa 
my  thoughts,  I  strode  away,  took  the  path  to  the 
village  of  Karnac,  skirted  it,  and  passing  over  loose 
sand,  and,  among  a  few  scattered  date  trees,  I  found 
myself  in  the  grand  alley  of  the  sphinxes,  and  di- 
rectly opposite  that  noble  gateway,  which  has  been 
called  triumphal ;  certainly  triumph  never  passed 
under  one  more  lofty,  or,  to  my  eye,  of  a  more  im- 
posing magnificence.  On  the  bold  curve  of  its 
beautifully  projecting  cornice,  a  globe,  coloured  as 
of  fire,  stretches  forth  long  over-shadowing  wings 
of  the  very  brightest  azure. — This  wondrous  and 
giant  portal  stands  well ;  alone,  detached  a  little  way 
from  the  mass  of  the  great  ruins,  with  no  columns, 
walls,  or  propylsea  immediately  near.  I  walked 
slowly  up  to  it,  through  the  long  lines  of  sphinxes 
which  lay  couchant  on  either  side  of  the  broad  road 
(once  paved),  as  they  were  marshalled  by  him  who 
planned  these  princely  structures — we  know  noi 
when.  They  are  of  stone  less  durable  than  granite  : 
their  general  forms  are  fully  preserved,  but  the  de- 
tail ofexecution  is,  in  most  of  them,  worn  away.- 
In  those  forms,  in  that  couched  posture,  in  the  de 
caying,  shapeless  heads,  the  huge  worn  paws,  the. 
little  image  between  them,  and  the  sacred  tan  grasp 
ed  in  its  crossed  hands,  there  is  something  which 
disturbs  you  with  a  sense  of  awe.  In  the  locality 
you  cannot  err ;  you  are  on  a  highway  to  a  heathen 


680 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


tempie  ;  one  that  the  Roman  came,  as  you  co'.ne,  to 
visit  and  admire,  and  the  Greek  before  him.    And 

Jrou  know  that  priest  and  king,  lord  and  slave,  the 
estival  thr9ng  and  the  solitary  worshipper,  trod  for 
centuries  where  you  do:  and  you  know  that  there 
has  been  the  crowding  flight  of  the  vanquished  to- 
wards their  sanctuary  and  last  hold,  and  the  quick 
trampling  of  armed  pursuers,  and  the  neighing  of  the 
war-horse,  and  the  voice  of  the  trumpet,  and  the 
shout,  as  of  a  king,  among  them,  all  on  this  silent 
spot .  And  you  see  before  you,  and  on  all  sides, 
ruins  ! — the  stones  which  formed  wells  and  square 
temple-towers  thrown  down  in  vast  heaps  ;  or  still, 
in  large  masses,  erect  as  the  builder  placed  them, 
and  where  their  material  has  been  fine,  their  sur- 
faces and  corners  smooth,  sharp,  and  uninjured  by 
time.  They  are  neither  grey  nor  blackened  ;  like 
the  bones  of  man,  they  seem  to  whiten  under  the 
sun  of  the  desert.  Here  is  no  lichen,  no  moss,  no 
rank  grass  or  mantling  ivy,  no  wall-flower  or  wild 
fig-tree  to  robe  them,  and  to  conceal  their  deformi- 
ties, and  bloom  above  them.  No; — all  is  the  na- 
kedness of  desolation — the  colossal  skeleton  of  a 
giant  fabric  standing  in  the  unwatered  sand,  in  soli- 
tude and  silence." 

This  we  think  is  very  fine  and  beautiful : 
But  what  follows  is  still  better ;  and  gives  a 
clearer,  as  well  as  a  deeper  impression,  of  the 
true  character  and  effect  of  these  stupendous 
remains,  than  all  the  drawings  and  descrip- 
tions of  Denon  and  his  Egj'ptian  Institute. 

"  There  are  no  ruins  like  these  ruins.  In  the 
first  court  you  pass  into,  you  find  one  large,  lofty, 
solitary  column,  erect  among  heaped  and  scattered 
fragments,  which  had  formed  a  colonade  of  one- 
and-twenty  like  it.  You  pause  awhile,  and  then 
move  slowly  on.  You  enter  a  wide  portal,  and  find 
yourself  surrounded  by  one  hundred  and  fifty  co- 
lumns,* on  which  I  defy  any  man,  sage  or  savage, 
to  look  unmoved.  Their  vast  proportions  the  bet- 
ter taste  of  after  days  rejected  and  disused ;  but  the 
Btill  astonishment,  the  serious  gaze,  the  thickening 
breath  of  the  awed  traveller,  are  tributes  of  an  ad- 
miration not  to  be  checked  or  frozen  by  the  chilling 
rules  of  taste. 

"  We  passed  the  entire  day  in  these  ruins ;  each 
wandering  about'alone,  as  inclination  led  him.  De- 
tailed descriptions  I  cannot  give ;  I  have  neither  the 
skill  or  the  patience  to  count  and  to  measure.  I  as- 
cended a  wing  of  the  great  propylon  on  the  west, 
and  sat  there  long.  I  crept  round  the  colossal  statues! 
I  seated  myself  on  a  fallen  obelisk,  and  gazed  up  at 
the  three,  yet  standing  erect  amid  huge  fragments 
of  fallen  granite.  I  sauntered  slowly  round  every 
part,  examining  the  paintings  and  hieroglyphics, 
and  listening  now  and  then,  not  without  a  smile,  to 
our  polite  little  cicerone,  as  with  the  air  of  a  con- 
descending savant,  he  pointed  to  many  of  the  sym- 
bols, saying,  '  this  means  water,'  and  '  that  means 
land,'  '  this  stability,'  '  that  life.'  and  'here  is  the 
name  of  Berenice.' — Scenes  in  Egypt,  pp.  88 — 92. 

"  From  hence  we  bade  our  guide  conduct  us  to 
some  catacombs;  he  did  so,  in  the  naked  hill  just 
above.  Some  are  passages,  some  pits  ;  but,  in  srene- 
ral,  passages  in  the  side  of  the  hill.  Here  and  there 
you  may  find  a  bit  of  the  rock  or  clay,  smoothed 
and  painted,  or  bearing  the  mark  of  a  thin  fallen 
coating  of  composition  ;  but,  for  the  most  part,  tliey 
are  quite  plain.  Bones,  rags,  and  the  scattered 
limbs  of  skeletons,  which  have  been  torn  from  their 
coffins,  stripped  of  their  grave-clothes,  and  robbed 
of  the  sacred  scrolls  placed  with  them  in  the  tomb, 
lie  in  or  around  these  '  open  sepulchres.'  We  found 
nothing;  but  surely  the  very  ra^r  blown  to  your  feet 
IS  a  relic.  May  it  not  have  been  woven  by  some 
iamsel  under  the  shade  of  trees,  with  the  song  that 


*  The  central  row  have  the  enormous  diameter 
rf eleven  French  feet,  the  others  that  of  eijiht. 


lightens  labour,  twenty  centunes  ago  ?  or  may  n 
not  have  been  carried  with  a  sigh  to  the  tiring-men 
of  the  temple  by  one  who  brought  it  to  swathe  the 
cold  and  stiffened  limbs  of  a  being  loved  in  life,  and 
mourned  and  honoured  in  his  death  ?  Yes,  it  is  a 
relic  ;  and  one  musing  on  which  a  warm  fancy  might 
find  wherewithal  to  beguile  a  long  and  solitary 
walk."— /6i(f.  p.  100,  101. 

"  We  then  returned  across  the  plain  to  our  boat, 
passing  and  pausing  before  the  celebrated  sitting 
statues  so  often  described.  They  are  seated  on 
thrones,  looking  to  the  east,  and  on  the  Nile  ;  in 
this  posture  they  are  upwards  of  fifty  feet  in  height ; 
and  their  bodies,  limbs,  and  heads,  are  large,  spread- 
ing, and  disproportioned.  These  are  very  awful 
monuments.  They  bear  the  form  of  man ;  and 
there  is  a  somethinw^in  their  very  posture  which 
touches  the  soul:  There  they  sit  erect,  calm: 
They  have  seen  generation  upon  generation  swept 
away,  and  still  their  stony  gaze  is  fixed  on  man  toil- 
ing and  perishing  at  their  feet!  'Twas  late  and 
dark  ere  we  reached  our  home.  The  day  fallowing 
we  again  crossed  to  the  western  bank,  and  rode 
through  a  narrow  hot  valley  in  the  Desert,  to  the 
tombs  of  the  kings.  Your  Arab  catches  at  the  head 
of  your  ass  in  a  wild  dreary-looking  spot,  about  five 
miles  from  the  river,  and  motions  you  to  ligit.  On 
every  side  of  you  rise  low,  but  steep  hills,  of  the 
most  barren  appearance,  covered  with  loose  and 
crumbling  stones,  and  you  stand  in  a  narrow  bridle- 
path, which  seems  to  be  the  bottom  of  a  natural 
ravine;  you  would  fancy  that  you  had  lost  your 
way ;  but  your  guide  leads  you  a  few  paces  forward, 
and  you  discover  in  the  side  of  the  hill  an  opening 
like  the  shaft  of  a  mine.  At  the  entrance,  you  ob- 
serve that  the  rock,  which  is  a  close-grained,  but 
soft  stone,  has  been  cut  smooth  and  painted.  He 
lights  your  wax  torch,  and  you  pass  into  a  long  cor- 
ridor. On  either  side  are  small  apartments  which 
you  stoop  down  to  enter,  and  the  walls  of  which  you 
find  covered  with  paintings :  scenes  of  life  faithfully 
represented  ;  o{  every -day  life,  its  pleasures  and  la- 
bours ;  the  instruments  of  its  happiness,  and  of  its 
crimes!  You  turn  to  each  other  with  a  delight, 
not  however  unmixed  with  sadness,  to  mark  how 
much  the  days  of  man  then  passed,  as  they  do  to 
this  very  hour.  You  see  the  labours  of  agriculture 
— the  sower,  the  basket,  the  plough;  the  steers; 
and  the  artist  has  playfully  depicted  a  calf  skipping 
among  the  furrows.  You  nave  the  making  of  bread, 
the  cooking  for  a  feast ;  you  have  a  flower  garden, 
and  a  scefte  of  irrigation  ;  you  see  couches,  sofas, 
chairs,  and  arm-chairs,  such  as  might,  this  day, 
adorn  a  drawing-room  in  London  or  Paris  j  you 
have  vases  of  every  form  down  to  the  common  jug, 
(ay  !  such  as  the  brown  one  of  Toby  Philpot) ;  you 
have  harps,  with  figures  bending  over  them,  and 
others  seated  and  listening ;  you  have  barks,  with 
large,  curious,  and  many-coloured  sails  ;  lastly,  you 
have  weapons  of  war,  the  sword,  the  dagger,  the 
bow,  the  arrow,  the  quiver,  spears,  helmets,  and 
dresses  of  honour. — The  other  scenes  on  the  walls 
represent  processions  and  mysteries,  and  all  the 
apartments  are  covered  with  them  or  hieroglyphics. 
There  is  a  small  chamber  with  the  cow  oflsis,  and 
there  is  one  large  room  in  an  unfinished  state,— 
designs  chalked  off",  that  were  to  have  been  com- 
pleted on  that  to-morrow,  which  never  came  !" 
Ihid.  pp.  104—109. 

But  we  must  hurry  on.  We  cannot  afford 
to  make  an  abstract  of  this  book,  and  indeed 
can  find  room  but  for  a  few  more  specimens. 
He  meets  with  a  Scotch  Mameluke  at  Cairo; 
and  is  taken  by  Mr.  Salt  to  the  presence  of  All 
Pacha.  He  visits  the  pyramids  of  course,  ae- 
scribes  rapidly  and  well  the  whole  process  of 
the  visit — and  thus  morahses  the  conclusioii: — 

"  He  who  has  stood  on  the  summit  of  the  icosi 
ancient,  and  vet  tho  moft  mighty  monument  of  Uii 


SKETCHES  OF  INDIA— EGYPT  AND  ITALY. 


681 


power  and  pride  ever  raised  by  man,  and  has  looked 
out  and  round  to  the  far  horizon,  where  Lybia  and 
Arabia  lie  silent,  and  hath  seen,  at  his  feet,  theland 
of  Egypt  dividing  their  dark  solitudes  with  a  narrow 
vale,  beautiful  and  green,  the  mere  enamelled  set- 
ting of  one  solitary  shining  river,  must  receive  im- 
pressions which  he  can  never  convey,  for  he  cannot 
define  them  to  himself. 

"  They  are  the  tombs  of  Cheops  and  Cephrenes, 
says  tne  Grecian.  They  are  the  tombs  of  Seth  and 
Enoch,  says  the  wild  and  imaginative  Arabian  ;  an 
English  traveller,  with  a  mind  warmed,  perhaps, 
and  misled  by  his  heart,  tells  you  that  the  large  py- 
ramid may  have  contained  the  ashes  of  the  patriarch 
Joseph.  It  is  all  this  which  constitutes  the  very 
charm  of  a  visit  to  these  ancient  monuments.  You 
smile,  and  your  smile  is  followed  and  reproved  by 
a  sigh.  One  thing  you  know — that  the  chief,  and  the 
philosopher,  and  the  poet  of  the  times  of  old,  men 
*  who  mark  fields  as  they  pass  with  their  own 
mighty  names,'  have  certainly  been  here;  that  Al- 
exander has  spurred  his  war-horse  to  its  base  ;  and 
Pythagoras,  with  naked  foot,  has  probably  stood 
upon  its  summit. — Scenes  in  Egypt,  pp.  158,  159. 

Cairo  is  described  in  great  detail,  and  fre- 
quently with  great  feeling  and  eloquence.  He 
saw  a  live  caraeleopard  there — very  beautiful 
and  gentle.  One  of  his  most  characteristic 
sketches,  however,  is  that  of  the  female  slave 
market. 

"  We  stopped  before  the  gate  of  a  large  building, 
and,  turning,  entered  a  court  of  no  great  size,  wiFh 
a  range  of  apartments  all  round  ;  open  doors  show- 
ed that  they  were  dark  and  wretched.  At  them,  or 
before  them,  stood  or  sat  small  groups  of  female 
slaves ;  also  from  within  these  chambers,  you  might 
catch  the  moving  eyes  and  white  teeth  of  those  who 
shunned  the  light.  There  was  a  gallery  above  with 
other  rooms,  and  slave  girls  leaning  on  the  rail — 
laiiffhter,  all  laughter  ! — their  long  hair  in  numerous 
laihng  curls,  white  with  fat ;  their  faces,  arms,  and 
bosoms  shining  with  grease.  Exposure  in  the  market 
is  the  moment  of  their  joy.  Their  cots,  their  country, 
•he  breast  that  gave  them  suck, the  hand  that  led  their 
tottering  steps  not  forgotten,  but  resigned,  given  up, 
as  things  gone  for  ever,  left  in  another  world.  The 
toils  and  terrors  of  the  wide  desert,  the  hard  and 
scanty  fare,  the  swollen  foot,  the  whip,  the  scalding 
tear,  the  curse;  all,  all  are  behind:  hope  meets 
them  again  here  ;  and  paints  some  master  kind ; 
some  mistress  gentle  ;  some  babe  or  child  to  win 
ine  heart  of; — as  bord-women  they  may  bear  a 
son,  and  live  and  die  the  contented  inmates  of  some 
quiet  harem." — Ibid.  pp.  178,  179. 

He  does  not  think  much  of  Ali's  new  Insti- 
tute— though  he  was  assured  by  one  of  the  tu- 
trrs  that  its  pupils  were  to  be  taught  '•  every- 
thing!" We  have  learned,  from  unquestion- 
able authority,  that  from  this  everything:,  all 
that  relates  to  Politics,  Religion,  and  Philoso- 
phy, is  expressly  excluded  ;  and  that  little  is 
proposed  to  be  taught  but  the  elements  of  the 
useful  arts.  There  is  a  scanty  library  of  Eu- 
ropean books,  almost  all  French, — the  most 
conspicuous  backed,  "  Victoires  des  Fran9ais; 
— and  besides  these,  "Les  Liaisons  Dange- 
reuses!" — only  one  book  in  English,  though 
not  ill-chosen — "  Malcolm's  Persia,"  He  was 
detained  at  Alexandria  in  a  lime  of  plague — 
and,  after  all,  was  obliged  to  remrn,  when 
four  days  at  sea.  to  land  two  sick  men,  and 
perform  a  new  quarantine  of  observation. 

There  is  an  admirable  description  of  Va- 
letta,  and  the  whole  island — and  then  of  Syra- 
cuse and  Catania ;  but  we  can  give  only  the 
liight  ascent  tc  iEtna — and  that  rather  for  the 


scene  of  the  Sicilian  cottage,  than  for  the 
sketch  of  the  mighty  mountain : — 

"  It  was  near  ten  o'clock  when  the  youth  who 
led  the  way  stopped  before  a  small  dark  cottage  in 
a  by-lane  of  Nicolosi,  the  guide's  he  said  it  was, 
and  hailed  them.  The  door  was  opened  ;  a  light 
struck ;  and  the  family  was  roused,  and  collected 
round  me  ;  a  grey-headed  old  peasant  and  his  wife  ; 
two  hardy,  plain,  dark  young  men,  brothers  (one 
of  whom  was  in  his  holiday  gear,  new  breeches, 
and  red  garters,  and  flowered  waistcoat,  and  clean 
shirt,  and  shining  buttons  ;)  a  girl  of  sixteen,  hand- 
some  ;  a  '  mountain-girl  beaten  with  winds,'  look- 
ing curious,  yet  fearless  and  '  chaste  as  the  har- 
dened rock  on  which  she  dwelt ;'  and  a  boy  of 
twelve,  an  unconscious  figure  in  the  group,  fast 
slumbering  in  his  clothes  on  the  hard  floor.  Glad 
were  they  of  the  dollar-bringing  stranger,  but  sur- 
prised at  the  excellenza's  fancy  for  coming  at  that 
hour  ;  cheerfully,  however,  the  gay  youth  stripped 
off  his  holiday-garb,  and  put  on  a  dirty  shirt  and 
thick  brown  clothes,  and  took  his  cloak  and  went 
to  borrow  a  mule  (for  I  found,  by  their  consulta- 
tion, that  there  was  some  trick,  this  not  being  the 
regular  privileged  guide  family.'  During  h.s  ab- 
sence, the  girl  brought  me  a  draught  of  wi  le,  and 
all  stood  round  with  welcoming  and  flattering 
laughings,  and  speeches  in  Sicilian,  which  I  did 
not  understand,  but  which  gave  me  pleasure,  and 
made  me  look  on  their  dirty  and  crowded  cottage 
as  one  I  had  rather  trust  to,  if  I  knocked  at  it  even 
without  a  dollar,  than  the  lordliest  mansion  of  the 
richest  noble  in  Sicily. 

' '  For  about  four  miles,  your  mule  stumbles  along 
safely  over  a  bed  of  lava,  lying  in  masses  on  the 
road  ;  then  you  enter  the  woody  region  :  the  wood 
is  open,  of  oaks,  not  large,  yet  good-sized  trees, 
growing  amid  fern  ;  and,  lastly,  you  come  out  on  a 
soft  barren  soil,  and  pursue  the  ascent  till  you  find 
a  glistering  while  crust  of  snow  of  no  depth,  crack- 
ing under  your  mule's  tread ;  soon  after,  you  arrive 
at  a  stone  cottage,  called  Casa  Inglese,  of  which 
my  guide  had  not  got  the  key  ;  here  you  dismount, 
and  we  tied  up  our  mules  close  by,  and  scrambling 
over  huge  blocks  of  lava,  and  up  the  toilsome  and 
slippery  ascent  of  the  cone,  I  sat  me  down  on 
ground  all  hot,  and  smoking  with  sulphureous 
vapour,  which  has  for  the  first  few  minutes  th" 
effect  of  making  your  eyes  smart,  and  water,  of 
oppressing  and  taking  away  your  breath.  It  yet 
wanted  half  an  hour  to  the  break  of  day,  and  I 
wrapped  my  cloak  close  round  me  to  guard  me 
from  the  keen  air  which  came  up  over  the  wlilte 
cape  of  snow  that  lay  spread  at  the  foot  of  the 
smoking  cone,  where  I  was  seated. 

"  The  earliest  dawn  gave  to  my  view  the  awful 
crater,  with  its  two  deep  mouths,  from  one  whereof 
there  issued  large  volumes  of  thick  white  smoke, 
pressing  up  in  closely  crowding  clouds ;  and  all 
around,  you  saw  the  earth  loose,  and  with  critped, 
yellow-mouthed  small  cracks,  up  which  carae  little, 
light,  thin  wreaths  of  smoke  that  soon  dissipated  in 
(he  upper  air,  &.c. — And  when  you  turn  to  gare 
downwards,  and  see  the  golden  sun  come  up  in 
light  and  majesty  to  bless  the  waking  milliona  of 
your  fellows,  and  the  dun  vapour  of  the  night  roll 
off  below,  and  capes,  and  hills,  and  towns,  and  the 
wide  ocean  are  seen  as  through  a  thin  unearthly 
veil;  your  eyes  fill,  and  your  heart  swells;  all  the 
blessings  you  enjoy,  all  the  innocent  pleasures  you 
find  in  your  wanderings,  that  preservation,  which 
in  storm,  and  in  battle,  and  mid  the  pestilence  was 
mercifully  given  to  your  half-breathed  prayer,  all 
rush  in  a  moment  on  your  soul. 

Ibid.  pp.  253—257. 

The  following  brief  sketch  of  the  rusti< 
auberges  of  Sicily  is  w^orth  preserving,  as 
well  as  the  sentiment  with  which  it  closes . — 

"  The  chambers  of  these  rude  inns  would  please, 
at  first,  any  one.    Three  or  four  beds  (mere  planks 


682 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


upon  iron  trestles),  with  broad,  yellow-striped, 
coarse  mattresses,  turned  up  on  them  ;  a  table  and 
chairs  of  wood,  blaciiened  by  age,  and  of  forms 
belonging  to  the  past  century  ;  a"daub  or  two  of  a 
picture,  and  two  or  three  coloured  prints  of  Ma- 
donnas and  saints  :  a  coarse  table  cloth,  and  coarser 
napkin  ;  a  thin  blue-tinted  drinking  glass  ;  dishes 
and  plates  of  a  striped,  dirty-coloured,  pimply  ware  ; 
and  a  brass  lamp  with  three  mouths,  a  shape  com- 
Eion  to  Delhi,  Cairo,  and  Madrid-,  and  as  ancient 
as  the  time  of  the  Etruscans  themselves. 

"  To  me  it  had  another  charm  ;  it  brought  Spain 
before  me,  the  peasant  and  his  cot,  and  my  chance 
billets  among  that  loved  and  injured  people.  Ah  ! 
I  will  not  dwell  on  it ;  but  this  only  I  will  venture 
to  say,  they  err  greatly,  grossly,  who  fancy  that  the 
Spaniard,  the  most  patiently  brave  and  resolutely 
persevering  man,  as  a  man,  on  the  continent  of 
Europe,  will  wear  long  any  yoke  he  feels  galling 
and  detestable." — Scenes  in  Egypt,  pp.  268,  269. 

The  picture  of  Naples  is  striking;  and  re- 
minds us  in  many  places  of  Mad.  de  StaePs 
splendid  sketches  from  the  same  subjects  in 
Corrinne.  But  we  must  draw  to  a  close  now 
with  our  extracts ;  and  shall  add  but  one  or 
two  more,  peculiarly  characteristic  of  the  gen- 
tle mind  and  English  virtues  of  the  author. 

"  I  next  went  into  the  library,  a  noble  room,  and 
a  vast  collection.  I  should  much  like  to  have  seen 
those  things  which  are  shown  here,  especially  the 
handwriting  of  Tasso.  I  was  led  as  far,  and  into 
the  apartment  where  they  are  shown.  I  found 
priests  reading,  and  men  looking  as  if  they  were 
learned.  I  was  confused  at  the  creaking  of  my 
boots ;  I  gave  the  hesitating  look  of  a  wish,  but  I 
ended  by  a  blush,  bowed,  and  retired.  I  passed 
again  into  the  larger  apartment,  and  I  felt  composed 
as  I  looked  around.  Why  life,  thought  I,  would 
be  too  short  for  any  human  being  to  read  these 
folios;  but  yet,  if  safe  from  the  pedant's  frown, 
one  could  have  a  vast  library  to  range  in,  there  is 
little  doubt  that,  with  a  love  of  truth,  and  a  thirst- 
ing for  knowledge,  the  man  of  middle  age,  who 
regretted  his  early  closed  lexicon,  might  open  it 
again  with  delight  and  profit.  While  thus  musing, 
hi  stamped  two  travellers, — my  countrymen,  my 
bold,  brave  countrymen — not  intellectual,  I  could 
have  sworn,  or  Lavater  is  a  cheat — 

"  Pride  in  their  port,  defiance  in  their  eye  :"— 

They  strode  across  to  confront  the  doctors,  and 
demanded  to  see  those  sights  to  which  the  book 
directed,  and  the  grinning  domestique  de  place  led 
them.  I  envied  them,  and  yet  was  angry  with 
them  ;  however,  I  soon  bethought  me,  such  are  the 
men  who  are  often  sterling  characters,  true  hearts. 
They  will  find  no  seduction  in  a  southern  sun  !  but 
back  to  the  English  girl  they  love  best,  to  be  liked 
^y  her  softer  nature  the  better  for  having  seen  Italy, 
*nd  taught  by  her  gentleness  to  speak  about  it 
pleasingly,  and  prize  what  they  have  seen  ! — Such 
ixe  the  men  whom  our  poor  men  like, — who  are 
generous  masters  and  honest  voters,  faithful  hus- 
bands and  kind  fathers ;  who,  if  they  make  us  smiled 
•t  abroad  in  peace,  make  us  feared  in  war,  and  any 
ne  of  whom  is  worth  to  his  country  far  more  than 
ft  dozen  mere  sentimental  wanderers," 

Ibid.  pp.  296—298. 
_"  Always  on  quitting  the  museum  it  is  a  relief  to 
4liTe  »omewhere,  that  you  may  relieve  the  mind 


and  refresh  the  sight  with  a  view  of  earth  and  ocean 
The  view  from  the  Belvidere,  in  the  garden  of  St, 
Martino,  close  to  the  fortress  of  St.  Elmo,  is  said 
to  be  unequalled  in  the  world.  I  was  walking  along 
the  cloister  to  it,  when  I  heard  voices  behind  me, 
and  saw  an  Enghsh  family — father,  mother,  with 
daughter  and  son,  of  drawing-room  and  university 
ages.  I  turned  aside  that  I  might  not  intrude  on 
them,  and  went  to  take  my  gaze  when  they  came 
away  from  the  little  balcony.  I  saw  no  features ; 
but  the  dress,  the  gentle  talking,  and  the  quietude 
of  their  whole  manner,  gave  me  great  pleasure.  A 
happy  domestic  English  family!  parents  travelling  to 
delight,  improve,  <ix\di  protect  their  children  ;  younger 
ones  at  home  perhaps,  who  will  sit  next  summer  on 
the  shady  lawn,  and  listen  as  Italy  is  talked  over, 
and  look  at  prints,  and  turn  over  a  sister's  sketch- 
book ,  and  beg  a  brother's  journal.  Magically  varied 
is  the  grandeur  of  the  scene — the  pleasant  city  ;  its 
broad  bay  ;  a  little  sea  that  knows  no  storms  ;  its 
garden  neighbourhood ;  its  famed  Vesuvius,  not 
looking  either  vast,  or  dark,  or  dreadful — all  bright 
and  smiling,  garmented  vvith  vineyards  below,  and 
its  brow  barren,  yet  not  without  a  hue  of  that  ashen 
er  slaty  blueness  which  improves  a  mountain's 
aspect ;  and  far  behind,  stretched  in  their  full  bold 
forms,  the  shadowy  Appenines.  Gaze  and  go  back, 
English  !  Naples,  with  all  its  beauties  and  its 
pleasures,  its  treasury  of  ruins,  and  recollections, 
and  fair  works  of  art ;  its  soft  music  and  balmy  airs 
cannot  make  you  happy  ;  may  gratify  the  gaze  of 
taste,  but  never  suit  the  habits  of  your  mind.  There 
are  many  homeless  solitary  Englishmen  who  might 
sojourn  longer  in  such  scenes,  and  be  soothed  by 
them  ;  but  to  become  dwellers,  settled  residents, 
would  be,  even  for  them,  impossible." 

Ibid.  pp.  301—303. 

We  must  break  off  here — though  there  is 
much  temptation  to  go  on.  But  we  have  now 
shown  enough  of  these  volumes  to  enable  our 
readers  to  judge  safely  of  their  character — 
and  it  would  be  unfair,  perhaps,  to  steal  more 
from  their  pages.  We  think  we  have  extract- 
ed impartially;  and  are  sensible,  at  all  events, 
that  we  have  given  specimens  of  the  faults 
as  well  as  the  beauties  of  the  author's  style. 
His  taste  in  writing  certainly  is  not  unexcep- 
tionable. He  is  seldom  quite  simple  or  natural, 
and  sometimes  very  fade  and  affected.  He 
has  little  bits  of  inversions  in  his  sentences, 
and  small  exclamations  and  ends  of  ordinary 
verse  dangling  about  them,  which  we  often 
wish  away — and  he  talks  rather  too  much  of 
himself,  and  his  ignorance,  and  humility, 
while  he  is  turning  those  fine  sentences,  and 
laying  traps  for  our  applause.  But,  in  spite 
of  all  these  things,  the  books  are  very  interest- 
ing and  instructive ;  and  their  merits  greatly 
outweigh  their  defects.  If  the  author  haa 
occasional  failures,  he  has  frequent  felicities ; 
— and;  independent  of  the  many  beautiful 
and  brilliant  passages  which  he  has  furnished 
for  our  delight,  has  contrived  to  breathe  ovei 
all  his  work  a  spirit  of  kindliness  and  content- 
ment, which,  if  it  does  not  minister  (as  it 
ought)  to  our  improvement,  must  at  least 
disarm  our  censure  of  all  bitterness. 


WARBURTON'S  LETTERS. 


683 


(lantiavB,  1809.) 

Letters  from  j,  late  eminent  Prelate  to  one  of  his  Friends.  4to.  pp.  380.  Kidderminster:   1808 


Warburton,  we  think,  was  the  last  of  our 
Great  Divines — the  last,  perhaps,  of  any  pro- 
fession, among  us,  who  united  profound  learn- 
ing whh  great  powers  of  understanding,  and, 
along  with  vast  and  varied  stores  of  acquired 
knowledge,  possessed  energy  of  mind  enough 
to  wield  them  with  ease  and  activity.  The  days 
of  the  Cudworths  and  Barrows — the  Hookers 
and  Taylors,  are  long  gone  by.  Among  the 
other  divisions  of  intellectual  labour  to  which 
the  progress  of  society  has  given  birth,  the 
business  of  reasoning,  and  the  business  of 
collecting  knowledge,  have  been,  in  a  great 
measure,  put  into  separate  hands.  Our  scho- 
lars are  now  little  else  than  pedants,  and  an- 
tiquaries, and  grammarians, — who  have  never 
exercised  any  faculty  but  memory ;  and  our  j 
reasoners  are,  for  the  most  part,  but  slenderly 
provided  with  learning ;  or,  at  any  rate,  make 
but  a  slender  use  of  it  in  their  reasonings.  Of 
the  two,  the  reasoners  are  by  far  the  best  off; 
and,  upon  many  subjects,  have  really  profited 
by  the  separation.  Argument  from  authority 
is,  in  general,  the  weakest  and  the  most  tedi- 
ous of  all  argiiments ;  and  learning,  we  are  in- 
clined to  believe,  has  more  frequently  played 
the  part  of  a  bully  than  of  a  fair  auxiliary ; 
and  been  oftenerused  to  frighten  people  than 
to  convince  them, — to  dazzle  and  overawe, 
rather  than  to  guide  and  enlighten.  A  mo- 
dern writer  would  not,  if  he  could,  reason  as 
Barrow  and  Cudworth  often  reason  :  and  every 
reader,  even  of  Warburton,  must  have  felt 
that  his  learning  often  encumbers  rather  than 
assists  his  progress,  and,  like  shining  armour, 
adds  more  to  his  terrors  than  to  his  strength. 
The  true  theory  of  this  separation  may  be, 
therefore,  that  scholars  who  are  capable  of 
reasoning,  have  ceased  to  make  a  parade  of 
their  scholarship ;  while  those  who  have  no- 
thing else  must  continue  to  set  it  forward — 
just  as  gentlemen  now-a-days  keep  their  gold 
in  their  pockets,  instead  of  wearing  it  on  their 
clothes — while  the  fashion  of  laced  suits  still 
prevails  among  their  domestics.  There  are 
individuals,  however,  who  still  think  that  a 
man  of  rank  looks  most  dignified  in  cut  velvet 
and  embroidery,  and  that  one  who  is  not  a 
gentleman  can  now  counterfeit  that  appear- 
ance a  little  too  easily.  We  do  not  presume 
to  settle  so  weighty  a  dispute  ; — we  only  take 
the  liberty  of  observing,  that  Warburton  lived 
to  see  the  fashion  go  out ;  and  was  almost  the 
last  native  gentleman  who  appeared  in  a  full 
trimmed  coat. 

He  was  not  only  the  last  of  our  reasoning 
scholars,  but  the  last  also,  we  think,  of  our 
powerful  polemics.  This  breed  too,  we  take 
it,  is  extinct; — and  we  are  not  sorry  for  it. 
Those  men  cannot  be  much  regretted,  who, 
instead  of  applying  their  great  and  active 
faculties  in  making  their  fellows  better  or 
'viser,  or  in  promo  Ing  mutual  kindness  and 


cordiality  among  all  the  virtuous  and  enlight* 
ened,  wasted  their  days  in  wrangling  upor. 
idle  theories ;  and  in  applying,  to  the  specu- 
lative errors  of  their  equals  in  talents  and  in 
virtue,  those  terms  of  angry  reprobation  which 
should  be  reserved  for  vice  and  malignity. 
In  neither  of  these  characters,  therefore,  can 
we  seriously  lament  that  Warburton  is  noi 
likely  to  have  any  successor. 

The  truth  is,  that  this  extraordinary  person 
was  a  Giant  in  Literature — with  many  of  the 
vices  of  the  Gig-antic  character.  Strong  as  he 
was,  his  excessive  pride  and  overweening 
vanity  were  perpetually  engaging  him  in  en- 
terprises which  he  could  not  accomplish; 
while  such  was  his  intolerable  arrogance  to- 
wards his  opponents,  and  his  insolence  to- 
wards those  whom  he  reckoned  as  his  infe- 
riors, that  he  made  himself  very  generally 
and  deservedly  odious,  and  ended  by  doing 
considerable  injury  to  all  the  causes  which 
he  undertook  to  support.  The  novelty  and 
the  boldness  of  his  manner — the  resentment 
of  his  antagonists — and  the  consternation  of 
his  friends,  insured  him  a  considerable  share 
of  public  attention  at  the  beginning  :  But  such 
was  the  repulsion  of  his  moral  qualities  as  a 
writer,  and  the  fundamental  unsoundness  of 
most  of  his  speculations,  that  he  no  sooner 
ceased  to  write,  than  he  ceased  to  be  read  or 
inquired  after, — and  lived  to  see  those  erudite 
volumes  fairly  laid  on  the  shelf,  which  he 
fondly  expected  to  carry  down  a  growing 
fame  to  posterity. 

The  history  of  Warburton,  indeed,  is  un 
commonly  curious,  and  his  fate  instructive. 
He  was  bred  an  attorney  at  Newark;  and 
probably  derived,  from  his  early  practice  in 
that  capacity,  that  love  of  controversy,  and 
that  habit  of  scurrility,  for  which  he  was  after- 
wards distinguished.  His  first  literary  asso- 
ciates were  some  of  the  heroes  of  the  Dunciad ; 
and  his  first  literary  adventure  the  publication 
of  some  poems,  which  well  entitled  him  to  a 
place  among  those  worthies.  He  helped  '^pil- 
fering Tibbalds"  to  some  notes  upon  Shake- 
speare ;  and  spoke  contemptuously  of  Mr. 
Pope's  talents,  and  severely  of  his  morals,  in 
his  letters  to  Concannen.  He  then  hired  his 
pen  to  prepare  a  volume  on  the  Jurisdiction 
of  the  Court  of  Chancery ;  and  having  now 
entered  the  church,  made  a  more  successful 
endeavour  to  magnify  his  profession,  and  to 
attract  notice  to  himself  by  the  publication 
of  his  once  famous  book  on  ''the  Alliance 
between  Church  and  State,"  in  Avhich  all  the 
presumption  and  ambition  of  his  nature  was 
first  made  manifest. 

By  this  time,  however,  he  seems  to  have 
passed  over  from  the  party  of  the  Dunces  to 
that  of  Pope ;  and  proclaimed  his  conversion 
pretty  abruptly,  by  writing  an  elaborate  de 
fence  of  the  Essay  on  Man  from  come  imputa 


684 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Jions  which  hal  been  ttirown  on  its  theology 
and  morality.  Pope  received  the  services  of 
this  voluntary  champion  with  great  gratitude; 
and  Warburton  having  now  discovered  that 
he  was  not  only  a  great  poet,  but  a  very  honest 
.-nan,  continued  to  cultivate  his  friendship  with 
great  assiduity,  and  with  very  notable  success: 
For  Pope  introduced  him  to  Mr.  Murray,  who 
made  him  preacher  at  Lincoln's  Inn,  and  to 
Mr.  Allen  of  Prior  Park,  who  gave  him  his 
niece  in  marriage, — obtamed  a  bishopiic  for 
him, — and  left  him  his  whole  estate.  In  the 
mean  time,  he  published  his  "  Divine  Lega- 
tion of  Moses," — the  most  learned,  most  arro- 
gant, and  most  absurd  work,  which  had  been 
produced  in  England  for  a  century; — and  his 
editions  of  Pope,  and  of  Shakespeare,  in  which 
he  was  scarcely  less  outrageous  and  fantas- 
tical. He  replied  to  some  of  his  answerers  in 
a  style  full  of  insolence  and  brutal  scurrility ; 
and  not  only  poured  out  the  most  tremendous 
abuse  on  the  infidelities  of  Bolingbroke  and 
Hume,  but  found  occasion  also  to  quarrel 
with  Drs.  Middleton,  Lowth,  Jortin,  Leland, 
and  indeed  almost  every  name  distinguished 
for  piety  and  learning  in  England.  At  the 
same  time,  he  indited  the  most  highflown 
adulation  to  Lord  Chesterfield,  and  contrived 
to  keep  himself  in  the  good  graces  of  Lord 
Mansfield  and  Lord  Hardwicke; — while,  in 
the  midst  of  affluence  and  honours,  he  was 
continually  exclaiming  against  the  barbarity 
of  the  age  in  rewarding  genius  so  frugally, 
and  in  not  calling  in  the  aid  of  the  civil  ma- 
gistrate to  put  down  fanaticism  and  infidelity. 
The  public,  however,  at  last,  grew  weary  of 
these  blustering  novelties.  The  bishop,  as 
old  age  stole  upon  him,  began  to  doze  in  his 


mitre  ',  and  though  Dr.  Richard  Hurd, 


ith 


ihe  true  spirit  of  an  underling,  persisted  in 
keeping  up  the  petty  traffic  of  reciprocal  en- 
comiums, yet  Warburton  was  lost  to  the  pub- 
lic long  before  he  sunk  into  dotage,  and  lay 
dead  as  an  author  for  many  years  of  his  natu- 
ral existence. 

We  have  imputed  this  rapid  decline  of  his 
*-eputation,  partly  to  the  unsoundness  of  his 
general  speculations,  and  chiefly  to  the  of- 
fensiveness  of  his  manner.  The  fact  is  ad- 
mitted even  by  those  who  pretend  to  regret 
it;  and,  whatever  Dr.  Hurd  may  have  thought, 
it  must  have  had  other  causes  than  the  decay 
of  public  virtue  and  taste. 

In  fact,  when  we  look  quietly  and  soberly 
over  the  vehement  and  imposing  treatises  of 
Warburton,  it  is  scarcely  possible  not  to  per- 
teive,  that  almost  every  thing  that  is  original 
-ai  his  doctrine  or  propositions  is  erroneous; 
and  that  his  great  gifts  of  learning  and  argu- 
mentation have  been  bestowed  on  a  vain  at- 
tempt to  give  currency  to  unteriable  paradoxes. 
His  powers  and  his  skill  in  controversy  may 
indeed  conceal,  from  a  careless  reader,  the 
radical  fallacy  of  his  reasoning;  and  as,  in 
the  course  of  the  argument,  he  frequently 
has  the  better  of  his  adversaries  upon  inci- 
dental and  collateral  topics,  and  never  fails  to 
make  his  triumph  resound  over  the  whole 
field  of  battle,  it  is  easy  to  understand  how 
De  should,  for  a  while,  nave  got  the  credit  of 


a  victory,  which  is  now  generally  adjudged  t« 
his  opponents.  The  object  of  ^-'tht!  Divin«^ 
Legation,"  for  instance,  is  to  prove  that  thd 
mission  of  Moses  was  certainly  from  God, — 
because  his  system  is  the  only  one  which 
does  not  teach  the  doctrine  of  a  future  state 
of  rewards  and  punishments !  And  the  ob- 
ject of  "the  Alliance"  is  to  show,  that  the 
church  (that  is,  as  he  explains  it,  all  the  ad- 
herents of  the  church  of  England)  is  entitled 
to  a  leg-al  establishment ,  and  the  protection  of 
a  test  law, — because  it  constitutes  a  separate 
society  from  that  which  is  concerned  in  the 
civil  government,  and,  being  equally  sovereign 
and  independent,  is  therefore  entitled  to  treat 
with  it  on  a  footing  of  perfect  equality.  The 
sixth  book  of  Virgil,  we  are  assured,  in  the 
same  peremptory  manner,  contains  merely 
the  description  of  the  mysteries  of  Eleusis; 
and  the  badness  of  the  New  Testament  Greek 
a  conclusive  proof  both  of  the  eloquence  and 
the  inspiration  of  its  authors.  These  fancies, 
it  appears  to  us,  require  no  refutation ;  and, 
dazzled  and  astonished  as  we  are  at  the  rich 
and  variegated  tissue  of  learning  and  argu- 
ment with  which  their  author  has  invested 
their  extravagance,  we  conceive,  that  no  man 
of  a  sound  and  plain  understanding  can  ever 
mistake  them  for  truths,  or  waver,  in  the  least 
degree,  from  the  conviction  which  his  own 
reflection  must  afford  of  their  intrinsic  ab- 
surdity. 

The  case  is  very  nearly  the  same  with  his 
subordinate  general  propositions;  which,  in 
so  far  as  they  are  original,  are  all  brought 
forward  with  the  parade  of  great  discoveries, 
and  yet  appear  to  us  among  the  most  futile 
and  erroneous  of  modern  speculations.  We 
are  tempted  to  mention  two,  which  we  think 
we  have  seen  referred  to  by  later  writers  with 
some  degree  of  approbation,  and  which,  at 
any  rate,  make  a  capital  figure  in  all  the  fun- 
damental philosophy  of  Warburton.  The  one 
relates  to  the  necessary  imperfection  of  human 
laws,  as  dealing  in  Punishments  only,  and  not 
in  Rewards  also.  The  other  concerns  his 
notion  of  the  ultimate  foundation  of  moral 
Obligation. 

The  very  basis  of  his  argument  for  the 
necessity  of  the  doctriae  of  a  future  state  to 
the  well-being  of  society,  is,  that,  by  human 
laws,  the  conduct  of  men  is  only  controlled 
by  the  fear  of  punishment,  and  not  excited  by 
the  hope  of  reward.  Both  these  sanctions 
however,  he  contends,'  are  necessary  to  regu- 
late our  actions,  and  keep  the  world  in  order; 
and,  therefore,  legislators,  not  finding  rewards 
in  this  world,  have  always  been  obliged  to 
connect  it  with  a  future  world,  in  which  they 
have  held  out  that  they  would  be  bestowed 
on  all  deservers.  It  is  scarcely  possible,  we 
believe,  to  put  this  most  important  doctrine 
on  a  more  injudicious  foundation ;  and  if  this 
were  the  only  ground  either  for  believing  or 
inculcating  the  doctrine  of  a  future  state,  wo 
should  tremble  at  the  advantages  which  the 
infidel  would  have  in  the  contest.  We  shall 
not  detain  our  readers  longer,  than  just  to 
point  out  three  obvious  fallacies  in  this,  the 
most  vaunted  and  confident,  perhaps,  of  all 


WARBURTON'S  LETTERS 


68A 


the  Warburtonian  dogmata.  In  the  first  place, 
t  is  obvious  that  disorders  in  society  can 
scarcely  be  said  to  be  prevented  by  the  hope 
of  future  rewards  :  the  proper  use  of  that  doc- 
trine being,  not  to  repress  vice,  but  to  console 
affliction.  Vice  and  disorder  can  only  be 
quelled  by  the  dread  of  future  punishment — 
whether  in  this  world  or  the  next ;  while  it  is 
obvious  that  the  despondency  and  distress 
which  may  be  soothed  by  the  prospect  of 
future  bliss,  are  not  disorders  within  the  pur- 
view of  the  legislator.  In  the  second  place, 
it  is  obviously  not  true  that  human  laws  are 
necessarily  deficient  in  the  article  of  providing 
rewards.  In  many  instances,  their  enact- 
ments have  this  direct  object ;  and  it  is  ob- 
vious, that  if  it  was  thought  essential  to  the 
well-being  of  society,  they  might  reward  quite 
as  often  as  they  punish.  But,  in  the  tim-d 
place,  the  whole  argument  proceeds  upon  a 
gross  and  unaccountable  misapprehension  of 
the  nature  and  object  of  legislation; — a  very 
brief  explanation  of  which  will  show,  both 
that  the'  temporal  rewards  of  virtue  are  just 
as  sure  as  the  temporal  punishments  of  vice, 
and  at  the  same  time  explain  why  the  law 
has  so  seldom  interfered  to  enforce  the  for- 
mer. The  law  arose  from  human  feelings 
and  notions  of  justice ;  and  those  feelings  and 
notions,  were,  of  course,  before  the  law,  which 
only  came  in  aid  of  their  deficiency.  The 
natural  and  necessary  effect  of  kind  and  vir- 
tuous conduct  is,  to  excite  love,  gratitude, 
and  benevolence; — the  effect  of  injury  and 
vice  is  to  excite  resentment,  anger,  and  re- 
venge. While  there  was  no  law  and  no 
magistrate,  men  must  have  acted  upon  those 
feelings,  and  acted  upon  them  in  their  whole 
extent.  He  who  rendered  kindness,  received 
kindness ;  and  he  who  inflicted  pain  and  suf- 
fering, was  sooner  or  later  overtaken  by  re- 
torted pain  and  suffering.  Virtue  was  rewarded 
therefore,  and  vice  punished,  at  all  times; 
and  both,  w^e  must  suppose,  in  the  same 
measure  and  degree.  The  reward  of  virtue, 
however,  produced  no  disturbance  or  dis- 
order; and.  after  society  submitted  to  regula- 
tion, was  very  safely  left  in  the  hands  of 
gratitude  and  sympathetic  kindness.  But  it 
was  far  otherwise  with  the  punishment  of 
vice.  Resentment  and  revenge  tended  always 
to  a  dangerous  excess, — were  liable  to  be  as- 
sumed as  the  pretext  for  unprovoked  aggres- 
sion.— and,  at  all  events,  had  a  tendency  to 
reproduce  revenge  and  resentment,  in  an  in- 
terminable series  of  violence  and  outrage. 
The  law,  therefore,  took  this  duty  into  its  own 
hands.  It  did  not  invent,  or  impose  for  the 
first  time,  that  sanction  of  punishment,  which 
was  coeval  with  vice  and  with  society,  and 
is  implied,  indeed,  in  the  very  notion  of  in- 
jury : — it  only  transferred  the  right  of  apply- 
ing it  from  the  injured  individual  to  the  pub- 
lic; and  tempered  its  application  by  more 
impartial  and  extensive  views  of  the  circum- 
stances of  the  delinquency.  But  if  the  pun- 
•shment  of  vice  be  not  ultimately  derived  from 
aw,  neither  is  the  reward  of  virtue ;  and  al- 
though human  passions  made  it  necessary  for 
law  to  undertake  the  regula+iovi  of  that  pun- 


ishment, it  evidently  would  not  add  to  its  per* 
fection,  to  make  it  also  the  distributer  of  re- 
wards ;  unless  it  could  be  shown,  that  a  simi 
lar  disorder  was  likely  to  arise  from  leaving 
these  to  the  individuals  affected.  It  is  ob« 
vious,  however,  not  only  that  there  is  no  like- 
lihood of  such  a  disorder,  but  that  such  an 
interference  would  be  absurd  and  impractica- 
ble. It  is  true,  therefore,  that  human  laws 
do  in  general  provide  punishments  only,  and 
not  rewards ;  but  it  is  not  true  that  they  are, 
on  this  account,  imperfect  or  defective  ;  or 
that  human  conduct  is  not  actually  regulated 
by  the  love  of  happiness,  as  much  as  by  the 
dread  of  suffering.  The  doctrine  of  a  future 
state  adds,  no  doubt,  prodigiously  to  both  these 
motives;  but  it  is  a  rash,  a  presumptuous, 
and,  we  think,  a  most  shortsighted  and  nar- 
row view  of  the  case,  to  suppose,  that  it  ia 
chiefly  the  impossibility  of  rewarding  virtue 
on  Earth,  that  has  led  legislators  to  secure  the 
peace  of  society,  by  referring  it  for  its  recom- 
pense to  Heaven. 

The  other  dogma  to  which  we  alluded,  ia 
advanced  with  equal  confidence  and  preten- 
sions ;  and  is,  if  possible,  still  more  shallow 
and  erroneous.  Speculative  moralists  had 
been  formerly  contented  with  referring  moral 
obligation,  either  to  a  moral  sense,  or  to  a 
perception  of  utility; — Warburton,  without 
much  ceremony,  put  both  these  together: 
But  his  grand  discovery  is,  that  even  this  tie 
is  not  strong  enough;  and  that  the  idea  of 
moral  obligation  is  altogether  incomplete  and 
imperfect,  unless  it  be  made  to  rest  also  on 
the  Will  of  a  Superior.  There  is  no  point  in 
all  his  philosophy,  of  which  he  is  more  vain 
than  of  this  pretended  discovery;  and  he 
speaks  of  it,  we  are  persuaded,  twenty  times, 
without  once  suspecting  the  gross  fallacy 
which  it  involves.  The  fallacy  is  not,  how- 
ever, in  stating  an  erioneous  proposition — for 
it  is  certainly  true,  that  the  command  of  a 
superior  will  generally  constitute  an  obliga- 
tion :  it  lies  altogether  in  supposing  that  this 
is  a  separate  or  additional  ground  of  obliga- 
tion,— and  in  not  seeing  that  this  vaunted  dis- 
covery of  a  third  principle  for  the  foundation 
of  morality,  was  in  fact  nothing  but  an  indi- 
vidual instance  or  exemplification  of  the  prin- 
ciple of  utility. 

Why  are  we  bound  by  the  will  of  a  supe- 
rior?— evidently  for  no  other  reason,  than  be- 
cause superiority  implies  a  power  to  affect  our 
happiness;  and  the  expression  of  will  assures 
U5,  that  our  happiness  will  be  affected  by  our 
disobedience.  An  obligation  is  something 
which  constrains  or  induces  us  to  act ; — but 
there  neither  is  nor  can  be  any  other  motive 
for  the  actions  of  rational  and  sentient  beings, 
than  the  love  of  happiness.  It  is  the  desire 
of  happiness — well  or  ill  understood — seen 
widely  or  narrowly, — that  necessarily  dictates 
all  our  actions,  and  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  our 
conceptions  of  morality  or  duty :  and  the  will 
of  a  superior  can  only  constitute  a  ground  of 
obligation,  by  connecting  itself  with  this  sin- 
gle and  universal  agent.  If  it  were  possible 
to  disjoin  the  idea  of  our  own  happiness  or 
suffering  from  the  idea  of  a  superior,  it  is  7b- 


686 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


vious,  that  we  should  no  longer  be  under  any 
obligation  to  conform  to  the  will  of  that  supe- 
rior. If  we  should  be  equally  secure  of  hap- 
piness— in  mind  and  in  body — in  time  and  in 
eternity,  by  disobeying  his  will,  as  by  com- 
plying with  it,  it  is  evidently  altogether  incon- 
ceivable, that  the  expression  of  that  will  should 
impose  any  obligation  upon  us  :  And  although 
it  be  true  that  we  cannot  suppose  such  a  case, 
it  is  not  the  less  a  fallacy  to  represent  the  will 
of  a  superior  as  a  third  and  additional  ground 
of  obligation,  newly  discovered  by  this  author, 
and  superadded  to  the  old  principle  of  a  regard 
to  happiness,  or  utility.  We  take  these  in- 
stances of  the  general  unsoundness  of  all 
Warburton's  peculiar  doctrines,  from  topics 
on  which  he  is  generally  supposed  to  have 
been  less  extravagant  than  on  any  other. 
Those  who  wish  to  know  his  feats  in  criticism, 
may  be  referred  to  the  Canons  of  Mr.  Ed- 
wards; and  those  who  admire  the  originality  of 
his  Dissertation  on  the  Mysteries,  are  recom- 
mended to  look  into  the  Eleusis  of  Meursius, 

Speculations  like  these  could  never  be  pop- 
ilar ;  and  w^ere  not  hkely  to  attract  the  atten- 
tion, even  of  the  studious,  longer  than  their 
novelty,  and  the  glare  of  erudition  and  orig- 
mality  which  was  thrown  around  them,  pro- 
tected them  from  deliberate  consideration. 
But  the  real  cause  of  the  public  alienation 
from  the  w^orks  of  this  writer,  is  undoubtedly 
to  be  found  in  the  revolting  arrogance  of  his 
general  manner,  and  the  offensive  coarseness 
of  his  controversial  invectives.  These,  we 
think,  must  be  confessed  to  be  somewhat 
worse  than  mere  error  in  reasoning,  or  ex- 
travagance in  theory.  They  are  not  only  of- 
fences of  the  first  magnitude  against  good 
taste  and  good  manners,  but  are  likely  to  be 
attended  with  pernicious  consequences  in 
matters  of  much  higher  importance.  Though 
we  are  not  disposed  to  doubt  of  the  sincerity 
of  this  reverend  person's  abhorrence  for  vice 
and  infidelity,  we  are  seriously  of  opinion,  that 
his  writings  have  been  substantially  prejudi- 
cial to  the  cause  of  religion  and  morality ;  and 
that  it  is  fortunate  for  both,  that  they  have 
now  fallen  into  general  oblivion. 

They  have  produced,  in  the  first  place,  all 
the  mischief  of  a  conspicuous,  and,  in  some 
sense,  a  successful  example  of  genius  and 
learning,  associated  with  insolence,  intoler- 
ance, and  habitual  contumely  and  outrage. 
All  men  who  are  engaged  in  controversy  are 
apt  enough  to  be  abusive  and  insulting, — and 
clergymen,  perhaps,  rather  more  apt  than 
others.  It  is  an  intellectual  warfare,  in  which, 
as  in  other  wars,  it  is  natural,  we  suspect,  to 
be  ferocious,  unjust,  and  unsparing;  but  ex- 
perience and  civilisation  have  tempered  this 
vehemence,  by  gentler  and  more  generous 
maxims, — and  introduced  a  law  of  honourable 
hostility,  by  which  the  fiercer  elements  of  our 
naiure  are  mastered  and  controlled.  No  great- 
er evil,  perhaps,  can  be  imagined,  than  the 
violation  of  this  law  from  any  quarter  of  influ- 
ence and  reputation  ; — yet  the  Warburtonians 
may  be  said  to  have  used  their  best  endeav- 
ours to  introduce  the  use  of  poisoned  weapons, 
and  to  abolish  the  practice  of  giving  quarter, 


in  the  fields  of  controversy.  Fortunately 
their  example  has  not  been  generally  follow 
ed;  and  the  sect  itself,  though  graced  with 
mitres,  and  other  trophies  of  worldly  success, 
has  perished,  we  thinkj  in  consequence  of  the 
experiment. 

A  second,  and  perhaps,  a  still  more  formi- 
dable mischief,  arose  from  the  discredit  which 
was  brought  on  the  priesthood,  and  indeed 
upon  religion  in  general,  by  this  interchange 
of  opprobrious  and  insulting  accusations  among 
its  ministers.  If  the  abuse  was  justifiable, 
then  the  church  itself  gave  shelter  to  folly 
and  wickedness,  at  least  as  great  as  was  to  be 
found  under  the  banners  of  infidelity; — if  it 
was  not  justifiable,  then  it  was  apparent,  that 
abuse  by  those  holy  men  was  no  proof  of  de- 
merit in  those  against  whom  it  was  directed ; 
and  the  unbelievers,  of  course,  were  furnished 
with  an  objection  to  the  sincerity  of  those  in- 
vectives of  which  they  themselves  were  the 
objects. 

This  applies  to  those  indecent  expressions 
of  violence  and  contempt,  in  \vhich  Warburtoi 
and  his  followers  were  accustomed  to  indulge, 
when  speaking  of  their  Christian  and  clerica. 
opponents.  But  the  greatest  evil  of  all,  we 
think,  arose  from  the  intemperance,  coarse- 
ness, and  acrimony  of  their  remarks,  even  on 
those  who  were  enemies  to  revelation.  There 
is,  in  all  well-constituted  minds,  a  natural 
feeling  of  indulgence  towards  those  errors  of 
opinion,  to  which,  from  the  infirmity  of  human 
reason,  all  men  are  liable,  and  of  compassion 
for  those  whose  errors  have  endangered  their 
happiness.  It  must  be  the  natural  tendency 
of  all  candid  and  liberal  persons,  therefore,  to 
regard  unbelievers  with  pity,  and  to  reason 
with  them  w^ith  mildness  and  forbearance. 
Infidel  writers,  we  conceive,  may  generally 
be  allowed  to  be  actual  unbelievers;  for  it  is 
difficult  to  imagine  what  other  motive  than  a 
sincere  persuasion  of  the  truth  of  their  opin- 
ions, could  induce  them  to  become  objects  of 
horror  to  the  respectable  part  of  any  commu- 
nity, by  their  disclosure.  From  what  vices 
of  the  heart,  or  from  what  defects  in  the  un- 
derstanding, their  unbelief  may  have  originat- 
ed, it  may  not  always  be  easy  to  determine ; 
but  it  seems  obvious  that,  for  the  unbelief  it- 
self, they  are  rather  to  be  pitied  than  reviled ; 
and  that  the  most  effectual  way  of  persuading 
the  public  that  their  opinions  are  refuted  out 
of  a  regard  to  human  happiness,  is  to  treat 
their  author  (whose  happiness  is  most  in  dan- 
ger) with  some  small  degree  of  liberality  and 
gentleness.  It  is  also  pretty  generally  taken 
for  granted,  that  a  very  angry  disputant  is 
usually  in  the  wrong;  that  it  is  not  a  sign  of 
much  confidence  in  the  argument,  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  the  unpopularity  or  legal  danger 
of  the  opposite  doctrine ;  and  that,  when  an 
unsuccessful  and  unfair  attempt  is  made  to 
discredit  the  general  ability  or  personal  worth 
of  an  antagonist,  no  great  reliance  is  under- 
stood to  be  placed  on  the  argument  by  which 
he  may  be  lawfully  opposed. 

It  is  needless  to  apply  these  observations  to 
the  case  of  the  Warburtonian  controversies 
There  is  no  man,  we  believCj  however  he  may 


WARBURTON'S  LETTEF.S. 


b&7 


Oe  convinced  of  the  fallacy  and  danger  of  the 
principles  maintained  by  Lord  Bolingbroke, 
by  Voltaire,  or  by  Hume,  who  has  not  felt  in- 
dignation and  disgust  at  the  brutal  violence, 
the  affected  contempt,  and  the  flagrant  unfair- 
ness with  which  they  are  treated  by  this 
learned  author, — who  has  not,  for  a  moment, 
taken  part  with  them  against  so  ferocious  and 
insulting  an  opponent,  and  wished  for  the 
mortiiication  and  chastisemen  t  of  the  advocate, 
even  while  impressed  with  the  greatest  vene- 
ration for  the  cause.  We  contemplate  this 
scene  of  orthodox  fury,  in  short,  with  some- 
thing of  the  same  emotions  with  which  we 
sh^  .'Id  see  a  heretic  subjected  to  the  torture, 
91-  a  freethinker  led  out  to  the  stake  by  a  zeal- 
ous inquisitor.  If  this,  however,  be  the  effect 
of  such  illiberal  violence,  even  on  those  whose 
principles  are  settled,  and  whose  faith  is  con- 
firmed by  habit  and  reflection,  the  conse- 
quences must  obviously  be  still  more  perni- 
cious for  those  whose  notions  of  religion  are 
still  uninformed  and  immature,  and  whose 
minds  are  open  to  all  plausible  and  liberal 
impressions.  Take  the  case,  for  instance,  of 
a  young  man,  who  has  been  dehghted  with 
the  eloquence  of  Bolingbroke,  and  the  sagacity 
and  ingenuity  of  Hume  : — who  knows,  more- 
over, that  the  one  lived  in  intimacy  with  Pope, 
and  Swift,  and  Atterbury.  and  almost  all  the 
worthy  and  eminent  persons  of  his  time ; — 
and  that  the  other  was  the  cordial  friend  of 
Robertson  and  Blair,  and  was  irreproachably 
correct  and  amiable  in  every  relation  of  life ; 
— and  who,  perceiving  with  alarm  the  ten- 
dency of  some  of  their  speculations,  applies 
to  Warburton  for  an  antidote  to  the  poison  he 
may  have  imbibed.  In  Warburton  he  will  then 
read  that  Bolingbroke  was  a  paltry  driveller — 
Voltaire  a  pitiable  scoundrel — and  Hume  a 
■nuny  dialectician,  who  ought  to  have  been  set 
on  the  pillory,  and  whose  heart  was  as  base 
and  corrupt  as  his  understanding  was  con- 
temptible !  Now,  what,  we  would  ask  any 
man  of  common  candour  and  observation,  is 
the  efl^ect  likely  to  be  produced  on  the  mind 
of  any  ingenious  and  able  young  man  by  this 
style  of  confutation  1  Infallibly  to  make  him 
take  part  with  the  reviled  and  insulted  literati, 
—to  throw  aside  the  right  reverend  confuter 
with  contempt  and  disgust, — and  most  proba- 
bly to  conceive  a  fatal  prejudice  against  the 
cause  of  religion  itself — thus  unhappily  asso- 
ciated with  coarse  and  ignoble  scurrility.  He 
must  know  to  a  certainty,  in  the  first  place, 
that  the  contempt  of  the  orthodox  champion  is 
either  aflfected,  or  proceeds  from  most  gross 
ignorance  and  incapacity ; — since  the  abilities 
of  the  reviled  writers  is  proved,  not  only  by 
his  own  feeling  and  experience,  but  by  the 
suffrage  of  the  public  and  of  all  men  of  intel- 
ligence. He  must  think,  in  the  second  place, 
that  the  imputations  on  their  moral  worth  are 
false  and  calumnious,  both  from  the  fact  of 
their  long  friendship  with  the  purest  and  most 
exalted  characters  of  their  age.  and  from  the 
obvious  irrelevancy  of  this  topic  in  a  fair  refu- 
tation of  their  errors; — and  then,  applying  the 
ordinary  maxims  by  which  we  judge  of  a  dis- 
putant's cause,  from  his  temper  and  his  fair- 


ness, he  disables  both  the  judg-ment  cind  the 
candour  of  his  instructor,  and  conceives  a. 
strong  prejudice  in  favour  of  the  cause  which 
has  been  attacked  in  a  manner  so  unwar* 
ran table. 

We  have  had  occasion,  oftener  than  once, 
to  trace  an  effect  like  this,  from  this  fierce 
and  overbearing  aspect  of  orthodoxy; — and 
we  appeal  to  the  judgment  of  all  our  readers, 
whether  it  be  not  the  very  effect  which  it  is 
calculated  to  produce  on  all  youthful  minds 
of  any  considerable  strength  and  originality. 
It  is  to  such  persons,  however,  and  to  such 
only,  that  the  refutation  of  infidel  writers 
ought  to  be  addressed.  There  is  no  need  to 
write  books  against  Hume  and  Voltaire  for  the 
use  of  the  learned  and  orthodox  part  of  the 
English  clergy.  Such  works  are  necessarily 
supposed  to  be  intended  for  the  benefit  of 
young  persons,  who  have  either  contracted 
some  partiality  for  those  seductive  writers,  or 
are  otherwise  in  danger  of  being  misled  by 
them.  It  is  to  be  presumed,  therefore,  that 
they  know  and  admire  their  real  excellences  j 
— and  it  might  consequently  be  inferred,  that 
they  will  not  listen  with  peculiar  complacency 
to  a  refutation  of  their  errors,  which  sets  out 
with  a  torrent  of  illiberal  and  unjust  abuse  of 
their  talents  and  characters. 

We  are  convinced,  therefore,  that  the  bully- 
ing and  abusive  tone  of  the  Warburtonian 
school,  even  in  its  contention  Mith  infidels, 
has  done  more  harm  to  the  cause  of  religion, 
and  alienated  more  youthful  and  aspiring 
minds  from  the  true  faith,  than  any  other 
error  into  which  zeal  has  ever  betrayed  ortho- 
doxy. It  may  afford  a  sort  of  vindictive  de- 
light to  the  zealots  who  stand  in  no  need  of 
the  instruction  of  which  it  should  be  the  ve- 
hicle; but  it  will,  to  a  certainty,  revolt  and 
disgust  all  those  to  whom  that  instruction  was 
necessary, — enlist  all  the  generous  feelings 
of  their  nature  on  the  side  of  infidelity, — and 
make  piety  and  reason  itself  appear  like  pre- 
judice and  bigotry.  We  think  it  fortunate, 
therefore,  upon  the  whole,  that  the  controver- 
sial writings  of  Warburton  have  already  passed 
into  oblivion, — since,  even  if  Ave  thought  more 
highly  than  we  do  of  the  substantial  merit  of 
his  arguments,  we  should  still  be  of  opinion 
that  they  were  likely  to  do  more  mischief 
than  the  greater  part  of  the  sophistries  which 
it  was  their  professed  object  to  counteract  and 
discredit. 

These  desultory  observations  have  carried 
us  so  completely  away  from  the  book,  by  the 
title  of  which  they  were  suggested,  that  we 
have  forgotten  to  announce  to  our  readers, 
that  it  contains  a  series  of  familiar  letters,  ad- 
dressed by  Warburton  to  Doctor  (afterwards 
Bishop)  Hurd,  from  the  year  1749,  when  their 
acquaintance  commenced,  down  to  1776,  when 
the  increasing  infirmities  of  the  former  put  a 
stop  to  the  correspondence.  Some  little  use 
was  made  of  these  letters  in  the  life  of  his 
friend,  which  Bishop  Hurd  published,  after  a 
very  long  delay,  in  1794 ;  but  the  treasure  was 
hoarded  up,  in  the  main,  till  the  death  of  that 
prelate ;  soon  after  which,  the  present  volume 
was  prepared  for  publication,  in  obedience  to 


688 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


the  following  intimation  prefixed  to  the  origi- 
nal collection,  and  now  printed  in  the  front 
of  the  book  : — 

"These  letters  give  so  true  a  picture  of  the 
writer's  character,  and  are,  besides,  so  worthy  of 
nim  in  all  respects  (I  mean,  if  the  reader  can  forgive 
the  playfulness  of  his  wit  in  some  instances,  and  the 
partiality  of  his  friendship  in  many  more),  that,  in 
honour  of  his  memory,  I  would  have  them  published 
after  my  death,  and  the  profits  arising  from  the  sale 
of  them,  applied  to  the  benefit  of  the  Worcester 
Infirmary." 

The  tenor  of  this  note,  as  well  as  the  name 
and  the  memory  of  Warburton,  excited  in  us 
no  small  curiosity  to  peruse  the  collection ; 
and,  for  a  moment,  we  entertained  a  hope  of 
finding  this  intractable  and  usurping  author 
softened  down,  in  the  gentler  relations  of  pri- 
vate life,  to  something  of  a  more  amiable  and 
engaging  form :  and  when  we  found  his  right 
reverend  correspondent  speaking  of  the  play- 
fulness of  his  wit,  and  the  partiality  of  his 
friendships,  we  almost  persuaded  ourselves, 
that  we  should  find,  in  these  letters,  not  only 
many  traits  of  domestic  tenderness  and  cor- 
diality, but  also  some  expressions  of  regret 
for  the  asperities  with  which,  in  the  heat  and 
the  elation  of  controversy,  he  had  insulted  all 
who  were  opposed  to  him.  It  seems  natural, 
loo,  to  expect,  that  along  with  the  confessions 
of  an  author's  vanity,  we  should  meet  with 
some  reflections  on  his  own  good  fortune,  and 
some  expressions  of  contentment  and  gratitude 
for  the  honours  and  dignities  which  had  been 
heaped  upon  him.  In  all  this,  however,  we 
have  been  painfully  disappointed.  The  arro- 
gance and  irritability  of  Warburton  was  never 
more  conspicuous  than  in  these  Letters, — nor 
his  intolerance  of  opposition,  and  his  prepos- 
terous estimate  of  his  own  merit  and  import- 
ance. There  is  some  wit — good  and  bad — 
scattered  through  them;  and  diverse  frag- 
ments of  criticism  :  But  the  staple  of  the  cor- 
respondence is  his  own  praise,  and  that  of  his 
friend,  v/hom  he  magnifies  and  exalts,  indeed, 
in  a  way  that  is  very  diverting.  To  him,  and 
his  other  dependants  and  admirers,  and  their 
patrons,  he  is  kind  and  complimentary  to  ex- 
cess ;  but  all  the  rest  of  the  world  he  regards 
with  contempt  and  indifference.  The  age  is 
a  good  age  or  a  bad  age,  according  as  it  ap- 
plauds or  neglects  the  Divine  Legation  and 
the  Commentary  on  Horace.  Those  who 
write  against  these  works  are  knaves  and 
drivellers, — and  will  meet  with  their  reward 
in  the  contempt  of  another  generation,  and 
the  tortures  of  another  world  !  —  Bishoprics 
and  Chancellorships,  on  the  other  hand,  are 
too  little  for  those  who  extol  and  defend  them  ', 
— and  Government  is  reviled  for  leaving  the 
press  open  to  Bolingbroke,  and  tacitly  blamed 
for  not  setting  Mr.  Hume  on  the  pillory. 

The  natural  connection  of  the  subject  with 
the  general  remarks  which  we  have  already 
premised,  leads  us  to  begin  our  extracts  with 
a  few  specimens  of  that  savage  asperity  to- 
wards Christians  and  Philosophers,  upon  which 
we  have  felt  ourselves  called  on  to  pass  a 
sentence  of  reprobation.  In  a  letter,  dated  in 
1749,  we  have  the  following  passage  about 
Mr.  Hume, — 


"  I  am  strongly  tempted,  too,  to  have  a  stroke  ai 
Hume  in  partine.  He  is  the  author  of  a  little  book, 
called  Philosophical  Essays ;  in  one  part  of  which 
he  argues  against  the  being  of  a  God,  and  in  another 
(very  needlessly  you  will  say)  against  the  possibility 
of  miracles.  He  has  crowned  the  liberty  of  the  press. 
And  yet  he  has  a  considerable  post  under  the  Go- 
vernment !  I  have  a  great  mind  to  do  justice  on 
his  arguments  against  miracles,  which  I  think  might 
be  done  in  few  words.  But  does  he  deserve  no- 
tice ?  Is  he  known  amongst  you  ?  Pray  answer 
me  these  questions ;  for  if  his  own  weight  keeps 
him  down,  I  should  be  sorry  to  contribute  to  Jiis  ad- 
vancement — to  any  place  but  the  Pillory ^ — p.  11. 

In  another  place,  he  is  pleased  to  say,  under 
date  of  1757,  when  Mr.  Hume's  reputation 
for  goodness,  as  w^ell  as  genius,  was  fully  es- 
tablished : — 

"There  is  an  epidemic  madness  amongst  us  ;  to- 
day we  burn  with  the  feverish  heat  of  Supersfition  ; 
to-morrow  we  stand  fixed  and  frozen  in  Atheism. 
Expect  to  hear  that  the  churches  are  all  crowded 
next  Friday  ;  and  that  on  Saturday  they  buy  up 
Hume's  new  Essays  ;  the  first  of  which  (and  please 
you)  is  The  Natural  History  of  Religion,  for  which 
I  will  trim  the  rogue's  jacket,  at  least  sit  upon  his 
skirts,  as  you  will  see  when  you  come  hither,  and 
find  his  margins  scribbled  over.  In  a  word,  the 
Essay  is  to  establish  an  Atheistic  naturahsm,  like 
Bolingbroke  ;  and  he  goes  upon  one  of  B.'s  capital 
arguments,  that  Idolatry  and  Polytheism  were  be- 
fore the  worship  of  the  one  God.  It  is  full  of  ab- 
surdities ;  and  here  I  come  in  with  him  ;  for  they 
show  themselves  knaves:  but,  as  you  well  observe, 
to  do  their  business,  is  to  show  them  fools.  They 
say  this  man  has  several  moral  quahties.  It  may 
be  so.  But  there  are  vices  of  the  mind  as  well 
as  body  ;  and  a  Wickeder  Heart,  and  more  deter- 
mined to  do  public  Mischief,  1  think  I  never  knew." 

p.  175. 

It  is  natural  and  very  edifying,  after  all  this, 
to  find  him  expressing  the  most  unmeasured 
contempt,  even  for  the  historical  works  of  thia 
author,  and  gravely -telling  his  beloved  friend, 
who  was  hammering  out  a  puny  dialogue  on 
the  English  constitution,  "As  to  Hume's  His- 
tory, you  need  not  fear  being  forestalled  by  a 
thousand  such  writers.  But  the  fear  is  natural, 
as  I  have  often  felt,  and  as  often  experienced 
to  be  absurd  !"  We  really  were  not  aware, 
either  that  this  History  was  generally  looked 
upon  as  an  irreligious  publication ;  or  that 
there  was  reason  to  suspect  that  Dr.  "Robertson 
had  no  warm  side  to  religion,  more  than  his 
friend.  Both  these  things,  however,  may  be 
learned  from  the  following  short  paragraph. 

"  Hume  has  outdone  hiinself  in  this  new  history, 
in  showing  his  contempt  of  religion.  This  is  one 
of  those  proof  charges  which  Arbuthnot  speaks  of 
in  his  treatise  of  political  lying,  to  try  how  much 
the  public  will  bear.  If  this  history  be  well  received, 
I  shall  conclude  that  there  is  even  an  end  of  all  pre- 
tence  to  religion.  But  I  should  think  it  will  not : 
because  I  fancy  the  good  reception  of  Robertson's 
proceeded  froih  the  decency  of  it." — p.  207. 

The  following  is  the  liberal  commentary 
which  this  Christian  divine  makes  upon  Mr. 
Hume's  treatment  of  Rousseau. 

"It  is  a  truth  easily  discoverable  from  his  wri- 
tings, that  Hume  could  have  but  one  motive  in 
bringing  him  over  (for  he  was  under  the  protection 
of  Lord  Mareshal)  and  that  was,  cherishing  a  man 
whose  writings  were  as  mischievous  to  society  as  his 
own.  The  merits  of  the  two  philosophers  are  soon 
adjusted.     There  is  an  immense  distance  between 


^ 


VVARBtJRTON'S  LETTERS. 


689 


their  natural  genius :  none  at  all  in  their  excessive 
vanity  ;  and  much  again  in  their  good  faith.  Rous- 
■eau's  warmth  has  made  him  act  the  madman  in  his 
philosophical  inquiries,  so  that  he  oft  sawnot  the 
mischief  which  he  did :  Hume' s  coldness  made  him 
not  ojily  see  but  rejoice  hi  his.  But  it  is  neitlier  parts 
nor  logic  that  has  made  either  of  them  philosophers, 
but  Infidelity  only.  For  which,  to  be  sure,  they 
both  equally  "deserve  a  pension." — pp.  286,  287. 

After  all  this,  it  can  surprise  us  very  little 
to  hear  him  call  Voltaire  a  scoundrel  and  a 
liar ;  and,  in  the  bitterness  of  his  heart,  qua- 
lify Smollett  by  the  name  of  "a  vagabond 
Scot,  who  wrote  nonsense," — because  people 
had  bought  ten  thousand  copies  of  his  History, 
while  the  Divine  Legation  began  to  lie  heavy 
on  the  shelves  of  his  bookseller.  It  may  be 
worth  while,  however,  to  see  how  this  ortho- 
dox prelate  speaks  of  the  church  and  of 
churchmen.  The  following  short  passage  will 
give  the  reader  some  light  upon  the  subject  ] 
and  also  serve  to  exemplify  the  bombastic 
adulation  which  the  reverend  correspondents 
interchanged  with  each  other,  and  the  coarse 
but  robust  wit  by  which  Warburton  was  cer- 
tainly distinguished. 

"You  were  made  for  higher  things:  and  my 
greatest  pleasure  is,  that  you  give  me  a  hint  you 
are  impatient  to  pursue  them.  What  will  not  such 
a  capacity  and  such  a  pen  do,  either  to  shame  or  to 
improve  a  miserable  age  !  The  church,  like  the 
Ark  of  Noah,  is  worth  saving ;  not  for  the  sake  of 
the  unclean  beasts  and  vermin  that  almost  filled  it 
and  probably  made  most  noise  and  clamour  in  it, 
but  for  the  little  corner  of  rationaUty,  that  was  as 
inuch  distressed  by  the  stink  within,  as  by  the  tem- 
pest without." — pp.  83,  84. 

In  another  place,  he  says,  '•  I  am  serious 
upon  it.  I  am  afraid  that  both  you  and  I  shall 
outlive  common  sense,  as  well  as  learning,  in 
our  reverend  brotherhood;"  and  afterwards 
complains,  that  he  has  laboured  all  his  life  to 
support  the  cause  of  the  clergy,  and  been  re- 
paid with  nothing  but  ingratitude.  In  the  close 
of  another  letter  on  the  same  subject,  he  says, 
with  a  presumption,  which  the  event  has  al- 
ready made  half  ridiculous,  and  half  melan- 
choly, "Are  not  you  and  I  finely  employed  1 
—but.  Serimus  arbores.  alteri  qucs  seculo  pro- 
sunt.^^ 

But  these  are  only  general  expressions, 
arising,  perhaps,  from  spleen  or  casual  irrita- 
tion. Let  us  inquire  how  he  speaks  of  indi- 
viduals. It  would  be  enough,  perhaps,  to  say, 
that  except  a  Dr.  Balguy,  we  do  not  remember 
of  his  saying  any  thing  respectful  of  a  single 
clergyman  throughout  the  whole  volume. — 
Th6  following  is  a  pretty  good  specimen  of 
the  treatment  which  was  reserved  for  such  of 
them  as  dared  to  express  their  dissent  from 
hi3  paradoxes  and  fancies. 

"  What  could  make  that  important  blockhead 
„  ju  knew  whom)  preach  against  me  at  St.  James'? 
He  never  met  me  at  Court,  or  at  Powis  or  New- 
castle-House. And  what  was  it  to  him,  whether 
the  Jews  had  a  future  life?  It  might  be  well  for 
such  as  him,  if  the  Christ ia?is  had  none  neither  ! — 
Nor,  I  dare  say,  does  he  much  trouble  himself  about 
the  matter,  while  he  stands  foremost, amongst  you,  in 
the  new  Land  of  Promise  ;  which,  however,  to  the 
mortification  of  these  modern  Jews,  is  a  lit'ledis- 
lant  from  that  of  performance  J' ^ — ^p.  *i5. 
44 


Now,  this  is  not  said  m  jest ;  but  in  fierce 
anger  and  resentment;  and  really  affords  as 
wonderful  a  picture  of  the  temper  and  liberal- 
ity of  a  Christian  divine,  as  some  of  the  disputes 
among  the  grammarians  do  of  the  irritability 
of  a  mere  man  of  letters.  The  contempt,  in- 
deed, with  which  he  speaks  of  his  answerers, 
who  were  in  general  learned  divines,  is  equally 
keen  and  cutting  with  that  which  he  evinces 
towards  Hume  and  Bolingbroke.  He  himself 
knew  ten  thousand  faults  in  his  work ;  but 
they  have  never  found  one  of  them.  Nobody 
has  ever  answered  him  yet,  but  at  their  own 
expense ;  and  some  poor  man Mhom  he  men- 
tions "must  share  in  the  silent  contempt 
with  which  I  treat  my  answerers."  This  is 
his  ordinary  style  in  those  playful  and  affec- 
tionate letters.  Of  known  and  celebrated 
individuals,  he  talks  in  the  same  tone  of  dis- 
gusting arrogance  and  animosity.  Dr.  Lowth, 
the  learned  and  venerable  Bishop  of  London, 
had  occasion  to  complain  of  some  misrepre- 
sentations in  Warburton's  writings,  relating 
to  the  memory  of  his  father ;  and,  after  some 
amicable  correspondence,  stated  the  matter  tc 
the  public  in  a  short  and  temperate  pamphlet. 
Here  is  the  manner  in  which  he  is  treated  foi 
it  in  this  Episcopal  correspondence. 

"  All  you  say  about  Lowih's  pamphlet  breathes 
the  purest  spirit  of  friendship.  His  wit  and  his 
reasoning.  God  knows,  and  1  also  (as  a  certain  critic 
said  once  in  a  matter  of  the  like  great  importance), 
are  much  below  the  quahties  that  deserve  those 
names.  But  the  strangest  thing  of  all,  is  this  man's 
boldness  in  publishing  my  letters  without  my  leave 
or  knowledge.  I  remember  several  long  letters 
passed  between  us.  And  I  remember  you  saw  the 
letters.  But  I  have  so  totally  forgot  the  contents, 
that  1  am  at  a  loss  for  the  meaning  of  these  words. 

"  In  a  word,  you  are  right. — If  he  expected  an 
answer,  he  will  certainly  find  himself  disappointed  .- 
though  I  believe  I  could  make  as  good  sport  with 
this  Devil  of  a  vice,  for  the  public  diversio?i,  as  ever 
was  made  with  him,  in  the  old  31oralities.^' 

pp.  273,  274. 

Among  the  many  able  men  who  thought 
themselves  called  upon  to  expose  his  errors 
and  fantasies,  two  of  the  most  distinguished 
were  Jortin  and  Leland.  Dr.  Jortin  had  ot 
jected  to  Warburton's  theory  of  the  Six:*? 
JEneid ;  and  Dr.  Leland  to  his  notion  of  the 
Eloquence  of  the  Evangelists;  and  both  with 
great  respect  and  moderation.  Warburton 
M^ould  not,  or  could  not  answer;  —  but  his 
faithful  esquire  was  at  hand  ;  and  two  anony- 
mous pamphlets,  from  the  pen  of  Dr.  Richard 
Hurd,  were  sent  forth,  to  extol  Warburton, 
and  his  paradoxes,  beyond  the  level  of  a 
mortal ;  to  accuse  Jortin  of  envy,  and  to  con- 
vict-Leland  of  ignorance  and  error.  Leland 
answered  for  himself;  and,  in  the  opinion  of 
all  the  world,  completely  demolished  his  an- 
tagonist. Jortin  contented  himself  with  laugh- 
ing at  the  weak  and  elaborate  irony  of  the 
Bishop's  anonymous  champion^  and  with  won- 
dering at  his  talent  for  perversion.  Hurd  never 
owned  either  of  these  malignant  pamphlets : 
— and  in  the  life  of  his  friend,  no  notice  what- 
ever w^as  taken  of  this  inglorious  controversy 
What  would  have  been  better  lot  gotten,  how 
ever,  for  their  ioint  reputation,  -v  injudiciously 


690 


MrSCELLANEOUS. 


brought  back  to  notice  in  the  volume  now  be- 
fore us; — and  Warb  irton  is  proved  by  his 
letters  to  have  entei  eJ  fully  into  all  the  paltry 
keenness  of  his  correspondent,  and  to  have 
indulged  a  feeling  of  the  most  rancorous  hos- 
tility towards  both  these  excellent  and  accom- 
plished men.  In  one  of  his  letters  he  says, 
"  I  will  not  tell  you  how  much  I  am  obliged 
to  you  for  this  correction  of  Leland.  I  have 
desired  ColoneJ  Harvey  to  get  it  reprinted  in 
Dublin,  which  I  tuV.k  ^ut  a  proper  return  for 
Leland's  favour  in  London."  We  hear  noth- 
ing mo;e,  however,  on  this  subject,  after  the 
publicaticn  of  Dr.  Leland's  reply. 

With  regard  to  Jortin,  again,  he  says,  ''Next 
to  the  pleasure  of  seeing  myself  so  finely 
praised,  is  the  satisfaction  I  take  in  seeing 
Jortin  mortified.  I  know  to  what  degree  it 
will  do  it ;  and  he  deserves  to  be  mortified. 
One  thing  I  in  good  earnest  resented  for  its 
baseness,"  &c.  In  another  place,  he  talks  of 
his  "mean,  low,  and  ungrateful  conduct;" 
and  adds,  "Jortin  is  as  vain  as  he  is  dirty,  to 
imagine  that  I  am  obliged  to  him,"  &c.  And, 
after  a  good  deal  more  about  his  "mean,  low 
envy,"  "the  rancour  of  his  heart,"  his  "self- 
importance,"  and  other  good  qualities,  he 
speaks  in  this  way  of  his  death — 

"  I  see  by  die  papers  that  Jortin  is  dead.  His 
overrating  his  abilities,  and  the  public's  underra- 
ting them,  made  so  gloomy  a  temper  eat,  as  the  an- 
cients expressed  it,  his  own  heart.  If  his  death  dis- 
tresses his  own  family,  I  shall  be  heartily  sorry  for 
this  accident  of  mortality.  If  not,  there  is  no  loss — 
eve?i  to  himself  !''^ — p.  340. 

That  the  reader  may  judge  how  far  con- 
troversial rancour  has  here  distorted  the  fea- 
tures of  an  adversary,  we  add  part  of  an 
admirable  character  of  Dr.  Jortin,  drawn  by 
'.ne  who  had  good  occasion  to  know  him,  as 

appeared  in  a  work  in  M'hich  keenness, 
•.nndour,  and  erudition  are  very  singularly 
■ilended.  "'He  had  a  heart  which  never  dis- 
•;;"'aced  the  powers  of  his  understanding. — 
\\ith  a  lively  imagination  and  an  elegant 
tastfe,  he  united  the  artless  and  amiable  negli- 
gence cf  a  schoolboy.  Wit  without  ill-nature, 
and  sense  without  effort,  he  could,  at  will, 
scatter  on  every  subject ;  and.  in  every  book, 
.  'e  writer  presents  us  with  a  near  and  dis- 
tinot  view  of  the  man.  He  had  too  much 
discernment  to  confound  difference  of  opinion 
with  malignity  or  dulness ;  and  too  much  can- 
dour to  insult,  where  he  could  not  persuade. 
He  carried  with  him  into  every  subject  which 
he  explored,  a  solid  greatness  of  soul,  which 
could  spare  an  inferior,  though  in  the  offen- 
sive form  of  an  adversary,  and  endure  an 
f»qual,  with  or  without  the  sacred  name  of  a 
frienci."* 

Y)\'.  Middleton,  too,  had  happened  to  differ 
from  some  of  Warburton's  opinions  on  the 
Tigin  of  Popish  ceremonies ;  and  accordingly 
ho  is  very  charitably  represented  as  having 
rencunced  his  religion  in  a  pet,  on  account  of 
the  diBcourtesy  of  his  brethren  in  the  church. 
It  is  on  an  occasion  no  less  serious  and  to'ich- 


*  See  prefac<i  <.«  Two  Trotts  by  a  Warburtonian. 
p.  194. 


ing,  than  the  immediate  prospect  of  thia 
learned  man's  death,  who  had  once  been  his 
friend,  that  he  gives  vent  to  this  liberal  im- 
putation. 

"  Had  hf!  had,  /  will  not  say  piety,  but  greatness 
of  mind  enough  not  to  suffer  the  pretended  injuries 
of  some  churchmen  to  prejudice  him  against  reli- 
gion, I  should  love  him  living,  and  honour  his 
memory  when  dead.  But,  godd  God !  that  man, 
for  the  discourtesies  done  him  by  his  miserable 
fellow-creatures,  should  be  content  to  divest  him 
self  of  the  true  viaticum,  the  comfort,  the  solace, 
the  asylum,  &c.  &c.  is  perfectly  astonishing.  1 
believe  no  one  (all  things  considered)  has  suffered 
more  from  the  low  and  vile  passions  of  the  high  and 
low  amongst  our  brethren  than  myself.  Yet,  God 
forbid,  «Scc." — pp.40,  41. 

When  divines  of  the  Church  of  England 
are  spoken  of  in  this  manner,  it  may  be  sup- 
posed that  Dissenters  and  Laymen  do  not 
meet  with  any  better  treatment.  Priestley, 
accordingly,  is  called  "  a  wretched  fellow ;" 
and  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson,  who,  in  spite  of 
considerable  temptations  to  tlie  contrary,  had 
spoken  with  great  respect  of  him,  both  in  his 
preface  to  Shakespeare  and  in  his  notes,  is 
thus  rewarded  by  the  meek  and  modest  eccle- 
siastic for  his  forbearance. 

"  The  remarks  he  makes  in  every  page  on  my 
commentaries,  arefullofi?isolence  and  malignant 
reflections,  which,  had  they  not  in  them  as  'much 
folly  as  malignity,  I  should  have  had  reason  to  be 
offended  with.  As  it  is,  I  think  myself  obliged  lo 
him  in  thus  setting  before  the  public  so  many  of 
my  notes  with  his  remarks  upon  them  ;  for,  though 
I  have  no  great  opinion  of  that  trifling  part  of  the 
public,  which  pretends  to  judge  of  this  part  of 
literature,  in  which  boys  and  girls  decide,  yet  1 
think  nobody  can  he  mistaken  in  this  comparison; 
though  I  think  their  thoughts  have  never  yet  ex- 
tended thus  far  as  to  reflect,  that  to  discover  the 
corruption  in  an  author's  text,  and  by  a  happy  sa- 
gacity to  restore  it  to  sense,  is  no  easy  task  :  But 
when  the  discovery  is  made,  then  to  cavil  at  the 
conjecture,  to  propose  an  equivalent,  and  defetid 
nonsense,  bv  producing,  out  of  the  thick  darkness 
it  occasion*  a  weak  and  faint  glimmering  of  sense 
(which  has  been  the  business  of //«'s£<7/for  through- 
out) is  the  easiest,  as  well  as  dullest  of  all  literary 
efforts."— pp.  272,  273. 

It  is  irksome  transcribing  more  of  these 
insolent  and  vindictive  personalities;  and  T«e 
believe  we  have  already  extracted  enough,  to 
satisfy  our  readers  as  to  the  probable  effect 
of  this  publication,  in  giving  the  world  a  just 
impression  of  the  amiable,  playful,  and  af- 
fectionate character  of  this  learned  prelate. 
It  is  scarcely  necessary,  for  this  piirpose,  to 
refer  to  any  of  his  pathetic  lamentations  over 
his  own  age,  as  a  ^^  barbarous  age."  an  "?m- 
pious  age,"  and  "a  dark  age," — to  quote  k*' 
murmurs  at  the  ingratitude  with  which  c'vt 
own  labours  had  been  rewarded, — or,  indeev\ 
to  do  more  than  transcribe  his  sage  and  mag. 
nanimous  resolution,  in  the  year  1768,  to  be 
gin  to  live  for  himself — having  already  live:" 
for  others  longer  than  they  had  deserved  oi 
him."  This  worthy  and  philanthropic  person 
had  by  this  time  preached  and  written  him- 
self into  a  bishopric  and  a  fine  estate ;  and, 
at  the  same  time,  indulged  himself  in  every 
sort  of  \iolence  and  scurrility  against  those 
i"  f'-om  whose  oninions  he  dissented.    In  thesa 


r 


WARBimrON'S  LETTERS. 


691 


circumstancei?,  >e  really  are  not  aware  either 
how  ho  could  have  lived  more  for  himself,  or 
less  for  others,  than  he  had  been  all  along 
doing.  But  we  leave  now  the  painful  task  of 
commenting  upon  this  book,  as  a  memorial 
of  his  character ;  and  gladly  turn  to  those  parts 
of  it,  from  which  our  readers  may  derive  more 
unmingled  amusement. 

The  wit  which  it  contains  is  generally  strong 
and  coarse,  with  a  certain  mixture  of  profanity 
which  does  not  always  seem  to  consort  well 
with  the  episcopal  character.  There  are  some 
allusions  to  the  Lady  of  Babylon,  which  we 
dare  not  quote  in  our  Presbyterian  pages.  The 
»«ader,  however,  may  take  the  following : — 

"  Poor  Job  !  It  was  his  eternal  fate  to  be  perse- 
cuted by  his  friends.  His  three  comforters  passed 
sentence  of  condemnation  upon  him ;  and  he  has 
been  executing  m  effigie  ever  since.  He  was  first 
bound  to  the  stake  by  a  long  catena  of  Greek 
Fathers  ;  then  tortured  by  Pineda  !  then  strangled 
*)y  Caryl;  and  afterwards  cut  up  by  Westley,  and 
anatomised  by  Garnet.  Pray  don't  reckon  me 
amongst  his  hangmen.  I  only  acted  the  tender 
part  of  his  wife,  and  was  for  making  short  work  with 
nim  !  But  he  was  ordained,  I  think,  by  a  fate  like 
that  of  Prometheus,  to  lie  still  upon  his  dunghill, 
and  have  his  brains  sucked  out  by  owls.  One 
Hodges,  a  head  of  Oxford,  now  threatens  us  with  a 
new  Auto  de  Ft.^^ — p.  22. 

We  have  already  quoted  one  assimilation 
of  the  Church  to  the  Ark  of  Noah.  This  idea 
is  pursued  in  the  following  passage,  which 
is  perfectly  characteristic  of  the  force,  the 
vul^rity,  and  the  mannerism  of  Warburton's 
writing : — 

"  You  mention  Noah's  Ark.  I  have  really  for- 
got what  I  said  of  it.  But  I  suppose  I  compared 
the  Church  to  it,  as  many  a  grave  divine  has  done 
before  me. — The  rabbins  make  the  giant  Gog  or 
Magog  contemporary  with  Noah,  and  convinced  by 
his  preaching ;  so  that  he  was  disposed  to  take  the 
benefit  of  the  ark.  But  here  lay  the  distress ;  it  by 
no  means  suited  his  dimensions.  Therefore,  as 
he  could  not  enter  in,  he  contented  himself  to  ride 
upon  it  astride.  And  though  you  must  suppose 
that,  in  that  stormy  weather,  he  was  more  than 
half-boots  over,  he  kept  his  seat  and  dismounted 
safely,  when  the  ark  landed  on  Mount  Ararat. — 
Image  now  to  yourself  this  illustrious  Cavalier 
mounted  on  his  hackney:  and  see  if  it  does  not  bring 
before  you  the  Church,  bestrid  by  some  lumpish 
minister  of  state,  who  turns  and  winds  it  at  his 
pleasure.  The  only  difference  is,  that  Gog  believed 
the  preacher  of  righteousness  and  religion." 

pp.  87,  88. 

The  following  is  in  a  broader  and  more  am- 
bitious style, — yet  still  peculiar  and  forcible. 
After  recommending  a  tour  round  St.  James' 
Park,  as  far  more  instructive  than  the  grand 
tour,  he  proceeds — 

"  This  is  enough  for  any  one  who  only  wants  to 
study  men  for  his  use.  But  if  our  aspiring  friend 
would  go  higher,  and  study  human  nature,  in  ar^j 
for  itself,  he  must  take  a  much  larger  tour  than  that 
of  Europe.  He  must  first  go  and  catch  her  ;;n- 
dresscd,  nay,  quite  naked,  in  North  America,  and 
at  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope.  He  may  then  examine 
how  she  appears  cramped,  contracted,  and  buttoned 
close  up  in  the  straight  tunic  of  law  and  custom,  as 
in  China  and  Japan  ;  or  spread  out,  and  enlarged 
above  her  common  size,  in  the  long  and  flowing 
robe  of  enthusiasm  amongst  the  Arabs  and  Sara- 
pens ;  or,  lastly,  as  she  flutters  in  the  old  rags  of 
worn-out  policy  and  civil  government,  and  almost 


ready  to  run  back  naked  to  tho  deserts,  as  on  th< 
Mediterranean  coast  of  Africa,  These,  tell  him, 
are  the  grand  scei;rs  for  the  true  philosopher,  Ibi 
the  citizen  of  the  world,  to  contemplate.  The 
Tour  of  Europe  is  like  the  er/.ertainment  that  Flu- 
tarch  speaks  of,  which  Pompey's  host  ot  Epirua 
gave  him.  There  were  many  dishes,  and  they  had 
a  seeming  variety  ;  but  when  he  came  to  examine 
them  narrowly,  he  found  them  all  made  out  of  one 
hog,  and  indeed  nothing  but  pork  differently  dis- 
guised. 

"  Indeed  I  perfectly  agree  with  you,  that  a  scholar 
by  profession,  who  know8  how  to  employ  his  time 
in  his  study,  for  the  benefit  of  mankind,  would  b# 
more  than  fantastical,  he  would  be  mad,  to  go  ram- 
bling  round  Europe,  thojgh  his  fortune  would  per- 
mit him.  For  to  travel  with  profit,  must  be  when 
his  faculties  are  at  the  i;eight,  his  studies  matured, 
and  all  his  reading  fresh  in  his  head.  But  to 
waste  a  considerable  space  of  time,  at  such  a  period 
of  life,  is  worse  than  suicide.  Yet,  for  all  this,  the 
knowledge  of  human  nature  (the  only  knowledge, 
in  the  largest  sense  of  it,  worth  a  wise  man's  con- 
cern or  care)  can  never  be  well  acquired  without 
seeing  it  under  all  its  disguises  and  distortions,  ari- 
sing from  absurd  governments  and  monstrous  reli- 
gions, in  every  quarter  of  the  globe.  'Iherefore,  I 
think  a  collection  of  the  best  voyages  no  despicable 
part  of  a  philosopher's  library.  Perhaps  there  wilf. 
be  found  more  dross  in  this  sort  of  literature,  ever 
when  selected  most  carefully,  than  in  any  other. 
But  no  matter  for  that ;  such  a  collection  will  con- 
tain a  great  and  solid  treasure.'' — pp.  Ill,  112. 

These,  w^e  think,  are  favourable  specimens 
of  wit,  and  of  power  of  writing.  The  bad 
jokes,  however,  rather  preponderate.  There 
is  one  brought  in,  with  much  formality,  about 
his  suspicions  of  the  dunces  having  stolen  the 
lead  off  the  roof  of  his  coachhouse ;  and  two 
or  three  absurd  little  anecdotes,  which  seem 
to  have  no  pretensions  to  pleasantry — but 
that  they  are  narratives,  and  have  no  serious 
meaning. 

To  pass  from  wit,  however,  to  more  serious 
matters,  we  find,  in  this  volume,  some  very 
striking  proofs  of  the  extent  and  diligence  of 
this  author's  miscellaneous  reading,  particu- 
larly in  the  lists  and  characters  of  the  authors 
to  whom  he  refers  his  friend  as  authorities 
for  a  history  of  the  English  constitution.  In 
this  part  of  his  dialogues,  indeed,  it  appears 
that  Hurd  has  derived  the  whole  of  his  learn- 
ing, and  most  of  his  opinions,  from  Warburton. 
The  following  remarks  on  the  continuation  of 
Clarendon's  History  are  good  and  liberal : — 

"  Besides  that  business,  and  age,  and  misfort^uies 
had  perhaps  sunk  his  spirit,  the  Continuation  ia  not 
so  properly  the  history  of  the  first  six  years  of 
Charles  the  Second,  as  an  anxious  apology  for  the 
share  himself  had  in  the  administration.  This  has 
hurt  the  composition  in  several  respects.  Amongst 
others,  he  could  not,  with  decency,  allow  his  pen 
that  scope  in  his  delineation  of  the  chief  characters 
of  the  court,  who  were  all  his  personal  enemies,  as 
he  had  done  in  that  of  the  enemies  to  the  King  and 
monarchy  in  the  grand  rebellion.  The  endeavour  to 
keep  up  a  show  of  candour,  and  especially  to  pre- 
vent the  appearance  of  a  rancorous  resentment,  has 
deadened  his  colouring  very  much,  besides  that  it 
made  him  sparing  in  the  use  of  it ;  else,  his  inimit- 
able pencil  had  attempted,  at  least,  to  do  justice  to 
Bennet,  to  Berkley,  to  Coventry,  to  the  nightly 
cabal  of  facetious  memory,  to  the  Lady,  and,  if  his 
excessive  loyalty  had  not  intervened,  to  his  in- 
famous master  himself.  With  all  this,  I  am  apt  to 
think  there  may  still  be  something  in  what  I  saia 
of  the  nature  of  the  subject.    Exquisite  virtue  anc 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


enormous  vice  afford  a  fine  field  for  the  historian's 
genius.  And  hence  Livy  and  Tacitus  are,  in  their 
way,  perhaps  equally  entertaining.  But  the  little 
intrigues  of  a  selfish  court,  about  carrying,  or  de- 
feating this  or  that  measure,  about  displacing  this 
and  bringing  in  that  minister,  which  interest  no- 
body very  much  but  the  parties  concerned,  can 
hardly  be  made  very  striking  by  any  ability  of  the 
relator.  If  Cardinal  de  Retz  has  succeeded,  his 
scene  was  busier,  and  of  a  another  nature  from 
that  of  Lord  Clarendon.''— p.  217. 

His  acconnt  of  Tillotson  seems  also  to  be 
fair  and  judicious. 

"  As  to  the  Archbishop,  he  was  certainly  a  virtu- 
ous, pious,  humane,  and  moderate  man  ;  which  last 
quality  was  a  kind  of  rarity  in  those  times.  I  think 
the  sermons  published  in  his  lifetime,  are  fine 
moral  discourses.  They  bear,  indeed,  the  charac- 
ter of  their  author, — simple,  elegant,  candid,  clear, 
and  rational.  No  orator,  in  the  Greek  and  Roman 
sense  of  the  word,  like  Taylor;  nor  a  discourser, 
in  their  sense,  like  Barrow ; — free  from  their  ir- 
regularities, but  not  able  to  reach  their  heights  ;  on 
which  account,  I  prefer  them  infinitely  to  him. 
You  cannot  sleep  with  Taylor ;  you  cannot  forbear 
thinking  with  Barrow ;  but  you  may  be  much  at 
your  ease  in  the  midst  of  a  long  lecture  from  Til- 
lotson, clear,  and  rational,  and  equable  as  he  is. 
Perhaps  the  last  quality  may  account  for  it." 

pp.  93,  94. 

The  fallowing  observations  on  the  conduct 
of  the  comic  drama  were  thrown  out  for  Mr. 
Hurd's  use,  while  composing  his  treatise.  We 
think  they  deserve  to  be  quotedj  for  their 
clearness  and  justness : — 

"  As  those  intricate  Spanish  plots  have  been  in 
use,  and  have  taken  both  with  us  and  some  French 
writers  for  the  stage,  and  have  much  hindered  the 
main  end  of  Comedy,  would  it  not  be  worth  while 
to  give  them  a  word,  as  it  would  tend  to  the  further 
illustration  of  your  subject  ?  On  which  you  might 
observe,  that  when  these  unnatural  plots  are  used, 
the  mind  is  not  only  entirely  drawn  off  from  the 
characters  by  those  surprising  turns  and  revolu- 
tions, but  characters  have  no  opportunity  even  of 
being  called  out  and  displaying  themselves ;  for  the 
actors  of  all  characters  succeed  and  are  embarrassed 
alike,  when  the  instruments  for  carrying  on  designs 
are  only  perplexed  apartments,  dark  entries,  dis- 
guised habilsi  and  ladders  of  ropes.  The  comic 
plot  is,  and  must  indeed  be,  earned  on  by  deceit. 
The  Spanish  scene  does  it  by  deceiving  the  man 
through  his  senses; — Terence  and  Moliere,  by  de- 
ceiving him  through  his  passions  and  affections. 
And  this  is  the  right  way  ;  for  the  character  is  not 
called  out  under  the  first  species  of  deceit, — under 
lae  second,  the  character  does  all.'^ — p.  57. 

There  are  a  few  of  Bishop  Hurd's  own  let- 
ters in  this  collection ',  and  as  we  suppose  they 
were  selected  with  a  view  to  do  honour  to  hu 


memory,  we  think  it  our  duty  to  lay  one  CF 
them  at  least  before  our  readers.  Warburtoi 
had  slipped  in  his  garden,  and  hurt  his  arm 
whereupon  thus  inditeth  the  obsequious  Br 
Hurd  :— 

"  I  thank  God  that  I  can  now,  with  some  assur- 
ance, congratulate  with  myself  on  the  prospect  ot 
your  Lordship's  safe  and  speedy  recovery  from 
y\  ur  sad  disaster. 

"  Mrs.  VVarburton's  last  letter  was  a  cordial  to 
me ;  and,  as  the  ceasing  of  intense  pain,  so  this 
abatement  of  the  fears  I  have  been  tormented  with 
for  three  or  four  days  past,  gives  a  certain  alacrity 
to  my  spirits,  of  which  your  Lordship  may  look  to 
feel  the  effects,  in  a  long  letter  ! 

"  And  now,  supposing,  as  I  trust  I  may  do,  that 
your  Lordship  will  be  in  no  great  pain  when  you 
receive  this  letter,  I  am  tempted  to  begin,  as  friends 
usually  do  when  such  accidents  befal,  with  my 
reprehensions,  rather  than  condolence.  I  have  often 
wondered  why  your  Lordship  should  not  use  a  cane 
in  your  walks  I  which  might  haply  have  prevented 
this  misfortune !  especially  considering  that  Hea- 
ven, I  suppose  the  better  to  keep  its  sons  in  some 
sort  of  equality,  has  thought  fit  to  make  your  out- 
ward sight  by  many  degrees  less  perfect  than  your 
inward.  Even  I,  a  young  and  stout  son  of  the 
church,  rarely  trust  my  firm  steps  into  my  garden, 
without  some  support  of  this  kind  !  How  improvi- 
dent, then,  was  it  in  a  father  of  the  church  to  com- 
mit his  unsteadfast  footing  to  this  hazard !"  &c. 

p.  251. 

There  are  many  pages  written  with  the 
same  vigour  of  sentiment  and  expression,  and 
in  the  same  tone  of  manly  independence. 

We  have  little  more  to  say  of  this  curious 
volume.  Like  all  Warburton's  writings,  it 
bears  marks  of  a  powerful  understanding  and 
an  active  fancy.  As  a  memorial  of  his  per- 
sonal character,  it  must  be  allowed  to  be  at 
least  faithful  and  impartial  j  for  it  makes  us 
acquainted  with  his  faults  at  least,  as  distinct- 
ly as  with  his  excellences ;  and  gives,  indeed 
the  most  conspicuous  place  to  the  former.  It 
has  few  of  the  charms,  however,  of  a  collec- 
tion of  letters- — no  anecdotes — no  traits  of 
simplicity  or  artless  affection; — nothing  of 
the  softness,  grace,  or  negligence  of  Cowper's 
correspondence — and  little  of  the  lightness  or 
the  elegant  prattlement  of  Pope's  or  Lady 
Mary  Wortley's.  The  MTiters  always  appear 
busy,  and  even  laborious  persons, — and  per- 
sons who  hate  many  people,  and  despise  many 
more.^But  they  neither  appear  very  happy, 
nor  very  amiable;  and,  at  the  end  of  the 
book,  have  excited  no  other  interest  in  the 
reader,  than  as  the  authors  of  their  respective 
publications. 


LIFE  OF  LORD  CHARLEMONT.  693 


( Jfocembcr,  ISll. ) 

Memoirs  of  the  Political  and  Private  Life  of  James  Coalfield,  Earl  of  Charlemont,  Knight  of 
St.  Patrick,  See.  Sfc.  By  Francis  Hardy,  Esq.,  Member  oi  the  House  of  Commons  m  thf» 
three  last  Parliaments  of  Ireland.    4to.   pp.426.     London:   1810.* 


This  is  the  life  of  a  Gentleman,  written  by 
a  Gentleman, — and,  considering  the  tenor  of 
many  of  our  late  biographies,  this  of  itself  is 
no  slight  recommendation.  But  it  is,  more- 
over, the  life  of  one  who  stood  foremost  in 
the  political  history  of  Ireland  for  fifty  years 
preceding  her  Union, — that  is,  for  the  whole 
period  during  which  Ireland  had  a  history  or 
politics  of  her  own — written  by  one  who  was 
a  witness  and  a  sharer  in  the  scene, — a  man 
of  fair  talents  and  liberal  views, — and  distin- 
guished, beyond  all  writers  on  recent  politics 
that  we  have  yet  met  with,  for  the  handsome 
and  indulgent  terms  in  which  he  speaks  of 
his  political  opponents.  The  work  is  enliven- 
ed, too,  with  various  anecdotes  and  fragments 
of  the  correspondence  of  persons  eminent  for 
talents,  learning,  and  political  services  in  both 
countries ;  and  with  a  great  number  of  char- 
acters, sketched  with  a  very  powerful,  though 
somewhat  too  favourable  hand,  of  almost  all 
who  distinguished  themselves,  during  this  mo- 
mentous period,  on  the  scene  of  Irish  affairs. 

From  what  we  have  now-  said,  the  reader 
will  conclude  that  we  think  very  favourably 
of  this  book :  And  we  do  think  it  both  enter- 
taining and  instructive.  But  (for  there  is 
always  a  but  in  a  Reviewer's  praises)  it  has 
also  its  faults  and  imperfections ;  and  these, 
alas !  so  great  and  so  many,  that  it  requires 
all  the  good  nature  we  can  catch  by  sympathy 
from  the  author,  not  to  treat  him  now  and 
then  with  a  terrible  and  exemplary  severity. 
He  seems,  in  the  first  place,  to  have  begun 
and  ended  his  book,  without  ever  forming  an 
idea  of  the  distinction  between  private  and 
public  history  ;  and  sometimes  tells  us  stories 
about  Lord  Charlemoni,  and  about  people 
who  were  merely  among  his  accidental  ac- 
quaintance, far  too  long  to  find  a  place  even 
in  a  biographical  memoir; — and  sometimes 
enlarges  upon  matters  of  general  history,  with 
which  Lord  Charlemont  has  no  other  connec- 
tion, than  that  they  happened  during  his  life, 
with  a  minuteness  which  w^ould  not  be  toler- 
ated in  a  professed  annalist.  The  biography 
again  is  broken,  not  only  by  large  patches  of 
historical  matter,  but  by  miscellaneous  reflec- 
tions, and  anecdotes  of  all  manner  of  persons; 
while,  in  the  historical  part,  he  successively 
makes  the  most  unreasonable  presumptions 
DTI  the  reader's  knowledge,  his  ignorance,  and 
his  curiosity, — overlaying  him,  at  one  time, 

*  I  reprint  only  those  parts  of  this  paper  which 
relate  to  the  personal  history  of  Lord  Charlemont, 
?nd  some  of  his  contemporaries  : — with  the  excep- 
lion  of  one  brief  reference  to  the  revolution  of 
1782,  which  I  retain  chiefly  to  introduce  a  re- 
markable letter  of  Mr.  Fox's  on  the  formation 
and  principles  of  the  new  government,  of  that 
year. 


with  anxious  and  uninteresting  details,  and, 
at  another,  omitting  even  such  general  and 
summary  notices  of  the  progress  of  events  aa 
are  necessary  to  connect  his  occasional  narra- 
tives and  reflections. 

The  most  conspicuous  and  extraordinary 
of  his  irregularities,  however,  is  that  of  his 
style ; — which  touches  upon  all  the  extremes 
of  composition,  almost  in  every  page,  or  every 
paragraph; — or  rather,  is  entirely  made  up  of 
those  extremes,  without  ever  resting  for  an 
instant  in  a  medium,  or  affording  any  pause 
'  for  softening  the  effects  of  its  contrasts  and 
,  transitions.    Sometimes,  and  indeed  most  fre- 
quently, it  is  familiar,  loose,  and  colloquial, 
beyond  the  common  pitch  of  serious  conver- 
:  sation ;  at  other  times  by  far  too  figurative, 
;  rhetorical,  and  ambitious,  for  the  sober  tone 
of  history.     The  whole  work   indeed  bears 
more  resemblance  to  the  animated  and  ver- 
satile folk  of  a  man  of  generous  feelings  and 
excitable  imagination,  than  the  mature  pro- 
duction of  an  author  who  had  diligently  cor- 
rected his  manuscript  for  the  press,  with  th<» 
fear  of  the  public  before  his  eyes.     There  is 
a  spirit  about  the  work,  however, — independ- 
ent of  the  spirit  of  candour  and  indulgence  of 
which  we  have  already  spoken, — which  re- 
deems many  of  its  faults:  and,  looking  upon 
i  it  in  the  light  of  a  memoir  by  an  intelligent 
I  contemporary,  rather  than  a  regular  history  or 
i  profound  dissertation,  we  think  that  its  value 
will  not  be  injured  by  a  comparison  with  any 
M'ork  of  this  description  that  has  been  recently 
offered  to  the  public. 

The  part  of  the  work  which  relates  to  Lord 
Charlemont  individually,  —  though  by  no 
means  the  least  interesting,  at  least  in  its  ad- 
juncts and  digressions, — may  be  digested  into 
a  short  summary.  He  was  born  in  Ireland  in 
1728 ;  and  received  a  private  education,  un- 
der a  succession  of  preceptors,  of  various 
merit  and  assiduity.  In  1746  he  went  abroad, 
without  having  been  either  at  a  public  school 
or  an  university;  and  yet  appears  to  have 
been  earlier  distinguished,  both  for  scholar- 
ship and  polite  manners,  than  most  of  the  in- 
genuous youths  that  are  turned  out  by  these 
celebrated  seminaries.  He  remained  on  the 
Continent  no  less  than  nine  years;  in  the 
course  of  which,  he  extended  his  travels  to 
Greece,  Turkey,  and  Egypt ;  and  formed  an 
intimate  and  friendly  acquaintance  with  the 
celebrated  David  Hume,  whom  he  met  both 
at  Turin  and  Paris — the  President  Montes- 
quieu— the  Marchese  Maffei — Card  ir.al  Albani 
— Lord  Rockingham — the  Due  de  Nivemois — 
and  various  other  eminent  persons.  He  had 
rather  a  dislike  to  the  French  national  charac- 
ter ;  though  he  admired  their  literatY^re.  and 
the  general  politeness  of  their  manners. 


694 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


In  1755  he  returned  to  his  native  country, 
at  the  age  of  twenty-eight ;  an  object  of  in- 
terest and  respect  to  all  parties,  and  to  all  indi- 
viduals of  consequence  in  the  kingdom.  His 
intimacy  with  Lord  John  Cavendish  naturally 
disposed  him  to  be  on  a  good  footing  with  his 
brother,  who  w^as  then  Lord  Lieutenant;  and 
"  the  outset  of  his  politics,"  as  he  has  himself 
observed,  '-gave  reason  to  suppose  that  his 
life  would  be  much  more  courtly  than  it  prov- 
ed to  be."  The  first  scene  of  profligacy  and 
court  intrigue,  however,  which  he  witnessed, 
determined  him  to  act  a  more  manly  part — 
"  to  be  a  Freeman,"  as  Mr.  Hardy  says,  '-in 
the  purest  sense  of  the  word,  opposing  the 
court  or  the  people  indiscriminately,  when- 
ever he  saw^  them  adopting  erroneous  or  mis- 
chievous opinions."  To  this  resolution,  his 
biographer  adds,  that  he  had  the  virtue  and 
firmness  to  adhere ;  and  the  consequence  was. 
that  he  was  uniformly  in  opposition  to  the 
court  for  the  long  remainder  of  his  life  ! 

Though  very  regular  in  his  attendance  on 
the  Irish  Parliament,  he  always  had  a  house  in 
London,  where  he  passed  a  good  part  of  the 
winter,  till  1773;  when  feelings  of  patriotism 
and  duty  induced  him  to  transfer  his  residence 
almost  entirely  to  Ireland.  The  polish  of  his 
manners,  however,  and  the  kindness  of  his 
disposition, — his  taste  for  literature  and  the 
arts,  and  the  unsuspected  purity  and  firmness 
of  his  political  principles,  had  before  this  time 
secured  him  the  friendship  of  almost  all  the 
distinguished  men  who  adorned  England  at 
this  period.  With  Mr.  Fox,  Mrs.  Burke,  and 
Mr.  Beauclerk  —  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  Dr. 
Johnson,  Sir  William  Chalmers — and  many 
others  of  a  similar  character — he  was  always 
particularly  intimate.  During  the  Lieuten- 
ancy of  the  Earl  of  Northumberland,  in  1772, 
he  w^as,  without  any  solicitation,  advanced  to 
the  dignity  of  an  Earl;  and  was  very  much 
disting-uished  and  consulted  during  the  short 
period  of  the  Rockingham  administration ; — 
though  neither  at  that  time,  nor  at  any  other, 
invested  with  any  official  situation.  In  1768, 
he  married ;  and  in  1780,  he  was  chosen  Gene- 
ral of  the  Irish  Volunteers,  and  conducted  him- 
self in  that  delicate  and  most  important  com- 
mand, with  a  degree  of  temper  and  judgment, 
liberality  and  firmness,  which  we  have  no 
doubt  contributed,  more  than  any  thing  else, 
both  to  the  efficacy  and  the  safety  of  that  most 
perilous  but  necessary  experiment.  The  rest 
of  his  history  is  soon  told.  He  w^as  the  early 
patron  and  the  constant  friend  of  Mr.  Grat- 
tan;  and  was  the  means  of  introducing  the 
Single-Speech  Hamilton  to  the  acquaintance 
of  Mr.  Burke.  Though  very  early  disposed  to 
relieve  the  Catholics  from  a  part  of  their  dis- 
abilities, he  certainly  was  doubtful  of  the  pru- 
dence, or  propriety,  of  their  more  recent  pre- 
tensions. He  was  from  first  to  last  a  zealous, 
active,  and  temperate  advocate  for  parlia- 
mentary reform.  He  was  averse  to  the  Legis- 
lative Union  with  Great  Britain.  He  was  uni- 
formly steady  to  his  principles,  and  faithful 
•o  his  friends ;  and  seems  to  have  divided  the 
latter  part  of  his  life  pretty  equally  between 
Ihose  elegant  studies  of  literature  and  art  by 


which  his  youth  had  been  delighted,  and 
those  patriotic  duties  to  which  he  had  devoted 
his  middle  age.  The  sittings  of  the  Irish 
Academy,  over  which  he  presided  from  it8 
first  foundation,  were  frequently  held  at  Char- 
lemont  House ; — and  he  always  extended  the 
most  munificent  patronage  to  the  professors  of 
art,  and  the  kindest  indulgence  to  youthful 
talents  of  every  description.  His  health  had 
declined  gradually  from  about  the  year  1790; 
and  he  died  in  August  1799, — esteemed  and 
regretted  by  all  who  had  had  any  opportunity 
of  knowing  him,  in  public  or  in  private,  as  a 
friend  or  as  an  opponent. — Such  is  the  sure 
reward  of  honourabla  sentiments,  and  mild 
and  steady  principles ! 

To  this  branch  of  the  history  belongs  a  con- 
siderable part  of  the  anecdotes  and  characters 
wuth  which  the  book  is  enlivened ;  and,  in  a 
particular  manner,  those  which  Mr.  Hardy 
has  given,  in  Lord  Charlemont's  own  words, 
from  the  private  papers  and  memoirs  which 
have  been  put  into  his  hands.  His  Lordship 
appears  to  have  kept  a  sort  of  journal  of  every 
thing  interesting  that  befel  him  through  life, 
and  especially  during  his  long  residence  on 
the  Continent.  From  this  document  Mr.  Har- 
dy has  made  copious  extracts,  in  the  earlier 
part  of  his  narrative ;  and  the  general  style  of 
them  is  undoubtedly  very  creditable  to  the 
noble  author, — a  little  tedious,  perhaps,  now 
and  then, — and  generally  a  little  too  studiously 
and  maturely  composed,  for  the  private  me- 
moranda of  a  young  man  of  talents ; — but 
always  in  the  style  and  tone  of  a  gentleman, 
and  with  a  character  of  rationality,  and  calm 
indulgent  benevolence,  that  is  infinitely  more 
pleasing  than  sallies  of  sarcastic  wit,  orperiodi 
of  cold-blooded  speculation. 

One  of  the  first  characters  that  appears  on 
the  scene,  is  our  excellent  countryman,  the 
celebrated  David  Hume,  whom  Lord  Charle- 
mont  first  met  with  at  Turin,  in  the  year  1750 : 
— and  of  whom  he  has  given  an  account  rather 
more  entertaining,  we  believe,  than  accurate 
We  have  no  doubt,  however,  that  it  records 
with  perfect  fidelity  the  impression  which  he 
then  received  from  the  appearance  and  con- 
versation of  that  distinguished  philosopher. 
But,  with  all  our  respect  for  Lord  Charlemont, 
we  cannot  allow^  a  young  Irish  Lord,  on  his 
first  visit  at  a  foreign  court,  to  have  been  pre 
cisely  the  person  most  capable  of  appreciating 
the  value  of  such  a  man  as  David  Hume; — 
and  though  there  is  a  great  fund  of  truth  in 
the  following  observations,  we  think  they  il- 
lustrate the  character  and  condition  of  the 
person  who  makes  them,  fully  as  much  as 
that  of  him  to  whom  they  are  applied. 

"  Nature,  T  believe,  never  formed  any  man  more 
unlike  ills  real  character  than  David  Hume.  The 
powers  of  physiognomy  were  baffled  by  his  counte- 
nance ;  nor  could  the  most  skilful  in  that  science, 
pretend  to  discover  the  smallest  trace  of  t>^  facul- 
ties of  his  mind,  in  the  unmeaning  features  of  hia 
visage.  His  face  was  broad  and  fat,  his  mouth 
wide,  and  without  any  other  expression  than  that 
of  imbecility.  His  eyes,  vacant  and  spiritless  ;  and 
the  corpulence  of  his  wjiole  person  was  far  better 
fitted  to  communicate  the  idea  of  a  tunle-eaiing  al- 
derman, than  of  a  refined  philosopher.    F^o  cip--*- 


LIFE  OF  LORD  CHARLEMONT. 


m  English,  was  rendered  ridiculous  by  the  broadest 
Scotch  accent ;  and  his  French  was,  it  possible, 
still  more  laughable  ;  so  that  wisdom,  most  certain- 
ly, never  disguised  herself  before  in  so  uncouth  a 
garb.  Though  now  near  fifty  years  old  he  was 
healthy  and  strong;  but  his  health  and  strength, 
far  from  being  advantageous  to  his  figure,  instead 
)(  inanly  comeliness,  had  only  the  appearance  of 
rusticity.  His  wearing  an  uniform  added  greatly 
to  his  natural  awkwardness  ;  ibr  he  wore  it  like  a 
grocer  of  the  trained  bands.  Sinclair  was  a  lieuten- 
ant-general, and  was  sent  to  the  courts  of  Vienna 
and  Turin  as  a  military  envoy,  to  see  that  their 
quota  of  troops  was  furnished  by  the  Austrians  and 
Piedmontese.  It  was  therefore  thought  necessary 
that  his  secretary  should  appear  to  be  an  officer ; 
and  Hume  was  accordingly  disguised  in  scarlet. 

"Having  thus  given  an  account  of  his  exterior,  it 
is  but  fair  that  I  should  state  my  good  opinion  of  his 
character.  Of  all  the  philosophers  of  his  sect,  none, 
I  believe,  ever  joined  more  real  benevolence  to  its 
mischievous  principles  than  my  friend  Hume.  His 
love  to  mankind  was  universal,  and  vehement ;  and 
there  was  no  service  he  would  not  cheerfully  have 
done  to  his  fellow-creatures,  excepting  only  that  of 
suffering  them  to  save  their  own  souls  in  their  own 
way.  He  was  tender-hearted,  friendly,  and  char- 
itable in  the  extreme." — pp.  8,  9. 

His  Lordship  then  tells  a  story  in  illustration 
of  the  philosopher's  benevolence,  which  we 
have  no  other  reason  for  leaving  out — but  that 
we  know  it  not  to  be  true ;  and  concludes  a  lit- 
tle dissertation  on  the  pernicious  effects  of  his 
doctrines,  with  the  following  little  anecdote ; 
of  the  authenticity  of  which  also,  we  should 
entertain  some  doubts^  did  it  not  seem  to  have 
fallen  within  his  own  personal  knowledge. 

"  He  once  professed  himself  the  admirer  of  a 
young,  most  beautiful,  and  accomplished  lady,  at 
Turin,  who  only  laughed  at  his  passion.  One  day 
he  addressed  her  in  the  usual  common-place  strain, 
that  he  was  ahime,  aneaiiti. — '  Ok  !  pour  ajteanti,' 
replied  the  lady,  '  ce  li'est  en  effet  qu'une  operation 
tres-naturelle  de  voire  systeme.^  " — p.  10. 

The  following  passages  are  from  a  later  part 
of  the  journal :  but  indicate  the  same  turn  of 
mind  in  the  observer : — 

"  Hume^ s  fashiofi  at  Paris,  when  he  was  there  as 
Secretary  to  Lord  Hertford,  was  truly  ridiculous; 
and  nothing  ever  marked  in  a  more  strfldng  man- 
ner, the  whimsical  genius  of  the  French.  No  man, 
from  his  manners,  was  surely  less  formed  for  their 
society,  or  less  likely  to  meet  with  their  approba- 
tion ;  but  that  flimsy  philosophy  which  pervades 
and  deadens  even  their  most  licentious  novels,  was 
then  the  folly  of  the  day.  Freethinking  and  Eng- 
lish frocks  were  the  fashion,  and  the  Anglomanie 
was  the  ton  du  pais.  From  what  has  been  already 
said  of  him,  it  is  apparent  that  his  conversation  to 
strangers,  and  particularly  to  Frenchmen,  could  be 
little  delightful;  and  still  more  particularly,  one 
would  suppose  to  Frenchwomen.  And  yet,  no 
lady's  toilette  was  complete  without  Hume's  at- 
tendance! At  the  opera,  his  broad,  unmeaning 
face  was  usually  seen  e7itre  deux  jolis  minois.  The 
ladies  in  France  give  the  ton,  and  the  ton,  at  this 
time,  was  deism ;  a  species  of  philosophy  ill  suited 
to  the  softer  sex.  in  whose  delicate  frame  weakness 
is  interesting,  and  timidity  a  charm.  But  the  women 
in  France  were  deists,  as  with  us  they  were  char- 
ioteers. How  my  friend  Hume  was  able  to  endure 
the  encounter  of  those  French  female  Titans,  I 
know  not.  In  England,  either  his  philosophic  pride, 
or  his  conviction  that  infidelity  was  ill  suited  to 
women,  made  him  abvays  averse  from  the  initia- 
tion of  ladies  into  the  mysteries  of  his  doctrine." 
—pp.  121,  122. 

"  Nothing,"  adds  his  Lordship,  in  anoiner  place, 


ever  showed  a  mind  more  truly  benefice'!,  than 
•Hume's  whole  conduct  with  regard  to  Rousseau. 
That  story  rs  too  well  known  to  be  repeated ;  and 
exhibits  a  striking  picture  of  Hume's  heart,  whilst 
it  displays  the  strange  and  unaccountable  vanity  and 
madness  of  the  S"rench,  or  rather  Swiss  moralist. 
When  first  they  arrived  together  from  France,  hap- 
pening  to  meet  with  Hume  in  the  Park,  I  wished 
him  joy  of  his  pleasing  coimection  ;  and  particularly 
hinted,  that  I  was  convinced  he  must  be  perfectly 
happy  in  his  new  friend,  as  their  religious  opinions 
were,  I  believed,  nearly  similar.  '  Why  no,  man,' 
said  he,  'in  that  you  are  mistaken.  Rousseau  is 
not  what  you  think  him.  He  has  a  hankering  after 
the  Bible  ;  and,  indeed,  is  little  better  than  a  Chris- 
tian, in  a  way  of  his  own  !  '  " — p.  120. 

"  In  London,  where  he  often  did  me  the  honour 
to  communicate  the  manuscripts  of  his  additional 
Essays,  before  their  publication,  I  have  sometimes, 
in  the  course  of  our  intimacy,  asked  him,  whether 
he  thought  that,  if  his  opinions  were  universally  to 
take  place,  mankind  would  not  be  rendered  more 
unhappy  than  they  now  were;  and  whether  he  did 
not  suppose,  that  the  curb  of  religion  was  necessary 
to  human  nature  ?  '  The  objections,'  answered  he, 
'  are  not  without  weight ;  but  error  never  can  pro- 
duce good  ;  and  truth  ought  to  take  place  of  all  con- 
siderations.' He  never  failed,  indeed,  in  the  midst 
of  any  controversy,  to  give  its  due  praise  to  every 
thing  tolerable  that  was  either  said  or  written 
against  him.  His  sceptical  turn  made  him  doubt, 
and  consequently  dispute,  every  thing  ;  yet  was  he 
a  fair  and  pleasant  disputant.  He  heard  with  pa- 
tience, and  answered  without  acrimony.  Neither 
was  his  conversation  at  any  time  offensive,  even  to 
his  more  scrupulous  companions.  His  good  sense, 
and  good  nature,  prevented  his  saying  any  thing 
that  was  likely  to  shock  ;  and  it  was  not  till  he  wag 
provoked  to  argument,  that,  in  mixed  companies, 
he  entered  info  his  favourite  topics." — p.  123. 

Another  of  the  eminent  persons  of  whom 
Lord  Charlemont  has  recorded  his  impressions 
in  his  own  hand,  was  the  celebrated  Montes- 
quieu j  of  whose  acquaintance  he  says,  and 
with  some  reason,  he  was  more  vain,  than  of 
having  seen  the  pyramids  of  Egypt.  He  and 
another  English  gentleman  paid  their  first 
visit  to  him  at  his  seat  near  Bourdeaux;  and 
the  following  is  the  account  of  their  introduc- 
tion : — 

"  The  first  appointment  with  a  favourite  mistress 
could  not  have  rendered  our  night  more  restless 
than  this  flattering  invitation  ;  and  the  next  morning 
we  set  out  so  early,  that  we  arrived  at  his  villa  be- 
fore he  was  risen.  The  servant  showed  us  into  hi? 
library ;  where  the  first  object  of  curiosity  that  pre 
sented  itself  was  a  table,  at  which  he  had  apparently 
been  reading  the  night  before,  a  book  lying  upon 
it  open,  turned  down,  and  a  lamp  extinguished. 
Eager  to  know  the  nocturnal  studies  of  this  great 
philosopher,  we  immediately  flew  to  the  book.  It 
was  a  volume  of  Ovid's  Works,  containing  hi* 
Elegies  ;  and  open  at  one  of  the  most  gallant  poems 
of  that  master  of  love  !  Before  we  could  overcome 
our  surprise,  it  was  greatly  increased  by  the  en- 
trance of  the  president,  whose  appearance  and  man- 
ner was  totally  opposite  to  the  idea  which  we  hacJ- 
formed  to  ourselves  of  him.  Instead  of  a  grave, 
austere  philosopher,  whose  presence  might  strike 
with  awe  such  boys  as  w'e  were,  the  person  who 
now  addressed  us,  was  a  gay,  polite,  sprightly 
Frenchman  ;  who,  after  a  thousand  genteel  compli- 
ments, and  a  thousand  thanks  for  the  honour  we 
had  done  him,  desired  to  know  whether  we  would 
not  breakfast;  and,  upon  our  declining  the  offer, 
having  already  eaten  at  an  inn  not  far  from  the 
house,  'Come,  then,'  says  he.  'let  us  walk  ;  the 
day  is  fine,  and  I  long  to  show  you  my  villa,  as  I 
have  endeavoured  to  form  it  according  to  ihe  Eng- 
lish taste,  and  to  cuhivae  and  dress  it  in  the  Englisli 


«96 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


manner."  Following  him  into  the  farm,  we  soon 
arrived  at  the  skirts  of  a  beautiful  wood,  cut  into 
walks,  and  paled  round,  the  entrance  to  which  was 
barricadoed  with  a  moveable  bar,  about  three  feet 
high,  fastened  with  a  padlock.  '  Come,'  said  he, 
searching  in  his  pocket,  '  it  is  not  worth  our  while 
to  wait  for  the  key  ;  you,  I  am  sure,  can  leap  as  well 
as  I  can,  and  this  bar  shall  not  stop  me.'  So  saying, 
he  ran  at  the  bar,  and  fairly  jumped  over  it,  while 
we  followed  him  with  amazement,  though  not  with- 
out delight,  to  see  the  philosopher  hkely  to  become 
our  play-fellow." — pp.  32,  33. 

"  In  Paris,  I  have  frequently  met  him  in  company 
with  ladies,  and  have  been  as  often  astonished  at 
the  politeness,  the  gallantry,  and  sprighthness  of 
nis  behaviour.  In  a  word,  the  most  accomplished, 
the  most  refined  petit-maitre  of  Paris,  could  not 
have  been  more  amusing,  from  the  liveliness  of  his 
chat,  nor  could  have  been  more  inexhaustible  in 
that  sort  of  discourse  which  is  best  suited  to  women, 
than  this  venerable  philosopher  of  seventy  years 
old.  But  at  this  we  shall  not  be  surprised,  when 
we  reflect,  that  the  profound  author  of  L'Esprit  des 
Loix  was  also  author  of  the  Persian  Letters,  and  of 
!he  truly  gallant  Temple  de  Gnide." — p.  36. 

The  following  opinion,  from  such  a  quarter. 
Qight  have  been  expected  to  have  produced 
nore  effect  than  it  seems  to  have  done,  on  so 
parm  an  admirer  as  Lord  Charlemont : — 

"  In  the  course  of  our  conversations,  Ireland,  and 
ts  interests,  have  often  been  the  topic  ;  and,  upon 
,hese  occasions,  I  have  always  found  him  an  advo- 
;ate  for  an  incorporating  Union  between  that  coun- 
)ry  and  England.  '  Were  I  an  Irishman,'  said  he, 
'  I  .should  certainly  wish  for  it ;  and,  as  a  general 
lover  of  liberty,  I  sincerely  desire  it;  and  for  this 
plain  reason,  that  an  inferior  country,  connected 
with  one  much  her  superior  in  force,  can  never  be 
certain  of  the  permanent  enjoyment  of  constitutional 
freedom,  unless  she  has,  by  her  representatives,  a 
proportional  share  in  the  legislature  of  the  superior 
kingdom.'  " — Ibid. 

Of  Lord  Charlemont' s  English  friends  and 
a&sociates,  none  is  represented,  perhaps,  in 
more  lively  and  pleasing  colours  than  Topham 
Beauclerk ;  to  the  graces  of  whose  conversa- 
tion even  the  fastidious  Dr.  Johnson  has  borne 
such  powerful  testimony.  Lord  Charlemont, 
and,  indeed,  all  who  have  occasion  to  speak 
of  him,  represent  him  as  more  accomplished 
and  agreeable  in  society,  than  any  man  of  his 
age — of  exquisite  taste,  perfect  good-breeding, 
and  unblemished  integrity  and  honour.  Un- 
disturbed, too,  by  ambition,  or  political  ani- 
mosities, and  at  his  ease  with  regard  to  for- 
tune, he  might  appear  to  be  placed  at  the  very 
summit  of  human  felicity,  and  to  exemplify 
that  fortunate  lot  to  which  common  destinies 
afford  such  various  exceptions. 

But  there  is  no  such  lot.  This  happy  man, 
so  universally  acceptable,  and  with  such  re- 
sources in  himself,  was  devoured  by  cnwrei .' 
and  probably  envied,  with  good  reason,  the 
Condition  of  one  half  of  those  laborious  and 
discontented  beings  who  looked  up  to  him 
with  envy  and  admiration.  He  was  querulous, 
Lord  Charlemont  assures  us — indifferent,  and 
internally  contemptuous  to  the  greater  part  of 
the  world ; — and,  like  so  many  other  accom- 
plished persons,  upon  whom  the  want  of  em- 
ployment has  imposed  the  heavy  task  of  self- 
occupation,  he  pafjsed  his  life  in  a  languid 
and  unsatisfactory  manner;  absorbed  some- 
limes  in  play,  and  sometimes  in  study;  and 


seeking,  in  vain,  the  wholesome  exercise  of  a  , 
strong  mind,  in  desultory  reading  or  con-  I 
temptible  dissipation.  His  Letters,  however, 
are  delightful ;  and  we  are  extremely  obliged 
to  Mr.  Hardy,  for  having  favoured  us  with  so 
many  of  them.  It  is  so  seldom  that  the  pure, 
animated,  and  unrestrained  language  of  polite 
conversation,  can  be  found  in  a  printed  book 
that  we  cannot  resist  the  temptation  of  tran- 
scribing a  considerable  part  of  the  specimens 
before  us ;  which,  while  they  exemplify,  in 
the  happiest  manner,  the  perfect  style  of  a 
gentleman,  serve  to  illustrate,  for  more  re- 
flecting readers,  the  various  sacrifices  that  are 
generally  required  for  the  formation  of  the 
envied  character  to  which  that  style  belongs. 
A  very  interesting  essay  might  be  written  on 
the  unhappiness  of  those  from  whom  nature 
and  fortune  seem  to  have  removed  all  the 
causes  of  unhappiness : — and  we  are  sure 
that  no  better  assortment  of  proofs  and  illus- 
trations could  be  annexed  to  such  an  essay, 
than  some  of  the  following  passages. 

"  I  have  been  but  once  at  the  club  since  you  left 
England  ;  where  we  were  entertained,  as  usual,  by 
Dr.  Goldsmith's  absurdity.  Mr.  V.  can  give  you 
an  account  of  it.  Sir  Joshua  intends  painting  your 
picture  over  again ;  so  you  ma)^  set  your  heart  at 
rest  for  some  time  :  it  is  true,  it  will  last  so  much 
the  longer ;  but  then  you  may  wait  these  ten  years 
for  it.  Elmsly  gave  me  a  commission  from  you 
about  Mr.  Walpole's  frames  for  prints,  which  is 
perfectly  unintelhgible  :  I  wish  you  would  explain 
it,  and  it  shall  be  punctually  executed.  The  Duke 
of  Northumberland  has  promised  me  a  pair  of  his 
new  pheasants  for  you  ;  but  you  must  wait  till  all 
the  crowned  heads  in  Europe  have  been  served  first. 
I  have  been  at  the  review  at  Portsmouth.  If  you 
had  seen  it,  you  would  have  owned,  that  it  is  a 

pleasant  thing  to  be  a  King.     It  is  true, made 

a  job  of  the  claret  to ,  who  furnished  the  first 

tables  with  vinegar,  under  that  denomination, 
t^harles  Fox  said,  that  Lord  S — wich  should  have 
been  impeached  !  What  an  abominable  world  do 
we  live  in  I  that  there  should  not  be  above  half  a 
dozen  honest  men  in  the  world,  and  that  one  of 
those  should  live  in  Ireland.  You  will,  perhaps, 
be  shocked  at  the  small  portion  of  honesty  that  I 
allot  to  your  country  :  but  a  sixth  part  is  as  much 
as  comes  to  its  share  ;  and,  for  any  thing  I  know  to 
the  contrary,  the  other  five  may  be  in  Ireland  too; 
for  I  am  sure  I  do  not  know  where  else  to  find  them. 

"  I  am  rejoiced  to  find  by  your  letter  than  Lady 
C.  is  as  you  wish.  I  have  yet  remaining  so  much 
benevolence  towards  mankind,  as  to  wish  that  there 
may  be  a  son  of  your's,  educated  by  you,  as  a  speci- 
men of  what  mankind  ought  to  be.  Goldsmith,  the 
other  day,  put  a  paragraph  into  the  newspapers,  in 
praise  of  Lord  Mayor  Townshend.  The  same  night 
we  happened  to  sit  next  to  Lord  Shelburne,  at 
vDrury  Lane.  I  mentioned  the  circumstance  of 
the  paragraph  to  him.  He  said  to  Goldsmith,  that 
he  hoped  that  he  had  mentioned  nothing  about 
Malagrida  in  it.  '  Do  you  know,'  answered  Gold- 
smith, '  that  I  never  could  conceive  the  reason  why 
they  call  you  Malagrida ;  /or  Malagrida  was  a  very 
good  sort  of  man.'  You  see  plainly  what  he  meant 
to  say  ;  but  that  happy  turn  of  expression  is  pecu- 
liar to  himself.  Mr.  Walpole  says,  that  this  story 
is  a  picture  of  Goldsmith's  whole  life.  Johnson 
has  been  confined  for  some  weeks  in  the  Isle  of 
Skye.  We  hear  that  he  was  obliged  to  swim  over 
to  the  main  land,  taking  hold  of  a  cow's  tail.  Be 
that  as  it  may.  Lady  Di.  has  promised  to  make  a 
I  drawing  of  it.  Our  poor  club  is  in  a  miserable 
I  decay  ;  unless  you  come  and  relieve  it,  it  will  cer- 
tainly expire.     Would  you  imagine,  that  Sir  Joshna 


LIFE  OF  LORD  CHARLEMONT. 


697 


Reynolds  is  extremely  anxious  to  be  a  member  of 
Almack's?  You  see  what  noble  ambition  will 
make  a  man  attempt.  That  den  is  not  yet  opened, 
consequently  I  have  not  been  there;  so,  for  the 
present,  I  am  clear  upon  that  score.  I  suppose 
raur  confounded  Irish  politics  take  up  your  whole 
attention  at  present ;  but  we  cannot  do  without 
you.  If  you  do  not  come  here,  I  will  bring  all  the 
club  over  to  Ireland,  to  live  with  you,  and  that  will 
drive  you  here  in  your  own  defence.  Johnson  shall 
spoil  your  books,  Goldsmith  pull  your  flowers,  and 
Boswell  talk  to  you.  Stay  then  if  you  can.  Adieu, 
my  dear  Lord." — pp.  176,  177,  178. 

"  I  saw  a  letter  from  Foote,  the  other  day,  with 
an  account  of  an  Irish  tragedy.  The  subject  is 
Manlius ;  and  the  last  speech  which  he  makes, 
vhen  he  is  pushed  off  from  the  Tarpeian  Rock,  is, 
Sweet  Jesus,  where  am  I  going  ?'  Pray  send  me 
»ord  if  this  is  true.  We  have  a  new  comedy  here, 
K'hich  is  good  for  nothing.  Bad  as  it  is,  however, 
it  succeeds  very  well,  and  has  almost  killed  Gold- 
smith with  envy,  I  have  no  news,  either  literary 
or  political,  to  send  you.  Every  body,  except  my- 
self, and  about  a  million  of  vulgars,  are  in  the 
country.  I  am  closely  confined,  as  Lady  Di.  expects 
to  be  so  every  hour." — p.  178. 

"Why  should  you  be  vexed  to  find  that  mankind 
are  fools  and  knaves?  I  have  known  it  so  long, 
that  every  fresh  instance  of  it  amuses  me,  provided 
it  does  not  immediately  aflfect  my  friends  or  myself. 
Politicians  do  not  seem  to  me  to  be  much  greater 
rogues  than  other  people  ;  and  as  their  actions 
affect,  in  general,  private  persons  less  than  other 
kinds  of  villany  do,  I  cannot  find  that  I  am  so  an- 
gry with  them.  It  is  true,  that  the  leading  men  in 
both  countries  at  present,  are,  I  believe,  the  most 
corrupt,  abandoned  people  in  the  nation.  But  now 
that  I  am  upon  this  worthy  subject  of  human  na- 
ture, I  will  inform  you  of  a  few  particulars  relating 
to  the  discovery  of  Otaheite." — p.  180. 

"There  is  another  curiosity  here, — Mr.  Bruce. 
His  drawings  are  the  most  beautiful  things  you  ever 
saw,  and  his  adventures  more  wonderful  than  those 
of  Sinbad  the  sailor, — and,  perhaps,  nearly  as  true. 
I  am  much  more  afflicted  with  the  account  you  send 
me  of  your  liealth,  than  I  am  at  the  corruption  of 
vour  ministers.  I  always  hated  politics  ;  and  I  now 
hate  them  ten  times  worse ;  as  I  have  reason  to 
think  that  they  contribute  towards  your  ill  health. 
You  do  me  great  justice  in  thinking,  that  whatever 
concerns  you,  must  interest  me  ;  but  as  I  wish  you 
most  sincerely  to  be  perfectly  happy,  I  cannot  bear 
to  think  that  the  villanous  proceedings  of  others 
should  make  you  miserable :  for,  in  that  case,  un- 
doubtedly you  will  never  be  happy.  Charles  Fox 
is  a  member  at  the  Turk's  Head  ;  but  not  till  he 
was  a  patriot  ;  and  you  know,  if  one  repents,  &c. 
There  is  nothing  new,  but  Goldsmith's  Retaliation, 
which  you  certainly  have  seen.  Pray  tell  Lady 
Charlemont,  from  me,  that  I  desire  she  may  keep 
you  from  politics,  as  they  do  children  from  sweet- 
meats, that  make  them  sick." — pp.  181,  182. 

We  look  upon  these  extracts  as  very  inter- 
esting and"  valuable ;  but  they  have  turned 
out  to  be  so  long,  that  we  must  cut  short  this 
branch  of  the  history.  We  must  add,  how- 
ever, a  part  of  Lord  Charlemont's  account  of 
Mr.  Burke,  with  whom  he  lived  in  habits  of 
ihe  closest  intimacy,  and  continual  corres- 
pondence, till  his  extraordinary  breach  witi 
nis  former  political  associates  in  1792.  Mr. 
Hardy  does  not  exactly  know  at  what  perioi 
'.he  following  paper,  which  was  found  in  Lord 
Charlemont's  handwriting,  was  written. 

"This  most  amiable  and  ingenious  man  was 
{•rivate  secretary  to  Lord  Rockingham.  It  may  not 
ue  superfluous  to  relate  the  following  anecdote,  the 
i"ufh  of  which  I  can  assert,  and  which  does  honour 
M  liim  and  his  truly  noble  natron.   Soon  after  Lord 


Rockingham,  upon  the  warm  recommendation  ot 
many  friends,  had  appointed  Burke  his  secretary, 
the  Duke  of  Newcastle  informed  him,  that  he  had 
unwarily  taken  into  his  service  a  man  of  dangerous 
principles,  and  one  who  was  by  birth  and  education 
a  papist  and  a  Jacobite ;  a  calumny  founded  upon 
Burke's  Irish  connections,  which  were  most  of 
them  of  that  persuasion,  and  upon  some  juvenile 
follies  arising  from  those  connections.  The  Mao*- 
quis,  whose  genuine  Whiggism  was  easily  alarmed 
immediately  sent  for  Burke,  and  told  him  what  b* 
had  heard.  It  was  easy  for  Burke,  who  had  been 
educated  at  the  university  at  Dublin,  to  bring  testi- 
monies to  his  protestantism  ;  and  with  regard  to  the 
second  accusation,  which  was  wholly  Ibunded  on 
the  former,  it  was  soon  done  away  ;  and  Lord 
Rockingham,  readily  and  willingly  disabused,  de- 
clared that  he  was  perfectly  satisfied  of  the  false- 
hood of  the  information  he  had  received,  and  that 
he  no  longer  harboured  the  smallest  doubt  of  the 
integrity  of  his  principles  ;  when  Burke,  with  an 
honest  and  disinterested  boldness,  told  his  Lordship 
that  it  was  now  no  longer  possible  for  him  to  be  his 
secretary  ;  that  the  reports  he  had  heard  would 
probably,  even  unknown  to  himself,  create  in  his 
mind  such  suspicions,  as  might  prevent  his  tho- 
roTighly  confiding  in  him  ;  and  that  no  earthly  con- 
sideration should  induce  him  to  stand  in  that  rela- 
tion with  a  man  who  did  not  place  entire  confidence 
in  him.  The  Marquis,  struck  with  this  manliness 
of  sentiment,  which  so  exactly  corresponded  with 
the  feelings  of  his  own  heart,  frankly  and  positively 
assured  him,  that  what  had  passed,  far  from  leaving 
any  bad  impression  on  his  mind,  had  only  served 
to  fortify  his  good  opinion  ;  and  that,  if  irom  no 
other  reason,  he  might  rest  assured,  that  irom  his 
conduct  upon  that  occasion  alone,  he  should  ever 
esteem,  and  place  in  him  the  most  unreserved  con- 
fidential trust — a  promise  which  he  faithfully  per- 
formed. It  must,  however,  be  confessed,  that  hia 
early  habits  and  connections,  though  they  could 
never  make  him  swerve  from  his  duty,  had  given 
his  mind  an  almost  constitutional  bent  towards  the 
popish  party.  Prudence  is,  indeed,  the  only  virtue 
he  does  not  possess;  from  a  total  want  of  which, 
and  from  the  amiable  weaknesses  of  an  excellent 
heart,  his  estimation  in  England,  though  still  great, 
is  certainly  diminished." — pp.  343,  344. 

We  have  hitherto  kept  Mr,  Hardy  himself 
so  much  in  the  back  ground,  that  we  think  it 
is  but  fair  to  lay  before  the  reader  the  sequel 
which  he  has  furnished  to  the  preceding  notice 
of  Lord  Charlemont.  The  passage  is  perfectly 
characteristic  of  the  ordinary  colloquial  style 
of  the  book,  and  of  the  temper  of  the  author. 

"  Thus  far  Lord  Charlemont.  Something, 
though  slight,  may  be  here  added.  Burke's  dis- 
union, and  final  rupture  with  Mr.  Fox,  were  at- 
tended with  circumstances  so  distressing,  so  far 
surpassing  the  ordinary  limhs  of  political  hostility, 
that  the  mind  really  aches  at  the  recollection  of 
them.  But  let  us  view  him,  for  an  instant,  in  better 
scenes,  and  better  hours.  He  was  social,  hospit- 
able, of  pleasing  access,  and  most  agreeably  com- 
municative. One  of  the  most  satisfactory  days, 
perhaps,  that  I  ever  passed  in  my  life,  was  going 
with  him,  tete-a-tete,  from  London  to  Beconsfield. 
He  stopped  at  Uxbridge,  whilst  his  horses  were 
feeding;  and,  happening  to  meet  some  gentlemen, 
of  I  know  not  what  militia,  who  appeared  to  be 
perfect  strangers  to  him,  he  entered  into  discourse 
with  them  at  the  gateway  of  the  inn.  His  conver- 
sation,  at  that  moment,  completely  exemplified 
what  Johnson  said  of  him — '  "That  you  could  not 
meet  Burke  for  half  an  hour  under  a  shed,  without 
saying  that  he  was  an  extraordinary  man.'  He 
was,  on  that  day,  altogether,  uncommonly  instruc- 
tive and  agreeable.  Every  object  of  the  slightest 
notoriety,  as  we  passed  along,  whether  of  natural 
or  local  history,  furnishei  him  with  abundant  ma 


698 


JMISCELLANEOUS. 


terials  for  conversation.  The  House  at  Uxbridge, 
where  the  treaty  was  held  during  Charles  the  First's 
'ime ;  the  beautiful  and  undulating  grounds  of  Bul- 
Btrode,  formerly  the  residence  of  Chancellor  Jeffe- 
ries;  and  Waller's  tomb  in  Beconsfield  churcii- 
yard,  which,  before  we  went  home,  we  visited,  and 
whose  character,  as  a  gentleman,  a  poet,  «and  an 
orator,  he  shortly  deUneated,  but  whh  exquisite 
felicity  of  genius,  altogether  gave  an  uncommon 
interest  to  his  eloquence;  and,  although  one-and- 
tvventy  years  have  now  passed  since  that  day,  I  re- 
tain the  most  vivid  and  pleasing  recollection  of  it. 
He  reviewed  the  characters  of  many  statesmen. — 
Lord  Bath's,  whom,  I  think,  he  personally  knew, 
and  that  of  Sir  Robert  VValpole,  which  he  pour- 
trayed  in  nearly  the  same  words  which  he  used 
with  regard  to  that  eminent  man.  in  his  appeal  from 
the  Old  Whigs  to  the  New.  He  talked  much  of 
the  great  Lord  Chatham;  and,  amidst  a  variety  of 
particulars  concerning  him  and  his  family,  stated, 
that  his  sister,  Mrs.  Anne  Pitt,  used  often,  in  her 
altercations  with  him,  to  say,  '  That  he  knew 
nothing  whatever  except  Spenser's  Fairy  Queen.' 
'  And,'  continued  Mr.  Burke,  '  no  matter  how  that 
was  said  ;  but  whoever  relishes,  and  reads  Spenser 
as  he  ought  to  be  read,  will  have  a  strong  hold  of 
the  English  language.'  These  were  his  exact 
words.  Of  Mrs.  Anne  Pitt  he  said,  that  she  had 
the  most  agreeable  and  uncommon  talents,  and  was, 
beyond  all  comparison,  the  most  perfectly  eloquent 
person  he  ever  heard  speak.  He  alway.-..  as  he  said, 
lamented  that  he  did  not  put  on  paper  a  conversa- 
tion he  had  once  with  her  ;  on  what  subject  I  forget. 
The  richness,  variety,  and  solidity  of  her  discourse, 
absolutely  astonished  him.* 


Certainly  no  nation  ever  obtained  such  a 
deliverance  by  such  an  instrument,  and  hurt 
Itself  so  little  by  the  use  of  it ;  and,  if  the 
Irish  Revolution  of  1782  shows,  that  power 
and  intimidation  may  be  lawfully  employed 
to  enforce  rights  which  have  been  refused  to 
supplication  and  reason,  it  shows  also  the  ex- 
treme danger  of  this  method  of  redress,  and 
the  necessity  there  is  for  resorting  to  every 
precaution  in  those  cases  w^here  it  has  become 
indispensable.  Ireland  w^as  now  saved  from 
all  the  horrors  of  a  civil  war,  only  by  two  cir- 
cumstances ; — the  first,  that  the  great  military 
force  which  accomplished  the  redress  of  her 
grievances,  had  not  been  originally  raised  or 
organised  with  any  view  to  such  an  interfer- 
ence ;  and  w^as  chiefly  guided,  therefore,  by 
men  of  loyal  and  moderate  characters,  who 
had  taken  up  arms  for  no  other  purpose  but 
the  defence  of  their  country  against  foreign 
invasion : — The  other,  that  the  just  and  rea- 
sonable demands  to  which  these  leaders  ulti- 
mately limited  their  pretensions,  were  address- 
ed to  a  liberal  and  enlightened  administration, 
— too  just  to  withhold,  when  in  power,  what 
they  had  laboured  to  procure  when  in  opposi- 
tion,— and  too  magnanimous  to  dread  the 
effect  of  conceding,  even  to  armed  petitioners, 
what  was  clearly  and  indisputably  their  due. 

It  was  the  moderation  of  their  first  demands, 
and  the  generous  frankness  with  which  they 
were  so  promptly  granted,  that  saved  Ireland 

*  I  here  omit  tlie  long  abstract  which  originally 
tallowed,  of  the  Irish  parliament  and  public  history, 
from  1750  to  the  period  of  the  Union,  together  with 
hi!  the  details  of  the  great  Volunteer  Association  in 
"80,  and  its  fortunate  dissolution  in  1782 — to  which 
eraar liable  event  the  paragraph  which  now  follows 
p   be  text  refers. 


in  this  crisis.  The  voluntee  rs  ivere  i  rertist^ble. 
while  they  asKed  only  for  their  country  what 
all  the  world  saw  she  w-as  entitled  to :  Bu; 
they  became  impotent  the  moment  they  da 
manded  more.  They  were  deserted,  at  tha\ 
moment,  by  all  the  talent  and  the  respect- 
ability which  had  given  them,  for  a  time,  the 
absolute  dominion  of  the  country.  The  con- 
cession of  their  just  rights  operated  like  a 
talisman  in  separating  the  patriotic  from  the 
factious :  And  when  the  latter  afterwards  at 
tempted  to  invade  the  lofty  regions  of  legiti 
mate  government,  they  were  smitten  with  in 
stantaneous  discord  and  confusion,  and  speed 
ily  dispersed  and  annihilated  froiri  the  face  of 
the  land.  These  events  are  big  with  instruc- 
tion to  the  times  that  have  come  after;  and 
read  an  impressive  lesson  to  those  who  have 
now  to  deal  with  discontents  and  conventions 
in  the  same  country. 

But  if  it  be  certain  that  the  salvation  of  Ire- 
land was  then  owning  to  the  mild,  liberal,  and 
enlightened  councils  of  the  Rockingham  ad- 
ministration as  a  body,  it  is  delightful  to  see, 
in  some  of  the  private  letters  which  Mr.  Hardy 
has  printed  in  the  volume  before  us,  how  cor- 
dially the  sentiments  professed  by  this  min- 
istry were  adopted  by  the  eminent  men  who 
presided  over  its  formation.  There  are  letters 
to  Lord  Charlemont,  both  from  Lord  Rocking- 
ham himself,  and  from  Mr.  Fox,  which  would 
almost  reconcile  one  to  a  belief  in  the  possi- 
bility of  ministerial  fairness  and  sincerity. 
We  should  like  to  give  the  whole  of  them 
here ;  but  as  our  limits  will  not  admit  of  that, 
we  must  content  ourselves  with  some  extractt 
from  Mr.  Fox's  first  letter  after  the  new  min< 
istry  w^as  formed, — for  the  tone  and  style  of 
which,  we  fear,  few  precedents  have  been 
left  in  the  office  of  the  Secretary  of  State. 
•  "  My  dear  Lord, — If  I  had  had  occasion  to  write 
to  you  a  month'  ago,  I  should  have  written  with 
great  confidence  that  you  would  believe  me  perfectly 
sincere,  and  vvould  receive  any  thing  that  came  from 
me  with  the  partiality  of  an  old  acquaintance,  and 
one  who  acted  upon  the  same  political  principles.  I 
hope  you  will  now  consider  me  in  the  same  light ; 
but  I  own  I  write  with  much  more  diffidence,  as  I 
am  much  more  sure  of  your  kindness  to  me  per- 
sonally, than  of  your  inclination  to  listen  with  fa- 
vour to  any  thing  that  comes  from  a  Secretary  of 
State.  The  principal  business  of  this  letter  is  to 
inform  you,  that  the  Duke  of  Portland  is  appointed 
Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland,  and  Colonel  Fitzpatrick 
his  secretary  ;  and,  when  I  have  said  this,  I  need 
not  add,  that  I  feel  myself,  on  every  private  as  well 
as  public  account,  most  peculiarly  interested  in  the 
success  of  their  administration.  That  their  persons 
and  characters  are  not  disagreeable  to  your  Lord- 
ship, I  may  venture  to  assure  myself,  without  being 
too  sanguine ;  and  I  think  myself  equally  certain, 
that  there  are  not  in  the  world  two  men  whose 
general  way  of  thinking  upon  political  subjects  is 
more  exactly  consonant  to  your  own.  It  is  not, 
therefore,  too  much  to  desire  and  hope,  that  you 
will  at  least  look  upon  the  administration  of  such 
men  with  rather  a  more  favourable  eye,  and  incline 
to  trust  them  rather  more  than  you  could  do  most 
of  those  who  have  been  their  predecessors." — 
"  The  particular  time  of  year  at  which  this  change 
happens,  is  productive  of  many  great  inconveniences, 
especially  as  it  will  he  very  difficult  for  the  Duke 
of  Portland  to  be  at  Dublin  before  your  Parliament 
meets  ;  but  I  cannot  help  hoping  that  all  reasonabl(* 
wen  will  concur  in  removing  some  of  these  diffi 


LIFE  OF  LORD  CHARLEMONT. 


culties,  and  that  &  short  adjournment  will  nut  be 
ienied,  it  asked.  I  ^o  not  throw  out  this  as  know- 
ing from  any  author.''.y  that  it  will  be  proposed,  but 
as  an  idea  that  suggests  itself  to  me  ;  and  in  order 
lo  show  ihat  1  wish  to  talk  wiih  you,  and  consult 
with  you  in  the  same  frank  manner  in  which  I 
should  have  done  before  I  was  in  this  situation,  so 
very  new  to  me.  I  have  been  used  to  think  ill  of 
all  the  n^inisters  whom  I  did  know,  and  to  suspect 
those  whom  I  did  not,  that  when  I  am  obliged  to 
call  myself  a  minister,  I  (eel  as  if  I  put  mysell  into 
&  very  suspicious  character ;  but  I  do  assure  you  I 
am  the  very  same  man,  in  all  respects,  that  I  was 
when  yoQ  knew  me,  and  honoured  me  with  some 
^are  in  your  esteem — that  I  maintain  the  same 
opinions,  and  act  wuh  the  same  people. 

'*  Pray  make  my  best  compliments  to  Mr.  Grat- 
wn,  and  tell  him,  that  the  Duke  of  Portland  and 
Fitzpatrick  are  thoroughly  impressed  with  the  im- 
portance of  his  approbation,  and  will  do  all  they  can 
to  deserve  it.  1  do  most  sincerely  hope,  that  he 
may  hit  upon  some  hne  that  may  be  drawn  honour- 
ably and  advantageously  for  both  countries  ;  and 
that,  when  that  is  done,  he  will  show  the  world  that 
there  may  be  a  government  in  Ireland,  of  which  he 
is  not  ashamed  to  make  a  part.  That  country  can 
never  prosper,  where,  what  should  be  the  ambition 
of  men  of  honour,  is  considered  as  a  disgrace." 

pp.  217—219. 

The  following  letter  from  Mr.  Burke  in  the 
end  of  1789,  will  be  read  with  more  interest, 
when  it  is  recollected  that  he  published  his 
celebrated  Reflections  on  the  French  Revolu- 
tion, but  a  few  months  after. 

"  My  dearest  Lord, — I  think  your  Lordship  has 
acted  with  your  usual  zeal  and  judgment  in  estab- 
lishing a  Whig  club  in  Dublin.  These  meetings 
prevent  the  evaporation  of  principle  in  individuals, 
anc'  pive  them  joint  force,  and  enliven  their  exer- 
tions "i-^  emulation.  You  see  the  matter  in  its  true 
light ;  irfid  vith  your  usual  discernment.  Party  is 
absolutely  ntressary  at  this  time.  1  thought  it  al- 
ways so  in  this  country,  ever  since  I  have  had  any 
thing  to  do  in  public  business ;  and  I  rather  fear, 
that  there  is  not  virtue  enough  in  this  period  to  sup- 
port party,  than  that  party  should  become  necessa- 
ry, on  account  of  the  want  of  virtue  to  support  itself 
by  individual  exertions.  As  to  us  here,  our  thoughts 
of  every  thing  at  home  are  suspended  by  our  as- 
tonishment at  the  wonderful  spectacle  which  is  ex- 
hibited in  a  neighbouring  and  rival  country.  "What 
spectators,  and  what  actors  !  England  gazing  with 
astonishment  at  a  French  struggle  for  hberty,  and 
not  knowing  whether  to  blame,  or  to  applaud.  The 
thing,  indeed,  though  I  thought  I  saw  something 
like  it  in  progress  for  several  years,  has  still  some- 
what in  it  paradoxical  and  mysterious.  The  spirit 
is  impossible  not  to  admire  ;  but  the  old  Parisian 
rocity  has  broken  out  in  a  shocking  manner.  It 
IS  true,  that  this  may  be  no  more  than  a  sudden  ex- 
plosion ;  if  so,  no  indication  can  be  taken  from  it ; 
but  if  it  should  be  character,  rather  than  ?ocident, 
then  that  people  are  not  fit  for  liberty — and  must 
have  a  strong  hand,  like  that  of  their  former  mas- 
ters, to  coerce  them.  Men  must  have  a  certain 
fund  of  natural  moderation  to  qualify  them  for  free- 
dom ;  else  it  becomes  noxious  to  themselves,  and  a 
perfect  nuisance  to  every  body  else.  What  will  be 
the  event,  it  is  hard,  I  think,  still  to  say.  To  form 
a  solid  constitution,  requires  wisdom  as  well  as 
spirit ;  and  whether  the  French  have  wise  heads 
among  them,  or,  if  they  possess  such,  whether  they 
have  authority  equal  to  their  wisdom,  is  yet  to  be 
seen.  In  the  mean  time,  the  progress  of  this  whole 
afTair  is  one  of  the  most  curious  matters  of  specula 
tion  that  ever  was  exhibited." — pp.  321,  322. 

We  should  now  take  our  leave  of  Mr.  Hardy '. 
— and  yet  it  would  not  be  fair  to  dismiss  hirr 
from  the  scene  entirely,  without  giving  oui 


readers  one  or  two  specimens  of  his  gift  of 
drawing  characters  j  in  the  exercise  of  which 
he  generally  rises  to  a  sort  of  quaint  and 
brilliant  conciseness,  and  displays  a  degree 
of  acuteness  and  fine  observation  that  are  not 
to  be  found  in  the  other  parts  of  his  writing. 
His  greatest  fault  is,  that  he  does  not  abuse 
any  body, — even  where  the  dignity  of  history, 
and  of  virtue,  call  loudly  for  such  an  infliction. 
Yet  there  is  something  in  the  tone  of  all  hia 
delineations,  that  satisfies  us  that  there  is  no- 
thing worse  than  extreme  good  nature  at  the 
bottom  of  his  forbearance.  Of  Pliilip  Tisdal, 
who  was  Attorney-general  when  Lord  Charle- 
mont  first  came  into  Parliament,  he  says: — 

"  He  had  an  admirable  and  most  superior  under- 
standing ;  an  understanding  matured  by  years — by 
long  experience — by  habits  with  the  best  company 
from  his  youth — with  the  bar,  with  Parliament, 
with  the  State.  To  this  strength  of  intellect  was 
added  a  constitutional  philosophy,  or  apathy,  which 
never  suffered  him  to  be  carried  away  by  attach 
ment  to  any  party,  even  his  own.  He  saw  men 
and  things  so  clearly;  he  understood  so  well  the 
whole  farce  and  fallacy  of  life,  that  it  passed  before 
him  hke  a  scenic  representation  ;  and,  till  almost 
the  close  of  his  days,  he  went  through  the  world 
with  a  constant  sunshine  of  soul,  and  an  inexorable 
gravity  of  feature.  His  countenance  was  never  gay, 
and  his  mind  was  never  gloomy.  He  was  an  able 
speaker,  as  well  at  the  bar  as  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, though  his  diction  was  very  indifferent.  He 
did  not  speak  so  much  at  length  as  many  of  his  par- 
liamentary coadjutors,  though  he  knew  the  whole 
of  the  subject  much  better  than  they  did.  He  was 
not  only  a  good  speaker  in  Parliament,  but  an  ex- 
cellent manager  of  the  House  of  Commons.  He 
never  said  too  much:  and  he  had  great  merit  in 
what  he  did  not  say ;  for  Government  was  never 
committed  by  him.  He  plunged  into  no  difficulty  ; 
nor  did  he  ever  suffer  his  antagonist  to  escape  from 
one." — pp.  78,  79. 

Of  Hussey  Burgh,  afterwards  Lord  Chief 
Baron,  he  observes : — 

"  To  those  who  never  heard  him,  as  the  fashion  of 
this  world  in  eloquence  as  in  all  things  soon  passes 
away,  it  may  be  no  easy  matter  to  convey  a  just 
idea  of  his  style  of  speaking.  It  was  sustained  by 
great  ingenuity,  great  rapidity  of  intellect,  luminoui 
and  piercing  satire  ;  in  refinement  abundant,  in  sim- 
plicity sterile.  The  classical  allusions  of  this  orator, 
for  he  was  most  truly  one,  were  so  apposite,  they 
followed  each  other  in  such  bright  and  varied  sue 
cession,  and,  at  times,  spread  such  an  unexpected 
and  triumphant  blaze  around  his  subject,  that  all 
persons  who  were  in  the  least  tinged  with  litera- 
turo,  could  never  be  tired  of  listening  to  him  ;  and 
when  in  the  splendid  days  of  the  Volunteer  Asso- 
ciation, alluding  to  some  coercive  English  laws, 
and  vo  that  institution,  then  in  its  proudest  array, 
he  said,  in  the  House  of  Commons,  '  That  such 
laws  were  sown  like  dragons'  teeth,— and  sprung 
up  in  armed  men,'  the  applause  which  followed, 
and  the  glow  of  enthusiasm  which  he  kindled  in 
every  mind,  far  exceed  my  powers  of  description." 
—pp.  140,  141. 

Of  Gerard  Hamilton,  he  gives  as  the  fol- 
lowing characteristic  anecdotes. 

"The  uncommon  splendour  of  his  eloquence, 
which  was  succeeded  by  such  inflexible  taciturnity 
in  St.  Stephen's  Chapel,  became  the  subject,  aa 
might  be  supposed,  of  much,  and  idle  speculation. 
Tire  truth  is,  that  all  his  speeches,  whether  delivered 
in  London  or  DubUn,  were  not  only  prepared,  but 
studied,  with  a  minuteness  and  exactuude  of  which 


70C 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


those  ivho  are  only  used  to  the  carelessness  of 
modern  debating,  can  scarcely  form  any  idea.  Lord 
Charlemont,  who  had  been  long  and  intimately  ac- 
quainted with  him,  previous  to  his  coming  to  Ire- 
land, often  mentioned  that  he  was  the  only  speaker, 
among  the  many  he  had  heard,  of  whom  he  could 
say,  with  certainty,  that  all  his  speeches,  however 
long,  were  written  and  pot  hy  heart.  A  gentleman, 
well  known  to  his  Lordship  and  Hamilton,  assured 
him,  that  he  heard  Hamilton  repeat,  no  less  than 
three  times,  an  oration,  which  he  afterwards  spoke 
in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  which  lasted  almost 
three  hours.  As  a  debater,  therefore,  he  became 
as  useless  to  his  political  patrons  as  Addison  was  to 
Lord  Sunderland ;  and,  if  possible,  he  was  more 
Bcrupulous  in  composition  than  even  that  eminent 
man.  Addison  would  stop  the  press  to  correct  the 
most  trivial  error  in  a  large  publication  ;  and  Ham- 
ilton, as  I  can  assert  on  indubitable  authority, 
would  recall  the  footman,  if,  on  recollection,  any 
word,  in  his  opinion,  was  misplaced  or  improper,  in 
the  slightest  note  to  a  famihar  acquaintance." 

pp.  60,  61. 

No  name  is  mentioned  in  these  pages  with 
higher  or  more  uniform  applause,  than  that 
of  Henry  Grattan.  But  that  distinguished 
person  still  lives :  and  Mr.  Hardy's  delicacy 
has  prevented  him  from  attempting  any  de- 
lineation, either  of  his  character  or  his  elo- 
quence. We  respect  his  forbearance,  and 
shall  follow  his  example : — Yet  we  cannot 
deny  ourselves  the  gratification  of  extracting 
one  sentence  from  a  letter  of  Lord  Charle- 


mont, in  relation  to  that  parliamentary  giant, 
by  which  an  honour  was  conferred  on  an  in- 
dividual patriot,  without  place  or  official  situa- 
tion  of  any  kind,  and  merely  for  his  persona] 
merits  and  exertions,  which  has  in  other  cases 
been  held  to  be  the  particular  and  appropriate 
reward  of  triumphant  generals  aud  command- 
ers. When  the  mild  and  equable  temnera- 
ment  of  Lord  Charlemont's  mind  is  recol- 
lected, as  well  as  the  caution  with  which  all 
his  opinions  were  expressed,  we  do  not  know 
that  a  wise  ambition  would  wish  for  a  prouder 
or  more  honourable  testimony  than  is  con- 
tained in  the  following  short  sentences. 

"Respecting  the  grant,  I  know  with  certainty 
that  Grattan,  though  he  felt  himself  flattered  by 
the  intention,  looked  upon  the  act  with  the  deepest 
concern,  and  did  all  in  his  power  to  deprecate  it. 
As  it  was  found  impossible  to  defeat  the  design,  all 
his  friends,  and  I  among  others,  were  employed  to 
lessen  the  sum.  It  was  accordingly  decreased  by 
one  half,  and  that  principally  by  his  positive  decla- 
ration, through  us,  that,  if  the  whole  were  insisted 
on,  he  would  refuse  all  but  a  few  hundreds,  which 
he  would  retain  as  an  honourable  mark  of  the  good- 
ness of  his  country.  By  some,  who  look  only  into 
themselves  for  information  concerning  human  na- 
ture, this  conduct  will  probably  be  construed  into 
hypocrisy.  To  such,  the  excellence  and  pre-emi- 
nency  of  virtue,  and  the  character  of  Grattan,  are 
as  invisible  and  incomprehensibe,  as  the  brightness 
of  the  sun  to  a  man  born  blind." — p.  237. 


(gtpt^mber,  181S.) 

An  Inquiry  whether  Crime  and  Misery  are  produced  or  prevented  hy  our  present  System  of  Prison 
Discipline.  Illustrated  by  Descriptions  of  the  Borough  Compter,  Tothill  Fields  Prison,  the 
Jail  at  St.  Albans,  the  Jail  at  Guildford,  the  Jail  at  Bristol,  the  Jails  at  Bury  and  Ilchester, 
the  Maison  de  Force  at  Ghent,  the  Philadelphia  Prison,  the  Penitentiary  at  Millbank,  and  the 
Proceedings  of  the  Ladies^  Committee  at  Newgate.  By  Thomas  Fowell  Buxton.  8vo.  p.  171. 
London:  1818. 


There  are  two  classes  of  subjects  which 
naturally  engage  the  attention  of  public  men, 
and  divide  the  interest  which  society  takes  in 
their  proceedings.  The  one  may,  in  a  wide 
sense,  be  called  Party  Politics — the  other 
Civil  or  Domestic  Administration.  To  the 
former  belong  all  questions  touching  political 
rights  and  franchises — the  principles  of  the 
Constitution — the  fitness  or  unfitness  of  min- 
isters, and  the  interest  and  honour  of  the 
country,  as  it  may  be  affected  by  its  conduct 
and  relations  to  foreign  powers,  either  in  peace 
or  war.  The  latter  comprehends  most  of  the 
branches  of  political  economy  and  statistics, 
and  all  the  ordinary  legislation  of  internal 
police  and  regulation;  and,  besides  the  two 
great  heads  of  Trade  and  Taxation,  embraces 
the  improvements  of  the  civil  Code — the  care 
of  the  Poor — the  interests  of  Education,  Re- 
ligion, and  Morality — and  the  protection  of 
Prisoners,  Lunatics,  and  others  who  cannot 
claim  protection  for  themselves.  This  dis- 
tinction, we  confess,  is  but  coarsely  drawn 
— since  every  one  of  the  things  we  have 
last  enumerated  may,  in  certain  circumstan- 
ces, be  made  an  occasion  of  party  contention. ! 


But  what  we  mean  is,  that  they  are  not  its 
natural  occasions,  and  do  not  belong  to  those 
topics,  or  refer  to  those  principles,  in  relation 
to  which  the  great  Parties  of  a  free  country 
necessarily  arise.  One  great  part  of  a  states- 
man's business  may  thus  be  considered  as 
Polemic — and  another  as  Deliberative;,  his 
main  object  in  the  first  being  to  discomfit  and 
expose  his  opponents — and,  in  the  second,  to 
discove"  the  best  means  of  carrying  into  efTect 
ends  \yhich  all  agree  to  be  desirable. 

Judging  a  priori  of  the  relative  importance 
or  agreeableness  of  these  two  occupations^ 
we  should  certainly  be  apt  to  think  that  the 
latter  was  by  far  the  most  attractive  and  com- 
fortable in  itself,  as  well  as  the  most  likely 
to  be  popular  with  the  community.  The  fact, 
however,  happens  to  be  otherwise :  For  such 
is  the  excitement  of  a  public  contest  for  influ- 
ence and  power,  and  so  great  the  prize  to  be 
won  in  those  honourable  lists,  that  the  highest 
talents  are  all  put  in  requisition  for  that  de- 
partment, and  all  their  force  and  splendour 
reserved  for  the  struggle :  And  indeed,  when 
we  consider  that  the  object  of  this  struggle  it 
nothing  less  than  to  put  the  whole  power  of 


BUXTON'S  INQUIRY. 


701 


administration  into  the  hands  of  the  victors, 
and  thus  to  enable  them  not  only  to  engross 
the  credit  of  carrying  through  all  those  bene- 
ficial arrangements  that  may  be  called  for  by 
the  voice  of  the  comitry,  but  to  carry  them 
through  in  their  own  way,  we  ought  not  per- 
haps to  wonder,  that  in  the  eagerness  of  this 
pursuit,  which  is  truly  that  of  the  means  to  all 
ends,  some  of  the  ends  themselves  should, 
when  separately  presented,  appear  of  inferior 
moment,  and  excite  far  less  interest  or  concern. 

But,  though  this  apology  may  be  available 
in  some  degree  to  the  actors,  it  still  leaves  us 
at  a  loss  to  account  foi  the  corresponding  sen- 
timents that  are  found  in  the  body  of  the  peo- 
ple, who  are  but  lookers  on  for  the  most  part 
in  this  great  scene  of  contention — and  can 
scarcely  fail  to  perceive,  one  would  imagine, 
that  their  immediate  interests  were  often  post- 
poned to  the  mere  gladiatorship  of  the  parties, 
and  their  actual  service  neglected,  while  this 
fierce  strife  was  maintained  as  to  who  should 
be  allowed  to  serve  them.  In  such  circum- 
stances, we  should  naturally  expect  to  find, 
that  the  popular  favourites  would  not  be  the 
leaders  of  the  opposite  political  parties,  but 
those  who,  without  regard  to  party,  came  for- 
ward to  suggest  and  promote  measures  of  ad- 
mitted utihty — and  laboured  directly  to  en- 
large the  enjoyments  and  advantages  of  the 
people,  or  to  alleviate  the  pressure  of  their 
necessary  sufferings.  That  it  is  not  so  in  fact 
and  reality,  must  be  ascribed,  we  think,  partly 
to  the  sympathy  which,  in  a  country  like  this, 
men  of  all  conditions  take  in  the  party  feel- 
ings of  their  political  favourites,  and  the  sense 
they  have  of  the  great  importance  of  their 
success,  and  the  general  prevalence  of  their 
principles;  and  partly,  no  doubt,  and  in  a 
greater  degree,  to  that  less  justifiable  but  very 
familiar  principle  of  our  nature,  by  which  we 
are  led,  on  so  many  other  occasions,  to  prefer 
splendid  accomplishments  to  useful  qualities, 
and  to  take  a  much  greater  interest  in  those 
perilous  and  eventful  encounters,  where  the 
prowess  of  the  champions  is  almost  all  that  is 
to  be  proved  by  the  result,  than  in  those  hum- 
bler labours  of  love  or  wisdom,  by  which  the 
enjoyments  of  the  whole  society  are  multi- 
plied or  secured. 

There  is  a  reason,  no  doubt,  for  this  also — 
and  a  wise  one — as  for  every  other  general 
law  to  which  its  great  Author  has  subjected 
our  being :  But  it  is  not  the  less  true,  that  it 
often  operates  irregularly,  and  beyond  its 
province, — as  may  be  seen  in  the  familiar 
instance  of  the  excessive  and  pernicious  ad- 
miration which  follows  all  great  achievements 
in  War,  and  makes  Military  fame  so  danger- 
ously seducing,  both  to  those  who  give  and  to 
those  who  receive  it.  It  is  undeniably  true, 
as  Swift  said  long  ago^  that  he  who  made  two 
blades  of  grass  to  grow  where  one  only  grew 
before,  was  a  greater  benefactor  to  his  country 
than  all  the  heroes  and  conquerors  with  whom 
its  annals  are  emblazed ;  and  yet  it  would  be 
ludicrous  to  compare  the  fame  of  the  most 
successful  improver  m  agriculture  with  that 
01  the  most  inconsiaerable  soldier  who  ever 
signalised  his  courage  in  an  unsuccessful  cam- 


paign. The  in  renters  of  the  steam-engine 
and  the  spinning-machine  have,  beyond  all 
question,  done  much  more  in  our  own  limes, 
not  only  to  increase  the  comforts  and  wealth 
of  their  country,  but  to  multiply  its  resources 
and  enlarge  its  power,  than  all  the  Statesmen 
and  Warriors  who  have  affected  during  the 
same  period,  to  direct  its  destiny;  and  yet, 
while  the  incense  of  public  acclamation  has 
been  lavished  upon  the  latter — while  wealth 
and  honours,  and  hereditary  distinctions,  have 
been  heaped  upon  them  in  their  lives,  and 
monumental  glories  been  devised  to  perpetu- 
ate the  remembrance  of  their  services,  the 
former  have  been  left  undistinguished  in  the 
crowd  of  ordinary  citizens,  and  permitted  to 
close  their  days,  unvisited  by  any  ray  of  pub- 
lic favour  or  national  gratitude, — for  no  other 
reason  that  can  possibly  be  suggested,  than 
that  their  invaluable  services  were  performed 
without  noise  or  contention,  in  the  studious 
privacy  of  benevolent  meditation,  and  with- 
out any  of  those  tumultuous  accompaniments 
that  excite  the  imagination,  or  inflame  the 
passions  of  observant  multitudes. 

The  case,  however,  is  precisely  the  same 
with  the  diff'erent  classes  of  those  who  occupy 
themselves  with  public  interests.  He  who 
thunders  in  popular  assemblies,  and  consumes 
his  antagonists  in  the  blaze  of  his  patriotic 
eloquence,  or  withers  them  with  the  flash  of 
his  resistless  sarcasm,  immediately  becomes, 
not  merely  a  leader  in  the  senate,  but  an  idol 
in  the  country  at  large ; — while  he  who  by 
his  sagacity  discovers,  by  his  eloquence  recom- 
mends, and  by  his  laborious  persejverance  ulti- 
mately effects,  some  great  improvement  in 
the  condition  of  large  classes  of  the  commu- 
nity, is  rated,  by  that  ungrateful  community, 
as  a  far  inferior  personage ;  and  obtains,  for 
his  nights  and  days  of  successful  toil,  a  far 
less  share  even  of  the  cheap  reward  of  popu- 
lar applause  than  is  earned  by  the  other, 
merely  in  following  the  impulses  of  his  own 
ambitious  nature.  No  man  in  this  country 
ever  rose  to  a  high  political  station,  or  even 
obtained  any  great  personal  power  and  influ- 
ence in  society,  merely  by  originating  in  Par- 
liament measures  of  internal  regulation,  or 
conducting  with  judgment  and  success  im- 
provements, however  extensive,  that  did  not 
affect  the  interests  of  one  or  other  of  the  two 
great  parties  in  the  state.  Mr.  Wilberforce 
may  perhaps  be  mentioned  as  an  exception  ; 
and  certainly  the  greatness,  the  long  endu- 
rance, and  the  difficulty  of  the  struggle,  which 
he  at  last  conducted  to  so  glorious  a  termina- 
tion, have  given  him  a  fame  and  popularity 
which  may  be  compared,  in  some  respect^ 
with  that  of  a  party  leader.  But  even  Mr. 
Wilberforce  would  be  at  once  demolished  in 
a  contest  with  the  leaders  of  party ;  and  could 
do  nothing,  out  of  doors,  by  his  own  individua, 
exertions ;  while  it  is  quite  manifest,  that  the 
greatest  and  most  meritorious  exertions  to  ex 
tend  the  reign  of  Justice  by  the  correction  of 
our  civil  code — to  ameliorate  the  condition  of 
the  Poor — to  alleviate  the  suff'erings  of  the 
Prisoner, — or,  finally,  to  regenerate  the  minds 
of  the  whole  people  by  an  improved  system 


"^oe 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


of  Education,  will  never  give  a  man  half  the 
power  or  celebrity  that  may  be  secured,  at 
any  time,  by  a  bftilliant  speech  on  a  motion 
of  censure,  or  a  flaming  harangue  on  the 
boundlessness  of  our  resources,  and  the  glo- 
ries of  our  arms. 

It  may  be  conjectured  already,  that  with 
ttll  due  sense  of  the  value  of  party  distinc- 
tions, and  all  possible  veneration  for  the  talents 
which  they  call  most  prominently  into  action, 
we  are  inclined  to  think,  that  this  estimate 
of  public  services  might  be  advantageously 
corrected ;  and  that  the  objects  which  would 
exclusively  occupy  our  statesmen  if  they  were 
all  of  one  mind  upon  constitutional  questions, 
ought  more  frequently  to  take  precedence  of 
the  contentions  to  which  those  questions  give 
rise.  We  think  there  is,  of  late,  a  tendency 
to  such  a  change  in  public  opinion.  The  na- 
tion, at  least,  seems  at  length  heartily  sick  of 
those  heroic  vapourings  about  our  efforts  for 
the  salvation  of  Europe, — which  seem  to  have 
ended  in  the  restoration  of  old  abuses  abroad, 
and  the  imposition  of  new  taxes  at  home ; — 
and  about  the  vigour  which  was  required  for 
the  maintenance  of  our  glorious  constitution, 
which  has  most  conspicuously  displayed  itself 
in  the  suspension  of  its  best  bulwarks,  and  the 
organisation  of  spy  systems  and  vindictive  per- 
secutions, after  the  worst  fashion  of  arbitrary 
governments; — and  seems  disposed  to  re- 
quire, at  the  hands  of  its  representatives,  some 
substantial  pledge  of  their  concern  for  the 
general  welfare,  by  an  active  and  zealous  co- 
operation in  the  correction  of  admitted  abuses, 
and  the  redress  of  confessed  wrongs. 

It  is  mortifying  to  the  pride  of  human  wis- 
dom, to  consider  how  much  evil  has  resulted 
from  the  best  and  least  exceptionable  of  its 
boasted  institutions — and  how  those  establish- 
ments that  have  been  most  carefully  devised 
for  the  repression  of  guilt,  or  the  relief  of  mise- 
ry, have  become  themselves  the  fruitful  and 
pestilent  sources  both  of  guilt  and  misery,  in 
a  frightful  and  disgusting  degree.  Laws,  with- 
out which  society  could  not  exist,  become,  by 
their  very  multiplication  and  refinement,  a 
snare  and  a  burden  to  those  they  were  intend- 
ed to  protect,  and  let  in  upon  us  the  hateful 
and  most  intolerable  plagues,  of  pettifogging, 
chicanery,  and  legal  persecution.  Institutions 
for  the  relief  and  prevention  of  Poverty  have 
the  effect  of  multiplying  it  tenfold — hospitals 
for  the  cure  of  Diseases  become  centres  of 
infection.  The  very  Police,  which  is  neces- 
sary to  make  our  cities  habitable,  give  birth 
to  the  odious  vermin  of  informers,  thief-catch- 
ers, and  suborners  of  treachery;  —  and  our 
Prisons,  which  are  meant  chiefly  to  reform  the 
guilty  and  secure  the  suspected,  are  converted 
into  schools  of  the  most  atrocious  corruption, 
and  dens  of  the  most  inhuman  torture. 

Those  evils  and  abuses,  thus  arising  out  of 
intended  benefits  and  remedies,  are  the  last  to 
which  the  attention  of  ordinary  men  is  direct- 
ed— because  they  arise  in  such  unexpected 
quarters,  and  are  apt  to  be  regarded  as  the 
unavoidable  accompaniments  of  indispensable 
institutions.  There  is  a  selfish  delicacy  which 
makes  us  at  all  times  averse  to  enter  into  de- 


tails of  a  painful  and  offensive  nature  ;  and  an 
indolent  sort  of  optimism,  by  which  we  natu- 
rally seek  to  excuse  our  want  of  activity,  bj 
charitably  presuming  that  things  are  as  well 
as  they  can  easily  be  made,  and  that  it  is 
inconceivable  that  any  very  Jlagrant  abuses 
should  be  permitted  by  the  worthy  and  hu- 
mane people  who  are  more  immediately  con- 
cerned in  their  prevention.  To  this  is  added 
a  fear  of  giving  offence  to  those  same  worthy 
visitors  and  superintendants — and  a  still  more 
potent  fear  of  giving  offence  to  his  Majesty's 
Government; — for  though  no  administration 
can  really  have  any  interest  in  the  existence 
of  such  abuses,  or  can  be  suspected  of  wish- 
in*  to  perpetuate  them  from  any  love  for  them 
or  their  authors,  yet  it  is  but  too  true  that  most 
long-established  administrations  have  looked 
with  an  evil  eye  upon  the  detectors  and  re- 
dressors  of  all  sorts  of  abuses,  however  little 
connected  with  politics  or  political  persons — 
jirst^  because  they  feel  that  their  long  and 
undisturbed  continuance  is  a  tacit  reproach  on 
their  negligence  and  inactivity,  in  not  having 
made  use  of  their  great  opportunities  to  dis- 
cover and  correct  them  —  secondly,  because 
all  such  corrections  are  innovations  upon  old 
usages  and  establishments,  and  practical  ad 
missions  of  the  flagrant  imperfection  of  those 
boasted  institutions,  towards  which  it  is  their 
interest  to  maintain  a  blind  and  indiscriminate 
veneration  in  the  body  of  the  people — and, 
thirdly,  because,  if  general  abuses  affecting 
large  classes  of  the  community  are  allowed  to 
be  exposed  and  reformed  in  any  one  depart- 
ment, the  people  might  get  accustomed  to  look 
for  the  redress  of  all  similar  abuses  in  other 
departments, — and  reform  would  cease  to  be  a 
word  of  terror  and  alarm  (as  most  ministers 
think  it  ought  to  be)  to  all  loyal  subjects. 

These,  no  doubt,  are  formidable  obstacles ; 
and  therefore  it  is,  that  gross  abuses  have 
been  allow- ed  to  subsist  so  long.  But  they  are 
so  far  from  being  insurmountable,  that  we  are 
perfectly  persuaded  that  nothing  more  is  ne- 
cessary to  insure  the  effectual  correction,  or 
mitigation  at  least,  of  all  the  evils  to  which  we 
have  alluded,  than  to  satisfy  the  public,  1st, 
of  their  existence  and  extent — and,  2db-,  of 
there  being  means  for  their  effectual  redress 
and  prevention.  Evils  that  are  directly  con- 
nected with  the  powder  of  the  existing  admin- 
istration— abuses  of  wt^ich  they  are  them- 
selves the  authors  or  abettors,  or  of  which  they 
have  the  benefit,  can  only  be  corrected  by 
their  removal  from  office — and  are  substan- 
tially irremediable,  however  enormous,  while 
they  contiaue  in  power.  All  questions  as  to 
them,  therefore,  belong  to  the  department  of 
party  politics,  and  fall  within  the  province  of 
the  polemical  statesman.  But  with  regard  to 
all  other  plain  violations  of  reason,  justice,  or 
humanity,  it  is  comfortable  to  think  that  we 
live  in  such  a  stage  of  society  as  to  make  it 
impossible  that  they  should  be  allowed  to  sub 
sist  many  years,  after  their  mischief  and  ini- 
quity have  been  made  manifest  to  the  sense 
of  the  country  at  large.  Public  opinion,  which 
is  still  potent  and  formidable  even  toMiniste. 
rial  corruption,  is  omnipotent  against  all  infe» 


BUXTON'S  INQUIRY 


703 


rior  malversations — and  the  invaluable  means 
of  denunciation  and  auti  >ritative  and  irresis- 
tible investigation  whicL  we  possess  in  our 
representative  legislature,  ^>uts  it  in  the  power 
of  any  man  of  prudence,  patience,  and  re- 
spectability in  that  House,  to  bring  to  light  the 
most  secret,  and  to  shame  the  most  arrog-ant 
delinquent,  and  to  call  down  the  steady  ven- 
geance of  public  execration,  and  the  sure 
light  of  public  intelligence,  for  the  repression 
and  redress  of  all  public  injustice. 

The  charm  is  in  the  little  word  Publicity  ! 
— And  it  is  cheering  to  think  how  many  won- 
ders have  already  been  wrought  by  that  pre- 
cious Talisman.  If  the  House  of  Commons 
was  of  no  other  use  but  as  an  organ  for  pro- 
claiming and  inquiring  into  all  alleged  abuses, 
and  making  public  the  results,  under  the 
sanction  of  names  and  numbers  which  no  man 
dares  to  suspect  of  unfairness  or  inattention, 
it  would  be  enough  to  place  the  country  in 
which  it  existed  far  above  all  terms  of  com- 
parison with  any  other,  ancient  or  modern,  in 
which  no  such  institution  had  been  devised. 
Though  the  great  work  is  done,  however,  by 
that  House  and  its  committees — though  it  is 
there  only  that  the  mischief  can  be  denounced 
with  a  voice  that  reaches  to  the  utmost  bor- 
ders of  the  land — ^and  there  only  that  the  seal 
of  unquestioned  and  unquestionable  authority 
can  be  set  to  the  statements  which  it  authen- 
ticates and  gives  out  to  the  world ; — there  is 
still  room,  and  need  too,  for  the  humbler  min- 
istry of  inferior  agents,  to  circulate  and  en- 
force, to  repeat  and  expound,  the  momentous 
facts  that  have  been  thus  collected,  and  upon 
which  the  public  must  ultimately  decide.  It 
if?  this  unambitious,  but  useful  function  that 
we  now  propose  to  perform,  in  laying  before 
our  readers  a  short  view  of  the  very  interest- 
ing facts  which  are  detailed  in  the  valuable 
work  of  which  the  title  is  prefixed,  and  in  the 
parliamentary  papers  to  which  it  refers. 

Prisons  are  employed  for  the  confinement 
and  security  of  at  least  three  difi'erent  descrip- 
tions of  persons: — first,  of  those  who  are  ac- 
cused of  crimes  and  off'ences,  but  have  not  yet 
been  brought  to  trial ;  2d,  of  those  who  have 
been  convicted,  and  are  imprisoned  prepara- 
tory to,  or  as  a  part  of,  their  punishment ;  and 
3d,  of  debtors,  who  are  neither  convicted  nor 
accused  of  any  crime  whatsoever.  In  both 
the  first  classes,  and  even  in  that  least  enti- 
tled to  favour,  there  is  room  for  an  infinity  of 
distinctions — from  the  case  of  this  boy  arraign- 
ed or  convicted  for  a  slight  assault  or  a  breach 
of  the  peace,  up  to  that  of  the  bloody  murderer 
or  hardened  depredator,  or  veteran  leader  of 
the  house-breaking  gang.  All  these  persons 
must  indeed  be  imprisoned — for  so  the  law 
has  declared ;  but,  under  that  sentence,  we 
humbly  conceive  theie  is  no  warrant  to  inflict 
on  them  any  other  punishment — any  thing 
more  thin  a  restraint  on  their  personal  free- 
dom. This,  we  think,  is  strictly  true  of  all 
the  three  classes  we  have  mentioned ;  but  it 
will  scarcely  be  disputed,  at  all  events,  that 
it  is  true  of  the  first  and  the  last.  A  man  may 
avoid  the  penalties  of  Crime,  by  avoiding  all 
oriminality :  But  no  man  can  be  secure  against 


False  accusation;  and  to  condemn  him  who 
is  only  suspected,  is  to  commence  hi*'  punish- 
ment while  his  crime  is  uncertain.  Nay,  it  ia 
not  only  uncertain,  as  to  all  who  are  untried, 
but  it  is  the  fixed  presumption  of  the  law  that 
the  suspicion  is  unfounded,  and  that  a  trial 
will  establish  his  innocence.  We  suppose 
there  are  not  less  than  ten  or  fifteen  thousand 
persons  taken  up  yearly  in  Great  Britain  and 
Ireland  on  suspicion  of  crimes,  of  whom  cer- 
tainly there  are  not  two-thirds  convicted ;  so 
that,  in  all  likelihood,  there  are  not  fewer  than 
seven  or  eight  thousand  innocent  persons  placed 
annually  in  this  painful  predicament — whose 
very  imprisonment,  though  an  unavoidable,  is 
beyond  all  dispute  a  very  lamentable  evil; 
and  to  which  no  unnecessary  addition  can  be 
made  without  the  most  tremendous  injustice. 

The  debtor,  again,  seems  entitled  to  at 
least  as  much  indulgence.  ^- He  may,"  says 
INIr.  Buxton,  -•  have  been  reduced  to  his  ina- 
bility to  satisfy  his  creditor  by  the  visitation 
of  God, — by  disease,  by  personal  accidents, 
by  the  failure  of  reasonable  projects,  by  the 
largeness  or  the  helplessness  of  his  family. 
His  substance,  and  the  substance  of  his  credi- 
tor, may  have  perished  together  in  the  flames, 
or  in  the  waters.  Human  foresight  cannot 
always  avert,  and  human  industry  cannot  al- 
ways repair,  the  calamities  to  which  our  na- 
ture is  subjected  : — surely,  then,  some  debtors 
are  entitled  to  compassion."' — (p.  4.)  Of  the 
number  of  debtors  at  any  one  time  in  confine- 
ment in  these  kingdoms,  we  have  no  rheans 
of  forming  a  conjecture  ;  but  beyond  all  doubt 
they  amount  to  many  thousands,  of  whom 
probably  one  half  have  been  reduced  to  that 
state  by  venial  errors,  or  innocent  misfortune. 

Even  with  regard  to  the  convicted,  we 
humbly  conceive  it  to  be  clear,  that  where  no 
special  severity  is  enjoined  by  the  law,  any 
additional  infliction  beyond  that  of  mere  co- 
ercion, is  illegal.  If  the  greater  delinquents 
alone  w^ere  subjected  to  such  severities,  there 
might  be  a  colour  of  equity  in  the  practice; 
but,  in  point  of  fact,  they  are  inflicted  ac- 
cording to  the  state  of  the  prison,  the  usage 
of  the  place,  or  the  temper  of  the  jailor ; — 
and.  in  all  cases,  they  are  inflicted  indiscrimi- 
nately on  the  whole  inmates  of  each  unhappy 
mansion.  Even  if  it  were  otherwise,  "  Who,'' 
says  Mr.  B.,  "is  to  apportion  this  variety  of 
wretchedness  1  The  Judge,  who  knows  noth- 
ing of  the  interior  of  the  jail;  or  the  jailor, 
who  knows  nothing  of  the  transactions  of  the 
Court  ?  The  law  can  easily  suit  its  penalties 
to  the  circumstances  of  the  case.  It  can  ad 
judge  to  one  offender  imprisonment  for  one 
day ;  to  another  for  twenty  years :  But  what 
ingenuity  would  be  sufficient  to  devise,  and 
what  discretion  could  be  trusted  to  inflict, 
modes  of  imprisonment  with  similai  varia- 
tions ?'— p.  8.- 

But  the  truth  is,  that  all  inflictions  be/ond 
that  of  mere  detention,  are  clearly  illeg-al.-  - 
Take  the  common  case  of  fetters  —  from 
Bracton  down  to  Blackstone,  all  our  lawyers 
declare  the  use  of  them  to  be  contrary  to  law. 
The  last  says,  in  so  many  words,  that  "  the 
law  will  not  justify  jailors  in  fettering  a  nri- 


704 


MISCELLANEOUS 


soner,  unless  where  he  is  unruly  or  has  at- 
tempted an  escape;"  and,  even  in  that  case, 
the  practice  seems  to  be  questionable — if  we 
can  trust  to  the  memorable  reply  of  Lord 
Chief  Justice  King  to  certain  magistrates, 
who  urged  their  necessity  for  safe  custody — 
'Het  them  build  their  walls  higher."  Yet 
has  this  matter  been  left,  all  over  the  king- 
dom, as  a  thing  altogether  indiiferent,  to  the 
pleasure  of  the  jailor  or  local  magistrates; 
and  the  practice  accordingly  has  been  the 
most  capricious  and  irregular  that  can  well  be 
imagined. . 

"  In  Chelmsford,  for  example,  and  in  Newgate, 
all  ox,cused  or  convicted  of  felony  are  ironed. — At 
Bury,  and  at  Norwich,  all  are  without  irons. — At 
Abingdo7i  the  untried  are  not  ironed. — At  Derby, 
none  but  the  untried  are  ironed  ! — At  Cold'bath- 
fields,  none  but  the  untried,  and  those  sent  for  re- 
examination, are  ironed. — At  Wiiichester,  vlW  before 
trial  are  ironed  ;  and  those  sentenced  to  transporta- 
tion after  trial. — At  Chester,  those  alone  of  bad 
character  are  ironed,  whether  tried  or  untried." 

pp.  68,  69. 

But  these  are  trifles.  The  truth  of  the  case 
is  forcibly  and  briefly  stated  in  the  following 
short  sentences : — 

"  You  have  no  right  to  deprive  a  man  sentenced 
to  mere  imprisonment  of  pure  air,  wholesome  and 
sufficient  food,  and  opportunities  of  exercise.  You 
have  no  right  to  debar  him  from  the  craft  on  which 
his  family  depends,  if  it  can  be  exercised  in  prison. 
You  have  no  right  to  subject  him  to  suffering  from 
cold,  by  want  of  bed-clothing  by  night,  or  firing  by 
day.  And  the  reason  is  plain, — you  have  taken  him 
from  his  home,  and-  have  deprived  him  of  the  means 
of  providing  himself  with  the  necessaries  or  com- 
forts of  life  ;  and  therefore  you  are  bound  to  furnish 
him  with  moderate  indeed,  but  suitable  accommo- 
dation. 

"  You  have,  for  the  same  reason,  no  right  to 
ruin  his  habits,  by  compelling  him  to  be  idle,  his 
morals,  by  compelling  him  to  mix  with  a  pro- 
miscuous assemblage  of  hardened  and  convicted 
criminals,  or  his  health  by  forcing  him  at  night  into 
a  damp  unventilated  cell,  with  such  crowds  of  com- 
panions, as  very  speedily  render  the  air  foul  and 
putrid,  or  to  make  him  sleep  in  close  contact  with 
the  victims  of  contagious  and  loathsome  disease,  or 
amidst  the  noxious  effluvia  of  dirt  and  corruption. 
In  short,  no  Judge  ever  condemned  a  man  to  be 
half  starved  with  cold  by  day,  or  half  suffocated 
with  heat  by  ni^ht.  Who  ever  heard  of  a  criminal 
being  sentenced  to  Rheumatism,  or  Typhus  fever  ? 
Corruption  of  morals  and  contamination  of  mind 
are  not  the  remedies  which  the  law  in  its  wisdom 
has  thought  proper  to  adopt."* 

The  abuses  in  Newgate,  that  great  recepta- 
cle of  guilt  and  misery,  constructed  to  hold 
about  four  hundred  and  eighty  prisoners,  but 
generally  containing,  of  late  years,  from  eight 
hundred  to  twelve  hundred,  are  eloquently 
set  forth  in  the  publication  before  us,  though 
we  have  no  longer  left  ourselves  room  to  spe- 
cify them.  It  may  be  sufficient,  however,  to 
observe,  that  the  state  of  the  Women's  wards 
was  universally  allowed  to  be  by  far  the 
worst ;  and  that  even  Alderman  Atkins  ad- 


*  I  do  not  now  reprint  the  detailed  statements 
which  formed  the  bulk  of  this  paper,  as  originally 
published;  and  retain  only  the  account  of  the  mar- 
vellous reformation  effected  in  Newgate,  by  the 
heroic  liboura  of  Mrs.  Fry  and  her  sisters  of  charity 
—of  which  I  tninK  h  a  duty  to  omit  nothing  that 
aaav  help  to  perpetuate  the  remembrance. 


mitted,  that  in  that  quarter  some  alteration 
might  be  desirable,  though,  in  his  apprehen- 
sion, it  was  altogether  impracticable.  Thouga 
by  no  means  inclined  to  adopt  the  whole  of 
the  worthy  Alderman's  opinions,  we  may 
safely  say,  that  we  should  have  been  much 
disposed  to  agree  with  him  ui  thinking  the 
subjects  of  those  observations  pretty  nearly 
incorrigible:  and  certainly  should  not  have 
hesitated  to  pronounce  the  change  which  has 
actually  been  made  upon  them  altogether  im- 
possible. Mrs.  Fry,  however,  knew  better  of  ^ 
what  both  she  and  they  were  capable ;  and.  I 
strong  in  the  spirit  of  compassionate  love,  and 
of  that  charity  that  hopeth  all  things,  and  be- 
lieveth  all  things,  set  herself  earnestly  and 
humbly  to  that  arduous  and  revolting  task,  in 
which  her  endeavours  have  been  so  singularly 
blessed  and  effectual.  This  heroic  and  aflec- 
tionate  woman  is  the  wife,  w^e  understand,  of 
a « respectable  banker  in  London;  and  both 
she  and  her  husband  belong  to  the  Society  of 
Friends — that  exemplary  sect,  which  is  the 
first  to  begin  and  the  last  to  abandon  every 
scheme  for  the  practical  amendment  of  their 
fellow-creatures — and  who  have  carried  into 
all  their  schemes  of  reformation  a  spirit  of  ■ 
practical  wisdom,  of  magnanimous  patience,  i 
and  merciful  indulgence,  which  puts  to  shame 
the  rashness,  harshness,  and  precipitation  of 
sapient  ministers,  and  presumptuous  politi- 
cians. We  should  like  to  lay  the  whole  ac- 
count of  her  splendid  campaign  before  our 
readers ;  but  our  limits  will  no  longer  admit  of 
it.  However,  we  shall  do  what  we  can ;  and, 
at  all  events,  no  longer  withhold  them  from  a 
part  at  least  of  this  heart-stirring  narrative. 

"  About  four  years  ago,  Mrs.  Fry  was  induced 
to  visit  Newgate,  by  the  representations  of  its  state 
made  by  some  persons  of  the  Society  of  Friends. 

"  She  found  the  female  side  in  a  situation  which 
no  language  can  describe.  Nearly  t?iree  himdred 
women,  sent  there  for  every  gradation  of  crime, 
some  untried,  and  some  under  sentence  of  death, 
were  crowded  together  in  the  two  wards  and  two 
cells,  which  are  now  appropriated  to  the  untried, 
and  which  are  found  quite  inadequate  to  contain 
even  this  diminished  number  with  any  tolerable 
convenience.  Here  they  saw  their  friends,  and  kept 
their  multitudes  of  children  ;  and  they  had  no  other 
place  for  cooking,  washing,  eating,  and  sleeping. 

"  They  all  slept  on  the  floor;  at  times  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty  in  one  ward,  without  so  much  as 
a  mat  for  bedding ;  and  many  of  them  were  very 
nearly  naked.  She  saw  them  t>penly  drinking 
spirits;  and  her  ears  were  offended  by  the  mosl 
terrible  imprecations.  Every  thing  was  filthy  to 
excess,  and  the  smell  was  quite  disgusting.  Every 
one,  even  the  Governor,  was  reluctant  to  go 
amongst  them.  He  persuaded  her  to  leave  her 
watch^  in  the  office,  telling  her  that  his  presence 
would  not  prevent  its  being  torn  from  her !  She 
saw  enough  to  convince  her  that  every  thing  bad 
was  going  on.  In  short,  in  giving  me  this  account, 
she  repeatedly  said — *  All  I  tell  thee  is  a  faint  pic- 
ture of  the  reality ;  the  filth,  the  closeness  of  the 
rooms,  the  ferocious  manners  and  expressions  of 
the  women  towards  each  other,  and  the  abandoned 
wickedness  which  every  thing  bespoke,  are  quite 
indescribable.'  "—pp.  117—119. 

Her  design,  at  this  time,  was  confined  to 
the  instruction  of  about  seventy  children,  who 
were  wandering  about  in  this  scene  of  horror 
and  for  whom  even  the  most  abandoned  o 


BUXTON'S  INQUmV. 


706 


theii  wietched  mothers  thanked  her  with 
tears  of  gratitude  for  her  benevolent  inten- 
tions !  while  several  of  the  younger  women 
flocked  about  her,  and  entreated,  with. the 
most  pathetic  eagerness,  to  be  admitted  to 
her  intended  school.  She  now  applied  to  the 
Governor,  and  had  an  interview  with  the  two 
Sheriffs  and  the  Ordinary,  who  received  her 
with  the  most  cordial  approbation  ;  but  fairly 
intimated  to  her  "  their  persuasion  that  her 
efforts  u'ould  be  utterly  fruitless. ^^  After  some 
investigction,  it  was  officially  reported,  that 
there  was  no  vacant  spot  in  which  the  school 
could  be  established ;  and  an  ordinary  philan- 
thropist  would  probably  have  retired  disheart- 
ened from  the  undertaking.  Mrs.  Fry,  how- 
ever, mildly  requested  to  be  admitted  once 
more  alone  among  the  women,  that  she  might 
conduct  the  search  for  herself.  Difficulties 
always  disappear  before  the  energy  of  real 
zeal  and  benevolence :  an  empty  cell  was  im- 
mediately discovered,  and  the  school  was  to 
be  opened  the  very  day  after. 

"The  next  day  she  commenced  the  school,  in 
company  with  a  young  lady,  who  then  visited  a 
prison  for  the  first  time,  and  who  since  gave  me  a 
very  interesting  description  of  her  feelings  upon  that 
occasion.  The  railing  was  crowded  with  half  naked 
women,  struggling  together  for  the  front  situa- 
tions with  the  most  boisterous  violence,  and  begging 
with  the  utmost  vociferation.  She  felt  as  if  she  was 
going  into  a  den  of  wild  beasts  ;  and  she  well  recol- 
lects quite  shuddering  when  the  door  closed  upon 
her,  and  she  was  locked  in,  with  such  a  herd  of 
novel  and  desperate  companions.  This  day,  how- 
ever, the  school  surpassed  their  utmost  expectations  : 
their  only  pain  arose  from  the  numerous  and  press- 
ings applications  made  by  young  women,  who  longed 
to  ^e  taught  and  employed.  The  narrowness  of  the 
room  rendered  it  then  impossible  to  yield  to  these 
requests:  But  they  tempted  these  ladies  to  project 
a  school  for  the  employment  of  the  tried  women, 
for  t/'iching  them  to  read  and  to  work." 

■•When  this  intention  was  mentioned  to  the 
friends  of  these  ladies,  it  appeared  at  first  so  vision- 
ary and  unpromising,  that  it  met  with  very  slender 
encouragement :  they  were  told  that  the  certain 
consequence  of  introducing  work  would  be,  that  it 
would  be  stolen  ;  that  though  such  an  experiment 
might  be  reasonable  enough,  if  made  in  the  country, 
among  women  who  had  been  accustomed  to  hard 
labour,  it  was  quite  hopeless,  when  tried  upon  those 
who  had  been  so  long  habituated  to  vice  and  idle- 
ness. In  short,  it  was  predicted,  and  by  many  too, 
whose  wisdom  and  benevolence  added  weight  to 
their  opinions,  that  those  who  had  set  at  defiance 
the  law  of  the  land,  with  all  its  terrors,  would  very 
speedily  revolt  from  an  authority  which  had  nothing 
to  enforce  it ;  and  nothing  more  to  recommend  it 
than  its  simplicity  and  gentleness.  But  the  noble 
zeal  of  these  unassuming  women  was  not  to  be  so 
repressed ;  and  feeling  that  their  design  was  in- 
tended for  the  good  and  the  happiness  of  others, 
they  trusted  that  it  would  receive  the  guidance  and 
protection  of  Him  who  often  is  pleased  to  accom- 
plish the  highest  purposes  by  the  most  feeble  instru- 
ments. 

"  With  these  impressions,  they  had  the  boldness 
to  declare,  that  if  a  committee  could  be  found  who 
would  share  the  labour,  and  a  matron'  who  would 
engage  never  to  leave  the  prison,  day  or  night,  they 
would  undertake  to  try  the  experiment,  that  is, 
they  would  themselves  Ji7id  employment  for  the 
women,  procure  the  necessary  money,  till  the  city 
could  be  induced  to  reheve  them,  and  be  answer- 
able for  the  safety  of  the  property  committed  into 
the  hands  of  the  prisoners. 

Ihe  committee  immediately  presented  itself;  it 
45 


consisted  of  the  wife  of  a  clergyman,  and  eleven 
(female)  members  of  the  Society  of  Friends.  'I'hey 
professed  their  willingness  to  suspend  every  other 
engagement  and  avocation,  and  to  devote  tiiem 
selves  to  Newgale  ;  and  in  truth,  they  have  per- 
formed their  promise.  With  no  interval  of  relaxa- 
tion,  and  with  but  few  intermissions  from  the  call 
of  other  and  more  imperious  duties,  they  have  since 
lived  amongst  the  prisoners." 

Even  this  astonishing  progress  could  not 
correct  the  incredulity  of  men  of  benevolence 
and  knowledge  of  the  world.  The  Reverend 
Ordinary,  though  filled  with  admiration  for 
the  exertions  of  this  intrepid  and  devoted 
band,  fairly  told  Mrs.  F.  that  her  designs,  like 
many  others  for  the  improvement  of  that 
wretched  mansion,  ^^  would  inevitably  fail.'''' 
The  Governor  encouraged  her  to  go  on — but 
confessed  to  liis  friends,  that  "he  could  not 
see  even  the  possibility  of  her  success."  But 
the  wisdom  of  this  world  is  foolishness,  and 
its  fears  but  snares  to  entangle  our  feet  in  the 
career  of  our  duty.  Mrs.  F.  saw  with  other 
eyes,  and  felt  with  another  heart.  She  went 
again  to  the  Sheriffs  and  the  Governor; — near 
one  hundred  of  the  women  were  brought  be- 
fore them,  and,  with  much  solemnity  and  ear- 
nestness, engaged  to  give  the  strictest  obedi- 
ence to  all  the  regulations  of  their  heroic  bene- 
factress. A  set  of  rules  was  accordingly 
promulgated,  which  we  have  not  room  here  to 
transcribe  ]  but  they  imported  the  sacrifice  of 
all  their  darling  and  much  cherished  vices ; — 
drinking,  gaming,  card-playing,  novel  reading, 
were  entirely  prohibited — and  regular  appli- 
cation to  work  engaged  for  in  every  quarter. 
For  the  space  of  one  month  these  benevolen* 
women  laboured  in  private  in  the  midst  of 
their  unhappy  flock ;  at  the  end  of  that  short 
time  they  invited  the  Corporation  of  London 
to  satisfy  themselves,  by  inspection,  of  the 
effect  of  their  pious  exertions. 

"  In  compliance  with  this  appointment,  the  LorH 
Mayor,  the  Sheriffs,  and  several  of  the  Aldermen, 
attended.  The  prisoners  were  assembled  together ; 
and  it  being  requested  that  no  alteration  in  their 
usual  practice  might  take  place,  one  of  the  ladies 
read  a  chapter  in  the  Bible,  and  then  the  females 
proceeded  to  their  various  avocations.  Their  atten- 
tion during  the  time  of  reading,  their  orderly  and 
Sober  deportment,  their  decent  dress,  the  absence 
of  every  thing  Hke  tumult,  noise,  or  contention,  the 
obedience,  and  the  respect  shown  by  them,  and  the 
cheerfulness  visible  in  their  countenances  and  man- 
ners, conspired  to  excite  the  astonishment  and  ad- 
miration of  their  visitors. 

"Many  of  these  knew  Newgate  ;  had  visited  it 
a  few  months  before,  and  had  not  forgotten  the 
painful  impressions  made  by  a  scene,  exhibiting, 
perhaps,  the  very  utmost  limits  of  misery  and  guilt. 
— They  now  saw,  what,  without  exaggeration,  may 
be  called  a  transfoi  ination.  Riot,  licentiousness, 
and  filth,  exchanged  for  order,  sobriety,  and  com.- 
parative  neatness  in  the  chamber,  the  apparel,  and 
the  persons  of  the  prisoners.  They  saw  no  more 
an  assemblage  of  abandoned  and  shameless  crea 
tures,  half-naked  and  half-drunk,  rather  demanding, 
than  requesting  charity.  The  prison  no  more  re- 
sounded with  obscenity,  and  imprecations,  and  li- 
centious songs  ;  and  to  use  the  coarse,  but  the  just, 
expression  of  one  who  knew  the  prison  well,  '  this 
heU  upon  earth,'  already  exhibited  the  appearance 
of  an  industrious  manufactory,  or  a  well  reguiateo 
family. 

"The  magistrates,  to  evince  their  sense  of  the 


706 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


importance  of  the  alterations  which  had  been  ef- 
fected, immediately  adopted  the  whole  plan  as  a  part 
of  the  system  of  New^a  e  ;  empowered  the  ladies 
to  punish  the  refractory  by  short  confinement,  un- 
dertook part  of  the  expense  of  the  matron,  and 
loaded  the  ladies  with  thanks  and  benedictions." 

pp.  130,  131. 

We  can  add  nothing  to  this  touching  and 
elevating  statement.  The  story  of  a  glorious 
victory  gives  us  a  less  powerful  or  proud 
emotion — and  thanks  and  benedictions  appear 
to  us  never  to  have  been  so  richly  deserved. 

"  A  year,  says  Mr.  Buxton,  has  now  elapsed 
since  the  operations  in  Newgate  began ;  and  those 
most  competent  to  judge,  the  late  Lord  Mayor  and 
the  present,  the  late  Sheriffs  and  the  present,  the 
late  Governor  and  the  present,  various  Grand 
Juries,  the  Chairman  of  the  Police  Committee,  the 
Ordinary,  and  the  officers  of  the  prison,  have  all 
declared  their  satisfaction,  mixed  with  astonish- 
ment, at  the  alteration  which  has  taken  place  in  the 
conduct  of  the  females. 

"  It  is  true,  and  the  Ladies'  Committee  are  anx- 
ious that  it  should  not  be  concealed,  that  some  of 
the  rules  have  been  occasionally  brojcen.  Spirits, 
they  fear,  have  more  than  once  been  introduced  ; 
and  it  was  discovered  at  one  period,  when  many  of 
the  ladies  were  absent,  that  card-playing  had  been 
resumed.  But,  though  truth  compels  them  to  ac- 
knowledge these  deviations,  they  have  been  of  a 
very  hmited  extent.  I  could  find  but  one  lady  who 
heard  an  oath,  and  there  had  not  been  above  half  a 
dozen  instances  of  intoxication  ;  and  the  ladies  feel 
justified  in  stating,  that  the  rules  have  generally 
been  observed.  The  ladies  themselves  have  been 
treated  with  uniform  respect  and  gratitude." 

pp.  132,  133. 

At  the  close  of  a  Session,  many  of  the  re- 
formed prisoners  were  dismissed,  and  many 
new  ones  were  received  —  and,  under  their 
auspices,  card-playing  was  again  introduced. 
One  of  the  ladies,  however,  went  among  them 
alone,  and  earnestly  and  affectionately  ex- 
plained to  them  the  pernicious  consequences 
of  this  practice;  and  represented  to  them 
how  much  she  would  be  gratified,  if,  even 
from  regard  to  her,  they  would  agree  to  re- 
nounce it. 

"  Soon  after  she  retired  to  the  ladies'  room,  one 
of  the  prisoners  came  to  her,  and  expressed,  in  a 
manner  which  indicated  real  feeling,  her  sorrow  for 
having  broken  the  rules  of  so  kind  a  friend,  and 
gave  her  a  pack  of  cards  :  four  others  did  the  same. 
Having  burnt  the  cards  in  their  presence,  she  felt 
bound  to  remunerate  them  for  their  value,  and  to 
mark  her  sense  of  their  ready  obedience  by  some 
email  present.  A  few  days  afterwards,  she  called 
the  first  to  her,  and  telling  her  intention,  produced 
a  neat  muslin  handkerchief.  To  her  surprise,  the 
girl  looked  disappointed  ;  and,  on  being  asked  the 
reason,  confessed  she  had  hoped  that  Mrs. 


would  have  given  her  a  Bible  with  her  own  name 
written  in  it !  which  she  should  value  beyond  any 
thing  else,  and  always  keep  and  read.  Such  a 
request,  made  in  such  a  manner,  could  not  be  re- 
fused ;  and  the  lady  assures  me  that  she  never  gave 


a  Bible  in  her  life,  which  was  received  witn  so  much 
interest  and  satisfaction,  or  one,  which  she  thinks 
more  likely  to  do  good.  It  is  remarkable,  that  this 
girl,  from  her  conduct  in  her  preceding  prison,  and 
in  ceurt,  came  to  Newgate  with  the  worst  of  char- 
acters."— p.  134. 

The  change,  indeed,  pervaded  every  de- 
partment of  the  female  division.  Those  who 
were  marched  off  for  transportation,  instead 
of  breaking  the  windows  and  furniture,  and 
going  off,  according  to  immemorial  usage,  with 
drunken  songs  and  intolerable  disorder,  took 
a  serious  and  tender  leave  of  their  compan- 
ions, and  expressed  the  utmost  gratitude  to 
their  benefactors,  from  whom  they  parted 
with  tears.  Stealing  has  also  been  entirely 
suppressed ;  and,  while  upwards  of  twenty 
thousand  articles  of  dress  have  been  manu- 
factured, not  one  has  been  lost  or  purloined 
within  the  precincts  of  the  prison  ! 

We  have  nothing  more  to  say ;  and  would 
not  willingly  weaken  the  effect  of  this  im- 
pressive statement  by  any  observations  of 
ours.  Let  us  hear  no  more  of  the  difficulty 
of  regulating  provincial  prisons,  when  the 
prostitute  felons  of  London  have  been  thus 
easily  reformed  and  converted.  Let  us  never 
again  be  told  of  the  impossibility  of  repress- 
ing drunkenness  and  profligacy,  or  introducing 
habits  of  industry  ifi  small  establishments, 
when  this  great  crater  of  vice  and  corruption 
has  been  thus  stilled  and  purified.  And,  above 
all,  let  there  be  an  end  of  the  pitiful  apology 
of  the  M'ant  of  funds,  or  means,  or  agents,  to 
effect  those  easier  improvements,  when  wo- 
men from  the  middle  ranks  of  life — when 
quiet  unassuming  matrons,  unaccustomed  to 
business,  or  to  any  but  domestic  exertions, 
have,  without  funds,  without  agents,  without 
aid  or  encouragement  of  any  description, 
trusted  themselves  within  the  very  centre  of 
infection  and  despair ;  and.  by  opening  their 
hearts  only,  and  not  their  purses,  have  effect 
ed,  by  the  mere  force  of  kindness,  gentleness, 
and  compassion,  a  labour,  the  like  to  which 
does  not  remain  to  be  performed,  and  which 
has  smoothed  the  way  and  insured  success 
to  all  similar  labours.  We  cannot  Envy  the 
happiness  which  Mrs.  Fry  must  enjoy  from 
the  consciousness  of  her  own  great  achieve- 
ments ; — but  there  is  no  happiness  or  honour 
of  which  we  should  be  so  proud  to  be  par- 
takers: And  we  seem  to  reheve  our  own 
hearts  of  their  share  of  national  gratitude,  in 
thus  placing  on  her  simple  and  modest  brow, 
that  truly  Civic  Crown,  which  far  outshines 
the  laurels  of  conquest,  or  the  coronals  of 
power  —  andean  only  be  outshone  itself,  by 
those  wreaths  of  imperishable  glory  which 
await  the  champions  of  Faith  and  Charity  in 
a  higher  etate  of  existence. 


MEMOIRS  OF  CUMBERLAND. 


701 


(2lpril,  1806.) 

Memoirs  of  Richard  Cumberland :  written  by  himself.  Containing  an  Account  of  hts  Life 
and  Writings,  interspersed  with  Anecdotes  and  Characters  of  the  most  distinguished  Persons 
of  his  Tim£  with  whom  he  had  Intercourse  or  Connection.     4to.     pp.533.     London:   1806.* 


We  certainly  have  no  wish  for  the  death 
of  Mr.  Cumberland ;  on  the  contrary,  we  hope 
he  will  live  long  enough  to  make  a  large  sup- 
plement to  these  memoirs :  But  he  has  em- 
barrassed us  a  little  by  publishing  this  volume 
in  his  lifetime.  We  are  extremely  unwilling 
to  say  any  thing  that  may  hurt  the  feelings 
of  a  man  of  distinguished  talents,  who  is  draw- 
ing to  the  end  of  his  career,  and  imagines  that 
he  has  hitherto  been  ill  used  by  the  world : 
but  he  has  shown,  in  this  publication,  such  an 
appetite  for  praise,  and  such  a  jealousy  of 
censure,  that  we  are  afraid  we  cannot  do  our 
duty  conscientiously,  without  giving  him  of- 
fence. The  truth  is,  that  the  book  has  rather 
disappointed  us.  We  expected  it  to  be  ex- 
tremely amusing ;  and  it  is  not.  There  is  too 
much  of  the  first  part  of  the  title  in  it,  and  too 
little  of  the  last.  Of  the  life  and  writings  of 
Richard  Cumberland,  we  hear  more  than 
enough ;  but  of  the  disting-uished  persons  with 
^^•hom  he  lived,  we  have  many  fewer  charac- 
ters and  anecdotes  than  we  could  have  wish- 
jd.  We  are  the  more  inclined  to  regret  this, 
both  because  the  general  style  of  Mr.  Cum- 
berland's compositions  has  convinced  us,  that 
no  one  could  have  exhibited  characters  and 
anecdotes  in  a  more  engaging  manner,  and 
because,  from  what  he  has  put  into  this  book, 
we  actually  see  that  he  had  excellent  oppor- 
tunities for  collecting,  and  still  better  talents 
for  relating  them.  The  anecdotes  and  charac- 
ters which  we  have,  are  given  in  a  very  pleas- 
'og  and  animated  manner,  and  form  the  chief 
merit  of  the  publication  :  But  they  do  not  oc- 
cupy one  tenth  part  of  it ;  and  the  rest  is  filled 
with  details  that  do  not  often  interest,  and  ob- 
servations that  do  not  always  amuse. 

Authors,  we  think,  should  not,  generally, 
be  encouraged  to  write  their  own  lives.  The 
genius  of  Rousseau,  his  enthusiasm,  and  the 
novelty  of  his  plan,  have  rendered  the  Con- 
fessions, in  some  respects,  the  most  interest- 
ing of  books.  But  a  writer,  who  is  in  full 
possession  of  his  senses,  who  has  lived  in  the 
world  like  the  men  and  women  who  compose 
it,  and  whose  vanity  aims  only  at  the  praise 
of  great  talents  and  accomplishments,  must 
not  hope  to  write  a  book  like  the  Confessions : 
and  is  scarcely  to  be  trusted  with  the  delinea- 
tion of  his  own  character  or  the  narrative  of 
his  own  adventures.     We  have  no  objection, 


*  I  reprint  part  of  this  paper — for  the  sake  chiefly 
of  the  anecdotes  of  Bentley,  Bubb  Dodington, 
Soame  Jenyns,  and  a  few  others,  which  I  think 
remarkable — and  very  much,  also,  for  the  lively 
and  graphic  account  of  the  impression  of  Garrick's 
new  style  of  acting,  as  compared  with  that  of  Quin 
and  the  old  schools — which  is  as  good  and  as  cu- 
rious as  Colley  Gibber's  admirable  sketches  of 
Betterton  and  Booth. 


however,  to  let  authors  tell  their  own  story, 
as  an  apology  for  telling  that  of  all  their  ac- 
quaintances ;  and  can  easily  forgive  them  for 
grouping  and  assorting  their  anecdotes  of  their 
contemporaries,  according  to  the  chronology, 
and  incidents  of  their  own  lives.  This  is  but 
indulging  the  painter  of  a  great  gallery  of 
worthies  with  a  panel  for  his  own  portrait ; 
and  though  it  will  probably  be  the  least  like 
of  the  whole  collection,  it  would  be  hard  to 
grudge  him  this  little  gratification. 

Life  has  often  been  compared  to  a  journey  j 
and  the  simile  seems  to  hold  better  in  nothing 
than  in  the  identity  of  the  rules  by  which 
those  who  write  their  travels,  and  those  who 
write  their  lives,  should  be  governed.  When 
a  man  returns  from  visiting  any  celebrated 
region,  we  expect  to  hear  much  more  of  the 
remarkable  things  and  persons  he  has  seen, 
than  of  his  own  personal  transactions;  and 
are  naturally  disappointed  if,  after  saying  that 
he  lived  much  with  illustrious  statesmen  or 
heroes,  he  chooses  rather  to  tell  us  of  his  own 
travelling  equipage,  or  of  his  cookery  and  ser- 
vants, than  to  give  us  any  account  of  the 
character  and  conversation  of  those  distin- 
guished persons.  In  the  same  manner,  when 
at  the  close  of  a  long  life,  spent  in  circles  of 
literary  and  political  celebrity,  an  author  sits 
down  to  give  the  world  an  account  of  his  re- 
trospections, it  is  reasonable  to  stipulate  that 
he  should  talk  less  of  himself  than  of  his  as- 
sociates; and  natural  to  complain,  if  he  tells 
long  stories  of  his  schoolmasters  and  grand- 
mothers, while  he  passes  over  some  of  the, 
most  illustrious  of  his  companions  with  a  bare 
mention  of  their  names. 

Mr.  Cumberland  has  oflfended  a  little  in  this 
way.  He  has  also  composed  these  memoirs, 
we  think,  in  too  diffuse,  rambling,  and  care- 
less a  style.  There  is  evidently  no  selection 
or  method  in  his  narrative :  and  unweighed 
remarks,  and  fatiguing  apologies  and  protes- 
tations, are  tediously  interwoven  with  it,  in 
the  genuine  style  of  good-natured  but  irrepres- 
sible loquacity.  The  whole  composition,  in- 
deed, has  not  only  too  much  the  air  of  con- 
versation :  It  has  sometimes  an  unfortunate 
resemblance  to  the  conversation  of  a  professed 
talker;  and  we  meet  with  many  passages  in 
which  the  author  appears  to  work  himself  up 
to  an  artificial  vivacity,  and  to  give  a  certain 
air  of  smartness  to  his  expression,  by  the  in- 
troduction of  cant  phrases,  odd  metaphors,  and 
a  sort  of  practised  and  tneatncal  originality. 
The  work,  however,  is  well  worth  looking 
over,  and  contains  many  more  amusing  pas- 
sages than  we  can  afford  to  extract  on  the 
present  occasion. 

Mr.  Cumberland  was  born  in  1732  ;  and  ke 
has  a  very  natural  pride  in  i  'ating  that  his 


70S 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


paternal  great-grandfather  was  the  learned 
and  most  exemplary  Bishop  Cumberland,  au- 
thor of  the  treatise  De  Legibus  Naturce  ;  and 
chat  his  maternal  grandfather  was  the  cele- 
orated  Dr.  Richard  Bentley.  Of  the  last  of 
these  distinguished  persons  he  has  given,  from. 
-he  distinct  recollection  of  his  childhood,  a 
cnuch  more  amiable  and  engpo-ing  represen- 
:ation  than  has  hitherto  been  .^-^de  public, 
.n  stead  of  the  haughty  and  moros.  <.  Jtic  and 
3ontroversialist,  we  here  learn,  with  pleasure, 
that  he  was  as  remarkable  for  mildness  and 
kind  affections  in  private  life,  as  for  profound 
erudition  and  sagacity  as  an  author.  Mr. 
Cumberland  has  collected  a  number  of  little 
anecdotes  that  seem  to  be  quite  conclusive 
upon  this  head  j  but  we  rather  insert  the  fol- 
lowing general  testimony : — 

"  I  had  a  sister  somewhat  older  than  myself. 
Had  there  been  any  of  that  sternness  in  my  grand- 
father, which  is  so  falsely  imputed  to  him,  it  may 
well  be  supposed  we  should  have  been  awed  into 
silence  in  his  presence,  to  which  we  were  admitted 
every  day.  Nothing  can  be  further  from  the  truth  ; 
he  was  the  unwearied  patron  and  promoter  of  all 
our  childish  sports  and  sallies  ;  at  all  times  ready  to 
detach  himself  from  any  topic  of  conversation  to 
take  an  interest  and  bear  his  part  in  our  amuse- 
ments. The  eager  curiosity  natural  to  our  age,  and 
the  questions  it  gave  birth  to,  so  teasing  to  many 
parents,  he,  on  the  contrary,  attended  to  and  en- 
couraged, as  the  claims  of  infant  reason,  never  to 
be  evaded  or  abused  ;  strongly  recommending,  that 
to  all  such  inquiries  answers  should  be  given  ac- 
cording to  the  strictest  truth,  and  information  dealt 
to  us  in  the  clearest  terms,  as  a  sacred  duty  never 
to  be  departed  from.  I  have  broken  in  upon  him 
many  a  time  in  his  hours  of  study,  when  he  would 
put  his  book  aside,  ring  his  hand-bell  for  his  ser- 
vant, and  be  led  to  his  shelves  to  take  down  a  pic- 
ture-book for  my  amusement !  I  do  not  say  that 
his  good-nature  always  gained  its  object,  as  the 
pictures  which  his  books  generally  supplied  me  with 
\vere  anatomical  drawings  of  dissected  bodies,  very 
little  calculated  to  communicate  dehght ;  but  he 
had  nothing  better  to  produce  ;  and  surely  such  an 
effort  on  his  part,  however  unsuccessful,  was  no 
feature  of  a  cynic ;  a  cynic  '  should  be  made  of 
sterner  stuff. ^ 

"  Once,  and  only  once,  I  recollect  his  giving  me 
a  gentle  rebuke  for  making  a  most  outrageous  noise 
in  the  room  over  his  library,  and  disturbing  him  in 
his  studies :  I  had  no  apprehension  of  anger  from 
him,  and  confidently  answered  that  I  could  not  help 
it,  as  I  had  been  at  battledore  and  shuttlecock  with 
Master  Gooch,  the  Bishop  of  Ely's  son.  'And  I 
have  been  at  this  sport  with  his  father,'  he  replied  ; 
'  But  thine  has  been  the  more  amusing  game  ;  so 
there's  no  harm  done.'  " 

He  also  mentions,  that  when  his  adversary 
Collins  had  fallen  into  poverty  in  his  latter 
days,  Bentley,  apprehending  that  he  was  in 
some  measure  responsible  for  his  loss  of  repu- 
tion,  contrived  to  administer  to  his  necessities 
in  a  way  not  less  creditable  to  his  delicacy 
than  to  his  liberality. 

The  youngest  daughter  of  this  illustrious 
scholar,  the  Phosbe  of  Byron's  pastoral,  and 
herself  a  woman  of  extraordinary  accomplish- 
ments, was  the  mother  of  Mr.  Cumberland. 
His  father,  who  appears  also  to  have  been  a 
man  of  the  most  blameless  and  amiable  dis- 
positions, and  to  have  united,  in  a  very  exem- 
plary way,  the  characters  of  a  clergyman  and 
a  gentlemen,  was  Rector  of  Stan  wick  in  North- 


amptonshire at  the  birth  of  his  son.  He  W3a1 
to  school,  first  at  Bury  St.  Edmunds,  and  af  :er 
wards  at  Westminster.  But  the  most  valuable 
part  of  his  early  education  was  that  for  which 
he  was  indebted  to  the  taste  and  intelligence 
of  his  mother.  We  insert  with  pleasure  the 
following  amiable  paragraph : — 

"  It  was  in  these  intervals  from  school  that  my 
mother  began  to  form  both  my  taste  and  my  ear 
for  poetry,  by  employing  me  every  evening  to  read 
to  her,  of  which  art  she  was  a  very  able  mistress. 
Our  readings  were,  with  very  few  exceptions,  con- 
fined to  the  chosen  plays  of  Shakespeare,  whom 
she  both  admired  and  understood  in  the  true  spirit 
and  sense  of  the  author.  With  all  her  father's 
critical  acumen,  she  could  trace,  and  teach  me  to 
unravel,  all  the  meanders  of  his  metaphor,  and 
point  out  where  it  illuminated,  or  where  it  only 
loaded  and  obscured  the  meaning.  These  were 
happy  hours  and  interesting  lectures  to  me  ;  whilst 
my  beloved  father,  ever  placid  and  complacent, 
sate  beside  us,  and  took  part  in  our  amusement; 
his  voice  was  never  heard  but  in  the  tone  of  appro- 
bation ;  his  countenance  never  marked  but  with 
the  natural  traces  of  his  indelible  and  hereditary 
benevolence." 

The  effect  of  these  readings  was,  that  the 
young  author,  at  twelve  years  of  age,  pro- 
duced a  sort  of  drama,  called  '•'  Shakespeare 
in  the  Shades,"  composed  almost  entirely  of 
passages  from  that  great  writer,  strung  to- 
gether and  assorted  with  no  despicable  in- 
genuity. But  it  is  more  to  the  purpose  to 
observe  that,  at  this  early  period  of  his  life,  he 
first  saw  Garrick,  in  the  character  of  Lothario; 
and  has  left  this  animated  account  of  the  im- 
pression which  the  scene  made  upon  hia 
mind : — 

**  I  have  the  spectacle  even  now,  as  it  were,  be- 
fore my  eyes.  Quin  presented  himself,  upon  the 
rising  of  the  curtain,  in  a  green  velvet  coat,  em- 
broidered down  the  seams,  an  enormous  full-bot- 
tomed periwig,  rolled  stockings,  and  high  heeled 
square-toed  shoes :  With  very  little  variation  of 
cadence,  and  in  deep  full  tone,  accompanied  by  a 
sawing  kind  of  action,  which  had  more  of  the  senate 
than  of  the  stage  in  it,  he  rolled  out  his  heroics 
with  an  air  of  dignified  indifference,  that  seemed  to 
disdain  the  plaudits  that  were  bestowed  upon  him. 
Mrs.  Gibber,  in  a  key  high  pitched,  but  sweet  with- 
al, sung,  or^ather  recitatived,  Rowe's  harmonious 
strains,  something  in  the  manner  of  the  Improvi- 
satori:  II  was  so  extremely  wanting  in  contrast, 
that,  though  it  did  not  wound  the  ear,  it  wearied  it : 
when  she  had  once  recited  two  or  three  speeches,  I 
could  anticipate  the  manner  of  every  succeeding 
one.  It  was  like  a  long  old  legendary  ballad  of  in- 
numerable stanzas,  every  one  of  which  is  sung  to 
the  same  tune,  eternally  chiming  in  the  ear  without 
variation  or  relief.  Mrs.  Pritchard  was  an  actresa 
of  a  different  cast,  had  more  nature,  and  of  course 
more  change  of  tone,  and  variety  both  of  action 
and  expression.  In  my  opinion,  the  comparison 
was  decidedly  in  her  favour.  But  when,  after  long 
and  eager  expectation,  I  first  beheld  little  Garrick, 
then  young  and  light,  and  alive  in  every  muscle 
and  in  every  feature,  come  bounding  on  the  stage, 
and  pointing  at  the  wittol  Altamont  and  heavy- 
paced  Horatio  —  heavens,  what  a  transition! — it 
seemed  as  if  a  whole  century  had  been  stepped 
over  in  the  transition  of  a  single  scene  I  Old  things 
were  done  away  ;  and  a  new  order  at  once  brought 
forward,  bright  and  luminous,  and  clearly  destined 
to  dispel  the  barbarisms  and  bigotry  of  a  tasteless 
age,  too  long  attached  to  the  prejudices  of  custom, 
and  superstitiously  devoted  to  the  illusions  of  im- 
posing  declamation.    This  heaven-born  actor  wa* 


MEMOIRS  OF  CUMBERLAJVD. 


709 


rft«n  stl-uggling  to  emancipate  his  audience  from  the 
elavery  they  were  resigned  to  ;  and  though  at  times 
he  succeeded  in  throwing  in  some  gleams  of  new- 
born hght  upon  them,  j'et  in  general  they  seemed 
to  love  darhness  better  than  light;  and  in  the  dia- 
logue of  altercation,  between  Horatio  and  Lothario, 
bestowed  far  the  greater  show  of  haiids  upon  the 
master  of  the  old  school  than  upon  tlie  ibunder  of 
the  new.  I  thank  my  stars,  my  I'eclings  in  those 
moments  led  me  right ;  they  were  those  of  nature, 
and  therefore  could  not  err." 

Some  years  after  this,  Mr.  Cumberland's 
father  exchanged  his  living  of  Stanwick  for 
that  of  Fulham,  in  oi'der  that  his  son  might 
have  the  benefit  of  his  society,  while  obhged 
to  reside  in  the  vicinity  of  the  metropolis. 
The  celebrated  Bubb  Dodington  resided  at 
this  time  in  the  neighbouring  parish  of  Ham- 
mersmith; and  Mr.  Cumberland,  who  soon 
became  a  frequent  guest  at  his  table,  has  pre- 
sented his  readers  wath  the  following  spirited 
full  length  portrait  of  that  very  remarkable 
and  preposterous  personage. 

''  Our  splendid  host  was  excelled  by  no  man  in 
doing  the  honours  of  his  house  and  table  ;  to  the 
ladies  he  had  all  the  courtly  and  profound  devotion 
of  a  Spaniard,  with  the  ease  and  gaiety  of  a  French- 
man towards  the  men.  His  mansion  was  magnifi- 
cent ;  massy,  and  stretching  out  to  a  great  extent 
of  front,  with  an  enormous  portico  of  Doric  columns, 
ascended  b>^  a  stately  flight  of  steps.  There  were 
turrets,  and* wings  too,  that  went  I  know  not  whi- 
ther, though  now  levelled  with  the  ground,  or  gone 
to  more  ignoble  uses  :  Vanbrugh,  who  constructed 
this  superb  edifice,  seemed  to  have  had  the  plan  of 
Blenheim  in  his  thoughts,  and  the  interior  was  as 
proud  and  splendid  as  the  exterior  was  bold  and 
imposing.  All  this  was  exactly  in  unison  with  the 
taste  of  its  magnificent  owner  ;  who  had  gilt  and 
furnished  the  apartments  with  a  profusion  of  finery, 
that  kept  no  terms  with  simplicity,  and  not  always 
with  elegance  or  harmony  of  style.  Whatever  iMr. 
Dodington's  revenue  then  was,  he  had  the  happy 
art  of  managing  it  with  such  economy,  that  I  be- 
lieve he  made  more  display  at  less  cost  than  any 
man  in  the  kingdom  but  himself  could  have  done. 
His  town-house  in  Pall-Mall,  and  this  villa  at  Ham- 
mersmith, were  such  establishments  as  few  nobles 
in  the  nation  were  possessed  of  In  either  of  these 
he  was  not  to  be  approached  but  through  a  suit  of 
apariments,  and  rarely  seated  but  under  painted 
ceilings  and  gilt  entablatures.  In  his  villa  you  were 
conducted  through  two  rows  of  antique  marble 
statues,  ranged  in  a  gallery  floored  with  the  rarest 
marbles,  and  enriched  with  columns  of  granite  and 
lapis  lazuli ;  his  saloon  was  hung  with  the  finest 
Gobelin  tapestry,  and  he  slept  in  a  bed  encanopied 
with  peacock's  feathers  in  the  style  of  Mrs.  Mon- 
tague. When  he  passed  from  Pall-Mall  to  La 
Trappe  it  was  always  in  a  coach,  which  I  could  not 
but  suspect  had  been  his  ambassadorial  equipage  at 
Madrid,  drawn  by  six  fat  unwieldy  black  horses, 
short-docked,  and  of  colossal  dignity.  Neither  was 
he  less  characteristic  in  apparel  than  in  equipage  ; 
he  had  a  wardrobe  loaded  with  rich  and  flaring  suits, 
each  in  itself  a  load  to  the  wearer,  and  of  these  I 
have  no  doubt  but  many  were  coeval  with  his  em- 
bassy above  mentioned,  and  every  birth-day  had 
added  to  the  stock.  In  doing  this  he  so  contrived 
as  never  to  put  his  old  dresses  out  of  countenance, 
by  any  variations  in  the  fashion  of  the  new  ;  in  the 
mean  time,  his  bulk  and  corpulency  gave  full  dis- 
play to  avast  expanse  and  profusion  of  brocade  and 
embroidery,  and  this,  when  set  off  with  an  enor- 
mous tie-periwig  and  deep-laced  ruffles,  gave  the 
picture  of  an  ancient  courtier  in  his  gala  nabit,  or 
Quin  in  his  stage  dress.  Nevertheless,  it  must  be 
confessed  this  style,  though  out  of  date,  was  not  out 
«f  character,  but  harmonised  so  well  with  the  per- 


son of  the  wearer,  that  I  remember  when  he  mada 
his  first  speech  iti  the  House  of  Peers  as  Lord  Mel- 
combe,  all  the  flashes  of  his  wit,  all  the  studied 
phrases  and  well-turned  periods  of  his  rhetoric 
lost  their  effect,  sin-ply  because  the  orator  had 
laid  aside  his  magisterial  tie,  and  put  on  a  mo- 
dern bag- wig,  which  was  as  much  out  of  costume 
upon  the  broad  expanse  of  his  shoulders,  as  a  cue 
would  have  bee^upon  the  robes  of  the  Lord  Chief- 
Justice,"     ^/p^ 

The  loliowing,  with  all  our  former  impree- 
sior^s  of  his  hero's  absurdity,  rather  surpassed 
our  expectations. 

"  Of  pictures  he  seemed  to  take  his  estimate  only 
by  their  cost ;  in  fact,  he  was  not  possessed  of  any. 
But  I  recollect  his  saying  to  me  one  day  in  his  great 
saloon  at  Eastbury,  that  if  he  had  half  a  score  pic- 
tures of  a  thousand  pounds  a-piece,  he  would  gladly 
decorate  his  walls  with  them  ;  in  place  of  which  I 
atri  sorry  to  say  he  had  stuck  up  immense  patches  of 
gilt  leather,  shaped  into  bugle  horns,  upon  hangings 
of  rich  crimson  velvet !  and  round  his  state  bed  he 
displayed  a  carpeting  of  gold  and  silver  embroidery, 
which  too  glaringly  betrayed  its  derivation  from 
coat,  waistcoat,  and  breeches,  by  the  testimony  of 
pockets,  buttonholes,  and  loops,  with  other^ equally 
incontrovertible  witnesses,  subpcEuaed  from  the 
tailor's  shopboard !  When  he  paid  his  court  at  St. 
James'  to  the  present  queen  upon  her  nuptials,  he 
approached  to  kiss  her  hand,  decked  in  an  em- 
broidered suit  of  silk,  with  lilac  waistcoat,  and 
breeches,  the  latter  of  which,  in  the  act  of  kneeling 
down,  forgot  their  duty  and  broke  loose  from  their 
moorings  in  a  very  indecorous  and  uncourtly 
manner." 

"During  my  stay  at  Eastbury,  we  were  visited 
by  the  late  Mr.  Henry  Fox  and  Mr.  Alderman 
Beckford ;  the  solid  good  sense  of  the  former,  and 
the  dashing  loquacity  of  the  latter,  formed  a  striking 
contrast  between  the  characters  of  these  gentlemen. 
To  Mr.  Fox  our  host  paid  all  that  courtly  homage, 
which  he  so  well  knew  how  to  time,  and  where  to 
apply ;  to  Beckford  he  did  not  observe  the  same 
attentions,  but  in  the  happiest  flow  of  his  raillery 
and  wit  combated  this  intrepid  talker  with  admira- 
ble effect.  It  was  an  interlude  truly  comic  and 
amusing. — Beckford  loud,  voluble,  self-sufficient, 
and  galled  by  hits  which  he  could  not  parry,  and 
probably  did  not  expect,  laid  himself  more  and 
more  open  in  the  vehemence  of  his  argument ; 
Dodington  lolling  in  his  chair  in  perfect  apathy  and 
self-command,  dozing,  and  even  snoring  at  intervals, 
in  his  lethargic  way,  broke  out  every  now  and  then 
into  such  gleams  and  flashes  of  wit  and  irony,  aa 
by  the  contrast  of  his  phlegm  with  the  other's  im- 
petuosity, made  his  humour  irresistible,  and  set  the 
table  in  a  roar.  He  was  here  upon  his  very  strong- 
est ground." 

"He  wrote  small  poems  with  great  pains,  and 
elaborate  letters  with  much  terseness  of  style,  and 
some  quaintne.S3  of  expression  :  I  have  seen  him 
refer  to  a  volume  of  his  own  verses  in  manuscript, 
but  he  was  very  shy,  and  I  never  had  the  perusal 
of  it.  I  was  rather  better  acquainted  with  h.\s,  Diary, 
which  since  his  death  has  been  published ;  and  I 
well  remember  the  temporary  disgust  he  seemed, 
to  take,  when  upon  his  asking  whatT  would  do 
with  it  should  he  bequeath  it  to  my  discretion,  I 
instantly  replied,  that  I  would  destroy  it.  There 
was  a  third,  which  I  more  coveted  a  sight  of  than 
of  either  of  the  above,  as  it  contained  a  miscella- 
neous collection  of  anecdotes,  repartees,  good  say- 
ings, and  humorous  incidents,  of  which  he  was  part 
author  and  part  compiler,  and  out  of  which  he  \^'aa 
in  the  habit  of  refreshing  his  memory,  when  he 
prepared  himself  to  expect  certain  men  of  wit  and 
pleasantry,  either  at  his  own  house  or  elsewhere. 
Upon  this  practice,  which  he  did  not  affect  to  con- 
ceal, he  observed  to  me  one  day,  that  it  was  a  com 
pliment  he  paid  to  society,  when  he  submitted  us 


710 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


steal  weapons  out  of  his  own  armoury  for  their  en- 
tertainment." 

"I  had  taken  leave  of  Lord  Melcombe  the  day 
preceding  the  coronation,  and  found  him  before  a 
•ool^ing-glass  in  his  new  robes, — practising  atti- 
tudes, and  debating  within  himself  upon  the  most 
graceful  mode  of  carrying  his  coronet  in  the  pro- 
cession. He  was  in  high  glee  with  his  fresh  and 
blooming  honours ;  and  I  left  him  in  the  act  of 
dictating  a  billet  to  Lady  Hervey,  apprising  her  that 
a  you7ig  lord  was  coming  to  throw  himself  at  her 
feet."— p.  159. 

Mr.  Cumberland  went  to  Ireland  with  Lord 
Halifax  in  1761;  and  the  celebrated  Single- 
Speech  Hamilton  went  as  chief  secretary. — 
His  character  is  well  drawn  in  the  following 
sentences. 

"  He  spoke  well,  but  not  often,  in  the  Irish 
House  of  Commons.  He  had  a  striking  counte- 
nance, a  graceful  carriage,  great  self-possession  and 
personal  courage  :  He  was  not  easily  put  out  of  his 
way  by  any  of  those  unaccommodating  repugnances 
that  men  of  weaker  nerves,  or  more  tender  con- 
sciences, might  have  stumbled  at,  or  been  checked 
by  :  he  could  mask  the  passions  that  were  natural 
to  him,  and  assurne  those  that  did  not  belong  to 
him  :  he  was  indefatigable,  meditative,  mysterious : 
his  opinions  were  the  result  of  long  labour  and 
much  reflection,  but  he  had  the  art  of  setting  them 
forth  as  if  they  were  the  starts  of  ready  genius 
and  a  quick  perception  :  He  had  as  much  seeming 
steadiness  as  a  partisan  could  stand  in  need  of,  and 
all  the  real  flexibility  that  could  suit  his  purpose,  or 
advance  his  interest.  He  would  fain  have  retained 
his  connection  with  Edmund  Burke,  and  associated 
him  to  his  politics,  for  he  well  knew  the  value  of  his 
talents ;  but  in  that  object  he  was  soon  disap- 
pointed :  the  genius  of  Burke  was  of  too  high  a 
caste  to  endure  debasement." — pp.  169,  170. 

In  Dublin  Mr.  Cumberland  was  introduced 
to  a  new  and  a  more  miscellaneous  society 
than  he  had  hitherto  been  used  to,  and  has 
presented  his  readers  with  striking  sketches 
of  Dr.  Pococke  and  Primate  Stone.  We  are 
more  amused,  however,  with  the  following 
picture  of  George  Faulkner. 

"  Description  must  fall  short  in  the  attempt  to  con- 
vey any  sketch  of  that  eccentric  being  to  those  who 
have  not  read  him  in  the  notes  of  Jephson,  or  seen 
him  in  the  mimickry  of  Foote,  who,  in  his  portraits 
of  Faulkner,  found  the  only  sitter  whom  his  ex- 
travagant pencil  could  not  caricature  ;  for  he  had  a 
solemn  intrepidity  of  egotism,  and  a  daring  con- 
tempt of  absurdity,  that  fairly  outfaced  imitation, 
and,  like  Garrick's  Ode  on  Shakespeare,  which 
Johnson  said  "  defied  criticism,"  so  did  George,  in 
the  original  spirit  of  his  own  perfect  buffoonery, 
defy  caricature.  He  never  deigned  to  join  in  the 
laugh  he  had  raised,  nor  seemed  to  have  a  feeling 
of  the  ridicule  he  had  provoked.  At  the  same  time 
that  he  was  preeminently,  and  by  preference,  the 
butt  and  buffoon  of  the  company,  he  could  find 
openings  and  opportunities  for  hits  of  retaliation, 
which  were  such  left-handed  thrusts  as  few  could 
parry  :  nobody  could  foresee  where  they  would 
fall ;  nobody,  of  course,  was  fore-armed  :  and  as 
there  was,  in  his  calculation,  but  one  supereminent 
character  in  the  kingdom  of  Ireland,  and  he  the 
printer  of  the  Dublin  Journal,  rank  was  no  shield 
against  George's  arrows,  which  flew  where  he 
listed,  and  hit  or  missed  as  chance  directed, — he 
cared  not  about  consequences.  He  gave  good  meat 
and  excellent  claret  in  abundance.  I  sat  at  his  table 
once  from  dinner  till  two  in  the  morning,  whilst 
George  swallowed  immense  potations,  with  one 
Bolitary  sodden  strawberry  at  the  bottom  of  the 
^lass, — which  he  said  was  recommended  to  him  by 
oia  doctor  for  its  cooling  properties  !  He  never  lost 


his  recollection  or  equilibrium  the  whole  time,an4 
was  in  excellent  foolery.  It  was  a  singular  coinci- 
dence, that  there  was  a  person  in  company  who  had 
received  his  reprieve  at  the  gallows,  and  the  very 
judge  who  had  passed  sentence  of  death  upon  him 
But  this  did  not  in  the  least  disturb  the  harmony 
of  the  society,  nor  embarrass  any  human  creature 
present."— pp.  174,  175. 

At  this  period  of  his  story  he  introduces 
several  sketches  and  characters  of  his  literary 
friends;  which  are  executed,  for  the  most 
part,  with  great  force  and  vivacity.  Of  Gar- 
rick  he  says — 

"  Nature  had  done  so  much  for  him,  that  he 
could  not  help  being  an  actor ;  she  gave  him  a 
frarne  of  so  manageable  a  proportion,  and  from  its 
flexibility  so  perfectly  under  command,  that,  by  its 
aptitude  and  elasticity,  he  could  draw  it  out  to  fit 
any  sizes  of  character  that  tragedy  could  offer  to 
him,  and  contract  it  to  any  scale  of  ridiculous  di- 
minution, that  his  Abel  Drugger,  Scrubb,  or  Frib- 
ble, could  require  of  him  to  sink  it  to.  His  eye,  in 
the  meantime,  was  so  penetrating,  so  speaking; 
his  brow  so  movable,  and  all  his  features  so  plas- 
tic, and  so  accommodating,  that  wherever  his  mind 
impelled  them,  they  would  go;  and  before  his 
tongue  could  give  the  text,  his  countenance  would 
express  the  spirit  and  the  passion  of  the  part  he  was 
encharged  with." — pp.  245,  246. 

The  following  picture  of  Soame  Jenyns  is 
excellent. 

"  He  was  the  man  who  bore  his  part  in  all  so- 
cieties with  the  most  even  temper  and  undisturbed 
hilarity  of  all  the  good  companions  whom  I  ever 
knew.  He  came  into  your  house  at  the  very  mo- 
ment you  had  put  upon  your  card  ;  he  dressed  him- 
self to  do  your  party  honour  in  all  the  colours  of 
the  jay ;  his  lace  indeed  had  long  since  lost  its 
lustre,  but  his  coat  had  faithfully  retained  its  cut 
since  the  days  when  gentlemen  embroidered  figured 
velvets  with  short  sleeves,  boot  cuffs,  and  buckram 
shirts.  As  nature  had  cast  him  in  the  exact  mould 
of  an  ill  made  pair  of  stiff  stays,  he  followed  her  so 
close  in  the  fashion  of  his  coat,  that  it  was  doubted 
if  he  did  not  wear  them.  Because  he  had  a  pro- 
tuberant wen  just  under  his  poll,  he  wore  a  wig 
that  did  not  cover  above  half  his  head.  His  eyes 
were  protruded  like  the  eyes  of  the  lobster,  who 
wears  them  at  the  end  of  his  feelers,  and  yet  there 
was  room  between  one  of  these  and  his  nose  for 
another  wen,  that  added  nothing  to  his  beauty  ;  yet 
1  heard  this  good  man  very  innocently  remark, 
when  Gibbon  published  his  history,  that  he  won- 
dered any  body  so  ugly  could  write  a  book. 

"  Such  was  the  exterior  of  a  man,  who  was  the 
charm  of  the  circle,  and  gave  a  zest  to  every  com- 
pany he  came  into :  His  pleasantry  was  of  a  sort 
peculiar  to  himself;  it  harmonised  with  everything; 
it  was  like  the  bread  to  your  dinner ;  you  did  not 
perhaps  make  it  the  whole,  or  principal  part  of 
your  meal,  but  it  was  an  admirable  and  wholesome 
auxiliary  to  your  other  viands.  Soame  Jenyns  told 
you  no  long  stories,  engrossed  not  much  of  your 
attention,  and  was  not  angry  with  those  that  did. 
His  thoughts  were  original,  and  were  apt  to  have  a 
very  whimsical  affinity  to  paradox  in  them  :  He 
wrote  verses  upon  dancing,  and  prose  upon  the 
origin  of  evil ;  yet  he  was  a  very  indifferent  meta- 
physician, and  a  worse  dancer:  ill-nature  and  per- 
sonality, with  the  single  exception  of  his  lines  upon 
Johnson,  I  never  heard  fall  from  his  lips:  Thoss 
lines  I  have  forgotten,  though  I  believe  I  was  the 
first  person  to  whom  he  recited  them  ;  they  wer« 
very  bad,  but  he  had  been  told  that  Johnson  ridi- 
culed his  metaphysics,  and  some  of  us  had  just 
then  been  making  extemporary  epitaphs  upon  each 
other.  Though  his  wit  was  harmless,  yet  the  gene 
ral  cast  of  it  was  ironical ;  there  was  a  terseness  i« 


LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU. 


7 11 


ms  repartees,  that  had  a  play  of  words  as  well  as 
of  thought;  as,  when  speaking  of  the  difference 
between  laying  out  money  upon  land,  or  purchasing 
»nto  the  funds,  he  said  '  One  was  principal  without 
interest,  and  the  other  interest  without  principal.' 
Certain  it  is  he  had  a  brevity  of  expression,  that 
never  hung  upon  the  ear,  and  you  felt  the  point  in 
the  very  moment  that  he  made  the  push." 

pp.  247—249. 

Of  Goldsmith  he  says, 

"  That  he  was  fantastically  and  whimsically  vain, 
all  the  world  knows;  but  there  was  no  malice  in 
his  heart.  He  was  tenacious  to  a  ridiculous  ex- 
treme of  certain  pretensions  that  did  not,  and  by 
nature  could  not,  belong  to  him,  and  at  the  same 
time  he  was  inexcusably  careless  of  the  fame  which 
he  had  powers  to  command.  What  foibles  he  had 
he  took  no  pains  to  conceal ;  and  the  good  qualities 
i  of  his  heart  were  too  frequently  obscured  by  the 

I  carelessness  of  his  conduct,  and  the  frivolity  of  his 

\  manners.     Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  was  very  good  to 

j  him,  and  would  have  drilled  him  into  better  trim 

and  order  for  society,  if  he  would  have  been  amen- 
able ;  for  Reynolds  was  a  perfect  gentleman,  had 
good  sense,  great  propriety,  with  all  the  social  at- 
tributes, and  all  the  graces  of  hospitaUty,  equal  to 
any  man. 

"  Distress  drove  Goldsmith  upon  undertakings 
neither  congenial  with  his  studies  nor  worthy  of  his 
talents.     I  remember  him,  when  in  his  chambers 
I  in  the  Temple,  he  showed  nie  the  beginning  of  his 

!  Animated   Nature;   it  was  with   a   sigh,  such   as 

I  genius  draws,  when  hard  necessity  diverts  it  from 

Its  bent  to  drudge  for  bread,  and  talk  of  birds  and 
beasts  and  creeping  things,  which  Pidcock's  show- 
man would  have  done  as  well.  Poor  fellow,  he 
hardly  knew  an  ass  from  a  mule,  nor  a  turkey 
from  a  goose,  but  when  he  saw  it  on  the  table." 

pp.  257—259. 

"  I  have  heard  Dr.  Johnson  relate  with  infinite 

humour  the  circumstance  of  his  rescuing  Goldsmith 

from  a  ridiculous  dilemma,  by  the  purchase-money 

of  his  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  which  he  sold  on   his 

behalf  to  Dodsley,  and,  as  I  think,  for  the  sum  of 

ten  pounds  only.     He  had  run  up  a  debt  with  his 

1  landlady,   for  board  and    lodging,   of   some   few 

K      pounds,  and  was  at  his  wits  end  how  to  wipe  off 

W^     the  score,  and  keep  a  roof  over  his  head,  except  by 

closing  with  a  very  staggering  proposal  on  her  part, 

and  taking  his  creditor  to  wife,  whose  charms  were 

very  far  from  alluring,  whilst  her  demands  were 

extremely  urgent.    In  this  crisis  of  his  fate  he  was 


found  by  Johnson,  in  the  act  of  meditating  on  th* 
melancholy  alternative  before  him.  He  showed 
Johnson  his  manuscript  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield, 
but  seemed  to  be  without  any  plan,  or  even  hope, 
of  raising  money  upon  the  disposal  of  it ;  wher 
Johnson  cast  his  eye  upon  it,  he  discovered  some 
thing  that  gave  him  hope,  and  immediately  took  it 
to  Dodsley,  who  paid  down  the  pri':e  above-men- 
tioned in  ready  money,  and  added  an  eventual  con- 
dition upon  its  future  sale.  Johnson  described  the 
precautions  he  took  in  concealing  the  amount  of  the 
sum  he  had  in  hand,  which  he  prudently  adminis- 
tered to  him  by  a  guinea  at  a  time.  In  the  event 
he  paid  off  the  landlady's  score,  and  redeemed  the 
person  of  his  friend  from  her  embraces." — p.  273. 

We  will  pronounce  no  general  judgment  on 
the  literary  merits  of  Mr.  Cumberland ;  but 
our  opinion  of  them  certainly  has  not  been 
raised  by  the  perusal  of  these  memoirs.  There 
is  no  depth  of  thought,  nor  dignity  of  senti- 
ment about  him ; — he  is  too  frisky  for  an  old 
man,  and  too  gossipping  for  an  historian.  Hia 
style  is  too  negligent  even  for  the  most  fami- 
liar composition ;  and  though  he  has  proved 
himself,  upon  other  occasions,  to  be  a  great 
master  of  good  English,  he  has  admhted  a 
number  of  phrases  into  this  work,  which,  we 
are  inclined  to  think,  would  scarcely  pass 
current  even  in  conversation.  ''  I  declare  to 
truth" — "  with  the  greatest  pleasure  in  life" 
"  she  would  lead  off  in  her  best  manner,"  &c. 
are  expressions  which  we  should  not  expect 
to  hear  in  the  society  to  which  Mr.  Cumber- 
land belongs  ; — -'  laid,"  for  lay,  is  still  more 
insufTerable  from  the  antagonist  of  Lowth  and 
the  descendant  of  Bentley ; — '•  querulential" 
strikes  our  ear  as  exotic; — •■  locate,  location, 
and  locality,"  for  situation  simply,  seem  also 
to  be  bad;  and  "intuition"  for  obsen-ation 
sounds  very  pedantic,  to  say  the  least  of  it. 
Upon  the  whole,  however,  this  volume  is  not 
the  work  of  an  ordinary  writer ;  and  we  should 
probably  have  been  more  indulgent  to  its 
faults,  if  the  excellence  of  some  of  the  au- 
thor's former  productions  had  not  sent  us  to 
its  perusal  with  expectations  perhaps  some- 
what extravagant. 


(3ttlB,   1803.) 

The  Works  of  the  Right  Honourable  Lady  Mary  Worthy  Montagu.  Including  her  Correspond- 
ence, Poems,  and  Essays.  Published  by  permission,  from  her  Original  Papers.  5  vols. 
8vo.     London:  1803. 


These  volumes  are  so  very  entertaining  that 
we  ran  them  all  through  immediately  upon 
their  coming  into  our  possession ;  and  at  the 
same  time  contain  so  little  that  is  either  diffi- 
cult or  profound,  that  we  may  venture  to  give 
some  account  of  them  to  our  readers  without 
farther  deliberation. 

The  only  thing  that  disappointed  us  was  the 
memoir  of  the  writer's  life,  prefixed  by  the 
editor  to  her  correspondence.  In  point  of  com- 
position it  is  very  tame  and  inelegant;  and 
'qther  excites  than  gratifies  the  curiosity  of 
••^he  reader,  by  the  imperfect  manner  in  which 


the  facts  are  narrated.  As  the  letters  them- 
selves, however,  are  arranged  in  a  chronologi- 
cal order,  and  commonly  contain  very  distinct 
notices  of  the  writer's  situation  at  their  dates, 
we  shall  be  enabled,  by  our  extracts  from 
them,  to  give  a  pretty  clear  idea  of  her  Lady- 
ship's life  and  adventures,  with  very  little  as- 
sistance from  the  meagre  narrative  of  Mi. 
Dallaway. 

Lady  Mary  Pierrepoint,  eldest  daughter  of 
the  Duke  of  Kingston,  was  born  in  1690 ;  and 
gave,  in  her  early  youth,  such  indications  of  a 
studious  disposition,  that  she  was  initiated  iiitc 


712 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


the  rudiments  of  the  learned  languages  along 
with  her  brother.  Her  first  years  appear  to 
have  been  spent  in  retirement;  and  yet  the 
very  first  series  of  letters  with  which  we  are 
presented;  indicates  a  great  deal  of  that  talent 
for  ridicule,  and  power  of  observation,  by 
which  she  afterwards  became  so  famous,  and 
so  formidable.  These  letters  (about  a  dozen 
in  number)  are  addressed  to  Mrs.  Wortley,  the 
mother  of  her  future  husband ;  and,  along  with 
a  good  deal  of  girlish  flattery  and  affectation, 
display  such  a  degree  of  easy  humour  and 
sound  penetration,  as  is  not  often  to  be  met 
with  in  a  damsel  of  nineteen,  even  in  this  age 
of  precocity.  The  following  letter,  in  1709, 
is  written  upon  the  misbehaviour  of  one  of  her 
female  favourites. 

"  My  kniffhterrantry  is  at  an  end  ;  and  T  believe  I 
shall  henceiorward  think  freeing  of  galley-slaves 
and  knocking  down  windmills,  more  laudable  un- 
dertakings than  the  defence  of  any  woman's  repu- 
taiion  whatever.  To  say  truth,  I  have  never  had 
any  great  esteem  for  the  generality  of  the  fair  sex  ; 
and  my  only  consolation  for  being  of  that  gender, 
has  been  the  assurance  it  gave  me  of  never  being 
married  to  any  one  among  them  !  But  I  own,  at 
present,  I  am  so  much  out  of  humour  with  the  ac- 
tions of  Lady  H  *  *  *,  that  I  never  was  so  heartily 
ashamed  of  my  petticoats  before.  My  only  refuge 
is,  the  sincere  hope  that  she  is  out  of  her  senses ; 
and  taking  herself  for  the  Queen  of  Sheba,  and  Mr. 
Mildmay  for  King  Solomon,  I  do  not  think  it  quite 
so  ridiculous  :  But  the  men,  you  may  well  imagine, 
are  not  so  charitable  ;  and  they  agree  in  the  kind 
reflection,  that  nothing  hinders  women  from  playing 
the  fool,  but  not  having  it  in  their  power." 

Vol.  i.  pp.  180,  181. 

Tn  the  course  of  this  correspondence  wath 
the  mother.  Lady  Mary  appears  to  have  con- 
ceived a  very  favourable  opinion  of  the  son ; 
atid  the  next  series  of  letters  contains  her  an- 
tenuptial correspondence  wath  that  gentleman, 
from  1710  to  1712.  Though  this  correspond- 
ence has  interested  and  entertained  us  as 
much  at  least  as  any  thing  in  the  book,  w^e  are 
afraid  that  it  will  afford  but  little  gratification 
to  the  common  admirers  of  love  letters.  Her 
Ladyship,  though  endowed  with  a  very  lively 
imagination,  seems  not  to  have  been  very  sus- 
ceptible of  violent  or  tender  emotions,  and  to 
have  imbibed  a  very  decided  contempt  for 
sentimental  and  romantic  nonsense,  at  an  age 
which  is  commonly  more  indulgent.  There 
are  no  raptures  nor  ecstasies,  therefore,  in 
these  letters ;  no  flights  of  fondness,  nor  vows 
of  constancy,  nor  upbraidings  of  capricious  af- 
fection. To  say  the  truth,  her  Ladyship  acts 
a  part  in  the  correspondence  that  is  not  often 
allotted  to  a  female  performer.  Mr.  Wortley, 
though  captivated  by  her  beauty  and  her  vi- 
vacity, seems  evidently  to  have  been  a  little 
alarmed  at  her  love  of  distinction,  her  propen- 
Bity  to  satire,  and  the  apparent  inconstancy  of 
her  attachments.  Such  a  woman,  he  was 
afraid,  and  not  very  unreasonably,  w^ould  make 
rather  an  uneasy  and  extravagant  companion 
to  a  man  of  plain  understanding  and  moderate 
fortune ;  and  he  had  sense  enough  to  foresee, 
and  generosity  enough  to  explain  to  her,  the 
risk  to  which  their  mutual  happiness  might 
he  exposed  by  a  rash  and  indissoluble  union. 
Ladv  Mary,  who  probably  saw  her  own  char- 


acter in  a  different  light,  a.id  was  at  any  rate 
biassed  by  her  inclinations,  appears  to  have 
addressed  a  great  number  of  letters  to  him 
upon  this  occasion  ;  and  to  have  been  at  con- 
siderable pains  to  relieve  him  of  his  scruples, 
and  restore  his  confidence  in  the  substantial 
excellences  of  her  character.  These  letters, 
which  are  wTitten  with  a  great  deal  of  female 
spirit  and  masculine  sense,  impress  us  with  a 
very  favourable  notion  of  the  talents  and  dis- 
positions of  the  wTiter;  and  as  they  exhibit 
her  in  a  point  of  view  altogether  different  from 
any  in  which  she  has  hitherto  been  presented 
to  the  public,  we  shall  venture  upon  a  pretty 
long  extract. 

"  I  will  state  the  case  to  you  as  plainly  as  I  can, 
and  then  ask  yourself  if  you  use  me  well.  I  have 
showed,  in  every  action  of  my  life,  an  esteem  for 
you,  that  at  least  challenges  a  grateful  regard.  I 
have  even  trusted  my  reputation  in  your  hands  ;  for 
I  have  made  no  scruple  of  giving  you,  under  my 
own  hand,  an  assurance  of  my  friendship.  After 
all  this,  I  exact  nothing  from  you  :  If  you  find  it  in- 
convenient for  your  affairs  to  take  so  small  a  fortune, 
I  desire  you  to  sacrifice  nothing  to  me :  I  pretend 
no  tie  upon  your  honour  ;  but,  in  recompense  for  so 
clear  and  so  disinterested  a  proceeding,  must  I  ever 
receive  injuries  and  ill  usage  ? 

"  Perhaps  I  have  been  indiscreet :  I  came  young 
into  the  hurry  of  the  world  ;  a  great  innocence,  and 
an  undesigning  gaiety,  may  possibly  have  been  con- 
strued coquetry,  and  a  desire  of  being  followed, 
though  never  meant  by  me.  I  cannot  answer  for 
the  observations  that  may  be  made  on  me.  All  who 
are  malicious  attack  the  careless  and  defenceless  :  I 
own  myself  to  be  both.  I  know  not  any  thing  I  can 
say  more  to  show  my  perfect  desire  of  pleasing  you, 
and  making  you  easy,  than  to  proffer  to  be  confined 
with  you  in  what  manner  you  please.  Would  any 
woman  but  me  renounce  all  the  world  for  one  ?  or 
would  any  man  but  you  be  insensible  of  such  a 
proof  of  sincerity  ?" — Vol.  i.  pp.  208—210. 

"  One  part  of  my  character  is  not  so  good,  nor 
t'  other  so  bad,  as  you  fancy  it.  Should  we  ever  live 
together,  you  would  be  disappointed  both  ways; 
you  would  find  an  easy  equality  of  temper  you  do 
not  expect,  and  a  thousand  faults  you  do  not  ima- 
gine. You  think,  if  you  married  me,  I  should  be 
passionaiely  fond  of  you  one  month,  and  of  some- 
body else  the  next.  Neither  would  happen.  I  can 
esteem,  I  can  be  a  friend  ;  but  I  don't  know  whe- 
ther I  can  love.  Expect  all  that  is  complaisant  and 
easy,  but  never  what  is  fond,  in  me. 

'•  If  you  can  resolve  to  live  with  a  companion  that 
will  have  all  the  deference  due  to  your  superiority 
of  good  sense,  and  that  your  proposals  can  be 
agreeable  to  those  on  whom  I  depend,  I  have  no- 
thing to  say  against  them. 

"  As  to  travelling,  'tis  what  I  should  do  with  great 
pleasure,  and  could  easily  quit  London  upon  your 
account ;  but  a  retirement  in  the  country  is  not  so 
disagreeable  to  me,  as  I  know  a  few  months  would 
make  it  tiresome  to  you.  Where  people  are  tied 
for  life,  'tis  their  mutual  interest  not  to  grow  weary 
of  one  another.  If  I  had  the  personal  charms  that 
I  want,  a  face  is  too  slight  a  foundation  for  happi- 
ness. You  would  be  soon  tired  with  seeing  every 
day  the  same  thing.  Where  you  saw  nothing  else, 
you  would  have  leisure  to  remark  all  the  defects; 
which  would  increase  in  proportion  as  the  novelty 
lessened,  which  is  always  a  great  charm.  I  should 
have  the  displeasure  of  seeing  a  coldness,  which, 
though  I  could  not  reasonably  blame  you  for,  being 
involuntary,  yet  it  would  render  me  uneasy  ;  and 
the  more,  because  I  know  a  love  may  be  revived, 
which  absence,  inconstancy,  or  even  infidelity,  has 
extinguished  :  But  there  is  no  returning  from  a  de- 
gouf  given  by  satiety." — Vol.  i.  pp.  212 — 214. 

"  I  begin  to  be  tired  of  my  huniil>.v  ;  I  have  r ar 


LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU. 


713 


ried  my  complaisances  to  you  farther  than  I  ought. 
You  make  new  scruples:  you  have  a  great  deal  of 
fancy!  and  your  di5trust,s,  being  all  of  your  own 
making,  are  more  immovable  than  if  there  were 
some  real  ground  for  them.  Our  aunts  and  grand- 
mothers always  tell  us,  that  men  are  a  sort  of  ani- 
mals, that  if  ever  they  are  constant,  'tis  only  where 
they  are  ill-used.  'Twas  a  kind  of  paradox  I  could 
never  believe ;  but  experience  has  taught  me  the 
truth  of  it.  You  are  the  first  I  ever  had  a  corres- 
pondence with  ;  and  I  thank  God,  I  have  done  with 
it  for  all  my  life.  You  needed  not  to  have  told  me 
you  are  not  what  you  have  been;  one  must  be 
stupid  not  to  find  a  diflference  in  your  letters.  You 
seem,  in  one  part  of  your  last,  to  excuse  yourself 
from  having  done  me  any  injury  in  point  of  fortune. 
Do  I  accuse  you  of  any  ? 

"I  have  not  spirits  to  dispute  any  longer  with 
you.  You  say  you  are  not  yet  determined.  Let 
me  determine  for  you,  and  save  you  the  trouble  of 
writing  again.  Adieu  for  ever ;  make  no  answer. 
I  wish,  among  the  variety  of  acquaintance,  you  may 
find  some  one  to  please  you  :  and  can't  help  the 
vanity  of  thinking,  should  you  try  them  all,  you 
wont  find  one  that  will  be  so  sincere  in  their  treat- 
ment, though  a  thousand  more  deserving,  and  every 
one  happier." — Vol.  i.  pp.  219—221. 

These  are  certainly  very  uncommon  pro- 
ductions for  a  young  lady  of  twenty;  and  in- 
dicate a  strength,  and  elevation  of  character, 
that  does  not  always  appear  in  her  gayer  and 
more  ostentatious  performances.  Mr.  Wort- 
ley  was  convinced  and  re-assured  by  them; 
and  they  were  married  in  1712.  The  con- 
cluding part  of  the  first  volume  contains  her 
letters  to  him  for  the  two  following  years. 
There  is  not  much  tenderness  in  these  letters ; 
nor  very  much  interest  indeed  of  any  kind. 
Mr.  Wortley  appears  to  have  been  rather  in- 
dolent and  unambitious:  and  Lady  Mary 
takes  it  upon  her,  with  all  delicacy  and  ju- 
dicious management  however,  to  stir  him 
up  to  some  degree  of  activity  and  exertion. 
There  is  a  good  deal  of  election-news  and 
small  politics  in  these  epistles.  The  best  of 
them,  we  think,  is  the  following  exhortation 
to  impudence. 

"  I  am  glad  you  think  of  serving  your  friends.  I 
hope  it  will  put  you  in  mind  of  serving  yourself.  I 
need  not  enlarge  upon  the  advantages  of  money  ; 
every  thing  we  see,  and  every  thing  we  hear,  puts 
us  in  remembrance  of  it.  If  it  were  possible  to  re- 
store liberty  to  your  country,  or  limit  the  encroach- 
nipnts  of  the  prerogative,  by  reducing  yourself  to  a 
garret,  I  should  be  pleased  to  share  so  glorious  a 
poverty  with  you:  But  as  the  world  is,  and  will 
be,  'tis  a  sort  of  duty  to  be  rich,  that  it  may  be  in 
[  one's  power  to  do  good  ;  riches  being  another  word 
i '  for  power  ;  towards  the  obtaining  of  which,  the  first 
necessary  qualification  is  Impudence,  and  (as  De- 
mosthenes said  of  pronunciation  in  oratory)  the 
second  is  impudence,  and  the  third,  still,  impu- 
dence !  No  modest  man  ever  did,  or  ever  will 
make  his  fortune.  Your  friend  Lord  HaUiax,  R. 
Walpole,  and  all  other  remarkable  instances  of 
quick  advancement,  have  been  remarkably  impu- 
dent. The  ministry,  in  short,  is  like  a  play  at 
court:  There's  a  little  door  to  get  in,  and  a  great 
crowd  without,  shoving  and  thrusting  who  shall  be 
foremost ;  people  who  knock  others  with  their  el- 
bows, disregard  a  little  kick  of  the  shins,  and  still 
thrust  heartily  forwards,  are  sure  of  a  good  place. 
Your  modest  man  stands  behind  in  the  crowd,  is 
shoved  about  by  every  body,  his  clothes  torn,  almost 
squeezed  to  death,  and  sees  a  thousand  get  in  before 
him,  that  don't  make  so  good  a  figure  as  himself. 
"  If  this  letter  is  impertinent,  it  is  founded  upon 


an  opinion  of  your  merit,  which,  if  it  is  a  mistake, 
I  \yould  not  be  undeceived.  It  is  my  interest  to 
believe  (as  I  do)  that  you  deserve  every  thing,  and 
are  capable  of  every  thing;  but  nobody  else  will 
believe  it,  if  they  see  you  get  nothing." — Vol.  i. 
pp.  250—252. 

The  second  volume,  and  a  part  of  the  third, 
are  occupied  with  those  charming  letters, 
written  during  Mr.  Wortley's  embassy  tt 
Constantinople,  upon  w^hich  the  literary  repu- 
tation of  Lady  Mary  has  hitherto  been  exclu- 
sively founded.  It  would  not  become  us  to 
say  any  thing  of  productions  which  have  so 
long  engaged  the  admiration  of  the  public. 
The  grace  and  vivacity,  the  ease  and  concise- 
ness, of  the  narrative  and  the  description  which 
they  contain,  still  remain  unrivalled,  we  think, 
by  any  epistolary  compositions  in  our  lan- 
guage ;  and  are  but  slightly  shaded  by  a 
sprinkling  of  obsolete  tittle-tattle,  or  woman- 
ish vanity  and  affectation.  The  authenticity 
of  these  letters,  though  at  one  time  disputed, 
has  not  lately  been  calle'd  in  question ;  but 
the  secret  history  of  their  first  publication  has 
never,  we  believe,  been  laid  before  the  public. 
The  editor  of  this  collection,  from  the  origina- 
papers,  gives  the  following  account  of  it. 

"  In  the  later  periods  of  Lady  Mary  s  life,  she 
employed  her  leisure  in  collecting  copies  of  the  let- 
ters she  had  written  during  Mr.  Wortley's  embaie}, 
and  had  transcribed  them  herself,  in  two  small 
volumes  in  quarto.  They  were,  without  doubt, 
sometimes  shown  to  her  literary'friends.  Upon  her 
return  to  England  for  the  last  time,  in  1761,  she 
gave  these  books  to  a  Mr.  Snowden,  a  clergyman 
of  Rotterdam,  and  wrote  the  subjoined  memoran- 
dum  on  the  cover  of  them  :  '  These  two  volumes 
are  given  to  the  Reverend  Benjamin  Snowden, 
minister  at  Rotterdam,  to  be  disposed  of  as  he 
thinks  proper.  This  is  the  will  and  design  of  M. 
Wortley  Montagu,  December  11,  1761.' 

"  After  her  death,  the  late  Earl  of  Bute  commis- 
sioned a  gentleman  to  procure  them,  and  to  ofter 
Mr.  Snowden  a  considerable  remuneration,  which 
he  accepted.  Much  to  the  surprise  of  that  noble- 
man and  Lady  Bute,  the  manuscripts  were  scarcely 
safe  in  England,  when  three  volumes  of  Lady  Mary 
Wortley  Montagu's  Letters  were  published  by 
Beckett;  and  it  has  since  appeared,  that  a  Mr.  Cle- 
land  was  the  editor.  The  same  gentleman,  who 
had  negotiated  before,  was  again  despatched  to 
Holland ;  and  could  gain  no  further  intelligence 
from  Mr.  Snowden,  than  that  a  short  time  before 
he  parted  with  the  MSS.  two  English  gentlemen 
called  on  him  to  see  the  Letters,  and  obtained  their 
request.  They  had  previously  contrived  that  Mr. 
Snowden  should  be  called  away  during  their  pe- 
rusal ;  and  he  found  on  his  return  that  they  had  dis- 
appeared with  the  books.  Their  residence  was 
unknown  to  him  ;  but  on  the  next  day  they  brought 
back  the  precious  deposit,  with  many  apologies.  It 
may  be  fairly  presumed,  that  the  intervening  night 
was  consumed  in  copying  these  letters  by  several 
amanuenses." — Vol.  i.  pp.  29 — 32. 

A  fourth  volume  of  Lady  Mary's  Letters, 
published  in  the  same  form  in  1767,  appears 
now  to  have  been  a  fabrication  of  Cleland's; 
as  no  corresponding  MSS.  have  been  found 
among  her  Ladyship's  papers,  or  in  the  hands 
of  her  correspondents. 

To  the  accuracy  of  her  local  descriptions, 
and  the  justness  of  her  representations  of  ori- 
ental manners,  Mr.  Dallaway,  who  followed 
her  footsteps  at  the  distance  of  eighty  years, 
and  resided  for  several  months  in  the  ver» 


714 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


palace  which  she  had  occupied  at  Pera.  bears 
a  decided  and  respectable  testimony ;  and,  in 
vindication  of  her  veracity  in  describing  the 
interior  of  the  seraglio,  into  which  no  Christian 
is  now  permitted  to  enter,  he  observes,  that 
the  reigning  Sultan  of  the  day,  Achmed  the 
Third,  was  notoriously  very  regardless  of  the 
injunctions  of  the  Koran,  and  that  her  Lady- 
ship's visits  were  paid  while  the  court  was  in 
a  retirement  that  enabled  him  to  dispense 
with  many  ceremonies.  We  do  not  observe 
any  difference  between  these  letters  in  the 
present  edition,  and  in  the  common  copies, 
except  that  the  namesof  Lady  Mary's  corres- 
pondents are  now  given  at  full  length,  and 
short  notices  of  their  families  subjoined,  upon 
their  first  introduction.  At  page  eighty-nine 
of  the  third  volume,  there  are  also  two  short 
letters,  or  rather  notes,  from  the  Countess  of 
Pembroke,  that  have  not  hitherto  been  made 
public  ]  and  Mr.  Pope's  letter,  describing  the 
death  of  the  two  rural  lovers  by  lightning,  is 
here  given  at  full  length )  while  the  former 
editions  only  contained  her  Ladyship's  an- 
swer,— in  which  we  have  always  thought  that 
her  desire  to  be  smart  and  M'itty,  has  intruded 
itself  a  little  ungracefully  into  the  place  of  a 
more  amiable  feeling. 

The  next  series  of  letters  consists  of  those 
written  to  her  sister  the  Countess  of  Mar,  from 
1723  to  1727.  These  letters  have  at  least  as 
much  vivacity,  v'it,  and  sarcasm,  as  any  that 
have  been  already  published ;  and  though  they 
contain  little  but  the  anecdotes  and  scandal 
of  the  time,  will  long  continue  to  be  read  and 
admired  for  the  brilliancy  and  facility  of  the 
composition.  Though  Lady  Mary  is  exces- 
sively entertaining  in  this  correspondence,  we 
cannot  say,  however,  that  she  is  either  very 
amiable,  or  very  interesting.  There  is  rather 
a  negation  of  good  affection,  we  think,  through- 
out ;  and  a  certain  cold-hearted  levity,  that 
borders  sometimes  upon  misanthropy,  and 
sometimes  on  indecency.  The  style  of  the 
following  extracts,  however,  we  are  afraid, 
has  been  for  some  time  a  dead  language. 

"I  made  a  sort  of  resolution,  at  the  beginning 
of  my  letter,  not  to  trouble  you  with  the  mention 
of  what  passes  here,  since  you  receive  it  with  so 
much  coldness.  But  I  find  it  is  impossible  to  forbear 
telling  you  the  metamorphoses  of  some  of  your  ac- 
quaintance, which  appear  as  wondrous  to  me  as 
any  in  Ovid.  Would  any  one  believe  that  Lady 
H*****ss  is  a  beauty,  and  in  love  ?  and  that  Mrs. 
Anastasia  Robinson  is  at  the  same  time  a  prude  and 
a  kept  mistress?  The  first  of  these  ladies  is  ten- 
derly attached  to  ihe  polite  Mr.  M***,  and  sunk  in 
all  the  joys  of  happy  love,  notwithstanding  she 
wants  the  use  of  her  two  hands  by  a  rheumatism, 
and  he  has  an  arm  that  he  cannot  move.  I  wish  I 
could  tell  you  the  particulars  of  this  amour  ;  which 
©eems  to  me  as  curious  as  that  between  two  oysters, 
and  as  well  worth  the  serious  attention  of  naturalists. 
The  second  heroine  has  engaged  half  the  town  in 
arms,  from  the  nicety  of  her  virtus,  which  was  not 
able  to  bear  the  too  near  approach  of  Senesino  in  the 
opera;  and  her  condescension  in  accepting  of  Tiord 
Peterborough  for  her  champion,  who  has  signalized 
both  his  love  and  courage  upon  this  occasion  in  as 
many  instances  as  ever  Don  Quixote  did  for  Dul- 
cinea.  Linumerable  have  been  the  disorders  be- 
tween the  two  sexes  on  so  great  an  account,  besides 
half  the  House  of  Peers  being  put  under  arrest.  By 
thy  Providence  of  Heaven,  and  the  wise  care  of  his 


Majesty,  no  bloodshed  ensued.  However,  things 
are  now  tolerably  accommodated  ;  and  the  fair  lady 
rides  thrrough  the  town  in  the  shining  berlin  of  her 
hero,  not  to  reckon  the  more  solid  advantages  oi 
lOOZ.  a  month,  which  'tis  said,  he  allows  her.  I 
will  send  you  a  letter  by  the  Count  Caylus,  whom, 
if  you  do  not  know  already,  you  will  thank  me  for 
introducing  to  you.  He  is  a  Frenchman,  and  no 
fop  ;  which,  besides  the  curiosity  of  it,  is  one  of  the 
prettiest  things  in  the  world."-Vol.  iii.  pp.  120 — 122. 

'*  I  write  to  you  at  this  time  piping-hot  from  the 
birth-night ;  my  brain  warmed  with  all  the  agreeable 
ideas  that  fine  clothes,  fine  gentlemen,  brisk  tunes, 
and  lively  dances  can  raise  there.  It  is  to  be  hoped 
that  my  letter  will  entertain  you ;  at  least  you  will 
certainly  have  the  freshest  account  of  all  passages 
on  that  glorious  day.  First,  you  must  know  that  I 
led  up  the  ball,  which  you'll  stare  at ;  but  what  is 
more,  I  believe  in  my  conscience  I  made  one  of 
the  best  figures  there:  For,  to  say  truth,  people  are 
grown  so  extravagandy  ugly,  that  we  old  beauties 
are  forced  to  come  out  on  show-days,  to  keep  the 
court  in  countenance.  I  saw  Mrs.  Murray  there, 
through  whose  hands  this  epistle  will  be  conveyed  ; 
I  do  not  know  whether  she  will  make  the  same 
compliment  to  you  that  I  do.  Mrs.  West  was  with 
her,  who  is  a  great  prude,  having  but  two  lovers  at 
a  time  ;  I  think  those  are  Lord  Haddington  and  Mr, 
Lindsay  ;  the  one  for  use,  the  other  for  show. 

"  The  world  improves  in  one  virtue  to  a  violent 
degree — I  mean  plain  dealing.  Hypocrisy  being, 
as  the  Scripture  declares,  a  damnable  sin,  I  hope 
our  publicans  and  sinners  will  be  saved  by  the  open 
profession  of  the  contrary  virtue.  I  was  told  by  a 
very  good  author,  who  is  deep  in  the  secret,  that  at 
this  very  minute  there  is  a  bill  cooking  up  at  a  hunt- 
ing seat  at  Norfolk,  to  have  vot  taken  out  of  the 
commandments,  and  clapped  into  the  creed,  the 
ensuing  session  of  Parliament.  To  speak  plainly, 
I  am  very  sorry  for  the  forlorn  state  of  matrimony ; 
which  is  now  as  much  ridiculed  by  our  young  ladies 
as  it  used  to  be  by  young  fellows :  In  short,  both 
sexes  have  found  the  inconveniences  of  it ;  and  the 
appellation  of  rake  is  as  genteel  in  a  woman  as  a 
man  of  quality  :  It  is  no  scandal  to  say  Miss  -^, 
the  maid  of  honour,  looks  very  well  now  she  is  out 
again  ;  and  poor  Biddy  Noel  has  never  been  quite 
well  since  her  last  confinement.  You  may  imagine 
we  married  women  look  very  silly  :  We  have  no- 
thing to  excuse  ourselves,  but  that  it  was  done  a 
great  while  ago,  and  we  were  very  young  when  we 
did  it."— Vol.  iii.  pp.  142—145. 

"Sixpenny  worth  of  common  sense,  divided 
among  a  whole  nation,  would  make  our  lives  roll 
away  glibly  enough :  But  then  we  make  laws, 
and  we  follow  customs.  By  the  first  we  cut  off 
our  own  pleasures,  and  by  the  second  we  are  an- 
swerable for  the  faults  and  extravagances  of  others. 
All  these  things,  and  five  hundred  more,  convince 
me  that  I  have  been  one  of  the  condemned  ever 
since  I  was  born  ;  and  in  submission  to  the  Divine 
Justice,  I  have  no  doubt  but  T  deserved  it,  in  some 
pre-existent  state.  I  will  still  hope,  however,  that 
I  am  only  in  purgatory  ;  and  that  after  whining  and 
pining  a  certain  number  of  years,  I  shall  be  trans- 
lated to  some  more  happy  sphere,  where  virtue  will 
be  natural,  and  custom  reasonable  ;  that  is,  in  short, 
where  common  sense  will  reign.  I  grow  very 
devout,  as  you  see,  and  place  all  my  hopes  in  the 
next  life-^being  totally  persuaded  of  the  nothing- 
ness of  this.  Don't  you  remember  how  miserable 
we  were  in  the  little  parlour,  at  Thoresby  ?  we  then 
thought  marrying  would  put  us  at  once  into  posses- 
sion of  all  we  wanted.  Then  came though,  after 

all,  I  am  still  of  opinion,  that  it  is  extremely  silly 
to  submit  to  ill-fortune.  One  should  pluck  up  a 
spirit,  and  live  upon  cordials  ;  when  one  can  have 
no  other  nourishment.  These  are  my  present  en- 
deavours; and  I  run  about,  though  I  have  five 
thousand  pins  and  needles  in  my  heart.  I  try  to 
console  myself  with  a  small  damsel,  who  is  at  pre- 
sent every  thing  I  like — but,  alas !  she  is  jet  in  a 


LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU, 


71fi 


white  fropk.     At  fourteen  she  may  run  away  with 
me  butler." — Vol.  iii.  pp.  178 — 180. 

"  I  cannot  deny  but  that  I  was  very  well  diverted 
on  the  coronation-day.  1  saw  the  procession  much 
at  my  ease,  in  a  house  which  I  filled  wiih  my  own 
company  ;  and  then  got  into  Westminster-hall 
without  trouble,  where  it  was  very  entertaining  to 
observe  the  variety  of  airs  that  all  meant  the  same 
thir)g.  The  business  of  every  walker  there  was  to 
conceal  vanity  and  gain  admiration.  For  these  pur- 
poses some  languished  and  others  strutted  ;  but  a 
visible  satisfaction  was  diffused  over  every  counte- 
nance, as  soon  as  the  coronet  was  clapped  on  the 
head.  13ut  she  that  drew  the  greatest  number  of 
eyes  was  indisputably  Lady  Orkney.  She  exposed 
behind,  a  mi.xture  of  fat  and  wrinkles  ;  and  before, 
B  considerable  protuberance,  which  preceded  her. 
Add  to  this,  the  inimitable  roll  of  her  eyes,  and  her 
grey  hairs,  which  by  good  fortune  stood  directly 
upright,  and  'tis  impossible  to  imagine  a  more  de- 
lightful spectacle  She  had  embellished  all  this  with 
considerable  magnificence,  which  made  her  look  as 
big  again  as  usual ;  and  I  should  have  thought  her 
one  oT  the  largest  things  of  God's  making,  if  my 
Lady  St.  J***n  had  not  displayed  all  her  charms  in 
honour  of  the  day.  The  poor  Duchess  of  M***se 
crept  alonw  with  a  dozen  of  black  snakes  playing 
round  her  face  ;  and  my  Lady  P**nd  (who  has  fallen 
away  since  her  dismission  from  Court)  represented 
very  finely  an  Egyptian  mummy  embroidered  over 
with  hieroglyphics.  In  general,  I  could  not  per- 
ceive but  that  the  old  were  as  well  pleased  as  the 
young :  and  I  who  dread  growing  wise  more  than 
any  thing  in  the  world,  was  overjoyed  to  find  that 
one  can  never  outlive  one's  vanity,  I  have  never 
received  the  long  letter  you  talk  of,  and  am  afraid 
that  you  have  only  fancied  that  you  wrote  it." 

Vol.  iii.  pp.  181—183. 

In  spite  of  all  this  gaiety,  Lady  Mary  does 
net  appear  to  have  been  happy.  Her  discreet 
biographer  is  silent  upon  the  subject  of  her 
connubial  felicity ;  and  we  have  no  desire  to 
revive  forgotten  scandals  :  but  it  is  a  fact, 
which  cannot  be  omitted,'  that  her  Ladyship 
went  abroad,  without  her  husband,  on  account 
of  bad  health,  in  1739,  and  did  not  return  to 
England  till  she  heard  of  his  death  in  176L 
Whatever  was  the  cause  of  their  separation, 
however,  there  was  no  open  rupture ;  and  she 
seems  to  have  corresponded  with  him  very 
regularly  for  the  first  ten  years  of  her  absence. 
These  letters,  which  occupy  the  latter  part  of 
the  third  volume,  and  the  beginning  of  the 
fourth,  are  by  no  means  so  captivating  as  most 
of  the  preceding.  They  contain  but  little  wit, 
and  no  confidential  or  striking  reflections, — 
They  are  filled  up  with  accounts  of  her  health 
and  her  journeys;  with  short  and  general  no- 
tices of  any  extraordinary  customs  she  meets 
with,  and  little  scraps  of  stale  politics,  picked 
up  in  the  petty  courts  of  Italy,  They  are 
cold,  in  short,  without  being  formal ;  and  are 
gloomy  and  constrained,  when  compared  with 
those  which  were  spontaneously  written  to 
show  her  wit,  or  her  affection  to  her  corres- 
pondents. She  seems  extremely  anxious  to 
impress  her  husband  with  an  exalted  idea  of 
the  honours  and  distinction  with  which  she 
was  everywhere  received ;  and  really  seems 
more  elated  and  surprised  than  we  should 
have  expected  the  daughter  of  an  English 
Duke  to  be,  with  tlie  attentions  that  were 
showni  her  by  the  noblesse  of  Venice,  in  par- 
ticular. From  this  correspondence  we  are 
uoi  tempted  to  make  any  extract. 


The  last  series  of  letters,  which  extends  to  the 
middle  of  the  fifth  volume,  and  comes  down 
to  the  year  1761,  consists  of  those  that  were 
addressed  by  Lady  Mary,  during  her  resi- 
dence abroad,  to  her  daugnter  the  Countesa 
of  Bute.  These  letters,  though  somewhat 
less  brilliant  than  those  to  the  Countess  of 
Mar,  have  more  heart  aiM  affection  in  them 
than  any  other  of  her  Ladyship's  productions  j 
and  abound  in  lively  and  judicious  reflections. 
They  indicate,  at  the  same  time,  a  very  great 
share  of  vanity;  and  that  kind  of  contempt 
and  indifference  for  the  world,  into  which  the 
veterans  of  fashioii  are  most  apt  to  sink. — 
With  the  exception  of  her  daughter  and  her 
children,  Lady  Mary  seems  by  this  time  to 
have,  indeed,  attained  to  the  happy  state  of 
really  caring  nothing  for  any  human  being; 
and  rather  to  have  beguiled  the  days  of  her 
declining  life  with  every  sort  of  amusement, 
than  to  have  soothed  them  with  affection  or 
friendship.  After  boasting  of  the  intimacy 
in  which  she  lived  with  all  the  considerable 
people  in  her  neighbourhood,  she  adds,  in  one 
of  her  letters,  "  The  people  I  see  here  make 
no  more  impression  on  my  mind  than  the 
figures  on  the  tapestry,  while  they^are  before 
my  eyes.  I  know  one  is  clothed  in  blue,  and 
another  in  red :  but  out  of  sight  they  are  so 
entirely  out  of  memory,  that  I  hardly  remem- 
ber whether  they  are  "tall  or  short." 

The  following  reflections  upon  an  Italian 
story,  exactly  like  that  of  Pamela,  are  very 
much  in  character. 

"  In  my  opinion,  all  these  adventures  proceed 
from  artifice  on  one  side,  and  weakness  on  the  other. 
An  honest,  tender  heart,  is  often  betrayed  to  ruin 
by  the  charms  that  make  the  fortune  of  a  designing 
head;  which,  when  joined  with  a  beautiful  face, 
can  never  fail  of  advancement — except  barred  by  a 
wise  mother,  who  locks  up  her  daughters  from  view 
till  nobody  cares  to  look  on  them.  My  poor  friend 
th«  Duchess  of  Bolton  was  educated  in  sohtude, 
with  some  choice  of  books,  by  a  saint -like  gover- 
ness :  Crammed  with  virtue  and  good  qualities, 
she  thought  it  impossible  not  to  find  gratitude, 
though  she  failed  to  give  passion  :  and  upon  this 
plan  threw  away  her  estate,  was  despised  by  her 
husband,  and  laughed  at  by  the  public.  Polly,  bred 
in  Bn  alehouse,  and  produced  on  the  stage,  has  ob- 
tained wealth  and  title,  aud  even  found  the  way  to 
be  esteemed!" — Vol.  iv.  p.  119,  120, 

There  is  some  acrimony,  and  some  power 
of  reviling,  in  the  following  extract : 

"I  have  only  had  time  to  read  Lord  Orrery's 
work,  which  has  extremely  entertained,  and  not  at 
all  surprised  me,  having  the  honour  of  being  ac- 
quainted with  him,  and  knowing  him  for  one  of 
those  danglers  after  wit,  who,  like  those  after 
beauty,  spend  their  whole  time  in  humbly  admiring. 
Dean"  Swift,  by  his  Lordship's  own  account,  was 
so  intoxicated  with  the  love  of  flattery,  that  he 
sought  it  amongst  the  lowest  of  people,  and  the 
silliest  of  women  ;  and  was  never  so  well  pleased 
with  any  comptanions  as  those  that  worshipped  him, 
while  he  insulted  them.  His  character  seems  to 
me  a  parallel  with  that  of  Caligula  ;  and  had  he 
had  the  same  power,  he  would  have  made  the  same 
use  of  it.  That  Emperor  erected  a  temple  to  him- 
self, where  he  was  his  own  high-priest,  preferred 
Ids  horse  to  the  highest  honours  in  the  state,  pro- 
fessed enmity  to  the  human  race,  and  at  last  lost 
his  life  by  a  nasty  jest  on  one  of  his  inferiors, 
which  I  dare  swear  Swift  would  have  made  in  hit 


:i6 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Elace.  There  can  be  no  worse  picture  made  of  the 
>octor's  morals  than  he  has  given  us  himself  in  the 
letters  printed  by  Pope.  We  see  him  vain,  trifling, 
ungiateiul  to  the  memory  of  his  patron,  making  a 
servile  court  where  he  had  any  interested  ^views, 
and  meanly  abusive  when  they  were  disappointed  ; 
and,  as  he  says  (in  his  own  phrase),  flying  in  the  face 
of  mankind,  in  company  with  his  adorer  Pope.  It 
is  pleasant  to  consider,  that  had  it  not  been  for  the 
good  nature  of  these  very  mortals  they  contemn, 
these  two  superior  beings  were  entitled,  by  their 
birth  and  hereditary  fortune,  to  be  only  a  couple  of 
link-boys.  I  am  of  opinion,  however,  that  their 
friendship  would  have  continued,  though  they  had 
remained  in  the  same  kingdom.  It  had  a  very 
strong  foundation — the  love  of  flattery  on  one  side, 
and  the  love  of  money  on  the  other.  Pope  courted 
with  the  utmost  assiduity  all  the  old  men  from 
whom  he  could  hope  a  legacy,  the  Duke  of  Buck- 
ingham, Lord  Peterborough,  Sir  G.  Kneller,  Lord 
Bolingbroke,  Mr.  Wycherly,  Mr.  Congreve,  Lord 
Harcourt,  &c.,  and  I  do  not  doubt  projected  to 
sweep  the  Dean's  whole  inheritance,  if  he  could 
have  persuaded  him  to  throw  up  his  deanery,  and 
come  to  die  in  his  house  ;  and  his  general  preach- 
ing against  money  was  meant  to  induce  people  to 
throw  it  away,  that  he  might  pick  it  up." 

Vol.  iv.  pp.  142—147. 

Some  of  the  following  reflections  will  ap- 
pear prophetic  to  some  people ;  and  we  really 
did  not  expect  to  find  them  mider  the  date  of 
1753. 

"The  confounding  of  all  ranks,  and  making  a 
jest  oi'  order,  has  long  been  growing  in  England  ; 
and  I  perceive,  by  the  books  you  sent  me,  has  made 
a  very  considerable  progress.  The  heroes  and 
heroines  of  the  age,  are  cobblers  and  kitchen- 
wenches.  Perhaps  you  will  say  I  should  not  take 
my  ideas  of  the  manners  of  the  times  from  such 
trifling  authors  ;  but  it  is  more  truly  to  be  found 
among  them,  than  from  any  historian  :  as  they  write 
merely  to  get  money,  they  always  fall  into  the  no- 
tions that  are  most  acceptable  to  the  present  taste. 
It  has  long  been  the  endeavour  of  our  English 
v.'riters,  to  represent  people  of  quality  as  the  vilest 
and  silliest  part  of  the  nation,  being  (generally)  very 
low-born  themselves.  I  am  not  surprised  at  their 
propagating  this  doctrine  ;  but  I  am  much  mistaken 
if  this  levelling  principle  does  not,  one  day  or  other, 
break  out  in  fatal  consequences  to  the  public,  as  it 
has  already  done  in  many  private  families." 

Vol.  iv.  pp.  223,  224. 

She  is  not  quite  so  fortunate  in  her  remarks 
on  Dr.  Johnson,  though  the  conclusion  of  the 
extract  is  very  judicious. 

"  The  Rambler  is  certainly  a  strong  misnomer: 
he  always  plods  in  the  beaten  road  of  his  predeces- 
sors, following  the  Spectator  (with  the  same  pace  a 
pack-horse  would  do  a  hunter)  in  the  style  that  is 
proper  to  lengthen  a  paper.  These  writers  may, 
perhaps,  be  of  service  to  the  public,  which  is  saying 
a  creat  deal  in  their  favour.  There  are  numbers 
of  both  sexes  who  never  read  any  thing  but  such 
productions;  and  cannot  spare  time,  from  doing 
nothing,  to  go  through  a  sixpenny  pamphlet.  Such 
gentle  readers  may  be  improved  by  a  moral  hint, 
which,  though  repeated  over  and  over,  from  gener- 
ation to  generation,  they  never  heard  in  their  lives. 
I  should  be  glad  to  know  the  name  of  this  laborious 
author.  H.  Fielding  has  given  a  true  picture  of 
himself  and  his  first  wife,  in  the  characters  of  Mr. 
nnd  Mrs.  Booth,  some  compliments  to  his  own 
figure  excepted;  and  I  am  persuaded,  several  of 
the  incidents  he  mentions  are  real  matters  of  fiict. 
I  wonder,  however,  that  he  does  not  perceive  Tom 
Jones^and  Mr.  Booth  to  be  both  sorry  scoundrels. 
All  this  sort  of  books  have  the  same  fault,  which 
I  cannot  easily  oardon,  being  very  mischievous. 


They  place  a  merit  in  extravagant  passions  ;  and 
encourage  young  people  to  hope  for  impossible 
events,  to  draw  ihem  out  of  the  misery  they  choose 
to  plimge  themselves  into;  expecting  legacies  from 
unknown  relations,  and  generous  benefactors  to 
distressed  virtue, — as  much  out  of  nature  as  fairy 
treasures." — Vol.  iv.  pp.  259,  260. 

The  idea  of  the  following  image,  we  be- 
lieve, is  not  quite  new;  but  it  is  expressed  in 
a  very  lively  and  striking  manner. 

"  The  world  is  past  its  infancy,  and  will  no  longer 
be  contented  with  spoon-meat.  A  collective  body 
of  men  make  a  gradual  progress  in  understanding, 
like  a  single  individual.  When  I  reflect  on  the  vast 
increase  of  useful  as  well  as  speculative  knowledge, 
the  last  three  hundred  years  has  produced,  and  that 
the  peasants  of  this  age  have  more  conveniences 
than  the  first  emperors  of  Rome  had  any  notion  of, 
I  imagine  we  may  now  be  arrived  at  that  period 
which  answers  to  fifteen.  I  cannot  think  we  are 
older ;  when  I  recollect  the  many  palpable  follies 
which  are  still  (almost)  universally  persisted  in. 
Among  these  I  place  that  of  War— as  senseless  as 
the  boxing  of  school-boys  ;  and  whenever  we  come 
to  man's  estate  (perhaps  a  thousand  years  hence),  I 
do  not  doubt  it  will  appear  as  ridiculous  as  the 
pranks  of  unlucky  lads.  Several  discoveries  will 
then  be  made,  and  several  truths  made  clear,  of 
which  we  have  now  no  more  idea  than  the  ancienta 
had  of  the  circulation  of  the  blood,  or  the  optics  of 
Sir  Isaac  Newton." — Vol.  v.  pp.  15,  16. 

After  observing,  that  in  a  preceding  letter, 
her  Ladyship  declares,  that  "it  is  eleven  years 
since  she  saw  herself  in  a  glass,  being  so  little 
pleased  with  the  figure  slie  was  then  begin- 
ning to  make  in  it,"  we  shall  close  these  ex- 
tracts with  the  following  more  favourable  ac- 
count of  her  philosophy. 

"  I  no  more  expect  to  arrive  at  the  age  of  the 
Duchess  of  Marlborough,  than  to  that  of  Methusa- 
lem  ;  neither  do  I  desire  it.  I  have  long  thought 
myself  useless  to  the  world.  I  have  seen  one  gene- 
ration pass  away,  and  it  is  gone  ;  for  I  think  there 
are  very  few  of  those  left  that  flourished  in  my 
youth.  You  will  perhaps  call  these  melancholy 
reflections  ;  but  they  are  not  so.  There  is  a  quiet 
after  the  abandoning  of  pursuits,  something  like  the 
rest  that  follows  a  laborious  day.  I  tell  you  this 
for  your  comfort.  It  was  formerly  a  terrifying  view 
to  me,  that  I  should  one  day  be  an  old  woman.  1 
now  find  that  nature  has  provided  pleasures  for 
every  state.  Those  only  are  unhappy  who  will 
not  be  contented  with  what  she  gives,  but  strive  to 
break  through  her  laws,  by  affecting  a  perpetuity 
of  youth, — which  appears  to  me  as  little  desirable 
at  present  as  the  babies  do  to  you,  that  were  the 
delight  of  your  infancy.  I  am  at  the  end  of  my 
paper,  which  shortens  the  sermon." 

Vol.  iv.  pp.  314,  315. 

Upon  the  death  of  Mr.  Wortley  in  1761. 
Lady  Mary  returned  to  England,  and  died 
there  in  October  1762,  in  the  73d  year  of  her 
age.  From  the  large  extracts  which  we  have 
been  -tempted  to  make  from  her  correspond- 
ence, our  readers  will  easily  be  enabled  to 
judge  of  the  character  and  genius  of  this  ex- 
traordinary woman.  A  little  spoiled  by  flat- 
tery, and  not  altogether  "undebauched  by 
the  world,"  she  seems  to  have  possessed  a 
masculine  solidity  of  understanding,  great 
liveliness  of  fancy,  and  such  powers  of  ob- 
servation and  discrimination  of  character,  as 
to  give  her  opinions  great  authority  on  all  the 
ordinary  subjects  of  practical  manners  and 
conduct.     After  her  marriage,  she  seems  to 


LIFE  OF  CURRAN. 


71*? 


have  abandoned  all  idea  of  laborious  or  regu- 
lar study,  and  to  have  been  raised  to  the  sta- 
tion of  a  literary  character  merely  by  her 
vivacity  and  her  love  of  amusement  and  anec- 
dote. The  great  charm  of  her  letters  is  cer- 
tainly the  extreme  ease  and  facility  with 
which  every  thing  is  expressed,  the  brevity 
and  rapidity  of  her  representations,  and  the 
eleg-ant  simplicity  of  her  diction.  While  they 
unite  almost  all  the  qualities  of  a  good  style, 
there  is  nothing  of  the  professed  author  in 
them  :  nothing  that  seems  to  have  been  com- 
posed, or  to  have  engaged  the  admiration  of 
the  writer.  She  appears  to  be  quite  uncon- 
scious either  of  merit  or  of  exertion  in  what 
she  is  doing  5  and  never  stops  to  bring  out  a 
thought,  or  to  turn  an  expression,  with  the 
cunning  of  a  practised  rhetorician.  The  let- 
ters from  Turkey  will  probably  continue  to  be 
more  universally  read  than  any  of  those  that 
are  now  given  for  the  first  time  to  the  public; 
because  the  subject  commands  a  wider  and 
more  permanent  interest,  than  the  personali- 
ties and  unconnected  remarks  with  which  the 
rest  of  the  correspondence  is  filled.  At  the 
same  time,  the  love  of  scandal  and  of  private 
history  is  so  great,  that  these  letters  will  be 
highly  relished,  as  long  as  the  names  they 
contain  are  remembered; — and  then  they 
will  become  curious  and  interesting,  as  ex- 
hibiting a  truer  picture  of  the  manners  and 
fashions  of  the  time,  than  is  to  be  found  in 
most  other  publications. 

The  Fifth  Volume  contains  also  her  Lady- 
ship's poems,  and  two  or  three  trifling  papers 
that  are  entitled  her  Essays.     Poetry,  at  least 


the  polite  and  witty  sort  of  poetry  which  Lad  v 
Mary  has  attempted,  is  much  more  of  an  art 
than  prose-writing.  We  are  trained  to  the 
latter,  by  the  conversation  of  good  society, 
but  the  former  seems  always  to  require  a  gooG 
deal  of  patient  labour  and  application.  This 
her  Ladyship  appears  to  have  disdained ;  and 
accordingly,  her  poetry,  though  abounding  in 
lively  conceptions,  is  already  consigned  to 
that  oblivion  in  which  mediocrity  is  destined, 
by  an  irrevocable  sentence,  to  slumber  till 
the  end  of  the  world.  The  Essays  are  eX' 
tremely  insignificant,  and  have  no  other  merit, 
that  we  can  discover,  but  that  they  are  very 
few  and  very  short. 

Of  Lady  Mary's  friendship  and  subsequent 
rupture  with  Pope,  we  have  not  thought  it 
necessary  to  say  any  thing ;  both  because  we 
are  of  opinion  that  no  new  lights  are  thrown 
upon  it  by  this  publication,  and  because  we 
have  no  desire  to  awaken  forgotten  scandals 
by  80  idle  a  controversy.  Pope  was  undoubt- 
edly a  flatterer,  and  was  undoubtedly  suffi- 
ciently irritable  and  vindictive  ;  but  whether 
his  rancour  was  stimulated,  upon  this  occa- 
sion, by  any  thing  but  caprice  or  jealousy, 
and  whether  he  was  the  inventor  or  the  echo 
of  the  imputations  to  which  he  has  given  no- 
toriety, we  do  not  pretend  to  detennine.  Lady 
Mary's  character  w'as  certainly  deficient  in 
that  cautious  delicacy  which  is  the  best  guar- 
dian of  female  reputation  ;  and  there  seems  to 
have  been  in  her  conduct  something  of  that 
intrepidity  which  naturally  gives  rise  to  mis- 
construction, by  setting  at  defiance  the  maxima 
of  ordinary  discretion. 


{Mai},   1S20.) 

The  Life  of  the  Right  Ho:iou7'able  John  Philpot  Curran^  late  Master  of  the  Rolls  in  Irelana. 
By  his  Son,  William  Henry  Curran,  Barrister-at-law.  8vo.  2  vols.  pp.  970.  London:  1819. 


This  is  really  a  very  good  book ;  and  not 
less  instructive  in  its  moral,  and  general  scope, 
than  curious  and  interesting  in  its  details.  It 
is  a  mixture  of  Biography  and  History — and 
avoids  the  besetting  sins  of  both  species  of 
composition — neither  exalting  the  hero  of  the 
biography  into  an  idol,  nor  deforming  the  his- 
tory of  a  most  agitated  period  with  any  spirit 
of  violence  or  exaggeration.  It  is  written,  on 
the  contrary,  as  it  appears  to  us,  with  singular 
impartiality  and  temper — and  the  style  is  not 
less  remarkable  than  the  sentiments:  For 
though  it  is  generally  elegant  and  spirited,  it 
is  without  any  of  those  peculiarities  which  the 
a^ge,  the  parentage,  and  the  country  of  the  au- 
thor, would  lead  us  to  expect : — And  we  may 
say,  indeed,  of  the  whole  work,  looking  both 
to  the  matter  and  the  manner,  that  it  has  no 
defects  from  which  it  could  be  g-athered  that 
it  was  written  either  by  a  Young  man — or  an 
Irishman — or  by  the  Son  of  the  person  whose 
history  it  professes  to  record — though  it  has 
attractions   which  probably  could  not   have 


I  existed  under  any  other  conditions.    The  dis- 
I  tracting  periods  of  Irish  story  are  still  almost 
{ too  recent  to  be   fairly  delineated — and   nc 
I  Irishman,  old  enough  to  have  taken  a  part  in 
j  the  transactions  of  1780  or  1798,  could  weL' 
'  be  trusted  as  their  historian — while  no  one 
j  but  a  native,  and  of  the  blood  of  some  of  the 
j  chief  actors,  could  be  sufficiently  acquainted 
with  their  motives  and  characters,  to  commu- 
nicate that   life   and  interest  to   the   details 
which  shine  out  in  so  many  passages  of  the 
volumes  before  us.  The  incidental  light  which 
they  throw  upon  the  national  character  and 
state  of  society  in  Ireland,  and  the  continual 
illustrations  they  afford  of  their  diversity  from 
our  own,  is  perhaps  of  more  value  than  the 
particular  facts  from  which   it  results;  and 
stamp  upon  the  work  the  same  peculiar  at- 
;  traction  which  we  fomierly  ascribed  to  Mr. 
j  Hardy's  life  of  Lord  Charlemont. 

To  qualify  this  extraordinary  praise,  we 
!  must  add,  that  the  limits  of  the  private  ana 
i  the  public  story  are  not  very  well  observed^ 


718 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


nor  the  scale  of  the  work  very  correctly  regu- 
lated as  to  either ;  so  that  we  have  alternately 
too  much  and  too  little  of  both: — that  the 
style  is  rather  wordy  and  difiuse,  and  the  ex- 
tracts and  citations  too  copious ;  so  that,  on  the 
whole,  the  book,  like  some  others,  would  be 
improved  by  being  reduced  to  little  more  than 
half  its  present  size — a  circumstance  which 
makes  it  only  the  more  necessary  that  we 
should  endeavour  to  make  a  manageable  ab- 
stract of  it,  for  the  use  of  less  patient  readers. 

Mr.  Curran's  parentage  and  early  life  are 
now  of  no  great  consequence.  He  was  born, 
however,  of  respectable  parents,  and  received 
a  careful  and  regular  education.  He  was  a 
little  wild  at  college ;  but  left  it  with  the  char- 
acter of  an  excellent  scholar,  and  was  univer- 
sally popular  among  his  associates,  not  less 
for  his  amiable  temper  than  his  inexhaustible 
vivacity.  He  wrote  baddish  verses  at  this 
time,  and  exercised  himself  in  theological  dis- 
courses: for  his  first  destination  was  for  the 
Church;  and  he  afterwards  took  to  the  Law, 
very  much  to  his  mother's  disappointment  and 
mortification — who  was  never  reconciled  to 
the  change — and  used,  even  in  the  meridian 
of  his  fame,  to  lament  what  a  mighty  preacher 
had  been  lost  to  the  world, — and  to  exclaim, 
that,  but  for  his  versatility,  she  might  have 
died  the  mother  of  a  Bishop  !  It  was  better 
as  it  was.  Unquestionably  he  might  have 
been  a  very  great  preacher;  but  we  doubt 
whether  he  would  have  been  a  good  parish 
priest,  or  even  an  exemplary  bishop. 

Irish  lawyers  are  obliged  to  keep  their 
terms  in  London ;  and,  for  the  poorer  part  of 
them,  it  seems  to  be  but  a  dull  and  melan- 
choly noviciate.  Some  of  his  early  letters, 
with  which  we  are  here  presented,  give  rather 
an  amiable  and  interesting  picture  of  young 
Curran's  feelings  in  this  situation — separated 
at  once  from  all  his  youthful  friends  and  ad- 
mirers, and  left  without  money  or  recommend- 
ation in  the  busy  crowds  of  a  colder  and  more 
venal  people.  During  the  three  years  he 
passed  in  the  metropolis,  he  seems  to  have 
entered  into  no  society,  and  never  to  have 
come  in  contact  with  a  single  distinguished 
individual.  He  saw  Garrick  on  the  stage,  and 
Lord  Mansfield  on  the  bench;  and  this  ex- 
hausts his  list  of  illustrious  men  in  London. 
His  only  associates  seem  to  have  been  a  few 
of  his  countrymen,  as  poor  and  forlorn  as  him- 
self. Yet  the  life  th*y  lived  seems  to  have 
been  virtuous  and  honourable.  They  con- 
tracted no  debts,  and  committed  no  excesses. 

Curran  himself  rose  early,  and  read  dili- 
gently till  dinner;  and,  in  the  evening,  he 
usually  went,  as  much  for  improvement  as 
relaxation,  to  a  sixpenny  debating  club.  For 
a  long  time,  however,  he  was  too  nervous  and 
timid  to  act  any  other  part  than  that  of  an  au- 
ditor, and  did  not  find  even  the  germ  of  that 
singular  talent  which  was  afterwards  improved 
lo  such  a  height,  till  it  M-as  struck  out  as  it 
were  by  an  accidental  collision  in  this  obscure 
arena.  There  is  a  long  account  of  this  in  the 
Dook  before  us,  as  it  is  said  to  have  been  re- 
ocatodly  given  by  Mr.  C.  himself— but  in  a 
etyJe   which  we   cannot   conscientiously  ap- 


plaud. We  suspect,  indeed,  from  various 
passages  in  these  volumes,  that  tlie  Irish 
standard  of  good  conversation  is  radically  dif- 
ferent from  the  English ;  and  that  a  tone  of 
exhibition  and  effect  is  still  tolerated  in  that 
country,  which  could  not  be  long  endured  in 
good  society  in  this.  A  great  proportion  of 
the  colloquial  anecdotes  in  this  work,  confirm 
us  in  this  belief — and  nothing  more  than  the 
encomium  bestowed  on  Mr.  Curran's  own  con- 
versation, as  abounding  in  '-'those  magical 
transitions  from  the  most  comic  turns  of 
thought  to  the  deepest  pathos,  and  for  ever 
bringing  a  tear  into  the  eye  before  the  smile 
was  off"  the  lip."  In  this  more  frigid  and  fas- 
tidious country,  we  really  have  no  idea  of  a 
man  talking  pathetically  in  good  company, — 
and  still  less  .of  good  company  sitting  and  cry- 
ing to  him.  Nay,  it  is  not  even  very  conso- 
nant with  our  notions,  that  a  gentleman  should 
be  '-'most  comical." 

As  to  the  taste  and  character  of  Mr.  Cur- 
ran's oratory,  we  may  have  occasion  to  say  a 
word  or  two  hereafter. — At  present,  it  is  only 
necessary  to  remark,  that  besides  the  public 
exercitations  now  alluded  to,  he  appears  to 
have  gone  through  the  most  persevering  and 
laborious  processes  of  private  study,  with  a 
view  to  its  improvement — not  only  accustom- 
ing himself  to  debate  imaginary  cases  alone, 
with  the  most  anxious  attention,  but  -'reciting 
perpetually  before  a  mirror,"  to  acquire  a 
graceful  gesticulation !  and  studiously  imita- 
ting the  tone  and  manner  of  the  most  cele- 
brated speakers.  The  authors  from  whom  he 
chiefly  borrowed  the  matter  of  these  solitary 
declamations  were  Junius  and  Lord  Boling- 
broke — and  the  poet  he  most  passionately 
admired  was  Thomson.  He  also  used  to 
declaim  occasionally  from  Milton — but,  in  his 
maturer  age,  came  to  think  less  highly  of  that 
great  poet.  One  of  his  favourite  exercises 
was  the  funeral  oration  of  Antony  over  the 
body  of  Csesar,  as  it  is  given  by  Shakespeare; 
the  frequent  recitation  of  which  he  used  to 
recommend  to  his  young  friends  at  the  Bar,  to 
the  latest  period  of  his  life. 

He  was  called  to  the  Bar  in  1775,  in  his 
twenty-fifth  year — having  rather  imprudently 
married  two  years  before — and  very  soon  at- 
tained to  independence  and  distinction.  There 
is  a  very  clever  little  disquisition  introduced 
here  by  the  author,  on  the  very  different,  and 
almost  opposite  taste  in  eloquence  which  has 
prevailed  at  the  Bar  of  England  and  Ireland 
respectively; — the  one  being  in  general  cold 
and  correct,  unimpassioned  and  technical ;  the 
other  discursive,  rhetorical,  and  embellished 
or  encumbered,  with  flights  of  fancy  and  ap- 
peals to  the  passions.  These  peculiarities  the 
author  imputes  chiefly  to  the  difference  in  the 
national  character  and  general  temperament 
of  the  two  races,  and  to  the  unsubdued  and 
unrectified  prevalence  of  all  that  is  character- 
istic of  their  country  in  those  classes  out  of 
which  the  Juries  of  Ireland  are  usual*  y  se- 
lected. He  ascribes  them  also,  in  part,  to  the 
circumstance  of  almost  all  the  barristers  of 
distinction  having  been  introduced,  \ery  early 
in  life,  to  the  fierce  and  tumultuary  arena  of 


LIFE  OF  CURRAN. 


711 


the  Irish  House  of  Commons — the  Government 
being  naturally  desirous  of  recruiting  their 
ranks  with  as  many  efficient  combatants  as 
possible  from  persons  residing  in  the  metropo- 
Jis — and  Opposition  looking,  of  course,  to  the 
same  great  seminary  for  the  antagonists  with 
whom  these  were  to  be  confronted. 

We  cannot  say  that  either  of  these  solutions 
is  to  us  very  satisfactory.  There  was  heat 
enough  certainly,  and  to  spare,  in  the  Irish 
Parliament ;  but  the  barristers  who  came  there 
had  generally  kindled  with  their  own  fire, 
before  repairing  to  that  fountain.  They  had 
formed  their  manner,  in  short,  and  distin- 
guished themselves  by  their  ardour,  before 
they  were  invited  to  display  it  in  that  assem- 
bly;— and  it  would  be  quite  as  plausible  to 
refer  the  intemperate  warmth  of  the  Parlia- 
mentary debates  to  thef  infusion  of  hot-headed 
gladiators  from  the  Bar,  as  to  ascribe  the  gen- 
eral over-zeal  of  the  profession  to  the  fever 
some  of  them  might  have  caught  in  the 
Senate.  In  England,  we  believe,  this  effect 
has  never  been  observed — and  in  Ireland  it 
has  outlived  its  supposed  causes — the  Bar  of 
that  country  being  still  (we  understand)as  rhe- 
torical and  impassioned  as  ever,  though  its  leg- 
islature has  long  ceased  to  have  an  existence. 

As  to  the  effects  of  temperament  and 
national  character,  we  confess  we  are  still 
more  sceptical — at  least  when  considered  as 
the  main  causes  of  the  phenomenon  in  ques- 
tion. Professional  peculiarities,  in  short,  we 
are  persuaded,  are  to  be  referred  much  more 
to  the  circumstances  of  the  profession,  than 
to  the  national  character  of  those  who  exer- 
cise it;  and  the  more  redundant  eloquence  of 
the  Irish  bar,  is  better  explained,  probably,  by 
the  smaller  quantity  of  business  in  their  courts, 
than  by  the  greater  vivacity  of  their  fancy,  or 
the  warmth  of  their  hearts.  We  in  Scotland 
have  also  a  forensic  eloquence  of  our  own — 
more  speculative,  discursive,  and  ambitious 
than  that  of  England — but  less  poetical  and 
passionate  than  that  of  Ireland ;  and  the  pe- 
culiarity might  be  plausibly  ascribed,  here 
also,  to  the  imputed  character  of  the  nation, 
as  distinguished  for  logical  acuteness  and  in- 
trepid questioning  of  authority,  rather  than  for 
richness  of  imagination,  or  promptitude  of 
feeling. 

We  do  not  mean,  however,  altogether  to 
deny  the  existence  or  the  operation  of  these 
causes — ^but  we  think  the  effect  is  produced 
chiefly  by  others  of  a  more  vulgar  description. 
The  small  number  of  Courts  and  Judges  in 
England — compared  to  its  great  wealth,  popu- 
lation, and  business — has  made  brevity  and 
despatch  not  only  important  but  indispensable 
qualifications  in  an  advocate  in  great  practice, 
— since  it  would  be  physically  impossible 
either  for  him  or  for  the  Courts  to  get  through 
their  business  without  them.  All  mere  orna- 
mental speaking,  therefore,  is  uot  only  severely 
discountenanced,  but  absolutely  debarred ; 
and  the  most  technical,  direct,  and  authorita- 
tive views  of  the  case  alone  can  be  listened  to. 
But  judicial  time,  to  use  the  language  of  Ben- 
tham  is  not  of  the  same  high  value,  either  in 
Ireland  or  in  Scotland ;  and  the  pleaders  of  those 


countries  have  consequently  given  w.iy  to  that 
universal  love  of  long-speaking,  which,  we 
verily  believe,  never  can  be  repressed  by  any 
thing  but  the  absolute  impossibility  of  indulg- 
ing it : — while  their  prolixity  has  taken  a  dif- 
ferent character,  not  so  much  from  the  tem- 
perament of  the  speakers,  as  from  the  difference 
of  the  audiences  they  have  generally  had  to 
address.  In  Ireland,  the  greater  part  of  their 
tediousness  is  bestowed  on  Juries — and  their 
vein  consequently  has  been  more  popular. 
With  us  in  Scotland  the  advocate  has  to  speak 
chiefly  to  the  Judges — and  naturally  endeav- 
ours, therefore,  to  make  that  impression  by 
subtlety,  or  compass  of  reasoning,  which  he 
would  in  vain  attempt,  either  by  pathos,  po- 
etry, or  jocularity. — Professional  speakers,  in 
short,  we  are  persuaded,  will  always  speak 
as  long  as  they  can  be  listened  to. — The  quan- 
tity of  their  eloquence,  therefore,  will  depend 
on  the  time  that  can  be  afibrded  for  its  djspla}; 
— and  its  quality,  on  the  nature  of  the  audience 
to  which  it  is  addressed. 

But  though  we  cannot  admit  that  the  causes 
assigned  by  this  author  are  the  main  or  fun- 
damental causes  of  the  peculiarity  of  Irish 
oratory,  we  are  far  from  denying  that  there  ia 
much  in  it  of  a  national  character,  and  indi- 
cating something  extraordinary  either  in  the 
temper  of  the  people,  or  in  the  state  of  societv 
among  them.  There  is,  in  particular,  a  much 
greater  Irascibility;  with  its  usual  concomi- 
tants of  coarseness  and  personality, ^and  a 
much  more  Theatrical  tone,  or  a  taste  for 
forced  and  exaggerated  sentiments,  than  would 
be  tolerated  on  this  side  of  the  Channel.  Of 
the  former  attribute,  the  continual,  and,  we 
must  say,  most  indecent  altercations  that  are 
recorded  in  these  volumes  between  the  Bench 
and  the  Bar,  are  certainly  the  most  flagrant 
and  offensive  examples.  In  some  cases  the 
Judges  were  perhaps  the  aggressors — but  the 
violence  and  indecorum  is  almost  wholly  on 
the  side  of  the  Counsel ;  and  the  excess  and 
intemperance  of  their  replies  generally  goes 
far  beyond  any  thing  for  which  an  apology 
can  be  found  in  the  provocation  that  had  been 
given.  A  very  striking  instance  occurs  in  an 
early  part  of  Mr.  Curran's  history,  where  he 
is  said  to  have  observed,  upon  an  opinion  de- 
livered by  Judge  Robinson,  '^  that  he  had 
never  met  with  the  law  as  laid  down  by  his 
Lordship  in  any  book  in  his  library;"  and, 
upon  his  Lordship  rejoining,  somewhat  scorn- 
fully, ^-that  he  suspected  his  library  was  very 
small,"  the  offended  barrister,  in  allusion  to 
the  known  fact  of  the  Judge  having  recent- 
ly published  some  anonymous  pamphlets, 
thought  fit  to  reply,  that  '-'his  library  might 
be  small,  but  he  thanked  Heaven  that,  among 
his  books,  there  were  none  of  the  wretched 
productions  of  the  frantic  pamphleteers  of  the 
day.  I  find  it  more  instructive,  my  lord,  to 
study  good  works  than  to  compose  bad  ones  I 
My  books  may  be  few,  but  the  title-pages 
give  me  the  writers'  names — my  shelf  is  not 
disgraced  by  any  of  such  rank  absurdity  thai 
their  very  authors  are  ashamed  to  own  them." 
(p.  122.)  On  another  occasion,  when  he  waa 
proceeding  in  an  argument  with  his  charac- 


720 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


teristic  impetuosity,  the  presiding  Judge  hav- 
ing called  to  the  Sheriff  to  be  ready  to  take 
into  custody  any  one  who  should  disturb  the 
decorum  of  the  Court,  the  sensitive  counsellor 
at  once  applying  the  notice  to  himself,  is  re- 
porte'd  to  have  broken  out  into  the  following 
incredible  apostrophe — "  Do,  Mr.  Sheriff,"'  re- 
plied Mr.  Curran,  '-go  and  get  ready  my  dun- 
geon !  Prepare  a  bed  of  straw  for  me  •  and 
upon  that  bed  I  shall  to-night  repose  with  more 
tranquillity  than  I  should  enjoy  were  I  sitting 
upon  that  bench,  with  a  consciousness  that  I 
disgraced  it !'" — Even  his  reply  to  Lord  Clare, 
when  interrupted  by  him  in  an  argument  be- 
fore the  Privy  Council,  seems  to  us  much  more 
petulant  than  severe.  His  Lordship,  it  seems. 
had  admonished  him  that  he  was  wandering 
from  the  question;  and  Mr.  C.  after  some 
general  observations,  replied,  '•'!  am  aware, 
my  lords,  that  truth  is  to  be  sought  only  by 
slow  and  painful  progress  :  I  know  also  that 
error  is  in  its  nature  flippant  and  compendious; 
it  hops  with  airy  and  fastidious  levity  over 
proofs  and  arguments,  and  perches  upon  as- 
sertion, which  it  calls  conclusion." — To  Lord 
Claie,  however,  Mr.  C.  had  every  possible 
temptation  to  be  intractable  and  impertinent. 
But  even  to  his  best  friends,  when  placed  on 
the  seat  of  judgment,  he  could  not  always 
forbear  a  similar  petulance.  Lord  Avonmore 
was  always  most  kind  and  indulgent  to  him — 
but  he  too  was  sometimes  in  the  habit,  it 
seems,  of  checking  his  wanderings,  and  some- 
times of  too  impatiently  anticipating  his  con- 
clusions. L^pon  one  of  these  occasions,  and 
in  the  middle  of  a  solemn  argument,  we  are 
called  on  to  admire  the  following  piece  of 
vulgar  and  farcical  stupidity,  as  a  specimen 
of  Mr.  C's  most  judicious  pleasantry : — 

"  'Perhaps,  my  lord,  I  am  straying;  but  you 
must  impute  it  to  the  extreme  agitation  of  my  mind. 
I  have  just  witnessed  so  dreadful  a  circumstance, 
that  my  imagination  has  not  yet  recovered  from  the 
shock.' — His  lordship  was  now  all  attention. — '  On 
my  way  to  court,  my  lord,  as  I  passed  by  one  of 
the  markets,  I  observed  a  butcher  proceeding  to 
slaughter  a  calf.  Just  as  his  hand  was  raised,  a 
lovely  little  child  approached  him  unperceived,  and, 
terrible  to  relate — I  still  see  the  life-blood  gushing 
out — the  poor  child's  bosom  was  under  liis  hand, 

when  he  plunged  his  knife  into — into' '  Into  the 

bosom  of  the  child !'  cried  out  the  judge,  with  much 
emotion — '  intq  the  neck  of  the  calf,  my  lord ;  but 
your  lordship  sometimes  anticipates!'  " 

But  this  is  not  quite  fair. — There  is  no  more 
such  nonsense  in  the  book — nor  any  other 
Iricism  so  discreditable  to  the  taste  either  of 
its  hero  or  its  author.  There  are  plenty  of 
traits,  however,  that  make  one  blush  for  the 
degradation,  and  shudder  at  the  government 
of  that  magnificent  country. — One  of  the  most 
striking  is  supplied  by  an  event  in  the  early 
part  of  Mr.  C's  professional  history,  and  one 
to  which  he  is  here  said  to  have  been  indebted 
for  his  first  celebrity.  A  nobleman  of  great 
weight  and  influence  in  the  country — we 
gladly  suppress  his  name,  though  it  is  given 
in  the  book — had  a  mistress,  whose  brother 
being  a  Catholic,  had,  for  some  offence,  been 
sentenced  to  ecclesiastical  penance — and  the 
yomng  woman  solicited  her  keeper  to  use  his 


influence  with  the  priest  to  obtain  a  remission 
His  Lordship  Ment  accordingly  to  the  cabin 
of  the  aged  pastor,  who  came  bareheaded  tn 
the  door  with  his  iiiissal  in  his  hand  ]  and  af- 
ter hearing  the  application,  respectfully  an-, 
swered.  that  the  sentence  having  been  imposed 
by  the  Bishop,  could  only  be  relaxed  by  the 
same  authority — and  that  he  had  no  right  or 
power  to  interfere  with  it.  The  noble  medi- 
ator, on  this  struck  the  old  man !  and  drove 
him  with  repeated  blows  from  his  presence. 
The  priest  then  brought  his  action  of  damages 
— but  for  a  long  time  could  find  no  advocate 
hardy  enough  to  undertake  his  cause ! — and 
when  young  Curran  at  last  made  offer  of  his 
services,  he  was  blamed  and  pitied  by  all  his 
prudent  friends  for  his  romantic  and  Quixotic 
rashness. 

These  facts  speak  volumes  as  to  the  utter 
perversion  of  moral  feeling  that  is  produced 
by  unjust  laws,  and  the  habits  to  which  they 
give  rise.  No  nation  is  so  brtive  or  so  generous 
as  the  Irish, — and  yet  an  Irish  nobleman  could 
be  guilty  of  the  brutality  of  striking  an  aged 
Ecclesiastic  without  derogating  from  his  dig- 
nity or  honour. — No  body  of  men  could  be 
more  intrepid  and  gallant  than  the  leaders- of 
the  Irish  bar;  and  yet  it  was  thought  too 
daring  and  presumptuous  for  any  of  them  to 
assist  the  sufferer  in  obtaining  redress  for  an 
outrage  like  this.  In  England,  those  things 
are  inconceivable :  But  the  readers  of  Irish 
history  are  aware,  that  where  the  question 
was  between  Peer  and  Peasant — and  still  more 
when  it  \yas  between  Protestant  and  Catholic 
— the  barristers  had  cause  for  apprehension. 
It  was  but  about  forty  years  before,  that  upon 
a  Catholic  bringing  an  action  for  the  recovery 
of  his  confiscated  estates,  the  Irish  House  of 
Commons  publicly  voted  a  resolution,  •'  that 
all  barristers,  solicitors,  attorneys,  and  proctors 
who  should  be  concerned  for  him,  should  be 
considered  as  public  enemies  1"  This  was  in 
1735.  In  1780,  however,  Mr.  C.  found  the 
service  not  quite  so  dangerous ;  and  by  great 
eloquence  and  exertion  extorted  a  reluctant 
verdict,  and  thirty  guineas  of  damages,  from 
a  Protestant  Jury.  The  sequel  of  the  affair 
was  not  less  characteristic.  In  the  first  place, 
it  involved  the  advocate  in  a  duel  with  a  wit- 
ness whom  he  had  rather  outrageously  abused 
— and,  in  the  next  place,  it  was  thought  suffi- 
cient to  justify  a  public  notification  to  him,  on 
the  part  of  the  noble  defendant,  that  his  au- 
dacity should  be  punished  by  excluding  him 
from  all  professional  employment  wherever 
his  influence  could  extend.  The  insolence 
of  such  a  communication  might  well  have 
warranted  a  warlike  reply :  But  Mr.  C.  ex 
pressed  his  contempt  in  a  gayer,  and  not  less 
effectual  manner.  Pretending  to  misunder- 
stand the  tenor  of  the  message,  he  answered 
aloud,  in  the  hearing  of  his  friends,  "  My  good 
sir,  you  may  tell  his  lordship,  that  it  is  in  vain 
for  him  to  be  proposing  terms  of  accommoda- 
tion ;  for  after  what  has  happened,  I  protest  I 
think,  while  I  live,  I  never  can  hold  a  brief 
for  him  or  one  of  his  family."  The  threat, 
indeed,  proved  as  impotent  as  it  was  pitiful; 
for  the   spirit  and    talent  which   the   young 


LIFE  OF  CURRAN. 


721 


ooimsellor  had  displayed  through  the  whole 
scene,  not  only  brought  him  into  unbounded 
popularity  with  the  lower  orders,  but  instantly 
raised  him  to  a  distinguished  place  in  the 
ranks  of  his  profession.* 

We  turn  gladly,  and  at  once,  from  this 
dreadful  catastrophe.t  Never  certainly  was 
short-lived  tranquillity — or  rather  permanent 
danger  so  dearly  bought.  The  vengeance  of 
the  law  followed  the  havoc  of  the  sword — 
and  here  again  we  meet  Mr.  C.  in  his  strength 
and  his  glory.  But  we  pass  gladly  over  these 
melancholy  trials ;  in  which  we  are  far  from 
insinuating,  that  there  was  any  reprehensible 
severity  on  the  part  of  the  Government.  When 
matters  had  come  that  length,  they  had  but 
one  duty  before  them— and  they  seem  to  have 
discharged  it  (if  w^e  except  one  or  two  pos- 
thumous attainders)  with  mercy  as  well  as 
fairness :  for  after  a  certain  number  of  victims 
had  been  selected,  an  arrangement  was  made 
with  the  rest  of  the  state  prisoners,  under 
which  they  were  allowed  to  expatriate  them- 
rselves  for  life.  It  would  be  improper,  how- 
ever, to  leave  the  subject,  without  ofTering 
our  tribute  of  respect  and  admiration  to  the 
singular  courage,  fidelity,  and  humanity,  with 
which  Mr.  C.  persisted,  throughout  these  ago- 
nising scenes,  in  doing  his  duty  to  the  unfor- 
tunate prisoners,  and  watching  over  the  ad- 
ministration of  that  law,  from  the  spectacle  of 
whose  vengeance  there  was  so  many  tempta- 
tions to  withdraw.  This  painful  and  heroic 
task  he  ufidertook — and  never  blenched  from 
its  fulfilment,  in  spite  of  the  toil  and  disgust, 
and  the  obloquy  and  personal  hazard,  to  which 
it  continually  exposed  him.  In  that  inflamed 
state  of  the  public  mind,  it  is  easy  to  under- 
stand that  the  advocate  was  frequently  con- 
founded with  the  client ;  and  that,  besides  the 
murderous  vengeance  of  the  profligate  inform- 
ers he  had  so  often  to  denounce,  he  had  to 
encounter  the  passions  and  prejudices  of  all 
those  who  chose  to  look  on  the  defender  of 
traitors  as  their  associate.  Instead  of  being 
cheered,  therefore,  as  formerly,  by  the  ap- 
plauses of  his  auditors,  he  was  often  obliged  to 
submit  to  their  angry  interruptions ;  and  was 
actually  menanced  more  than  once,  in  the 
open  court,  by  the  clashing  arms  and  indig- 
nant menaces  of  the  military  spectators.  He 
had  excessive  numbers  of  soldiers,  too,  billet- 
ted  on  him,  and  was  in  many  other  ways  ex- 
posed to  loss  and  vexation  :  But  he  bore  it  all, 
with  the  courage  of  his  country,  and  the  dig- 
nity due  to  his  profession — and  consoled  him- 


*  The  greater  part  of  what  follows  in  the  original 
paper  is  now  omitted  ;  as  touching  on  points  in  the 
mbdern  history  of  Ireland  which  has  been  sufficient- 
ly discussed  under  preceding  titles.  I  retain  only 
what  relates  to  Mr.  Curran  personally  ;  or  to  those 
peculiarities  in  his  eloquence  which  refer  rather  to 
his  country  than  to  the  individual :  though,  for  the 
Bake  chiefly  of  connection,  I  have  made  one  allusion 
to  the  sad  and  most  touching  Judicial  Tragedy 
which  followed  up  the  deplorable  Field  scenes  of 
the  rebellion  of  1798. 

t  The  extinction  of  the  rebellion— by  the  slaugh- 
ter of  fifty  thousand  of  the  insurgents,  and  upwards 
of  twenty  thousand  of  the  soldiery  and  their  adhe- 
Tents ! 

46 


self  for  the  vulgar  calumnie?  of  an  infuriated 
faction,  in  the  friendship  and  society  of  such 
men  as  Lords  Moira,  Charlemont,  and  Kilwar- 
den — Grattan,  Ponsonby,  and  Flood. 

The  incorporating  union  of  1800  is  said  to 
have  filled  Mr.  C.  with  incurable  despondency 
as  to  the  fate  of  his  country.  We  have  great 
indulgence  for  this  feeling — but  we  cannot 
sympathise  with  it.  The  Irish  parliament 
was  a  nuisance  that  deserved  to  be  abated — 
and  the  British  legislature,  with  all  its  parti- 
alities, and  its  still  more  blamable  neglects, 
may  be  presumed,  we  think,  to  be  more  ac- 
cessible to  reason,  to  justice,  and  to  shame, 
than  the  body  which  it  superseded.  Mr.  C. 
was  not  in  Parliament  when  that  great  mea- 
sure was  adopted.  But,  in  the  course  of  that 
year,  he  delivered  a  very  able  argument  in 
the  case  of  Napper  Tandy,  of  which  the  only 
published  report  is  to  be  found  in  the  volumes 
before  us.  In  1802,  he  made  his  famous 
speech  in  Hevey's  case,  against  Mr.  Sirr,  the 
town-major  of  Dublin  ;  which  aflbrds  a  strong 
picture  of  the  revolting  and  atrocious  barbari- 
ties which  are  necessarily  perpetrated,  when 
the  solemn  tribunals  are  silenced,  and  inferior 
agents  intrusted  with  arbitrary  power.  The 
speech,  in  this  view  of  it,  is  one  of  the  most 
striking  and  instructive  in  the  published  vo- 
lume, which  we  noticed  in  our  thirteenth  vo- 
lume. During  the  peace  of  Amiens,  Mr.  C. 
made  a  short  excursion  to  France,  and  was  by 
no  means  delighted  with  what  he  saw  there. 
In  a  letter  to  "his  son  from  Paris,  in  October 
1802,  he  says, — 

"  I  am  glad  I  have  come  here.  I  entertained 
many  ideas  of  it,  which  I  have  entirely  given  up,  or 
very  much  indeed  altered.  Never  was  there  a  scene 
that  could  furnish  more  to  the  weeping  or  the  grin- 
ning philosopher ;  they  well  might  agree  that  hu- 
man affairs  were  a  sad  joke.  I  see  it  every  where, 
and  in  every  thing.  The  wheel  has  run  a  complete 
round  ;  only  changed  some  spokes  and  a  few  '  fel- 
lows,' very  little  for  the  better,  but  the  axle  cer- 
tainly has  not  rusted ;  nor  do  I  see  any  likelihood 
of  its  rusting.  At  present  all  is  quiet,  except  the 
tongue, — thanks  to  those  invaluable  protectors  of 
peace,  the  army !  !'' — Vol.  ii.  pp.  206,  207. 

The  public  life  of  Mr.  C.  was  now  drawing 
to  a  close.  He  distinguished  himself  in  1804 
in  the  Marquis  of  Headfort's  case,  and  in  that 
of  Judge  Johnson  in  1805  :  But,  on  the  acces- 
.sion  of  the  Whigs  to  office  in  1806,  he  was 
appointed  to  the  situation  of  Master  of  the 
Rolls,  and  never  afterwards  made  any  public 
appearance.  He  was  not  satisfied  with  this 
appointment ;  and  took  no  pains  to  conceal  his 
dissatisfaction.  His  temper,  perhaps,  was  by 
this  time  somewhat  soured  by  ill  health ;  and 
his  notion  of  his  own  importance  exaggerated 
by  the  flattery  of  which  he  had  long  been  the 
daily  object.  Perhaps,  too,  the  sudden  Mith- 
drawing  of  those  tasks  and  excitements,  to 
which  he  had  been  so  long  accustomed,  co- 
operating with  the  languor  of  declining  age, 
may  have  affected  his  views  of  his  own  situa- 
tion :  But  it  certainly  appears  that  he  was 
never  very  gay  or  good-humoured  after  hiii 
promotion — and  passed  but  a  dull  and  peevisii 
time  of  it  during  the  remainder  of  his  life.  In 
1810,  he  went,  for  the  first  time,  to  Scotland ; 


722 


MFSCELLANEOUS. 


and  we  cannot  deny  our  nationality  the  plea- 
sure of  liis  honest  testimony.  He  writes  thus 
to  a  friend  soon  after  his  arrival  on  our  shore : — 

'"  I  am  greatly  delighted  with  this  country.  You 

Bee  no  trace  here  of  the  devil  working  against  the 
wisdom  and  beneficence  of  God,  and  torturing  and 
degrading  his  creatures.  It  may  seem  the  romanc- 
ing of  travelhng  ;  but  I  am  satisfied  of  the  fact,  tliat 
the  poorest  man  here  has  his  children  taught  to  read 
and  write,  and  that  in  every  house  is  found  a  Bible, 
and  in  almost  every  house  a  clock  :  And  the  fruits 
of  this  are  manifest  in  the  intelligence  and  manners 
of  all  ranks.  In  Scotland,  what  a  work  have  the 
four-and-twenty  letters  to  show  for  themselves! — 
the  natural  enemies  of  vice,  and  folly,  and  slavery  ; 
the  great  sowers,  but  the  still  greater  weeders,  of 
the  human  soil.  Nowhere  can  you  see  here  the 
cringing  hypocrisy  of  dissembled  detestation,  so  in- 
Reparable  from  oppression :  and  as  httle  do  you 
meet  the  hard,  and  dull,  and  right-hned  angles  of 
the  southern  visage ;  you  find  the  notion  exact  and 
the  phrase  direct,  with  the  natural  tone  of  the  Scot- 
tish muse. 

"  The  first  night,  at  Ballintray,  the  landlord  at- 
tended us  at  supper;  he  would  do  so,  though  we 
begged  him  not.  We  talked  to  him  of  the  cultiva- 
lion  of  potatoes.  I  said,  I  wondered  at  his  taking 
them  in  place  of  his  native  food,  oatmeal,  so  much 
more  substantial.  His  answer  struck  me  as  very 
characteristic  of  the  genius  of  Scotland — frugal, 
lender,  and  picturesque.  '  Sir,'  said  he,  '  we  are 
not  so  much  i'  the  wrong  as  you  think  ;  the  tilth  is 
easy,  they  are  swift  i'  the  cooking,  they  take  little 
fuel ;  and  then  it  is  pleasant  to  see  the  gude  wife 
wi'  a'  her  bairns  aboot  the  pot,  and  each  wi'  a  po- 
tatoe  in  its  hand.'  " — Vol.  ii.  pp.  254 — 256. 

There  are  various  other  interestin^r  letters 
in  these  volumes,  and  in  particular  a  long'  one 
to  the  Duke  of  Sussex,  in  favour  of  Catholic 
Emancipation :  but  we  can  no  longer  afford 
room  for  extracts,  and  must  indeed  hurry 
through  our  abstract  of  what  remains  to  be 
noticed  of  his  life.  He  canvassed  the  burgh 
ef  Newry  unsuccessfully  in  1812.  His  health 
failed  very  much  in  1813  ;  and  the  year  after, 
he  resigned  his  situation,  and  came  over  to 
London  in  his  way  to  France.  He  seems  at 
no  time  to  have  had  much  relish  for  English 
society.  In  one  of  his  early  letters,  he  com- 
plains of  "  the  proud  awkward  sulk"  of  Lon- 
don company,  and  now  he  characterises  it 
with  still  greater  severity  : — 

"  I  question  if  it  is  much  better  in  Paris.  Here 
the  parade  is  gross,  and  cold,  and  vulgar;  there  it 
is,  no  doubt,  more  flippant,  and  the  attitude  more 
graceful;  but  in  either  place  is  not  Society  equally 
a  tyrant  and  a  slave  ?  The  judsrment  despises  it, 
and  the  heart  renounces  it.  We  seek  it  because 
we  are  idle ;  we  are  idle  because  we  are  silly ;  and 
the  natural  remedy  is  some  social  intercourse,  of 
which  a  few  drops  would  restore  ;  but  we  swallow 
the  whole  vial,  and  are  sicker  of  the  remedy  than 
we  were  of  the  disease." — Vol.  ii.  pp.  337,  338. 

And  again,  a  little  after, — 

"  England  is  not  a  place  for  society.  It  is  loo 
cold,  too  vain. — without  pride  enough  to  be  hum- 
ble, drowned  in  dull  fantastical  formality,  vulgarized 
by  rank  without  talent,  and  talent  foolishly  recom- 
mending itself  by  weight  rather  than  by  fashion — 
a  perpetual  war  between  the  disappointed  preten- 
sion of  talent  and  the  stupid  overweening  of  affect- 
ed patronage;  means  without  enjoyment,  pursuits 
without  an  object,  and  society  without  conversation 
or  intercourse ;  Perhaps  they  manage  this  better  in 
France — a  few  days,  I  think,  will  enable  me  to 
iecide."— Vol.  ii.  pp.  345,  346. 


In  France,  nowever,  he  was  not  much  bot« 
ter  off — and  returned,  complaining  of  a  con- 
stitutional dejection,  '•  for  which  he  could  find 
no  remedy  in  water  or  in  wine."  He  rejoices 
in  the  downfall  of  Bonaparte  ]  and  is  of  opinion 
that  the  Revolution  harl  thrown  that  country 
a  century  bacK.  in  spring  1817,  he  began  to 
sink  rapidly ;  and  had  a  slight  paralytic  attack 
in  one  of  his  hands.  He  proposed  to  try 
another  visit  to  France  ;  and  still  complained 
of  the  depression  of  his  spirits : — "  he  had  a 
mountain  of  lead  (he  said)  on  his  heart." 
Early  in  October,  he  had  a  very  severe  shock 
of  apoplexy,  and  lingered  till  the  14th,  when 
he  expired  in  his  68tli  year. 

There  is  a  very  able  and  eloquent  chapter 
on  the  character  of  Mr.  Curran's  eloquence — 
encomiastic  of  course,  but  written  with  great 
temper,  talent,  and  discrimination.  Its  charm 
and  its  defects,  the  learned  author  refers  to 
the  state  of  genuine  passion  and  vehement 
emotion  in  which  all  his  best  performances 
were  delivered;  and  speaks  of  its  effects  on 
his  auditors  of  all  descriptions,  in  terms  which 
can  leave  no  doubt  of  its  substantial  excel- 
lence. We  cannot  now  enter  into  these  rhetori- 
cal disquisitions — though  they  are  full  of  in- 
terest and  instruction  to  the  lovers  of  oratory. 
It  is  more  within  our  province  to  notice,  that 
he  is  here  said  to  have  spoken  extempore  at 
his  first  coming  to  the  Ear;  but  when  his  rising 
reputation  made  him  more  chary  of  his  fame, 
he  tried  for  some  time  to  write  down,  and  com- 
mit to  memory,  the  more  important  parts  of 
his  pleadings.  The  result,  however,  was  not  at 
all  encouraging :  and  he  soon  laid  aside  his  pen 
so  entirely,  as  scarcely  even  to  make  any  notes 
in  preparation.  He  meditated  his  subjects, 
however,  when  strolling  in  his  garden,  or  more 
frequently  while  idling  over  his  violin  ;  and 
often  prepared,  in  this  way,  those  splendid 
passages  and  groups  of  images  with  which  he 
was  afterwards  to  dazzle  and  enchant  his  ad- 
mirers. The  only  notes  he  made  were  often 
of  the  metaphors  he  proposed  to  employ — and 
these  of  the  utmost  brevity.  For  the  grand 
peroration,  for  example,  in  H.  Rowan's  case, 
his  notes  were  as  follows: — "Character  of 
Mr.  R.  —  Furnace  —  Rebellion  —  smothered  — 
StalJcs — Redeeming  Spirit  J  ^  From  such  slight 
hints  he  spoke  fearlessly — and  without  cause 
for  fear.  With  the  help  of  such  a  scanty 
chart,  he  plunged  boldly  into  the  unbuoyed 
channel  of  his  cause;  and  trusted  himself  to 
the  torrent  of  his  own  eloquence,  with  no 
better  guidance  than  such  landmarks  as  these. 
It  almost  invariably  happened,  however,  that 
the  experiment  succeeded;  "that  his  own 
expectations  were  far  exceeded;  and  that, 
when  his  mind  came  to  be  more  intenselj^ 
heated  by  his  subject,  and  by  that  inspiring 
confidence  which  a  public  audience  seldom 
fails  to  infuse  into  all  who  are  sufficiently 
gifted  to  receive  it,  a  multitude  of  new  ideas 
adding  vigour  or  ornament,  were  given  oft; 
and  it  also  happened,  that,  in  the  same  pro 
lific  moments,  and  as  their  almost  inevitable 
consequence,  some  crude  and  fantastic  notions 
escaped:  which,  if  they  impeach  their  au- 
thor's taste,  at  least  leave  him  the  merit  of  a 


LIFE  OF  CURRAN. 


rn 


j^)iendid  fault,  M^hich  none  but  men  l..  genius 
can  commit."  (pp.  403,  404.)  The  best  ex- 
planation of  his  success,  and  the  best  apology 
for  his  defects  as  a  speaker,  is  to  be  found,  we 
believe,  in  the  following  candid  passage  : — 

"  The  Juries  among  whom  he  was  thrown,  and 
for  whom  he  originally  formed  his  style,  were  not 
fastidious  critics;  they  were  more  usually  men 
abounding  in  rude  unpolished  sympathies,  and  who 
were  ready  to  surrender  the  treasure,  of  which 
they  scarcely  knew  the  value,  to  him  that  offered 
them  the  most  alluring  toys.  Whatever  might  have 
been  his  own  better  taste,  as  an  advocate  he  soon 
discovered,  that  the  surest  way  to  persuade  was  to 
conciliate  by  amusing  them.  With  them  he  found 
that  his  imagination  might  revel  unrestrained  ;  that, 
when  once  the  work  of  intoxication  was  begun, 
every  wayward  fancy  and  wild  expression  was  as 
acceptable  and  elfectual  as  the  most  refined  wit ; 
and  that  the  favour  which  they  would  have  refused 
to  the  unattractive  reasoner,  or  to  the  too  distant 
and  formal  orator,  they  had  not  the  firmness  to 
withhold,  when  solicited  with  the  gay  persuasive 
familiarity  of  a  companion.  These  careless  or  li- 
centious habits,  encouraged  by  early  applause  and 
victory,  were  never  thrown  aside  ;  and  we  can  ob- 
serve, in  almost  all  his  productions,  no  matter  how 
august  the  audience,  or  how  solemn  the  occasion, 
that  his  mind  is  perpetually  relapsing  into  its  primi- 
tive indulgences." — pp.  412,  413. 

The  learned  author  closes  this  very  able 
and  eloquent  dissertation  with  some  remarks 
upon  what  he  says  is  now  denominated  the 
Irish  school  of  eloquence ;  and  seems  inclined 
to  deny  that  its  profusion  of  imagery  implies 
any  deficiency,  or  even  neglect  of  argument. 
A.S  we  had  some  share,  we  believe,  in  impo- 
sing this  denomination,  we  may  be  pardoned 
for  feeling  some  little  anxiety  that  it  should 
be  rightly  understood ;  and  beg  leave  there- 
fore to  say,  that  we  are  as  far  as  possible  from 
holding,  that  the  greatest  richness  of  imagery 
necessarily  excludes  close  or  accurate  reason- 
ing j  holding,  on  the  contrary,  that  it  is  fre- 
quently its  most  appropriate  vehicle  and  na- 
tural exponent  —  as  in  Lord  Bacon,  Lord 
Chatham,  and  Jeremy  Taylor.  But  the  elo- 
quence we  wished  to  characterise,  is  that 
where  the  figures  and  ornaments  of  speech 
do  interfere  with  its  substantial  object — where 
fancy  is  not  ministrant  but  predominant — 
where  the  imagination  is  not  merely  awak- 
ened, but  intoxicated  —  and  either  overlays 
and  obscures  the  sense,  or  frolics  and  gambols 
around  it,  to  the  disturbance  of  its  march, 
and  the  weakening  of  its  array  for  the  con- 
test : — And  of  this  kind,  we  still  numbly  think, 
was  the  eloquence  of  Mr.  Curran. 

His  biographer  says,  indeed,  that  it  is  a  mis- 
take to  call  it  Irish,  because  Swift  and  Gold- 
smith had  none  of  it — and  Milton  and  Bacon 
and  Chatham  had  much ;  and  moreover,  that 
Burke  and  Grattan  and  Curran  had  each  a 
distinctive  style  of  eloquence,  and  ought  not 
to  be  classed  together.  How  old  the  style 
may  be  in  Ireland,  we  cannot  undertake  to 
say — though  we  think  there  are  traces  of  it 
in  Ossian.  We  would  observe  too,  that,  though 
born  in  Ireland,  neither  Swift  nor  Goldsmith 
were  trained  in  the  Irish  school,  or  worked 
for  the  Irish  market;  and  we  have  already 
said,  that  it  is  totally  to  mistake  our  concep- 
tion of  the  style  in  question,  to  ascribe  any 


tincture  of  it  to  such  writers  as  Milton,  Bacon, 
or  Taylor.  There  is  fancy  and  figure  enough 
certainly  in  their  compositions :  But  there  is 
no  intoxication  of  the  fancy,  and  no  rioting 
and  revelling  among  figures — no  ungoverned 
and  ungovernable  impulse — no  fond  dalliance 
with  metaphors — no  mad  and  headlong  pur- 
suit of  brilliant  images  and  passionate  ex- 
pressions—  no  lingering  among  tropes  and 
melodies — no  giddy  bandying  of  antitheses 
and  allusions — no  craving,  in  short,  for  per- 
petual glitter,  and  panting  after  ellect,  till 
both  speaker  and  hearer  are  lost  in  the 
splendid  confusion,  and  the  argument  evapo- 
rates in  the  heat  which  was  meant  to'enforce 
it.  This  is  perhaps  too  strongly  put;  but 
there  are  large  portions  of  Mr.  C.'s  Speeches 
to  which  we  think  the  substance  of  the  de- 
scription will  apply.  Take,  for  instance,  a 
passage,  very  much  praised  in  the  work  be- 
fore us,  in  his  argument  in  Judge  Johnson's 
case, — an  argument,  it  will  be  remembered, 
on  a  point  of  law,  and  addressed  not  to  a  Jury, 
but  to  a  Judge. 

"  I  am  not  ignorant  that  this  extraordinary  con- 
struction has  received  the  sanction  of  another  Court, 
nor  of  the  surprise  and  dismay  with  which  it  smote 
upon  tJie  general  heart  of  the  Bar.  I  am  aware  that 
I  may  have  the  mortification  of  being  told,  in  an- 
other country,  of  that  unhappy  decision  ;  and  I 
foresee  in  what  confusion  I  shall  hang  down  my 
head  when  I  am  told  of  it.  But  I  cherisii,  too.  the 
consolatory  hope,  that  I  shall  be  able  to  tell  them, 
that  I  had  an  old  and  learned  friend,  whom  I  would 
put  above  all  the  sweepi?igs  of  their  Hall  (no  great 
compliment,  we  should  think),  who  was  of  a  differ- 
ent opinion — who  had  derived  his  ideas  of  civil 
liberty  from  the  purest  fountains  of  Athens  and  of 
Rome — who  had  fed  the  youthful  vigour  of  his 
studious  mind  with  the  theoretic  knowledge  of  their 
wisest  philosophers  and  statesmen — and  who  had 
refined  that  theory  into  the  quick  and  exquisite 
sensibility  of  moral  instinct,  by  contemplating  the 
practice  of  their  most  illustrious  examples— by 
dwelling  on  the  sweet-souled  piety  of  Cimon — on 
the  anticipated  Christianity  of  Socrates — on  the 
gallant  and  pathetic  patriotism  of  Epaminondas — 
on  that  pure  austerity  of  Fabricius,  whom  to  move 
from  his  integrity  would  have  been  more  difficult 
than  to  have  pushed  the  sun  from  his  course  !  I 
would  add,  that  if  he  had  seemed  to  hesitate,  it 
was  but  for  a  moment — that  his  hesitatio7i  was  like 
the  passing  cloud  that  floats  across  the  morning  sun, 
and  hides  it  from  the  view,  and  does  so  for  a  mo- 
ment hide  it,  hy  involving  the  spectator  without  even 
approaching  the  face  of  the  litminary.-^And  this 
soothing  hope  I  draw  from  the  dearestand  tenderest 
recollections  of  my  life — from  the  remembrance  of 
those  attic  nights,  and  those  refectidns  of  t  lie  gods, 
which  we  have  spent  with  those  admired,  and  re 
spccted,  and  beloved  companions,  who  have  gone 
before  us ;  over  whose  ashes  the  most  precious 
tears  of  Ireland  have  been  shed.  [Here  Lord 
Avonmore  could  not  refrain  from  bursting  into 
tears.]  Yes,  my  good  Lord,  I  see  you  do  not  for- 
get them.  I  see  their  sacred  forms  passing  in  sad 
review  before  your  memory.  I  see  your  pained  ana 
5o/<e«e(//a«ry  recalling  those  happy  meetings,  where 
the  innocent  enjoyment  of  social  mirth  became  ex 
panded  into  the  nobler  warmth  of  social  virtue,  and 
the  horizo7i  of  the  hoard  became  enlarged  into  the 
horizon  of  man — where  the  swelling  heart  conceived 
and  communicated  the  pure  and  generous  purpose- 
where  my  slenderer  and  younger  taper  imbibed  its 
borrowed  light  from  the  more  matured  and  redun- 
dant  fountain  of  yours.'' — Vol.  i.  pp.  139—148. 

Now,  we  must  candidly  confess,  that  wo 


724 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


do  not  remember  ever  to  have  read  any  thing 
much  more  absurd  than  this — and  that  the 
puerihty  and  folly  of  the  classical  intrusions 
is  even  less  offensive,  than  the  heap  of  incon- 
gruous metaphors  by  which  the  meaning  is 
obscured.  Does  the  learned  author  really 
mean  to  contend,  that  the  metaphors  here 
add  either  force  or  beauty  to  the  sentiment  1 
or  that  Bacon  or  Milton  ever  wrote  any  thing 
like  this  upon  such  a  topic "?  In  his  happier 
moments,  and  more  vehement  adjurations, 
Mr.  C.  is  often  beyond  all  question  a  great 
and  commanding  orator;  and  we  have  no 
doubt  was,  to  those  who  had  the  happiness 
of  hearing  him,  a  much  greater  orator  than 
the  mere  readers  of  his  speeches  have  any 
means  of  conceiving : — But  we  really  cannot 
help  repeating  our  protest  against  a  style  of 
composition  which  could  betray  its  great  mas- 
ter, and  that  very  frequently,  into  such  pas- 
sages as  those  we  have  just  extracted.  The 
mischief  is  not  to  the  master — whose  genius 
could  efface  all  such  stains,  and  whose  splen- 
did successes  would  sink  his  failures  in  obli- 
vion— but  to  the  pupils,  and  to  the  pubhc, 
whose  taste  that  very^  genius  is  thus  instru- 
mental in  corrupting.  If  young  lawyers  are 
taught  to  consider  this  as  the  style  which 
should  be  aimed  at  and  encouraged,  to  ren- 
der Judges  benevolent, — by  comparing  them 
to  "  the  sweet-souled  Cimon,"  and  the  '^  gal- 
lant Epaminondas ;"  or  to  talk  about  their 
own  '-young  and  slender  tapers,"  and  "the 
clouds  and  the  morning  sun," — with  what 
precious  ijtuff  will  the  Courts  and  the  country 
be  infested !  It  is  not  difficult  to  imitate  the 
defects  of  such  a  style — and  of  all  defects 
they  are  the  most  nauseous  in  imitation. 
Even  in  the  hands  of  men  of  genius,  the  risk 
is,  that  the  longer  such  a  style  is  cultivated, 
the  more  extravagant  it  will  grow, — just  as 
those  who  deal  in  other  means  of  intoxica- 
tion, are  tempted  to  strengthen  the  mixture 
as  they  proceed.  The  learned  and  candid 
author  before  us,  testifies  this  to  have  been 
the  progress  of  Mr.  C.  himself— and  it  is  still 
more  strikingly  illustrated  by  the  history  of  his 
models  and  imitators.  Mr.  Burke  had  much 
less  of  this  extravagance  than  Mr.  Grattan — 
Mr.  Grattan  much  less  than  Mr.  Curran — and 
Mr.  Curran  much  less  than  Mr.  Phillips. — It 
is  really  of  some  importance  that  the  climax 
should  be  closed,  somewhere. 

There  is  a  concluding  chapter,  in  which 
Mr.  C.'s  skill  in  cross-examination,  and  his 
conversational  brilliancy,  are  commemorated ; 
as  well  as  the  general  simplicity  and  affability 
of  his  manners,  and  his  personal  habits  and 
peculiarities.  He  was  not  a  profound  lawyer, 
nor  much  of  a  general  scholar,  though  reason- 
ably^ well  acquainted  with  all  the  branches  of 
pohte  literature,  and  an  eager  reader  of  novels 


— being  often  caught  soboing  o\er  the  pathoi 
of  Richardson,  or  laughing  at  the  humour  of 
Cervantes,  with  an  unrestrained  vehemence 
which  reminds  us  of  that  of  Voltaire.  He 
spoke  very  slow,  both  in  public  and  private, 
and  was  remarkably  scrupulous  in  his  choice 
of  words :  He  slept  very  little,  and,  like  John- 
son, was  always  averse  to  retire  at  night- 
lingering  long  after  he  arose  to  depart — and,  in 
his  own  house,  often  following  one  of  his  guesta 
to  his  chamber,  and  renewing  the  conversation 
for  an  hour.  He  was  habitually  abstinent  and 
temperate ;  and,  from  his  youth  up,  in  spite  of 
all  his  vivacity,  the  victim  of  a  constitutional 
melancholy.  His  wit  is  said  to  have  been  ready 
and  brilliant,  and  altogether  without  gall. 
But  the  credit  of  this  testimony  is  somewhat 
weakened  by  a  little  selection  of  his  bons 
mots,  with  which  we  are  furnished  in  a  note. 
The  greater  part,  we  own,  appear  to  us  to  be 
rather  vulgar  and  ordinary ;  as,  when  a  man 
of  the  name  of  Halfpenny  was  desired  by  the 
Judge  to  sit  down,  Mr.  C.  said,  '-'I  thank  youi 
Lordship  for  havuig  at  last  nailed  that  rap  to 
the  counter;''''  or,  when  observing  upon  the 
singular  pace  of  a  Judge  who  was  lame,  he 
said,  "Don't  you  see  that  one  leg  goes  before, 
like  a  tipstaff,  to  make  room  for  the  other  ?" 
— or,  when  vindicating  his  countrymen  from 
the  charge  of  being  naturally  vicious,  he  said, 
"He  had  never  yet  heard  of  an  Irishman  being 
horn  drunk.^'  The  following,  however,  is 
good — "I  can't  tell  you,  Curran,"  observed 
an  Irish  nobleman,  who  had  voted  for  the 
Union,  "  how  frightful  our  old  House  of  Com* 
mons  appears  to  me."  "Ah!  my  Lord,"  re- 
plied the  other,  "  it  is  only  natural  for  Mur- 
derers to  be  afraid  of  Ghosts;" — and  this  is 
at  least  grotesque.  "Being  asked  what  an 
Irish  gentleman,  just  arrived  in  England,  could 
mean  by  perpetually  putting  out  his  tongue  1 
Answer — -I  suppose  he's  trying  to  catch  the 
English  accents  "  In  his  last  illness,  his  physi- 
cian observing  in  the  morning  that  he  seemed 
to  cough  with  more  difficulty,  he  answered, 
"that  is  rather  surprising,  as  I  have'  been 
practising  all  night." 

But  these  things  are  of  little  consequence. 
Mr.  Curran  was  something  much  better  than 
a  sayer  of  smart  sayings.  He  was  a  lover  of 
his  country — and  its  fearless,  its  devoted,  and 
indefatigable  servant.  To  his  energy  and  tal- 
ents she  was  perhaps  indebted  for  some  miti- 
gation of  her  sufferings  in  the  days  of  her  ex- 
tremity— and  to  these,  at  all  events,  the  public 
has  been  indebted,  in  a  great  degree,  for  the 
knowledge  they  now  have  of  her  wrongs;  and 
for  the  feeling  which  that  knowledge  has 
excited,  of  the  necessity  of  granting  them  re- 
dress. It  is  in  this  character  that  he  must 
have  most  wished  to  be  remembered,  and  in 
which  he  has  most  deserved  it. 


SIMOND'S  SWITZERLAND. 


m 


fwitzcrland,  or  a  Journal  of  a  Tour  and  Residence  in  that  Country  in  'he  Years  1817,  1818. 
and  1819.  Followed  by  an  Historical  Sketch  of  the  Manners  and  Cx.stoms  of  Ancient  and 
Modern  Helvetia,  in  which  the  Events  of  our  own  time  are  fully  detailed ;  together  with  the 
Causes  to  which  they  may  be  referred.  By  L.  Simond,  Author  of  Journal  of  a  Tour  and  Resi- 
dence in  Great  Britain  during  tlie  Years  1810  and  1811.     In  2  vols.  8vo.     London  :   1822.* 


M.  Simond  is  already  well  known  in  this 
country  as  the  author  of  one  of  the  best  ac- 
counts of  it  that  has  ever  been  given  to  the 
world,  either  by  native  or  foreigner — the  full- 
est certainly,  and  the  most  unprejudiced — 
and  containing  the  most  faithful  descriptions 
both  of  the  aspect  of  our  country,  and  the  pe- 
culiarities of  our  manners  and  character,  that 
has  yet  come  under  our  observation.  There 
are  some  mistakes,  and  some  rash  judgments; 
but  nothing  can  exceed  the  candour  of  the 
estimate,  or  the  fairness  and  independence  of 
spirit  with  which  it  is  made  ',  while  the  whole 
is  pervaded  by  a  vein  of  original  thought, 
always  sagacious,  and  not  unfrequently  pro- 
found. The  main  fault  of  that  book,  as  a 
work  of  permanent  interest  and  instruction, 
which  it  might  otherwise  have  been,  is  the 
loo  great  space  which  is  alloted  to  the  tran- 
sient occurrences  and  discussions  of  the  time 
to  which  it  refers — most  of  which  have  already 
lost  their  interest,  and  not  only  read  like  old 
new^s  and  stale  politics,  but  have  extended 
their  own  atmosphere  of  repulsion  to  many 
admirable  remarks  and  valuable  suggestions, 
of  which  they  happen  to  be  the  vehicles. 

The  work  before  us  is  marked  by  the  same 
excellences,  and  is  nearly  free- from  the  faults 
to  which  we  have  just  alluded.  In  spite  of 
this,  however — perhaps  even  in  consequence 
Df  it — we  suspect  it  will  not  generally  be 
thought  so  entertaining ;  the  scene  being  nec- 
essarily so  much  narrower,  and  the  persons 
yf  the  drama  fewer  and  less  diversified.  The 
(\"ork,  however,  is  full  of  admirable  description 
ind  original  remark : — nor  do  we  know  any 
book  of  travels,  ancient  or  modern,  which 
«X)ntains,  in  the  same  compass,  so  many 
graphic  and  animated  delineations  of  exter- 
nal objects,  or  so  many  just  and  vigorous  ob- 
servations on  the  moral  phenomena  it  records. 
The  most  remarkable  thing  about  it.  however 
— and  it  occurs  equally  in  the  author's  former 
publication — is  the  singular  combination  of 
enthusiasm  and  austerity  that  appears  both  in 
the  descriptive,  and  the  reasoning  or  ethical 
parts  of  the  performance — the  perpetual  strug- 
gle that  seems  to  exist  between  the  feelings 
and  fancy  of  the  author,  and  the  sterner  in- 
timations of  his  understanding.     There  is, 

*  I  reprint  a  part  of  this  paper : — partly  out  of  love 
K>  the  memory  of  the  author,  who  was  my  connec- 
ion  and  particular  friend  : — but  chiefly  for  the  sake 
>f  his  remarks  on  our  English  manners,  and  my 
judgment  on  these  remarks — which  I  would  ven- 
,ure  to  submit  to  the  sensitive  patriots  of  America, 
ts  a  specimen  of  the  temperance  with  which  the  pa- 
Iriots  of  other  countries  can  deal  with  the  censors  of 
'heir  national  habits  and  pretensions  to  fine  breeding. 


accordingly,  in  all  his  moral  and  political  ob- 
servations at  least,  a  constant  alternation  of 
romantic  philanthropy  and  bitter  sarcasm — of 
the  most  captivating  views  of  apparent  hap- 
piness and  virtue,  and  the  most  relentless  dis- 
closures of  actual  guilt  and  misery — of  the 
sweetest  and  most  plausible  illusions,  and  the 
most  withering  and  chilling  truths.  He  ex- 
patiates, for  example,  through  many  pages, 
on  the  heroic  valour  and  devoted  patriotism 
of  the  old  Helvetic  worthies,  with  the  memo- 
rials of  which  the  face  of  their  country  is 
covered — and  then  proceeds  to  dissect  their 
character  and  manners  with  the  most  cruel 
particularity,  and  makes  them  out  to  have 
been  most  barbarous,  venal,  and  unjust.  In 
the  same  way,  he  bewitches  his  readers  with 
seducing  pictures  of  the  peace,  simplicity,  in 
dependence,  and  honesty  of  the  mountain 
villagers;  and  by  and  by  takes  occasion  to 
tell  us,  that  they  are  not  only  more  stupid, 
but  more  corrupt  than  the  inhabitants  of  cities. 
He  eulogises  the  solid  learning  and  domestic 
habits  that  prevail  at  Zurich  and  Geneva;  and 
then  makes  it  known  to  us  that  they  are  in- 
fested with  faction  and  ennui.  He  draws  a 
delightful  picture  of  the  white  cottages  and 
smiling  pastures  in  which  the  cheerful  peas- 
ants of  the  Engadine  have  their  romantic 
habitations — and  then  casts  us  down  from 
our  elevation  without  the  least  pity,  by  in- 
forming us,  that  the  best  of  ihem  are  those 
who  have  returned  from  hawking  stucco  par- 
rots, sixpenny  looking-glasses,  and  coloured 
sweetmeats  through  all  the  towns  of  Europe. 
He  is  always  strong  for  liberty,  and  indignant 
at  oppression — but  cannot,  settle^  very  well  in 
what  liberty  consists ;  and  seems  to  suspect, 
at  last,  that  political  rightsare  oftener  a  source 
of  disorder  than  of  comfort ;  and  that  if  per- 
son and  property  are  tolerably  secure,  it  is 
mere  qui.xotism  to  look  further. 

So  strong  a  contrast  of  warm  feelings  and 
cold  reasonings,  such  animating  and  such  de- 
spairing views  of  the  nature  and  destiny  of 
mankind,  are  not  often  to  be  found  in  the  samo 
mind — and  still  less  frequently  in  the  same 
book  :  And  yet  they  amount  but  to  an  extreme 
case,  or  strong  example,  of  the  inconsistencies 
through  which  all  men  of  generous  tempera 
and  vigorous  understandings  are  perpetually 
passing,  as  the  one  or  the  other  part  of  their 
constitution  assumes  the  ascendant.  There 
are  many  of  our  good  feelings,  we  suspect, 
and  some  even  of  our  good  principles,  thai 
rest  upon  a  sort  of  illusion ;  or  cannot  submil 
at  least  to  be  questioned  by  frigid  reason, 
without  being  for  the  time  a  good  deal  dis- 
countenanced and  imuaired — and  this  we  taiji 


7«€ 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


to  be  very  clearly  the  case  with  M.  Simond. 
His  temperament  is  plainly  enthusiastic,  and 
his  fancy  powerful :  But  his  reason  is  active 
and  exacting,  and  his  love  of  truth  paramount 
to  all  other  considerations.  His  natural  sym- 
pathies are  with  all  fine  and  all  lofty  qualities 
— but  it  is  his  honest  conviction,  that  happi- 
ness is  most  securely  built  of  more  vulgar 
materials — and  that  there  is  even  something 
ridiculous  in  investing  our  humble  human  na- 
ture with  these  magnificent  attributes.  At 
all  events  it  is  impossible  to  doubt  of  his  sin- 
cerity in  both  parts  of  the  representation ; — 
for  there  is  not  the  least  appearance  of  a  love 
of  paradox,  or  a  desire  to  produce  effect ;  and 
nothing  can  be  so  striking  as  the  air  of  candour 
and  impartiality  that  prevails  through  the 
whole  work.  It'  any  traces  of  prejudice  may 
still  be  detected,  they  have  manifestly  sur- 
vived the  most  strenuous  efforts  to  efface 
them.  The  strongest,  we  think,  are  against 
French  character  and  English  manners — with 
some,  perliaps,  against  the  French  Revolution, 
and  its  late  Imperial  consummator.  He  is 
very  prone  to  admire  Nature — but  not  easily 
satisfied  with  Man ; — and,  though  most  in- 
tolerant of  intolerance,  and  most  indulgent  to 
those  defects  of  which  adventitious  advantages 
make  men  most  impatient,  he  is  evidently  of 
opinion  that  scarcely  any  thing  is  exactly  as 
it  should  be  in  the  present  state  of  society — 
and  that  little  more  can  be  said  for  most 
existing  habits  and  institutions,  than  that 
they  have  been,  and  might  have  been,  still 
worse.  •• 

He  sets  out  for  the  most  picturesque  country 
of  Europe,  from  that  which  is  certainly  the 
least  so ; — and  gives  the  first  indications  of  his 
sensitiveness  on  these  topics,  by  a  passing 
critique  on  the  ancient  chateaus  of  France, 
and  their  former  inhabitants.  We  may  as 
well  introduce  him  to  our  readers  with  this 
passage  as  with  any  other. 

"  A  few  comfortable  residences,  scattered  about 
the  country,  have  lately  put  us  in  mind  how  very 
rare  they  are  in  general :  Instead  of  them,  you  meet, 
not  unfrequently,  some  ten  or  twenty  miserable 
hovels,  crowded  together  round  what  was  formerly 
the  stronghold  of  the  lord  of  the  manor;  a  narrow, 
dark,  prison-like  building,  with  small  grated  win- 
dows, embattled  walls,  and  turrets  peeping  over 
thatched  roofs.  The  lonely  cluster  seems  uncon- 
nected with  the  rest  of  the  country,  and  may  be  said 
to  represent  the  feudal  system,  as  plants  in  a  hortus 
siccus  do  the  vegetable.  Long  before  the  Revolu- 
tion, these  chateaux  had  been  mostly  forsaken  by 
their  seigTieurs,  for  the  nearest  country  town  ;  where 
Monsieur  le  Compie,  or  Monsieur  le  Marquis,  deco- 
rated with  the  cross  of  St.  Louis,  made  shift  to  live 
on  his  paltry  seigniorial  dues,  and  rents  ill  paid  by 
a  starving  peasantry  ;  spending  his  time  in  reminis- 
cences of  gallantry  with  the  old  dowagers  of  the 
place,  who  rouged"  and  wore  patches,  dressed  in 
hoops  and  high-heeled  shoes,  full  four  inches,  and 
long  pointed  elbow-ruffles,  balanced  with  lead.  Not 
one  individual  of  this  good  company  knew  any  thing 
of  what  was  passing  in  the  world,  or  suspected  that 
any  change  had  taken  place  since  the  days  of  Louis 
XIV,  No  book  found  its  way  there  ;  no  one  read, 
not  even  a  newspaper.  When  the  Revolution 
burst  upon  this  inferior  nobility  of  the  provinces,  it 
appeared  to  them  like  Atiila  and  the  Huns  to  the 
people  of  the  fifth  century — the  Scourge  of  God, 
rominij;  nobody  knew  whence,  for  the  mere  purpose 


of  destruction — a  savaj^e  enemy,  speaking  an  un 
known  language,  with  whom  no  compromise  coula 
be  made." 

The  first  view  of  the  country,  though  no 
longer  new  to  most  readers,  is  given  with  a 
truth,  and  a  freshness  of  feeling  which  we 
are  tempted  to  preserve  in  an  extract. 

"Soon  after  passing  the  frontiers  of  the  two 
countries,  the  view,  heretofore  bounded  by  near  ob- 
jects, woods  and  pastures,  rocks  and  snows,  opened 
all  at  once  upon  the  Canton  de  Vaud,  and  upon  half 
Switzerland  !  a  vast  extent  of  undulating  country, 
tufted  woods  and  fields,  and  silvery  streams  and 
lakes  ;  villages  and  towns,  with  their  antique  tow- 
ers, and  their  church-steeples  shining  in  the  sun. 

"  The  lake  of  Neuchatel,  far  below  on  the  left, 
and  those  of  Morat  and  of  Vienne,  like  mirrors  set 
in  deep  frames,  contrasted  by  the  tranquillity  of 
their  lucid  surfaces,  with  the  dark  shades  and  broken 
grounds  and  ridges  of  the  various  landscape.  Be- 
yond this  vast  extent  of  country,  its  villages  and 
towns,  woods,  lakes,  and  mountains ;  beyond  all 
terrestrial  objects — beyond  the  horizon  itself,  rose  a 
long  range  of  aerial  forms,  of  the  softest  pale  pink 
hue:  These  were  the  high  Alps,  the  rampart  of 
Italy — from  Mont  Blanc  in  Savoy,  to  the  glaciers 
of  the  Overland,  and  even  further.  Their  angle 
of  elevation  seen  from  this  distance  is  very  small 
indeed.  Faithfully  represented  in  a  drawing,  the 
effect  would  be  insignificant ;  but  the  aerial  per- 
spective amply  restored  the  proportions  lost  in  the 
mathematical  perspective. 

"  The  human  mind  thirsts  after  immensity  and 
immutability,  and  duration  without  bounds;  but  it 
needs  some  tangible  object  from  which  to  take  its 
flight, — something  present  to  lead  to  futurity,  some- 
thing bounded  from  whence  to  rise  to  the  infinite. 
This  vault  of  the  heavens  over  our  head,  sinking 
all  terrestrial  objects  into  absolute  nothingness, 
might  seem  best  fitted  to  awaken  this  sense  of  ex- 
pansion in  the  mind  :  But  mere  space  is  not  a  per- 
ceptible object  to  which  we  can  readily  apply  a 
scale,  while  the  Alps,  seen  at  a  glance  between 
heaven  and  earth — met  as  it  were  on  the  confines 
of  the  regions  of  fancy  and  of  sober  reality,  are 
there  Hke  written  characters,  traced  by  a  divine 
hand,  and  suggesting  thoughts  such  as  human  lan- 
guage never  reached. 

"  Coming  down  the  Jura,  a  long  descent  brought 
us  to  what  appeared  a  plain,  but  which  proved  a 
varied  country  with  hills  and  dales,  divided  into  neat 
enclosures  of  hawthorn  in  full  bloom,  and  large 
hedge-row  trees,  mostly  walnut,  oak,  and  ash.  It 
had  altogether  very  much  the  appearance  of  the 
most  beautiful  parts  of  England,  although  the  en- 
closures were  on  a  smaller  scale,  and  the  cottages 
less  neat  and  ornamented.  They  differed  entirely 
from  France,  where  the  dwellings  are  always  col- 
lected in  villages,  the  fields  all  open,  and  without 
trees.  Numerous  streams  of  the  clearest  water 
crossed  the  road,  and  watered  very  fine  meadows. 
The  houses,  built  of  stone,  low,  broad,  and  massy, 
either  thatched  or  covered  with  heavy  wooden  shin- 
gles, and  shaded  with  magnificent  walnut  trees, 
might  all  have  furnished  studies  to  an  artist." 

Vol.  i.  pp.  25—27. 

The  following,  however,  is  more  character- 
istic of  the  author's  vigorous  and  familiar,  but 
somewhat  quaint  and  abrupt,  style  of  de- 
scription. 

"  Leaving  our  equipages  at  Ballaigne,  we  pro- 
ceeded to  the  falls  of  the  Orbe,  through  a  hanging 
wood  of  fine  old  oaks,  and  came,  after  a  long  de- 
scent, to  a  place  where  the  Orbe  breaks  through  a 
great  mass  of  ruins,  which,  at  some  very  remote 
period,  have  fallen  from  the  mountain,  uwi  entirely 
obstructed  its  channel.  All  the  earth,  and  all  the 
smaller  fragments,  having  long  since  disappoared 
and  the  water  now  works  its  way,  with  ?rreat  noia» 


SIMOND'S  SWITZEliLAND. 


727 


and  fury,  among  the  larger  fragments,  and  falls 
above  the  height  of  eighty  feet,  in  the  very  best 
Btyle.  The  blocks,  many  of  them  as  large  as  a 
good-sized  three-story  house,  are  heaped  up  most 
strangely,  jammed  in  by  their  angles — in  equilibrium 
on  a  point,  or  forming  perilous  bridges,  over  which 
you  may,  with  proper  precaution,  pick  your  way 
to  the  other  side.  The  quarry  from  which  the  ma- 
terials of  the  bridge  came  is  just  above  your  head, 
and  the  miners  are  still  at  work — air,  water,  frost, 
weight,  and  time  !  The  strata  of  limestone  are 
evidently  breaking  down ;  their  deep  rents  are 
widening,  and  enormous  masses,  already  loosened 
from  the  mountain,  and  suspended  on  their  preca- 
rious bayes,  seem  only  wailing  for  the  last  effort  of 
the  great  lever  of  nature  to  take  the  horrid  leap, 
and  bury  under  some  hundred  feel  of  new  chaotic 
ruins,  the  trees,  the  vei'dant  lawn — and  yourself, 
who  are  looking  on  and  foretelling  the  catastrophe  ! 
We  left  this  scene  at  last  reluctantly,  and  proceed- 
ed towards  the  deiit-de-vaulion,  at  the  base  of  which 
we  arrived  in  two  hours,  and  in  two  hours  more 
reached  the  summit,  which  is  four  thousand  four 
hundred  and  seventy-six  feet  above  the  sea,  and 
three  thousand  three  hundred  and  forty-two  feet 
above  the  lake  of  Geneva.  Our  path  lay  over 
smooth  turf,  sufficiently  steep  to  make  it  difficult 
to  climb.  At  the  top  we  found  a  narrow  ridge,  not 
more  than  one  hundred  yards  wide.  The  south 
view,  a  most  magnificent  one,  was  unfortunately 
too  like  that  at  our  entrance  into  Switzerland  to 
bear  a  second  description ;  the  other  side  of  the 
ridge  can  scarcely  be  approached  without  terror, 
being  almost  perpendicular.  Crawling,  therefore, 
on  our  hands  and  knees,  we  ventured,  in  this  modest 
attitude,  to  look  out  of  the  window  at  the  hundred 
and  fiftieth  story  (at  least  two  thousand  feet),  and 
see  what  was  doing  in  the  street.  Herds  of  cattle 
in  ihe  injiniment  petit  were  grazing  on  the  verdant 
lawn  of  a  narrow  vale  ;  on  the  other  side  of  which, 
a  mountain,  overgrown  with  dark  pines,  marked  the 
boundary  of  France.  Towards  the  west,  we  saw 
a  piece  of  water,  which  appeared  like  a  mere  fish- 
pond. It  was  the  lake  of  Joux,  two  leagues  in 
length,  and  half  a  league  in  breadth.  We  were  to 
look  for  our  niirht's  lodgings  in  the  village  on  its 
banks."— Vol.1,  pp.  33—36. 

"  Bienne  struck  us  as  more  Swiss  than  any  thing 
we  had  yet  seen,  or  rather  as  if  we  were  entering 
Switzerland  for  the  first  time  ;  every  thing  looked 
and  sounded  so  foreign  :  And  yet  to  see  the  curiosity 
we  excited  the  moment  we  landed  and  entered  the 
streets,  we  might  have  supposed  it  was  ourselves 
who  looked  rather  outlandish.  The  women  wore 
their  hair  plaited  down  to  their  heels,  while  the  full 
petticoat  did  not  descend  near  so  far.  Several 
groups  of  them,  sitting  at  their  doors,  sung  in  parts, 
with  an  accuracy  of  ear  and  taste  innate  among  the 
Germans.  Gateways  fortified  with  towers  inter- 
sect the  streets,  which  are  composed  of  strange- 
looking  houses  built  on  arcades,  hke  those  of 
bridges,  and  variously  painted,  blue  with  yellow 
borders,  red  with  white,  or  purple  and  grey  ;  pro- 
jecting iron  balconies,  highly  worked  and  of  a 
glossy  black,  with  bright  green  window  frames. 
The  luxury  of  fountains  and  of  running  water  is 
still  greater  here  than  at  Neuchatel ;  and  you  might 
be  tempted  to  quench  your  thirst  in  the  kennel,  it 
runs  so  clear  and  pure.  Morning  and  evening, 
goats,  in  immense  droves,  conducted  to  or  from  the 
mountain,  traverse  the  streets,  and  stop  of  them- 
selves, each  at  its  own  door.  In  theinterior  of  the 
houses,  most  articles  of  furniture  are  quaintly  shaped 
and  ornamented  ;  old-looking,  but  rubbed  bright, 
and  in  good  preservation  ;  Irom  the  nut-cracker, 
curiously  carved,  to  the  double-necked  cruet,  pour- 
ing oil  and  vinegar  out  of  the  same  bottle.  The 
accommodations  at  the  inn  are  homely,  but  not  un- 
comlortable  ;  substantially  good,  though  not  ele- 
gant.-— Vol.  i.  pp.  65,  66. 

We  may  add  the  followirg,  which  is  in  the 
«ame  style. 


"  It  rained  all  day  yesterday,  and  we  remained 
shijt  up  in  our  room  at  a  German  inn  in  Waldshut, 
enjoying  a  day's  rest  with  our  books,  and  observing 
men  and  manners  in  Germany,  through  the  small 
round  panes  of  our  casements.  The  projecting 
roofs  of  houses  afford  so  much  shelter  on  both  sides 
of  the  streets,  that  the  beau  sex  of  Waldshut  were 
out  all  day  long  in  their  Sunday  clothes,  as  if  it  had 
been  fine  weather;  their  long  yellow  hair  in  a  sin- 
gle plait  hung  down  to  their  heels,  along  a  back 
made  very  strait  by  the  habit  of  carrying  pails  of 
milk  and  water  on  the  head  ;  their  snow-white  shift- 
sleeves,  rolled  up  to  the  shoulder,  exposed  to  view 
a  sinewy,  sun-burnt  arm  ;  the  dark  red  stays  were 
laced  with  black  in  front,  and  a  petticoat  scarcely 
longer  than  the  Scotch  kilt,  hid  nothing  of  the  lower 
limb,  nor  of  a  perfectly  neat  stocking,  well  stretched 
by  red  garters  full  in  sight.  The  aged  aniong  them, 
generally  frightful,  looked  like  withered  little  old 
men  in  disguise." — Vol.  i.  pp.  87,  88. 

Of  all  the  Swiss  cities,  he  seems  to  have 
been  most  struck  with  Berne ;  and  the  im- 
pression made  by  its  majestic  exterior,  has 
even  made  him  a  Httle  too  partial,  we  think, 
to  its  aristocratic  constitution.  His  description 
of  its  appearance  is  given  with  equal  spirit 
and  precision. 

"  These  fine  woods  extend  almost  to  the  very 
gates  of  Berne,  where  you  arrive  under  an  avenue 
of  limes,  which,  in  this  season,  perfume  the  air. 
There  are  seats  by  the  side  of  the  road,  for  the  con- 
venience of  foot-passengers,  especially  women  going 
to  market,  with  a  shelf  above,  at  the  height  of  a 
person  standing,  for  the  purpose  of  receiving  their 
baskets  while  they  rest  themselves  on  the  bench : 
you  meet  also  with  fountains  at  regular  distances. 
The  whole  country  has  the  appearance  of  English 
pleasure-grounds.  The  town  itself  stands  on  the 
elevated  banks  of  a  rapid  river,  the  Aar,  to  which 
the  Rhine  is  indebted  for  one  half  of  its  waters.  A 
sudden  bend  of  the  stream  encloses,  on  all  sides 
but  one,  the  promontory  on  which  the  town  is 
built ;  the  magnificent  slope  is  in  some  places  cover- 
ed with  turf,  supported  in  others  by  lofty  terraces 
planted  with  trees,  and  commanding  wonderful 
views  over  the  surrounding  rich  country,  and  the 
high  Alps  beyond  it. 

"  It  is  not  an  easy  matter  to  account  for  the  first 
impression  you  receive  upon  entering  Berne.  You 
certainly  feel  that  you  have  got  to  an  ancient  and  a 
great  city  :  Yet,  before  the  eleventh  century,  it  had 
not  a  name,  and  its  present  population  does  not  ex 
ceed  twelve  thousand  souls.  It  is  a  republic ;  ye 
it  looks  kingly.  Something  of  Roman  majesty  ap 
pears  in  its  lofty  terraces  ;  in  those  massy  arche? 
on  each  side  of  the  streets;  in  the  abundance  of 
water  flowing  night  and  day  into  gigantic  basins  • 
in  the  magnificent  avenues  of  trees.  The  very 
silence,  and  absence  of  bustle,  a  certain  stateliness 
and  reserved  demeanour  in  the  inhabitants,  by 
showing  it  to  be  not  a  money-making  town,  implies 
that  its  wealth  springs  from  more  solid  and  per- 
manent sources  than  trade  can  afford,  and  that 
another  spirit  animates  its  inhabitants.  In  short, 
of  all  .:ie  first-sight  impressions  and  guesses  about 
Berne,  that  of  its  being  a  Roman  town  would  be 
nearer  right  than  any  other.  Circumstances,  in 
some  respects  similar,  have  produced  like  results 
in  the  Alps,  and  on  the  plains  of  Latium,  at  the  in- 
terval of  twenty  centuries.  Luxury  at  Berne  seems 
wholly  directed  to  objects  of  public  utility.  By  the 
side  of  those  gigantic  terraces,  of  those  fine  foun- 
tains, and  noble  shades,  you  see  none  but  simple 
and  solid  dwellings,  yet  scarcely  any  beggarly 
ones;  not  an  equipage  to  be  seen,  but  many  a 
country  wagon,  coming  to  market,  with  a  capital 
team  of  horses,  or  oxen,  well  appointed  every  way. 

"  Aristocratic  pride  is  said  to  be  excessive  a( 
Berne  ;  and  the  antique  simplicity  of  its  magistrates, 
the  plain  and  easy  manners  they  uniformly  pre 


728 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


serve  in  their  intercourse  with  ihe  people,  are  not 
by  any  means  at  variance  with  the  assertion  ;  for 
that  external  simpliciiy  and  affability  to  inferiors  is 
one  of  the  characteristics  of  the  aristocratic  govern- 
ment ;  all  assumption  of  superiority  being  carefully 
avoided  when  real  authority  is  not  in  question. 
Zurich  suggests  the  idea  of  a  municipal  aristocracy  ; 
Berne  of  a  warlike  one  :  there,  we  think  we  see 
citizens  of  a  town  transformed  into  nobility;  here 
nobles  who  have  made  themselves  citizens." 

Vol.  i.  pp.  213—217.* 

But  we  must  now  hasten  from  the  Physical 
wonders  of  this  country  to  some  of  the  author's 
Moral  observations ;  and  we  are  tempted  to 
give  the  first  place  to  his  unsparing  but  dis- 
passionate remarks  on  the  character  of  modern 
English  travellers.     At  Geneva,  he  observes, 

"English  travellers  swarm  here,  as  everywhere 
else  ;  but  they  do  not  mix  with  the  society  of  the 
coun:ry  more  than  they  do  elsewhere,  and  seem  to 
like  it  even  less.  The  people  of  Geneva,  on  the 
other  hand,  say ,  '  Their  former  friends,  the  English, 
are  so  changed  they  scarcely  know  them  again. 
They  used  to  be  a  plain  downright  race,  in  whom  a 
certain  degree  of  sauvagerie  (oddity  and  shyness) 
only  served  to  set  off  the  advantages  of  a  highly 
cultivated  understanding,  of  a  liberal  mind,  and 
generous  temper,  which  characterised  them  in  gen- 
eral. Their  young  men  were  often  rather  wild,  but 
soon  reformed,  and  became  like  their  fathers.  In- 
stead of  this,  we  now  see  (they  say)  a  mixed  assem- 
blage, of  whom  lamentably  few  possess  any  of  those 
quaUties  we  were  wont  to  admire  in  their  predeces- 
sors. Their  former  shyness  and  reserve  is  changed 
to  disdain  and  rudeness.  If  you  seek  these  modern 
English,  they  keep  aloof,  do  not  mix  in  conversa- 
tion, and  seem  to  laugh  at  you.  Their  conduct, 
still  more  strange  and  unaccountable  in  regard  to 
each  other,  is  indicative  of  contempt  or  suspicion. 
Studiously  avoiding  to  exchange  a  word  with  their 
countrymen,  one  would  suppose  they  expected  to 
find  a  sharper  in  every  individual  of  their  own  na- 
tion, not  particularly  introduced, — or  at  best  a  per- 
son beneath  them.  Accordingly  you  cannot  vex  or 
displease  them  more  than  by  inviting  other  English 
travellers  to  meet  them,  whom  they  may  be  com- 
pelled afterwards  to  acknowledge.  If  they  do  not 
find  a  crowd,  they  are  tired.  If  you  speak  of  the 
old  English  you  formerly  knew,  that  was  before  the 
Flood  !  If  you  talk  of  books,  it  is  pedantry,  and 
•hey  yawn  ;  of  politics,  they  run  wild  about  Bona- 
parte !  Dancing  is  the  only  thing  which  is'  sure  to 
please  them.  At  the  sound  of  the  fiddle,  the  think- 
ing nation  starts  up  at  once.  Their  young  people 
are  adepts  in  the  art ;  and  take  pains  to  become  so, 
spending  half  their  time  with  the  dancing  master 
X  ou  may  know  the  houses  where  they  live  by  the 
scraping  of  the  fiddle,  and  shaking  of  the  floor, 
which  disturbs  their  neighbours.  Few  bring  letters ; 
and  yet  they  complain  they  are  neglected  by  the 

ffood  company,  and  cheated  by  innkeepers.  The 
after,  accustomed  to  the  Milords  Anglais  of  former 
times,  or  at  least  having  heard  of  them,  think  they 
may  charge  accordingly  ;  but  only  find  des  Anglais 
pour  rire,  who  bargain  at  the  door,  before  they  ven- 
ture to  come  in,  for  the  leg  of  mutton  and  bottle  of 
wine,  on  which  they  mean  to  dine  !' 

"  Placed  as  1  am  between  the  two  parties,  I  hear 
oung  Englishmen  repeat,  what  they  have  heard  in 
'ranee,  that  the  Genevans  are  cold,  selfish,  and  in- 
terested, and  their  women  des  precieuses  ridicules, 
the  very  milliners  and  mantua-makers  giving  them- 
selves airs  of  modesty  and  deep  reading  !  that  there 
is  no  opera,  nor  theatre  des  varietes;  in  short,  that 
Geneva  is  the  dullest  place  in  the  world.  Some 
my  it  is  but  a  bad  copy  of  England,  a  sham  republic  ; 
und  a  scientific,  no  less  than  a  political,  counterfeit. 


*    Many  travelling   details,   and  particular  de- 
tcriDtions,  are  here  omitted. 


¥ 


In  short,  the  friends  of  Geneva,  amo.^g  oir  modem 
English  travellers,  are  not  njmerous — though  they 
are  select.  These  last  distinguished  themselves 
during  the  late  hard  winter  by  their  bounty  to  the 
poor — not  the  poor  of  Geneva,  who  were  sufficiently 
assisted  by  their  richer  countrymen,  but  those  of 
Savoy,  who  were  literally  starving.  If  English 
travellers  no  longer  appear  in  the  same  light  as  for* 
merly,  it  is  because  it  is  not  the  same  class  of  peo. 
pie  who  go  abroad,  but  all  classes, — and  not  the  best 
of  all  classes,  either.  They  know  this  too,  and  say 
it  themselves ;  they  feel  the  ridicule  of  their  enor- 
mous numbers,  and  of  the  absurd  conduct  of  many 
of  them.  They  are  ashamed  and  provoked  ;  describe 
it  with  the  most  pointed  irony,  and  tell  many  a  hu- 
morous story  against  themselves.  Formerly,  the 
travelling  class  was  composed  of  young  men  of 
good  family  and  fortune,  just  coming  of  age,  who, 
after  leaving  the  University,  went  the  tour  of  the 
Continent  under  the  guidance  of  a  learned  tutor, 
often  a  very  distinguished  man,  or  of  men  of  the 
same  class,  at  a  more  advanced  age,  with  their 
families,  who,  after  many  years  spent  in  professional 
duties  at  home,  came  to  visit  again  the  countries 
they  had  seen  in  their  youth,  and  the  friends  they 
had  known  there.  In  those  better  times,  when  no 
Englishman  left  his  country  either  to  seek  his  for- 
tune, to  save  money,  or  to  hide  himself;  when 
travellers  of  that  nation  were  all  very  rich  or  very 
learned  ;  of  high  birth,  yet  liberal  principles ;  un 
bounded  in  their  generosity,  and  with  means  equal 
to  the  inclination,  their  high  standing  in  the  world 
might  well  be  accounted  for;  and  it  is  a  great  pity 
they  should  have  lost  it.  Were  I  an  Englishman, 
I  would  not  set  out  on  my  travels  until  the  new 
fashion  were  over." — Vol.  i.  pp.  356 — 359. 

At  SchaffhauseUj  again,  he  observes, 

"There  were  other  admirers  here  besides  our- 
selves ;  some  English,  and  more  Germans,  who 
furnished  us  with  an  opportunity  of  comparing  the 
difference  of  national  manners.  The  former,  divided 
into  groups,  carefully  avoiding  any  communication 
with  each  other  still  more  than  with  the  foreigners, 
never  exchanged  a  word,  and  scarcely  a  look,  with 
any  but  the  legitimate-interlocutors  of  their  own  set ; 
women  adhering  more  particularly  to  the  rule — from 
native  reserve  and  timidity,  full  as  much  as  from 
pride  or  from  extreme  good  breeding.  Some  of  the 
ladies  here  might  be  Scotch  ;  at  least  they  wore  the 
national  colours,  and  we  overheard  them  drawing 
comparisons  between  what  we  had  under  our  eyea 
and  Coralyn  ;  giving  justly  enough,  the  preference 
to  the  Clyde  ;  but,  at  any  rate,  they  behaved  a 
V  An  gluts  e.  The  German  ladies,  on  the  contrary, 
contrived  to  Her  conversation  in  indiflTerent  French. 
With  genuine  simplicity,  wholly  unconscious  of  for- 
wardness, although  it  might  undoubtedly  have  been 
so  qualified  in  England,  they  begged  of  my  friend 
to  let  them  hear  a  few  words  in  English,  just  to 
know  the  sound,  to  which  they  were  strangers.  If 
we  are  to  judge  of  the  respective  merits  of  these 
opposite  manners,  by  the  impression  they  leave,  I 
think  the  question  is  already  decided  by  the  English 
against  themselves.  Yet,  at  the  same  time  that  they 
blame  and  deride  their  own  proud  reserve,  and 
would  depart  from  it  if  they  well  knew  how,  but  a 
few  have  the  courage  to  venture  : — and  I  really  be- 
lieve they  are  the  best  bred,  who  thus  allow  them- 
selves to  be  good-humoured  and  vulgar." 

Vol.  i.  pp.  94,  95. 

We  have  not  much  to  say  in  defence  of 
our  countrymen — but  what  maybe  said  truly, 
ought  not  to  be  suppressed.  That  our  travel- 
lers are  now  generally  of  a  lower  rank  than 
formerly,  and  that  not  very  many  of  them  are 
fitted,  either  by  their  wealth  or  breeding,  to 
uphold  the  character  of  the  nob'e  and  honour- 
able persons  who  once  almost  monopolised 
the  advantages  of  foreign  travel,  is  of  coursie 


SIMOND'S  SWITZERLAND. 


729 


implied  in  the  fact  of  their  having  become 
vastly  more  numerous, —  without  supposing 
any  actual  degeneracy  in  the  nation  itself. 
At  a  very  popular  point  of  M.  Simond's  jour- 
ney, it  appeared  from  a  register  which  he 
consulted,  that  the  proportion  of  travellers 
from  different  countries,  was  twenty-eight 
English  to  four  Prussians,  two  Dutch,  five 
French,  one  Italian,  and  three  Americans. — 
That  some  of  this  great  crowd  of  emigrants 
might  not  be  suitable  associates  for  some 
others,  may  easily  be  conjectured — and  that 
the  better  sort  may  not.  have  been  very  wil- 
ling to  fraternise  with  those  who  did  least 
honour  to  their  common  country,  could  scarce- 
ly be  imputed  to  them  as  a  fault.  But  these 
considerations,  we  fear,  will  go  but  a  little  way 
to  explain  the  phenomenon ;  or  to  account  for 
the  "  Morgue  Aristocratique,"  as  Bonaparte 
called  it,  of  the  English  gentry — the  sort  of 
sulky  and  contemptuous  reserve  with  which, 
both  at  home  and  abroad,  almost  all  who  have 
any  pretensions  to  bon  ton  seem  to  think  it 
necessary  to  defend  those  pretensions.  The 
thing  has  undoubtedly  been  carried,  of  late 
years,  to  an  excess  that  is  both  ludicrous  and 
offensive — and  is,  in  its  own  nature,  unques- 
tionably a  blemish  and  a  misfortune :  But  it 
does  not  arise,  we  are  persuaded,  from  any 
thing  intrinsically  haughty  or  dull  in  our  tem- 
perament— but  is  a  natural  consequence,  and, 
it  must  be  admitted,  a  considerable  drawback 
from  two  very  proud  peculiarities  in  our  con- 
dition— the  freedom  of  our  constitution,  and 
the  rapid  progress  of  wealth  and  intelligence 
in  the  body  of  the  nation. 

In  most  of  the  other  countries  of  Europe, 
if  a  man  was  not  born  in  high  and  polished 
society,  he  had  scarcely  any  other  means  of 
gaining  admission  to  it — and  honour  and  dig- 
nity, it  was  supposed,  belonged,  by  inheri- 
tance, to  a  very  limited  class  of  the  people. 
Within  that  circle,  therefore,  there  could  be  no 
derogation — and,  from  without  it,  there  could 
be  no  intrusion.  But,  in  this  country,  persons 
of  every  condition  have  been  long  entitled  to 
aspire  to  every  situation — and,  from  the  nature 
of  our  political  constitution,  any  one  who  had 
individual  influence,  by  talent,  wealth,  or  ac- 
tivity, became  at  once  of  consequence  in  the 
community,  and  was  classed  as  the  open  rival 
or  necessary  auxiliary  of  those  who  had  the 
strongest  hereditary  claims  to  importance. 
But  though  the  circle  of  Society  was  in  this 
way  at  all  times  larger  than  in  the  Conti- 
nental nations,  and  embraced  more  persons 
of  dissimilar  training  and  habits,  it  does  not 
appear  to  have  given  a  tone  of  repulsion  to 
the  manners  of  those  who  affected  the  supe- 
riority, till  a  period  comparatively  remote. 
In  the  days  of  the  Tudors  and  Stuarts  there 
was  a  wide  pale  of  separation  between  the 
landed  Aristocracy  and  the  rest  of  the  popu- 
lation; and  accordingly,  down  at  least  to  the 
end  of  Charles  the  Second's  reign,  there 
seems  to  have  been  none  of  this  dull  and 
frozen  arrogance  in  the  habits  of  good  com- 
pany. The  true  reason  of  this,  however,  was, 
that  though  the  competition  was  constitution- 
ally open,  good  education  was,  in  fact,  till 


after  this  period,  ccnfined  to  thfc  children  of 
the  gentry  ;  and  a  certain  parade  m  equipage 
and  dress,  which  could  not  be  easily  assumed 
but  by  the  opulent,  nor  naturally  carried  but 
by  those  who  had  been  long  accustomed  to 
it,  threw  additional  difficulties  in  the  way 
of  those  who  wished  to  push  themselves  for- 
ward in  society,  and  rendered  any  other  bul- 
warks unnecessary  for  the  protection  of  the 
sanctuary  of  fashion. 

From  the  time  of  Sir  Robert  Walpole,  how- 
ever, the  communication  between  the  higher 
and  the  lower  orders  became  far  more  open 
and  easy.  Commercial  wealth  and  enterprise 
were  prodigiously  extended  —  literature  and 
intelligence  spread  with  unprecedented  ra- 
pidity among  the  body  of  the  people  ',  and 
the  increased  intercourse  between  the  differ- 
ent parts  of  the  country,  naturally  produced 
a  greater  mixture  of  the  different  classes  of 
the  people.  This  was  followed  by  a  general 
relaxation  in  those  costly  external  observances, 
by  which  persons  of  condition  had  till  then 
been  distinguished.  Ladies  laid  aside  their 
hoops,  trains,  and  elaborate  head-dresses ;  and 
gentlemen  their  swords,  periwigs,  and  em- 
broidery ; — and  at  the  same  time  that  it  thus 
became  quite  practicable  for  an  attorney's 
clerk  or  a  mercer's  apprentice  to  assume  the 
exterior  of  a  nobleman,  it  happened  also,  both 
that  many  persons  of  that  condition  had  the 
education  that  fitted  them  for  a  higher  rank — 
and  that  several  had  actually  won  their  way 
to  it  by  talents  and  activity,  which  had  not 
formerly  been  looked  for  in  that  quarter. — 
Their  success  was  well  merited  undoubtedly, 
and  honourable  both  to  themselves  and  their 
country ;  but  its  occasional  occurrence,  even 
more  than  the  discontinuance  of  aristocratical 
forms  or  the  popular  spirit  of  the  Government, 
tended  strongly  to  encourage  the  pretensions 
of  others,  who  had  little  qualification  for  suc- 
cess, beyond  an  eager  desire  to  obtain  it. — 
So  many  persons  now  raised  themselves  by 
their  own  exertions,  that  every  one  thought 
himself  entitled  to  rise ;  and  very  few  pro- 
portionally were  contented  to  remain  in  the 
rank  to  which  they  were  born  ;  and  as  vanity 
is  a  still  more  active  principle  than  ambition, 
the  effects  of  this  aspiring  spirit  were  more 
conspicuously  seen  in  the  invasion  which  it 
prompted  on  the  prerogatives  of  polite  society, 
than  in  its  more  serious  occupations ;  and  a 
herd  of  uncomfortable  and  unsuitable  com- 
panions beset  all  the  approaches  to  go<^d  com- 
pany, and  seemed  determined  to  force  all  its 
barriers. 

We  think  we  have  now  stated  the  true 
causes  of  this  phenomenon — but,  at  all  events, 
the  fact  we  believe  to  be  incontrovertible,  that 
within  the  last  fifty  years  there  has  been  an 
incredible  increase  of  forwardness  and  solid 
impudence  among  the  half-bred  and  half- 
educated  classes  of  this  country  —  and  that 
there  was  consequently  some  apology  for  the 
assumption  of  more  distant  and  forbidding 
manners  towards  strangers,  on  the  part  o, 
those  who  were  already  satisfied  with  the  ex- 
tent of  their  society.  It  was  evidently  easiei 
and  more  prudent  to  reject  the  overtures  of 


730 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


unknown  acquaintances,  than  to  shake  them 
off  after  they  had  been  once  allowed  to  fasten 
themselves — to  repress,  in  short,  the  first  at- 
tempts at  familiarity,  and  repel,  by  a  chilling 
and  somewhat  disdainful  air,  the  advances  of 
all,  of  whom  it  might  any  way  be  suspected 
that  they  might  turn  out  discreditable  or  un» 
fit  associates. 

This,  we  have  no  doubt,  is  the  true  history 
of  that  awful  tone,  of  gloomy  indifference 
and  stupid  arrogance,  which  has  unfortunately 
become  so  striking  a  characteristic  of  English 
manners.  At  its  best,  and  when  most  justified 
by  the  circumstance  of  the  parties,  it  has,  we 
must  allow,  but  an  ungracious  and  disoblig- 
ing air :  But  the  extravagant  height  to  which 
it  is  now  frequently  carried,  and  the  extraor- 
dinary occasions  on  which  it  is  sometimes  dis- 
played, deserve  all  the  ridicule  and  reproba- 
tion they  meet  with.  We  should  not  quarrel 
much  with  a  man  of  family  and  breeding 
being  a  little  distant  and  cold  to  the  many 
very  affable  people  he  may  meet  with,  either 
in  his  travels,  or  in  places  of  public  resort  at 
home.  But  the  provoking  thing  is,  to  see  the 
same  frigid  and  unsociable  manner  adopted 
in  private  society,  and  towards  persons  of  the 
highest  character,  if  they  happen  not  to  be- 
long to  the  same  set,  or  to  be  occupied  with 
the  same  pursuits  with  those  fastidious  mor- 
tals— who,  while  their  dignity  forbids  them  to 
be  affable  to  men  of  another  club,  or  women 
of  another  assembly,  yet  admit  to  the  fami- 
liarity of  their  most  private  hours,  a  whole 
gang  of  led  captains,  or  led  parsons,  fiddlers, 
boxers,  or  parasitical  buffoons.  But  the  most 
remarkable  extravagance  in  the  modern  prac- 
tice of  this  repulsive  system,  is,  that  the  most 
outrageous  examples  of  it  are  to  be  met  with 
among  those  who  have  the  least  occasion  for 
its  protection, — persons  whose  society  nobody 
would  think  of  courting,  and  who  yet  receive 
the  slightest  and  most  ordinary  civilities, — 
being  all  that  the  most  courteous  would  ever 
dream  of  offering  them, — with  airs  of  as 
vehement  disdain  as  if  they  were  really  in 
danger  of  having  their  intimacy  taken  by 
storm  !  Such  manners,  in  such  people,  are 
no  doubt  in  the  very  extreme  of  absurdity. — 
But  it  is  the  mischief  of  all  cheap  fashions, 
that  they  are  immediately  pirated  by  the  vul- 
gar; and  certainly  there  is  none  that  can  be 
assumed  with  so  little  cost,  either  of  industry 
or  understanding  as  this.  As  the  whole  of  it 
consists  in  being  silent,  stupid,  and  sulky,  it 
is  quite  level  to  the  meanest  capacity — and, 
we  have  no  doubt,  has  enabled  many  to  pass 
for  persons  of  some  consideration,  who  could 
never  have  done  so  on  any  other  terms ;  or 
has  permitted  them  at  least  to  think  that  they 
were  shunning  the  society  of  many  by  whom 
they  would  certainly  have  been  shunned. 

We  trust,  therefore,  that  this  fashion  of 
mock  stateliness  and  sullen  reserve  will  soon 
pass  away.  The  extreme  facility  with  which 
it  maybe  copied  by  the  lowest  and  dullest  of 
mankind, — the  caricatures  which  are  daily 
exhibited  of  it  in  every  disgusting  variety, — 
:ind  the  restraints  it  must  impose  upon  the 
^ood  nature  and  sociality  which,  after  all,  do 


really  form  a  part  of  c;ur  national  character, 
must  concur,  we  think,  with  the  alienation  il 
produces  in  others,  speedily  to  consign  it  to 
the  tomb  of  other  forgotten  affectations.  The 
duties  that  we  owe  to  strangers  that  come 
casually  into  our  society,  certainly  are  not 
very  weighty — and  a  man  is  no  doubt  entitled 
to  consult  his  own  ease,  and  even  his  indo- 
lence, at  the  hazard  of  being  unpopular  among 
such  persons.  But,  after  all,  affability  and 
complaisance  are  still  a  kind  of  duties,  in  their 
degree;  and  of  all  duties,  we  should  really 
think  are  those  that  are  repaid,  not  only  with 
the  largest  share  of  gratitude,  but  with  the 
greatest  internal  satisfaction.  All  we  ask  is, 
that  they,  and  the  pleasure  which  naturally 
accompanies  their  exercise,  should  not  be  sa- 
crificed to  a  vain  notion  of  dignity,  which  the 
person  assuming  it  knows  all  the  while  to  be 
false  and  hollow — or  to  a  still  vainer  assump- 
tion of  fashion,  which  does  not  impose  upon 
one  in  a  thousand ;  and  subjects  its  unhappy 
victim  to  the  ridicule  of  his  very  competitors 
in  the  practice.  All  studied  manners  are  as- 
sumed, of  course,  for  the  sake  of  the  effect 
they  are  to  produce  on  the  beholders :  And  if 
a  man  have  a  particularly  favourable  opinion 
of  the  wisdom  and  dignity  of  his  physiogno- 
my, and,  at  the  same  time,  a  perfect  con- 
sciousness of  the  folly  and  vulgarity  of  his 
discourse,  there  is  no  denying  that  such  a 
man,  when  he  is  fortunate  enough  to  be  where 
he  is  not  known,  will  do  well  to  keep  his  own 
secret,  and  sit  as  silent,  and  look  as  repulsive 
among  strangers  as  possible.  But,  under  any 
other  circumstances,  we  really  cannot  admit 
it  to  be  a  reasonable,  any  more  than  an  amia- 
ble demeanour.  To  return,  however,  to  M. 
Sim  on  d. 

If  he  is  somewhat  severe  upon  our  national 
character,  it  must  be  confessed  that  he  deals 
still  harder  measure  to  his  own  countrymen. 
There  is  one  passage  in  which  he  distinctly 
states  that  no  man  in  France  now  pretends  to 
any  principle,  either  personal  or  political. 
What  follows  is  less  atrocious, — and  probably 
nearer  the  truth.  It  is  the  sequel  of  an  enco- 
mium on  the  domestic  and  studious  occupa- 
tions of  the  well-informed  society  of  Zurich. 

"Probably  a  mode  of  life  so  entirely  domestic 
would  tempt  few  strangers,^  and  in  France  particu- 
larly, it  would  appear  quite  intolerable.  Yet  I  doubt 
whether  these  contemners  of  domestic  dulness  are 
not  generally  the  dullest  of  the  two.  Walking  oc- 
casionally the  whole  length  of  the  interior  Boule- 
vards of  Paris,  on  a  summer  evening,  I  have  gene- 
rally observed  on  my  return,  at  the  interval  of 
several  hours,  the  very  same  figures  sitting  just 
where  I  had  left  them  ;  mostly  isolated  middle-aged 
men,  established  for  the  evening  on  three  chairs, 
one  for  the  elbow,  another  for  the  extended  leg,  a 
thirds  for  the  centre  of  gravity  ;  with  vacant  looks 
and  a  muddy  complexion,  appearing  discontented 
with  theinselves  and  others,  and  profoundly  tired. 
A  fatiteuil  in  a  salon,  for  the  passive  hearer  of  the 
talk  of  others,  is  still  worse,  I  take  it,  than  the  three 
chairs  on  the  Boulevard.  The  theatre,  seen  again 
and  again,  can  have  no  great  charm  ;  nor  is  it  every 
one  who  has  money  to  spare  for  the  one,  or  free  ac- 
cess to  the  other;  therefore,  an  immense  number 
of  people  are  driven  to  the  Boulevard  as  a  last  re- 
source. As  to  home,  it  is  no  resource  at  all.  No 
one  thinks  of  the  possibility  of  employing  his  time, 


SIMOND'S  SWITZERLAND. 


73- 


iherc,  either  by  himself  or  with  his  family.  And 
the  result,  upon  the  whole,  is,  that  I  do  not  believe 
there  is  a  country  in  the  world  where  you  see  so 
many  long  faces,  care-worn  and  cross,  as  among 
the  very  people  who  are  deemed,  and  believe  them- 
Belves,  the  merriest  in  the  world.  A  man  of  rank 
and  talent,  who  has  spent  many  years  in  the  Cri- 
mea, who  employed  himself  diligently  and  usefully 
when  there,  and  who  naturally  loves  a  country 
where  he  has  done  much  good,  praising  it  to  a 
friend,  has  been  heard  to  remark,  as  the  main  ob- 
jection to  a  residence  otherwise  delightful — '  Mais 
on  est  oblige  de  s'aller  coucher  tous  lessoirs  a  sept 
neures,— parcequ'en  Crimee  on  ne  sait  pas  ou  aller 
passer  la  soiree  1'  This  remark  excites  no  surprise 
at  Paris.  Every  one  there  feels  that  there  can  be 
CO  alternative, — some  place,  not  home,  to  spend 
your  evenings  in,  or  to  bed  at  seven  o'clock  !  It  puts 
one  in  mind  of  the  gentleman  who  hesitated  about 
marrying  a  lady  whose  company  he  liked  very 
much„'lbr,'  as  he  observed,  'where  could  I  then 
go  to  pass  my  evenings?'  " — Vol.  i.  pp.  404,  405. 

The  following,  though  not  a  cordial,  is  at 
least  a  candid  testimony  to  the  substantial 
benefits  of  the  Revolution : — 

"  The  clamorous,  restless,  and  bustling  manners 
of  the  common  people  of  Aix-  their  antiquated  and 
ragged  dress,  their  diminutive  stature  and  ill-favour- 
ed countenances,  strongly  recalled  to  my  mind  the 
population  of  France,  such  as  I  remembered  it 
formerly ;  for  a  considerable  change  has  certainly 
taken  place,  in  all  such  respects,  between  the  years 
1789  and  1815.  The  people  of  France  are  decidedly 
less  noisy,  and  graver ;  better  dressed,  and  cleaner. 
All  this  may  be  accounted  for ;  but  handsomer  is 
not  so  readily  understood,  a  priori.  It  seems  as  if 
the  hardships  of  war,  having  successively  carried 
off  all  the  weakly,  those  who  survived  have  regen- 
erated the  species.  The  people  have  undoubtedly 
gained  much  by  the  Revolution  on  the  score  of 
property,  and  a  little  as  to  political  institutions. 
They  certainly  seem  conscious  of  some  advantage 
attained,  and  to  be  proud  of  it — not  properly  civil 
liberty,  which  is  little  understood,  and  not  properly 
estimated,  but  a  certain  coarse  equality,  asserted  in 
small  things,  although  not  thought  of  in  the  essen- 
tials of  society.  This  new-born  equality  is  very 
touchy,  as  if  it  felt  yet  insecure  ;  and  thence  a  de- 
gree of  rudeness  in  the  common  intercourse  with 
the  lower  class,  and,  more  or  less,  all  classes,  very 
different  from  the  old  proverbial  French  politeness. 
This,  though  in  itself  not  agreeable,  is,  however,  a 
good  sign.  Pride  is  a  step  in  moral  improvement, 
from  a  very  low  state.  These  opinions,  I  am  well 
Jiware,  will  not  pass  in  France  without  animadver- 
sion, as  it  is  not  to  be  expected  the  same  judgment 
will  be  formed  of  things  under  different  circum- 
stances. If  my  critics,  however,  will  only  go  three 
or  four  thousand  miles  off,  and' stay  away  a  quarter 
of  a  century,  I  dare  say  we  shall  agree  better  when 
we  compare  notes  on  their  return." 

Vol.  i.  pp.  333,  334. 

The  way  in  which  M.  Simond  speaks  of 
Rousseau,  affords  a  striking  example  of  that 
struggle  between  enthusiasm  and  severity — 
romance  and  cool  reason,  w-hich  we  noticed 
in  the  beginning  as  characteristic  of  the  whole 
work.  He  talks,  on  the  whole,  with  contempt, 
and  even  bitterness,  of  his  character :  But  he 
follows  his  footsteps,  and  the  vestiges  and 
memorials  even  of  his  fictitious  personages, 
wnth  a  spirit  of  devout  observance— visits 
Clareus,  and  pauses  at  Meillerie — rows  in  a 
burning  day  to  his  island  in  the  lake  of  Bien- 
^le — expatiates  on  the  beauty  of  his  retreat  at 
the  Charmettes — and  even  stops  to  explore 
his  temporary  abode  at  Moitier  Travers.  The 
following  passages  are  remarkable : — 


"  Rousseau,  from  his  garret,  governed  an  cm- 
pire — that  of  the  mind  ;  the  founder  of  a  new  reli- 
gion in  politics,  and  to  his  enthusiastic  followers  e 
prophet — He  said,  and  they  believed  !  The  disci- 
ples of  Voltaire  might  be  more  numerous,  but  they 
were  bound  to  him  by  far  weaker  ties.  Those  of 
Rousseau  made  the  French  Revolution,  aiid  per- 
ished  for  it ;  while  Voltaire's,  miscalculating  its 
chances,  perished  hy  it.  Both,  perhaps,  deserved 
their  fate  ;  but  the  former  certainly  acted  the  noblel 
part,  and  went  to  battle  with  the  best  weapons  too, 
— for  in  the  deadly  encounter  of  all  the  passions,  of 
the  most  opposite  principles  and  irreconcilable  pre- 
judices, cold-hearted  wit  is  of  little  avail.  Heroes 
and  martyrs  do  not  care  for  epigrams  ;  and  he  must 
have  enthusiasm  who  pretends  to  lead  the  enthu- 
siastic or  cope  with  them.  Uneintime  -persuasion, 
Rousseau  has  somewhere  said,  m''a  iojijours  tenu 
lieu  d' eloquence!  And  well  it  might ;  for  the  first 
requisite  to  command  belief  is  to  believe  yourself. 
Nor  is  it  easy  to  impose  on  mankind  in  this  respect. 
There  is  no  eloquence,  no  ascendancy  over  the 
minds  of  others,  without  this  intimate  persuasion  in 
yourself.  Rousseau's  might  only  be  a  sort  of  poet- 
ical persuasion,  lasting  but  as  long  as  the  occasion  ; 
yet  it  was  thus  powerful,  only  because  it  was  true, 
though  but  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  perhaps,  in  the 
heart  of  this  inspired  writer. 

"  Mr.  M ,  son  of  the  friend  of  Rousseau,  to 

whom  he  left  his  manuscripts,  and  especially  his 
Confessions,  to  be  published  after  his  death,  had 
the  goodness  to  show  them  to  me.  I  observed  a 
fair  copy  written  by  himself,  in  a  small  hand  like 
print,  very  neat  and  correct ;  not  a  blot  or  an  era- 
sure to  be  seen.  The  most  curious  of  these  papers, 
however,  were  several  sketch-books,  or  meinoranda 
half  filled,  where  the  same  hand  is  tjo  longer  dis- 
cernible ;  but  the  same  genius,  and  the  same  ^yay- 
ward  temper  and  perverse  intellect,  in  every  fugi- 
tive thought  which  is  there  put  down.  Rousseau's 
composition,  like  Montesquieu's,  was  laborious  and 
slow  ;  his  ideas  flowed  rapidly,  but  were  not  readily 
brought  into  proper  order  ;  they  did  not  appear  to 
have  come  in  consequence  of  a  previous  plan  ;  but 
the  plan  itself,  formed  afterwards,  came  in  aid  of 
the  ideas,  and  served  as  a  sort  of  frame  for  them, 
instead  of  being  a  system  to  which  they  were  sub- 
servient. Very  possibly  some  of  the  fundamental 
opinions  he  defended  so  earnestly,  and  for  which 
his  disciples  would  willingly  have  suffered  martyr- 
dom, were  originally  adopted  because  a  bright 
thought,  caught  as  it  flew,  was  entered  in  his  com- 
monplace book. 

"  These  loose  notes  of  Rousseau  afford  a  curiOMs 
insight  into  his  taste  in  composition.  You  find 
him  perpetually  retrenching  epithets — reducing  his 
thoughts  to  their  simplest  expression— giving  words 
a  peculiar  energy,  by  the  new  application  of  their 
original  meaning — going  back  to  the  naivete  of  old 
lan'guage  ;  and,  in  the  artificial  process  of  simplici- 
ty, "carefully  effacing  the  trace  of  each  laborious 
footstep  as  he  advanced  ;  each  idea,  each  image, 
coming  out,  at  last,  as  if  cast  entire  at  a  single 
throw,  original,  energetic,  and  clear.     Although 

]Vir.  M had  promised  to  Rousseau  that  he  would 

publish  his  Confessions  as  they  were,  yet  he  took 
upon  himself  to  suppress  a  passage  explaining  cer- 
tain circumstances  of  his  abjurations  at  Anneci,  af- 
fording a  curious,  but  frightfully  disgusting,  picture 
of  monkish  manners  at  that  time.     It  is  a  pity  that 

]Vjr.  M did  not  break  his  word  in  regard  to  some 

few  more  passages  of  that  most  admirable  and  most 
vile  of  all  the  productions  of  genius." 

Vol.  i.  pp.  564—566. 

The  following  notices  of  Madame  de  Stael 
are  emphatic  and  original : — 

"  I  had  seen  Madame  de  Stael  a  child  ;  and  I  saw 
her  again  on  her  deathbed.  The  intermediate  years 
were  spent  in  another  hemisphere,  as  far  as  possible 
from  the  scenes  in  which  she  lived.  Mixiiig  again, 
not  many  months  since,  with  a  world  in  which  I  an 


732 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


a  stranger,  and  feel  that  I  must  remain  so,  I  just  saw 
this  celebrated  woman;  and  heard,  as  it  were,  her 
last  words,  as  I  had  read  her  worlds  before,  uninflu- 
enced by  any  local  bias.  Perhaps,  the  impressions 
of  a  man  thus  dropped  from  another  world  info  this 
may  be  deemed  something  like  those  of  posterity. 
'*  Madame  de  Stael  lived  for  conversation  :  She 
was  not  happy  out  of  a  large  circle,  and  a  French 
circle,  wliere  she  could  be  heard  in  her  own  lan- 
guage to  the  best  advantage,  fler  extravagant  ad- 
miration of  the  society  of  Paris  was  neither  more 
nor  less  than  genuine  admiration  of  herself.  It 
was  the  best  mirror  she  could  get — and  that  was 
all.  Ambitious  of  all  sorts  of  notoriety,  she  would 
have  given  the  world  to  have  been  born  noble  and 
a  beauty.  Yet  there  was  in  this  excessive  vanity 
so  much  honesty  and  frankness,  it  was  so  entirely 


void  of  affectation  and  trick,  she  made  so  fair  and  so 
irresistible  an  appeal  to  your  own  sense  of  her  worth, 
that  what  would  have  been  laughable  in  any  one 
else,  was  almost  respectable  in  her.  That  ambi- 
tion of  eloquence,  so  conspicuous  in  her  writings, 
was  much  less  o'bservable  in  her  conversation ; 
there  was  more  abandon  in  what  she  said  than  in 
what  she  wrote ;  while  speaking,  the  spontaneous 
inspiration  was  no  labour,  but  all  pleasure.  Con- 
scious of  extraordinary  powers,  she  gave  herself  up 
to  the  present  enjoyment  of  the  good  things,  and 
the  deep  things,  flowing  in  a  full  stream  lioni  her 
well-stored  mind  and  luxuriant  fancy.  The  inspi- 
ration was  pleasure — the  pleasure  was  inspiration; 
and  without  precisely  intending  it,  she  was,  every 
evening  of  her  life,  in  a  circle  of  company,  the  very 
Corinne  she  had  depicted." — Vol.  i.  pp.  283 — 286. 


(JiToDember,   1812.) 

Rejected  Addresses;  or  the  New  TheatrumFoetarum.     12mo.  pp.  126.     London:   1812.* 


After  all  ihe  learning,  wrangling  and 
Bolemn  exhortation  of  our  preceding  pages, 
we  think  we  may  venture  to  treat  our  readers 
with  a  little  morsel  of  town-made  gaiety, 
without  any  great  derogation  from  our  estab- 
lished character  for  seriousness  and  contempt 
of  trifles.  We  are  aware,  indeed,  that  there 
its  no  way  by  which  we  could  so  certainly  in- 
gratiate ourselves  with  our  provincial  readers, 
as  by  dealing  largely  in  such  articles;  and 
we  can  assure  them,  that  if  we  have  not 
hitherto  indulged  them  very  often  in  this 
manner,  it  is  only  because  we  have  not  often 
met  with  any  thing  nearly  so  good  as  the 
little  volume  before  us.  We  have  seen  no- 
thing comparable  to  it  indeed  since  the  pub- 
lication of  the  poetry  of  the  Antijacobin ;  and 
though  it  wants  the  high  seasoning  of  politics 
and  personality,  which  no  doubt  contributed 
much  to  the  currency  of  that  celebrated  col- 
lection, we  are  not  sure  that  it  does  not  ex- 
hibit, on  the  whole,  a  still  more  exquisite 
talent  of  imitation,  with  powers  of  poetical 
composition  that  are  scarcely  inferior. 

We  must  not  forget,  however,  to  inform  our 
country  readers,  that  these  "Rejected  Ad- 
dresses" are  merely  a  series  of  Imitations  of 
the  style  and  manner  of  the  most  celebrated 
living  writers — who  are  here  supposed  to  have 


*  I  have  been  so  much  struck,  on  lately  looking 
back  to  this  paper,  with  the  very  extraordinary 
merit  and  felicity  of  the  Imitations  on  which  it  is 
employed,  that  I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  of 
giving  them  a  chance  of  delighting  a  new  genera- 
tion of  admirers,  by  including  some  part  of  them  in 
this  publication.  I  take  them,  indeed,  to  be  the 
▼ery  best  imitations)  and  often  of  difficult  originals) 
that  ever  were  made:  and,  considering  their  great 
extent  and  variety,  to  indicate  a  talent  to  which  I 
do  not  know  where  to  look  for  a  parallel.  Some 
few  of  them  descend  to  the  level  of  parodies :  But 
by  far  the  greater  part  are  of  a  much  higher  de- 
ijcription.  They  ought,  I  suppose,  to  have  come 
under  the  head  of  Poetry, — but  "  Miscellaneous" 
IS  broad  enough  to  cover  any  thing. — Some  of  the 
less  strilung  citations  are  now  omitted.  The  au- 
thors, I  believe,  have  been  lonej  known  to  have 
been  the  lato  Messrs.  Smith. 


tried  their  hands  at  an  address  to  be  spokeji 
at  the  opening  of  the  New  Theatre  in  Drury 
Lane — in  the  hope,  we  presume,  of  obtaining 
the  twenty-pound  prize  which  the  munificent 
managers  are  said  to  have  held  out  to  the  suc- 
cessful candidate.  The  names  of  the  imagi- 
nary competitors,  whose  works  are  now  offered 
to  the  pubiic,  are  only  indicated  by  their  ini- 
tials; and  there  are  one  or  two  which  we 
really  do  not  know  how  to  fill  up.  By  far  the 
greater  part,  however,  are  such  as  cannot  pos- 
sibly be  mistaken;  and  no  reader  of  Scott, 
Crabbe,  Southey,  Wordsworth,  Lewis,  Moore, 
or  Spencer,  could  require  the  aid,  even  of  their 
initials,  to  recognise  them  in  their  portraits. 
Coleridge,  Coleman,  and  Lord  Byron,  are  not 
quite  such  striking  likenesses.  Of  Dr.  Busby's 
and  Mr.  Fitzgerald's,  we  do  not  hold  ourselves 
qualified  to  judge — not  professing  to  be  deeply 
read  in  the  works  of  these  originals. 

There  is  no  talent  so  universally  entertain- 
ing as  that  of  mimicry — even  when  it  is  con- 
fined to  the  lively  imitation  of  the  air  and 
manner — the  voice,  gait,  and  external  deport- 
ment of  ordinary  individuals.  Nor  is  this  to 
be  ascribed  entirely  to  our  wicked  love  of 
ridicule;  for,  though  we  must  not  assign  a 
very  high  intellectual  rank  to  an  art  which  is 
said  to  have  attained  to  perfection  among  the 
savages  of  New  Holland,  some  admiration  is 
undoubtedly  due  to  the  capacity  of  nice  ob- 
servation which  it  implies ;  and  some  gratifi- 
cation may  be  innocently  derived  from  the 
sudden  perception  which  it  excites  of  pecu- 
liarities previously  unobserved.  It  rises  in 
interest,  however,  and  in  dignity,  when  it 
succeeds  in  expressing,  not  merely  the  visible 
and  external  characteristics  of  iis  objects,  but 
those  also  of  their  taste,  their  genius,  and 
temper.  A  vulgar  mimic  repeats  a  man's 
cant-phrases  and  known  stories,  with  an  exact 
[  imitation  of  his  voice,  look,  and  gestures :  But 
I  he  is  an  artist  of  a  far  higher  description,  who 
j  can  make  stories  or  reasonings  in  his  manner; 
I  and  represent  the  features  and  movements  of 
I  his  mind,  as  well  as  the  accidents  of  his  body. 


REJECTED  ADDRL^'SES. 


733 


The  same  distinction  applies  to  the  mimicry, 
if  it  may  be  so  called,  of  an  author's  style  and 
manner  of  writing.  To  copy  his  peculiar 
phrases  or  turns  of  expression — to  borrow  the 
grammatical  structure  of  his  sentences,  or  the 
metrical  balance  of  his  lines — or  to  crowd  and 
string  together  all  the  pedantic  or  affected 
words  which  he  has  become  remarkable  for 
using — applying,  or  misapplying  all  these 
without  the  least  regard  to  the  character  of 
nis  genius,  or  the  spirit  of  his  compositions,  is 
to  imitate  an  author  only  as  a  monkey  might 
imitate  a  man — or,  at  best,  to  support  a  mas- 
querade character  on  the  strength  of  the  Dress 
only ;  and  at  all  events,  requires  as  little  talent, 
and  deserves  as  little  praise,  as  the  mimetic 
exhibitions  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Port-Syd- 
ney. It  is  another  matter,  however,  to  be  able 
to  borrow  the  diction  and  manner  of  a  cele- 
brated writer  to  express  sentiments  like  his 
own — to  write  as  he  would  have  written  on 
the  subject  proposed  to  his  imitator — to  think 
his  thoughts,  in  short,  as  well  as  to  use  his 
words — and  to  make  the  revival  of  his  style 
appear  but  a  consequence  of  the  strong  con- 
ception of  his  peculiar  ideas.  To  do  this  in  all 
the  perfection  of  which  it  is  capable,  requires 
talents,  perhaps,  not  inferior  to  those  of  the 
original  on  whom  they  are  employed — to- 
gether with  a  faculty  of  observation,  and  a 
dexterity  of  application,  which  that  original 
might  not  always  possess ;  and  shoukl  not  only 
afford  nearly  as  great  pleasure  to  the  reader, 
as  a  piece  of  composition, — but  may  teach  him 
some  lessons,  or  open  up  to  him  some  views, 
which  could  not  have  been  otherwise  disclosed. 
The  exact  imitation  of  a  good  thing,  it  must 
be  admitted,  promises  fair  to  be  a  pretty  good 
thing  in  itself;  but  if  the  resemblance  be  very 
striking,  it  commonly  has  the  additional  ad- 
vantage of  letting  us  more  completely  into  the 
secret  of  the  original  author,  and  enabling  us 
to  understand  far  more  clearly  in  what  the 
peculiarity  of  his  manner  consists,  than  most 
of  us  should  ever  have  done  without  this  as- 
sistance. The  resemblance,  it  is  obvious,  can 
only  be  rendered  striking  by  exaggerating  a 
little,  and  bringing  more  conspicuously  for- 
ward, all  that  is  peculiar  and  characteristic  in 
the  model :  And  the  marking  features,  which 
were  somewhat  shaded  and  confused  in  their 
natural  presentment,  being  thus  magnified  and 
disengaged  in  the  copy,  are  more  easily  ob- 
served and  comprehended,  and  their  effect 
traced  with  infinitely  more  ease  and  assu- 
rance ; — just  as  the  course  of  a  river,  or  a  range 
of  mountains,  is  more  distinctly  understood 
when  laid  down  on  a  map  or  plan,  than  when 
studied  in  their  natural  proportions.  Thus,  in 
Burke's  imitation  of  Bolingbroke  (the  most 
perfect  specimen,  perhaps,  which  ever  will 
exist  of  the  art  of  which  we  are  speaking),  we 
have  all  the  qualities  which  distinguish  the 
style,  or  we  may  indeed  say  the  genius,  of 
that  noble  writer,  as  it  were,  concentrated  and 
brought  at  once  before  us;  so  that  an  ordinary 
reader,  who,  in  perusing  his  genuine  works, 
merely  felt  himself  dazzled  and  disappointed 
^-delighted  and  wearied  he  could  not  tell 
why,  is  now  enabled  to  farm  a  definite  and 


precise  conception  of  the  causes  of  those  op. 
posite  sensations, — and  to  trace  to  the  noble« 
ness  of  the  diction  and  the  inaccuracy  of  the 
reasoning — the  boldness  of  the  propositions 
and  the  rashness  of  the  inductions — the  mag- 
nificence of  the  pretensions  and  the  feebleness 
of  the  performance,  those  contradictory  judg- 
ments, with  the  confused  result  of  which  he 
had  been  perplexed  in  the  study  of  the  original. 
The  same  thing  may  be  said  of  the  imitation 
of  Darwin,  contained  in  the  Loves  of  the  Tri- 
angles, though  confessedly  of  a  satirical  oi 
ludicrous  character.  All  the  peculiarities  of 
the  original  poet  are  there  brought  together, 
and  crowded  into  a  little  space ;  where  they 
can  be  compared  and  estimated  with  ease. 
His  essence  in  short,  is  extracted,  and  sepa 
rated  in  a  good  degree  from  what  is  common 
to  him  with  the  rest  of  his  species; — and 
while  he  is  recognised  at  once  as  the  original 
from  whom  all  these  characteristic  traits  have 
been  borrowed,  that  original  itself  is  far  better 
understood — because  the  copy  presents  no 
traits  but  such  as  are  characteristic. 

This  highest  species  of  imitation,  therefore, 
we  conceive  to  be  of  no  slight  value  in  fixing 
the  taste  and  judgment  of  the  public,  even 
with  regurd  to  the  great  standard  and  original 
authors  who  naturally  become  its  subjects. 
The  pieces  before  us,  indeed,  do  not  fall  cor- 
rectly under  this  denomination : — the  subject 
to  which  they  are  confined,  and  the  occasion 
on  which  they  are  supposed  to  have  been  pro- 
duced, having  necessarily  given  them  a  cer- 
tain ludicroiiS  and  light  air,  not  quite  suitable 
to  the  gravity  of  some  of  the  originals,  and 
imparted  to  some  of  them  a  sort  of  mongrel 
character  in  which  we  may  discern  the  fea- 
tures both  of  burlesque  and  of  imitation. 
There  is  enough,  however,  of  the  latter  to  an- 
swer the  purposes  we  have  indicated  above ; 
while  the  tone  of  levity  and  ridicule  may 
answer  the  farther  purpose  of  admonishing  the 
authors  who  are  personated  in  this  exhibition, 
in  what  directions  they  trespass  on  the  borders 
of  absurdity,  and  from  what  peculiarities  they 
are  in  danger  of  becoming  ridiculous.  A  mere 
parody  or  travestie,  indeed,  is  commonly  made, 
with  the  greatest  success,  upon  the  tenderest 
and  most  sublime  passages  in  poetry — the 
whole  secret  of  such  performances  consisting 
in  the  substitution  of  a  mean,  ludicrous,  or 
disgusting  subject,  for  a  touching  or  noble  one. 
But  where  this  is  not  the  case,  and  where  the 
passages  imitated  are  conversant  with  objects 
nearly  as  familiar,  and  names  and  actions 
almost  as  undignified,  as  those  in  the  imita- 
tion, the  author  may  be  assured,  that  what  a 
moderate  degree  of  exaggeration  has  thus 
made  eminently  laughable,  could  never  have 
been  worthy  of  a  place  in  serious  and  lofty 
poetry. — But  we  are  falling,  we  perceive,  into 
our  old  trick  of  dissertation,  and  forgetting  our 
benevolent  intention  to  dedicate  this  article  to 
the  amusement  of  our  readers. — We  break 
off  therefore,  abruptly,  and  turn  without  far- 
ther preamble  to  the  book. 

The  first  piece,  under  the  name  of  the  loyal 
]\Tr.  Fitzgerald^  though  as  good,  we  suppose, 
as  the  original,  is  not  very  interesting.  Whethe  i 


734 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


it  be  very  like  Mr.  Fitzgerald  or  not,  however, 
it  mast  be  allowed  that  the  vulgarity,  ser- 
vilit)',  and  gross  absurdity  of  the  newspaper 
scribblers  is  well  rendered  in  the  following 
lines ; — 

"  Gallia's  stern  despot  shall  in  vain  advance 
From  Paris,  the  metropolis  of  France  ; 
By  this  day  month  the  monster  shall  not  gain 
A  foot  of  land  in  Portugal  or  Spain. 
See  Wellington  in  Salamanca's  field 
Forces  his  favourite  General  to  yield,       [Marmont 
Breaks  through  his  lines,  and  leaves  his  boasted 
Expiring  on  the  plain  without  an  arm  on  : 
Madrid  he  ent,er9  at  the  cannon's  mouth, 
'And  then  the  villages  still  further  south  ! 
Base  Bonaparte,  filled  with  deadly  ire. 
Sets  one  by  one  our  playhouses  on  fire  : 
Some  years  ago  he  pounced  with  deadly  glee  on 
The  Opera  House — then  burnt  down  the  Pantheon : 
Nay,  still  unsated,  in  a  coat  of  flames, 
Next  at  Millbank  he  cross'd  the  river  Thames. 
Who  makes  the  quartern  loaf  and  Luddites  rise  ? 
Who  fills  the  butchers'  shops  with  large  blue  flies? 
Who  thought  in  flames  St.  James's  court  to  pinch  ? 
Who  burnt  the  wardrobe  of  poor  Lady  Finch  ? 
Why  he,  who,  forging  for  this  Isle  a  yoke, 
Reminds  me  of  a  line  I  lately  spoke, 
'  The  tree  of  Freedom  is  the  British  6ak.'  " 

The  next,  in  the  name  of  Mr.  W.  Words- 
worth, is  entitled  ''The  Baby's  Debut;"  and 
is  characteristically  announced  as  intended  to 
have  been  '-spoken  in  the  character  of  Nancy 
Lake,  a  girl  eight  years  of  age,  who  is  drawn 
upon  the  stage  in  a  child's  chaise,  by  Samuel 
Hughes,  her  uncle's  porter."  The  author  does 
not,  in  this  instance,  attempt  to  copy  any  of 
the  higher  attributes  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's 
poetry :  But  has  succeeded  perfectly  in  the 
imitation  of  his  mawkish  affectations  of  child- 
ish simplicity  and  nursery  stammering.  We 
nope  it  will  make  him  ashamed  of  his  Alice 
Fell,  and  the  greater  part  of  his  last  volumes 
— of  which  it  is  by  no  means  a  parody,  but  a 
very  fair,  and  indeed  we  think  a  flattering 
imitation.  We  give  a  stanza  or  two  as  a 
specimen : — 

"My  brother  Jack  was  nine  in  May, 
And  I  was  eight  on  New  Year's  Day  ; 

So  in  Kate  Wilson's  shop 
Papa  (he's  my  papa  and  Jack's) 
Bought  me  last  week  a  doll  of  wax. 

And  brother  Jack  a  top. 

"  Jack's  in  the  pouts — and  this  it  is, 
He  thinks  mine  came  to  more  than  his. 

So  to  my  drawer  he  goes. 
Takes  out  the  doll,  and,  oh,  my  stars ! 
He  pokes  her  head  between  the  bars, 

And  melts  off  half  her  nose  !" — pp.  5,  6. 

Mr.  Moore's  Address  is  entitled  "The  Liv- 
ing Lustres,"  and  appears  to  us  a  very  fair 
imitation  of  the  fantastic  verses  which  that 
ingenious  person  indites  when  he  is  merely 
gallant ;  and,  resisting  the  lures  of  voluptuous- 
ness, is  not  enough  in  earnest  to  be  tender.  It 
begins : — 

"  O  why  should  our  dull  retrospectiv*  addresses 

Fall  damp  as  wet  blankets  on  Drury  Lane  fire  ? 
Away  with  blue  devils,  away  with  distresses, 

And  give  the  gay  spirit  to  sparkling  desire  ! 
Let  artists  decide  on  the  beauties  of  Drury, 

'The  richest  to  me  is  when  woman  is  there ; 
The  question  of  Houses  1  leave  to  the  jury  ; 

Tbft  fairest  to  me  is  the  house  of  the  fair." — p.  25. 


The  main  drift  of  the  piece,  however,  ai 
well  as  its  title,  is  explained  in  the  following 
stanzas : — 

"  How  well  would  our  artists  attend  to  their  duties, 

Our  house  save  in  oil,  and  our  authors  in  wit, 
In  lieu  of  yon  lamps  if  a  row  of  young  beauties 
Glanc'd  light  from  their  eyes  between  us  and 
the  pit.  .  [is  on 

Attun'd  to  the  scene,  when  the  pale  yellow  moon 

Tower  and  tree,  they'd  look  sober  and  sage  ; 
And  when  they  all  wink'd  their  dear  peepers  in 
unison, 
Night,  pitchy  night  would  envelope  the  stage.  . 
Ah  !  could  I  some  girl  from  yon  box  for  her  youth 
pick, 
I'd  love  her — as  long  as  she  blossom'd  in  youth' 
Oh  !  white  is  the  ivory  case  of  the  toothpick, 
But  when  beauty  smiles  how  much  whiter  tho 
tooth  !"  pp.  26,  27. 

The  next,  entitled  "The  Kebuilding,"  is  in 
name  of  Mr.  Sou  they ;  and  is  one  of  the  best 
in  the  collection.  It  is  in  the  style  of  the 
Kehama  of  that  multifarious  author;  and  is 
supposed  to  be  spoken  in  the  character  of  one 
of  his  Glendoveers.  The  imitation  of  the 
diction  and  measure,  we  think,  is  nearly  per- 
fect ;  and  the  descriptions  quite  as  good  as  the 
original.  It  opens  with  an  account  of  the 
burning  of  the  old  theatre,  formed  upon  the 
pattern  of  the  Funeral  of  Arvalan. 

"  Midnight,  yet  not  a  nose 
From  Tower-hill  to  Piccadilly  snored  ! 

]\tidnight,  yet  not  a  nose 
From  Indra  drew  the  essence  of  repose  ! 
See  with  what  crimson  fury, 
By  Indra  fann'd,  the  god  of  fire  ascends  the  walls 
of  Drury  ! 
The  tops  of  houses,  blue  with  lead. 
Bend  beneath  the  landlord's  tread  ; 
Master  and  'prentice,  serving-man  and  lord, 
Nailor  and  tailor, 
Grazier  and  brazier. 
Thro'  streets  and  alleys  pour'd, 
All,  all  abroad  to  gaze. 
And  wonder  at  the  blaze." — pp.  29,  30. 

There  is  then  a  great  deal  of  indescribable 
intriguing  between  Veeshnoo,  who  wishes  to 
rebuild  the  house  through  the  instrumentality 
of  Mr.  Whitbread,  and  Yamen  who  wishes  to 
prevent  it.  The  Power  of  Restoration,  how- 
ever, brings  all  the  parties  concerned  to  an 
amicable  meeting;  the  effect  of  which,  on 
the  Power  of  Destruction,  is  thus  finely  repre- 
sented : — 

"  Yamen  beheld,  and  wither'd  at  the  sight ; 
Long  had  he  aim'd  the  sun-beam  to  control. 

For  light  was  hateful  to  his  soul : 
Go  on,  cried  the  hellish  one,  yellow  with  spite; 
Go  on,  cried  the  hellish  one,  yellow  with  spleen  ; 
Thy  toils  of  the  morning,  like  Ithaca's  queen, 
I'll  toil  to  undo  every  night. 

The  lawyers  are  met  at  the  Crown  and  Anchor, 

And  Yamen's  visage  grows  blanker  and  blanker 
The  lawyers  are  met  at  the  Anchor  and  Crown, 
And  Yamen's  cheek  is  a  russety  brown. 
Veeshnoo,  now  thy  work  proceeds ! 
The  solicitor  reads. 
And,  merit  of  merit ! 
Red  wax  and  green  ferret 
Are  fix'd  at  the  foot  of  the  deeds  !" 

pp.  35,  36. 

"  Drury's  Dirge,"  by  Laura  Matilda,  is  not 
of  the  first  quality.     The  verses,  to  be  sure, 


REJECTED  ADDRESSES. 


735 


are  very  smooth,  and  very  nonsensical — as 
wa3  intended :  But  they  are  not  so  good  as 
Swift's  celebrated  Song  by  a  Person  of  Qua- 
lity; and  are  so  exactly  in  the  same  mea- 
sure, and  on  the  same  plan,  that  it  is  impos- 
sible to  avoid  making  the  comparison.  The 
reader  may  take  these  three  stanzas  as  a 
aample : — 

"  Lurid  smoke' and  frank  suspicion, 
Hand  in  hand  reluctant  dance  ; 
While  the  god  fulfils  his  mission, 
Chivalry  resigns  his  lance. 

"  Hark  !  the  engines  blandly  thunder. 
Fleecy  clouds  dishevell'd  lie  ; 
And  the  firemen,  mute  with  wonder, 
On'the  son  of  Saturn  cry. 

"  See  the  bird  of  Ammon  sailing. 
Perches  on  the  engine's  peak, 
And  the  Eagle  fireman  hailing, 

Soothes  them  with  its  bickering  beak." 

"A  Tale  of  Drury,"  by  Walter  Scott,  is, 
npon  the  whole,  admirably  executed ;  though 
the  introduction  is  rather  tame.  The  burning 
is  described  with  the  mighty  Minstrel's  char- 
acteristic love  of  localities : — 

"  Then  London's  sons  in  nightcap  woke  ! 

In  bedgown  woke  her  dames  ; 
For  shouts  were  heard  'mid  fire  and  smoke. 
And  twice  ten  hundred  voices  spoke, 

'  The  Playhouse  is  in  flames !' 
And  lo  !  where  Catherine  Street  extends, 
A  fiery  tail  its  lustre  lends 

To  every  window  pane  : 
Blushes  each  spout  in  Martlet  Court, 
And  Barbican,  moth-eaten  fort, 
And  Covent  Garden  kennels  sport, 

A  bright  ensanguin'd  drain  ; 
Meux's  new  brewhouse  shows  the  light, 
Rowland  Hill's  chapel,  and  the  height 

Where  patent  shot  they  sell : 
The  Tennis  Court,  so  fair  and  tall, 
Partakes  the  ray  with  Surgeons'  Hall, 
The  ticket  porters'  house  of  call. 
Old  Bedlam,  close  by  London  wall, 
Wright's  shrimp  and  oyster  shop  withal. 

And  Richardson's  Hotel." — pp.  46,  47. 

The  mustering  of  the  firemen  is  not  less 
meritorious : — 

"  The  summon'd  firemen  woke  at  call 
And  hied  them  to  their  stations  all. 
Starting  from  short  and  broken  snoose. 
Each  sought  his  pond'rous  hobnail'd  shoes  ; 
But  first  his  worsted  hosen  plied, 
Plush  breeches  next  in  crimson  dyed, 

His  nether  bulk  embrac'd  ; 
Then  jacket  thick,  of  red  or  blue,  • 

Whose  massy  shoulder  gave  to  view 
The  badge  of  each  respective  crew, 

In  tin  or  copper  traced. 
The  engines  thunder'd  thro'  the  street, 
Fire-hook,  pipe,  bucket,  all  complete, 
And  torches  glared,  and  clattering  feet 

Along  the  pavement  paced." — p.  48. 

The  procession  of  the  engines,  with  the 
badges  of  their  different  companies,  and  the 
.Horrible  names  of  their  leaders,  is  also  admi- 
rable— but  we  cannot  make  room  for  it.  The 
account  of  the  death  of  Muggins  and  Higgin- 
bottom,  however,  must  find  a  place.  These 
are  the  tw^o  principal  firemen  who  suffered  on 
this  occasion  :  and  the  catastrophe  is  describ- 
ed with  a  spirit,  not  unworthy  of  the  name  so 


venturously  assumed  by  the  describer.  After 
the  roof  fails  in,  there  is  Silence  and  great  con 
sternation : — 

"  When  lo  !  amid  the  wreck  uprear'd 
Gradual  a  moving  head  appear'd. 

And  Eacrle  firemen  knew 
'Twas  Joseph  Muggins,  name  re  rer'd, 

The  foreman  of  their  crew. 
Loud  shouted  all  in  sign  of  woe, 
'  A  Muggins  to  the  rescue,  ho  !' 

And  pour'd  the  hissing  tide  : 
Meanwhile  the  Muggins  fought  amain, 
And  strove  and  struggl'd  all  in  vain, 
For  rallying  but  to  lall  again. 

He  tottor'd,  sunk,  and  died  I 
Did  none  attempt,  before  he  fell. 
To  succour  one  they  lov'd  so  well  ? 
Yes,  Higginbottom  did  aspire, 
(His  fireman's  soul  was  all  on  fire) 

His  brother  chief  to  save  ; 
But  ah  !  his  reckless  generous  ire 

Serv'd  but  to  share  his  grave  I 
Mid  blazing  beams  and  scalding  streams, 
Thro'  fire  and  smoke  he  dauntless  broke, 

Where  Muggins  broke  before. 
But  sulphury  stench  and  boiling  drench, 
Destroying  sight,  o'erwhelm'd  him  quite; 

He  sunk  to  rise  no  more  ! 
Still  o'er  his  head,  while  Fate  he  brav'd, 
His  whizzing  water-pipe  he  wav'd  ; 
'  Whitford  and  Mitford,  ply  your  pumps  ! 
'  You,  Clutterbuck,  come  stir  your  stumps, 
'Why  are  you  in  such  doleful  dumps  ? 
'  A  fireman,  and  afraid  of  bumps  ! 
*  What  are  they  fear'd  on,  fools  ?  'od  rot  'em '. 
Were  the  last  words  of  Higginbottom." 

pp.  50—52. 

The  rebuilding  is  recorded  in  strains  aa 
characteristic,  and  as  aptly  applied  :- 

Didst  mark,  how  toil'd  the  busy  train 
From  morn  to  eve,  till  Drury  Lane 
Leap'd  like  a  roebuck  from  the  plain  ? 
Ropes  rose  and  sunk,  and  rose  again, 

And  nimble  workmen  trod. 
To  realize  hold  Wyatt's  plan 
Rush'd  many  a  howling  Irishman, 
Loud  clatter'd  many  a  porter  can, 
And  many  a  ragamuffin  clan. 

With  trowel  and  with  hod." — pp.  52,  53. 

"The  Beautiful  Incendiary,"  by  the  Hon- 
ourable W.  Spencer,  is  also  an  imitation  of 
great  merit.  The  flashy,  fashionable,  artifi- 
cial style  of  this  writer,  with  his  confident 
and  extravagant  compliments,  can  scarcely 
be  said  to  be  parodied  in  such  lines  as  the 
following : — 

"  Sobriety  cease  to  be  sober. 

Cease  labour  to  dig  and  to  delve  ! 
All  hail  to  this  tenth  of  October, 

One  thousand  eight  hundred  and  twelve! 
Hah  !  whom  do  my  peepers  remark  ? 

'Tis  Hebe  with  Jupiter's  jug  I 
Oh,  no !  'tis  the  pride  of  the  Park, 

Fair  Lady  Elizabeth  Mugg  ! 
But  ah  !  why  awaken  the  blaze 

Those  bright  burning-glasses  contain, 
Whose  lens,  with  concentrated  rays, 

Proved  fatal  to  old  Drury  Lane  ! 
'Twas  all  accidental,  they  cry  : 

Away  with  the  flimsy  humbug  ! 
'Twas  ifir'd  by  a  flash  from  the  eye 

Of  Lady  Elizabeth  Mugg  ! 

"  Fire  and  Ale,"  by  M.  G.  Lewis,  is  not 
less  fortunate  ;  and  exhibits  not  only  a  faith- 
ful copy  of  the  spirited,  loose,  and  flowing 
versification  of  that  singular  author,  but  a  very 


736 


MISCELLANEOUS 


just  representation  of  tha.  .nixture  of  extrava- 
gance and  jocularity  which  has  impressed 
most  of  his  writings  with  the  character  of  a 
sort  of  farcical  horror.     For  example : — 

*'  The  fire  king  one  day  rather  amorous  felt ; 

He  mounted  his  hot  copper  filly  ; 
His  breeches  and  boots  were  of  tin  ;  and  the  belt 
Was  made  of  cast  iron,  for  fear  it  should  melt 

With  the  heat  of  the  copper  colt's  belly. 
Sure  never  was  skin  half  so  scalding  as  his  ! 

When  an  infant,  'twas  equally  horrid, 
For  the  water  when  he  was  baptiz'd  gave  a  fizz, 
And  bubbl'd  and  simmer'd  and  started  off,  whizz  ! 

As  soon  as  it  sprinkl'd  his  forehead. 
Oh  then  there  was  glitter  and  fire  in  each  eye, 

For  two  living  coals  were  the  symbols  ; 
His  teeth  were  calcin'd,  and  his  tongue  was  so  dry 
It  rattled  against  them  as  though  you  should  try 

To  play  the  piano  in  thimbles." — pp.  68,  69. 

The  drift  of  the  story  is,  that  this  formida- 
ble personage  falls  in  love  with  Miss  Drury 
the  elder,  who  is  consumed  in  his  ardent  em- 
brace !  when  Mr.  Whitbread,  in  the  character 
of  the  Ale  King,  fairly  bullies  him  from  a 
similar  attempt  on  her  younger  sister,  who 
has  just  come  out  under  his  protection. 

We  have  next  "Playhouse  Musings,"  by 
Mr.  Coleridge — a  piece  which  is  unquestion- 
ably Lakish — though  w^e  cannot  say  that  we 
recognise  in  it  any  of  the  peculiar  traits  of 
that  powerful  and  misdirected  genius  whose 
name  it  has  borrowed.  We  rather  think, 
however,  that  the  tuneful  Brotherhood  will 
consider  it  as  a  respectable  eclogue.  This  is 
the  introduction  : —     * 

"  My  pensive  Public  !  wherefore  look  you  sad? 
I  had  a  grandmother ;  she  kept  a  donkey 
To  carry  to  the  mart  her  crockery  ware, 
And  when  that  donkey  look'd  me  in  the  face, 
His  face  was  sad  !  and  you  are  sad,  my  Public  ! 

Joy  should  be  yours  :  this  tenth  day  of  October 
Again  assembles  us  in  Drury  Lane. 
Long  wept  my  eye  to  see  the  timber  planks 
That  hid  our  ruins  :  many  a  day  I  cried 
Ah  me  !  I  fear  they  never  will  rebuild  it ! 
Till  on  one  eve,  one  joyful  Monday  eve, 
As  along  Charles  Street  I  prepar'd  to  walk, 
Just  at  the  corner,  by  the  pastry  cook's, 
I  heard  a  trowel  tick  against  a  brick  ! 
I  look'd  me  up,  and  strait  a  parapet 
Uprose,  at  least  seven  inches  o'er  the  planks. 
Joy  to  thee,  Drury  !  to  myself  I  said. 
He  of  Blackfriars  Road  who  hymn'd  thy  downfal 
In  loud  Hosannahs,  and  who  prophesied 
That  flames  like  those  from  prostrate  Solyma 
Would  scorch  the  hand  that  ventur'd  to  rebuild  thee, 
Has  prov'd  a  lying  prophet.    From  that  hour. 
As  leisure  offer'd,  close  to  Mr.  Spring's 
Box-office  door,  I've  stood  andeved  the  builders." 

pp.  73,  74. 

Of  "Architectural  Atoms,"  translated  by 
Dr.  Busby,  we  can  say  very  little  more  than 
that  they  appear  to  us  to  be  far  more  capable 
of  combining  into  good  poetry  than  the  few 
lines  we  were  able  to  read  of  the  learned 
Doctor's  genuine  address  in  the  newspapers. 
They  might  pass,  indeed,  for  a  very  tolerable 
imitation  of  Darwin ; — as  for  instance : — 

"  I  sing  how  casual  bricks,  in  airy  climb 
Encounter'd  casual  horse  hair,  casual  lime  ; 
How  rafters  borne  through  wond'ring  clouds  elate, 
Kiss'd  in  their  slope  blue  elemental  slate  ! 
Clasp'd  solid  beams,  in  chance-directed  furj^, 
A"2d  gave  to  birth  our  renovated  Drury." 

pp.  82,  83. 


And  again : — 

"  Thus  with  the  flames  that  from  old  Drury  riM 
Its  elements  primaeval  sought  the  skies. 
There  pendulous  to  wait  the  happy  hour. 
When  new  attractions  should  restore  their  power 
Here  embryo  sounds  in  aether  lie  conceal'd 
Like  words  in  northern  atmosphere  congeal'd. 
Here  many  an  embryo  laugh,  and  half  encore, 
Clings  to  the  roof,  or  creeps  along  the  floor. 
By  pufls  concipient  some  in  aether  flit. 
And  soar  in  bravos  from  the  thund'ring  pit ; 
While  some  this  mortal  life  abortive  miss, 
Crush'd  by  a  groan,  ormurder'dby  a  hiss." — p.  8"/. 

"The  Theatre,"  by  the  Kev.  G.  Crabbe, 
we  rather  think  is  the  best  piece  in  the  col- 
lection. It  is  an  exquisite  and  most  masterly 
imitation,  not  only  of  the  peculiar  style,  but 
of  the  taste,  temper,  and  manner  of  descrip- 
tion of  that  most  original  author;  and  can 
hardly  be  said  to  be  in  any  respect  a  carica- 
ture of  that  style  or  manner — except  in  the 
excessive  profusion  of  puns  and  verbal  jingles 
— which,  though  undoubtedly  to  be  ranked 
among  his  characteristics,  are  never  so  thick- 
sown  in  his  original  works  as  in  this  admira- 
ble imitation.  It  does  not  aim,  of  course,  at 
any  shadow  of  his  pathos  or  moral  sublimity  ; 
but  seems  to  us  to  be  a  singularly  faithful 
copy  of  his  passages  of  mere  description.  It 
begins  as  follows  : — 

"  'Tis  sweet  to  view  from  half-past  five  to  six, 
Our  long  wax  candles,  with  short  cotton  wicks, 
Touch'd  by  the  lamplighter's  Promethean  art, 
Start  into  light,  and  make  the  lighter  start ! 
To  see  red  Phoebus  through  the  gallery  pane 
Tinge  with  his  beam  the  beams  of  Drury  Lane, 
While  gradual  parties  fill  our  widen'd  pit. 
And  gape,  and  gaze,  and  wonder,  ere  they  sit. 

"  At  first,  while  vacant  seats  give  choice  and  ease, 
Distant  or  near,  they  settle  where  they  please ; 
But  when  the  multitude  contracts  the  span, 
And  seats  are  rare,  they  settle  where  they  can. 

"  Now  the  full  benches,  to  late  comers,  doom 
No  room  for  standing,  miscall'd  standing  room. 

"  Hark  !  the  check-taker  moody  silence  breaks, 
And  bawling  '  Pit  full,'  gives  the  check  he  takes." 

pp.  116,  117. 

The  tuning  of  the  orchestra  is  given  with 
the  same  spirit  and  fidelity;  but  we  rather 
choose  to  insert  the  following  descent  of  a 
playbill  from  the  upper  boxes : — 

"  Perchance,  while  pit  and  gallery  cry,  *  hats  off",' 
And  aw'd  consumption  checks  his  chided  cough. 
Some  giggling  daughter  of  the  queen  of  love 
Drops,  reft  of  pin,  her  play-bill  from  above  ; 
Like  Icarus,  while  laughing  galleries  clap. 
Soars,  ducks,  and  dives  in  air,  the  printed  scrap : 
But,  wiser  far  than  he,  combustion  fears. 
And,  as  it  flies,  eludes  the  chandeliers  ; 
Till  sinking  gradual,  with  repea-ted  twirl. 
It  settles,  curling,  on  a  fiddler's  curl ; 
Who  from  his  powder'd  pate  the  intruder  strikes. 
And,  for  mere  malice,  sticks  it  on  the  spikes." 

p.  ]  18. 

The  quaintness  and  minuteness  of  the  fol- 
lowing catalogue,  are  also  in  the  very  spirit 
of  the  original  author — bating  always  the  un- 
due allowance  of  puns  and  concetti  to  which 
w^e  have  already  alluded  t — 

"  What  various  swains  our  motley  walls  contain  ! 
Fashion  from  Moorfields,  honour  from  Chick  Lane; 
Bankers  from  Paper  Buildings  here  resort. 
Bankrupts  from  Golden  Square  and  Riches  Courtt 


MADAME  DE  STAEL. 


in 


The  lottery  cormorant,  the  auction  shark, 
The  full-price  master,  and  the  hall-price  clerk  ; 
Boys  who  long  linger  at  the  gallery  door, 
\Vith  pence  twice'^five, — they  want  but  twopence 
Till  some  Samaritan  the  twopence  spares,     [more. 
And  sends  them  jumping  up  the  gallery  stairs. 
Critjcs  we  boast  who  ne'er  their  malice  baulk, 
But  talk  their  minds, — we  wish  they'd  mind  their 
Big-worded  bullies,  who  by  quarrels  live,       [talk  ! 
Who  give  the  lie,  and  tell  the  lie  they  give  ; 
And  bucks  with  pockets  empty  as  their  pate. 
Lax  in  their  gaiters,  laxer  in  their  gait." 

pp.  118,  119. 

We  shall  conclude  Mnth  the  episode  on  the 
loss  and  recovery  of  Pat  Jennings'  hat — which, 
if  Mr.  Crabbe  had  thought  at  all  of  describing, 
we  are  persuaded  he  would  have  described 
precisely  as  follows  : — 

"  Pat  Jennings  in  the  upper  gallery  sat, 
But,  leaning  forward,  Jennings  lost  his  hat ; 
Down  from  the  gallery  the  beaver  flew. 
And  spurn'd  the  one  to  settle  in  the  two. 
How  shall  he  act  ?  Pay  at  the  gallery  door 
Two  shillings  for  what  cost  when  new  but  four? 
Now,  while  his  fears  anticipate  a  thief, 
John  MuUins  whispers,  take  my  handkerchief. 
Thank  you,  cries  Pat,  but  one  won't  make  a  line  ; 
Take  mine,  cried  Wilson,  and  cried  Stokes  take 
A  motley  cable  soon  Pat  Jennings  ties,  [mine. 

Where  Spitalfields  with  real  India  vies  ; 
Like  Iris'  bow,  down  darts  the  painted  hue 
Starr'd,  strip'd,  and  spotted,  yellow,  red,  and  blue. 
Old  calico,  torn  silk,  and  muslin  new. 
George  Greene  below,  with  palpitating  hand, 
Loops  the  last  kerchief  to  the  beaver's  band: 
Upsoars  the  prize  ;  the  youth  with  joy  unfeign'd, 
Regain' d  the  felt,  and  felt  what  he  regain'd  ; 
While  to  the  applauding  galleries  grateful  Pat 
Made  a  low  bow,  and  touch' d  the  ransom' d  hat." 

The  Ghost  of  Samuel  Johnson  is  not  very 
good  as  a  whole :  though  some  passages  are 
singularly  happy.  The  measure  and  solemnity 
of  his  sentences,  in  all  the  limited  variety  of 
their  structure,  is  imitated  with  skill; — but 
the  diction  is  caricatured  in  a  vulg-ar  and  un- 
pleasing  degree.  To  make  Johnson  call  a 
door  ''a  ligneous  barricade,"  and  its  knocker 
and  bell  its"  '-'  frappant  and  tintinabulant  ap- 
pendages," is  neither  just  nor  humorous; 
and  we  are  surprised  that  a  writer  who  has 
given  such  extraordinary  proofs  of  his  talent 
for  finer  ridicule  and  fairer  imitation,  should 
have  stooped  to  a  vein  of  pleasantry  so  low^,  and 
so  long  ago  exhausted  ;  especially  as,  in  other 
passages  of  the  same  piece,  he  has  shown 
how  w^ell  qualified  he  was  both  to  catch  and 
to  render  the  true  characteristics  of  his  original. 
The  beginning,  for  example,  we  think  excel- 
lent:— 


"  That  which  was  organised  by  the  moral  ability 
of  one,  has  been  executed  by  ihe  physical  effort  o; 
many  ;  and  Drury  Lane  'I  heatre  is  now  com 
plete.  Of  that  part  behind  the  curtain,  which  has 
not  yet  been  destined  to  glow  beneath  the  brush  of 
the  varnisher,  or  vibraie  to  the  hammer  of  the  car- 
penter, little  is  thought  by  the  public,  and  little 
need  be  said  by  the  committee.  Truth,  however, 
is  not  to  be  sacrificed  for  the  accommodation  of 
either  ;  and  he  who  should  pronounce  that  our  edi- 
fice has  received  its  final  embellishment,  would  be 
disseminating  falsehood  without  incurring  favour, 
and  risking  the  disgrace  of  detection  without  partici- 
pating the  advantage  of  success. 

"Let  it  not,  however,  be  conjectured,  that  be- 
cause we  are  unassuming,  we  are  imbecile ;  that 
forbearance  is  any  indication  of  despondency,  or 
humility  of  demerit.  He  that  is  the  most  assured 
of  success  will  make  the  fewest  appeals  to  favour ; 
and  where  nothing  is  claimed  that  is  undue,  nothing 
that  is  due  will  be  withheld.  A  swelling  opening 
is  too  often  succeeded  by  an  insignificant  conclu- 
sion. Parturient  mountains  have  ere  now  produced 
muscipular  abortions;  and  the  auditor  who  com- 
pares incipient  grandeur  with  final  vulgarity,  is  re- 
minded of  the  pious  hawkers  of  Constantinople, 
who  solemnly  perambulate  her  streets,  exclaiming, 
'  In  the  name  of  the  prophet — figs  !'  " — pp.  54,  55. 

It  ends  with  a  solemn  eulogium  on  Mr. 
Whitbread,  which  is  thus  w^ound  up : — 

*'  To  his  never-slumbering  talents  you  are  in- 
debted for  whatever  pleasure  this  haunt  of  the 
Muses  is  calculated  to  aflford.  If,  in  defiance  of 
chaotic  malevolence,  the  destroyer  of  the  temple 
of  Diana  yet  survives  in  the  name  of  Herostratus, 
surely  we  may  confidently  predict,  that  the  rebuilder 
of  the  temple  of  Apollo  will  stand  recorded  to  dis- 
tant posterity,  in  that  of — Samuel  Whitbread." 

pp.  59,  6a 

Our  readers  will  now  have  a  pretty  good 
idea  of  the  contents  of  this  amusing  little 
volume.  We  have  no  conjectures  to  offer  as 
to  its  anonymous  author.  He  w-ho  is  such  a 
master  of  disguises,  may  easily  be  supposed 
to  have  been  successful  in  concealing  him- 
self;— and  with  the  power  of  assuming  so 
many  styles,  is  not  likely  to  be  detected  by 
his  own.  We  should  guess,  however,  that  he 
had  not  written  a  great  deal  in  his  own  char- 
acter— that  his  natural  style  was  neither  very 
lofty  nor  very  grave — and  that  he  rather  in- 
dulges a  partiality  for  puns  and  verbal  plea- 
santries. We  marvel  why  he  has  shut  out 
Campbell  and  Rogers  from  his  theatre  of  liv- 
ing poets; — and  confidently  expect  to  have 
our  curiosity  in  this  and  in  all  other  particu- 
lars very  speedily  gratified,  when  the  ap- 
plause of  the  country  shall  induce  him  to  take 
off  his  mask. 


(JDcrember,  1S28.) 


(Euvres  Inedites  dc  Madame  la  Baronnc  de  Stael,  puhliees  par  son  Fils  ;  precedees  d^une  Notin 
sur  le  Caractere  et  les  Ecrits  de  M.  de  Stael.  Par  Madame  Necker  Saussure.  Trois  tomes 
8vo.    London,  Treuttel  and  Wurtz :  1820. 

We  are  very  much  indebted  to  Madame  i  It  is,  to  be  sure,  rather  in  the  nature  of  a  Patie- 
Necker  Saussure  for  this  copious,  elegant,  and    gyric  than  of  an  impartial  biography — ana. 
afTectionate  account  of  her  friend  and  cousin.  1  w-ith  the  sagacity,  morality,  and  skill  in  com 
47 


73R 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


position  which  ceem  to  he  endemic  in  the 
society  of  Geneva,  h';3  also  perhaps  some- 
thhig  of  the  forma'.!}-,  mannerism,  and  di- 
dactic amlition  of  ihat  very  intellectual  so- 
ciety. For  a  personal  memoir  of  one  so  much 
distinguished  in  society,  it  is  not  sufhciently 
individual  or  familiar — and  a  great  deal  too 
little  feminine,  for  a  woman's  account  of  a 
woman,  who  never  forgot  her  sex,  or  allowed 
it  to  be  forgotten.  The  only  things  that  indi- 
cate a  female  author  in  the  work  before  us, 
are  the  decorous  purity  of  her  morality — the 
feebleness  of  her  political  speculations — and 
her  never  telling  the  age  of  her  friend. 

The  world  probably  knows  as  much  already 
of  M.  and  Madame  Necker  as  it  will  care 
ever  to  know :  Yet  we  are  by  no  means  of 
opinion  that  too  much  is  said  of  them  here. 
They  were  both  very  good  people — neither 
of  the  most  perfect  bon  ton,  nor  of  the  very 
highest  rank  of  understanding, — but  far  above 
the  vulgar  level  certainly,  in  relation  to  either. 
The  likenesses  of  them  with  which  we  are 
here  presented  are  undoubtedly  very  favour- 
able, and  even  flattering;  but  still,  we  have 
no  doubt  that  they  are  likenesses,  and  even 
very  cleverly  executed.  We  hear  a  great  deal 
about  the  strong  understanding  and  lofty  prin- 
ciples of  Madame  Necker,  and  of  the  air  of 
purity  that  reigned  in  her  physiognomy  :  But 
we  are  candidly  told  also,  that,  with  her  tall 
and  stiff  figure,  and  formal  manners,  '•  il  y 
avoit  de  la  gene  en  elle,  et  aupres  d'elle;" 
and  are  also  permitted  to  learn,  that  after 
having  acquired  various  branches  of  know- 
ledge by  profound  study,  she  unluckily  be- 
came persuaded  that  all  virtues  and  accom- 
plishments might  be  learned  in  the  same 
manner;  and  accordingly  set  herself,  with 
might  and  main,  "to  study  the  arts  of  conver- 
sation and  of  housekeeping — together  with 
the  characters  of  individuals,  and  the  manage- 
ment of  society — to  reduce  all  these  things 
to  system,  and  to  deduce  from  this  system 
precise  rules  for  the  regulation  of  her  con- 
duct." Of  M.  Necker,  again,  it  is  recorded, 
in  very  emphatic  and  aflfectionate  terms. 
that  he  was  extraordinarily  eloquent  and  ob- 
serving, and  equally  full  of  benevolence  and 
practical  wisdom  :  But  it  is  candidly  admit- 
ted that  his  eloquence  was  more  sonorous 
than  substantial,  and  consisted  rather  of  well- 
rounded  periods  than  impressive  thoughts ; 
that  he  was  reserved  and  silent  in  general 
society,  took  pleasure  in  thwarting  his  wife 
in  the  education  of  their  daughter,  and  actu- 
ally treated  the  studious  propensity  of  his 
ingenious  consort  with  so  little  respect,  as  to 
prohibit  her  from  devoting  any  time  to  com- 
position, and  even  from  having  a  table  to 
write  at ! — for  no  better  reason  than  that  he 
might  not  be  annoyed  with  the  fear  of  dis- 
turbing her  when  he  came  into  her  apart- 
ment !  He  was  a  great  joker,  too,  in  an  inno- 
cent paternal  way,  in  his  own  family;  but  we 
cannot  find  that  his  witticisms  ever  had  much 
success  in  other  places.  The  worship  of  M. 
Necker,  in  short,  is  a  part  of  the  established 
religion,  we  perceive,  at  Geneva;  but  we 
suspect  that  the  Priest  has  made  the  God, 


here  as  in  other  instances;  and  rather  think 
the  Avorthy  financier  must  be  contented  to  bfl 
known  to  posterity  chiefly  as  the  fatiier  of 
Madame  de  Stael. 

But  however  that  may  be,  the  education  of 
their  only  child  does  not  seem  to  have  been 
gone  about  very  prudently,  by  these  sage 
personages;  and  if  Mad.  de  Stael  had  not 
been  a  very  extraordinary  creature,  both  as 
to  talent  and  temper,  from  the  very  beginning, 
she  could  scarcely  have  escaped  being  pretty 
well  spoiled  between  them.  Her  mother  had 
a  notion,  that  the  best  thing  that  could  be 
done  for  a  child  was  to  cram  it  with  all  kinds 
of  knowledge,  without  caring  very  much  whe- 
ther it  understood  or  digested  any  part  of  it ; 
— and  so  the  poor  little  girl  was  overtasked 
and  overeducated,  in  a  very  pitiless  way,  for 
several  years;  till  her  health  became  seri- 
ously impaired,  and  they  were  obliged  to  let 
her  run  idle  in  the  woods  for  some  years 
longer — where  she  composed  pastorals  and 
tragedies,  and  became  exceedingly  romantic. 
She  was  then  taken  up  again ;  and  set  to  her 
studies  with  greater  moderation.  All  this 
time,  too,  her  father  was  counteracting  the 
lessons  of  patient  application  inculcated  by 
her  mother,  by  the  half-playful  disputations 
in  which  he  loved  to  engage  her,  and  the  dis- 
play which  he  could  not  resist  making  of  her 
lively  talents  in  society.  Fortunately,  this 
last  species  of  training  fell  most  in  with  her 
disposition;  and  she ■  escaped  being  solemn 
and  pedantic,  at  some  little  risk  of  becoming 
forward  and  petulant.  Still  more  fortunately, 
the  strength  of  her  understanding  was  such 
as  to  exempt  her  almost  entirely  from  this 
smaller  disadvantage. 

Nothing,  however,  could  exempt  her  from 
the  danger  and  disadvantage  of  being  a  youth- 
ful Prodigy;  and  there  never  perhaps  was  an 
instance  of  one  so  early  celebrated,  whose 
celebrity  went  on  increasing  to  the  last  period 
of  her  existence.  We  have  a  very  lively  pic- 
ture of  her,  at  eleven  years  of  age,  in  the 
work  before  us;  where  she  is  represented  as 
then  a  stout  brown  girl,  with  fine  eyes,  and 
an  open  and  affectionate  manner,  full  of  eager 
curiosity,  kindness,  and  vivacity.  In  the  draw- 
ing-room, she  took  her  place  on  a  little  stool 
beside  her  mother's  chair,  where  she  was 
forced  to  sit  very  upright,  and  to  look  as  de- 
mure as  possible :  But  by  and  by,  two  or 
three  wise-looking  oldish  gentlemen,  with 
round  wigs,  came  up  to  her,  and  entered  into 
animated  and  sensible  conversation  with  her, 
as  with  a  wit  of  full  age ;  and  those  were 
Raynal,  Marmontel,  Thomas,  and  Grimm.  At 
table  she  listened  with  delighted  attention  to 
all  that  fell  from  those  distinguished  guests; 
and  learned  incredibly  soon  to  discuss  all  sub- 
jects with  them,  without  embarrassment  or 
affectation.  Her  biographer  says,  indeed,  that 
she  was  '-always  young,  and  never  a  child  ;" 
but  it  does  seem  to  us  a  trait  of  mere  child- 
ishness, though  here  cited  as  a  proof  of  her 
filial  devotion,  that,  in  order  to  insure  for  her 
parents  the  gratification  of  Mr.  Gibbon's  so- 
ciety, she  proposed,  about  the  same  time,  that 
she  should  marry  him !  and  combated,  with 


MADAME  DE  STAEL. 


73)1 


g'eal  earnestness,  all  the  objections  that  were 
stated  to  this  extraordinary  union. 

He/  temper  appears  from  the  very  first  to 
have  been  delightful;  and  her  heart  full  of 
genei-osity  and  kindness.  Her  love  for  her 
father  rose  almost  to  idolatry  ;  and  though  her 
taste  for  talk  and  distinction  carried  her  at 
last  tt  good  deal  away  from  him,  this  earliest 
passion  seems  never  to  have  been  superseded, 
or  even  interrupted,  by  any  other.  Up  to  the 
age  of  twenty,  she  employed  herself  chiefly 
with  poems  and  plays ; — but  took  after  that  to 
prose.  We  do  not  mean  here  to  say  any  thing 
of  her  different  works,  the  history  and  ana- 
lysis of  which  occupies  two-thirds  of  the  JVo 
tice  before  us.  Her  fertility  of  thought,  and 
warmth  of  character,  appeared  first  in  her 
Letters  on  Rousseau ;  but  her  own  character  is 
best  portrayed  in  Delphine — Corinne  showing 
rather  what  ghe  would  have  chosen  to  be. 
Daring  her  sufferings  from  the  Revolution,  she 
wrote  her  works  on  Literature  and  the  Pas- 
sions, and  her  more  ambitious  book  on  Ger- 
many. After  that,  with  more  subdued  feel- 
ings— more  confirmed  principles — and  more 
pvactical  wisdom,  she  gave  to  the  world  her 
admirable  Considerations  on  the  French  RevQ- 
lution ;  having,  for  many  years,  addicted  her- 
self almost  exclusively  to  politics,  under  the 
conviction  which,  in  the  present  condition  of 
the  world,  can  scarcely  be  considered  as  erro- 
neous, that  under  "  politics  were  comprehend- 
ed morality,  religion,  and  literature." 

She  was,  from  a  very  early  period,  a  lover 
of  cities,  of  distinction,  and  of  brilliant  and 
varied  discussion — cared  little  in  general  for 
the  beauties  of  nature  or  art — and  languished 
and  pined,  in  spite  of  herself,  when  confuied 
to  a  narrow  society.  These  are  common 
enough  traits  in  famous  authors,  and  people 
of  fashion  and  notoriety  of  all  other  descrip- 
tions: But  they  were  united  in  her  with  a 
warmth  of  affection,  a  temperament  of  enthu- 
siasm, and  a  sweetness  of  temper,  with  which 
we  do  not  know  that  they  were  ever  combined 
in  any  other  individual.  So  far  from  resem- 
bling the  poor,  jaded,  artificial  creatures  who 
live  upon  stimulants,  and  are  with  difficulty 
kept  alive  by  the  constant  excitements  of 
novelty,  flattery,  and  emulation,  her  great 
characteristic  was  an  excessive  movement  of 
the  soul — a  heart  overcharged  with  sensibility, 
a  frame  over-informed  with  spirit  and  vitality. 
All  her  affections,  says  Madame  Necker, — her 
friendship,  her  filial,  her  maternal  attachment, 
partook  of  the  nature  of  Love — were  accom- 
panied by  its  emotion,  almost  its  passion — 
and  very  frequently  by  the  violent  agitations 
which  belong  to  its  fears  and  anxieties.  With 
all  this  animation,  however,  and  with  a  good 
deal  of  vanity — a  vanity  which  delighted  in 
recounting  her  successes  in  society,  and  made 
her  speak  without  reserve  of  her  own  great 
talents,  influence,  and  celebrity — she  seems 
to  have  had  no  particle  of  envy  or  malice  in 
her  composition.  She  was  not  in  the  least 
degree  vindictive,  jealous,  or  scornful  j  but 
uniformly  kind,  indulgent,  compassionate,  and 
forgiving — or  rather  forgetful  of  injuries.  In 
•hese  respects  she  is  very  justly  and  advan- 


tageously contrasted  with  Rousseiiu;  whtj, 
with  the  same  warmth  of  imagination,  and 
still  greater  professions  of  pjiilanlhropy  in  hia 
writings,  uniformly  indicated  in  l!is  individual 
character  the  most  irritable,  suspicious,  and 
selfish  dispositions;  and  plainly  showed  that 
his  affection  for  mankind  was  entirely  theo- 
retical, and  had  no  living  objects  in  this  world. 

Madame  de  Stael's  devotion  to  her  father 
is  sufficiently  proved  by  her  writings; — but 
it  meets  us  under  a  new  aspect  in  the  Memoir 
now  before  us.  The  only  injuries  which  she 
could  not  forgive  were  those  offered  to  him. 
She  could  not  bear  to  think  that  he  was  ev«r 
to  grow  old ;  and,  being  herself  blinded  to  hia 
progressive  decay  by  Tier  love  and  sanguine 
temper,  she  resented,  almost  with  fury,  every 
insiimation  or  casual  hint  as  to  his  age  or  de- 
clining health.  After  his  death,  this  passion 
took  another  turn.  Every  old  man  now  re- 
called the  image  of  her  father !  and  she 
watched  over  the  comforts  of  all  such  per- 
sons, and  wept  over  their  sufferhigs,  with  a 
painful  intenseness  of  sympathy.  The  same 
deep  feeling  mingled  with  her  devotions;  and 
even  tinged  her  strong  intellect  wilh  a  shade 
of  superstition.  She  believed  that  her  soul 
communicated  with  his  in  prayer ;  and  that  it 
was  to  his  intercession  that  she  owed  all  the 
good  that  afterwards  befell  her.  Whenever 
she  met  with  any  piece  of  good  fortune,  she 
used  to  say,  '•  It  is  my  father  that  has  obtain- 
ed this  for  me  1" 

In  her  happier  days,  this  ruling  passion  took 
occasionally  a  more  whimsical  aspect:  and 
expressed  itself  with  a  vivacity  of  which  we 
have  no  idea  in  this  phlegmatic  country,  and 
which  more  fesembles  the  childish  irritability 
of  Voltaire,  than  the  lofty  enthusiasm  of  the 
person  actually  concerned.  We  give,  as  a 
specimen,  the  following  anecdote  from  the 
work  before  us.  Madame  Saussure  had  come  to 
Coppet  from  Geneva  in  M.  Necker's  carriage ; 
and  had  been  overturned  in  the  way,  but  with- 
out receiving  any  injury.  On  mentioning  the 
accident  to  Madame  de  Stael  on  her  arrival, 
she  asked  with  great  vehemence  who  had 
driven ;  and  on  being  told  that  it  was  Richel, 
her  father's  ordinary  coachman,  she  exclaim- 
ed in  an  agony,  "My  God,  he  may  one  day 
overturn  my  father !"  and  rung  instantly  with 
violence  for  his  appearance.  While  he  waa 
coming,  she  paced  about  the  room  in  the 
greatest  possible  aghation,  cr\'ingout.  at  every 
turn,  "My  father,  my  poor  father  J  he  might 
have  been  overturned  !" — and  turning  to  her 
friend,  "At  your  age,  and  with  your  slight 
person,  the  danger  is  nothing — but  with  his 
age  and  bulk !  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  it." 
The  coachman  now  came  in;  and  this  lady, 
so  mild  and  indulgent  and  reasonable  with  all 
her  attendants,  turned  to  him  in  a  sort  of 
frenzy,  and  with  a  voice  of  solemnity,  bul 
choked  with  emotion,  said,  "  Richel,  do  you 
know  that  I  am  a  woman  of  genius'?" — The 
poor  man  stood  in  astonishment — and  she 
went  on,  louder,  "  Have  you  not  heard,  I  say, 
that  I  am  a  woman  of  genius  ?"  Coachy  was 
still  mute.  "  Well  then  !  I  tell  you  that  I  am 
a  woman  of  genius — of  great  genius — of  nro- 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


digious  genius! — and  I  tell  you  more — that 
all  the  genius  I  have  shall  be  exerted  to  se- 
cure your  rotting  out  your  days  in  a  dungeon, 
if  ever  you  overturn  my  father  !"  Even  after 
the  fit  was  over,  she  could  not  be  made  to 
laugh  at  her  extravagance ;  but  was  near  be- 
ginning again — and  said  "  And  what  had  I  to 
conjure  with  but  my  poor  genius?" 

Her  insensibility  to  natural  beauty  is  rather 
unaccountable,  in  a  mind  constituted  like  hers, 
and  in  a  native  of  Switzerland.  But,  though 
born  in  the  midst  of  the  most  magnificent 
scenery,  she  seems  to  have  thought,  like  Dr. 
Johnson,  that  there  was  no  scene  equal  to  the 
high  tide  of  human  existence  in  the  heart  of 
a  populous  city.  ''Give  me  the  Rue  de  Bae,^^ 
said  she,  when  her  gue.sts  were  in  ecstasies 
with  the  Lake  of  Geneva  and  its  enchanted 
shores — '•  I  would  prefer  living  in  Paris,  in  a 
fourth  story,  with  an  hundred  Louis  a  year." 
These  were  her  habitual  sentiments; — But 
she  is  said  to  have  had  one  glimpse  of  the 
glories  of  the  universe,  w^hen  she  went  first 
to  Italy,  after  her  father's  death,  and  was  en- 
gaged with  Corinne.  And  in  that  work,  it  is 
certainly  true  that  the  indications  of  a  deep 
and  sincere  sympathy  with  nature  are  far 
more  conspicuous  than  in  any  of  her  other 
writings.  For  this  enjoyment  and  late-de- 
veloped sensibility,  she  always  said  she  was 
indebted  to  her  father's  intercession. 

The  world  is  pretty  generally  aware  of  the 
brilhancy  of  her  conversation  in  mixed  com- 
pany; but  we  were  not  aware  that  it  was 
generally  of  so  polemic  a  character,  or  tfiat 
she  herself  was  so  very  zealous  a  disputant, 
— such  a  determined  intellectual  gladiator  as 
her  cousin  here  represents  her.  Her  great 
delight,  it  is  said,  w^as  in  eager  and  even  vio- 
lent contention ;  and  her  drawing-room  at 
Coppet  is  compared  to  the  Hall  of  Odin,  where 
the  bravest  warriors  were  invited  every  day 
to  enjoy  the  tumult  of  the  fight,  and,  after 
having  cut  each  other  in  pieces,  revived  to 
renew  the  combat  in  the  morning.  In  this 
trait,  also,  she  seems  to  have  resembled  our 
Johnson, — though,  according  to  all  accounts, 
she  was  rather  more  courteous  to  her  oppo- 
nents. These  fierce  controversies  embraced 
all  sorts  of  subjects  —  politics,  morals,  litera- 
ture, casuistry,  metaphysics,  and  history.  In 
the  early  part  of  her  life,  they  turned  oftener 
upon  themes  of  pathos  and  passion — love  and 
death,  and  heroical  devotion;  but  she  was 
cured  of  this  lofty  vein  by  the  affectations  of 
her  imitators.  "I  tramp  in  the  mire  with 
wooden  shoes,"  she  said,  "whenever  they 
would  force  me  to  go  with  them  among  the 
clouds."  In  the  same  way,  though  suffici- 
ently given  to  indulge,  and  to  talk  of  her 
emotions,  she  was  easily  disgusted  by  the 
parade  of  sensibility  which  is  sometimes  made 
by  persons  of  real  feeling;  observing,  with 
admirable  force  and  simplicity,  '-Que  tous 
les  sentiments  naturels  out  leur  pudeur." 

She  had  at  all  times  a  deep  sense  of  religion. 
Educated  in  the  strict  principles  of  Calvinism, 
Bhe  was  never  seduced  into  any  admiration 
i)f  the  splendid  apparatus  and  high  pretensions 
•f  Popery;  although  she  did  not  altogether 


escape  the  seductions  of  a  mo'-e  sublime  wa- 
perstition.  In  theology,  as  well  a«  in  everj 
thing  else,  however,  she  was  less  dogmatic, 
than  persuasive ;  and,  while  speaking  from 
the  inward  conviction  of  her  own  heart,  poured 
out  its  whole  warmth,  as  well  as  its  convic- 
tions, into  those  of  others ;  and  never  seemed 
to  feel  any  thing  for  the  errors  of  her  com- 
panions but  a  generous  compassion,  and  an 
affectionate  desire  for  their  removal.  She 
rather  testified  in  favour  of  religion^  in  short, 
than  reasoned  systematically  in  its  support ; 
and,  in  the  present  condition  of  the  world, 
this  was  perhaps  the  best  service  that  could 
be  rendered.  Placed  in  many  respects  in  the 
most  elevated  condition  to  which  humanity 
could  aspire — possessed  unquestionably  of  the 
highest  powers  of  reasoning — emancipated,  in 
a  singular  degree,  from  prejudices,  and  enter- 
ing with  the  keenest  relish  into  all  the  feelings 
that  seemed  to  suffice  for  the  happiness  and 
occupation  of  philosophers,  patriots,  and  lovers 
— she  has  still  testified,  that  without  religion 
there  is  nothing  stable,  sublime,  or  satisfying ! 
and  that  it  alone  completes  and  consummates 
all  to  which  reason  or  affection  can  aspire. — 
A  genius  like  hers,  and  so  directed,  is,  as  her 
biographer  has  well  remarked,  the  only  Mis- 
sionary that  can  work  any  permanent  efl'ect  on 
the  upper  classes  of  society  in  modern  times ; — 
upon  the  vain,  the  learned,  the  scornful,  and  ar- 
gumentative,— they  "  who  stone  the  Prophets 
while  they  affect  to  offer  incense  to  the  Muses." 

Both  her  marriages  have  been  censured ; — 
the  first,  as  a  violation  of  her  principles — the 
second,  of  dignity  and  decorum.  In  that  wath 
M.  de  Stael,  she  was  probably  merely  passive. 
It  w^as  respectable,  and  not  absolutely  un- 
happy ;  but  unquestionably  not  such  as  suited 
her.  Of  that  with  M.  Rocca,  it  wull  not  per- 
haps be  so  easy  to  make  the  apology.  We 
have  no  objection  to  a  love-match  at  fifty : — 
But  where  the  age  and  the  rank  and  fortune 
are  all  on  the  lady's  side,  and  the  bridegroom 
seems  to  have  little  other  recommendation 
than  a  handsome  person,  and  a  great  deal  of 
admiration,  it  is  difficult  to  escape  ridicule, — 
or  something  more  severe  than  ridicule.  Mad. 
N.  S.  seems  to  us  to  give  a  very  candid  and 
interesting  account  of  it;  and  undoubtedly 
goes  far  to  take  off  what  is  most  revolting  on 
the  first  view,  by  letting  us  know^  that  it  origi- 
nated in  a  romantic  attachment  on  the  part 
of  M.  Rocca ;  and  that  he  was  an  ardent  suitor 
to  her,  before  the  idea  of  loving  him  had  en- 
tered into  her  imagination.  The  broken  state 
of  his  health,  too — the  short  period  she  sur- 
vived their  union — and  the  rapidity  with  which 
he  followed  her  to  the  grave — all  tend  not  only 
to  extinguish  any  tendency  to  ridicule,  but  to 
disarai  all  severity  of  censure ;  and  lead  us 
rather  to  dwell  on  the  story  as  a  part  only  of  the 
tragical  close  of  a  life  full  of  lofty  emotions. 

Like  most  other  energetic  spirits,  she  des- 
pised and  neglected  too  much  the  accommoda- 
tion of  her  body — cared  little  about  exercise, 
and  gave  herself  no  great  trouble  about  health 
With  the  sanguine  spirit  which  belonged  to 
her  character,  she  affected  to  triumph  over 
infirmity  ;  and  used  to  say — "  I  might  have 


MADAME  DE  STAEL. 


741 


been  sickly,  like  any  body  else,  had  I  not  re- 
solved to  vnnquish  all  physical  weaknesses." 
But  Nature  would  not  be  defied! — and  she 
died,  while  contemplating  still  greater  under- 
takings than  any  she  had  achieved.  On  her 
sick-bed,  none  of  her  great  or  good  qualities 
abandoned  her.  To  the  last  she  was  kind, 
patient,  devout,  and  intellectual.  Among  other 
things,  she  said — "  J'ai  toujours  ete  la  meme 

-vive  el  triste. — J'ai  aime  Dieu,  mon  pere, 
et  la  liberte  !"  She  left  life  with  regret — but 
felt  no  weak  terrors  at  the  approach  of  death 
— ^and  died  at  last  in  the  utmost  composure 
and  tranquillity. 

We  would  rather  not  make  any  summary 
at  present  of  the  true  character  and  probable 
effects  of  her  writings.  But  we  must  say, 
we  are  not  quite  satisfied  with  that  of  her 
biographer.  It  is  too  flattering,  and  too  elo- 
quent and  ingenious.  She  is  quite  right  in 
extolling  the  great  fertility  of  thought  whicfi 
characterises  the  writings  of  her  friends; — 
and.  with  relation  to  some  of  these  writings, 
she  is  not  perhaps  very  far  wrong  in  saying 
that,  if  you  take  any  three  pages  in  them  at 
random,  the  chance  is,  that  you  meet  with 
more  new  and  striking  thoughts  than  in  an 
equal  space  in  any  other  author.  But  we 
cannot  at  all  agree  with  her,  when,  in  a  very 
imposing  passage,  she  endeavours  to  show  that 
she  ought  to  be  considered  as  the  foundress 
of  a  new  school  of  literature  and  philosophy 
— or  at  least  as  the  first  who  clearly  revealed 
to  the  world  that  a  newandagranderera  was 
now  opening  to  their  gaze. 

In  so  far  as  regards  France,  and  those  coun- 
tries which  derive  their  literature  from  her 
fountains,  there  may  be  some  foundation  for 
this  remark;  but  we  cannot  admit  it  as  at  all 
Applicable  to  the  other  parts  of  Europe ;  which 
have  always  drawn  their  wisdom,  wit,  and 
fancy,  from  native  sources.  The  truth  is,  that 
previous  to  her  Revolution,  there  was  no  civil- 
ised country  where  there  had  been  so  little 
originality  for  fifty  years  as  in  France.  In 
literature,  their  standards  had  been  fixed 
nearly  a  century  before :  and  to  alter,  or  even 
to  advance  them,  was  reckoned  equally  im- 
pious and  impossible.  In  politics,  they  were 
restrained,  by  the  stale  of  their  government, 
from  any  free  or  bold  speculations;  and  in 
metaphysics,  and  all  the  branches  of  the 
higher  philosophy  that  depend  on  it,  they  had 
done  nothing  since  the  days  of  Pascal  and 
Descartes.  In  England,  however,  and  in 
Germany,  the  national  intellect  had  not  been 
thus  stagnated  and  subdued — and  a  great  deal 
of  what  startled  the  Parisians  by  its  novelty, 
in  the  writings  of  Madame  de  Stael,  had  long 
been  familiar  to  the  thinkers  of  these  two 
countries.  Some  of  it  she  confessedly  borrowed 
from  those  neighbouring  sources ;  and  some 
she  undoubtedly  invented  over  again  for  her- 
self. In  both  departments,  however,  it  would 
be  erroneous,  we  think,  to  ascribe  the  greater 
part  of  this  improvement  to  the  talents  of  this 
extraordinary  woman.  The  Revolution  had 
thrown  down,  among  other  things,  the  barriers 
by  which  literary  enterprise  had  been  so  long 
restrained   in   France  —  and   broken,  among 


other  trammels,  those  which  had  c-ircumscrib' 
ed  the  liberty  of  thinking  in  that  f^reat  coun- 
try. The  genius  of  Madame  de  Stael  co-ope. 
rated,  no  doubt,  with  the  spirit  of  the  times, 
and  assisted  its  efiects — but  it  was  also  acted 
upon,  and  in  part  created,  by  that  spirit — and 
her  works  are  rather,  perhaps,  to  be  consider- 
ed as  the  first  fruits  of  a  new  order  of  things, 
that  had  already  struck  root  in  Europe,  thxin 
as  the  harbinger  of  changes  that  still  remain 
to  be  effected.* 

In  looking  back  to  what  she  has  said,  with 
so  much  emphasis,  of  the  injustice  she  had  to 
suffer  from  Napoleon,  it  is  impossible  not  to 
be  struck  with  the  aggravation  which  that  in- 
justice is  made  to  receive  from  the  quality 
of  the  victim,  and  the  degree  in  which  those 
sufferings  are  exaggerated,  because  they  were 
her  own.  We  think  the  hostility  of  that  great 
commander  towards  a  person  of  her  sex,  char- 
acter, and  talents,  was  in  the  highest  degree 
paltry,  and  unworthy  even  of  a  high-minded 
tyrant.  But  we  really  cannot  say  that  it  seems 
to  have  had  any  thing  very  savage  or  ferocious 
in  the  manner  of  it.  He  did  not  touch,  nor 
even  menace  her  life,  nor  her  liberty,  nor  her 
fortune.  No  daggers,  nor  chains,  nor  dungeons, 
nor  confiscations,  are  among  the  instruments 
of  torture  of  this  worse  than  Russian  desp»t. 
He  banished  her,  indeed,  first  from  Paris,  and 
then  from  France ;  suppressed  her  publica 
tions :  separated  her  from  some  of  her  friends ; 
and  obstructed  her  passage  into  England  :— 
very  vexatious  treatment  certainly, — but  not 
quite  of  the  sort  which  we  should  have  guessed 
at,  from  the  tone  either  of  her  complaints  or 
lamentations.  Her  main  grief  undoubtedly 
was  the  loss  of  the  society  and  brilliant  talk 
of  Paris;  and  if  that  had  been  spared  to  her, 
we  cannot  help  thinking  that  she  would  have 
felt  less  horror  and  detestation  at  the  inroads 
of  Bonaparte  on  the  liberty  and  independence 
of  mankind.  She  avows  this  indeed  pretty 
honestly,  where  she  says,  that,  if  she  had  been 
aware  of  the  privations  of  this  sort  which  a 
certain  liberal  speech  of'M.  Constant  was 
ultimately  to  bring  upon  herself,  she  would 
have  taken  care  that  it  should  not  have  been 
spoken  !  The  truth  is,  that,  like  many  other 
celebrated  persons  of  her  country,  she  could 
not  live  happily  without  the  excitements  and 
novelties  that  Paris  alone  could  supply;  and 
that,  when  these  were  withdrawn,  all  the  vi- 
vacity of  her  genius,  and  all  the  warmth  of 
her  heart,  proved  insufficient  to  protect  her 
from  the  benumbing  influence  of  emiui.  Here 
are  her  own  confessions  on  the  record : — 

"  J'etois  vulnerable  par  mon  gout  pour  la  societe 
Montaigne  a  dit  jadis  :  Je  suis  Fra7ifois  jmr  Paris, 
et  s'il  pensoit  ainsi,  11  y  a  trois  siecles,  que  seroit-c* 
depuis  que  Ton  a  vu  reunies  tant  de  personnea 
d'esprit  dans  une  meme  ville,  et  tant  de  personnel 
accoutumees  a  se  servirde  cet  esprit  pour  les  pjaipira 
d^  la  conversation  ?  Le  fantome  de  V ennui  i/i'a 
toujours  poursuivie  !     C'est  par  la  terreur  qu'il  me 

*  A  great  deal  of  citation  and  remark,  relating 
chiefly  to  the  character  and  conduct  of  Bonaparte, 
and  especially  to  his  persecution  of  the  fair  ajthor. 
is  here  omitted — the  object  of  this  reprint  being 
solely  to  illustrate  her  Personal  character. 


742 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


cause  que  j'aurois  ete  capable  de  plier  devant  la 
tyraiinie — si  I'exemple  de  rnon  pere,  et  son  sang  qui 
coule  dans  mes  veines,  ne  remporioient  pas  sur 
cette  foiblesse." — Vol.  iii.  p.  8. 

We  think  this  rather  a  curious  trait,  and  not 
very  easily  explained.  We  can  quite  well 
understand  how  the  feeble  and  passive  spirits 
who  have  been  accustomed  to  the  stir  and 
variety  of  a  town  life,  and  have  had  their  in- 
anity supplied  by  the  superabundant  intellect 
and  gaiety  that  overflows  in  these  great  re- 
positories; should  feel  helpless  and  wretched 
vi'hen  these  extrinsic  supports  are  withdrawn : 
But  v/hy  the  active  and  energetic  members 
of  those  vast  assemblages,  who  draw  their 
resources  from  within,  and  enliven  not  only 
themselves,  but  the  inert  mass  around  them, 
by  the  radiation  of  their  genius,  should  suffer 
in  a  similar  way,  it  certainly  is  not  so  easy  to 
comprehend.  In  France,  however,  the  people 
of  the  most  wit  and  vivacity  seem  to  have 
always  been  the  most  subject  to  ennui.  The 
letters  of  Mad.  du  Deffand,  we  remember,  are 
full  of  complaints  of  it ;  and  those  of  De  Bussy 
also.  It  is  but  a  humiliating  view  of  our  frail 
human  nature,  if  the  most  exquisite  arrange- 
ments for  social  enjoyment  should  be  found 
thus  inevitably  to  generate  a  distaste  for  w^hat 
is  ordinarily  within  our  reach;  and  the  habit 
of  a  little  elegant  amusement,  not  coming  very 
close  either  to  our  hearts  or  understandings, 
should  render  all  the  other  parts  of  life,  with 
its  duties,  affections,  and  achievements,  dis- 
tasteful and  burdensome.  We  are  inclined, 
however,  we  confess,  both  to  question  the 
perfection  of  the  arrangements  and  the  system 
of  amusement  that  led  to  such  results;  and 
also  to  doubt  of  the  permanency  of  the  dis- 
comfort that  may  arise  on  its  first  disturbance. 
We  are  persuaded,  in  short,  that  at  least  as 
much  enjoyment  may  be  obtained,  with  less 
of  the  extreme  variety,  and  less  of  the  over- 
excitement  which  belongs  to  the  life  of  Paris, 
and  is  the  immediate  cause  of  the  depression 
that  follows  their  cessation ;  and  also,  that,  in 
minds  of  any  considerable  strength  and  re- 
source, this  depression  will  be  of  no  long  dura- 


tion ;  and  that  nothing  but  a  little  perseverance 
is  required  to  restore  the  plastic  frame  of  oui 
nature,  to  its  natural  appetite  and  relish  foi 
the  new  pleasures  and  occupations  that  may 
yet  await  it,  beyond  the  precincts  of  Paris  oi 
London.  We  remember  a  signal  testimony 
to  this  effect,  in  one  of  the  later  publications, 
we  think  of  Volney,  the  celebrated  traveller ; 
— who  describes,  in  a  very  amusing  way.  the 
misery  he  suffered  when  he  first  changed  the 
society  of  Paris  for  that  of  Syria  and  Egypt; 
and  tlie  recurrence  of  the  same  misery  when, 
after  years  of  absence,  he  was  again  restored 
to  the  importunate  bustle  and  idle  chatter  of 
Paris,  from  the  tranquil  taciturnity  of  his  war- 
like Mussulmans ! — his  second  access  of  home 
sickness,  when  he  left  Paris  for  the  United 
States  of  America, — and  the  discomfort  he 
experienced,  for  the  fourth  time,  when,  after 
being  reconciled  to  the  free  and  substantial 
talk  of  these  stout  republicans,  he  finally  re- 
turned to  the  amiable  trifling  of  his  own  fa- 
mous metropolis. 

It  is  an  affliction,  certainly,  to  be  at  the  end 
of  the  works  of  such  a  writer — and  to  think 
that  she  was  cut  off  at  a  period  when  her  en- 
larged experience  and  matured  talents  were 
likely  to  be  exerted  with  the  greatest  utility, 
and  the  state  of  the  world  was  such  as  to  hold 
out  the  fairest  prospect  of  their  not  being  ex- 
erted in  vain.  It  is  a  consolation,  however, 
that  she  has  done  so  much ; — And  her  works 
will  remain  not  only  as  a  brilliant  memorial 
of  her  own  unrivalled  genius,  but  as  a  proof 
that  sound  and  comprehensive  views  were 
entertained,  kind  affections  cultivated,  and 
elegant  pursuits  followed  out,  through  a  period 
which  posterity  may  be  apt  to  regard  as  one 
of  universal  delirium  and  crime ; — that  the 
principles  of  genuine  freedom,  taste,  and  mo- 
rality, were  not  altogether  extinct,  even  under 
the  reign  of  terror  and  violence — and  that  one 
who  lived  through  the  whole  of  that  agitating 
scene,  was  the  first  luminously  to  explain,  and 
tempei-ately  and  powerfully  to  impress,  the 
great  moral  and  political  Lessons,  which  it 
should  have  taught  to  mankind. 


(®£tob£r,  1833.) 

Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  the  Right  Honourable  Sir  James  Mackintosh.     Edited  by  his  Son, 
Robert  James  Mackintosh,  Esq.     2  vols.  8vo.     London :  1835.* 


There  cannot  be,  we  think,  a  more  delight- 
ful book  than  this :  whether  we  consider  the 

*  Thia  was  my  last  considerable  contribution  to 
the  Edinburgh  Review  ;  and,  indeed,  (with  the  ex- 
ception of  a  slight  notice  of  Mr.  Wilberforce's  Me- 
moirs,) the  onhf  thing  I  wrote  for  it,  after  my  ad- 
vancement to  ihe  place  I  now  hold.  If  there  was 
any  impropriety  in  my  so  contributing  at  all,  some 

f>ailiaiion  I  hope  may  be  found  in  the  nature  of  the 
ieelings  by  which  I  was  led  to  it,  and  the  tenor  of 
what  these  feelings  prompted  me  to  say.  I  wrote 
it  solely  out  of  afTection  to  the  memory  of  the  friend 
I  had  lost;  and  I  think  I  said  nothing  which  was 
no*  dictated  by  a  desire  to  vindicate  and  to  honour 


attraction  of  the  Character  it  brings  so  pleas- 
ingly before  us — or  the  infinite  variety  of  ori- 

that  memory.  At  all  events,  if  it  was  an  impro- 
priety, it  was  one  for  which  I  cannot  now  submit  to 
seek  the  shelter  of  concealment:  And  therefore  I 
here  reprint  the  greater  part  of  it :  and  think  I  can- 
not better  conclude  the  present  collection,  than  with 
this  tribute  to  the  merits  of  one  of  tbe  most  distin- 
guished of  my  Associates  in  the  work  out  of  which 
it  has  been  gathered. 

A  considerable  part  of  the  original  is  omitted  in 
this  publication  ;  but  consisting  almost  entirely  in 
citations  from  the  book  reviewed,  and  incidental  re 
marks  on  these  citations. 


LIFE  OF  SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


743 


g!i  Ai  thoughts  and  fine  observations  with 
which  it  abounds.  As  a  mere  narrative  there 
is  not  so  much  to  be  said  for  it.  There  are 
but  few  incidents;  and  the  account  which  we 
have  of  them  is  neither  very  luminous  nor 
very  complete.  If  it  be  true,  therefore,  that 
the  only  legitimate  business  of  biography  is 
with  incidents  and  narrative,  it  will  not  be 
easy  to  deny  that  there  is  something  amiss, 
either  in  the  title  or  the  substance  of  this 
work.  But  we  are  humbly  of  opinion  that  there 
is  no  good  ground  for  so  severe  a  limitation. 

Biographies,  it  appears  to  us,  are  naturally 
of  three  kinds — and  please  or  instruct  us  in  at 
least  as  many  different  ways.  One  sort  seeks 
to  interest  us  by  an  account  of  what  the  indi- 
vidual in  question  actually  did  or  suffered  in 
his  own  person :  another  by  an  account  of 
w' hat  he  saw  done  or  suffered  by  others ;  and 
a  third  by  an  account  of  what  he  himself 
thought,  judged,  or  imagined — for  these  too, 
we  apprehend,  are  acts  of  a  rational  being — 
and  acts  frequently  quite  as  memorable,  and 
as  fruitful  of  consequences,  as  any  others  he 
can  either  witness  or  perform. 

Different  readers  will  put  a  different  value 
on  each  of  these  sorts  of  biography.  But  at 
all  events  they  will  be  in  no  danger  of  con- 
founding them.  The  character  and  position 
of  the  individual  will  generally  settle,  with 
sufficient  precision,  to  which  class  his  me- 
moirs should  be  referred  ;  and  no  man  of  com- 
mon sense  will  expect  to  meet  in  one  with  the 
kind  of  interest  which  properly  belongs  to 
another.  To  complain  that  the  life  of  a  war- 
rior is  but  barren  in  literary  speculations,  or 
that  of  a  man  of  letters  in  surprising  personal 
adventures,  is  about  as  reasonable  as  it  would 
be  to  complain  that  a  song  is  not  a  sermon,  or 
that  there  is  but  little  pathos  is  a  treatise  on 
geometry. 

The  first  class,  in  its  higher  or  public  de- 
partment, should  deal  chiefly  with  the  lives  of 
leaders  in  great  and  momentous  transactions 
— men  who,  by  their  force  of  character,  or  the 
advantage  of  their  position,  have  been  enabled 
to  leave  their  mark  on  the  age  and  country  to 
which  they  belonged,  and  to  impress  more 
than  one  generation  with  the  traces  of  their 
transitory  existence.  Of  this  kind  are  many 
of  the  lives  in  Plutarch  ;  and  of  this  kind,  still 
more  eminently,  should  be  the  lives  of  such 
men  as  Mahomet,  Alfred,  Washington,  Napo- 
leon. There  is  an  inferior  and  more  private 
department  under  this  head,  in  which  the  in- 
terest, thousrh  less  elevated,  is  often  quite  as 
intense,  and  rests  on  the  same  general  basis, 
of  sympathy  with  personal  feats  and  endow- 
ments— we  mean  the  history  of  individuals 
whom  the  ardour  of  their  temperament,  or  the 
caprices  of  fortune,  have  involved  in  strange 
adventures,  or  conducted  through  a  series  of 
extraordinary  and  complicated  perils.  The 
memoirs  of  Benvenuto  Cellini,  or  Lord  Her- 
bert of  Cherbury,  are  good  examples  of  this 
romantic  sort  of  biography;  and  many  more 
might  be  added,  from  the  chronicles  of  an- 
cient paladins,  or  the  confessions  of  modern 
fiialefactors. 

The  second  class  is  chiefly  for  the  compilers 


of  Diaries  and  journals — autobiographers  who, 
without  having  themselves  done  any  thing 
memorable,  have  yet  had  the  good  luck  to  live 
through  long  and  interesting  periods;  and 
who,  in  chronicling  the  events  of  their  own 
unimportant  lives,  have  incidentally  preserv- 
ed invaluable  memorials  of  contemporary 
manners  and  events.  The  Memoirs  of  Eve- 
lyn and  Pepys  are  the  most  obvious  instances 
of  works  which  derive  their  chief  value  from 
this  source;  and  which  are  read,  not  for  any 
great  interest  we  take  in  the  fortunes  of  the 
writers,  but  for  the  sake  of  the  anecdotes  and 
notices  of  far  more  important  personages  and 
transactions  wnth  which  they  so  lavishly  pre- 
sent us ;  and  there  are  many  others,  written 
with  far  inferior  talent,  and  where  the  design 
is  more  palpably  egotistical,  which  are  perused 
with  an  eager  curiosity,  on  the  strength  of  the 
same  recommendation. 

The  last  class  is  for  Philosophers  and  men 
of  Genius  and  speculation — men,  in  short,  who 
were,  or  ought  to  have  been.  Authors;  and 
whose  biographies  are  truly  to  be  regarded 
either-  as  supplements  to  the  works  they  have 
given  to  the  world,  or  substitutes  for  those 
which  they  might  have  given.  These  are 
histories,  not  of  men,  but  of  Minds;  and  their 
value  must  of  course  depend  on  the  reach  and 
capacity  of  the  mind  they  serve  to  develope, 
and  in  the  relative  magnitude  of  their  contri- 
butions to  its  history.  When  the  individual 
has  already  poured  himself  out  in  a  long  series 
of  publications,  on  which  all  the  moods  and 
aspects  of  his  mind  have  been  engraven  (as  in 
the  cases  of  Voltaire  or  Sir  Walter  Scott),  there 
may  be  less  occasion  for  such  a  biographical 
supplement.  But  when  an  author  (as  in  the 
case  of  Gray)  has  been  more  chary  in  his  com- 
munications with  the  public,  and  it  is  yet  pos- 
sible to  recover  the  precious,  though  imma- 
ture, fruits  of  his  genius  or  his  studies, — 
thoughts,  and  speculations,  which  no  intelli- 
gent posterity  would  w^illingly  let  d'?, — it  is 
due  both  to  his  fame  and  to  the  best  interests 
of  mankind,  that  they  should  be  preserved, 
and  reverently  presented  to  after  times,  in 
such  a  posthumous  portraiture  as  it  is  the  bu- 
siness of  biography  to  supply. 

The  best  and  most  satisfactory  memorials 
of  this  sort  are  those  which  are  substantially 
made  up  of  private  letters,  journals,  or  writ- 
ten fragments  of  any  kind,  by  the  party  him- 
self ;  as  these,  however  scanty  or  imperfect, 
are  at  all  events  genuine  Relics  of  the  indivi- 
dual, and  generally  bearing,  even  more  au- 
thentically than  his  publications,  the  stamp  of 
his  intellectual  and  personal  character.  We 
cannot  refer  to  better  examples  than  the  lives 
of  Gray  and  of  Cowper,  as  these  have  been 
finally  completed.  Next  to  these,  if  not  upon 
the  same  level,  we  should  place  such  admira- 
ble records  of  particular  conversations,  and 
memorable  sayings  gathered  from  the  lips  of 
the  wise,  as  we  find  in  the  inimitable  pages 
of  Boswell, — a  work  which,  by  the  genera- 
consent  of  this  generation,  has  not  only  made 
us  a  thousand  times  better  acquainted  with 
Johnson  than  all  his  publications  put  together 
but  has  raised  the  standard  of  his  inteliectuaJ 


744 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


character,  and  actually  made  discovery  of 
large  provinces  in  his  understanding,  of  which 
scarcely  an  indication  was  to  be  found  in»his 
writings.  In  the  last  and  lowest  place — in  so 
far.  at  least,  as  relates  to  the  proper  business 
of  this  branch  of  biogTaphy,  the  enlargement 
of  our  knowledge  of  the  genius  and  character 
of  individuals — we  must  reckon  that  most 
common  form  of  the  memoirs  of  literary  men, 
which  consists  of  little  more  than  the  biogra- 
pher's own  (generally  most  partial)  descrip- 
tion and  estimate  of  his  author's  merits,  or  of 
elucidations  and  critical  summaries  of  his 
most  remarkable  productions.  In  this  divi- 
sion, though  in  other  respects  of  great  value, 
must  be  ranked  those  admirable  dissertations 
w  hich  Mr.  Stewart  has  given  to  the  world  un- 
der the  title  of  the  Lives  of  Reid,  Smith,  and 
Robertson, — the  real  interest  of  which  con- 
sists almost  entirely  in  the  luminous  exposi- 
tion we  there  meet  with  of  the  leading  specu- 
lations of  those  eminent  writers,  and  in  the 
candid  and  acute  investigation  of  their  origi- 
nality or  truth. 

We  know  it  has  been  said,  that  after  a  man 
has  himself  given  to  the  public  all  that  he 
thought  worthy  of  its  acceptance,  it  is  not  fair 
for  a  posthumous  biographer  to  endanger  his 
reputation  by  bringing  forward  what  he  had 
withheld  as  unworthy, — either  by  exhibiting 
the  mere  dregs  and  refuse  of  his  lucubrations, 
or  by  exposing  to  the  general  gaze  those  crude 
conceptions,  or  rash  and  careless  opinions, 
which  he  may  have  noted  down  in  the  pri- 
vacy of  his  study,  or  thrown  out  in  the  confi- 
dence of  private  conversation.  And  no  doubt 
there  may  be  (as  there  have  been)  cases  of 
such  abuse.  Confidence  is  in  no  case  to  be 
violated ;  nor  are  mere  trifles,  which  bear  no 
mark  of  the  writer's  intellect,  to  be  recorded 
to  his  prejudice.  But  wherever  there  is  power 
and  native  genius,  we  cannot  but  grudge  the 
suppression  of  the  least  of  its  revelations;  and 
are  persuaded,  that  with  those  who  can  judge 
of  such  intellects,  they  will  never  lose  any 
thing  by  the  most  lavish  and  indiscriminate 
disclosures.  Which  of  Swift's  most  elaborate 
productions  is  at  this  day  half  so  interesting 
as  that  most  confidential  Journal  to  Stella?  Or 
which  of  them,  with  all  its  utter  carelessness 
of  expression,  its, manifold  contradictions,  its 
infantine  fondness,  and  all  its  quick-shifting 
moods,  of  kindness,  selfishness,  anger,  and 
ambition,  gives  us  half  so  strong  an  impres- 
sion either  of  his  amiableness  or  his  vigour? 
How  much,  in  like  manner,  is  Johnson  raised 
in  our  estimation,  not  only  as  to  intellect  but 
personal  character,  by  the  industrious  eaves- 
droppings  of  Boswell,  setting  down,  day  by 
day,  in  his  note-book,  the  fragments  of  his 
nnost  loose  and  unweighed  conversations  ?  Or 
what,  in  fact,  is  there  so  precious  in  the  works, 
or  ihe  histories,  of  eminent  men,  from  Cicero 
to  Horace  Walpole,  as  collections  of  their  pri- 
vate and  familiar  letters?  What  would  we 
not  give  for  such  a  journal — such  notes  of 
conversations,  or  such  letters,  of  Shakespeare, 
('haucer,  or  Spenser?  The  mere  drudges  or 
coyf'ombs  of  literature  may  indeed  suffer  by 
sncn  disclosures — as  made-up  beauties  might 


do  by  being  caught  in  undress :  but  all  who 
are  really  worth  knowing  about,  will,  on  tho 
whole,  be  gainers;  and  we  should  be  well 
content  to  have  no  biographies  but  of  those 
who  would  profit,  as  well  as  their  readers,  b]^ 
being  shown  in  new  or  in  nearer  lights. 

The  value  of  the  insight  which  may  thus 
be  obtained  into  the  mind  and  the  meaning 
of  truly  great  authors,  can  scarcely  be  over- 
rated by  any  one  who  knows  how  to  turn 
such  communications  to  account ;  and  we  do 
not  think  w-e  exaggerate  when  we  say,  that 
in  many  cases  more  light  may  be  gained  from 
the  private  letters,  notes,  or  recorded  talk  of 
such  persons,  than  from  the  most  finished  of 
their  publications;  and  not  only  upon  the 
many  new  topics  which  are  sure  to  be  started 
in  such  memorials,  but  as  to  the  true  charac- 
ter, and  the  merits  and  defects,  of  such  pub- 
lications themselves.  It  is  from  such  sources 
alone  that  we  can  learn  with  certainty  by 
what  road  the  author  arrived  at  the  conclu- 
sions which  we  see  established  in  his  works; 
against  w^hat  perplexities  he  had  to  struggle, 
and  after  what  failures  he  was  at  last  enabled 
to  succeed.  It  is  thus  only  that  we  are  often 
enabled  to  detect  the  prejudice  or  hostility 
which  may  be  skilfully  and  mischievously 
disguised  in  the  published  book — to  find  out 
the  doubts  ultimately  entertained  by  the  au- 
thor himself,  of  what  may  appear  to  most 
readers  to  be  triumphantly  established, — or 
to  gain  glimpses  of  those  grand  ulterior  specu- 
lations, to  which  what  seemed  to  common 
eyes  a  complete  and  finished  system,  was,  in 
truth,  intended  by  the  author  to  serve  only  as 
a  vestibule  or  introduction.  Where  such 
documents  are  in  abundance,  and  the  mind 
which  has  produced  them  is  truly  of  the  high- 
est oixler,  we  do  not  hesitate  to  say,  that  more 
will  generally  be  found  in  them,  in  the  way 
at  least  of  hints  to  kindred  minds,  and  as 
scattering  the  seeds  of  grand  and  original 
conceptions,  than  in  any  finished  works  which 
the  indolence,  the  modesty,  or  the  avocations 
of  such  persons  wnll  have  generally  permitted 
them  to  give  to  the  world.  So  far,  therefore, 
from  thinking  the  biography  of  men  of  genius 
barren  or  unprofitable,  because  presenting  few 
events  or  personal  adventures,  we  cannot  but 
regard  it,  when  constructed  in  substance  of 
such  materials  as  we  have  now  mentioned, 
as  the  most  instructive  and  interesting  of  all 
writing — embodying  truth  and  wisdom  in  the 
vivid  distinctness  of  a  personal  presentment^ 
— enabling  us  to  look  on  genius  in  its  first 
elementary  stirrings,  and  in  its  weakness  as 
well  as  its  strength, — and  teaching  us  at  the 
same  time  great  moral  lessons,  both  as  to  the 
value  of  labour  and  industry,  and  the  neces- 
sity of  virtues,  as  well  as  intellectual  endow 
ments,  for  the  attainment  of  lasting  excellence. 

In  these  general  remarks  our  readers  will 
easily  perceive  that  we  mean  to  shadow  forth 
our  conceptions  of  the  character  and  peculiar 
merits  of  the  work  before  us.  It  is  the  history 
not  of  a  man  of  action,  but  of  a  student,  a 
philosopher,  and  a  statesman;  and  its  value 
consists  not  in  the  slight  and  imperfect  ac- 
count of  what  was  done  by,  or  happened  to, 


LIFE  OF  SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


745 


the  indivi.li:ai,  but  in  the  vestiges  it  has 
fortunately  preserved  of  the  thoughts,  senti- 
ments, and  opinions  of  one  of  the  most  power- 
ful thinkers,  most  conscientious  inquirers,  and 
most  learned  reasoners,  that  the  world  has 
ever  seen.  It  is  almost  entirely  made  up  of 
journals  and  letters  of  the  author  himself; 
and  impresses  us  quite  as  strongly  as  any  of 
his  publications  with  a  sense  of  the  richness 
of  his  knowledge  and  the  fineness  of  his  un- 
derstanding— and  with  a  far  stronger  sense 
of  his  promptitude,  versatility,  and  vigour.* 

His  intellectual  character,  generally,  can- 
not be  unknown  to  any  one  acquainted  with 
his  works,  or  w'ho  has  even  read  many  pages 
of  the  Memoirs  now  before  us;  and  it  is  need- 
less, therefore,  to  speak  here  of  his  great 
knowledge,  the  singular  union  of  ingenuity 
and  soundness  in  his  speculations — his  per- 
fect candour  and  temper  in  discussion — the 
pure  and  lofty  morality  to  which  he  strove  to 
elevate  the  minds  of  others,  and  in  his  own 
conduct  to  conform,  or  the  wise  and  humane 
allowance  which  he  was  ready,  in  every  case 
but  his  own,  to  make  for  the  infirmities  which 
must  always  draw  down  so  many  from  the 
higher  paths  of  their  duty. 

These  merits,  we  believe,  will  no  longer  be 
denied  by  any  who  have  heard  of  his  name, 
or  looked  at  his  writings.  But  there  were 
other  traits  of  his  intellect  which  could  only 
be  known  to  those  who  were  of  his  acquaint- 
ance, and  which  it  is  still  desirable  that  the 
readers  of  these  Memoirs  should  bear  in 
mind.  One  of  these  was,  that  ready  and  pro- 
digious Memory,  by  which  all  that  he  learned 
"jjemed  to  be  at  once  engraved  on  the  proper 
compartment  of  his  mind,  and  to  present 
itself  at  the  moment  it  w-as  required ;  another, 
""::••  I'liore  remarkable,  was  the  singular  Ma- 
nirity  and  completeness  of  all  his  views  and 
opinions,  even  upon  the  most  abstruse  and 
complicated  questions,  though  raised,  wnthout 
•  •.ssign  or  preparation,  in  the  casual  course  of 
conversation.  In  this  way  it  happened  that 
the  sentiments  he  delivered  had  generally 
the  eiir  of  recollections — and  that  few  of  those 
,t^ith  whom  he  most  associated  in  mature  life, 
could  recollect  of  ever  catching  him  in  the 
act  of  making  up  his  mind,  in  the  course  of 
the  discussions  in  which  it  w^as  his  delight  to 
engage  them.  His  conclusions,  and  the  grounds 
of  them,  seemed  always  to  have  been  pre- 
viously considered  and  digested  ;  and  thotigh 
he  willingly  developed  his  reasons,  to  secnre 
the  assent  of  his  hearers,  he  uniformly  seemed 
to  have  been  perfectly  ready,  before  the  cause 
was  called  on,  to  have  delivered  the  opinion 
of  the  cc7irt,  with  a  full  summary  of  the  argu- 
ments and  evidence  on  both  sides.  In  the 
w-ork  before  us,  we  have  more  peeps  into  the 
preparatory  deliberations  of  his  great  intellect 
— that  scrupulous  estimate  of  the  grounds  of 
decision,  and  that  jealous  questioning  of  first 
impressions,  which  necessarily  precede  the 
formation  of  all  firm  and  wise  opinions. — than 
could  probably  be  collected  from  the  recol- 


*  A  short  account  of  Sir  James'  parentage,  edu- 
cation, and  personal  history  is  here  omitted. 


lections  of  all  who  had  most  familiar  access  to 
him  in  society.  It  was  owing  perhaps  to  lliis 
vigour  and  rapidity  of  intellectual  digestion 
that,  though  all  his  life  a  great  talker,  there 
never  was  a  man  that  talked  half  so  much 
who  said  so  little  that  was  either  foolish  oi 
frivolous ;  nor  any  one  perhaps  who  knew 
so  well  how  to  give  as  much  liveliness  and 
poignancy  just  and  even  profound  observa- 
tions, as  others  could  ever  impart  to  startling 
extiavagunce,  and  ludicrous  exaggeration.  The 
vast  extent  of  his  information,  and  the  natural 
gaiety  of  his  temper,  made  him  independent 
of  such  devices  lor  producing  eflect ;  and, 
joined  to  the  inherent  kindness  and  gentle- 
ness of  his  disposition,  made  his  conversation 
at  once  the  most  instructive  and  the  most 
generally  pleasing  that  could  be  imagined. 

Of  his  intellectual  endowments  we  shall 
say  no  more.  But  we  must  add,  that  the 
Tenderness  of  his  domestic  affections,  and 
the  deep  Humility  of  his  character,  were  aa 
inadequately  known,  even  among  his  friends, 
till  the  publication  of  those  private  records : 
For  his  manners,  though  gentle,  were  cclu : 
and,  though  uniformly  courteous  and  candid 
in  society,  it  was  natural  to  suppose  that  he 
w^as  not  unconscious  of  his  superiority.  It  ia 
therefore,  but  justice  to  bring  into  view  some 
of  the  proofs  that  are  now  before  us  of  both 
these  endearing  traits  of  character.  The 
beautiful  letter  w-hich  he  addressed  to  Dr. 
Parr  on  the  death  of  his  first  wife,  in  1797., 
breathes  the  full  spirit  of  both.  We  regret 
that  we  can  only  afford  room  for  a  part  of  it. 

"  Allow  me,  in  justice  to  her  memory,  to  leil 
you  what  she  was,  and  what  I  owed  her.  I  wa** 
guided  in  my  choice  only  by  the  blind  affection  oi 
my  youth.  I  found  an  intelligent  companion,  and 
a  tender  friend  ;  a  prudent  monitress,  the  most 
fail  hful  of  wives,  and  a  mother  as  tender  as  children 
ever  had  the  misfortune  to  lose.  1  found  a  woman 
whd.  by  the  tender  management  of  my  weaknesses, 
gradually  corrected  the  most  pernicious  of  them. 
She  became  prudent  from  affection  ;  and  though  of 
the  most  generous  nature,  she  was  taught  economy 
and  frugality  by  her  love  for  me.  During  ihe  most 
critical  period  of  my  life,  she  preserved  order  in  my 
affairs,  from  the  care  of  which  she  relieved  me.  She 
genily  reclaimed  mc  from  dissipation  ;  she  propped 
my  weak  and  irresolute  nature  ;  she  urged  my  in- 
dolence to  all  the  exertions  that  have  been  useful 
or  creditable  to  me,  and  she  was  perpetually  at  hand 
to  admonish  my  heedlessness  and  improvidence. 
To  her  I  owe  whatever  I  am  ;  to  her  whatever  I 
shall  be.  Such  was  she  whom  I  have  lost  !  And 
I  have  lost  her  after  eight  years  of  struggle  and  dis- 
tress had  bound  us  fast  together,  and  mru-iied  our 
tempers  to  each  other, — when  a  knowL«jge  of  her 
worth  had  refined  my  youthful  love  into  friendship, 
and  before  age  had  deprived  it  of  much  of  its  origi- 
nal ardour, — I  lost  her,  alas!  (the  choice  of  my 
youth,  and  the  partner  of  my  misfortunes)  at  a  mo- 
ment when  I  had  the  prospect  of  her  sharing  my 
better  days! 

"  The  philosophy  which  T  have  learnt  only  teaches 
me  that  virtue  and  friendship  are  the  greatest  of 
human  blessings,  and  that  their  loss  is  irreparable. 
It  aggravates  my  calamity,  instead  of  consoling  me 
under  it.  But  my  wounded  heart  seeks  another 
consolation.  Governed  by  those  feelings,  which 
have  in  every  age  and  region  of  the  world  actuated 
the  human  mind,  I  seek  relief,  and  I  find  it,  in 
the  soothing  hope  and  consolatory  opinion,  that  a 
Benevolent  Wisdom  inflicts  the  c/ia«Jtisement,  a» 


746 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


well  as  bestows  the  enjoyments  of  human  life  ;  that 
Superintending  Goodness  will  one  day  enlighten 
the  darkness  which  surrounds  our  nature,  and  hangs 
over  our  prospects  ;  that  this  dreary  and  wretched 
life  is  not  the  whole  of  man  ;  that  an  animal  so 
sagacious  and  provident,  and  c  ipable  of  such  pro- 
ficiency in  science  and  virtue,  is  not  like  the  beasts 
that  perish  ;  that  there  is  a  dwelling-place  prepared 
for  the  spirits  of  the  just,  and  that  the  ways  of  God 
will  yet  be  vindicated  to  man." 

W«  may  add  part  of  a  very  kind  letter, 
written  from  India,  in  1808,  in  a  more  cheer- 
ful mood,  to  his  son-in-law  Mr.  Rich,  then  on 
a  mission  to  Babylon, — and  whose  early  death 
so  soon  blasted  the  hopes,  not  only  of  his  afflict- 
ed family,  but  of  the  whole  literary  world. 

"  And  now,  my  dear  Rich,  allow  me,  with  the 
liberty  of  warm  affection,  earnestly  to  exhort  you 
to  exert  every  power  of  your  mind  in  the  duties  of 
your  station.  There  is  something  in  the  serious- 
ness, both  of  business  and  of  science,  of  which  your 
vivacity  is  impatient.  The  brilliant  variety  of  your 
attainments  and  accomplishments  do,  1  fear,  flatter 
you  into  the  conceit  that  you  may  '  indulge  your 
genius,'  and  pass  your  life  in  amusement ;  while 
you  smile  at  those  who  think,  and  at  those  who  act. 
But  this  would  be  weak  and  ignoble.  The  success 
of  your  past  studies  ought  to  show  you  how  much 
you  may  yet  do,  instead  of  soothing  you  with  the 
reflection  how  much  you  have  done. 

*'  Habits  of  seriousness  of  thought  and  action  are 
necessary  to  the  duties,  to  the  importance,  and  to 
the  dignity  of  human  life.  What  is  amiable  gaiety 
at  twenty-four  might  run  the  risk,  if  it  was  unac- 
companied by  other  things,  of  being  thought  frivo- 
lous and  puerile  at  forty-four.  I  am  so  near  forty- 
four,  that  I  can  give  you  pretty  exact  news  of  that 
dull  country  ;  which  yet  ought  to  interest  you,  as 
you  are  travelling  towards  it,  and  must,  I  hope, 
pass  through  it. 

"I  hope  you  will  profit  by  my  errors.  I  was 
once  ambitious  to  have  made  you  a  much  improved 
edition  of  myself.  If  you  had  stayed  here,  I  should 
have  laboured  to  do  so,  in  spite  of  your  impatience  ; 
as  it  is,  I  heartily  pray  that  you  may  make  your- 
self something  much  better. 

"  You  came  here  so  early  as  to  have  made  few 
sacrifices  of  friendship  and  society  at  home.  You 
can  afford  a  good  many  years  for  making  a  hand- 
some fortune,  aud  still  return  home  young.  You 
do  not  feel  the  force  of  that  word  quite  so  much  as 
I  could  wish  :  But  for  the  present  let  me  hope  that 
the  prospect  of  coming  to  one  who  has  such  an 
affection  for  you  as  I  have,  will  give  your  country 
some  of  the  attractions  of  home.  If  you  can  be 
allured  to  it  by  the  generous  hope  of  increasing  the 
enjoyments  of  my  old  age,  you  will  soon  discover 
in  it  sufficient  excellences  to  love  and  admire  ;  and 
it  will  become  to  you,  in  the  full  force  of  the  term, 
a  home." 

We  are  not  sure  whether  the  frequent  as- 
pirations which  we  find  in  his  private  letters, 
after  the  quiet  and  repose  of  an  Academical 
situation,  ought  to  be  taken  as  proofs  of  his 
humility,  though  they  are  generally  expressed 
in  language  bearing  that  character.  But  there 
are  other  indications  enough,  and  of  the  most 
unequivocal  description — for  example,  this 
entry  in  1818  : — 

" has,  I  think,  a  distaste  for  me.     I  think 

the  worse  of  nobody  for  such  a  feeling.  Indeed  I 
often  feel  a  distaste  for  myself;  and  I  am  sure  I 
should  not  esteem  my  own  character  in  another 
person.     It  is  more  likely  that  I  should  have  dis- 

respectable  or  disagreeable  qualities,  than  that 

fihonld  have  an  unreasonable  antipathy. 

Vol.  ii.  p.  344. 


In  the  same  sad  but  gen  lie  .spirit,  we  hare 
this  entry  in  1822  : — 

"  Walked  a  little  up  the  quiet  valley,  which  on 
this  clieerful  morning  looked  pretty.  While  sitting 
on  the  stone  under  the  tree,  my  mind  was  soothed 

by  reading  some  passages  of in  the  Quarterly 

Review.  With  no  painful  humility  I  felt  that  an 
enemy  of  mine  is  a  man  of  genius  and  virtue  ;  and 
that  all  who  think  slightingly  of  me  may  be  right." 

But  the  strongest  and  most  painful  expres- 
sion of  this  profound  humility  is  to  be  lound 
in  a  note  to  his  Dissertation  on  Ethical  Philo- 
sophy ;  in  which,  after  a  beautiful  eulogium 
on  his  deceased  friends,  Mr.  George  Wilson 
and  Mr.  Serjeant  Lens,  he  adds — 

"  The  present  writer  hopes  that  the  good-natured 
reader  will  excuse  him  for  having  thus,  perhaps 
unseasonably,  bestowed  heartfelt  commendation 
on  those  who  were  above  the  pursuit  of  praise,  and 
the  remembrance  of  whose  good  opinion  and  good- 
will helps  to  support  him,  under  a  deep  sense  of 
faults  and  vices." 

The  reader  now  knows  enough  of  Sir 
James'  personal  character  'to  enter  readily 
into  the  spirit  of  any  extracts  we  may  lay  be- 
fore him.  The  most  valuable  of  these  are 
supplied  by  his  letters,  journals,  and  occa- 
sional writings,  while  enjoying  the  compara- 
tive leisure  of  his  Indian  residence,  or  the 
complete  leisure  of  his  voyage  to  and  from 
that  country:  and,  with  all  due  deference  to 
opposite  opinions,  this  is  exactly  what  we 
should  have  expected.  Sir  James  Mackin- 
tosh, it  is  well  known,  had  a  great  relish  for 
Society ;  and  had  not  constitutional  vigour 
(after  his  return  from  India)  to  go  through 
much  Business  without  exhaustion  and  fatigue. 
In  London  and  in  Parliament,  therefore,  his 
powerful  intellect  was  at  once  too  much  dis- 
sipated, and  too  much  oppressed ;  and  the 
traces  it  has  left  of  its  exertions  on  those 
scenes  are  comparatively  few  and  inadequate. 
In  conversation,  no  doubt,  much  that  was  de- 
lightful and  instructive  was  thrown  out;  and, 
for  w^ant  of  a  Boswell,  has  perished  !  But, 
though  it  may  be  true  that  we  have  thus  lost 
the  light  and  graceful  flowers  of  anecdote  and 
conversation,  we  would  fain  console  ourselves 
with  the  belief  that  we  have  secured  the  more 
precious  and  mature  fruits  of  studies  and 
meditations,  which  can  only  be  pursued  to 
advantage,  when  the  cessation  of  more  impor- 
tunate calls  has  "  left  us  leisure  to  be  wise." 

With  reference  to  these  views,  nothing  has 
struck  us  more  than  the  singular  vigour  and 
alertness  of  his  understanding  during  the  dull 
progress  of  his  home  voyage.  Shut  up  in  a 
small  cabin,  in  a  tropical  climate,  in  a  state 
of  languid  health,  and  subject  to  every  sort 
of  annoyance,  he  not  only  reads  with  an  in- 
dustry which  would  not  disgrace  an  ardent 
Academic  studying  for  honours,  but  plunges 
eagerly  into  original  speculations,  and  linishes 
off  some  of  the  most  beautiful  compositions 
in  the  language,  in  a  shorter  time  than  would 
be  allowed,  for  such  subjects,  to  a  contractor 
for  leading  paragraphs  to  a  daily  paper.  In 
less  than  a  fortnight,  during  this  voyage,  he 
seems  to  have  thrown  off' nearly  twenty  elabo 
rate  characters  of  eminent  authors  or  states 


LIFE  OF  SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


74' 


rr.en  in  English  story — conceived  with  a  just- 
ness, and  executed  with  a  delicacy,  which 
would  seem  unattainable  without  long  medi- 
tation and  patient  revisal.  We  cannot  now 
venture,  however,  to  present  our  readers  with 
more  than  a  part  of  one  of  them  )  and  we  take 
oui  extract  from  that  of  Samuel  Johnson. 

"  In  early  youth  he  had  resisted  the  most  severe 

<ests  of  proliity.  Neither  the  extreme  poverty  nor 
the  uncertain  income  to  which  the  virtue  of  so  many 
jnen  of  letters  has  yielded,  even  in  the  slightest  de- 
jjree  weakened  his  integrity,  or  lowered  the  dignity 
of  his  independence.  His  moral  principles  (if  the 
'anguage  may  be  allowed)  partook  of  the  vigour  of 
his  understanding.  He  was  conscientious,  sincere, 
determined  ;  and  his  pride  was  no  more  than  a 
iteady  consciousness  of  superiority  in  the  most  valu- 
able qualities  of  human  nature.  His  friendships 
were  not  only  firm,  but  generous  and  tender,  be- 
iieaih  a  rugged  exterior.  He  wounded  none  of  those 
feelings  which  the  habits  of  his  life  enabled  him  to 
estimate  ;  but  he  had  become  too  hardened  by  se- 
rious distress  not  to  contract  some  disregard  for 
diose  minor  delicacies  which  become  so  keenly  sen- 
jible,  in  a  calm  and  prosperous  fortune.  He  was  a 
Tory,  not  without  some  propensities  towards  Jacob- 
itism;  and  a  High  Churchman,  with  more^ttachment 
to  ecclesiastical  authority  and  a  splendid  worship, 
than  is  quite  consistent  with  the  spirit  of  Protestant- 
ism. On  these  subjects  he  neither  permitted  himself 
to  doubt,  nor  tolerated  difference  of  opinion  in  others. 
But  the  vigour  of  his  understanding  is  no  more  to 
be  estimated  by  his  opinions  on  subjects  where  it 
was  bound  by  his  prejudices,  than  the  strength  of  a 
man's  body  by  the  efforts  of  a  limb  in  fetters.  His 
conversation,  which  was  one  of  the  most  powerful 
instruments  of  his  extensive  influence,  was  artificial, 
dogmatical,  sententious,  and  poignant  ;  adapted, 
with  the  mest  admirable  versatility,  to  every  sub- 
ject as  it  arose,  and  distinguished  by  an  almost  un- 
paralleled power  of  serious  repartee.  He  seems  to 
have  considered  himself  as  a  sort  of  colloquial  mag- 
istrate, who  inflicted  severe  punishment  from  just 
policy.  His  course  of  life  led  him  to  treat  those 
sensibilities,  which  such  severity  wounds,  as  fantas- 
tic and  effeminate  ;  and  he  entered  society  too  late 
to  acquire  those  habits  of  politeness  which  are  a  sub- 
stitute for  natural  delicacy. 

"  In  the  progress  of  English  style,  three  periods 
may  be  easily  distinguished.  The  first  period  ex- 
tended from  Sir  Thomas  More  to  Lord  Clarendon. 
During  great  part  ,pf  this  period,  the  style  partook 
of  the  rudeness  and  fluctuation  of  an  unformed  lan- 
guage, in  which  use  had  not  yet  determined  the 
words  that  were  to  be  English".  Writers  had  not 
yet  discovered  the  combination  of  words  which  best 
suits  the  original  structure  and  immutable  constitu- 
tion of  our  language.  While  the  terms  were  Eng- 
lish, the  arrangement  was  Latin — the  exclusive  lan- 
guage of  learning,  and  that  in  which  every  truth  in 
science,  and  every  model  of  elegance,  was  then 
contemplated  by  youth.  For  a  century  and  a  half, 
ineffectual  attempts  were  made  to  bend  our  vulgar 
tongue  to  the  genius  of  the  language  supposed  to  be 
superior;  and  the  whole  of  this  period,  though  not 
without  a  capricious  mixture  of  coarse  idiom,  may 
be  called  the  Latin,  or  pedantic  age,  of  our  style. 

"  In  the  second  period,  which  extended  from  the 
Restoration  to  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century,  a 
Beries  of  writers  appeared,  of  less  genius  indeed  than 
their  predecessors,  but  more  successful  in  their  expe- 
riments to  discover  the  mode  of  writing  most  adapted 
to  the  genius  of  the  language.  About  the  same  pe- 
riod that  a  similar  change  was  effected  in  France 
by  Pascal,  they  began  to  banish  from  style,  learned 
ns  well  as  vulgar  phraseology  ;  and  to  confine  them- 
lelves  to  the  part  of  the  language  naturally  used  in 
general  conversation  by  well-educated  men.  That 
middle  region  which  lies  between  vulgarity  and 
.  oedantry,   remains    commonly   unchanged,   while 


both  extremes  are  condemned  to  perpetual  revolu- 
tion. Those  who  select  words  from  that  permanent 
part  of  a  language,  and  who  arrr.nge  them  according 
to  its  natural  order,  have  discovered  the  true  secret 
of  rendering  their  writings  permanent ;  and  of  pre- 
serving that  rank  among  the  classical  writers  of 
their  country,  which  men  of  greater  intellectual 
power  have  iailed  to  attain.  Of  tliese  writers,  whose 
language  has  not  yet  been  at  all  superannuated, 
Cowley  was  probably  the  earliest,  as  Dryden  and 
Addison  were  assuredly  the  greatest. 

♦'  The  third  period  may  be  called  the  Rhetorical, 
and  is  distinguished  by  the  prevalence  of  a  school 
of  writers,  of  which  Johnson  was  the  founder.  The 
fundamental  character  of  tliis  style  is,  that  it  em- 
ploys undisguised  art,  where  classical  writers  appear 
only  to  obey  the  impulse  of  a  cultivated  and  adorned 
nature,  «fec. 

"  As  the  mind  of  Johnson  was  robust,  but  neither 
nimble  nor  graceful,  so  his  style,  though  sometimes 
significant,  nervous,  and  even  majestic,  was  void 
of  all  grace  and  ease  ;  and  being  the  most  unlike 
of  all  styles  to  the  natural  effusion  of  a  cultivated 
mind,  had  the  least  pretensions  to  the  praise  of  elo- 
quence. During  the  period,  now  near  a  close,  in 
which  he  was  a  favourite  rnodel,  a  stiff  symmetry 
and  tedious  monotony  succeeded  to  that  various 
music  with  which  the  taste  of  Addison  diversified 
his  periods,  and  to  that  natural  imagery  which  his 
beautiful  genius  seemed  with  graceful  negligence  to 
scatter  over  his  composition." 

We  stop  here  to  remark,  that,  though  con- 
curring in  the  substance  of  this  masterly  clai^ 
sification  of  our  writers.  M-e  should  yet  be  dis- 
posed to  except  to  that  part  of  it  which 
represents  the  first  introduction  of  soft,  grace- 
ful, and  idiomatic  English  as  not  earlier  thaii 
the  period  of  the  Restoration.  In  our  opinioi: 
it  is  at  least  as  old  as  Chaucer.  The  English 
Bible  is  full  of  it;  and  it  is  among  the  most 
common,  as  well  as  the  most  beautiful,  of  the 
many  languages  spoken  by  Shakespeare. 
Laying  his  verse  aside,  there  are  in  his  longer 
passages  of  prose — and  in  the  serious  as  well 
as  the  humorous  parts — in  Hamlet,  and  Bru- 
tus, and  Shylock,  and  Henry  V,,  as  well  as  in 
Falstaff^  and  Touchstone,  Rosalind,  and  Bene- 
dick, a  ^staple  of  sweet,  mellow,  and  natural 
English,  altogether  as  free  and  elegant  as  that 
of  Addison,  and  for  the  most  part  more  vigor- 
ous and  more  richly  coloured.  The  same  may 
be  said,  with  some  exceptions,  of  the  other 
dramatists  of  that  age.  Sir  James  is  right 
perhaps  as  to  the  grave  and  authoritative  wri- 
ters of  prose ;  but  few  of  the  wits  of  Queen 
Anne's  time  were  of  that  description.  We 
shall  only  add  that  part  of  the  sequel  which 
contains  the  author's  general  account  of  the 
Lives  of  the  Poets. 

"  Whenever  understanding  alone  is  sufficient  for 
poetical  criticism,  the  decisions  of  Johnson  are 
generally  right.  But  the  beauties  of  poetry  must 
he  felt  before  their  causes  are  investigated.  There 
is  a  poetical  sensibility,  which  in  the  progress  of  the 
mind  becomes  as  distinct  a  power  as  a  musical  ear 
or  a  picturesque  eye.  Without  a  considerable  de- 
gree of  this  sensibility,  it  is  as  vain  for  a  man  of  the 
greatest  understanding  to  speak  of  the  higher  beau 
ties  of  poetry,  as  it  is  for  a  blind  man  to  speak  of 
colours.  But  to  cultivate  such  a  talent  was  wholly 
foreign  from  the  worldly  sagacity  and  stern  shrewd- 
ness of  Johnson.  As  in  his  judgment  of  life  and 
character,  so  in  his  criticism  on  poetry,  he  was  a 
sort  of  free-ihinker.  He  suspected  the  refined  of 
affectation  ;  he  rejected  the  enthusiactic  as  absurd  , 
and  he  took  it  for  granted  that  the  mysteiious  waa 


748 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


unintelligible.  He  came  into  the  world  when  the 
school  ot  Dryden  and  Pope  gave  the  law  to  English 
poetry  In  that  school  he  had  himself  learned  to 
be  a  lofty  and  vigorous  declaimer  in  harmonious 
verse ;  beyond  that  school  his  unforced  admiration 
perhaps  scarcely  soared ;  and  his  highest  efiort  of 
criticism  was  accordingly  the  noble  panegyric  on 
Dryden.  His  criticism  owed  its  popularity  as  much 
to  its  defects  as  to  its  excellences.  It  was  on  a  level 
with  the  majority  of  readers — persons  of  good  sense 
and  information,  but  of  no  exquisite  sensibility  ;  and 
to  their  minds  it  derived  a  false  appearance  of  so- 
lidity, from  that  very  narrowness,  which  excluded 
those  grander  efforts  of  imagination  to  which  Aris- 
totle and  Bacon  have  confined  the  name  of  poetry." 

The  admirable  and  original  delineationj 
of  which  this  is  but  a  small  part,  appears  to 
have  been  the  task  of  one  disturbed  and 
sickly  day.  We  have  in  these  volumes  char- 
acters of  Hume,  Swift,  Lord  Mansfield,  Wilkes, 
Goldsmith,  Gray,  Franklin,  Sheridan,  Fletcher 
of  Saltoun,  Louis  XIV.,  and  some  others,  all 
finished  with  the  same  exquisite  taste,  and 
conceived  in  the  sahie  vigorous  and  candid 
spirit;  besides  which,  it  appears  from  the 
Journal,  that  in  the  same  incredibly  short 
period  of  fourteen  or  fifteen  days,  he  had 
made  similar  delineations  of  Lord  North, 
Paley,  George  Grenville,  C.  Townshend,  Tur- 
got,  Malesherbes,  Young,  Thomson,  Aiken- 
side,  Lord  Bolingbroke,  and  Lord  Oxford ; 
though  (we  know  not  from  what  cause)  none 
of  these  last  mentioned  appear  in  the  present 
publication. 

During  the  same  voyage,  the  perusal  of 
Madame  de  Sevigne's  Letters  engages  him 
(at  intervals)  for  about  a  fortnight ;  in  the 
course  of  which  he  has  noted  down  in  his 
Journal  more  just  and  delicate  remarks  on  her 
character,  and  that  of  her  age,  than  we  think 
are  any  where  else  to  be  met  with.  But  we 
cannot  now  venture  on  any  extract ;  and  must 
confine  ourselves  to  the  following  admirable 
remarks  on  the  true  tone  of  polite  conversa- 
tion and  familiar  letters, — suggested^  by  the 
same  fascinating  collection : — 

"  When  a  woman  of  feeling,  fancy,  and  accom- 
plishment has  learned  to  converse  with  ease  and 
grace,  from  long  intercourse  with  the  most  polished 
fociety,  and  when  she  writes  as  she  speaks,  she 
must  write  letters  as  they  ought  to  be  written  ;  if 
she  has  acquired  just  as  much  habitual  correctness 
as  is  reconcilable  with  the  air  of  negligence.  A 
moment  of  enthusiasm,  a  burst  of  feeling,  a  flash  of 
eloquence  may  be  allowed  ;  but  the  intercourse  of 
society,  either  in  conversation  or  in  letters,  allows 
no  more.  Though  interdicted  from  the  long-con- 
tinued use  of  elevated  language,  they  are  not  with- 
out a  resource.  There  is  a  part  of  language  which 
is  disdained  by  the  pedant  or  the  declaimer,  and 
which  both,  if  they  knew  its  difficulty,  would  ap- 
proach with  dread  ;  it  is  formed  of  the  most  familiar 
phrases  and  turns  in  daily  use  by  the  generality  of 
men,  and  is  full  of  energy  and  vivacity,  bearing 
ypon  it  the  mark  of  those  keen  feelings  and  strong 
passions  from  which  it  springs.  It  is  the  employ- 
ment of  such  phrases  which  produces  what  may  be 
called  colloquial  eloquence.  Conversation  and  let- 
ters may  be  thus  raised  to  any  degree  of  animation, 
without  departing  from  their  character.  Any  thing 
may  be  said,  if  it  be  spoken  in  the  tone  of  society. 
The  highest  guests  are  welcome  if  they  come  in 
the  easy  undress  of  the  club  ;  the  strongest  meta- 
phor appears  without  violence,  if  it  is  familiarly  ex- 
pressed ;  and  we  the  more  easily  catch  the  warm- 
est feeling,  if  we  perceive  that  it  is  intentionally 


lowered  in  expression,  out  of  condescension  to  ovt 
calmer  temper.  It  is  thus  that  harangues  and  dec- 
lamations, the  last  proof  of  bad  taste  and  bad  man 
ners  in  conversation,  are  avoided,  while  the  iancy 
and  the  heart  find  the  means  of  pouring  forth  all 
their  stores.  To  meet  this  despised  pari  ot  language 
in  a  polished  dress,  and  producing  all  the  effects  of 
wit  and  eloquence,  is  a  constant  source  of  agreeable 
surprise.  This  is  increased,  when  a  few  bolder 
and  higher  words  are  happily  wrought  into  the  tex- 
ture of  this  familiar  eloquence.  To  find  what  seems 
so  unlike  author-craft  in  a  book,  raises  the  pleasing 
astonishment  to  its  highest  degree.  1  once  thought 
of  illustrating  my  notions  by  numerous  examples 
from  '  La  Sevigne.'  And  I  must,  some  day  or 
other,  do  so;  though  I  think  it  the  resource  of  a 
bungler,  who  is  not  enougu  master  of  language  to 
convey  his  conceptions  into  the  minds  of  others. 
The  style  of  Madame  de  Sevigne  is  evidently  copied, 
not  only  by  b.er  worshipper,  VValpole,  but  even  by 
Gray  ;  who,  notwithstanding  the  extraordinary  mer- 
its of  his  matter,  has  the  double  stiffness  of  an  imi- 
tator, and  of  a  college  recluse." 

How  many  debatable  points  are  fairly  set- 
tled by  the  following  short  and  vigorous  re- 
marks, in  the  Journal  for  1811 : — 

"  Finished  George  Rose's  '  Observations  on 
Fox's  Hi^ry,'  which  are  tedious  and  inefficient. 
That  James  was  more  influenced  by  a  passion  for 
arbitrary  power  than  by  Popish  bigotry,  is  an  idle 
refinement  in  Fox:  fie  liked  both  Popery  and 
tyranny;  and  I  am  persuaded  he  did  not  himself 
know  which  he  liked  best.  But  I  take  it  to  be  cer- 
tain that  the  English  people,  at  the  Revolution, 
dreaded  his  love  of  Popery  more  than  his  love  of 
tyranny.  This  was  in  them  Protestant  bigotry, 
not  reason  :  But  the  instinct  of  their  bigotry  pointed 
right.  Popery  was  then  the  name  for  the  faction 
which  supported  civil  and  religious  tyranny  in 
Europe :  To  be  a  Papist  was  to  be  a  partisan  of  the 
ambition  of  Louis  XIV." 

There  is  in  the  Bombay  Journal  of  the  same 
year,  a  beautiful  essay  on  Novels,  and  the 
moral  effect  of  fiction  in  general,  the  whole 
of  which  we  should  like  to  extract ;  but  it  ia 
far  too  long.  It  proceeds  on  the  assumption, 
that  as  all  fiction  must  seek  to  interest  by 
representing  admired  qualities  in  an  exagge- 
rated form,  and  in  striking  aspects,  it  must 
tend  to  raise  the  standard,  and  increase  the 
admiration  of  excellence.  In  answer  to  an 
obvious  objection,  he  proceeds — 

"  A  man  who  should  feel  ail  the  various  senti- 
ments of  morality,  in  the  proportions  in  wliich  they 
are  inspired  by  the  Iliad,  would  certainly  be  far 
from  a  perfectly  good  man.  But  it  does  not  follow 
that  the  Iliad  did  not  produce  great  moral  benefit. 
To  determine  that  point,  we  must  ascertain  whether 
a  man,  Ibrmed  by  the  Iliad,  would  be  better  than 
the  ordinary  man  of  the  country,  at  the  time  in 
which  it  appeared.  It  is  true  that  it  too  much  in- 
spires an  admiration  for  ferocious  courage.  That 
admiration  was  then  prevalent,  and  every  circum 
stance  served  to  strengthen  it.  But  the  Iliad 
breathes  many  other  sentiments,  less  prevalent 
less  favoured  by  the  state  of  society,  and  calculated 
gradually  to  mitigate  the  predominant  passion.  The 
friendship  and  sorrow  of  Achilles  for  Patroclus,  the 
patriotic  valour  of  Hector,  the  paternal  affliction  of 
Priam,  would  slowly  introduce  more  humane  affec- 
tions. If  they  had  not  been  combined  with  the  ad 
miration  of  barbarous  courage,  they  would  not  have 
been  popular;  and  consequently  they  would  have 
found  no  entry  into  those  savage  hearts  which  they 
were  destined  (I  do  not  say  ijiteiidcd)  to  soften.  It 
is  therefore  clear,  from  the  very  nature  of  poetry, 
that  the  poet  must  inspire  somewhat  better  morals 
than  those  around  him  ;  though,  to  be  effectual  and 


LIFE  OF  SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


749 


flseful,  his  niorals  must  not  be  totally  unlike  those 
of  liis  coniempora/ies.  If  the  Iliad  should,  in  a  long 
course  of  a;j;es,  have  inflamed  the  ambition  and  fe- 
rocity of  a  few  individuals,  even  that  evil,  great  as 
It  is,  will  be  far  from  balancing  all  the  generous 
sentiments,  which,  for  three  thousand  years,  it  has 
been  pouring  into  the  hearts  of  youth ;  and  which 
it  now  continues  to  infuse,  aided  by  the  dignity  of 
antiquity,  and  by  all  the  fire  and  splendour  of  poetry. 
Eveiy  Bucceeding  generation,  as  it  refines,  requires 
the  standard  to  be  proporiionably  raised. 

"  Apply  these  remarks,  with  the  necessary  modi- 
fications, to  those  fictions  copied  from  common  life 
called  Novels,  which  are  not  above  a  century  old, 
and  of  which  the  multiplication  and  the  importance, 
as  well  literary  as  moral,  are  characteristic  features 
of  England.  There  may  be  persons  now  alive  who 
recollect  the  publication  of  '  Tom  Jones,'  at  least, 
if  not-  of  '  Clarissa.'  Since  that  time,  probably 
twelve  novels  have  appeared  of  the  first  rank — a 
prodigious  number,  of  such  a  kind,  in  any  depart- 
ment of  literature  (by  the  help  of  Sir  Walter  Scott 
and  Miss  Edge  worth  we  may  now  at  least  double 
the  number) — and  the  whole  cla«s  of  novels  must 
have  had  more  influence  on  the  piil)Iic,  than  all 
other  sorts  of  books  combined.  JS'oihini;  popular 
can  be  frivolous.  Whatever  influences  multitudes, 
must  be  of  proportionable  importance.  Bacon  and 
Turgot  would  have  contemplated  with  inquisitive 
admiration  this  literary  revolution." 

And  soon  after,  while  admitting  that  Tom 
Jones  (for  example)  is  so  far  from  being  a 
moral  book  as  to  be  deserving  of  the  severest 
reprobation,  he  adds — 

"  Yet  even  in  this  extreme  case,  I  must  observe 
that  the  same  bonk  inspires  the  greatest  abhorrence  of 
the  duplicity  of  Blifil,  of  the  hypocrisy  of  Thwackum 
and  Square  ;  that  Jones  himself  is  interesting  by 
his  frankness,  spirit,  kindness,  and  fidelity — all  vir- 
tues of  the  first  class.  The  objection  is  the  same 
in  its  principle  with  that  to  the  Iliad.  The  ancient 
epic  exclusively  presents  war — the  modern  novel 
love  ;  the  one  what  was  most  interesting  in  public 
hfe,  and  the  other  what  is  most  brilliant  in  private 
— and  both  with  an  unfortunate  disregard  of  moral 
restraint." 

The  entry  under  6th  March,  1817,  has  to 
the  writer  of  this  article,  a  melancholy  inter- 
est, even  at  this  distance  of  time.  It  refers 
to  the  motion  rect;ntly  made  in  the  House  of 
Commons  for  a  new  writ,  on  the  death  of  Mr. 
Horner.  The  reflections  with  which  it  closes 
must,  we  think,  be  interesting  always. 

"  March  6th. — The  only  event  which  now  ap- 
pears interesting  to  m.e,  is  the  scene  in  the  House 
of  Commons  on  Monday.  Lord  Morpeth  opened 
it  in  a  speech  so  perfect,  that  it  might  have  been 
well  placed  as  a  passage  in  the  most  elegant  Eng- 
lish writer  ;  it  was  full  of  feeling  ;  every  topic  was 
skilfully  presented,  and  contained,  by  a  sort  of  pru- 
dence which  is  a  part  of  taste,  within  safe  limits ; 
he  slid  over  the  thinnest  ice  without  cracking  it. — 
Canning  filled  well  what  would  have  been  the  va- 
cant place  of  a  calm  observer  of  Horner's  public 
life  and  talents.  Manners  Sutton's  most  affecting 
speech  was  a  tribute  of  affection  from  a  private  friend 
become  a  political  enemy  ;  Lord  Lascelles,  at  the 
head  of  the  country  gentleman  of  England,  closing 
this  affecting,  improving,  and  most  memorable 
scene  by  declaring,  '  that  if  the  sense  of  the  House 
could  have  been  taken  on  this  occasion,  it  would 
have  been  unanimous.'  I  may  say  without  exagge- 
ration, that  never  were  so  many  words  uttered  with- 
out the  least  suspicion  of  exaggeration  ;  and  that 
never  was  so  much  honour  paid  in  any  age  or  nation 
to  intrindc  claims  alone.  A  Howard  introduced, 
and  an  English  House  of  Commons  adopted,  the 
proposition,  of  thus  honouring  the  memory  of  a 


man  of  thirty-eight,  the  son  of  a  shopkeeper,  whfl 
never  filled  an  office,  or  had  the  power  oi  obliging 
a  living  creature,  and  whose  grand  title  to  this  dis- 
tinction was  the  belief  of  his  virtue.  How  honour- 
able to  the  age  and  to  the  House !  A  country  where 
such  sentiments  prevail  is  not  ripe  for  destruction." 

Sir  James  could  not  but  feel,  in  the  narrow 
circles  of  Bombay,  the  great  superiority  of 
London  society;  and  he  has  thus  recorded 
his  sense  of  it : — 

"  In  great  capitals,  men  of  different  provinces, 
professions,  and  pursuits  are  brought  together  in  so* 
ciety,  and  are  obliged  to  acquire  a  habit,  a  matter, 
and  manner  mutually  perspicuous  and  agreeable.  ^ 
Hence  they  are  raised  above  frivolity,  and  are  di- 
vested of  pedantry.  In  small  societies  this  habit  is 
not  imposed  by  necessity  ;  they  have  lower,  but 
more  urgent  subjects,  which  are  interesting  to  all, 
level  to  all  capacities,  and  require  no  effort  or  prepa- 
ration of  mind." 

He  might  have  added,  that  in  a  great  capi- 
tal the  best  of  all  sorts  is  to  be  met  with ;  and 
that  the  adherents  even  of  the  most  extreme 
or  fantastic  opinions  are  there  so  numerous, 
and  generally  so  respectably  headed,  as  to 
command  a  deference  and  regard  that  would 
scarcely  be  shown  to  them  when  appearing 
as  insulated  individuals ;  and  thus  it  nappena 
that  real  toleration,  and  true  modesty,  as  well 
as  their  polite  simulars,  are  rarely  to  be  met 
with  out  of  great  cities.  This,  however,  is 
true  only  of  those  who  mix  largely  in  the 
general  society  of  such  places.  For  bigots 
and  exclusives  of  all  sorts,  they  are  hot-beds 
and  seats  of  corruption ;  since,  however  ab- 
surd or  revolting  their  tenets  may  be,  such 
persons  are  sure  to  meet  enough  of  their  fel- 
lows to  encourage  each  other.  In  the  provin- 
ces, a  believer  in  animal  magnetism  or  Ger- 
man metaphysics  has  few  listener.s,  and  no 
encouragement;  but  in  a  place  like  London 
they  make  a  little  coterie ;  who  herd  together, 
exchange  flatteries,  and  take  themselves  foi 
the  apojtles  of  a  new  gospel. 

The  editor  has  incorporated  with  his  work 
some  letters  addressed  to  him  by  friends  of 
his  father,  containing  either  anecdotes  of  his 
earlier  life,  or  observations  on  his  character 
and  merits.  It  was  natural  for  a  person  whose 
age  preclude  him  from  speaking  on  his  own 
authority  of  any  but  recent  transactions,  to 
seek  for  this  assistance  ;  and  the  information 
contributed  by  Lord  Abinger  and  Mr.  Basil 
Montagu  (the  former  e.specially)  is  very  inter- 
esting. The  other  letters  present  us  with  little 
more  than  the  opinion  of  the  writers  as  to  his 
character.  If  these  should  be  thought  too 
laudatory,  there  is  another  character  which 
has  lately  fallen  under  our  eye,  which  cer- 
tainly is  not  liable  to  that  objection.  In  the 
"  Table-Talk  "  of  the  late  Mr.  Coleridge,  we 
find  these  words: — -'^I  doubt  if  Mackintosh 
ever  heartily  appreciated  an  eminently  origi- 
nal man.  After  all  his  fluency  and  brilliant 
erudition,  you  can  rarely  carry  off  any  thing 
worth  preserving.  You  might  not  improperly 
write  upon  his  forehead,  'Warehouse  to  let !' '' 

We  wish  to  speak  tenderly  of  a  man  of  ge- 
nius, and  we  believe  of  amiable  dispositions, 
who  has  been  so  recently  removed  from  his 
friends  and  admirers.     But  so  portentous  a 


'50 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


misjudgment  as  this,  and  coming  from  ^uch  a 
quarter,  cannot  be  passed  without  notice.  If 
Sir  James  Mackintosh  had  any  talent  more 
conspicuous  and  indisputable  than  another,  it 
was  that  of  appreciating  the  merits  of  eminent 
and  original  men.  His  great  learning  and 
singular  soundness  of  judgment  enabled  him 
to  do  this  truly;  while  his  kindness  of  na- 
ture, his  zeal  for  human  happiness,  and  his 
perfect  freedom  from  prejudice  or  vanity, 
prompted  him,  above  most  other  men,  to  do 
it  heartily.  And  then,  as  to  his  being  a  person 
from  whose  conversation  little  couid  be  car- 

#  ried  away,  why  the  most  characteristic  and 
remarkable  thing  about  it,  was  that  the  whole 
of  it  might  be  carried  away — it  was  so  lucid, 
precise,  and  brilliantly  perspicuous !  The  joke 
of  the  ''  warehouse  to  let  "  is  not,  we  confess, 
quite  level  to  our  capacities.  It  can  scarcely 
mean  (though  that  is  the  most  obvious  sense) 
that  the  head  was  empty — as  that  is  incon- 
sistent with  the  rest  even  of  this  splenetic 
delineation.  If  it  was  intended  to  insinuate 
that  it  was  ready  for  the  indiscriminate  re- 
ception of  any  thing  which  any  one  might 
choose  to  put  into  it,  there  could  not  be  a  more 
gross  misconception ;  as  we  have  no  doubt 
Mr.  Coleridge  must  often  have  sufficiently 
experienced.  And  by  whom  is  this  dis- 
covery, that  Mackintosh's  conversation  pre- 
sented nothing  that  could  be  carried  away, 
thus  confidently  announced?  Why,  by  the 
very  individual  against  whose  own  oracular 
and  interminable  talk  the  same  complaint  has 
been  made,  by  friends  and  by  foes,  and  with 
an  unanimity  unprecedented,  for  the  last  forty 
years.  The  admiring,  or  rather  idolizing  ne- 
phew, who  has  lately  put  forth  this  hopeful 
specimen  of  his  relics,  has  recorded  in  the 
preface,  that  "his  conversation  at  all  times 
required  attention ;  and  that  the  demand  on 
the  in^^llect  of  the  hearer  was  often  very 
great:  and  that,  when  he  got  into  his  'huge 
circuit '  and  large  illustrations,  most  people 
had  lost  him,  and  naturally  enough  supposed 
that  he  had  lost  himself."  Nay,  speaking  to 
this  very  point,  of  the  ease  or  difficulty  of 
"carrying  away"  any  definite  notions  from 
what  he  said,  the  partial  kinsm|p  is  pleased 
to  inform  us,  that,  with  all  his  familiarity  with 
the  inspired  style  of  his  relative,  he  himself* 
has  often  gone  away,  after  listening  to  him 
for  several  delightful  hours,  with  divers  masses 
of  reasoning  in  his  head,  but  without  being 
able  to  perceive  what  connection  they  had 
with  each  other.  "  In  such  cases,"  he  adds, 
"I  have  mused,  sometimes  even  for  days  after- 
wards, upon  the  words,  till  at  length,  spon- 
taneously as  it  were,  the  fire  would  kindle," 
&c.  &c.  And  this  is  the  person  who  is  pleased 
to  denounce  Sir  James  Mackintosh  as  an  ordi- 
nary man;  and  especially  to  object  to  his  con- 
versation, that,  though  brilliant  and  fluent, 
there  was  rarely  any  thing  in  it  which  could 
he  carried  away ! 

An  attack  so  unjust  and  so  arrogant  leads 
naturally  to  comparisons,  which  it  could  be 

'  easy  to  follow  out  to  the  signal  discomfiture 
of  the  party  attacking.  But  without  going 
Deyond  what  is  thus  forced  upon  our  notice, 


we  shall  only  say,  that  nothing  could  possillj 
set  the  work  before  us  in  so  favourable  a 
point  of  view,  as  a  comparison  between  it 
and  the  volumes  of  "Table  Talk,"' to  which 
we  have  already  made  reference  —  unless, 
perhaps,  it  were  the  contrast  of  the  two  minds 
which  are  respectively  portrayed  in  these 
publications. 

In  these  memorials  of  Sir  James  Mackin- 
tosh, we  trace  throughout  the  workijigs  of  a 
powerful  and  unclouded  intellect,  nourished 
by  wholesome  learning,  raised  and  instructed 
by  fearless  though  reverent  questionings  of 
the  sages  of  other  times  (which  is  the  per- 
mitted Necromancy  of  the  wise),  exercised 
by  free  discussion  with  the  most  distinguished 
among  the  living,  and  made  acquainted  with 
its  own  strength  and  weakness,  not  only  by 
a  constant  intercourse  with  other  powerful 
minds,  but  by  mixing,  with  energy  and  de- 
liberation, in  practical  business  and  affairs^ 
and  here  pouring  itself  out  in  a  delightful 
miscellany  of  elegant  criticism,  original  spe- 
culation, and  profound  practical  suggestions 
on  politics,  religion,  history,  and  all  the  greater 
and  the  lesser  duties,  the  arts  and  the  ele- 
gances of  life — all  expressed  with  a  beautiful 
clearness  and  tempered  dignity — breathing 
the  purest  spirit  of  good-will  to  mankind — 
and  brightened  not  merely  by  an  ardent  hope, 
but  an  assured  faith  in  their  constant  advance- 
ment in  freedom,  intelligence,  and  virtue. 

On  all  these  points,  the  "table  Talk"  of 
his  poetical  contemporary  appears  to  us  to 
present  a  most  mortifying  contrast;  and  to 
render  back  merely  the  image  of  a  moody 
mind,  incapable  of  mastering  its  own  imagin- 
ings, and  constantly  seduced  by  them,  or  by 
a  misdirected  ambition,  to  attempt  impracti- 
cable things:  —  naturally  attracted  by  dim 
paradoxes  rather  than  lucid  truths,  and  pre- 
ferring, for  the  most  part,  the  obscure  and  ne- 
glected parts  of  learning  to  those  that  are 
useful  and  clear — marching,  in  short,  at  all 
times,  under  the  exclusive  guidance  of  the 
Pillar  of  Smoke — and,  like  the  body  of  its 
original  followers,  wandering  all  his  days  in 
the  desert,  without  ever  coming  in  sight  of 
the  promised  land. 

Consulting  little  at  any  time  with  any  thing 
but  his  own  prejudices  and  fancies,  he  seems, 
in  his  latter  days,  to  have  withdrawn  alto- 
gether from  the  correction  of  equal  minds; 
and  to  have  nourished  the  assurance  of  his 
own  infallibility,  by  delivering  mystical  ora- 
cles from  his  cloudy  shrine,  all  day  long,  to  a 
small  set  of  disciples,  to  whom  neither  ques- 
tion nor  interruption  was  allowed.  The  result 
of  this  necessarily  was,  an  excaerbation  of  all 
the  morbid  tendencies  of  the  muid ;  a  daily 
increasing  ignorance  of  the  course  of  opinions 
and  affairs  in  the  world,  and  a  proportional 
confidence  in  his  own  dogmas  and  dreams, 
which  might  have  been  shaken,  at  least,  if 
not  entirely  subverted,  by  a  closer  contact 
with  the  general  mass  of  intelligence.  Un- 
fortunately this  unhealthful  training  (pecu- 
liarly unhealthful  for  such  a  constitution)  pro- 
duced not  merely  a  great  eruption  of  ridicu 
lous   blunders  and   pitiable   prejudices,  bu! 


LIFE  OF  SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


75^ 


Beems  at  last  to  have  brought  on  a  confirmed 
and  thoroughly  diseased  habit  of  uncharitable- 
ness,  and  misanthropic  anticipations  of  cor- 
ruption and  misery  throughout  the  civilised 
world.  The  indiscreet  revelations  of  the  work 
to  which  we  have  alluded  have  now  brought 
10  light  instances,  not  only  of  intemperate 
abuse  of  men  of  the  highest  intellect  and 
most  unquestioned  purity,  but  such  predic- 
tions of  evil  from  what  the  rest  of  the  world 
has  been  contented  to  receive  as  improve- 
ments, and  such  suggestions  of  intolerant  and 
Tyrannical  Remedies,  as  no  man  would  be- 
lieve could  proceed  from  a  cultivated  intel- 
lect of  the  present  age — if  the  early  history 
of  this  particular  intellect  had  not  indicated 
an  inherent  aptitude  for  all  extreme  opinions, 
— and  prepared  us  for  the  usual  conversion  of 
one  extreme  into  another. 

And  it  is  worth  while  to  mark  here  also, 
and  in  respect  merely  of  consistency  and 
ultimate  authority  with  mankind,  the  advan- 
tage which  a  sober  and  well-regulated  under- 
standing will  always  have  over  one  which 
claims  to  be  above  ordinances;  and  trusting 
either  to  an  erroneous  opinion  of  its  own 
strength,  or  even  to  a  true  sense  of  it,  gives 
itself  up  to  its  first  strong  impression,  and  sets 
at  defiance  all  other  reason  and  authority. 
Sir  James  Mackintosh  had,  in  his  youth,  as 
much  ambition  and  as  much  consciousness  of 
power  as  Mr.  Coleridge  could  have  :  But  the 
utmost  extent  of  his  early  aberrations  (in  his 
Vindicice  Galliccs)  was  an  over  estimate  of  the 
probabilities  of  good  from  a  revolution  of 
violence;  and  a  much  greater  under-estimate 
of  the  mischiefs  with  which  such  experiments 
are  sure  to  be  attended,  and  the  value  of  set- 
tled institutions  and  long  familiar  forms.  Yet, 
though  in  his  philanthropic  enthusiasm  he  did 
miscalculate  the  relative  value  of  these  op- 
posite forces  (and  speedily  admitted  and  rec- 
tified the  error),  he  never  for  an  instant  dis- 
puted the  existence  of  both  elements  in  the 
equation,  or  affected  to  throw  a  doubt  upon 
any  of  the  great  principles  on  which  civil  so- 
ciety reposes.  On  the  contrary,  in  his  earliest 
as  well  as  his  latest  writings,  he  pointed 
steadily  to  the  great  institutions  of  Property 
and  Marriage,  and  to  the  necessary  authority 
of  Law  and  Religion,  as  essential  to  the  being 
of  a  state,  and  the  well-being  of  any  human 
society.  It  followed,  therefore,  that  when 
disappointed  in  his  too  sanguine  expectations 
from  the  French  Revolution,  he  had  nothing 
to  retract  in  the  substance  and  scope  of  his 
opinions;  and  merely  tempering  their  an- 
nouncement, with  the  gravity  and  caution  of 
maturer  years,  he  gave  them  out  again  in  his 
later  days  to  the  world,  with  the  accumulated 
authority  of  a  whole  life  of  consistency  and 
study.  At  no  period  of  that  life,  did  he  fail 
to  assert  the  right  of  the  people  to  political 
and  religious  freedom ;  and  to  the  protection 
of  just  and  equal  laws,  enacted  by  representa- 
tives truly  chosen  by  themselves:  And  he 
never  uttered  a  syllable  that  could  be  con- 
strued into  an  approval,  or  even  an  acquies- 
cence in  persecution  and  intolerance;  or  in 
tne  maintenance  (»f  authoiity  for  any  other 


purpose  than  to  give  effect  to  the  enlightened 
and  deliberate  will  of  the  community.  To 
enforce  these  doctrines  his  whole  life  wan 
devoted ,  and  though  not  permitted  to  com- 
plete either  of  the  great  works  he  had  pro- 
jected, he  was  enabled  to  finish  detached 
portions  of  each,  sufficient  not  only  fully  to 
developo  his  principles,  but  to  give  a  clear 
view  of  the  whole  design,  and  to  put  it  in  the 
power  of  any  succeeding  artist  to  proceed 
with  the  execution.  Look  now  upon  the  other 
side  of  the  parallel. 

Mr.  Coleridge,  too,  was  an  early  and  mo» 
ardent  admirer  of  the  French  Revolution ;  bu 
the  fruits  of  that  admiration  in  him  were,  not 
a  reasoned  and  statesmanlike  apology'  for 
some  of  its  faults  and  excesses,  but  a  resolu- 
tion to  advance  the  regeneration  of  mankind 
at  a  still  quicker  rate,  by  setting  before  their 
eyes  the  pattern  of  a  yet  more  exquisite  form 
of  society !  And  accordingly,  when  a  full- 
grown  man,  he  actually  gave  in^o,  if  he  did 
not  originate,  the  scheme  of  what  he  and  his 
friends  called  a  Pantisocracy — a  form  of  so- 
ciety in  which  there  was  to  be  neither  law 
nor  government,  neither  priest,  judge,  nor 
magistrate — in  which  all  property  was  to  be 
in  common,  and  every  man  left  to  act  upon 
his  own  sense  of  duty  and  aff'ection  ! 

This  fact  is  enough : — And  whether  he  af- 
terwards passed  through  the  stages  of  a  Jaco- 
bin, which  he  seems  to  deny — or  a  hotheaded 
Moravian,  which  he  seems  to  admit, — is  really 
of  no  consequence.  The  character  of  his  un- 
derstanding is  settled  with  all  reasonable  men  : 
As  well  as  the  authority  that  is  due  to  the 
anti-reform  and  anti-toleration  maxims  which 
he  seems  to  have  spent  his  latter  years  in 
venting.  Till  we  saw  this  posthumous  publi- 
cation, we  had,  to  be  sure,  no  conception  of 
the  extent  to  which  these  compensating  max- 
ims were  carried ;  and  we  now  think  that  few 
of  the  Conservatives  (who  were  not  originally 
Pantisocratists)  will  venture  to  adopt  them. 
Not  only  is  the  Reform  Bill  denounced  as  the 
spawn  of  mere  wickedness,  injustice,  and 
ignorance;  and  the  reformetl  House  of  Com- 
mons as  '-'low,  vulgar,  meddling,  and  sneering 
at  every  thing  noble  and  refined,"  but  the 
wise  and  the  good,  we  are  assured,  will,  in 
every  country,  "speedily  become  disgusted 
with  the  Representative  form  of  government^ 
brutalized  as  it  is  by  the  predominance  of  de- 
mocracy, in  England,  France,  and  Belgium  !" 
And  then  the  remedy  is,  that  they  will  recur 
to  a  new,  though,  we  confess,  not  very  com- 
prehensible form,  of  '■'•Pure  Monarchy^  in 
which  the  reason  of  the  people  shall  become 
efficient  in  the  apparent  Will  of  the  King!" 
Moreover,  he  is  for  a  total  dissolution  of  the 
union  with  Ireland,  and  its  erection  into  a  sepa- 
rate and  independent  kingdom .  He  is  against 
Negro  emancipation — sees  no  use  in  reducing 
taxation  —  and  designates  Malthus'  demon- 
tration  of  a  mere  matter  of  fact  by  a  redundant 
accumulation  of  evidence,  by  the  polite  and 
appropriate  appellation  of  "a lie;"  and  repre- 
sents it  as  more  disgraceful  and  abominabl*' 
than  any  thing  that  the  \\  t-akness  and  wnck- 
ednessof  man  have  ever  before  given  birth  to 


'52 


MfSCELLANEOUS. 


Such  as  his  temperance  and  candour  are  in 
politics,  they  are  also  in  religion  ]  and  recom- 
mended and  excused  by  the  same  flagrant 
contradiction  to  his  early  tenets.  Whether  he 
ever  was  a  proper  Moravian  or  not  we  care 
not  to  inquire.  It  is  admitted,  and  even  stated 
somewhat  boastingly  in  this  book,  that  he  was 
a  bold  Dissenter  from  the  church.  He  thanks 
heaven,  indeed,  that  he  --had  gone  much 
farther  than  the  Unitarians  !"  And  to  make 
his  boldness  still  more  engaging,  he  had  gone 
these  lengths,  not  only  against  the  authority 
of  our  Doctors,  but  against  the  clear  and  ad- 
mitted doctrine  and  teaching  of  the  Apostles 
themselves !  "  '  What  care  I,'  I  said,  '  lor  the 
Platonisms  of  John,  or  the  Rabbinisms  of  Paul  ? 
My  conscience  revolts  V — That  was  the  ground 
of  m\j  Unitarianism."  And  by  and  by,  this 
infallible  and  oracular  person  does  not  hesitate 
to  declare,  that  others,  indeed,  may  do  as  they 
choose,  but  he,  for  his  part,  can  never  allow 
that  UnitaricUis  are  Christians  !  and,  giving  no 
credit  for  ''  revolting  consciences"  to  any  one 
but  himself,  charges  all  Dissenters  in  the 
lump  with  hating  the  Church  much  more 
than  they  love  religion — is  furious  against  the 
repeal  of  the  Test  and  Corporation  Acts,  and 
Catholic  Emancipation, — and  at  last  actually, 
and  in  good  set  terms,  denies  that  any  Dis- 
senter has  a  ri^it  to  toleration !  and,  in  per- 
fect consistency,  maintains  that  it  is  the  duty 
of  the  magistrate  to  stop  heresy  and  schism 
by  persecution — if  he  only  has  reason  to  think 
that  in  this  way  the  evil  may  be  arrested ; 
adding,  by  way  of  example,  that  he  would  be 
ready  "to  ship  off' — any  where,^^  any  mission- 
aries who  might  attempt  to  disturb  the  un- 
doubting  Lutheranism  of  certain  exemplary 
Norwegians,  whom  he  takes  under  his  special 
protection. 

We  are  tempted  to  say  more.  But  we  de- 
sist ;  and  shall  pursue  this  parallel  no  farther. 
Perhaps  we  have  already  been  betrayed  into 
feelings  and  expressions  that  may  be  objected 
to.  We  should  be  sorry  if  this  could  be  done 
justly.  But  we  do  not  question  Mr.  Cole- 
ridge's sincerity.  We  admit,  too,  that  he  was 
a  man  of  much  poetical  sensibility,  and  had 
visions  of  intellectual  sublimity,  and  glimpses 
of  comprehensive  truths,  which  he  could 
neither  reduce  into  order  nor  combine  into 
system.  But  out  of  poetry  and  metaphysics, 
we  think  he  was  nothing;  and  eminently  dis- 
qualified, not  only  by  the  defects,  but  by  the 
best  parts  of  his  genius,  as  well  as  by  his 
temper  and  habits,  for  forming  any  sound 
judgment  on  the  business  and  affairs  of  our 
actual  world.  And  yet  it  is  for  his  preposter- 
ous judgments  on  such  subjects  that  his  memory 
is  now  held  in  aAected  reverence  by  those 
who  laughed  at  him,  all  through  his  life,  for 
what  gave 'him  his  only  true  claim  to  admira- 
tion !  and  who  now  magnify  his  genius,  for  no 
other  purpose  but  to  give  them  an  opportunity 
to  quote,  as  of  grave  authority,  his  mere  deli- 
rations,  on  reform,  dissent,  and  toleration — his 
cheering  predictions  of  the  approaching  mil- 
jennium  of  pure  monarchy — or  his  demonstra- 
tions of  the  absolute  harmlessness  of  taxation. 
End  the  sacred  duty  of  all  sorts  of  efficient  per- 


secution. We  are  sure  we  treat  Mr.  Coleridgfl 
with  all  possible  respect  when  we  say,  thai 
his  name  can  lend  no  more  plausibility  to  ab- 
surdities like  these,  than  the  far  greater  namea 
of  Bacon  or  Hobbes  could  do  to  the  belief  in 
sympathetic  medicines,  or  in  churchyard  ap- 
paritions. 

We  fear  we  have  already  transgressed  our 
just  limits.  But  before  concluding,  we  wish 
to  say  a  word  on  a  notion  which  we  find  pretty 
generally  entertained,  that  Sir  James  Mackin- 
tosh did  not  sufficiently  turn  to  profit  the 
talent  which  was  committed  to  him ;  and  did 
much  less  than,  with  his  gifts  and  opportuni- 
ties, he  ought  to  have  done.  He  himself 
seems,  no  doubt,  to  have  been  occasionally 
of  that  opinion ;  and  yet  we  cannot  but  think 
it  in  a  great  degree  erroneous.  If  he  had  not, 
in  early  life,  conceived  the  ambitious  design 
of  executing  two  great  works, — one  on  the 
principles  of  Morals  and  Legislation,  and  one 
on  English  History ;  or  had  not  let  it  be  under- 
stood, for  many  years  before  his  death,  that 
he  was  actually  employed  on  the  latter,  we 
do  not  imagine  that,  with  all  the  knowledge 
his  friends  had  (and  all  the  world  now  has) 
of  his  qualifications,  any  one  would  have 
thought  of  visiting  his  memory  with  such  a 
reproach. 

We  know  of  no  code  of  morality  which 
makes  it  imperative  on  every  man  of  extra- 
ordinary talent  or  learning  to  write  a  large 
book : — and  could  readily  point  to  instances 
where  such  persons  have  gone  with  unques- 
tioned honour  to  their  graves,  without  leaving 
any  such  memorial — and  been  judged  to  have 
acted  up  to  the  last  article  of  their  duty, 
merely  by  enlightening  society  by  their  lives 
and  conversation,  and  discharging  with  abihty 
and  integrity  the  offices  of  magistracy  or  legis- 
lation, to  which  they  may  have  been  called. 
But  looking  even  to  the  sort  of  debt  which 
may  be  thought  to  have  been  contracted  by 
the  announcement  of  these  works,  we  cannot 
but  think  that  the  public  has  received  a  very 
respectable  dividend — and,  being  at  the  best 
but  a  gratuitous  creditor — ought  not  now  to 
withhold  a  thankful  discharge  and  acquhtance. 
The  discourse  on  Ethical  Philosophy  is  full 
payment,  we  conceive,  of  one  moiety  of  the 
first  engagement, — and  we  are  persuaded  will 
be  so  received  by  all  who  can  judge  of  its 
value ;  and  though  the  other  moiety,  which 
relates  to  Legislation,  has  not  yet  been  ten- 
dered in  form,  there  is  reason  to  believe  that 
there  are  assets  in  the  hands  of  the  executors, 
from  which  this  also  may  soon  be  liquidated. 
That  great  subject  was  certainly  fully  treated 
of  in  the  Lectures  of  1799— and  as  it  appears 
from  some  citations  in  these  Memoirs,  that, 
though  for  the  most  part  delivered  extempore^ 
various  notes  and  manuscripts  relating  to  them 
have  been  preserved,  we  think  it  not  unlikely 
that,  with  due  diligence,  the  outline  at  least 
and  main  features  of  that  interesting  disquisi- 
tion may  still  be  recovered.  On  the  bill  for 
History,  too,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  a  large 
payment  has  been  made  to  account — and  as 
it  was  only  due  for  the  period  of  the  Revolu- 
tion, any  shortcoming  that  may  appear  upon 


LIFE  OF  SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


751 


that  score,  maybe  fairly  held  as  compensated 
oy  the  voluntary  advances  of  value  to  a  much 
greater  extent,  though  referring  to  an  earlier 
period. 

But,  in  truth,  there  never  was  any  such 
debt  or  engagement  on  the  part  of  Sir  James : 
And  the  public  was.  and  continues,  the  only 
debtor  on  the  transaction,  for  whatever  it  may 
have  received  of  service  or  instruction  at  his 
hand.  We  have  expressed  elsewhere  our 
estimate  of  the  greatness  of  this  debt ;  and  of 
the  value  especially  of  the  Histories  he  has 
•eft  behind  him.  We  have,  to  be  sure,  since 
«f;en  some  sneering  remarks  on  the  dulness 
and  uselessness  of  these  works ;  and  an  at- 
tempt made  to  hold  them  up  to  ridicule,  under 
tlie  appellation  of  Philosophical  histories.  We 
are  not  aware  that  such  a  name  was  ever  ap- 
plied to  them  by  their  author  or  their  admirers. 
But  if  they  really  deserve  it,  we  are  at  a  loss 
to  conceive  how  it  should  be  taken  for  a  name 
of  reproach ;  and  it  will  scarcely  be  pretended 
that  their  execution  is  such  as  to  justify  its 
application  in  the  way  of  derision.  We  do 
not  perce-ive,  indeed,  that  this  is  pretended ; 
and,  strange  as  it  may  appear,  the  objection 
seems  really  to  be,  rather  to  the  kind  of  wri- 
ting in  general,  than  to  the  defects  of  its  exe- 
cution in  this  particular  instance — the  objector 
having  a  singular  notion  that  history  should 
consist  of  narrative  only;  and'  that  nothing 
can  be  so  tiresome  and  useless  as  any  addition 
of  explanation  or  remark. 

We  have  no  longer  room  to  expose,  as  it 
deserves,  the  strange  misconceptions  of  the 
objects  and  uses  of  history,  which  we  humbly 
conceive  to  be  implied  in  such  an  opinion ; 
and  shall  therefore  content  ourselves  with 
asking,  whether  any  man  really  imagines  that 
the  modern  history  of  any  considerable  State, 
with  its  complicated  system  of  foreign  rela- 
tions, and  the  play  of  its  domestic  parties, 
could  be  written  in  the  manner  of  Herodotus'? 
— or  be  made  intelligible  (much  less  instruct- 
ive) by  the  naked  recital  of  transactions  and 
occurrences'?  These,  in  fact,  are  but  the  crude 
materials  from  which  history  should  be  con- 
structed; the  mere  alphabet  out  of  which  its 
lessons  are  afterwards  to  be  spelled.  If  every 
reader  had  indeed  the  talents  of  an  accom- 
plished Historian, — that  knowledge  of  human 
nature,  that  large  acquaintance  with  all  col- 
lateral facts,  and  that  force  of  understanding 
which  are  implied  in  such  a  name — and,  at 
the  same  time,  that  leisure  and  love  for  the 
subject  which  would  be  necessary  for  this 
particular  application  of  such  gifts,  the  mere 
detail  of  facts,  if  full  and  impartial,  might  be 
sufficient  for  his  purposes.  But  to  every  other 
class  of  readers,  we  will  venture  to  say,  that 
one  half  of  such  a  history  would  be  an  in- 
soluble enigma;  and  the  other  half  the  source 
of  the  most  gross  misconceptions. 

Without  some  explanation  of  the  views  and 
,  motives  of  the  prime  agents  in  great  transac- 
I  tions — of  the  origin  and  state  of  opposite  inte- 
I  rests  and  opinions  in  large  bodies  of  the  people 
I  ■  — and  of  their  tendencies  respectively  to  as- 
I  cendency  or  decline — what  intelligible  account 
could  be  given  of  any  thing  worth  knowing 
48 


in  the  history  of  the  world  for  the  last  two 
hundred  years'?  above  all,  what  useful  lessons 
could  be  learned,  for  people  or  for  rulers,  from 
a  mere  series  of  events  presented  in  dftail, 
without  any  other  information  as  to  their 
causes  or  consequences,  than  might  be  in- 
ferred from  the  sequence  in  which  they  ap- 
peared '?  To  us  it  appears  that  a  mere  record 
of  the  different  places  of  the  stars,  and  their 
successive  changes  of  position,  would  be  as 
good  a  system  of  Astronomy,  as  such  a  set  of 
annals  would  be  of  History ;  and  that  it  would 
be  about  as  reasonable  to  sneer  at  Newton 
and  La  Place  for  seeking  to  supersede  the 
honest  old  star-gazers,  by  their  philosophical 
histories  of  the  heavens,  as  to  speak  in  the 
same  tone,  of  what  Voltaire  and  Montesquieu 
and  Mackintosh  have  attempted  to  do  for  our 
lower  world.  We  have  named  these  three, 
as  having  attended  more  peculiarly,  and  more 
impartially,  than  any  others,  at  least  in  modern 
times,  to  this  highest  part  of  their  duty.  But, 
m  truth,  all  eminent  historians  have  attended 
to  it — from  the  time  of  Thucydides  down- 
wards;— the  ancients  putting  the  necessary 
explanations  more  frequently  into  the  shape 
of  imaginary  orations — and  the  moderns  into 
that  of  remark  and-  dissertation.  The  very 
first,  perhaps,  of  Hume's  many  excellences 
consists  in  these  philosophical  summaries  of 
the  reasons  and  considerations  by  which  he 
supposes  parties  to  have  been  actuated  in 
great  political  movements;  which  are  more 
completely  abstracted  from  the  mere  story, 
and  very  frequently  less  careful  and  complete, 
than  the  parallel  explanations  of  Sir  James 
Mackintosh.  For,  with  all  his  unrivalled  sa- 
gacity, it  is  true,  as  Sir  James  has  himself 
somewhere  remarked,  that  Hume  was  too 
little  of  an  antiquary  to  be  always  able  to 
estimate  the  effect  of  motives  in  distant  ages ; 
and  by  referring  too  confidently  to  the  princi- 
ples of  human  nature  as  developed  in  our  own 
times,  has  often  represented  our  ancestors  as 
more  reasonable,  and  much  more  argumenta- 
tive, than  they  really  were. 

That  there  may  be,  and  have  often  been, 
abuses  of  this  best  part  of  history,  is  a  reason 
only  for  valuing  more  highly  what  is  exempt 
from  such  abuses;  and  those  who  feel  most 
veneration  and  gratitude  for  the  lights  afforded 
by  a  truly  philosophical  historian,  will  be  sure 
to  look  with  most  aversion  on  a  counterfeit. 
No  one,  we  suppose,  will  stand  up  for  the  in- 
troduction of  ignorant  conjecture,  shallow  dog- 
matism, mawkish  morality,  or  factious  injustice 
into  the  pages  of  history — or  deny  that  the 
shortest  and  simplest  annals  are  greatly  prefer- 
able to  such  a  perversion.  As  to  political 
partiality,  however,  it  is  a  great  mistake  to 
suppose  that  it  could  be  in  any  degree  ex- 
cluded by  confining  history  to  a  mere  chroni- 
cle of  facts — the  truth  being,  that  it  is  chiefly 
in  the  statement  of  facts  that  this  partiality 
displays  itself;  and  that  it  is  more  frequently 
exposed  to  detection  than  assisted,  by  the  ar- 
guments and  explanations,  which  are  supposed 
to  be  its  best  resources.  We  shall  not  re.su m»> 
what  we  have  said  in  another  place  as  to  tlitj 
merit  of  the  Histories  which  are  now  in  que;*- 


754 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


tion ;  but  we  fear  not  to  pu:  his  on  record,  as 
our  deliberate,  and  wo  think  impartial,  judg- 
ment— that  they  are  the  most  candid,  the 
most  judicious,  and  the  most  pregnant  with 
thought,  and  moral  and  political  wisdom,  of 
any  in  which  our  domestic  story  has  ever  yet 
been  recorded. 

j>ut  even  if  we  should  discount  his  Histo- 
ries, and  his  Ethical  Dissertation,  we  should 
still  be  of  opinion,  that  Sir  James  Mackintosh 
had  not  died  indebted  to  his  country  for  the 
use  he  had  made  of  his  talents.  In  the  vol- 
umes before  us,  he  seems  to  us  to  have  left 
them  a  rich  legacy,  and  given  abundant  proofs 
of  the  industry  with  which  he  sought  to  the 
last  to  qualify  himself  for  their  instruction, — 
and  the  honourable  place  which  his  name 
must  ever  hold,  as  the  associate  and  successor 
of  Romilly  in  the  great  and  humane  work  of 
ameliorating  our  criminal  law,  might  alone 
suffice  to  protect  him  from  the  imputation  of 
having  done  less  than  was  required  of  him,  in 
the  course  of  his  unsettled  life.  But,  without 
dwelling  upon  the  part  he  took  in  Parliament, 
on  these  and  many  other  important  questions 
both  of  domestic  and  foreign  policy,  we  must 
be  permitted  to  say,  that  they  judge  ill  of  the 
relative  value  of  men's  contributions  to  the 
cause  of  general  improvement,  who  make 
small  account  of  the  influence  which  one  of 
high  reputation  for  judgment  and  honesty  may 
exercise,  by  his  mere  presence  and  conversa- 
tion, in  the  higher  classes  of  society, — and  still 
more  by  such  occasional  publications  as  he 
may  find  leisure  to  make,  in  Journals  of  wide 
circulation, — like  this  on  which  the  reader  is 
now  looking — we  trust  with  his  accustomed 
indulgence. 

It  is  now  admitted,  that  the  mature  and  en- 
lightened opinion  of  the  public  must  ultimately 
rule  the  country;  and  we  really  know  no  other 
way  in  which  this  opinion  can  be  so  effectu- 
ally matured  and  enlightened.  It  is  not  by 
every  man  studying  elaborate  treatises  and 
systems  for  himself,  that  the  face  of  the  world 
is  changed,  with  the  change  of  opinion,  and 
the  progress  of  conviction  in  those  who  must 
ultimately  lead  it.  It  is  by  the  mastery  which 
strong  minds  have  over  weak,  in  the  daily  in- 
tercourse of  society;  and  by  the  gradual  and 
almost  imperceptible  infusion  which  such 
minds  are  constantly  effecting,  of  the  practical 
results  and  manageable  summaries  of  their 
preceding  studies,  into  the  minds  immediately 
below  them,  that  this  great  process  is  carried 
on.  The  first  discovery  of  a  great  truth,  or 
practical  principle,  may  often  require  much 
labour;  but  when  once  discovered,  it  is  gene- 
rally easy  not  only  to  convince  others  of  its 
importance,  but  to  enable  them  to  defend  and 
maintain  it,  by  plain  and  irrefragable  argu- 
ments; and  this  conviction,  and  this  practical 
knowledge,  it  will  generally  be  most  easy  to 
communicate,  when  men's  minds  are  excited 
to  inquiry,  by  the  pursuit  of  some  immediate 
interest,  to  which  such  general  truths  may 
appear  to  be  subservient.  It  is  at  such  times 
that  important  principles  are  familiarly  started 
in  conversation;  and  disquisitions  eagerly  pur- 
sued, in  societies,  where,  in  more  tranquil 


periods,  they  would  be  listened  to  with  impa 
tience.  It  is  at  such  times,  too,  that  the  in- 
telligent part  of  the  lower  and  middling 
classes  look  anxiously  through  such  publica- 
tions as  treat  intelligibly  of  the  subjects  to 
which  their  attention  is  directed ;  and  are  thus 
led,  while  seeking  only  for  reasons  to  justify 
their  previous  inclinings,  to  imbibe  principles 
and  digest  arguments  which  are  impressed  on 
their  understandings  for  ever,  and  may  fruc- 
tify in  the  end  to  far  more  important  conclu- 
sions. It  is,  no  doubt,  true,  that  in  this  way, 
the  full  exposition  of  the  truth  will  often  be 
sacrificed  for  the  sake  of  its  temporary  appli- 
cation; and  it  will  not  unfrequently  happen 
that,  in  order  to  favour  that  application,  the 
exposition  will  not  be  made  with  absolute 
fairness.  But  still  the  principle  is  brought 
into  view;  the  criterion  of  true  judgment  is 
laid  before  the  public;  and  the  disputes  of 
adverse  parties  will  speedily  settle  the  correct 
or  debatable  rule  of  its  application. 

For  our  own  parts  we  have  long  been  of 
opinion,  that  a  man  of  powerful  understand- 
ing and  popular  talents,  who  should,  at  such 
a  season,  devote  himself  to  the  task  of  an- 
nouncing such  principles,  and  rendering  such 
discussions  familiar,  in  the  way  and  by  the 
means  we  have  mentioned,  would  probably 
do  more  to  direct  and  accelerate  the  rectifica- 
tion of  public  opinion  upon  all  practical  ques- 
tions, than  by  any  other  use  he  could  possibly 
make  of  his  faculties.  His  name,  indeed, 
might  not  go  down  to  a  remote  posterity  in 
connection  with  any  work  of  celebrity ;  and 
the  greater  part  even  of  his  contemporaries 
might  be  ignorant  of  the  very  existence  of 
their  benefactor.  But  the  benefits  conferred 
would  not  be  the  less  real ;  nor  the  conscious- 
ness of  conferring  them  less  delightful ;  nor 
the  gratitude  of  the  judicious  less  ardent  and 
sincere.  So  far,  then,  from  regretting  that 
Sir  James  Mackintosh  did  not  forego  all  other 
occupations,  and  devote  himself  exclusively 
to  the  compilation  of  the  two  great  M-orks  he 
had  projected,  or  from  thinking  that  his  coun- 
try has  been  deprived  of  any  services  it  might 
otherwise  have  received  from  him,  by  the 
course  which  he  actually  pursued,  we  firmly 
believe  that,  by  constantly  maintaining  hu- 
mane and  generous  opinions,  in  the  most  en- 
gaging manner  and  with  the  greatest  possible 
ability,  in  the  highest  and  most  infiuencing 
circles  of  society, — by  acting  as  the  respected 
adviser  of  many  youths  of  great  promise  and 
ambition,  and  as  the  bosom  counsellor  of  many 
practical  statesmen,  as  well  as  by  the  timely 
publication  of  many  admirable  papers,  in  this 
and  in  other  Journals,  on  such  branches  of 
politics,  history,  or  philosophy  as  the  course 
of  events  had  rendered  peculiarly  interesting 
or  important, — he  did  far  more  to  enlighten 
the  public  mind  in  his  own  day,  and  to  insure 
its  farther  improvement  in  the  days  that  are 
to  follovt',  than  courld  possibly  have  been  ef- 
fected by  the  most  successful  completion  of 
the  works  he  had  undertaken. 

Such  great  works  acquire  for  their  authors 
a  deserved  reputation  with  the  studious  few; 
and   are  th^   "treasuries  and  armories  from 


LIFE  OF  Sm  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


755 


which  the  actual  and  future  apostles  of  the 
truth  derive  the  means  of  propagating  and  de- 
fending it.  But,  in  order  to  be  so  effective, 
the  arms  and  the  treasures  must  be  taken  forth 
from  their  w^ell-ordered  repositories,  and  dis- 
seminated and  applied  vi'here  they  are  needed 
and  required.  It  is  by  the  tongue,  at  last,  and 
not  by  the  pen,  that  multitudes,  or  the  indi- 
viduals composing  multitudes,  are  ever  really 
persuaded  or  converted, — by  conversation  and 
not  by  harangues — or  by  such  short  and  oc- 
casional writings  as  come  in  aid  of  conversa- 
tion, and  require  little  more  study  or  continued 
attention  than  men  capable  of  conversation 
are  generally  willing  to  bestow.  If  a  man, 
therefore,  who  is  capable  of  writing  such  a 
book,  is  also  eminently  qualified  to  dissemi- 
nate and  render  popular  its  most  important 
doctrines,  by  conversation  and  by  such  lighter 
publications,  is  he  to  be  blamed  if,  when  the 
times  are  urgent,  he  intermit*  the  severer 
study,  and  applies  himself,  with  caution  and 
candour,  to  give  an  earlier  popularity  to  that 
which  can  never  be  useful  till  it  is  truly 
popular  1  To  us  it  appears,  that  he  fulfils  the 
higher  duty ;  and  that  to  act  otherwise  would 
be  to  act  like  a  general  who  should  starve  his 
troops  on  the  eve  of  battle,  in  order  to  replen- 
ish his  magazines  for  a  future  campaign — or 
like  a  fanner  who  should  cut  off  the  rills  from 
his  parching  crops,  that  he  may  have  a  fuller 
reservoir  against  the  possible  drought  of  an- 
other year. 

But  we  must  cut  this  short.  If  we  are  at 
all  right  in  the  views  we  have  now  taken,  Sir 
James  Mackintosh  must  have  been  wrong  in 
the  regret  and  self-reproach  with  which  he 
certainly  seems  to  have  looked  back  on  the 
unaccomplished  projects  of  his  earlier  years  : 
— And  we  humbly  think  that  he  was  wrong. 
He  had  failed,  no  doubt,  to  perform  all  that 
he  had  once  intended,  and  had  been  drawn 
aside  from  the  task  he  had  set  himself,  by 
other  pursuits.  But  he  had  performed  things 
as  important,  which  were  not  originally  in- 
tended ;  and  been  drawn  aside  by  pursuits 
not  less  worthy  than  those  to  which  he  had 
tasked  himself.  In  blaming  himself— not  for 
this  idleness,  but  for  this  change  of  occupa- 
tion—  we  think  he  was  misled,  in  part  at 
least,  by  one  very  common  error — we  mean 
that  of  thinking,  that,  because  the  use  he  ac- 
tually made  of  his  intellect  was  more  agree- 
able than  that  which  he  had  intended  to  make, 
it  was  therefore  less  meritorious.  We  need 
not  say,  that  there  cannot  be  a  worse  criterion 
of  merit :  But  tender  consciences  are  apt  to 
fall  into  such  illusions.  Another  cause  of 
regret  may  have  been  a  little,  though  we  really 
think  but  a  little,  more  substantial.  By  the 
course  he  followed,  he  probably  felt,  that  his 
name  would  be  less  illustrious,  and  his  repu- 
tation less  enduring,  than  if  he  had  fairly  taken 


his  place  as  the  author  of  some  finished  work 
of  great  interest  and  importance.  If  he  got 
over  the  first  illusion,  however,  and  took  the 
view  we  have  done  of  the  real  utility  of  his 
exertions,  we  cannot  believe  that  this  would 
have  weighed  very  heavily  on  a  mind  like 
Sir  James  Mackintosh's ;  and  while  we  can- 
not but  regret  that  his  declining  years  should 
have  been  occasionally  darkened  by  these 
shadows  of  a  self-ieproach  for  which  we  think 
there  was  no  real  foundation,  we  trust  that  he 
is  not  to  be  added  to  the  many  instances  of 
men  who  have  embittered  their  existence  by 
a  mistaken  sense  of  the  obligation  of  some 
rash  vow  made  in  early  life,  for  the  perform- 
ance of  some  laborious  and  perhaps  impracti- 
cable task. 

Cases  of  this  kind  we  believe  to  be  more 
common  than  is  generally  imagined.  An  am- 
bitious young  man  is  dazzled  with  the  notion 
of  filling  up  some  blank  in  the  literature  of 
his  country,  by  the  execution  of  a  great  and 
important  work — reads  with  a  view  to  it,  and 
allows  himself  to  be  referred  to  as  engaged  in 
its  preparation.  By  degrees  he  finds  it  more 
irksome  than  he  had  expected ;  and  is  tempt- 
ed by  other  studies,  altogether  as  suitable  and 
less  charged  with  responsibility,  into  long  fits 
of  intermission.  Then  the  very  expectation 
that  has  been  excited  by  this  protracted  incu- 
bation makes  him  more  ashamed  of  having 
done  so  little,  and  more  dissatisfied  with  the 
little  he  has  done  !  And  so  his  life  is  passed, 
in  a  melancholy  alternation  of  distasteful,  and 
of  course  unsuccessful  attempts ;  and  long  fits 
of  bitter,  but  really  groundless,  self-reproach, 
for  not  having  made  those  attempts  with  more 
energy  and  perseverance :  and  at  last  he  dies, 
— not  only  without  doing  what  he  could  not 
attempt  without  pain  and  mortification,  but 
prevented  by  this  imaginary  engagement  from 
doing  many  other  things  which  he  could  have 
done  with  success  and  alacrity — some  one  of 
which  it  is  probable,  and  all  of  which  it  is 
nearly  certain,  would  have  done  him  more 
credit,  and  been  of  more  service  to  the  world, 
than  any  consti-ained  and  distressful  comple- 
tion he  could  in  any  case  have  given  to  the 
other.  For  our  own  parts  we  have  already 
said  that  we  do  not  think  that  any  man,  what- 
ever his  gifts  and  attainments  may  be,  is  really 
bound  in  duty  to  leave  an  excellent  Book  to 
posterity ;  or  is  liable  to  any  reproach  for  not 
having  chosen  to  be  an  author.  But,  at  all 
events,  we  are  quite  confident  that  he  can  be 
under  no  obligation  to  make  himself  unhappy 
in  trying  to  make  such  a  book  :  And  that  aa 
soon  as  he  finds  the  endeavour  painful  and 
depressing,  he  will  do  well,  both  for  himself 
and  for  others,  to  give  up  the  undertaking 
and  let  his  talents  and  sense  of  duty  take  a 
course  more  likely  to  promote,  both  His  own 
enjoyment  and  their  ultimate  reputation. 


The  following  brief  notices,  of  ihree  lamented  and  honoured  Friends,  certainly  were  noj 
contributed  to  the  Edinburgh  Review :  But,  as  I  am  not  likely  ever  to  appear  again  as  an 
author,  I  have  been  tempted  to  include  them  in  this  publication — chiefly,  I  fear,  from  a  fond 
desire,  to  associate  my  humble  name  with  those  of  persons  so  amiable  and  distinguished : — 
But  partly  also,  from  an  opinion,  which  has  been  frequently  confirmed  to  me  by  those  most 
competent  to  judge — that,  imperfect  as  these  sketches  are,  they  give  a  truer  and  more  graphic 
view  of  the  manners,  dispositions,  and  personal  characters  of  the  eminent  individuals  con- 
cerned— than  is  yet  to  be  found— or  now  likely  to  be  furnished,  from  any  other  quarter- 


THE  HONOURABLE  HENRY  ERSKINE* 


Died,  at  his  seat  of  Ammondell,  Linlith- 
gowshire, on  the  8th  instant,  in  the  seventy- 
first  year  of  his  age,  the  Honourable  Henry 
Erskine,  second  son  of  the  late  Henry  David, 
Earl  of  Buchan. 

Mr.  Erskine  was  called  to  the  Scottish  Bar, 
of  which  he  was  long  the  brightest  ornament, 
in  the  year  1768,  and  was  for  several  years 
Dean  of  the  Faculty  of  Advocates :  He  was 
twice  appointed  Lord  Advocate, — in  1782  and 
in  1806,  under  the  Rockingham  and  the  Gren- 
ville  administrations.  During  the  years  1806 
and  1807  he  sat  in  Parliament  for  the  Dunbar 
and  Dumfries  district  of  boroughs. 

In  his  long  and  splendid  career  at  the  bar, 
Mr.  Erskine  was  distinguished  not  only  by  the 
peculiar  brilliancy  of  his  wit,  and  the  grace- 
fulness, ease,  and  vivacity  of  his  eloquence, 
but  by  the  still  rarer  power  of  keeping  those 
seducing  qualities  in  perfect  subordination  to 
his  judgment.  By  their  assistance  he  could 
not  only  make  the  most  repulsive  subject 
agreeable,  but  the  most  abstruse  easy  and 
intelligible.  In  his  profession,  indeed,  all  his 
wit  was  argument ;  and  each  of  his  delightful 
iUustrations  a  material  step  in  his  reasoning. 
To  himself,  indeed,  it  seemed  always  as  if 
they  were  recommended  rather  for  their  use 
than  their  beauty;  and  unquestionably  they 
often  enabled  him  to  state  a  fine  argument,  or 
a  nice  distinction,  not  only  in  a  more  striking 
and  pleasing  way,  but  actually  with  greater 
precision  than  could  have  been  attained  by 
the  severer  forms  of  reasoning. 

In  this  extraordinary  talent,  as  well  as  in  the 
charming  facility  of  his  eloquence,  and^he 
constant  radiance  of  good  humour  and  gaiety 
which  encircled  his  manner  of  debate,  he  had 
no  rival  in  his  own  times,  and  as  yet  has  had 

*  From  the  "  Endinburgh  Courant"  Newspaper 
t»fthe  16ih  of  October,  1817- 
756 


no  successor.  That  part  of  eloquence  is  now 
mute — that  honour  in  abeyance. 

As  a  politician,  he  was  eminently  distin- 
guished for  the  two  great  virtues  of  inflexible 
steadiness  to  his  principles,  and  invariable 
gentleness  and  urbanity  in  his  manner  of  as- 
serting them.  Such  indeed  was  the  habitual 
sweetness  of  his  temper,  and  the  fascination 
of  his  manners,  that,  though  placed  by  his 
rank  and  talents  in  the  obnoxious  station  of  a 
Leader  of  opposition,  at  a  period  when  politi- 
cal animosities  were  carried  to  a  lamentable 
height,  no  individual,  it  is  believed,  was  ever 
known  to  speak  or  to  think  of  him  with  any 
thing  approaching  to  personal  hostility.  In 
return,  it  may  be  said,  with  equal  correctness, 
that,  though  bafiied  in  some  of  his  pursuits, 
and  not  quite  handsomely  disappointed  of 
some  of  the  honours  to  which  his  claim  was 
universally  admitted,  he  never  allowed  the 
slightest  shade  of  discontent  to  rest  upon  his 
mJnd,  nor  the  least  drop  of  bitterness  to  min- 
gle with  his  blood.  He  was  so  utterly  inca- 
pable of  rancour,  that 'even  the  rancorous  felt 
that  he  ought  not  to  be  made  its  victim. 

He  possessed,  in  an  eminent  degree,  that 
deep  sense  of  revealed  religion,  and  that  zeal- 
ous attachment  to  the  Presbyterian  establish- 
ment, which  had  long  been  hereditary  in  his 
family.  His  habits  were  always  strictly  moral 
and  temperate,  and  in  the  latter  part  of  his 
life  even  abstemious.  Though  the  life  and 
ornament  of  every  society  into  which  he  en- 
tered, he  was  always  most  happy  and  most 
delightful  at  home ;  where  the  buoyancy  of 
his  spirit  and  the  kindness  of  his  heart  found 
all  that  they  required  of  exercise  or  enjov- 
mentj  and  though  without  taste  for  expensive 
pleasures  in  his  own  person,  he  was  ever  most 
indulgent  and  munificent  to  his  children,  and 
a  liberal  benefactor  to  all  who  depended  on  hii 
bounty. 


PROFESSOR  PLAYFAIR. 


747 


He  finally  retired  from  the  exercise  of  that 

grofession,  the  highest  honours  of  which  he 
ad  at  least  deserved,  about  the  year  18 12, 
and  spent  the  remainder  of  his  days  in  do- 
mestic retirement,  at  that  beautiful  villa  which 
had  been  formed  by  his  own  taste,  and  in  the 
improvement  and  adornment  of  which  he 
found  his  latest  occupation.  Passing  thus  at 
once  from  all  the  bustle  and  excitement  of  a 

Eublic  hfe  to  a  scene  of  comparative  inactivity, 
e  never  felt  one  moment  of  ennui  or  dejec- 


tion j  but  retained  unimpaired,  till  within  a 
day  or  two  of  his  death,  not  only  all  his  intel- 
lectual activity  and  social  affections,  but,  when 
not  under  the  immediate  affliction  of  a  painful 
and  incurable  disease,  all  that  gaiety  of  spirit, 
and  all  that  playful  and  kindly  sympathy  with 
innocent  enjoyment,  which  made  him  the  idol 
of  the  young,  and  the  object  of  cordial  attach- 
ment and  unenvying  admiration  to  his  friends* 
of  all  ages. 


NOTICE  AND  CHARACTER 


PROFESSOR  PLAYFAIR* 


Of  Mr.  Playfair's  scientific  attainments, — 
of  his  proficiency  in  those  studies  to  which  he 
was  peculiarly  devoted,  we  are  but  slenderly 
qualified  to  judge  :  But,  we  believe  we  hazard 
nothing  in  saying  that  he  was  one  of  the  most 
learned  Mathematicians  of  his  age,  and  among 
the  first,  if  not  the  very  first,  who  introduced 
the  beautiful  discoveries  of  the  later  conti- 
nental geometers  to  the  knowledge  of  his 
countrymen;  and  gave  their  just  value  and 
true  place,  in  the  scheme  of  European  know- 
ledge, to  those  important  improvements  by 
which  the  whole  aspect  of  the  abstract  sciences 
has  been  renovated  since  the  days  of  our  il- 
lustrious Newton.  If  he  did  not  signalise 
himself  by  any  brilliant  or  original  invention, 
ae  must,  at  least,  be  allo\3fed  to  have  been  a 
most  generous  and  intelligent  judge  of  the 
achievements  of  others ;  as  well  as  the  most 
eloquent  expounder  of  that  great  and  magnifi- 
cent system  of  knowledge  which  has  been 
gradually  evolved  by  the  successive  labours 
of  so  many  gifted  individuals.  He  possessed, 
indeed,  in  the  highest  degree,  all  the  charac- 
teristics both  of  a  fine  and  a  powerful  under- 
standing,— at  once  penetrating  and  vigilant, — 
but  more  distinguished,  perhaps,  for  the  cau- 
tion and  sureness  of  its  march,  than  for  the 
brilliancy  or  rapidity  of  its  movements, — and 
guided  and  adorned  through  all  its  progress, 
by  the  most  genuine  enthusiasm  for  all  that 
is  grand,  and  the  justest  taste  for  all  that  is 
beautiful  in  the  Truth  or  the  Intellectual  Ener- 
gy with  which  he  was  habitually  conversant. 

To  what  account  these  rare  qualities  might 
have  been  turned,  and  what  more  brilliant  or 
lasting  fruits  they  might  have  produced,  if  his 
whole  life  had  been  dedicated  to  the  solitary 
cultivation  of  science,  it  is  not  for  us  to  con- 
jecture; but  it  cannot  be  doubted  that  they 
added  incalculably  to  his  eminence  and  utility 
as  a  Teacher;  both  by  enabling  him  to  direct 
his  pupils  to  the  most  simple  and  luminous 

*  Originally  printed  in  an  Edinburgh  newspaper 
of  August,  1819.  A  few  introductory  sentences  are 
now  omitted. 


methods  of  inquiry,  and  to  imbue  their  minds, 
from  the  very  commencement  of  the  study, 
with  that  fine  relish  for  the  truths  it  disclosed, 
and  that  high  sense  of  the  majesty  with  which 
they  were  invested,  that  predominated  in  his 
own  bosom.  While  he  left  nothing  unex- 
plained or  unreduced  to  its  proper  place  in  the 
system,  he  took  care  that  they  should  never 
be  perplexed  by  petty  difficullies,  or  bewil- 
dered in  useless  details;  and  formed  them 
betimes  to  those  clear,  masculine,  and  direct 
methods  of  investigation,  by  which,  with  the 
least  labour,  the  greatest  advances  might  be 
accomplished. 

Mr.  Playfair,  however,  was  not  merely  a 
teacher ;  and  has  fortunately  left  behind  him 
a  variety  of  works,  from  which  other  genera- 
tions may  be  enabled  to  judge  of  some  of  those 
qualifications  which  so  powerfully  recom- 
mended and  endeared  him  to  his  contempo- 
raries. It  is,  perhaps,  to  be  regretted  that  so 
much  of  his  time,  and  so  large  a  proportion  of 
his  publications,  should  have  been  devoted  to 
the  subjects  of  the  Indian  Astronomy,  and  the 
Huttonian  Theory  of  the  Earth:  And  though 
it  is  impossible  to  think  too  highly  of  the  in- 
genuity, the  vigour,  and  the  eloqueiiee  of  those 
publications,  we  are  of  opinion  that  a  juster 
estimate  of  his  talent,  and  a  truer  picture  of 
his  genius  and  understanding,  is  to  be  found 
in  his  other  writings ; — in  the  papers,  both  bio 
graphical  and  scientific,  with  \vhicli  he  has 
enriched  the  Transactions  of  our  Royal  Socie- 
ty ;  his  account  of  Laplace,  and  other  articles 
which  he  contributed  to  the  Edinburgh  Re- 
view,— the  Outlines  of  his  Lectures  on  Natu 
ral  Philosophy, — and  above  all,  his  Introduc- 
tory Discourse  to  the  Supplement  to  the 
Encyclopaidia  Brittannica,  with  the  final  cor- 
rection of  which  he  was  occupied  up  to  the 
last  moments  that  the  progress  of  his  disease 
allowed  him  to  dedicate  to  any  intellectual 
exertion. 

With  reference  to  these  works,  we  do  not 
think  we  are  influenced  by  any  national,  oi 
other  partiality,  when  we  say  that  he  waa 
certainly  one  of  the  best  writers  of  his  age  : 


758 


PROFESSOR  PLAYFAIR. 


and  even  that  we  do  not  now  recollect  auy 
one  of  his  contemporaries  who  was  so  great  a 
master  of  composition.  There  is  a  certain 
mellowness  and  richness  about  his  style, 
which  adorns,  without  disguising  the  weight 
and  nervousness  which  is  its  other  great  char- 
acteristic,— a  sedate  gracefulness  and  manly 
simplicity  in  the  more  level  passages, — and  a 
mild  majesty  and  considerate  enthusiasm 
where  he  rises  above  them,  of  which  we 
scarcely  know  where  to  find  any  other  exam- 
ple. There  is  great  equability,  too,  and  sus- 
tained force  in  every  part  of  his  writings.  He 
never  exhausts  himself  in  flashes  and  epi- 
grams, nor  languishes  into  tameness  or  in- 
sipidity: At  first  sight  you  would  say  that 
plainness  and  good  sense  were  the  predomi- 
nating qualities ;  but  by  and  bye,  this  sim- 
plicity is  enriched  with  the  delicate  and  vivid 
colours  of  a  fine  imagination, — the  free  and 
forcible  touches  of  a  most  powerful  intellect, 
^  — and  the  lights  and  shades  of  an  unerring  and 
harmonising  taste.  In  comparing  it  with  the 
styles  of  his  most  celebrated  contemporaries, 
we  would  say  that  it  was  more  purely  and 
peculiarly  a  written  style, — and,  therefore,  re- 
jected those  ornaments  that  more  properly 
belong  to  oratory.  It  had  no  nnjietuosity, 
hurry,  or  vehemence, — no  bursts  or  sudden 
turns  or  abruptions,  like  that  of  Burke ;  and 
though  eminently  smooth  and  melodious,  it 
was  not  modulated  to  an  uniform  system  of 
solemn  declamation,  like  that  of  Johnson,  nor 
spread  out  in  the  richer  and  more  voluminous 
elocution  of  Stewart ;  nor,  still  less,  broken 
into  that  patchwork  of  scholastic  pedantry  and 
conversational  smartness  which  has  found  its 
admirers  in  Gibbon.  It  is  a  style,  in  short,  of 
great  freedom,  force,  and  beauty ;  but  the  de- 
liberate style  of  a  man  of  thought  and  of 
learning;  and  neither  that  of  a  wit  throwing 
out  his  extempores  with  an  affectation  of  care- 
less grace, — nor  of^  rhetorician  thinking  more 
of  his  manner  than  his  matter,  and  deter- 
mined to  be  admired  for  his  expression,  what- 
ever may  be  fate  of  his  sentiments. 

His  habits  of  composition  were  not  perhaps 
exactly  what  might  have  been  expected  from 
their  results.  He  wrote  rather  slowly, — and 
his  first  sketches  were  often  very  slight  and 
imperfect, — like  the  rude  chalking  for  a  mas- 
terly picture.  His  chief  effort  and  greatest 
pleasure  was  in  their  revisal  and  correction ; 
and  there  were  no  limits  to  the  improvement 
which  resulted  from  this  application.  It  was 
not  the  style  merely,  nor  indeed  chiefly,  that 
gained  by  it :  The  whole  reasoning,  and  sen- 
timent, and  illustration,  were  enlarged  and 
new  modelled  in  the  course  of  it ;  and  a  naked 
outline  became  gradually  informed  with  life, 
colour,  and  expression.  It  was  not  at  all  like 
the  common  finishing  and  polishing  to  which 
careful  authors  generally  subject  the  first 
draughts  of  their  compositions,  —  nor  even 
like  the  fastidious  and  tentative  alterations 
with  which  some  more  anxious  writers  assay 
their  choicer  passages.  It  was,  in  fact,  the 
great  filling  in  of  the  picture, — the  working  up 
of  the  figured  weft,  on  the  naked  and  meagre 
woof  that  tad  been  stretched  to  receive  it; 


and  the  singular  thing  in  his  case  was,  not 
only  that  he  left  this  most  material  part  of  his 
work  to  be  performed  after  the  whole  outline 
had  been  finished,  but  that  he  could  proceed 
with  it  to  an  indefinite  extent,  and  enrich  and 
improve  as  long  as  he  thought  fit,  without  any 
risk  either  of  destroying  the  proportions  of 
that  outline,  or  injuring  the  harmony  and  unity 
of  the  original  design.  He  was  perfectly 
aware,  too,  of  the  possession  of  this  extraor- 
dinary power;  and  it  was  partly,  we  presume, 
in  consequence  of  it  that  he  was  not  only  at 
all  times  ready  to  go  on  with  any  work  in 
which  he  was  engaged,  without  waiting  for 
favourable  moments  or  hours  of  greater  alac- 
rity, but  that  he  never  felt  any  of  those  doubts 
and  misgivings  as  to  his  being  able  to  get  cre- 
ditably through  with  his  undertaking,  to  which 
we  believe  most  authorsare  occasionally  liable. 
As  he  never  wrote  upon  any  subject  of  which 
he  was  not  perfectly  master,  he  was  secure 
against  all  blunders  in  the  substance  of  what 
he  had  to  say;  and  felt  quite  assured,  that  if 
he  was  only  allowed  time  enough,  he  should 
finally  come  to  say  it  in  the  very  ,best  way  of 
which  he  was  capable.  He  had  no  anxiety, 
therefore,  either  in  undertaking  or  proceeding 
with  his  tasks;  and  intermitted  and  resumed 
them  at  his  convenience,  with  the  comfortable 
ce^rtainty,  that  all  the  time  he  bestowed  on 
them  was  turned  to  account,  and  that  what 
was  left  imperfect  at  one  sitting  might  be 
finished  with  equal  ease  and  advantage  at 
another.  Being  thus  perfectly  sure  both  of 
his  end  and  his  means,  he  experienced,  in  the 
course  of  his  compositions,  none  of  that  little 
fever  of  the  spirits  with  which  that  operation 
is  so  apt  to  be  accompanied.  He  had  no 
capricious  visitings  of  fancy,  which  it  was 
necessary  to  fix  on  the  spot  or  to  lose  for  ever, 
— no  casual  inspirations  to  invoke  and  to  wait 
for, — no  transitory  and  evanescent  lights  to 
catch  before  they  faded.  All  that  was  in  his 
mind  was  subject  to  his  control,  and  amena- 
ble to  his  call,  though  it  might  not  obey  at  the 
moment;  and  while  his  taste  was  so  sure, 
that  he  was  in  no  danger  of  over- working  any 
thing  that  he  had  designed,  all  his  thoughts 
and  sentiments  had  that  unity  and  congruity, 
that  they  fell  almost  spontaneously  into  har- 
mony and  order ;  and  the  last  added,  incor- 
porated, and  assimilated  with  the  first,  as  if 
they  had  sprung  simultaneously  from  the  same 
happy  conception. 

But  we  need  dwell  no  longer  on  qualities 
that  may  be  gathered  hereafter  from  the  works 
he  has  left  behind  him.  They  who  lived  with 
him  mourn  the  most  for  those  which  will  be 
traced  in  no  such  memorial !  And  prize  far 
above  those  talents  which  gained  him  his  high 
name  in  philosophy,  that  Personal  Character 
which  endeared  him  to  his  friends,  and  shed 
a  grace  and  a  dignity  over  all  the  society  in 
which  he  moved.  The  same  admirable  taste 
which  is  conspicuous  in  his  writings,  or  rather 
the  higher  principles  from  which  that  taste 
was  but  an  emanation,  spread  a  similar  charm 
over  his  whole  life  and  conversation ;  and  gave 
to  the  most  learned  Philosopher  of  his  day 
the  manners  and  deportment  of  the  most  per 


rROFESSOP  PLAYFAIR. 


759 


lect  Gentleman.  Nor  was  this  in  him  the 
lesult  merely  of  good  sense  and  good  temper, 
assisted  by  an  early  familiarity  with  good 
company,  and  a  consequent  knowledge  of  his 
own  place  and  that  of  all  around  him.  His 
good  breeding  was  of  a  higher  descent ;  and 
his  powers  of  pleasing  rested  on  something 
better  than  mere  companionable  qualities. — 
With  the  greatest  kindness  and  generosity  of 
nature,  he  united  t.he  most  manly  fiminess, 
and  the  highest  principles  of  honour,— and 
the  most  cheerful  and  social  dispositions,  with 
the  gentlest  and  steadiest  affections. 

Towards  Women  he  had  always  the  most 
chivalrous  feelings  of  regard  and  attention, 
and  was,  beyond  almost  all  men,  acceptable 
and  agreeable  in  their  society, — though  with- 
out the  least  levity  or  pretension  unbecoming 
his  age  or  condition  :  And  such,  indeed,  was 
the  fascination  of  the  perfect  simplicity  and 
mildness  of  his  manners,  that  the  same  tone 
and  deportment  seemed  equally  appropriate 
in  all  societies,  and  enabled  him  to  delight  the 
young  and  the  gay  with  the  same  sort  of  con- 
versation which  instructed  the  leanjed  and 
the  grave.  There  never,  indeed,  was  a  man 
of  learning  and  talent  who  appeared  in  society 
so  perfectly  free  from  all  sorts  of  pretension 
or  notion  of  his  own  importance,  or  so  little 
solicitous  to  distinguish  himself,  or  so  sincerely 
willing  to  give  place  to  everyone  else.  Even 
upon  subjects  which  he  had  thoroughly  studied, 
he  was  never  in  the  least  impatient  to  speak, 
and  spoke  at  all  times  without  any  tone  of 
authority ;  while,  so  far  from  w^ishing  to  set 
off  what  he  had  to  say  by  any  brilliancy  or 
emphasis  of  expression,  it  seemed  generally 
as  if  he  had  studied  to  disguise  the  weight 
and  originality  of  his  thoughts  under  the 
plainest  forms  of  speech  and  the  most  quiet 
and  indifferent  manner :  so  that  the  profound- 
est  remarks  and  subtlest  observations  were 
often  dropped,  not  only  without  any  solicitude 
that  their  value  should  be  observed,  but  with- 
out any  apparent  consciousness  that  they 
possessed  any. 

Though  the  most  social  of  human  beings, 
and  the  most  disposed  to  encourage  and  sym- 
pathise with  the  gaiety  and  even  joviality  of 
others,  his  own  spirits  were  in  general  rather 
cheerful  than  gay,  or  at  least  never  rose  to 
any  turbulence  or  tumult  of  merriment ;  and 
while  he  would  listen  with  the  kindest  indul- 
gence to  the  more  extravagant  sallies  of  his 
younger  friends,  and  prompt  them  by  the 
heartiest  approbation,  his  own  satisfaction 
might  generally  be  traced  in  a  slow  and  tem- 
perate smile,  gradually  mantling  over  his 
benevolent  and  intelligent  features,  and  light- 
ing up  the  countenance  of  the  Sage  with  the 
expression  of  the  mildest  and  most  genuine 
philanthropy.  It  was  wonderful,  indeed,  con- 
sidering the  measure  of  his  own  intellect,  and 
the  rigid  and  undeviating  propriety  of  his  own 
conduct,  how  tolerant  he  was  of  the  defects 
and  errors  of  other  men.  He  was  too  indul- 
gent, in  truth,  and  favourable  to  his  friends  ! 
— and  made  a  kind  and  liberal  allowance  for 
the  faults  of  all  mankind — except  only  faults 
of  Baseness  or  of  Cruelty, — against  which  he 


never  failed  to  manifest  the  most  open  scorn 
and  detestation.  Independent,  in  short,  of  his 
high  attainments,  Mr.  Playfair  was  one  of  the 
most  amiable  and  estimable  of  men  :  Delight- 
ful in  his  manners,  inflexible  in  his  principles, 
and  generous  in  his  affections,  he  had  all  that 
could  charm  in  society  or  attach  in  private; 
and  while  his  friends  enjoyed  the  free  and 
unstudied  conversation  of  an  easy  and  intel- 
ligent associate,  they  had  at  all  times  the 
proud  and  inward  assurance  tliat  he  was  a 
Being  upon  whose  perfect  honour  and  gene- 
rosity they  might  rely  with  the  most  implicit 
confidence,  in  life  and  in  death, — and  of  whom 
it  was  equally  impossible,  that,  under  any  cir- 
cumstances, ne  should  ever  perform  a  mean, 
a  selfish,  or  a  questionable  action,  as  that  hi? 
body  should  cease  to  gravitate  or  his  soul  tc 
live  ! 

If  we  do  not  greatly  deceive  ourselves,  there 
is  nothing  here  of  exaggeration  or  partial  feel- 
ing,— and  nothing  with  which  an  indifferent 
and  honest  chronicler  would  not  heartily  con- 
cur. Nor  is  it  altogether  idle  to  have  dwelt 
so  long  on  the  personal  character  of  this  dis- 
tinguished individual:  For  we  are  ourselves 
persuaded,  that  this  personal  character  has 
done  almost  as  much  for  the  cause  of  science 
and  philosophy  among  us,  as  the  great  talents 
and  attainments  with  which  it  was  combined, 
— and  has  contributed  in  a  very  eminent  de- 
gree to  give  to  the  better  society  of  this  our 
city  that  tone  of  intelligence  and  liberality  by 
which  it  is  so  honourably  distinguished.  It  is 
not  a  little  advantageous  to  philosophy  that  it 
is  in  fashion, — and  it  is  still  more  advanta- 
geous, perhaps,  to  the  society  which  is  led  to 
confer  on  it  this  apparently  trivial  distinction. 
•It  is  a  great  thing  for  the  country  at  large, — 
for  its  happiness,  its  prosperity,  and  its  re- 
nown,— that  the  upper  and  influencing  classes 
of  its  population  should  be  made  familiar, 
even  in  their  untasked  and  social  hours,  with 
sound  and  liberal  information,  and  be  taught 
to  know  and  respect  those  who  have  distin- 
guished themselves  for  great  intellectual  at- 
tainments. Nor  is  it,  after  all,  a  slight  or 
despicable  reward  for  a  man  of  genius,  to  be 
received  with  honour  in  the  highest  and  most 
elegant  society  around  him,  and  to  receive  in 
his  living  person  that  homage  and  applause 
which  is  too  often  reserved  for  his  memory. 
Now,  those  desirable  ends  can  never  be  ef- 
fectually accomplished, .  unless  the  manners 
of  our  leading  philosophers  are  agreeable, 
and  their  personal  habits  and  dispositions  en- 
gaging and  amiable.  From  the  time  of  Hume 
and  Robertson,  we  have  been  fortunate,  in 
Edinburgh,  in  possessing  a  succession  of  dis- 
tinguished men,  who  have  kept  up  this  salu- 
tary connection  between  the  learned  and  the 
fashionable  world ;  but  there  never,  perhaps, 
was  any  one  who  contributed  so  powerfully  to 
confirm  and  extend  it.  and  that  in  times  when 
it  was  pecuharly  difficult,  as  the  lamented  in 
dividual  of  whom  we  are  now  speaking :  And 
they  who  have  had  most  opportunity  to  ob- 
serve hov.'  superior  the  society  of  Edinburgh 
is  to  that  of  most  other  places  of  the  same 
size,  and    how  much  of  that   superiority  i« 


7«0 


jajvies  watt. 


owing  to  the  cordial  combination  of  the  two 
aristocracies;  of  rank  and  of  letters,* — of  both 
of  which  it  happens  to  be  the  chief  pro- 
vincial seat, — will  be  best  able  to  judge  of 


*In  addition  to  the  two  distinguished  persons 
mentioned  in  the  text,  (the  first  of  whom  was,  no 
doubt,  before  my  time,)  I  can,  from  my  own  recol- 
lection, and  without  referring  to  any  who  are  still 
living — ^give  the  names  of  the  following  residents  in 
Edinburgh,  who  were  equally  acceptable  in  polite 
society  and  eminent  for  literary  or  scientific  attain- 
ments, and  alike  at  home  in  good  company  and 
in  learned  convocations : — Lord  Hailes  and  Lord 
Monboddo,   Dr.  Joseph  Black,    Dr.  Hugh  Blair, 


the  importance  of  the  service  he  .Has  thnii 
rendered  to  its  inhabitants,  and  through  them, 
and  by  their  example,  to  all  the  rest  ol  Khe 
country. 


Dr.  Adam  Fergusson,  Mr.  John  Home,  Mr.  John 
Robison,  Mr.  Dugald  Stewart,  Sir  James  Hall, 
Lord  Meadowbank,  Mr.  Henry  Mackenzie,  Dr. 
James  Gregory,  Rev.  A.  Alison,  Dr.  Thomas 
Brown,  Lord  Webb  Seymour,  Lord  Woodhouse- 
lee,  and  Sir  Walter  Scott ; — without  reckoning 
Mr.  Horner,  the  Rev.  Sydney  Smith,  and  Mr. 
George  Wilson,  who  were  settled  in  Edinburgh 
for  several  years,  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  period 
referred  to. 


NOTICE  AND  CHARACTER 


JAMES   WATT.* 


Mr.  Jajies  Watt  the  great  improver  of  the 
Bteam-engine,  died  on  the  25th  of  August, 
1819,  at  his  seat  of  4eathfield,  near  Birming- 
ham, in  the  84th  year  of  his  age. 

This  name  fortunately  needs  no  commemo- 
ration of  ours ;  for  he  that  bore  it  survived  to 
see  it  crowned  with  undisputed  and  unenvied 
honours  j  and  many  generations  will  probably 
pass  away,  before  it  shall  have  gathered  ''all 
its  fame."  We  have  said  that  Mr.  Watt  was  j 
the  great  Improver  of  the  steam-engine  :  but,  j 
in  truth,  as  to  all  that  is  admirable  in  its  I 
structure,  or  vast  in  its  utility,  he  should 
rather  be  described  as  its  Inventor.  It  was 
by  his  inventions  that  its  action  was  so  regu- 
lated, as  to  make  it  capable  of  being  applied 
to  the  finest  and  most  delicate  manufactures, 
and  its  power  so  increased,  as  to  set  weight 
and  solidity  at  defiance.  By  his  admirable 
contrivance,  it  has  become  a  thing  stupendous 
alike  for  its  force  and  its  flexibility, — for  the 
prodigious  power  which  it  can  exert,  and  the 
ease,  and  precision,  and  ductility,  with  which 
that  power  can  be  varied,  distributed,  and  ap- 
plied. The  trunk  of  an  elephant,  that  can 
pick  up  a  pin  or  rend  an  oak,  is  as  nothing  to 
it.  It  can  engrave  a  seal,  and  crush  masses 
of  obdurate  metal  before  it — draw  out,  with- 
out breaking,  a  thread  as  fine  as  gossamer, 
and  lift  a  ship  of  war  like  a  bauble  in  the  air. 
It  can  embroider  muslin  and  forge  anchors, — 
cut  steel  into  ribands,  and  impel  loaded  ves- 
sels against  the  fury  of  the  winds  and  waves. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  estimate  the  value 
of  the  benefits  which  these  inventions  have 
conferred  upon  this  country.  There  is  no 
branch  of  industry  that  has  not  been  indebted 
to  them ',  and,  in  all  the  most  material,  they 
lave  not  only  widened  most  magnificently 
the  field  cf  its  exertions,  but  multiplied  a 
ihousand-fold  the  amount  of  its  productions. 

— — -x 

*  First  published  in  an  Edinburgh  newspaper 
("  The  Scotsman"),  of  the  4th  September,  1819. 


It  was  our  improved  Steam-engine,  in  shore, 
that  fought  the  battles  of  Europe,  and  exalted 
and  sustained,  through  the  late  tremendous 
contest,  the  political  greatness  of  our  land.  It 
is  the  same  great  power  which  now  enables 
us  to  pay  the  interest  of  our  debt,  and  to 
maintain  the  arduous  struggle  in  which  we 
are  still  engaged,  [1819],  with  the  skill  and 
capital  of  countries  less  oppressed  with  taxa- 
tion. But  these  are  poor  and  narrow  views 
of  its  importance.  It  has  increased  inde- 
finitely the  mass  of  human  comforts  and  en- 
joyments; and  rendered  cheap  and  accessi- 
ble, all  over  the  world,  the  materials  of  wealth 
and  prosperity.  It  has  armed  the  feeble  hand 
of  man,  in  short,  w^ith  a  power  to  w^hich  no 
limits  can  be  assigned ;  completed  the  do- 
minion of  mind  over  the  most  refractory  qua- 
lities of  matter;  and  laid  a  sure  foundation 
for  all  those  future  miracles  of  mechanic 
power  which  are  to  aid  and  reward  the  la- 
bours of  after  generations.  It  is  to  the  genius 
of  one  man,  too,  that  all  this  is  mainly  owing! 
And  certainly  no  man  ever  bestowed  such  a 
gift  on  his  kind.  The  blessing  is  not  only 
universal,  but  unbounded;  and  the  fabled  in- 
ventors of  the  plough  and  the  loom,  who  were 
Deified  by  the  erring  gratitude  of  their  rude 
cotemporaries,  conferred  less  important  bene- 
fits on  mankind  than  the  inventor  of  our  pre- 
sent steam-engine. 

This  will  be  the  fame  of  Watt  with  future 
generations :  And  it  is  sufficient  for  his  race 
and  his  country.  But  to  those  to  \vhom  he 
more  immediately  belonged,  who  lived  in  his 
society  and  enjoyed  his  conversation^  it  is 
hot,  perhaps,  the  character  in  which  he  will 
be  most  frequently  recalled — most  deeply 
lamented — or  even  most  highly  admired.  In- 
dependently of  his  great  attainments  in  me- 
chanics, Mr.  Watt  was  an  extraordinary,  and 
in  many  respects  a  wonderful  man.  Perhaps 
no  individual  in  his  age  possessed  so  much 
and  such  varied  and  exact  information, — had 


JAMES  WATT. 


7til 


read  so  much,  or  remembered  what  he  had 
read  so  accurately  and  well.  He  had  infinite 
quickness  of  apprehension,  a  prodigious  me- 
mory, and  a  certain  rectifying  and  methodis- 
ing power  of  understanding,  which  extracted 
something  precious  out  of  all  that  was  pre- 
sented to  it.  His  stores  of  miscellaneous 
knowledge  were  immense, — and  yet  less  as- 
tonishing than  the  command  he  had  at  all 
times  over  them.  It  seemed  as  if  every  sub- 
ject that  was  casually  started  in  conversation 
with  him,  had  been  that  which  he  had  been 
last  occupied  in  studying  and  exhausting ; — 
such  was  the  copiousness,  the  precision,  and 
the  admirable  clearness  of  the  information 
which  he  poured  out  upon  it,  without  effort  or 
hesitation.  Nor  was  this  promptitude  and 
compass  of  knowledge  confined  in  any  degree 
to  the  studies  connected  with  his  ordinary 
pursuits.  That  he  should  have  been  minutely 
and  extensively  skilled  in  chemistry  and  the 
arts,  and  in  most  of  the  branches  of  physical 
science,  might  perhaps  have  been  conjectur- 
ed ;  But  it  could  not  have  been  inferred  from 
his  usual  occupations,  and  probably  is  not 
generally  known,  that  he  was  curiously  learn- 
ed in  many  branches  of  antiquity,  metaphys- 
ics, medicine,  and  etymology,  and  perfectly 
at  home  in  all  the  details  of  architecture, 
music,  and  law.  He  was  w^ell  acquainted, 
too,  with  most  of  the  modern  languages — and 
familiar  with  their  most  recent  literature.  Nor 
was  it  at  all  extraordinary  to  hear  the  great 
mechanician  and  engineer  detailing  and  e.t  • 
pounding,  for  hours  together,  the  metaphys- 
ical theories  of  the  German  logicians,  or  criti- 
cising the  measures  or  the  matter  of  the  Ger- 
man poetry. 

His  astonishing  memory  was  aided,  no 
doubt,  in  a  great  measure,  by  a  still  higher 
and  rarer  faculty — by  his  power  of  digesting 
and  arranging  in  its  proper  place  all  the  infor- 
mation he  received,  and  of  casting  aside  and 
rejecting,  as  it  were  instinctively,  whatever 
was  worthless  or  immaterial.  Every  concep- 
tion that  was  suggested  to  his  mind  seemed 
instantly  to  take  its  proper  place  among  its 
other  rich  furniture  ;  and  to  be  condensed  into 
the  smallest  and  most  convenient  form.  He 
never  appeared,  therefore,  to  be  at  all  encum- 
bered or  perplexed  with  the  verbiage  of  the 
dull  books  he  perused,  or  the  idle  talk  to 
which  he  listened ;  but  to  have  at  once  ex- 
tracted, by  a  kind  of  intellectual  alchemy,  all 
that  was  worthy  of  attention,  and  to  have  re- 
duced it,  for  his  own  use,  to  its  true  value  and 
to  its  simplest  form.  And  thus  it  often  hap-i 
pened,  that  a  gjeat  deal  more  was  learned 
from  his  brief  and  vigorous  account  of  the 
theories  and  arguments  of  tedious  writers, 
than  an  ordinary  student  could  ever  have  de- 
rived from  the  most  painful  study  of  the  ori- 
ginals,— and  that  errors  and  absurdities  be- 
came manifest  from  the  mere  clearness  and 
plainness  of  his  statement  of  them,  which 
might  have  deluded  and  perplexed  most 
of  his  hearers  without  that  invaluable  assist- 
ance. 

It  is  needless  to  say,  that,  with  those  vast 
•H^rrces,  his  conversation  was  at  aU  times 


rich  and  instructive  in  no  ordinary  degree : 
But  it  was,  if  possible,  still  more  pleasing 
than  wise,  and  had  all  the  charms  of  famili- 
arity, with  all  the  substantial  treasures  of 
knowledge.  No  man  could  be  more  social 
in  his  spirit,  less  assuming  or  fastidious  in  his 
manners,  or  more  kind  and  indulgent  towards 
all  who  approached  him.  He  rather  liked  to 
talk — at  least  in  his  latter  years :  But  though 
he  took  a  considerable  share  of  the  conversa- 
tion, he  rarely  suggested  the  topics  on  which 
it  was  to  turn,  but  readily  and  quietly  took 
up  whatever  was  presented  by  those  around 
him ;  and  astonished  the  idle  and  barren  pro- 
pounders  of  an  ordinary  theme,  by  the  treas 
ures  which  he  drew  from  the  mine  they  had 
unconsciously  opened.  He  generally  seemed, 
indeed,  to  have  no  choice  or  predilection  for 
one  subject  of  discourse  rather  than  another ; 
but  allowed  his  mind,  like  a  great  cycIopaBdia, 
to  be  opened  at  any  letter  his  associates  might 
choose  to  turn  up,  and  only  endeavoured  to 
select;  from  his  inexhaustible  stores,  what 
might  be  best  adapted  to  the  taste  of  his 
present  hearers.  As  to  their  capacity  he.gave 
himself  no  trouble ;  and,  indeed,  such  was  his 
singular  talent  for  making  all  things  plain, 
clear,  ii,:d  intelligible,  that  scarcely  any  one 
could  ^nJ  aware  of  such  a  deficiency  in  his 
presence.  His  talk,  too,  though  overflowing 
with  information,  had  no  resemblance  to  ler. 
turing  or  solemn  discoursing,  but,  on  the  con- 
traiy,  was  full  of  colloquial  spirit  and  pleas- 
antry. He  had  a  certain  quiet  and  grave 
humour,  which  ran  through  most  of  his  con- 
versation, and  a  vein  of  temperate  jocularity, 
which  gave  infinite  zest  and  effect  to  the  con- 
densed and  inexhaustible  information,  which 
formed  its  main  staple  and  characteristi**. 
There  was  a  little  air  of  affected  testiness,  too, 
and  a  tone  of  pretended  rebuke  and  contra- 
diction, with  which  he  used  to  address  his 
younger  friends,  that  was  always  felt  by  them 
as  an  endearing  mark  of  his  kindness  and 
familiarity, — and  prized  accordingly,  far  be- 
yond all  the  solemn  compliments  that  ever 
proceeded  from  the  lips  of  authority.  His 
voice  was  deep  and  powerful, — though  he 
commonly  spoke  in  a  low  and  somewhat 
monotonous  tone,  which  harmonised  admira- 
bly with  the  weight  and  brevity  of  his  obser- 
vations ;  and  set  off  to  the  greatest  advantage 
the  pleasant  anecdotes,  which  he  delivered 
with  the  same  grave  brow,  and  the  same  calm 
smile  playing  soberly  on  his  lips.  There 
was  nothing  of  effort  indeed,  or  impatience., 
any  more  than  of  pride  or  levity,  in  his  de- 
meanour; and  there  was  a  finer  expression 
of  reposing  strength,  and  mild  self-possession 
in  his  manner,  than  we  ever  recollect  to  have 
met  with  in  any  other  person.  He  had  in  his 
character  the  utmost  abhorrence  for  all  sorts 
of  forwardness,  parade,  and  pretensions;  and, 
indeed,  never  failed  to  put  all  such  impostures 
out  of  countenance,  by  the  manly  plainness 
and  honest  intrepidity  of  his  language  and 
deportment. 

In  his  temper  and  dispositions  he  was  not 
only  kind  and  affectionate,  but  generous,  and 
considerate  of  the  feelings  of  a11  around  him 


T62 


JAMES  WATT. 


and  gave  the  most  liberal  assistance  and  en- 
couragement to  all  young  persons  who  showed 
any  indications  of  talent,  or  applied  to  him 
for  patronage  or  advice.  His  health,  which 
was  delicate  from  his  youth  upwards,  seemed 
to  become  firmer  as  he  advanced  in  years ; 
and  he  pieserved,  up  almost  to  the  last  mo- 
ment of  his  existence,  not  only  the  full  com- 
mand of  his  extraordinary  intellect,  but  all  the 
alacrity  of  spirit,  and  the  social  gaiety  which 
had  illumined  his  happiest  days.  His  friends 
in  this  part  of  the  country  never  saw  him 
more  fuJJ  of  intellectual  vigour  and  colloquial 
animation  — never  more  delightful  or  more 
instructive^ — than  in  his  last  visit  to  Scotland 
in  autumn  1817.  Indeed,  it  was  after  that 
time  that  he  applied  himself,  with  all  the 
ardour  of  early  life,  to  the  invention  of  a 
machine  foi  mechanically  copying  all  sorts 
of  sculpture  and  statuary; — and  distributed 
among  his  ft  lends  some  of  its  earliest  per- 
fonnances,  as  the  productions  of  "a  young 
artist,  just  ente;ing  on  his  eighty-third  year!" 


This  happy  and  useful  life  came,  at  last,  U 
a  gentle  close.  He  had  suffered  some  incon- 
venience through  the  summer;  but  was  not 
seriously  indisposed  till  within  a  few  weeks 
from  his  death.  He  then  became  perfectly 
aware  of  the  event  which  was  approaching ; 
and  with  his  usual  tranquillity  and  benevo- 
lence of  nature,  seemed  only  anxious  to  point 
out  to  the  friends  around  him,  the  many 
sources  of  consolation  which  were  afforded 
by  the  circumstances  under  which  it  was 
about  to  take  place.  He  expressed  his  sin- 
cere gratitude  to  Providence  for  the  length 
of  days  with  which  he  had  been  blessed,  and 
his  exemption  from  most  of  the  infirmities  of 
age;  as  well  as  for  the  calm  and  cheerful 
evening  of  life  that  he  had  been  permitted  to 
enjoy,  after  the  honourable  labours  of  the 
day  had  been  concluded.  And  thus,  full  of 
years  and  honours,  in  all  calmness  and  tran- 
quillity, he  yielded  up  his  soul,  wUhout  pan" 
or  struggle, — and  passed  from  the  bosom  of 
his  famHy  to  that  of  his  God. 


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U.C.  BERKELEY 


IBRARIES 


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